the Second Horseman (2006) Read online

  The man leading him turned off his flashlight in favor of the glow of industrial lights set up on rusting stands every twenty feet or so, and then veered left into a small gap in the rock. A few moments later, the corridor dead-ended into a well-lit chamber dominated by a large, regal desk. It was covered in gouges and water stains, but in its day it would have been worthy of a czar.

  The man motioned for him to stay and then disappeared, leaving Yusef with only the hum of a distant generator to keep him company. He used the time to try to calm himself, to stay in character. A fundamentalist terrorist wouldn't be uncertain. Or afraid. Or . . .

  "Mr. Yusef!"

  The voice seemed to come from everywhere as it bounced off the stone walls. He spun just in time to see two men emerge from the darkness.

  "I've looked forward to meeting you in person," the man in front said with a moderate accent. He was wearing a crisp military uniform with the sleeves rolled over muscular forearms that seemed impervious to the cold.

  "I'm Grigori."

  "I, too, have been looking forward to this moment," Yusef said, shaking the man's hand. Grigori was the man he'd been corresponding with by e-mail for so long. He never really thought he'd meet the man face-to-face. Or perhaps he had just hoped he wouldn't.

  The other man didn't speak or approach, instead moving into a shallow alcove and watching through bulging eyes that burned with something that wasn't quite clear. Insanity? Fury? The garish scar across his mouth identified him as Grigori's brother. Edwin Hamdi had provided physical descriptions of the two men as well as some basic background, though its reliability was questionable.

  They were thought to be Ukrainian Jews. One brother had joined the military as a young man, while the other had become an enforcer for a local gang. Then, about ten years ago, and under murky circumstances, they had joined forces in a number of criminal ventures that had reportedly been quite profitable. How they had ended up here, though, and how they had come to possess nuclear weapons was unknown.

  Yusef removed the backpack that had generated so much interest earlier and held it out. "A gift, Grigori. Whether we are able to come to an agreement on this transaction or not, I hope you will think of me again should you ever come across something interesting."

  Grigori looked at the cash straining the sides of the pack and then tossed it to his brother with a few words in Ukrainian.

  "A thoughtful gesture," he said, taking Yusef by the arm and leading him back out the way they had come. He could hear Grigori's brother -- Pyotr according to Hamdi's intelligence -- walking a few feet behind, and he glanced back, tensing when he saw the flash of a knife in the man's hands.

  Pyotr made no move to close the distance between them, though, and Yusef was eventually forced to turn and focus on where he was going.

  The chamber they finally came to was virtually identical to the hundreds he'd passed since he arrived, with one exception: It had a door. Or more precisely, a web of bars haphazardly welded together and attached to heavy hinges set into the stone. On either side was an armed guard, each of whom snapped to the loose facsimile of attention favored by military men who had abandoned their oaths in favor of self-interest.

  Grigori used the key around his neck to unlock the gate and stepped aside.

  Yusef hesitated for a moment, but knew he'd come too far to turn back now. Another glance at the knife-wielding Pyotr confirmed that he was well past the point of no return. Years past.

  As soon as he stepped inside, the sound and smell of a generator kicking on surrounded him, and the level of illumination rose to the point that he had to shield his eyes with his hand.

  Most of the wooden crates were still sealed, but one in the center had been opened, and Yusef could see metal peeking through what looked like hay. He reached out to touch it and immediately recoiled at the almost painful cold of the metal. Or perhaps that wasn't the reason at all.

  Grigori was watching from his position at the gate and Yusef forced himself to retrieve the small tool kit he was carrying from his pocket. "May I?" "Of course."

  "You're satisfied, then?" Grigori said, slamming the gate closed again and carefully locking it.

  Yusef barely managed to keep his voice from shaking. All twelve warheads were there and all twelve were fully operational. God help them.

  "I'm satisfied."

  They began walking again, this time side by side, with Grigori's arm locked through his, as though they had been friends since childhood.

  "Of course you are. And I, too, am much happier with meeting you. I find myself a good judge of men and I sense you are a man I can trust. But I must say that we have much interest in our product -- from groups like yours as well as from governments."

  "I'm sure you do."

  "And these other bidders must be considered."

  Yusef motioned behind him at Pyotr, who was still playing with the knife and staring at him with what Yusef had decided was inexplicable hatred. The backpack full of cash hadn't softened him at all.

  "But have any of those other bidders provided you with half a million U. S. dollars? Or any gesture of good faith at all?"

  "No," Grigori admitted.

  "I'm not surprised. Even cells directly linked to Osama bin Laden have been scattered and cut off from their funding. As for selling to governments -- this is very dangerous for you. The Americans are focusing almost entirely on the state sponsorship of terrorism. Countries like Iran and Syria are being watched very closely. While smaller groups -- groups like mine -- are going unnoticed."

  Grigori nodded. "Much of what you say is true."

  "And the risk of you trying to sell these weapons to multiple buyers is even greater. Twelve different buyers means twelve different chances for exposure. And what if one of the people --"

  Pyotr began scraping his knife against the rock wall as they walked, and Yusef s train of thought was briefly lost in the static of it.

