the Second Horseman (2006) (29 page)

He just wasn't good at this. Scanlon had to be sacrificed -- one man's life was meaningless when compared with an opportunity for peace in a world moving toward the brink. It was one of those rare times, though, that Hamdi wanted to turn away from the logic of that conclusion. He not only admired the man, but liked him. The idea that he had to die while the incompetent and corrupt men who had made all this necessary were allowed to live was a cruel joke.

But an inescapable one.

In a few hours, the honorable and patriotic Richard Scanlon would be silenced -- along with Catherine, Vale, and the rest of his men. His legacy would be a strange one. There was little hope that the FBI would overlook his involvement in the Las Vegas theft, but Hamdi had done -- and would do -- everything possible to make sure that Scanlon's name would never be tied to
Israel and the warheads. He deserved that much at least.

Hamdi looked down at his glass, watching the ice flash in the lights overhead. Soon his real role in all this would start. He would take on the task of directing the world's actions toward a post-Israel Middle East, working to replace the horror and panic he was about to unleash with peace and sanity. Perhaps one day the dispassionate hindsight of historians would recognize that neutering the Jews had been the first step in creating a permanent peace in the world.

Chapter
THIRTY-FIVE

Every time Brandon slumped against the curving wall behind him, he was immediately jerked fully awake by the powerful vibration of the plane's props. He finally crawled to the middle of the floor and wove himself into a well-anchored cargo net, trying to think happy thoughts. None came to mind.

He'd always had a mild distaste for flying, though it wasn't so intense that it couldn't be mitigated by a wide first-class seat, some decent wine, and the fawning attention of a cute flight attendant.

This particular flight didn't have an attendant, though. Or wine. It didn't even have seats. Just a gloomy fuselage filled with wooden crates and thin, frigid air.

He pitched to the left when the plane hit an air pocket, feeling his stomach bob helplessly on a sudden wave of adrenaline. From where he was lying, he could see Catherin
e i
n the cockpit, one eye on the black windscreen and the other on their creepy pilot.

Oddly, she seemed more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. It appeared that courting death a million miles from home was less frightening to her than courting arrest on the warm and familiar roads of the American West. Unfortunately, he was a bit more realistic when it came to risk assessment. At this point the best he could hope for -- beyond surviving, of course -- was to get through this thing without crying in front of her.

He'd never even gotten to see it. Two hundred million dollars in glorious, gleaming cash. The greatest -- and most likely last -- achievement of his life.

These were sad times for thieves -- an age in which virtually everything of value was contained in computers and fiber optics. You couldn't run your fingers through a wire transfer. You couldn't smell numbers on a computer screen. No matter how many zeros there were.

Standing unsteadily, Brandon left the relative safety of the cargo net and lurched toward the closest crate. He ran his hands along the rough, unmarked wood and then tried to pry his fingers beneath the well
-
secured lid. Just a quick peek. What could it hurt?

"Step away from the money/' he heard over his earphones.

Behind him, Catherine was leaning out of the cockpit, staring at him with mock severity. She finally broke into what might have been a mildly psychotic smile. She seemed almost happy to be there.

"We're getting ready to land, Brandon, and it's going to be rough. Hold on, okay?"

He did as he was told, threading himself through the cargo net again and thinking about South Africa. Golf probably wasn't so bad. People were always doing it.

The nose of the plane dipped suddenly, causing the already dim lights in the fuselage to sputter and finally go out. Brandon gripped the net tighter.

The story Scanlon had told him was less a briefing than a vague outline. The bottom line was that the last guy they'd sent to meet with the Ukrainians had suffered an "accident." Details, beyond the fact that it had been of the fatal kind, were hazy at best.

And so the organization found itself with a job opening for someone with very specific qualifications. The Ukrainians -- a cautious and clinically insane lot -- were not going to accept one of Scanlon's fair-haired boys as anything but what they were: American spies. As a career criminal well known in the circles the Ukrainians traveled, though, Brandon was another matter. Suddenly, everyone was happy again. Except him. And, of course, the guy who had the accident.

As promised, the plane hit hard, driving the side of his head into the floor and causing him to slide uncontrollably toward the cockpit until the cargo net went taut. He closed his eyes as the plane bounced wildly down what he suspected wasn't really a runway, opening them only when they had come to a full stop.

"Up and at 'em," Catherine said, grabbing him by the front of his down parka. She pulled him to his feet and dusted him off. "You okay, Brandon? You look kind of pale."

He nodded, but didn't say anything. The closer death came, the more chipper she seemed to get. It was, he hoped, a trait explainable by the fact that she was actually some kind of supersecret agent able to kill a man in a thousand different ways without wrinkling her skirt. More likely it was just blissful ignorance.

He'd once known a guy who got sideways with the Ukrainians. They'd killed him an
d h
is whole family -- his daughter's poodle alone had thirteen separate stab wounds. Brutal, but not unheard of. What set this particular incident apart was that they had pulled his fish out of their tank and carefully stomped on each and every one.

"Let's go," she said, jumping nimbly through the door behind their pilot. Brandon followed reluctantly, sitting on the threshold and sliding delicately to the ground.

"Where are we?"

He could see only general outlines illuminated by a sliver of a moon. Otherwise there was just darkness and silence.

"Ukraine," the pilot replied.

Brandon was about to tell him just how fucking helpful that piece of information was, but then thought better of it. Their pilot was an evil-looking bastard that neither he nor Catherine had ever seen before. His skin was a dark brown and he had a thick accent that wasn't Arab but something close. Brandon guessed he was a Serb, but wasn't sure since he'd never met one.

