Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

1335 HOURS

THE NEXT DAY

The Great Man arrived, by limo, from Andrews. Cops on Harleys; Secret Service gunboat SUVs; Army aviation overhead butter-knifing through the air, scaring off the news choppers; Agency handlers, gofers, commo experts, and upper-floor reps, the whole train about a mile long, tying up traffic for hours. Too bad for the unsuspecting citizen caught in it.

Ibrahim Zarzi, warlord and patriot, boulevardier, seducer, smiler, toucher, gourmand and oenophile, clotheshorse, called by Page Six the “Clark Gable of Afghanistan,” and possible Our Man in Kabul, got out, accompanied by a number one factotum and two Agency functionaries, and was immediately surrounded by the Secret Service Joes from the following Explorer who were designated to take the shot meant for him. And they would too, because that was their job, even if this shady character had once been known as “the Beheader.” All that was in the past, everybody hoped, in a different lifetime, in a different world.

Flashes strobed, suave TV reporters oozed against the ropes that restrained them, attempting to look cool and hot and concerned all at the same time, but Ibrahim Zarzi was rushed by them with no time to answer the shouters.

He was an extremely handsome man, about fifty-five, with a thick head of dark hair, nicely graying temples, a brush-cut Etonion’s mustache, and piercing dark eyes that showed off his blindingly white teeth. Omar Sharif, anyone? He looked like, among other things, a polo player, a bridge champion, a scratch golfer, a man who’d killed all five of the dangerous game species at record trophy size, caught some really big scary fish, a man who had bedded many a blonde in his pied-à-terre in Paris and in his rooms in London, shrewd, ruthless, narcisisstic, and a total watch slut.

Today, he’d gone with the Patek Philippe Gondola, in gold, muted, with a black face and roman numerals, as well as a single black sapphire cabochon on top of the winding stem. It was about an inch by an inch, secured by a crocodile band. It set off his blue, pin-striped Savile Row suit, immaculately tailored, his crisp white Anderson & Sheppard shirt with Van Cleef & Arpels cuff links in tasteful onyx, and his black bespoke oxfords from J. Cobb, one of White Street’s more discreet custom shoemakers. His face was brown, his tie was red (solid; he knew when to stop), and his watch was black. He dressed from the watch out.

“I think I will change to my gold Rolex for dinner,” he said to Abba Gul, his assistant. “And, since it will be informal, my blue blazer-”

“The double breasted?”

“Hmm,” said Zarzi, contemplating the choices, “yes, and an ascot, the red-gold-blue Seventeenth Royal Hussar, I think. A blue shirt, the gold Tiffany cuff links, gray slacks, and that nice pair of cordovan Alden tassel moc loafers. White silk socks, of course.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Gul, who never had to write anything down, who never made a mistake, who understood the Great Man’s moods, needs, pleasures, agonies, ups, downs, wants, and occasional squalls of self-lacerating doubt. “It shall be done.”

Zarzi did not acknowledge the man, who was from a family that had served his own for 250 years, after the first Zarzi, Alazar the Terrible, had swept down from the mountains with his band of fierce Pathans, said to be descended from the fierce Shinwari tribe, driven out the people of the flatlands and all their pretty poppies (or executed them by hanging them upside down from trees and cutting an incision from this hip bone to that nipple), and taken over Zabul, making Qalat its capital. The Guls made themselves useful to the Zarzi clan and were allowed to prosper.

A hotel personage said, “Sir, this way,” after the man had been vetted by the Secret Service, led through the phalanx of Agency goons, and passed muster with the two bodyguards trained to give up their lives in an instant for the Greatness of Zarzi, “and I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“I’m sure I will, Mr. Nickerson”-he’d noted the nameplate, part of his conspicuous charm being that he learned names quickly and never forgot them-“and I love the hotel. Please tell the florist”-he gestured to the sprays and waves of flowers decorating the lush central corridor of the place-“that he has done well, and please have a thousand dollars’ worth of flowers sent to my rooms today and every day.”

“It has already been done, sir,” said the oily, professionally obsequious Nickerson, known to the others on the hotel staff as “the Greaser,” “exactly like last time.”

“Most excellent,” said Zarzi.

“You have the entire floor, sir,” said his Agency gofer, a minor handler with the Afghan Desk named Ryan, “and please, please, stay away from the windows. I can’t emphasize-”

“Mr. Ryan, you forget that Allah in his justice protects me and shall not permit any mischief to befall me. That has been decreed, as it has been decreed I am the one to lead my people out of darkness. I am a river to my people and I must-oh, dear, I believe I’m quoting Anthony Quinn in Lawrence of Arabia again. So easy to get caught these days with every peasant dog tied by tether to the horrors of Google and able to produce instantaneous correction.”

“Ain’t it a bear?” said Ryan.

“A bitch, in fact,” said the charmer.

“You have a couple of hours. Then cocktails with three senators on the Foreign Relations Committee at Ms. Dowd’s place at the Watergate.”

“And how is Mo? Is she still writing those delicious pieces twice a week?”

“Of course.”

“Good for Mo! She’s a jolly spitfire, that one! And tomorrow?”

“The Agency all day, with Mr. Collins and our staff in Afghan.”

“I hope the catering is good,” said Zarzi. “Burger King, double whopper, no fries. I prefer the McDonald’s French fry to the less-textured Burger King product. Surely some young CIA killer can be dispatched to McDonald’s for that.”

“I think so, sir.”

“A future president does not consume substandard French fries,” he said majestically. “So vulgar.”

“I’ll see to the catering, sir,” said Ryan.

“It will be such a pleasure before eating at my brother’s restaurant in Baltimore tomorrow. It will be so nice to see him, but the food! Ugh, I cannot fathom how he sells it. You could find better in any village main street, cooked on a stove the size of a portable television by a barefoot old hag without teeth. Yet he has made a good living. Your press thinks me a scoundrel, Mr. Ryan. My brother is a true scoundrel!”

“I look forward to meeting him, sir.”

“I look forward to seeing him, Mr. Ryan. I loathe the idea of dining with him.”

“It humanizes you, sir.”

“Could we not have met, say, at a nice Popeye’s? Now that’s an advance in civilization!”

He had napped, he had showered, he had deodorized, he had prayed-or had he? hard to remember-he had refreshed with several Dexedrine and felt ready as a tiger. Gul had laid out the clothes. But now, before leaving for Mo’s, came his favorite moment in any journey: the winding of the watches.

“Sir, the servants are ready.”

He sat down, barefoot, poured himself a glass of water.

“They may proceed,” he said.

The factotum muttered a command and one by one a half dozen servants came in bent and reverent, and placed an odd object on the bureau, the coffee table, the mantel, the bedside table, any stable surface in the bedroom of the vast, plush suite. Since there were by far more odd objects than servants, the procession took a while until each had put his object exactly where it should be and gone back for another one, then gotten back in line. When they were finally done, the factotum Abba Gul made certain that all were equidistant in space, all aligned perfectly.