Drone

57

Washington, D.C.

Myers stood alone in the secured media room at the White House, video conferencing with the Kremlin. Not even Strasburg had been allowed into the room with her.

On the other hand, Titov had several advisors in the room with him, including a half dozen scowling generals and admirals with chests full of gleaming service medals. The oldest was Colonel General Petrov, commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, with enough nuclear ICBMs at his disposal to destroy the United States a dozen times over. Two stern-faced women sat around the long table as well. Even Ambassador Britnev was there, perched on Titov’s left.

“You’ve seen and heard the video and audio files I’ve forwarded to you?” Myers asked. She was referring to the conversation Pearce had secretly recorded with Ali in the Padres luxury suite along with the video recordings that Yamada had made of the Vepr lurking in the gulf. On Pearce’s orders, however, Yamada didn’t pass along to Myers the conversation with the Russian captain.

“Yes, of course.” Titov had a bulldog face but his voice was surprisingly gentle, even calming. His English was excellent as well.

“My intelligence services are analyzing the files now. The first reports are that they are fabrications. Everybody knows how skilled your Hollywood technicians are at manipulating sounds and images. But I am waiting for the final analysis, of course.”

“Mr. Titov, we are far beyond the point of playing games. I’m standing here alone for a reason. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation is completely private. As you can see, none of my advisors are here with me, and I assure you none of them is listening in on this conversation. I have no desire to embarrass you or your government, nor do I wish to provoke a war with you. But the actions you have taken against my government are, in fact, acts of aggression, and I will not stand for them.”

Titov turned his head slightly to the general sitting next to him and grinned. The general whispered something to Titov that made Titov chuckle, and that set off a chain reaction of controlled laughter.

“Forgive me, Mr. President, but my Russian is terrible. Do you mind letting me in on the joke?”

“My colleague, Colonel General Petrov, said that you remind him of his ex-wife, a very unpleasant lady. Beyond that, I do not wish to repeat.”

Again, the Russians rumbled with laughter, including the women.

Myers smiled. “Perhaps the old missile general had an unhappy wife because his rocket was no longer able to launch.”

The old general’s face turned beet red. The Russians instantly roared with laughter, Titov most of all. Myers was alone in the room but she had been thoroughly briefed on the Russian high command.

“Forgive me, Madame President,” Titov said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I have clearly underestimated you.”

“In more ways than you can possibly know, Mr. President.”

That sobered him up.

“Then let us be frank. What is the purpose of this pleasant chat? To discuss the electronic fictions you have sent to us?” Titov asked.

“We are far beyond discussions, Mr. President. Here is my proposal. In twenty-four hours, you will announce to the world that your cross-border antiterror operations in Azerbaijan have been a success and that you will begin withdrawing your forces within seventy-two hours, abandoning the country entirely within seven days. My government will publicly commend you for your decision to withdraw, and privately you will negotiate with the Azerbaijanis over monetary compensation for the damages you have caused that nation.”

Titov glowered at Myers. “And why would we do such a thing? Because you simply order it?”

Myers pressed a button on her console. A live feed appeared as a picture within a picture on both of their screens. It showed a giant steel pipeline.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Titov?”

“It looks like an oil pipeline.”

“It is. It’s the BTC pipeline. As I’m sure you know, it’s over a thousand miles long and pumps a million gallons of oil per day from Baku all the way to the Mediterranean. Right now, it’s the only viable means you have of transporting all of that Azeri oil you’re stealing out of the Caspian Sea into the European markets.”

Titov’s advisors murmured among themselves.

Myers pressed another button. Yet another live picture-in-picture image appeared, also of a pipeline.

“This is the 2,500-mile-long Druzhba pipeline, which your nation operates. It supplies 1.4 million barrels of oil per day from Siberian and Kazakh oil fields to end users all over Europe. This is your main oil artery to the West, Mr. President.

“In both cases, armed drones under my control are flying over these extremely vulnerable pipelines. On my order, they will destroy a section of each pipeline. No matter how quickly you are able to repair them, I will be able to destroy another section with the push of a button. Besides the environmental damage and financial cost these attacks will incur, the most important thing they will accomplish is to convince the Europeans that you are no longer able to deliver a reliable supply of oil. My nation, however, is prepared to step in and fill that void. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I have your natural gas pipelines targeted as well.”

Titov’s face hardened. “One moment.” He slammed a button that muted the sound on his end. Myers watched the room erupt into a frenzied conference. A minute later, he snapped the sound back on.

“You’re bluffing, Madame President. Your nation is not prepared to engage in a ground war with us. Your military has exhausted itself with its misadventures in Iraq and Afghanistan, and you yourself are about to be impeached for your war crimes against the people and government of Mexico.”

