the Second Horseman (2006) Page 14

"Should I? The way they tell it, everything's going great."

  Scanlon's smile seemed a little sad. A little tired. "Only believe about ten percent of what the government tells you."

  "What are you talking about, man? You are the government." He pointed down at Scanlon's feet. "Look at you. You're wearing wingtips, for God's sake."

  The truck sped by again and Brandon opened the hose up for a few seconds, dousing the man hanging from the other side.

  "I worked so hard for so many years to just try to keep things at a simmer," Scanlon said. "And now everything's exploded. The government decided to go out of its way to make the rest of the world fear and hate us and then told me to protect the American people from that world. The problem is, it's impossible."

  "Is that why you quit the Bureau?"

  He nodded.

  "But it's gotten better since then, right? I mean, all you ever hear is how much money they're spending on homeland security."

  "Just because you spend money doesn't mean you get anything for it."

  Brandon shrugged. "I honestly don't think much about the government. If they ever start a draft, I'd dodge it. I don't really pay taxes. And the chances of me getting shot by some security guard is a hell of a lot higher than me getting blown up by some Arab guy."

  "So you'd describe your political philosophy as apathy."

  "Nope. Enlightened self-interest and practical self-reliance. What am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the government to show up with a handout? I'd be waiting a long time."

  Scanlon shook his head slowly. "It wasn't always this way. But now it seems like it gets worse every year. The government's become completely effort-based. They tell you that they're working to put ten thousand cops on the street, and when they do it, everyone cheers. But that isn't a goal. The goal is reducing crime. Funny how no one ever mentions that." He folded his arms in front of him, still staring into the darkness. "Think about it. Billions of dollars and millions of man-hours have been spent on border security since 9/11. Do you know what's been accomplished? Nothing. How do I know? Because the country is still full of illegal immigrants and cocaine. If we can't stop that, how can we stop a terrorist from strolling across our border with a nuclear weapon?"

  "You know what you guys just can't seem to understand, Richard? It's all about motivation. If drug dealers get a bunch of coke over the border, they get a new Ferrari. If a Mexican gets a job in Texas, he feeds his family. If a Muslim terrorist sets off a bomb in Washington, he gets fifty virgins in the afterlife. But if some government employee catches one of those guys or doesn't catch one of those guys, he gets the same paycheck. It's a losing battle."

  "People work jobs for more than just a paycheck, Brandon."

  "Yeah, I know -- power and notoriety, right? Come on, Richard. How many people do you know in the government who aren't in it mostly for themselves? I mean, when a senator can't sleep, is it because he's thinking about what's best for America or about how he's gonna get reelected?"

  Scanlon didn't answer, instead silently watching the truck speed back and forth through the warehouse.

  "But not you," Brandon continued. "You're a true believer. Here to save the day."

  Scanlon seemed unwilling to look away from the darkness. "No. I'm getting old. And I couldn't do any of this even if I was thirty again. You've returned to save the day.

  It's up to you now."

  The truck sped by again, but Brandon didn't turn on the hose. "Are you dancing around a point here, Richard? Because if you are, I have no idea what it is."

  "I want you to be a fundamental part of this organization, Brandon. Not just a onetime contractor. We're a little off the map here, and you're used to working in that territory."

  Brandon had no idea how to respond to that and didn't for a few moments. "What about my vineyard in South Africa?"

  "It's there if you want it."

  The truck pulled to a stop about twenty-five yards away, and Daniel came jogging out of the darkness toward them.

  "How'd it go?" Brandon said, relieved to have an excuse to escape from his conversation with Scanlon before it got any crazier. He was starting to think the old man was losing it.

  "Chuck is having some problems getting the thing on straight. He just doesn't seem to have an eye for it. You should let him do the copter and put me --"

  Brandon shook his head. "You're in the copter Daniel. Buy the guy a level or something."