"Did anyone bring a hibachi?"

"Shhhh!" Catherine hissed, putting a hand on his arm and freezing in a mannerism that reminded him of a hunting dog locking onto a duck. A few seconds later, he heard it
,
too. The distant hum of a motor. No, motors -- plural.

They stood their ground, listening to the sound grow louder, until something burst from a stand of trees a few hundred yards away. Then another and another. Brandon began backing toward the plane, but wasn't fast enough to avoid being surrounded.

None of the All Terrain Vehicles had their lights on, but his eyes had adjusted to the point that he could make out a few details. Each driver was wearing a thick jumpsuit, a helmet, and elaborate night vision goggles. The overall impression was of something out of Star Wars.

The engines wound down to a low rumble, prompting Catherine to take a step forward. "Do any of you speak English?"

No response, other than for one of the men to jump off his vehicle and rush to them. He ignored Catherine and the pilot, bringing his thick goggles to within a few inches of Brandon's face. Whether or not he was satisfied wasn't entirely clear when he spun Brandon around and began frisking him. That seemed to be the signal, and the other two men jumped off their ATVs in order to carry out a similar search of Catherine and their pilot.

When they'd finished, the man standing behind Brandon pointed to the ATVs. Catherine started toward one of them, but Brandon blocked her with his arm.

"Money's in the plane, dude. Where's our stuff?"

The man pointed toward the ATVs again.

"Hey, fuck you. We came through on our side of the deal and we're not going anywhere." He kept his voice even, oozing practiced calm all over the place. "So why don't you and the rest of the Darth Vader squad here run off and get our warheads? Then we can just get the fuck out of each other's lives."

This time the response was a bit less ambiguous: The man pulled a .45 from his holster, cocked it, and pressed it against Brandon's forehead.

The trip took what seemed like hours, but since Brandon hadn't thought to bring a watch with illuminated hands he wasn't sure. His injured shoulder ached from holding on as they pounded their way along what seemed like impassable fields of rocks and roots. When they finally slowed and the engines died, Brandon had completely lost his bearings. Undoubtedly, exactly what was intended.

The three men who had brought the
m t
here walked over to a large dead bush and pulled it back while their pilot leaned against a tree and looked on. For some reason, he reminded Brandon of those pictures of Old West villains propped against a wall in their coffins. God, he missed Daniel.

"Is this normal?" Catherine whispered in his ear.

"You mean, is this the way it went down the last time I bought a bunch of atomic bombs from the Ukrainian mob?"

She rubbed her sides through her down parka. He couldn't really see her face in what little moonlight could fight its way through the trees and instead watched the icy vapor of her breath as she spoke.

"Yeah. That's exactly what I mean."

"I'd say they're probably going to torture us to death and then take the money." He nodded toward the pilot. "Where'd Scanlon dig him up?"

"Don't know. None of our guys were qualified to fly that plane. You should have seen that landing from where I was sitting. I thought we were dead."

"We probably are."

"Not exactly a ray of sunshine today, are you? What were you lecturing me about in the truck? Something about not worryin
g a
bout things you can't control?"

Brandon pretended not to hear, squinting into the darkness as one of the men disappeared into the ground.

"The entrance to the cave," Catherine said.

They moved closer and Brandon peered at the small hole the man had slipped into. It was probably only two feet in diameter and more black than anything he'd ever seen.

"No fucking way."

The Ukranian standing next to him said something indecipherable and jabbed a finger toward the hole.

"I said forget it."

This time when the man aimed the gun, Brandon just stared defiantly into it. "What are you doing?" Catherine said, gripping his arm. "Come on, this guy isn't screwing around."

"I've got a little bit of a problem with confined spaces."

She let out a choked-off laugh. "Are you kidding? You're a thief. You make your living crawling through things."

"Windows. Once in a while heating vents. Not holes in the ground."

"Relax, Brandon. Okay? I'll go first. How will that be? You just follow. Can you d
o t
hat? Follow me?"

It was at least another two hours before they stopped again. Led by a man with a single, dim flashlight, they'd climbed down ropes, waded through ice-clogged streams and squeezed through passageways so tight Brandon had been certain he'd get hopelessly stuck and die there in the cold, still darkness. But he'd managed all of it with only one panic attack -- freezing when the back of his jacket hung up on the jagged roof he was slithering beneath. Catherine heard him hyperventilating and somehow managed to turn around and get him unstuck, offering words of encouragement with her face close enough that he could feel the heat from it.

Now they were walking through a natural amphitheater that seemed to swallow their guide's light. An improvement, but even if he couldn't see it, Brandon could still feel the millions of tons of stone and dirt between him and the sky.

"What now?" Catherine said, when the man leading them stopped. Her voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Brandon didn't answer, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to absorb himself in the pain as they thawed out. It was time for him to get his shit back together. If he could think, they might get out of this. Probably not, but maybe. If he couldn't, they were almost definitely screwed. Catherine seemed totally in control, but this wasn't her world. It was a criminal transaction and that was his thing.

"Brindoon!"

They all spun in different directions at the butchering of his name, unable to tell where it was coming from. A moment later, a light appeared, rocking back and forth as the man holding it rushed toward them.

His face seemed to float inside the fur
-
trimmed hood he wore, pale to the point of being ghostlike and dominated by a deep scar that twisted his mouth into something between a deranged smile and the baring of teeth. There was no gun on his hip, but instead a long knife in a badly stained sheath. Stained with what, Brandon didn't want to know. God, he hated the Ukrainians.