The Evil That Men Do Read online

  “I’d say what goes around, comes around,” Elena said.

  “The U.S. has done a lot of dumb things, and it’s run by morons, but your country doesn’t deserve to get nuked.”

  “Really?” Elena said. “We sold Pakistan its first nuclear reactors—their nuclear weapons’ training wheels. We educated and prepped their nuclear scientists. We gave them enough money to make millions of bombs. We’re responsible for Pakistan’s nukes. We brought it on ourselves.”

  “You can tell that to New York’s charred smoking corpses.”

  “It’s not my fight anymore.”

  “There are Muslims, like Rashid and me, who want to do some good. We know people we can work with.”

  “Who?” Elena asked. “Your mythical Muslim moderates? You know the difference between Islamist extremists and Islamist moderates? The moderates are political opportunists and money-whores, while your ISIS soldiers and New United Islamist Front cretins are murderously messianic fanatics, but they’re sincere in their paranoid beliefs and willing to die for their cause. Guess who wins?”

  “Now that they have nukes they will definitely win,” Adara said.

  “Maybe that’s what it will take before that region rids itself of the Islamist plague. Watch them nuke New York, and then watch the West obliterate the Mideast in a nuclear Armageddon. If that happens, it will be ‘Goodbye, Islamist terrorists.’”

  “That’s nihilism talking.”

  “That’s realism, girl,” Elena said. “That’s history. They have a barbarism there that goes back to ancient Babylonia. Did you ever look at any of those early Assyrian artworks? They depict a world, ghoulish and macabre, their trees trimmed with severed heads. It has not changed in 3,000 years. ISIS, al Qaeda, the TTP, the New Front, they decorate their electrical towers, lampposts and city squares with gibbeted corpses and decapitated craniums.”

  “Then do it for Rashid, do it for me.”

  “In God’s name, why?” Elena fixed Adara with a hard stare—a stare so hard Adara looked away.

  “Any time you needed Rashid and me, we were there,” Adara finally said, the words choking in her mouth.

  “That was in another world, another time, another life.”

  “Some things never change.”

  “I’ve changed.”

  “Then I need the old Elena back—one more time.” Again, Adara crammed the flash drive into her old friend’s palm and closed her fingers around it. “Here’s everything you’ll need to know. I’ll help you assemble a team.”

  “That old Elena no longer exists. She’s dead and in the ground.”

  “Then we’ll resurrect her.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Because Rashid was there when you were nabbed by the TPP and held in that desert hellhole. Rashid got you out.”

  “Jamie got me out.”

  “But Rashid found out where you were. Rashid choppered Jamie in and choppered both of you out when you were comatose on a stretcher.”

  “I guess I forget to thank him. ‘Thanks, Rashid. Sorry you didn’t have the brains to take my advice and walk away.’”

  “We don’t want your thanks. We want your help.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Suppose I told you Putilov and Waheed are going after Jules next, that she’s pissed them off too long, that they’ve heard about her new book and that Waheed, in particular, wants her taken out?”

  “I’d say you’re a lying bitch. I’d say you’re using Jules to scam me into rescuing Rashid.”

  “Which is why I didn’t want to say it. I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but it’s true. Talk to Jules. Find out what she has on them. She has … everything, and they know it. The only way to keep any of us safe is to stop those bastards in their tracks.”

  “Tell it to someone else,” Elena said shaking her head.

  “I’m telling it to you, and you can’t say no. You owe me. You owe Rashid. You owe Jules.”

  Now Elena’s own voice was starting to crack, but still she got it out:

  “No good, no bueno. I can’t. I don’t do that shit anymore.”

  4

  “We’re crotch-deep in gasoline, and Meredith’s about to light a match.”