  "What if one of the people you sell to is captured? It would make the sale of the remaining warheads a very difficult matter."

  "I assume you have an offer that will relieve me of all of these risks?" Grigori said, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

  "I'm prepared to pay you $150 million U. S. dollars for all the warheads."

  To his credit, Grigori didn't react at all to the offer. He just continued walking through the cave, smiling politely.

  "When?" he said finally.

  "Obviously, there would be a number of details to be discussed, but ideally, I would like to have the transaction completed within two weeks."

  Grigori's expression changed slightly at that. "Then you have the money?"

  "I do."

  "If this is true, then I see few details left to decide. You will remain here as my guest and we will discuss the price further. When we come to agree, we will send wire instructions. And when the money is confirmed to be in my account, you may take the items away."

  Yusef shook his head and Grigori's face transformed into a slightly bored frown.

  In these types of transactions, there was always a catch, and he was waiting for Yusef to get around to it. Undoubtedly he expected a rather complicated qualification of Yusef s statement that he had the money. The definition of "had" could be surprisingly murky.

  "And how is this unacceptable to you, my friend?"

  "The money is in cash."

  Grigori stopped short, keeping his arm tightly linked with Yusef s.

  "I'm sorry for my English. I am not sure I understood."

  "Cash. The money is in currency."

  Grigori thought about that for a moment. "This would be ... It would weigh --"

  "Well over a ton," Yusef said. "And it's bulky. It will take a good-sized truck to transport it."

  "This is a great deal of cash."

  "I understand the complications it poses for you, but we have acquired the cash and cannot launder it in the time frame you want to work within. That makes a wire transfer impossible."

  Grigori s
tarted again, pulling Yusef along with him. "It would be most inconvenient. It would be quite expensive to handle so much currency."

  Yusef nodded. "How expensive?"

  "Twenty-five million."

  "Am I correct in understanding that you're saying one hundred and seventy-five million in cash for all twelve warheads?"

  Grigori thought about it for a moment and then nodded.

  It was impossible to know if Pyotr understood their conversation, but suddenly the sound of the knife scraping rock gave way to hysterical shouting. Yusef spun and Grigori leapt in front of his brother, who was jabbing his knife in Yusef s direction while continuing his furious diatribe in Ukrainian.

  Grigori spoke in a calm, even tone, but it seemed to just make Pyotr angrier. They continued like that for almost a minute, but when Pyotr took a step forward, the scene quickly changed. Grigori grabbed his brother by the front of his jacket and pulled him close, ignoring the knife and speaking with his lips less than an inch from the man's face. Finally, he shoved him back and pointed to the dark corridor behind them. A moment later, Pyotr was fading into it.

  "I must apologize," Grigori said, once again linking his arm through Yusef s. "We are Jews and my brother keeps that religion like a neglected pet. Do you understand this?"

  Yusef nodded.

  "I myself am an atheist," Grigori continued. "Are you shocked? I'm curious: What offends a man like you more? A Jew or an atheist?"

  There was no answer that could possibly benefit his position, so Yusef remained silent.

  "Of course, you are right. It is best to keep business separate from our personal feelings. My brother hasn't learned this simple lesson. He is concerned that you might use our weapons to attack his people in Israel, though he's killed many, many Jews himself. More than you, I should think."

  He stared directly at the side of Yusef s face from a distance that felt much too close. Could he see the American in him? Could anyone anymore? The truth was that he really was a terrorist now. By virtually any definition.

  Interestingly, Pyotr's psychotic ravings were exactly on target. The warheads -- every one of them -- would be detonated in Israel. In a month, that country and the Occupied Territories would simply cease to exist.

  Yusef became aware of the fact that he was shaking but wasn't sure if it could be attributed to the cold. He believed in what he was doing -- that it had to be done. But it was impossible not to be tormented by doubt there in the quiet darkness.

  For the most part, America's relationship with the Middle East was moving in the right direction. Instead of being consumed with how to make war on the Arab people, Americans were starting to think about how to make peace with them. Oil prices were on an inevitable rise thanks to constricting supplies and China's increasing thirst -- a situation that would eventually force the U. S. to break its desperate addiction to Middle Eastern petroleum and help ease the problems that addiction had caused.

  And that left Israel. There was no way to eradicate the hatred and bigotry woven into the fabric of the Middle East since the very beginning of recorded history. Yusef had seen for himself that the future held nothing but escalation and the increasing involvement by the rest of the world in a situation that only God could resolve. And God had wisely elected to keep his distance.

  After years of living in the Middle East -- speaking with its people, watching its television, smelling its blood -- he knew that the only solution left was to remove the problem. The homeland of the Jews and the Palestinians would be sacrificed for the greater good. And these warheads would be the tools of that sacrifice.

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  The engine's roar echoing off the concrete floor and metal walls was almost enough to drown out REM's latest record. Brandon pulled his iPod from its Gucci case and adjusted the volume, bobbing his head to the beat.

