“If India alters the chemistry of the region by launching a full-scale nuclear counterstrike,” continued Jessica, “China will alter its outlook on the region. So you drop, you said, a hundred and eighty nuclear devices? You destroy Pakistan, okay. I understand. But then how many weapons are left in your arsenal? A few dozen? China has more than five hundred warheads. And unlike India, which has to strap most of its warheads to the underside of an airplane, the Chinese have but to press a few buttons to send their nuclear warheads raining down on this city and every city in India. And trust me, they will do it. And they will probably only need to drop half a dozen nukes before everyone in this room surrenders, or, more likely, you’re dead, and the group that follows you amid the terrible carnage surrenders.”
The room was silent. Everyone stared at Jessica, and she felt their eyes upon her. A tense silence hung over the room. She glanced at President Allaire, who returned her look with a slight nod.
“So tell us, President Allaire, Secretary Lindsay, Mr. Calibrisi, Ms. Tanzer,” said President Ghandra, “what should we do?”
The room was silent.
“We believe we should pursue an aggressive multilateral diplomatic solution,” said President Allaire. “We should engage Europe, the UN, China, and Russia. We should give it a week, perhaps two. I will personally manage the crisis, along with Secretary Lindsay.”
Jessica glanced at President Ghandra, whose eyes stared down at his lap and his hands that were crossed on top of it. Ghandra shook his head slightly, then looked at Singh, his minister of defense. They exchanged glances. Ghandra’s eyes then moved to Priya Vilokan, his foreign minister.
“Thank you, President Allaire,” interrupted Ghandra. “And thank you all for coming. We have listened to you. America is our greatest friend, and today reminds us why. Our shared desire for freedom and peace for our people ties us together. But today you have told us nothing we do not know. Your ideas are ones we’ve considered and rejected. We rejected them because they will not work. India faces its gravest hour. Diplomacy is the equivalent of not responding. If you don’t believe me, ask Neville Chamberlain. Indra and I thought you would come here with an argument for a proportional nuclear counterattack. We would have rejected that too, but at least it would have made some sense.”
President Allaire smiled. He reached out to his coffee cup and took a final sip, drained the cup, then put it back on the conference table.
“The Pakistanis have dropped a nuclear bomb on our country,” said Singh, leaning forward, pounding the table with his right fist, his face red with emotion. “More than eight thousand Indian men, women, and children are dead today. And for what reason? Because they are Indian. That is all, nothing more, nothing less.”
“That’s a slippery slope,” said Lindsay. “If you strike Pakistan, how many innocent people will die? How many men, women, and children for the simple reason they happen to be Pakistani?”
“Honestly, I don’t care,” barked Singh. “Don’t lecture me with your American sanctimony, Mr. Lindsay. You live on an island. This is the fourth war we’ve fought with our enemy. They pursue us always, the desire to exterminate India running like a fever in the blood of every man, woman, and child in that godforsaken country. What we do today will resonate for generations. This war cabinet will be condemned, but our children, our grandchildren, and their children and grandchildren, will live in peace from the vile Pakistanis. I am willing to die a condemned man, condemned by the Americans, by the history books, if it delivers freedom for future Indians.”
“One man made the decision to drop the bomb on Karoo,” said President Allaire. “And for that you will exterminate a people.”
“That one man happens to be the president of the country,” said Vilokan. “The democratically elected president of his country. The representative of a majority of his people. In fact, nearly seventy percent of his people.”
“We told you of our concerns three years ago,” said Singh. “A team from RAW flew to Langley and practically begged for your help.”
“We saw the threat of El-Khayab long before he was elected,” said Guta Morosla, secretary of the Research and Analysis Wing, India’s version of the CIA. “Even then, before he was elected, before he was even a candidate. And what did you do? You scoffed at us. Now we’re living with the results.”
Jessica looked down at her hands, clasped together on the table in front of her. She separated them for a moment. She watched as they trembled like leaves in a mild breeze, then reclasped them so nobody else could see.
Jessica knew the meeting was over. She knew the meeting was over before they even got there. Ghandra and his war cabinet had already made up their minds. Could she blame them? No. It was an impossible situation. To not respond to Pakistan would likely result in an uprising by the very people who had elected Ghandra, as well as more bombs from Pakistan, and quite possibly an invasion by China. To respond with a proportional strike would only lead to a series of nuclear strikes that wouldn’t stop until Pakistan and India were both destroyed.