  —President J. T. Tower

  President Tower was in his Tower, Inc. New York headquarters with his sister, Brenda; Prince Waheed, the Saudi ambassador, and CIA Director Billy Burke. With a face like a basset hound, Burke had a thick paunch that almost popped the buttons on his tightly stretched shirt. He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. Waheed, in contrast, was slender, athletic, and had a full head of thick jet-black hair and a dark bushy mustache. The two men were sitting on the long silk couch with Brenda, Tower on the big stuffed armchair. Spread out before them on a huge teak coffee table were an extra-large silver coffee carafe, white bone china cups and saucers.

  “You wanted to talk about the UN Global Inequality Conference?” President Tower asked Waheed.

  “How bad do you think it’s going to get?” the Saudi ambassador, Wahid al-Waheed, asked. “It looks pretty bad back in the Kingdom.”

  “As you know, the General Assembly’s on board,” Tower said, “and most of the Security Council.”

  “Those new Jules Meredith exposés are inflaming the public even more,” Brenda Tower said. “When her book comes out, there’ll be real uproar. The TV, radio, internet will be on fire, 24/7, with her.”

  “So everyone says,” CIA Director Burke confirmed, “except the publisher’s embargoed it, and I can’t find anyone with an advance copy. We really don’t know how bad it’s going to be.”

  “I have a source in her publishing house,” President Tower said. “He can’t get his hands on the actual manuscript, but he’s seen reading reports on it. She’s apparently got dirt on all of us.”

  “My source says her chapters on your charitable giving are real killers,” Ambassador Waheed said.

  “Meredith goes after you in that regard too,” Brenda said to him. “She says in her articles you illegally funnel contributions to us and to the New United Islamist Front through phony charities.”

  “Unfortunately,” CIA Director Burke said, “a lot of your Saudi princes do use charities to disguise their payments to terrorist groups, which makes it harder to deny Meredith’s assertions.”

  “It’s been money well spent,” Ambassador Waheed said. “You don’t see them blowing up Saudi cities, do you?”

  “Europe could take a cue from you,” Tower said.

  “We also have enemies at home we have to deal with,” Brenda said diplomatically.

  “Look at all the money we spent, primarying our opposition,” CIA Director Burke said. “Most of those bastards aren’t around anymore.”

  “Ask any of those legislators who fucked with us,” President Tower said.

  “Where are Eric Cantor and Dick Lugar today?” Burke asked with a cynical grin.

  “Giving Rotary Club speeches and sitting on local school boards,” Tower said.

  Again, the room exploded with mocking laughter.

  “But I also know Meredith and the Democrats want to expose us,” Brenda said, “and will do anything to take us down.”

  Burke got up, walked over to Tower, and put his arm around his shoulders.

  “Fuck ’em,” Burke said. “We can ride it out. People have written exposés about us before, and nothing happened.”

  “Meredith is different,” Brenda said. “The times are different. We have the UN and the U.S. Congress on us as well.”

  “We’re crotch-deep in gasoline, and Meredith’s about to light a match,” Tower said.

  “She comes up with dirt on us we didn’t even know existed,” Ambassador Waheed said.

  “What’s most troubling is her sources,” Director Burke said. “She knows everything we do. J. T., remember your last presidential election? She knew when, where, why and how Putilov fed me your opponent’s campaign emails and precisely how he and I used them to embarrass the woma
n, skew the election’s results and hand you the White House. It scares me that she knows so much about us, and no one knows where and how she gets that info.”

  “And you’re the head of the CIA!” Brenda snorted.

  “How does she get her info?” the president asked. “I think she’s even managed to bug some of our meetings.”

  “All I know is she’s got some big swinging cojones on her, fucking with you, Jim, and with us,” Director Burke said.

  “Most people think of Big Jim Tower,” Brenda agreed, “and their nuts shrivel right up into their assholes.”

  “In deference to your sister,” Ambassador Waheed said, clearing his throat, “I have to point out women don’t have cojones, balls or testicles of any sort.”

  “Meredith may be one who tests that rule,” Burke said.

  “Even though she’s hellfire-hot,” Tower grumbled under his breath.

  “Hot or not,” Ambassador Waheed said, “she’s still pissing where we eat.”

  “And defecating in our nest,” Director Burke concurred.

