“Fuck Tower,” Kamal said. “He’s an idiot.”
Raza, Marika, Fahad and Tariq stood in the closed hangar of the helipad in rural New Jersey. A friendly New York City police officer, whom Fahad had handpicked months ago, had borrowed an NYPD chopper for them, and Raza would pilot it. All four wore the dark blue uniforms of New York’s Finest—complete with gun belts, sidearms and gear.
The craft before them was an Airbus AS365, featuring a cruise speed of over 175 miles per hour, a range of over 500 miles and air-endurance of nearly five hours. Most important, with its two Turbomeca Arriel 2C, turboshaft engines and heavily reinforced, customized cargo deck, it could easily handle three tons of payload. Given the howitzer-barrel nuke in its cargo bay, it would need that kind of power and structural reinforcement.
Raza, Marika and Tariq watched Fahad forklift load the bomb into the chopper’s fuselage, and then watched him strap the bomb down.
“Time to check in with our employers?” Raza asked Marika and Tariq.
“I expect so,” Tariq said.
They entered a nearby office and shut the door behind them. It had three gray metal office chairs, a gray metal desk, two filing cabinets, a desk phone and an open booted-up laptop computer. Raza sat down and punched in the Skype number for Kamal ad-Din, their financial backer. He came on and immediately linked in Prince Waheed. Both Kamal and Ambassador Waheed were dressed in long white thawb robes and keffiyehs.
God, Raza thought, Kamal does look like a “Muslim Moby Dick,” to quote one of McMahon’s more blistering witticisms.
Raza, Marika and Tariq closed ranks in front of the computer so they could all see each other.
“So how is it going?” Ambassador Waheed asked. On the computer’s Skype screen, he was smiling broadly.
“The cargo’s on the chopper,” Raza said, “and we’re ready to rock.”
“Splendid job, Fahad,” Kamal said, joining Waheed on the computer screen. “The number you did on Jowett was outstanding. Because you immediately leaked that in-flagrante-delicto footage, it’s already out there on the web. We were able to watch Jowett’s final hours.”
“Those Wall Street derivative assholes will think twice about fomenting Middle Eastern famines from now on!” Waheed said.
“The networks even ran the footage,” Fahad said.
“With Jowett’s genitals obscured, of course,” Prince Waheed said, “but still the impact was overpowering. The West has to know now that the New United Islamist Front can get to anyone.”
“Did he suffer much?” Kamal asked, his mouth twitching in anticipation.
“We actually have a summary of a medical report,” Marika said, “that was leaked to the papers and posted on the internet just a few minutes ago. The report’s summary reads:
The coroner’s report says that Jowett was found with “his penis in a condition of extreme tumescence and black with gangrene. Seeping green pus, the penis was exuding a foul-smelling gas from the orifice.” The autopsy also noted “retrograde infection with massive swelling of the inguinal lymph nodes. The scrotum,” the report said, “looked like a fully inflated soccer ball.” Jowett’s eyes were described as “glazed, the subject’s mouth thick from heavy respiration due to his attempts to expel the acid load created by the body’s sepsis. Since sepsis is highly catabolic and capable of causing the subject to burn up to 6000 calories a day, the subject appears to have sustained weight loss.”
“So,” Fahad asked, “how’s that for sheer unmitigated agony? Did Jowett go through as much hell as you people had wanted?”
“That sonofabitch got what he deserved,” Kamal said, his computer-screen grin even wider and brighter than before. “He personally orchestrated famines throughout the Mideast, then bragged about it afterward—all for the sake of making a few quick dirty bucks.”
“Who knows how many people he starved to death?” Marika said.
“Millions,” Raza said, agreeing.
“There was one minor mishap,” Fahad said. “I couldn’t get a clear shot at Jules Meredith.”
Fahad did not tell them why. That failure was too humiliating.
“We know,” Kamal said, “and Putilov is furious. He was not only mad at her himself, he’d promised President Tower personally that you’d take her out.”
“Gentlemen,” Raza said, attempting to placate Kamal, “it will happen. I guarantee it. There just wasn’t time to do everything.”
“That’s too bad,” Ambassador Waheed said. “I wanted the bitch dead as well.”
“Gentlemen,” Fahad said. “We’re under no time pressure to kill her. We can do it any Monday morning.”
“Still Putilov is hopping mad,” Ambassador Waheed said. “Tower won’t be happy either.”
“Fuck Tower,” Kamal said. “He’s an idiot.”
“Agreed,” Fahad said. “Also perhaps you might remind Putilov how long it took for his hero, Stalin, to kill Trotsky, so Meredith’s time will come. I plan on seeing her again. Personally. Meredith isn’t going anywhere.”
Fahad was lying. He was taking off when this was over, disappearing like smoke and never seeing any of them again.
“We’ll tell both of them that,” Waheed said.
“I’ll offer my services as well,” Marika said.
“Moi aussi,” Raza said. Me, too.
“That should appease them,” Kamal said.
“Not if they decide to attend that UN Anti-Inequality Conference,” Waheed said.
His comment provoked gales of laughter.
“Speaking of which,” Raza said, “we have to get going. We have a conference to attend to.”
The men were still laughing when Raza switched off the Skype call, and the four of them walked out of the office toward the chopper.