“Do not underestimate my nation’s capacity for war, Mr. President. But I concede your point. My nation does not desire war at this time, and my nation makes no threat to you.”

Titov pointed at the screen where the video images still played. “That is no threat?”

“I said, my nation makes no threat. Right now, I am the one making the threat. Those unmanned drones are flown by a private contractor under my employ. The American government has no part in this now. This is a personal matter between me and you, Mr. Titov. Not our governments. And you are absolutely right. I am about to be impeached, but that hardly means I will be thrown out of office, especially if our two nations are suddenly at war. But even if I was to be thrown out of office, I still control these drones and will still pose a threat to your pipelines, even from prison, if it comes to that.”

Again, Titov snapped off the sound and conferred with his advisors. Britnev bent Titov’s ear the most.

Myers wondered if she had overplayed her hand. She essentially called him out in front of his peers, just like in a schoolyard brawl. If Titov was like most men, he’d give himself over to his anger and pride, and her gamble would fail. The sound came back on.

“Your criminal mercenary Pearce is behind this, isn’t he?” Titov demanded.

“Troy Pearce is an honorable man, and he’s the best in the world at what he does. But he’s not the only resource available to me. I can always release the audio and video files I sent to you to Congress. Senator Diele would beg for war. Ask Britnev if I’m telling the truth or not.”

Titov didn’t have to. He’d been intimately familiar with Diele for years, dating back to when he was a KGB officer.

“Mr. President, the choice here is very simple. If you stay in Azerbaijan, you will never be able to exploit the oil resources available there anyway once I destroy your pipeline, and you will lose all of your capacity to transport your nation’s legitimate oil and gas reserves. At the very least, you’ll lose the European markets. We both know that the only thing propping up your economy is your oil and gas exports. Are you willing to start World War III knowing that you will begin that war in a state of economic collapse?”

Titov drummed his fingers on the table. He was dancing on the knife’s edge.

Myers wondered, Have I pushed him too far?

Titov finally spoke. “If we withdraw from Azerbaijan and you release these files, your Congress may still declare war on us, so perhaps it is best for us to stay where we are and see what happens?”

“If you withdraw from Azerbaijan, I guarantee that I will destroy those files. I’m no fool, either, Mr. President. A shooting war between your country and mine would be a disaster for both of us, and a nightmare for the whole world. There is nothing to be gained, except to advance the interests of our mutual competitors, especially China and Iran.”

“And what is to keep you from threatening our pipelines in the future? Even holding them for ransom?”

“You have my word.”

“That’s not good enough,” Titov said.

“What else can I offer?” Myers asked.

Britnev leaned into Titov and whispered something. Titov nodded, smiled.

“One thing in order to prove your sincere desire to avoid war.”

“Name it.”

Titov did. It was an outrageous suggestion.

To his astonishment, Myers agreed to it instantly.

58

Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.

President Barraza’s security detail stood alert around the office. Antonio sat behind his desk in an elegantly cut light blue suit, while Hernán took up his usual position, slouched on the couch with a glass of liquor in his hands.

Cruzalta sat opposite the president, and next to him, Senator Madero, a silver-haired elder statesman. Both men had been checked for weapons when they entered the building and again when they entered the president’s office. Madero kept a hand-stitched brown leather attaché case on his lap.

“What we have to say might be better said in private,” Cruzalta suggested.

Antonio shot a glance at Hernán, who nodded his approval.

Antonio turned to the security chief. “Dismissed.”

“But, Mr. President—”

Antonio’s glowering eyes cut him off.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The security chief nodded to his men and they left the room.

“Say what you’re going to say, traitor.”

“Traitor?” Cruzalta could barely contain his rage.

“What my brother means to say is, what is it that you are proposing?” Hernán asked.

Madero opened his attaché case and handed Antonio a sheet of paper. He read it.

“There are 425 signatures on that list requesting that you vacate the office of president,” Madero said with great solemnity. “Enough to satisfy the constitutional requirements to elect an interim president.”

Antonio laughed. “I have no reason to step down.”

“You have over a one hundred fourteen million reasons to resign. Our nation is about to collapse into a civil war. We need new leadership, now,” Cruzalta said.

Antonio laughed again. “You?”

“No. Senator Madero is my choice, and the choice of the majority on that list, and of many of the governors.” Cruzalta was right. Madero was the most respected politician in Mexico. For decades, Madero had displayed courage, honesty, and integrity in his public service.

