But there were major problems with the plan. First, there was the simple fact that eventually Bolin would come back to his office, and if he wanted to use the bathroom, he would just get one of his guards to unlock the door. If he found el-Jaqonda inside, he would be shot on sight.
If he made it to midnight without someone finding him, he would then have the challenge of getting out of the building without being seen. There were soldiers from SSG on every corridor, and multiple soldiers at every entrance.
If he could get outside, el-Jaqonda felt confident the rest would be manageable. The military was likely using all of its energy and power quelling popular uprising in the streets, especially the cities. No one would have the time to think about one little man, even if that little man, along with his boss, had, intentionally or not, instigated it all.
El-Jaqonda had his cell phone and every few minutes he pressed the button in order to have some light inside the small room. But the battery was running down. He’d scrolled through the numbers five or six times, thinking about whether any of his stored contacts could help him. The problem was, colleagues at the Ministry of Defense, even his assistant, Sharit, would all be worried about their own hides right now. Any one of them would turn him in. A different dynamic existed with counterparts in other countries. He considered calling Mi Jong, his closest associate in the Chinese Ministry of National Defense. But Jong would care only about future sales of Chinese planes and missiles to El-Khayab’s successor. Jong would turn him in faster than you can say wonton soup.
The one person el-Jaqonda came closest to calling was his brother, who lived in Chicago and owned three dry cleaners. He thought of calling him because he wanted to talk to someone, that was all, and to say goodbye. But el-Jaqonda was scared that someone would hear his voice.
Then, it came to him, and he cursed himself for not considering it first.
You fucking idiot.
He hadn’t considered calling the one person who might be able to help him because his phone number was not in his contacts list. He had memorized the number instead, at that person’s insistence.
* * *
More than two thousand miles away, a phone rang. Aswan Fortuna walked to his desk and picked it up.
“What is it?”
“Aswan,” he said. “It’s Khalid.”
“Khalid, are you okay?”
“I can’t talk,” said el-Jaqonda.
“What’s wrong?” asked Fortuna. “I can barely hear you.”
“Coup d’état,” said el-Jaqonda. “There’s been a coup d’état. President El-Khayab is dead.”
“
What?
” said Fortuna. “This is … this is unbelievable, Khalid.”
“I need your help,” said el-Jaqonda. “I know of no other.”
After a long pause, Fortuna cleared his throat.
“Where are you? Of course I will help you.”
“I’m hiding in the palace. If they find me, they will kill me.”
“Calm down. It’s going to be fine. Who did this?”
“Field Marshal Bolin, commander of the war against India. But the Americans were behind it all, Aswan.”
“The Americans?” asked Fortuna, momentarily taken aback.
“It was America. Some sort of special forces. I watched the whole thing.”
“Americans,” Fortuna said, barely above a whisper.
“Yes, Americans. They did the entire thing. I saw him. I heard his voice. Bolin was like a puppet to him. It was an American who shot Osama Khan.”
Fortuna gasped. “This American,” he said. “What did he look like?”
“Big,” said el-Jaqonda. “Tall. Scary-looking. Toughest I’ve ever seen. He looked like he would kill you just for looking at him the wrong way.”
“Go on,” said Fortuna, his heart racing.
“He had brown hair,” said el-Jaqonda. “He was plainclothed, jeans, a T-shirt. A beard and mustache. Black paint beneath his eyes, but you could see that he was very tan.”
Fortuna’s breathing grew rapid.
“This is important, Khalid,” said Fortuna. “Did you hear his name.”
“They called him Andreas.”
AIWAN-E-SADR
At 4:30
P.M.
, down the hallway from his temporary command center, Field Marshal Bolin walked into the media briefing room. He stepped behind a dais. Behind him, a navy blue backdrop covered the wall. Just in front of the backdrop stood an orderly, colorful line of Pakistani flags. In front of the flags, but behind Bolin, stood two men in business suits, Azra Ankiel, the leader of the Pakistani National Assembly, and Seranas el Debullah, the leader of the Pakistani Senate.
A single camera sat in front of Bolin, providing a pool feed to all news outlets. The address was being broadcast live on all stations inside of Pakistan and was carried live on news outlets across the world.
