Coup D'Etat (25 page)

“No, thanks,” said Calibrisi, laughing. “We have to get back.”

One of Polk’s agents leaned out from one of the workstations and snapped his fingers.

“What is it?” asked Polk.

“NSA is picking up some chatter from Cooktown,” said the agent. “Two Arabs shot in the middle of the town.”

“Cooktown is where Dewey’s ranch is,” said Jessica, concerned. “Who is NSA listening to? If they found him—”

“Calm down, Jess,” said Calibrisi. “All we know is two Arabs are dead.”

“In Cooktown!”

“Did you have the chance to warn him about Fortuna?” asked Calibrisi.

“Yes,” she said. “But he shrugged it off.”

“Get on the phone with whoever’s in charge down there,” said Polk. “Let them know what they’re dealing with.”

“I just spoke with Australia Federal Police,” said the agent. “They’ve got a chopper en route to Cooktown.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Polk. “We need this guy alive. Call AFP back. Get hold of Archibald McCleish. He runs the place. Tell him I told you to call. They need to manage the local police in Cooktown. If there are bodies dropping, the locals are going to start panicking. We have to make sure some cop doesn’t accidentally put a bullet in Dewey Andreas’s head.”

32

MAIN STREET

COOKTOWN

Jay Haynesworth climbed out from the front passenger seat of the black police sedan.

A crowd of more than a hundred people had gathered behind yellow police tape. The mood was hushed in the wake of the violence.

Haynesworth pulled aside the black tarp that hung from stanchions. Behind it was a group of police officers. On the street, a pair of bodies lay next to each other, aligned almost perfectly, as if they had decided to lie down together and take a nap right there in the street. The two men were young, each with short hair. The man on the left wore jeans and a gray T-shirt that had a hole the size of a golf ball surrounded by blood. The other wore khakis and a polo shirt. His mouth and chin had been blown off. Beneath his head, a reservoir of blood ran toward the drainage grate at the sidewalk.

“Touch anything?”

“No, sir,” said a deputy. “Nothing.”

“Is there any reason we don’t start cleaning the scene up?”

“I don’t think so, Jay. We catalogued the evidence and took photos.”

“Pick ’em up. Clean up the street. Where’s the next one?”

Haynesworth walked down the sidewalk half a block. The sign for Whitey’s had been turned off. Another policeman stood at the door. The smell of cigarettes and beer filled the musty air. The bar was empty. In the middle of the floor, another corpse lay, long greasy hair, a goatee and mustache, jeans, white T-shirt, leather jacket, leather boots. The man lay in a pool of blood. Across the chest, a gash, still fresh, oozed red.

“Where are the witnesses?”

“In the trailer,” said a policemen. “They didn’t see the stabbing. But they saw the guy who did it.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Big fella, long hair. He grabbed a young woman and ran.”

Haynesworth exhaled loudly, whistled.

“Whoever did this is probably halfway to Timbuktu by now. Let’s hit the corpses on the side street.”

*   *   *

Haynesworth tried to act calm, but inside he felt as if he was drowning. He’d been police chief in the small resort town for more than a decade. Yet tonight marked the first murder on his watch.
Murders, plural
, he thought to himself. He felt discombobulated, as if his little dinghy had inadvertently struck the tip of an iceberg.

Haynesworth and his team walked beneath the streetlights. Halogen spotlights on tripods stood in the middle of the street. Near the corner, a crowd was gathered next to a white van.

A dark-haired man lay on his back, in the middle of the street his left leg bent awkwardly beneath his torso. White jeans, tennis sneakers, an orange polo shirt. He’d been shot square in the heart and his front was covered in blood.

Haynesworth walked to the van and knelt down on one side of the dead man. He wore jeans, New Balance running shoes, a blue T-shirt with a Nike logo, leather jacket. His mouth and face were covered in blood. Next to him, on the ground, sat a long machine gun with a screw-on suppressor.

Haynesworth reached out and lifted the man’s head, which moved easily, limply, like a doll’s head.

“Broken neck.”

He stood up just as an officer came running.

“Mickey’s got a guy pulled over on eighty-one who matches the description of the killer.”