“If this nation is on the brink of revolution, as you think it is, then it’s of your own making. You’re the one who partnered with the Americans to kill poor Bravo and wage war on our people,” Hernán said.

“Our people? You’re talking about the animals who butchered tens of thousands of innocents—those are the people you partnered with. The greed, the corruption, the violence—all of it must end if our nation is to have any hope of real democracy.”

“A dreamer’s dream, Cruzalta. This is Mexico,” Hernán laughed. “You can’t change a whole culture by changing a few names on the office door.”

“Perhaps not. But we can at least try, and if we fail, we can fail as men, rather than living like a pack of vicious dogs.”

Madero trembled with rage. “How dare you speak so poorly of your own people, Barraza. It’s the politicians who corrupt the people, not the other way around.”

“You have many enemies, Barraza. Some closer than you think. Get out while you can,” Cruzalta said.

“I have no fear of enemies. The people love me, especially after the attempt on my life,” Antonio said.

Cruzalta reached into his pocket and pulled out a digital player. He explained that it was a portion of the conversation Pearce had secretly recorded with Ali in San Diego.

Antonio turned toward his brother. He was on the verge of tears. “Hernán?”

“What is that recording supposed to prove?” Hernán protested. “Americans can doctor anything on digital.” He knew Antonio thought the moon landings were staged.

Antonio turned back to Cruzalta. “You are a dangerous man and a traitor. You make me sick.” Antonio nodded at Madero. “And you, old man, are a fool.”

Hernán slumped in his chair, visibly relieved.

“So give me one good reason why I should resign in disgrace and let you traitors take over the government?” Antonio demanded.

Madero pulled out another document and set it carefully in front of Antonio. “On this resignation letter, you are guaranteed a full and complete pardon and total immunity for all crimes you may have committed, and you may keep all of the money you currently possess by whatever means you acquired it, up to and including the moment you sign the document.”

Antonio read the resignation and the pardon, then handed it to Hernán. “You’re the lawyer. What do you think?”

Hernán took the paper from his brother and scanned it.

“What about my brother? Is he included in this pardon?” Antonio asked.

“We are prepared to extend that offer.”

Hernán nodded, smiling with approval. “It appears to be legitimate to me.” He handed back the paper to Antonio, who set it on his desk.

“What’s to keep the new government from changing its mind? What about lawsuits?” Antonio asked.

Madero’s kind brown eyes narrowed. A faint smile appeared beneath his elegantly trimmed silver mustache.

“You have my word, señor. But of course, for a wretch like you, honor is no virtue. So I suggest that you leave the country. Take everything with you. Find a place that does not permit extradition. We will not violate our agreement, but take every precaution if that lets you sleep at night. Whatever it takes to get you to sign that paper.”

“I need seventy-two hours to settle my affairs before I can leave the country. After that, you can have your government. Is that acceptable?”

“We agree,” Cruzalta said.

Antonio opened a drawer. “And I am completely pardoned and immune from all prosecutions for any crimes I have committed up until the time I sign this paper, correct?”

“That is exactly correct,” Madero said.

Antonio pulled out a big chromed Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and stood up with it. He held it up in front of his face.

“Even if I kill the two of you?”

Madero didn’t flinch. “Yes. The agreement is ironclad.”

Antonio rubbed the big silver barrel against his cheek. “I love this gun. Have you ever seen what a slug from one of these can do to a bear’s skull?”

Guns didn’t bother Cruzalta. He’d had too many of them pointed at him over the years to care anymore.

Antonio whipped around, pointed the pistol at Hernán, and fired. The giant hand cannon roared, but the kick was enormous. The slug tore into the wall six inches above Hernán’s head. Everybody’s ears rang from the deafening gun blast.

Antonio lowered the barrel directly at Hernán’s furrowed forehead.

Hernán fell to his knees, begging for his life, wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist.

To Cruzalta’s ruined ears, it sounded like Hernán was crying underwater.

BOOM!

Hernán’s head exploded like a ripe melon.

The security team broke through the door, guns drawn. They aimed their weapons at Cruzalta and Madero.

“Mr. President! Are you all right?”

Hernán’s blood and brain tissue stained the front of Antonio’s elegant blue suit.

“I’m fine. Leave,” Antonio ordered, waving them away with the pistol.

Confused, the security detail holstered their weapons. Blood was still pumping out of what was left of Hernán’s cranium onto the finely woven Persian carpet.

“I said leave. Now!”

The security detail left, tails tucked between their legs. “We’ll be outside if you need us, Mr. President.”

Antonio tossed the heavy gun onto the desk, then picked up a Montblanc pen and unscrewed the top. He flashed his signature smile at Madero and Cruzalta. Flecks of his brother’s gore were still on his face.

