He watched her walk away, feeling as impotent as he ever had in his life.
Brunei, near the capital
10 October 1997, 0600
Sahurah saw him as he walked from the house.
How young he is, thought Sahurah. Sixteen or seventeen.
The boy turned and went up the path. Sahurah waited a moment longer, then began pedaling his bicycle in the opposite direction, riding away from the small, well-kept house where the recruit lived with his mother and father and five sisters.
An only son in heaven. The parents would be proud.
Sahurah reached the intersection and turned right, pedaling more slowly now. The center of town was on the right. He took the turn and continued past the mosque, not daring to raise his eyes as he turned up the drive of an office building and pedaled around the dirt lot. There were no cars, and Sahurah saw no one. He rode back to the road, saw that the string was still tied to the post—a sign from the two men he had posted as lookouts that all was well. Then he turned right again and went to the end of the street, turning into the driveway of the last house and riding into the back.
The property had not been occupied for some time—it belonged to the mosque—and the jungle had begun to reclaim the yard, pushing close with large trees and brush. Sahurah put his bicycle down in the weeds where it could not be seen, then walked up the back steps into the house.
The recruit was in the back room as instructed, sitting in the middle of the floor.
He was smoking a cigarette. Incensed, Sahurah went to the young man and grabbed it from his mouth, throwing it against the wall.
“Where did you get that?” Sahurah demanded in Malaysian.
The recruit was so terrified he could not speak. Sahurah looked down at his face and again thought to himself, he is young.
Too young.
And yet some might have said that of Sahurah himself only a few years before.
“Stand, and let me look at you,” Sahurah said roughly.
The recruit rose and turned around. How old was he? Sixteen? Fourteen? Old enough to be a soldier in jihad?
But this was not Sahurah’s concern. The imam had already decided, and his own job was simple. He did not even need to know the boy’s name.
“Come with me,” he told the recruit, walking to the next room. He knelt at the side of the floor and removed two boards, then pulled up a small case. He unsnapped the lock and opened it. A small weapon sat inside.
The gun was an INDEP Lusa submachine gun. Made in Romania, the weapon fired nine-millimeter bullets. It measured only seventeen inches with its stock folded, and weighed barely five and a half pounds. The barrel could be removed to make it lighter and shorter, even easier to hide; Sahurah decided to do this.
He had three magazines. Two would be used for training. “Come,” he told the recruit. “We have much to do, and only a short time.”
New Lebanon, Nevada
9 October 1997, 2005
“So when are you coming home?” Zen asked Breanna when she called the apartment. It was just past 8 P.M. in Nevada; over in Brunei it was a little after eleven o’clock in the morning.
“Supposed to leave tomorrow,” she told him. “But it looks like I’m going to have to take a commercial flight to Japan. Since I’m going to be there anyway, I was thinking of staying in Tokyo for a day or two.”
“Why?” asked Zen.
“Because it’s
Tokyo,”
she said.
“Well, yeah,
Tokyo.”
“Zen, sometimes I think you are the most boring person in the world. It’s Tokyo! There are temples there, museums, restaurants, sights—I’d even like to ride on the trains.”
“Like a sardine?”
“You wouldn’t want to look around Tokyo if you had a few days off?”
“Oh sure, if Godzilla was around.”
“What would you do?”
“Besides rushing home to the arms of my darling wife?” He took a sip of his beer.
“Don’t be a wise guy.”
“I’m not being a wise guy. If I were in Tokyo—I know what I’d do. I’d check out the Tokyo Giants. Supposed to be a great baseball team”
“Zen.”
“Well, not compared to American baseball, of course. But good for Japan”
Zen laughed as his wife made a flustered sound.
“All right, they could probably beat, say, the Cincinnati Reds. But not the Dodgers,” he added.
“Be serious.”
Speaking of baseball, the Dodgers should be on by now.
He put his beer between his legs on his lap and bent his head to hold the phone on his shoulder as he rolled his wheelchair into the living room.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Breanna continued. “What do you think about what we were talking about in Brunei?”