“Tell Mickey not to touch a fucking thing until I get there.”

*   *   *

Youssef opened his eyes. He felt sharp pain in his head and neck. He tried to move his legs. They still worked, but he was sandwiched between the dashboard and the passenger seat, upside down. His head was pressed to the carpet in front of the seat. He smelled gasoline. He couldn’t see, there was only darkness.

I’m alive
, he thought.

He moved his left arm and felt for the door handle. The door made a groaning noise as he pushed it open. Youssef crawled out the door and onto the ground. His neck hurt badly. He crawled slowly, resting every few feet. Finally, he made it to the back of the destroyed M5. A single taillight still blazed. He looked at his right biceps, where the bullet had hit. It was still bleeding and it hurt badly. From the elbow down, his hand was coated in blood.

Youssef pulled his knees forward and stood up. Pain inhabited every ounce of his body. Yet he knew that he needed to get out of there. He knew that if they found him he would spend the rest of his short life on the southern coast of Cuba, in a jail cell, in a place called Guantánamo.

For more than a minute, he leaned against the badly dented fender. He felt tears in his eyes. He knew he was the last one. They would soon find him. They would pump him for information, torture him.

You must move, Youssef.

He moved back to the front of the car, reached in, opened the glove compartment, and found his cell phone. Quickly, he pressed a number and held it down. He put the phone to his ear and waited. After more than half a minute, he heard the phone ringing.

“What is it?” It was the voice of Nebuchar Fortuna. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Youssef.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been shot.”

“What happened?
Speak!
”

“He killed the entire cell,” said Youssef. “Everyone except me.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone.”

There was a long silence.

“Can you get to Brisbane?” asked Nebuchar.

“I don’t know,” said Youssef, looking at the bullet wound on his arm.

“Get there. I’ll make arrangements to get you out of Australia.”

Youssef grabbed his handgun off the front seat, an Arcus 98 DA, bought in Bulgaria several years ago. He felt for his wallet, finding it in front of the seat. He walked slowly around to the other side of the car, leaned in and grabbed the neck collar of the driver’s T-shirt, ripping it. He took the material and wrapped it around his right arm above the bullet wound, then tied it tight. He found his leather jacket in front of the passenger seat and put it on.

Youssef started walking back down the mine road. Then he turned and walked back to the car. He ripped another long strip from the dead man’s shirt, found a small, flat stone on the ground and tied the end of the shirt around it. He opened the gas tank and tossed the stone in, keeping the other end of the cotton material in his hand. Taking a lighter from his pocket, Youssef lit the end. He watched as the strip of rag caught fire. The flames moved quickly down into the gas tank.

Youssef again started down the mine road, toward Route 81. He counted the seconds out loud: “One, two, three…” When he said the word “eight,” the sky lit up and a loud explosion concussed the air. Turning, he watched as flames engulfed the M5. He stared for a moment, then turned and kept walking, staying a few yards off the road so that he could hide if anyone came.

*   *   *

Haynesworth sped away from Cooktown, south on Route 81. He flipped on the siren of his police cruiser. He stepped hard on the gas. Soon, he was moving at eighty miles an hour down the dark street.

He saw flashing police lights a half mile ahead.

Haynesworth felt his heart beating. He looked at his handgun, on the seat, Smith & Wesson .45 caliber. Other than at the firing range, he’d never actually used it.

Haynesworth slowed down, moving behind the mauled Porsche and another police cruiser. He came to a stop. He reached for the handgun, then stepped out of the car. He aimed his gun at the Porsche as he approached.

One of his patrolmen stood at the side of the dented Porsche, his 12-gauge shotgun aimed at the driver.

Haynesworth came to the side of the car. Seated in the front seat was a man, sweating, his brown hair messed up. His beard and the front of his shirt were covered in blood.

“Step out of the car with your hands up.”

Slowly, the door latch clicked. A worn brown leather boot emerged first. Then, he stepped out of the car, hands above his head. His right arm was covered in blood.

Haynesworth moved the gun closer.

“Put your hands on the car,” he said calmly. “Now.”

He placed his hands on top of the car.

Haynesworth reached for handcuffs from his waist belt.