“Now, gentlemen, where do I sign?”

59

Tehran, Iran

The policeman nudged the bum in the gutter with his shoe.

“Drunkard! Get up, or I’ll have you whipped.”

The man moaned, barely stirring.

The policeman kicked him harder. The bum groaned, sat up, rubbed his face. He seemed too well dressed to be a drunk.

“Where am I?” His voice sounded strange, like he had a cold.

“You’re going to jail if you don’t stand up and start walking, now.” The policeman grabbed him by the nape of the neck and yanked him to his feet.

“Let go of me, fool. Do you know who I am?” The man blinked hard against the harsh morning light. His head ached, and his sinuses were packed. Was he sick?

“You are Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi back from the dead for all I care.” The policeman grabbed the man by his rock-hard bicep. The policeman frowned. What kind of derelict had an arm like that?

Ali broke the policeman’s grip and shattered his jaw in a lightning-fast strike. The cop crumpled to the alley pavement, knocked out cold.

Ali checked his watch. He needed to reach President Sadr with Myers’s amazing offer as quickly as possible. He just hoped he could find some aspirin before then. That Sunni pig Khan said the headache would only be mild, but the effects of the anesthetic were excruciating. If I ever find him, I’ll cut off his hands, Ali promised himself.

Two hours later, Ali sat in a chair in the president’s office, the headache roaring in his head. He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers to try to alleviate the pressure.

A male aide rushed in with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenols and set them on the president’s desk.

“That will be all,” the president told his aide. The man departed quickly and silently.

Sadr crossed from behind his desk, picked up the glass of water and the two tablets, and handed them to his most trusted Quds officer. He leaned in close.

“Here, my friend. Take these. They will help.”

Sitting at his tiny metal desk just outside of Sadr’s door, the aide heard a sharp crack, like a firecracker inside of a tin can. He flinched, then leaped to his feet and dashed into the office. A dozen armed guards thundered in close behind him.

Ali’s headless corpse still sat in its chair, slumped slightly to one side.

Sadr lay on his back on top of his desk, his arms extended like a crucifix. A bone shard from Ali’s skull had driven itself through Sadr’s left eye socket into his brain, killing him instantly.

Tamar had been able to time the detonation visually through one of Dr. Rao’s micro cameras attached to Ali’s numbed scalp. Unfortunately, the camera was destroyed in the blast.

Pearce knew that if Sadr was dead, the secretive mullahs wouldn’t confirm it for weeks, but he sensed that the gamble would pay off. Dr. Khan and his surgical team had implanted four ounces of CL-20 in Ali’s sinus cavity while he was knocked out on the jet ride over, enough high explosive to blow up a car. The average human skull was an excellent source of organic shrapnel containing twenty-five separate bones. Pearce savored the irony. He had turned Iran’s most dangerous terrorist into a living IED. It wasn’t as satisfying as killing the bastard Ali with his own hands, but letting Tamar take him out along with the maniac Sadr was at least some small measure of retribution for his murdered friend.

“Thank you, Troy,” Tamar said from her Tel Aviv apartment. Pearce had arranged for her to remotely detonate the charge he’d so carefully arranged.

“It doesn’t bring Udi back,” he said.

“I know. But it was a gift. Udi would be glad that I was the one to push the button.”

Washington, D.C.

The rotors on Marine One cycled up slowly as the engine spun to life. Myers climbed the steps for the last time. As always, she wore smart but sensible shoes. She stood at the top of the steps and waved good-bye to Jeffers and the other loyal members of her cabinet who had gathered to watch her go.

Only Jeffers, Pearce, and Myers knew the real reason she had resigned. Her enemies on the Hill assumed it was because she was afraid that she would have lost the impeachment battle. They were wrong. Politics was the last thing on her mind now. Her soul ached. Everyone she had ever loved had been taken from her. What was there to be afraid of anymore?

Myers’s prayer now was that no one on Titov’s side of the table would leak the details of their deal. Otherwise, everything was back in play and the country she loved so deeply would fall into harm’s way. The Russians had withdrawn from Azerbaijan on schedule, and Myers had resigned as promised—Titov’s proof of her sincere desire to avoid a shooting war—but not before securing blanket amnesty for Pearce and his team, along with Mike Early and all the others who had participated in her scheme. It had been a classic queen sacrifice, a device that more than one chess master had used to win a desperate game.

The press cameras whirred and flashed as the chopper gently lifted off. She hoped that President Greyhill was up to the job.

She, for one, was glad to give it up. It was time to go home to Colorado and grieve for her son properly.