  “Jim,” Ambassador Waheed said, “we have to find a way to stop her.”

  “I’m working on it,” Tower said. “I intend to stop her cold.”

  5

  Over the decades, Putilov had hunted his perceived enemies down and killed them no matter how far they fled …

  Borya Kazankov sat at the large clear glass circular dining room table in his high-rise apartment. He was partial to that room. It had an extraordinary view of Moscow. In fact, he could see Red Square even though it was five miles from his building. He also knew that by now the square would be filling up with tens of thousands of his supporters.

  The square better be filling up with his supporters, he thought grimly. Running against Mikhail Ivanovich Putilov for the presidency, you’ll need all the help you can get.

  Kazankov was a man of enormous wealth—not only from his tournament winnings but from his book sales, documentary residuals and superstar speaking fees—and it was a good thing. He needed money now—a lot of money. During the last two decades, he had found himself spending millions of dollars a year on personal security. He lived round-the-clock with five bodyguards and never traveled with less than nine. Moreover, they were his cooks as well as his protectors. They prepared and tasted everything he consumed. He hadn’t eaten a meal out or had a drink in a bar in fifteen years.

  To do so was to open oneself up to Putilov’s army of professional poisoners. That murderous Russian president had had the beverages of countless reporters, activists and political opponents—including the former top FSB official, Alexander Litvinenko, and the fearless journalist-turned-antiwar-activist, Anna Politkovskaya—spiked with his insufferably agonizing yet almost impossible-to-trace toxins.

  Nor was leaving Mother Russia a panacea. Kazankov was no safer on his trips abroad than he was on the Moscow streets. He’d been an implacable critic of Putilov’s for far too long—since the man’s earliest days—and Putilov, Kazankov knew only too well, forgave nothing, forgot even less, and his reach often seemed limitless, even universal. Over the decades, Putilov had hunted his perceived enemies down and killed them no matter how far they fled, tracking them to the most remote corners of the globe, often dispatching them on airliners in midflight. To provoke Putilov’s rage was to invite never-ending peril—and a life spent on the run—but Kazankov had done it anyway. These last fifteen years Kazankov had done everything he could to shine a spotlight on the tyrant’s crimes. He’d made it his life’s work to expose that murderous maniac for what he was.

  Tonight, his guards were dressed in white shirts and slacks, their dark suit coats hung on the backs of their dining room chairs. Two of them were bringing him his meal: coulibiac—a salmon loaf with rice, mushrooms, dill, and sliced-up hard-boiled eggs. On the side, they served him dressed herring, served diced on smothered carrots, beet roots, grated boiled vegetables, ground-up onions, and sour cream. They also brought two bottles of Ferenc Takler Reserve Syrah, one of his favorite Hungarian reds.

  His guards always served him family style, placing the food on platters in the table’s center. They spread plates, silverware, napkins and wineglasses, then helped themselves. Kazankov’s security force always ate and drank first.

  After a half minute, Kazankov decided it was safe to eat and tasted the coulibiac.

  “Excellent,” he said to his men.

  “Boss,” Vasily Fedorov, the rangy, raw-boned blond-haired captain of his contingent, said, “in forty-five minutes we have to take off for your Red Square rally. You have to allow time to get dressed and get there.”

  Kazankov shrugged, staring at his food.

  “This is a big event,” his second-in-command, Anatoly Baszrov, pointed out. “We have to allow for traffic.”

  “And we have to join other SUVs as well,” Vasily said. “We’re going in a caravan just in case anyone wants to intercept you along the way.”

  “It won’t take me long to get ready,” Kazankov said. “I have no appetite. We can reheat the coulibiac when we come back.”

  He got up and went back to his bedroom to get dressed.

  6

  “If you plan on pissing off Putilov,” Elena said, “you’d better watch your ass.”

  Elena picked up her Skype phone. It was 7:00 P.M. Stockholm time, and Jules was on the other end. She turned on her computer’s Skype screen and could see her friend’s smiling face. Casually attired in gray workout sweats, Jules had her long ebony hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “How’s it going, Jules?” Elena asked. “Still saving the world? Still keeping it safe for democracy?”