“What do I think about what?” he asked, stalling as he looked for the television remote. He knew what she was referring to. The game came on. The Dodgers were ahead of the New York Mets, two to zero, bottom of the second.
“I meant, about a family,” said Breanna.
They had spoken about a “family”—a euphemism for having a baby—for all of ten minutes in the car going over to the beach.
“I’m sorry, I was fiddling with the TV. What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. We’ll go over it when I get home.”
There was a certain tone in her voice that Zen called the “husband can’t win” tone.
“Maybe we should talk about it when you get home,” he said.
“We should,” she answered, a little too forcibly.
“So if you play tourist in Tokyo, when will you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“I vote for straight home. I miss you,” he said.
“I miss you, too.”
“But if you want to stay,” he added, “I understand.”
“I’ll think about it, babe. You take care of yourself.”
“I always do” Zen smiled at her, though she couldn’t see him. “You take care, too. They figure out what those Sukhois were all about?”
“They’re still pretty baffled. Same with the ship. Jed seems to think the Islamic guerillas who have been fighting in Malaysia are looking for easier targets.”
“I could see that,” said Zen. He was glad she was getting the hell out of there, but saying that he was actually worried about her somehow seemed out of bounds. “How’s Mack doing? Come on to you yet today?”
“I told you, he hasn’t at all since I’ve been here,” said Breanna.
“Yeah, right.”
“No. He’s—you won’t believe this, but he’s changed. He’s more—I don’t know. More mature.”
Zen laughed so hard he nearly spilled his beer. “Right. Mack Smith, mature. What a concept”
“I’m not kidding.”
“You’ve been sitting in the sun too long, babe. Mack Smith?” He laughed even harder.
“All right, all right. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ll try to call before the plane takes off. It’ll be early afternoon your time.”
“Sounds good,” he told her, hanging up.
Mack Smith? Mature? Changed?
Mack Smith!
Zen began to laugh so hard tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
Brunei
10 October 1997, 1310
She was beautiful, he had to give her that. Mack watched Ivana Keptrova turn heads as she walked across the restaurant toward his table. Tall and thin, with dark features and a simple strand of pearls as her only jewelry, she had a regal appearance. She wore a black business suit, with a skirt that stopped just at the knee; on someone else it might have seemed boring, even dowdy, but on Ivana Keptrova it seemed as sexy as a piece of lingerie.
Mack rose and took her hand. She swept down into her chair, smiling at the waiter, who faded toward the back for a moment and then reappeared with a bottle of champagne.
“It’s the only thing worth drinking while discussing business,” she told Mack, holding her glass up for a toast. “Or for pleasure.”
Mack played along, very careful about taking minute sips of wine. He listened to her talk about Prince bin Awg and the sultan as if they were all close personal friends; he feigned interest in her talk about the navy, which she was apparently supplying with new patrol boats.
“What I’m interested in are fighters,” he told her finally. “Sukhoi Su-27s.”
“A very good airplane,” she said. “The newer models especially. We have upgraded the avionics to a point where they rival the F-15s.”
“The ones I’m interested in are older,” said Mack. “They’re used”
She made a show of confusion. “We can always find inexpensive alternatives,” said Ivana. “But I was under the impression that the sultan wanted frontline equipment.”
“I’m talking about two aircraft that Malaysia’s operating on Borneo.”
“Malaysia?”
He had to admit, she was good. Mack had no idea if she was bluffing or truly ignorant.
“Malaysia or Indonesia,” said Mack.
“Neither country has purchased new Sukhois from Russia,” said Ivana.
“What about used?”
“I don’t believe so, darling.”
“So, you don’t know anything about them?”
“Quite honestly, no. Sukhois to Indonesia? They haven’t the funds.”
“My theory is Malaysia,” said Mack.
“Well, perhaps they purchased some surplus weapons from another country. Have you considered the Ukraine?”
“I’ve considered many things,” said Mack, bluffing himself.