  Catherine jumped from the cab as the two dripping men lowered themselves to the ground and began peeling the stickers from the side of the truck in preparation for round five. Or was it six?

  "The stickers work fine when they're wet, but the swinging's a problem," Daniel continued. "It'd help if we could get a line under the truck to attach both guys together. That way they wouldn't come away from the trailer on corners. Hard, though. You can't just toss the rope underneath. It might get caught in the wheels, which would definitely ruin your day."

  "It should be straight and dry where we're doing this, Daniel. But you never know."

  "Train for the worst and hope for the best."

  "I couldn't have said it better myself."

  "Nice shooting," Catherine said, wringing out the sleeve of her shirt.

  "You look good out there, Cath. How's it feeling?"

  "No problems. I'm still getting the hang of it, but in a few days I'll be solid."

  "Hey, one more thing, Brandon," Daniel said. "The wind is really catching the stickers -- and there's gonna be even more wind out there in the open desert. I've been thinking, can we get little crescents cut into them? Like banners have? It might reduce the drag."

  Brandon grinned and glanced over at Scanlon. "See? That's why I love this guy. Great idea. I'm on it. Lunch?"

  Daniel looked back at his men. "I'd like to do one more run with the weaving first. Probably not a great idea to do it with them full of raw fish eggs and champagne, you know?"

  "Suit yourself," Brandon said, turning the warehouse lights back on and swinging an arm around Catherine's damp shoulder. "You'll have a snack with me, though, right? You're looking a little peaked."

  "Am I?"

  "Wasting away to nothing."

  "You always know just the right thing to say, don't you?"

  It was only an old card table, but the silk tablecloth and artistically arranged dishes gave it an air of elegance. Brandon had found an ice sculptor who'd do a giant dollar sign and a missile for a reasonable price, but decided at the last moment that it might be over the top.

  "You've gotta try this stuff, Richard," he said pointing to a can covered in Cyrillic writing floating in ice water. "It's beluga."

  Scanlon's jaw tightened and he glared at Catherine. "Did you authorize this?"

  She pretended not to hear, concentrating instead on filling a plastic plate with peeled shrimp.

  "How much did it cost?"

  "If you have to ask, you can't afford to eat it," Brandon said, sprinkling some chopped egg on a cracker. Scanlon stood with his feet planted for a few seconds, but then just picked up a plate.

  "What's the story with those," he asked, pointing to a table stacked with plastic devices that looked like a cross between air fresheners and hot air popcorn poppers.

  "Signal jammers -- work on cells and satellite transmissions. Got 'em off the Net. Wait . . ." Brandon dug around in his pocket and held out a plastic box the size of a pack of cigarettes. "I got this little portable one free with my order. If you're ever in a movie or something and someone starts talking on their cell, turn it on and they're done. Illegal, but supersatisfying."

  "Hey, Brandon?" Catherine cut in. "Didn't we get sour cream?"

  Scanlon tried glaring at her again, but she saw it coming and averted her eyes.

  "Oh, here it is. Never mind."

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Despite the thick down parka Jamal Yusef was wearing, he was forced to pace back and forth across the small chamber in order to stay warm. He stopped and held
his hands up to the lightbulb hanging overhead, but it was too distant to provide any heat. Instead, it just swung gently from its cord, causing the stone walls to sway in time.

  Yusef glanced down at the cot that was the only furniture in the poorly disguised prison cell, but then just pressed his back against the wall and stared into the black gap he'd entered through hours before. There were no bars like the ones protecting the warheads. Grigori had led him there through a mind-boggling maze of passageways that Yusef would have no chance of finding his way back through. Any attempt at escape would almost certainly end with his corpse at the bottom of a ravine or floating in an icy subterranean lake.