  “Save it?” Jules laughed. “I can’t even get its attention. I can’t even flag it down.”

  “Tell me about it,” Elena said. “I just had Adara here, hounding me to play Crusader Rabbit. She wants me to go back with her to Pakistan on some harebrained rescue operation.”

  “She called me too,” Jules said. “Unfortunately, we have a real problem over there.”

  “Not you too,” Elena said, suddenly sounding tired.

  “I’m not sure,” Jules said, “which is what bothers me. You know my book on Tower’s about to come out.”

  “The one that’s so hush-hush. The one you wouldn’t even let me or Jamie read.”

  “I’ve been pretty obsessed with it,” Jules had to admit.

  “So what did Adara want from you?” Elena asked.

  “She wanted me to convince you to help her mount that rescue op in Pashtun.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “Rashid told her that Putilov is in a blind rage—as are Tower and Prince Waheed. Even worse, Putilov’s convinced them that because of the UN Expropriation Resolution, they have to do something catastrophic. They plan to stop it even if they have to take out the entire city.”

  “So why did Adara think you could help?”

  “She wanted to know what I have on Tower,” Jules said. “Everyone seems to think I have enough to put them away.”

  “Do you?”

  “I have enough to piss off half the planet and make the Putilov/Tower people pretty fucking miserable.”

  “If you plan on pissing off Putilov,” Elena said, “you’d better watch your ass.”

  “And watch what I eat and drink,” Jules said.

  “Putilov kills reporters like you change your underwear.”

  There was a long pause. “Who says I wear underwear?” Jules said.

  “Goddamn you,” Elena said. “You have to take this seriously.”

  “I always take these assholes seriously,” Jules said.

  “Well, do they have a reason to want you dead?” Elena asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Then tell me why Tower’s so scared and his two buddies are so pissed at you.”

  Jules punched up a PDF of her new book on her computer and began searching for passages to show her friend.

  7

  “In Saudi Arabia, w
here I grew up, my brothers and father would fill a box with rocks and line me up against the wall for what I’m about to do tonight.”

  —Marika Madiha

  McMahon opened the door to his palatial hotel suite and entered his sitting room. He paused to study the long, rectangular, intricately carved ebony coffee table in the room’s center, which was surrounded by a curving couch of vermillion velvet and overstuffed chairs of the same gaudy hue. Various other pieces of furniture, including the large ebony desk flush against the far wall, filled out the rest of the room, and a plush wall-to-wall crimson carpet covered the floor. McMahon loved this suite even though he derided its garish décor to friends—scarlet as sin—as “whorehouse red.”

  Still he was in a foul mood. He’d spent the evening desperately searching for the blisteringly hot, raven-haired Middle Eastern woman in the front row, the one in the short yellow dress and spike heels, whose come-fuck-me eyes had cock-teased him throughout his show. He’d told his producers and production assistants not to let her leave without him meeting her. Unfortunately, they’d returned empty-handed, saying she’d bolted out a side door and vanished without a trace. He’d wasted so much time yelling at his staff, drinking scotch, smoking his hyperpotent hydroponic weed, scrutinizing security camera footage, interrogating everyone around him in an insane attempt to track her down—to learn her name, get her contact info, anything—that before he realized it, it was too late to find another date. Anyway, he was too drunk and too hopelessly stoned to get laid. Wasted, horny, pissed off, miserable and exhausted, he’d finally returned to his hotel.

  Throwing his suit coat on the couch, he momentarily glanced at the 96-inch flat-screen TV hanging on the wall. Too tired and grumpy to watch the tube, he trudged over to his bedroom, opened the door and walked in.

  To his undying surprise, the mystery woman was in his bed, leaning against pillows, which were plumped up against the white padded-leather headboard. Scantily attired in a short black negligee with matching six-inch heels, she was pouring herself a goblet of Cristal, which had been chilling in a silver ice bucket.