  The warehouse was enormous and virtually empty except for the eighteen-wheeler weaving dangerously through the widely spaced support columns. He counted the seconds it took to get from one end of the building to the other and calculated that Catherine was now topping forty miles per hour.

  "Bet this was expensive."

  Brandon spun and found Richard Scanlon motioning around the massive warehouse.

  "Huh?" Brandon said, pulling one of the earphones out.

  "I said, I'll bet this was expensive."

  Brandon thumbed toward the semi. "Couldn't really do it in a ministorage, you know?"

  That prompted a deep scowl from Scanlon. And he hadn't even seen the bill from the iTunes store yet.

  "How's everyone doing?" he said, watching two men dangling from either end of a single rope slung across the top of the truck. As the truck weaved, the man on one side would swing helplessly away from the trailer, while the other was slammed into it.

  "Okay, I suppose. We got Catherine a private tutor from a local trucking school and she's getting straight A's so far. But I have my suspicions that she's sleeping with the instructor."

  That earned him another frown.

  "Anyway, at the rate she's improving, she'll be fine by the time she has to do it for real." He pointed toward one of the men hanging from the truck, struggling to hold on to something that looked like an enormous roll of wallpaper that he had partially applied to the side of the trailer.

  "The real stickers are still being made, but we managed to get some blanks to practice with. Unfortunately, they weigh a lot more than we thought."

  The truck swerved and the man wrapped his arms and legs around the roll as he swung out into the air. His momentum pulled off a couple of feet of sticker, but when he was inevitably slammed back into the trailer, he was able to smooth it back down and apply a few more feet before he swung away again.

  "At that rate, it's going to take an hour to get that sticker all the way across the trailer," Scanlon said.

  Brandon nodded. "Just holding those rolls while you're hanging is really difficult -- let alone getting them stuck on. And God himself couldn't get them straight."

  "So what are you saying? That it can't be done?"

  "Not by normal human beings. But as much as I hate to admit it, these guys aren't normal humans. They may be a little brain-dead, but if you point them in a direction, they don't let anything get in their way."

  "They're not brain-dead," Scanlon said. "Not by a long shot. They just don't think in the same way you do. People like you and me spend all our time second-guessing orders. They get the job done."

  "You can tell me that all day long, but I still think they're hopeless. Except Daniel. Now that's a guy you could steal some shit with."

  "So what I'm hearing is that everything's under control?"

  "My end is fine. You just make sure you come through with yours," Brandon said, walking over to a concrete pillar and opening a glass case containing a fire hose.

  "What are you doing?" Scanlon asked.

  "I'm curious about how well those things will stick if they're wet."

  The force of the hose almost knocked him backward, but he managed to stabilize himself and use the stream to blast the man hanging from the side of the truck as it passed by. To his credit, he found a way to maneuver so his back took the brunt of the jet, swearing loudly enough that it was audible over the roar of the motor and the hiss of the hose. Catherine didn't even slow down. She just turned on the truck's wipers.

  "Is that really necessary?" Scanlon said. His tone suggested that he already knew the answer to his question but disapproved of the pleasure Brandon was deriving from dousing his new colleagues.

  "The long-term weather forecast looks good, Richard, but you can never trust a weatherman. If everything goes right, we'll be doing this on a straight, dry road. Everything never goes right, though, you know?"

  Brandon pointed to a steel box with three buttons on it. "Push the blue one, would you?"

  Scanlon did and they were engulfed in darkness for a few seconds before Catherine found the truck's headlights. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Bra
ndon would have sworn that she actually sped up a bit. That was the spirit.

  "How are you doing with all this?" Scanlon said as he watched the two men struggle to complete their tasks in a darker, wetter reality.

  "All of what?"

  "You know what I'm talking about: Being broken out of jail, being backed into a corner on this job. Being responsible for millions of lives. It's a larger arena than you're used to working in."

  Brandon pulled the remaining earphone from his ear and hung it over his shoulder. "You know I just want to do my patriotic duty, boss."

  Scanlon let out a quick rush of air that was impossible to read. It may have been a laugh. It may have been a death sentence.

  The bottom line, Brandon knew, was that he needed to get the hell out of Dodge after this thing was over. If Scanlon was on the up-and-up, then he'd just shrug and forget about it. If not, a head start wouldn't be a bad idea.

  The exact logistics of his escape, though, were starting to look a little complicated. His old accomplices were undoubtedly being watched by Scanlon's people, and if not, certainly by the cops. He had no money of his own to speak of. No passports or IDs anywhere close. And if his face wasn't already adorning every post office in the country, it soon would be. If he was particularly lucky, he might get a spot on America's Most Wanted. A career in television. Just what he needed.

  The ironic thing was that it would all be incredibly easy if he just sabotaged the heist. But how could he with this much at stake? So now he had to figure out a way to pull the damn thing off but then disappear before he became more useful as a liner for a shallow grave than a thief.

  "It's turning into a disaster, Brandon."

  He glanced over at Scanlon, who was no longer watching the show, but staring off into the darkness at the edge of the headlights.

  "What is?"

  "The world. This country. You should be pissed off about what my generation is leaving you."