Ted Bell - Warlord

The morgue. The smell of death and decay. The myriad, nameless chemicals of the constantly processed dead. They passed through the dead-empty morgue and, as expected, no autopsies were being performed because of the late hour.

At the far end of the facility, beyond the morgue refrigerators, the grossing station, the histology supplies, and the necropsy equipment, there was a nearly invisible black glass panel in the wall. A card reader was next to the panel.

Imran swiped his card and the stainless-steel doors slid wide open. Once the gurney was inside, he swiped his card again, this time on an electronic reader that was the sole way to initiate descent.

The big Otis dropped smoothly at least three or four floors underground. Maybe more. The thing was so fast, so quiet, and so smooth, you really couldn't tell how far down you were going. Felt like a journey to the center of the earth.

They came to a soft landing. "Lands like a butterfly with sore feet, this elevator," the paramedic said. The driver placed the flat of his hand against the center of the door, a scanner read his palm print, and the glass panel slid silently into the floor, rising again after they'd passed through.

The doors opened with a soft electronic ping and they pushed the gurney out into the dimly lit space beyond. It was some kind of reception area, empty now except for one man sitting in the shadows.

"This all right?" the paramedic asked. The man was sitting at a desk with his feet propped up, smoking a cigarette. They'd parked the gurney about ten feet from a modern desk that looked like it had been carved out of a block of steel. The only light in the room was a desk lamp, and the man's face was not visible in the small pool of smoky white light it cast.

"Perfect."

"Will that be it for tonight, sir?"

"You realize I've been sitting here for two hours."

"Sorry, sir. Security checkpoint on the Rawalpindi Circle. Traffic was backed up for five miles."

"Sure it was. Good-night. Thank you."

They left without a word.

The man at the desk stared at the body bag in silence for a few seconds, puffing absently on his cigarette as if he had all the time in the world. He bent down and opened a drawer. Grabbing a liter of Johnnie Walker Blue by the neck, he unscrewed the cap and set it, and a Baccarat crystal tumbler, on the desktop. As he closed the drawer he caught a fluorescent glint of blued steel. The.45 automatic he always brought, no matter how cozy the circumstances.

He heard the sound of a zipper and swung his head around to regard the new arrival.

Looking at the body bag, he saw the wide nylon zipper sliding from the head down past where the waist would be, to just below the knees.

The corpse sat up and stared at him.

The man at the desk returned the stare, smiled, and said, "You look like you just came back from the dead."

"Two fucking hours," the corpse said in English. "I told that idiot Malik to route the driver on the back roads."

"You knew about the checkpoint?"

"It was my fucking checkpoint! Of course I knew about it."

"Scotch?"

"What is it?"

"Johnnie Blue."

"How much did you bring me?"

"They don't make trucks that big."

Abu al-Rashad, the lower half of his body still zipped into the body bag, was the most powerful man in Pakistan. He looked it, even in this ridiculous pose. Every inch the warrior, all six feet of him, his skin leathered and darkened by decades in the saddle and sun, his thick hair still jet black at forty, his white smile startling in the creases of his ruggedly handsome face. He was the kind of man who could take the skin off your hand with a simple handshake.

He threw back his head and laughed. "It is good to see you bearing gifts, my brother. A sign you are up to something big. Are you?"

"Let's go into your office and have a drink, shall we. I will tell you my plans."

"And then I will give you a tour of my new bunker. I have two other floors besides this one. Communications, battlefield command center, my bedroom suite with a suitably shy French maid, and a first-rate kitchen with a chef also from Paris. Even a movie theater."

"Built beneath a hospital so the Americans won't bomb you to paradise." Smith smiled. "Nor the Israelis."

"A little trick I learned from Hamas."

"Amazing. The Israelis knew the Hamas HQ was under the hospital in Gaza City and yet they didn't bomb it. I would have."

"You and me both, brother. Boom-boom."

"Well. You certainly seem to have your life exactly the way you want it for now."

"I do. Except for the fact that there's a fifty-million-dollar price tag on my head and I have to travel about my own country in a fucking rubber body bag."

SHEIK AL-RASHAD LOOKED AT SMITH, the Arab's large black eyes gleaming in the lighting hidden in the ceiling crown moldings. His office, deep inside a bunker beneath a civilian hospital, was paneled in ebony. His desk was of intricately carved ivory, depicting the life of the Prophet. He leaned back in his deep black leather desk chair, placing his hands behind his head. Having just heard what Smith intended to do, al-Rashad now said, "You, my beloved brother, are fucking insane."

Smith said, "That quaint premise was clearly established years ago, old friend. My only question to you is, are you or are you not willing to aid me on this latest, admittedly insane, but nonetheless potentially devastating operation of mine?"

"There was one question I have," the Sheik said and he wagged his head in the familiar Afghan way. Smith smiled at the ritualistic game they were playing.

Ah, the enigmatic smile of the wizened yet wise warlord. Could mean yes. Could mean your head. Could mean nothing at all. He gave the old devil a wry smile in return and they were both content to sit in silence for a time sipping their scotch. The bottle on the Sheik's magnificent carved desk was already half empty.

"Your question?"

"This idea of yours is fraught with risk. You could easily be killed or captured by the British. A catastrophe that would put all of our plans in jeopardy. Especially if you were captured and tortured."

"Yes."

"So. One wonders. Why do you yourself need to be personally involved at all? Surely the team can handle this without you."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. But I must be there. I'd pull the trigger if I had the skill. You will understand when I tell you this target holds great symbolic interest for me. This is no ordinary operation. It is intensely personal."

"I understand now. I agree. You must go. And if things should go wrong, you will take yourself out of the picture, of course."

"Of course. Cyanide is my constant companion."

The Sheik turned his eyes toward the ceiling, tapping the tips of his fingers together, clearly mulling this over. He thought like a chess player. It was the reason for his ascension to power in the void created by the absence of Osama bin Laden. He was always at least four moves ahead.

"It would be good public relations, naturally," Sheik al-Rashad admitted. "An explosive international media strike right to the heart of the enemy."

"Well put. And wholly accurate."

"It is not surprising that it is you who has conceived this assassination. You are always following your natural inclinations."

"Naturally. It is my sole destiny and what I live for. But I tell you. Not a bomb on this earth could rival the devastating effect this will have on our enemies."

"Not even the precious nuclear arsenal we will soon control at Islamabad?"

"All of those weapons will be in the hands of the Sword of Allah before we are done, brother. Only a matter of time."

"An extremely powerful nuclear device seems to have gone missing at the Islamabad nuclear weapons facility."

For the first time, Smith's face showed excitement.