She looked from her hands to President Allaire. His face was expressionless. Ashen. To Allaire’s left, her eyes found Ghandra. His normal confidence was gone. His brow appeared furrowed. He kept rubbing his eyes. Jessica knew that on some level the decision to kill so many people, regardless of who they were, enemy or not, was tormenting him.
She looked at Hector, who glanced at his watch. He looked pissed off. He wanted to get out of there and had already written off the meeting.
Trust yourself, Jess.
She heard the words, her own words, inside her head.
Trust yourself.
“I have an idea,” Jessica said, interrupting the silence of the conference room.
WHITEY’S BAR
COOKTOWN
Khoury pushed his way to the back of the crowded bar. He leaned against the wall and fumbled for his iPhone. He could practically feel his heart in his throat. Nervous sweat coursed down his back. His eyes darted between the iPhone and the man at the bar, the man he tried hard not to stare at, the American.
I found him Whiteys Bar
Khoury felt for his silenced Glock, tucked into his pants at the belt.
Should I shoot him here?
he thought to himself.
I have a clean shot. Answer me, Youssef.
Khoury waited a minute, then a second minute. It seemed like an eternity. He watched as the American threw back a shot of whiskey, then a second. His eyes alternated between the iPhone and Andreas.
Answer, Youssef.
Finally, a Tweet appeared, from Youssef.
Whats he doing?
Drinking
Did he see you?
No
Is he leaving?
No. talking to girl. He has a beard and long hair
WAIT. everyone to whiteys NOW! kill him if he tries to leave
Khoury put the iPhone in his pocket. He stood at the rear wall, trying to blend in, as he had been trained to do, watching the man he’d spent so long searching for.
RASHTRAPATI BHAVAN
NEW DELHI
All heads in the Security Room room turned to Jessica. She looked around the table, met Calibrisi’s surprised eyes for a brief moment, then President Allaire’s, and finally settled on President Ghandra’s.
“Go on, Jessica,” said President Ghandra.
“Coup d’état,” Jessica said.
She waited a moment and let the words sink in. Then she continued. “We design and execute the removal of Omar El-Khayab. America handles it. We remove the cancer. We install someone who will work with India. In the meantime India maintains its war stance. You keep your planes in the air. You fortify the northern border with China by moving troops to the area. You prosecute the war front in Kargil and Baltistan.”
She paused and leaned forward. The room was silent.
Finally, Indra Singh shook his head.
“Oh, sure, that should be easy,” Singh scoffed, waving his hand in the air. “We never thought of that. Just pop off El-Khayab. Jessica, that is, how do you say it, a mission impossible. We’ve been targeting El-Khayab since before he was elected. He is better guarded than even you, President Allaire. It is simply not a viable option, and certainly not within the time parameters we have to work with.”
“How many foreign leaders has India removed from power?” asked Jessica.
Singh was silent.
“How many?” she repeated.
“The answer is, not a one,” said Calibrisi.
“The United States has removed three foreign leaders in the last twenty years,” said Jessica. “There are no guarantees, but we know how to do it.”
“It will take too much time,” said Singh. “We don’t have the time.”
Jessica stared at Singh, whose face was red with anger. She turned to President Ghandra.
“Will you give us the time?” she asked, looking into Ghandra’s eyes.
“No, that is not an option,” said Singh. “India has not—”
“Shut up, Indra,” said President Ghandra sharply. He turned to Jessica. “How much time are we talking about, Jessica?”
She looked at Harry Black, then Hector Calibrisi.
“At least two weeks,” Calibrisi said. “Three would be optimal.”
“One week,” said Jessica, turning to Ghandra. “We need a week, Mr. President.”
Ghandra glanced around the conference table. Singh was shaking his head, apoplectic. He moved down the line of his advisors and asked each one of them to give his opinion. Every member of Ghandra’s war cabinet was against delaying the nuclear strike.
“If it had even a prayer of working I might reconsider,” said Morosla, the secretary of RAW. “But it won’t work.”
After polling his cabinet, Ghandra turned to Jessica. He smiled warmly at her. He seemed to have regained his composure and calmness that she so admired.