Bolin wore his military uniform.
“This morning, in order to end the violence and bloodshed that threatened to destroy our homeland, the Pakistani military acted to bring stability and peace to Kashmir, Pakistan, and our region,” said Bolin, reading from prepared remarks that he had placed on the dais in front of him. “These actions were done in order to prevent further escalation of violence between Pakistan and India. I have spoken several times with Indian President Rajiv Ghandra, and our countries have agreed to stand down all offensive military activities directed against each other. The terms of this cease-fire will be made permanent over the coming hours and days. Moreover, President Ghandra and I have committed to meeting face-to-face in order to discuss what went wrong in Kashmir, and how we might create systems and measures to prevent other such terrible activities from occurring in the future.”
* * *
Dewey watched Bolin’s address on a television down the hallway from the briefing room.
Within minutes of the address, he could sense a change in the chemistry of the still substantial crowds gathered around Aiwan-e-Sadr and down Constitution Avenue. It was as if a lightning bolt had come down and struck the square. The crowd became more energized and violent.
The sun was going down. Darkness had begun to cast itself across the Islamabad evening.
The chant seemed to stop, then start again, several times. What had been a unified chorus turned into an unpredictable, louder, chaotic wave of shouts.
Some of the people left the square, no doubt India haters who nevertheless saw no point in remaining for what was sure to be a bloody evening.
The others, the ones who remained, became aggressive.
In several parts of the square, smoke now drifted into the sky. Fires started, too many fires for the Pakistani soldiers to extinguish.
The sound of breaking glass became common now. Rocks, bricks, hurled through storefronts and office building windows. The occasional popping sound of gunfire interrupted the noise every few minutes.
At one point, the chant alternated. “
Death to India
” became “
Death to Bolin
.”
For the first time since landing in Pakistan, despite the severe risk involved during the execution of the coup itself, Dewey felt a small, electric wave of fear spread up his back.
“There’s no fucking way we’re getting a Humvee through that crowd,” said Iverheart.
“Chill out,” said Dewey.
He glanced at the table. Millar’s new bandage was crimson.
“How are you?” asked Dewey.
Millar stared at him. His eyes were glassy.
“Not good,” he said quietly. “I need some painkillers.”
In front of him, in the middle of the table, the MP7 machine gun lay on its side.
Dewey left the room and walked down the hallway to Bolin’s temporary office. Two guards stood outside the office door. When Dewey approached, they would not move to the side, their Kalashnikovs remained trained at Dewey as he approached.
“I need to see him,” said Dewey, stepping between the two soldiers, despite their raised weapons.
“We’re under orders—”
“Yeah, I don’t give a fuck,” said Dewey. He reached the door and pushed his way in, throwing aside the two smaller men.
Bolin sat behind the desk, speaking into a phone. When he saw Dewey, he glanced behind him at the two guards disapprovingly. Two men sat in front of Bolin, one of them General Lerik, and another general he didn’t recognize.
Dewey stood, waiting for Bolin to finish his call.
Bolin hung up. He glanced at the two generals seated in front of him.
“Yes, Mr. Andreas,” said Bolin, a hint of anger in his voice. “It seems the job is complete, yes? Time for you and your team to disappear. What do you want from me now?”
“We need a chopper in here,” said Dewey. He nodded to the window and the crowds gathered down Constitution Avenue. “There’s no way we’re going to make it through that. By Humvee or any other vehicle.”
Bolin nodded, a slight grin on his face.
“You like to order people around, don’t you?” asked Bolin. “Have you ever considered the use of the word ‘please’?”
Dewey stared at Bolin, at first in disbelief, then with unvarnished anger.
“Please,…
Mr. President,
” said Bolin, grinning at the two generals in front of him. All three started to laugh.
Dewey remained silent until the laughter stopped.
“Just get me a fucking chopper,” Dewey said.
He turned and walked toward the door. At the door, he turned and looked at Bolin.
“One more thing, Field Marshal,” said Dewey. “One last piece of free advice: you need more soldiers out there. Your battalion is soon going to be overrun. El-Khayab was right: in case you’re not listening, they’re calling for your head.”