  Not that he really had anything to escape from. The deal was done and Grigori was satisfied with the cash delivery plan they'd negotiated. Yusef would leave tomorrow to coordinate the details with Hamdi. Then it would just be a matter of Grigori living up to his end of the agreement -- something that seemed fairly certain at this point. A single, quick, megamillion-dollar sale was ideal for him. Every day he held those nukes, every time he contacted another potential buyer, he took an enormous risk. No, Grigori would be happy to see them go, to pay his men, and to disappear forever.

  So why did Yusef want to run to the blackness beyond that gap and just keep going?

  A few hours ago it would have been an impossible question to answer, but now, here in the cold silence, it was completely clear: He'd wanted the warheads to be fake. Or better yet, not to exist at all. He'd wanted this to be another one of the countless hoaxes that flowed from Eastern Europe every day.

  He believed in Edwin Hamdi and knew from his own long, depressing experience that the destruction of Israel was the world's best chance of exchanging the existing balance of terror for an admittedly delicate balance of peace. In the long run, he believed that millions would be saved -- making the limited casualties caused by his actions irrelevant.

  The problem was that yesterday those limited casualties had been nothing but an abstract concept. Now they were real. And with every moment that passed, his imagination gave them just a little more flesh and bone, families and personalities.

  When the perfect blackness he was staring into began to show hints of gray, Yusef took a hesitant step forward. A light. Someone was coming.

  It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten in almost twenty hours. Perhaps Grigori realized this and was bringing him something? Best not to starve your best customer.

  When instead Pyotr appeared, Yusef managed not to step back again -- less out of courage than the knowledge that there was nowhere to go.

  The smears of dirt that had been so evident before were gone from the man's face, making the scar across his mouth glow white in the shifting light. His black hair was slicked back now, and he'd changed into a slightly less tattered jacket. Perhaps his religious convictions had faded a bit in light of the amount of money Yusef was offering.

  That hope was quickly dashed when Pyotr began screaming again. The spit billowed from his mouth along with a stream of unintelligible words, though he was only jabbing the air with his finger and not the blade he'd had earlier.

  Yusef stood completely motionless and silent, as though faced with a rabid dog. If he just didn't react, it seemed likely that Pyotr would quickly tire of shouting at a man who couldn't understand him.

  Instead, his voice rose, and he began inching forward, motioning wildly with both hands. Yusef looked around for something he could use to defend himself, but there was nothing. The loose rocks that were strewn all over this godforsaken cavern didn't exist in here -- probably cleared out for the very reason that they could be used as weapons.

  With his strategy clearly not working, Yusef began moving sideways, trying to keep as much distance as possible between him and the slowly advancing man.

  "Calm down," he said smoothly. "This is just business. Business you'll profit greatly from."

  Pyotr circled right, dragging his fist against the wall next to him, leaving a shiny streak of blood as the sharp rock cut his skin.

  It occurred to Yusef that he wasn't really frightened. Not in the generally accepted definition of the word. His years surrounded by constant violence, cruelty, and fanaticism, had numbed him. Even in a place where life is cheap, it seemed that your own would be an exception. But it wasn't.

  "What?" he heard himself shout. "What do you want from me? If you --"

  "Pyotr!"

  Grigori's voice. It was impossible to tell how close he was in the ambiguous acoustics of the cave.

  "Pyotr!"

  They both fell silent and stopped circling. Pyotr's eyes widened to the point that they were nearly perfectly round and, perhaps inevitably, the knife came out.

  What the Ukrainian lacked in training, he more than made up for in experience. He came charging straight forward, anticipating his opponent's move to the right and cutting it off.

  The time between the moment Yusef realized that he had nowhere else to go and the moment the blade began entering his chest seemed impossibly long. He thought about the people who had died in that Israeli theater, about the look of joy in Muhammad's eyes. About the warheads.

  Oddly there was no pain, only a weakness that caused him to sink to his knees and then tip onto his back. He felt his head hit the edge of the cot and then he was on the ground, staring up at that single bulb swinging hypnotically above.