“Put your hands behind your back. I’m going to put handcuffs on you. Then I’m going to pat you down. You understand?”

“Yeah.” He moved his hands behind his back.

“What’s your name?”

“Dewey Andreas.”

“I have you ID’d at Whitey’s,” said Haynesworth. “Someone saw you kill a man there. We’ve found four more. One shot not far from the bar. Another with a broken neck. So that makes, what, five tonight?”

“There are a couple outside of town. The road to the mine. They’re terrorists. Hezbollah. They came here looking for me.”

“Why are they after you?”

“Before I answer you, you need to send a car to Sembler Station,” said Dewey.

“Why?”

“If there are any still alive, they’ll go there next, looking for me.”

Haynesworth became aware of the incessant beeping of his radio. He stepped backwards, keeping the .45 trained on Dewey. At the side of his police cruiser, he reached in and grabbed the mic.

“This is Haynesworth. I’ve got the suspect.”

“Captain,” interrupted the dispatcher. “I have an emergency call I’m patching into you.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s Federal Police.”

“I need to call them back.”

“It’s Archibald McCleish,” said the dispatcher. He didn’t need to tell Haynesworth who Archibald McCleish was. Everyone knew. McCleish was the commissioner of AFP, the top officer for Australia’s top law enforcement agency, the country’s equivalent to the FBI.

“Is this Haynesworth?” came a gruff voice over the radio.

“Yes.”

“This is Archie McCleish.”

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir?”

“There’s a man you need to find. He’s in Cooktown. Likely, he’s in the middle of these killings.”

Haynesworth smiled, glancing at his patrolman who stood guard behind Dewey.

“Yes, sir. I’m already on top of it.”

“American. Goes by the name Dewey Andreas.”

“I already have him.”

“You … have him?”

“I just slapped the cuffs on him. He killed about half a dozen people tonight.”

“Take the cuffs off,” ordered McCleish. “Right fucking now.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Commissioner, but I’ll need an explanation—”

“I don’t need to give you a goddamn explanation. This investigation became AFP property an hour ago. Got it? But I’ll give you one anyway. Those dead men are terrorists. That man there, who you have handcuffs on, stopped them before they killed a bunch of people.”

Haynesworth looked at his patrolman.

“Got it?” he said to McCleish. “Get out to Sembler Station,” he whispered to his patrolman, hand over the mic. “Make sure everyone’s safe. Bring backup.”

The patrolman nodded and jogged back to his squad car.

“After you get the cuffs off, drive him to Cooktown Airport. There’s a chopper there waiting for him.”

“What’s the chopper for?”

“None of your fucking business. Now get the bodies cleaned up. Brent Holder from my office will be up there by sunrise. He’ll run the investigation. Get moving.”

33

IN THE AIR

EN ROUTE TO ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE,

TOWNSVILLE BASE QUEENSLAND

At Cooktown Airport, Dewey climbed aboard a Sikorsky S76 helicopter that lifted immediately into the darkness. Once airborne, one of the pilots turned and pointed to his ears, instructing Dewey to put on a headset. He put them on and was greeted by Jessica’s voice.

“Are you all right?” Jessica asked when they were connected.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, staring out the window of the chopper. “Have they gotten to Sembler yet?”

“The ranch is secure. I’m sorry about your friend. Were you close?”

“We were friends.”

“I’m sorry, Dewey.”

Dewey stared into the cockpit of the chopper, at the backs of the heads of the two pilots, trying to control his anger.

“I told you Aswan Fortuna wouldn’t let it go,” she said.

“And you were right. I should have listened. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No,” said Jessica. “Do you think I like being right? You have no idea what it’s been like wondering when he would find you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

“You saved my life, Jess,” said Dewey. “I owe you one.”

“Joe Sembler told me how you saved the little girl.”

Dewey stared out the chopper’s back window into the dark sky.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat.”

There was silence on the radio for several seconds.

“Promise me something,” Jessica said.

“What?”

“We’re going to ask you to do something.”

“Who is?”

“The president. Hector Calibrisi. Me.”

“Where exactly am I being taken?”

“You’re flying to an Aussie Air Force base near Cairns. When you land, there’ll be a secure phone line.”