“Two days,” Ghandra said, overruling his cabinet. “You have forty-eight hours to remove Omar El-Khayab from power.” Ghandra pointed at the clock on the wall. “It’s noon. Two days from now, unless Omar El-Khayab is gone, we will begin our attack.”
“Thank you,” said Jessica. She looked at the clock, then at President Allaire. He stared back at her without expression.
“After that, we destroy Pakistan,” said Ghandra. “Unless they strike again in the interim. In which case we will destroy them not in days or hours, but in a handful of seconds.”
Jessica nodded. She said nothing. She glanced at her silver Cartier tank watch. It was exactly noon local time. She felt a tightness in her stomach as she watched the second hand on her watch move around the watch face.
Forty-seven hours, fifty-nine minutes, forty seconds, and counting
…
WHITEY’S BAR
COOKTOWN
“Do you want to come back to the ranch?” Charlotte asked. “I have my own carriage house. It’s very private.”
But Dewey was no longer listening to Charlotte.
The olive-skinned man with the Afro at the back of the room glanced around nervously. Whoever it was, he had found what he was looking for, and it was Dewey. Dewey recognized that. He saw it in the hatred, in the way the man’s eyes darted about constantly, settling back on him every few moments. Dewey knew when someone had come to kill him.
Dewey removed his hand from Charlotte’s hip, lifted his left leg, and felt for the dagger sheathed against his calf. Reflex: making sure it was there. His brain sharpened, his muscles tensed. He felt the steel of the Colt at his lower back. A fever of warmth invaded his veins.
“I decorated it myself,” said Charlotte, still talking about the carriage house at her family’s ranch. “I cleaned it out and painted it. It used to be a barn for the old owner’s prized stallion. I think you’ll like it. It’s very cozy.”
The killer was young, early twenties. He wore an orange polo shirt with the collar popped up. He’d marked Dewey a minute ago, five minutes ago, half an hour ago. He stared, unaware that Dewey could see him in the mirror behind the bar.
“Of course, we can stay for a few more drinks,” said Charlotte. “I just don’t want you to get into trouble. Wink, wink.”
Dewey reached behind him and felt the .45 caliber handgun tucked into the small of his back, beneath the windbreaker. He stood up.
“I’ll be right back.”
Charlotte arched her head to the side, made a fake disappointed look, then smiled. “Sure, Dewey. I’ll be here.”
Dewey looked quickly at Talbot, who was deep in conversation with the Frenchwoman. He turned and pushed quickly through swarms of people to the door. There, in the glass of the door, he caught a glimpse of the bright orange shirt. The killer was following. Dewey had surprised the killer with his abrupt move.
He stepped outside onto the crowded sidewalk. It was still hot and he felt sweat pouring from his chest, wetting his shirt. He needed to move fast now. He jogged one block, then went left. He moved away from the strip, down empty sidewalks, past small houses. He jogged past car after parked car, beneath the glow of streetlights.
Looking at windshields as he moved, Dewey searched for a reflection, a sign the young killer was following behind. In the driver’s side window of a pickup truck, he caught a glimpse of the orange shirt. The killer, trying to keep up, was running too fast.
Almost sprinting now, Dewey turned the corner. He reached into the small of his back, pulled out the Colt M1911. From his front pocket he grabbed the silencer and screwed it into the Colt’s nozzle. Sweat rained down from his head and chest as he sprinted for his life. In a block, he took a hard right down another street. He crossed the street, then ducked behind a sedan and watched. The killer, following Dewey’s turn, appeared and looked around. His left arm moved up to his face. Dewey heard his panicked voice, words barked into a cell phone.
How many are there?
Dewey took off again, picking up his pace, looking in front of him for others, running as fast as he could down the sidewalk.
He hit the next intersection sprinting. He heard the scratch of the terrorist’s shoes on the pavement, charging after him down the sidewalk.
Parked at the far corner, Dewey saw a white van and caught a silhouette moving toward the back of it. Trapped between two killers, he looked around quickly for a third man but saw nothing. He ran down the middle of the street for the front of the van, then ducked in front of it just as the terrorist with the orange shirt rounded the corner. Dewey crouched in front of the van’s grille. He listened for the sound of footsteps behind the van as he waited for the orange shirt to appear.