  "Pyotr!" he heard again, this time louder but in a way more distant. A moment later Grigori's face appeared above him. He heard the ripping of fabric as his jacket was torn open and then more shouting in Ukrainian.

  Yusef struggled to keep his eyes from closing but found himself blinking more and more slowly. At least he wasn't cold anymore.

  Finally, the darkness came -- more complete even than the darkness filling the cave. And with it, the realization that he was no longer part of this. It was finally over.

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Brandon Vale had never been much of a sleeper.

  It wasn't that he didn't aspire to descend into dreamless unconsciousness every night, or to wake up in the morning with a cleared mind and rejuvenated body. It was just that there was always so much to think about. His past, how this job or that job could have been done better, what would happened if brain-eating zombies took over the world. And now, two days out from the Vegas heist, his mind was relentlessly turning over every misstep in the sixteen-hour training days he and his team had been enduring. Not to mention obsessing about nuclear warheads, Ukrainian psychos, and Catherine Juarez. He reached for his iPod and scrolled through the screens until he found the song he was looking for: "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)." If you looked hard enough there was a sound track for every possible situation.

  He kicked the blanket off and settled back into staring up at the dark ceiling. When the song was over, he scrolled through some more, finally finding one that was perhaps even more appropriate. "Alone Again Or."

  The door to the room opened a few inches and he propped himself up on his elbow, squinting into the sliver of light. "Catherine?"

  He didn't recognize the two men who entered, and neither of them said anything. One quietly closed the door and stood in front of it while the other dug clothes from drawers with a precision that suggested he'd been through them before.

  Brandon swung his feet to the floor, catching a pair of jeans and a shirt as they were thrown at him. Before he put them on, though, he made a final adjustment to the iPod. The Dead Kennedys seemed to be the band that best captured this particular moment: "Forward to Death."

  Sadly, it wasn't the first time Brandon had been shoved in the trunk of a car. Not even the second or third. At least it wasn't one of those subcompacts. Or one with the spare tire right in the middle. Those things could put a kink in your back that wouldn't loosen up for days. Of course, rigor mortis would do the same thing.

  He put a hand out and braced himself as the car accelerated around a turn and then closed his eyes in the darkness, wondering what
had happened. Had Scanlon decided that he had enough information to pull this thing off on his own? If so, he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

  Now there was a moral dilemma. Right before they shot him, should he yell "Wait! Before you kill me, let me write down the stuff I didn't tell you!" After all, a nuclear holocaust wasn't exactly the legacy he wanted to leave behind.

  No, Scanlon was way too smart and not quite arrogant enough to make such an obvious mistake. Besides, if he had been planning this the whole time, what was all that stuff about wanting Brandon to join the team permanently? What possible benefit was there to be gained by making that offer if it wasn't real?

  And what about Catherine? He couldn't quite read her. What he did know, though, was that she was very interested in protecting her mentor. Did she see Brandon as a threat? If she thought it was in Scanlon's best interests, would she go behind her mentor's back? No way.

  And so he was left with the only remaining option: That he hadn't met all the players in this thing. And at this point, he didn't think he wanted to.

  Edwin Hamdi had received two e-mails regarding the Ukrainian warheads. The first was the one he had been waiting so long for: a properly encrypted and authenticated message saying that the warheads were real, operable, and that a deal had been agreed upon. The second had come a day later from Yusef s account, but clearly not written by him.

  In slightly tortured spelling, it told the story of Yusef s accidental death from a rock fall and suggested that it might still be possible to complete the agreed-upon transaction in the event that the hurdles created by his unfortunate death could be overcome.

  Having no other contact information, Grigori had sent the e-mail to Yusef s account where it had then been read by Ramez, his second in command. It was he who had forwarded the e-mail to Hamdi's account, along with a passionate note stating his willingness to die if necessary to complete the transaction. It was, after all, the will of God.

  Hamdi held a printout of the e-mail that he had unwisely made, running slightly shaking fingers over the black letters one more time before sliding it into a shredder.