“Well, I might be able to make inquiries for you, if you are truly interested,” said Ivana. “But in the meantime it occurs to me—this is a threat you must meet.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“Even the older model of the Su-27 is formidable, especially against your Dragonflies. Now, a dozen Su-30MKIs, with full support, associated weapons .. “ She let the sentence drift out of her mouth as if she were reading the bullet line from the front cover of a sales brochure. “And you know, there is a side-byside attack version being planned, better than your F-15E.”
“How much money are we talking?” said Mack.
Ivana pouted. “We do not discuss numbers at lunch,” she told him. “Drink your champagne. How is Miss McKenna?”
“She’s fine. Sends her regards”
lvana smiled. “You are not a very good liar, Minister Smith. Truth suits you better. Miss McKenna and I had an unfortunate misunderstanding over money. A commitment was not fulfilled at the proper time and—but these things happen. I would gladly take her back”
“Yeah, well, she works for me now,” said Mack. “You don’t know anything about those Su-27s?”
She patted his hand indulgently. “I’ll find out for you. I have done good business with the sultan’s navy. There’s no reason we can’t be friends and do business together.”
“We might be friends,” said Mack, “if I knew how Malaysia got those Sukhois.”
“I will find out,” she said. “Come. You haven’t even ordered your lunch yet. Here is our waiter.”
As Mack looked up, something on the other side of the room caught his eye. He turned toward it and saw a short, thin young man entering the room, clearly out of place. He had a black garbage bag with him.
“Death to the sultan!” yelled the kid. The bag started to fall away. As it did, Mack saw that there was a gun behind it, a small weapon barely bigger than a pistol.
“Down!” yelled Mack. He threw over the table, knocking Ivana to the ground. The tart pop of the submachine gun echoed over the screams of the people.
Mack reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his Beretta. The kid turned the weapon toward his side of the room. Mack rose and fired, both hands on the pistol. The first two bullets caught the kid in the stomach and chest, pushing him backward. The machine-pistol he had been firing fell to the ground; the young man seemed to crumple against the wall.
Someone tried to push Mack down.
“Leave me the hell alone, damn it,” Mack yelled at him. He took a step forward, then saw that the terrorist was still writhing on the floor.
He fired two more shots into the man’s body, then realized belatedly that the terrorist had been wearing a vest of explosives. By now others were reacting, bodyguards springing forward belatedly, guests cowering on the floor. The person who had been trying to push Mack down was his driver and bodyguard; Mack turned and saw his face had blanched white with shock. Two policemen came in from the front door; another came up behind them.
Ivana lay face up on the floor. One of the madman’s bullets had caught her in the side of the head.
“What the hell is going on in this damn country?” said Mack, holstering his pistol. “This is supposed to be paradise, for christsake.”
III
W
ORLD
G
ONE
M
AD
Washington, D.C.
10 October 1997, 0700
WHEN HE FIRST READ THE ALERT ON THE MORNING BRIEFING, Jed couldn’t believe it. According to the Associated Press, a lone gunman had shot up a restaurant in the capital of Brunei. Two people had been killed and several more injured, but the casualty list could have been considerably longer if a lucky shot had not severed the wire on the man’s explosive vest.
Terrorists in Brunei? It seemed inconceivable.
It was incredibly inconvenient, since the president was due to announce the sale of three Megafortresses to the kingdom today. Dreamland had already been ordered to have the aircraft ready for delivery within two weeks.
Jed glanced at his watch. It was a bit early to call his boss, but he knew he’d better get some bulletins out on this right away.
Brunei Air Force Headquarters
10 October 1997, 2100
Breanna listened as Mack recounted the incident in the restaurant, and the oddly detached reaction of the government officials afterward.
“So they think he’s just a nutcase?” she said, finally.
“They don’t want to deal with reality,” said Mack. “That kid had a Romanian submachine gun. That’s pretty rare in Brunei.”
“You think he’s tied in with what happened to Zen and me on the beach?”
“Has to be:’ said Mack. “I think there’s a whole network of extremists running around. But as soon as I ask any serious questions, all I get are dumb-ass smiles from my fellow defense ministers.” He said the title as if it were a slur.