AIWAN-E-SADR
El-Jaqonda unlocked the bathroom door, opened it, then stepped into the cavernous, empty office of the president of Pakistan. The room was eerily silent and dark. The chanting from Constitution Avenue had stopped. He walked to the window and looked out. El-Jaqonda saw fires smoldering in buildings along the wide boulevard, and smoke in the distant sky. Hundreds of soldiers patrolled the streets.
El-Jaqonda had one opportunity to save his own skin, and it was right now.
He walked to the door of the office. He reached for the engraved brass doorknob and opened the big door. El-Jaqonda stepped into the hallway, raising his arms above his shoulders as he did so.
He was immediately besieged by three armed guards, who raised their weapons.
“
Who are you?
” shouted one of the soldiers, aiming his Kalashnikov at el-Jaqonda’s head. “Down on the ground!”
“My name is Khalid el-Jaqonda,” he said, kneeling, then lying stomach down on the marble floor. “I place myself under your arrest. I was the deputy minister of defense under President El-Khayab. I intend no harm.”
“What were you doing in there?”
“I was locked in the bathroom. Please, I must speak with President Bolin.”
One of the soldiers placed flex-cuffs on el-Jaqonda’s wrists.
“You’ll do no such thing,” said one of the soldiers.
“I was in charge of the nuclear weapons program,” said el-Jaqonda. “It’s imperative that I speak with him. One of the nuclear weapons is loose. It’s outside the control of the Pakistani military. Khan sold it. I must speak with him.”
“You’ll tell me—”
“I’ll speak to nobody other than Bolin,” said el-Jaqonda. He craned his neck from the ground and looked at the soldier, who stood now with four other soldiers, surrounding el-Jaqonda. “Tell me, soldier, do you want to explain to your superiors—when another nuclear bomb goes off—that you knew about it and could have prevented it?”
* * *
They moved el-Jaqonda to a small office a floor up. He was placed in a metal chair, his wrists and ankles cuffed. He waited in the room for twenty minutes; every minute felt like an eternity. Finally, the door opened. Bolin walked in.
“Khan’s water boy,” said Bolin as he walked in, two aides by his side. “I remember you. What do you want? What is this about a rogue nuclear device?”
“I’ll tell you,” said el-Jaqonda. “But I want to speak to you alone.”
Bolin looked quizzically at el-Jaqonda. He shrugged, then turned to his aides and pointed toward the door. They left. Bolin shut the door.
“Talk,” said Bolin. “I’m busy. Busy cleaning up the fucking mess you idiots made.”
“There’s no nuclear device,” said el-Jaqonda. “This has to do with the American.”
Bolin was momentarily silent, stunned by el-Jaqonda’s words.
“What? You dragged me up here to talk about the American?”
“Andreas,” said el-Jaqonda. “I represent someone who is willing to pay you for Andreas. It’s personal. Andreas killed his son.”
“Who?” asked Bolin.
“Aswan Fortuna.”
Bolin was silent, and he showed no emotion.
“How much are we talking about?”
“As much as you want, Mr. President.”
IN THE AIR OVER THE ARABIAN SEA
Youssef was awakened by the ringing of his cell phone. He opened his eyes. For a moment, he had trouble remembering where he was. He glanced about the cabin of the Hawker, then sat up. On the seat next to him was the leather coat that he’d taken off the dead rancher, Talbot. The sight jolted him, and he remembered where he was.
He reached for his phone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Change of plans, Youssef,” said Nebuchar.
“Oh?” said Youssef. “What do you mean?”
“You’re going to Pakistan. We need you to pick up a package.”
* * *
As nightfall approached, the situation in Islamabad went from bad to worse.
Countless fires dotted the city. Smoke and flames were rife in the square mile surrounding Aiwan-e-Sadr, small fires started by young, angry El-Khayab supporters.
A second battalion of Pakistani Army soldiers helped to quell the vandalism. But the jihadists just spread out across the city, their anger now dispersed in neighborhoods and alleyways across Islamabad and nearby Rawalpindi.
Reports of similar violence came from Peshawar, Karachi, and Lahore.
At 5:30
P.M.
, Bolin declared martial law. A general curfew would begin at 6:00
P.M.
* * *