Strike Force Bravo (19 page)

But still, one part of this didn't make sense. The people doing all this were the Dragos. Uni knew because they were wearing the Dragos' jet-black battle garb, including their trademark black masks. But why would they kill Kazeel?

The answer came when one of the men turned toward the camera and slowly took off his mask. Uni threw up again. This man was not a Chechyan. He was an American. The face he would never forget. The man smiled and said: “Remember me? Dave Hunn, Queens, New York.”

He continued staring into the camera, cruel smile glued to his face, as if he was waiting for Uni to put it all together. This he did in a surprisingly few seconds. The Chechyans were never Chechyans at all! They were Americans. The
Crazy Americans.
And they'd somehow fooled Kazeel—and everybody else.

Suddenly Hunn was holding up Kazeel's photofone. His smile had turned demonic.

“And look what I found,” he said into the camera as it was turning to show a bright yellow helicopter in the background. “That's right; we got the whole plan right here. And now we know where you are and what you are doing. And so we're coming to get you. You got that, Cue Ball?
You're next.
See you soon….”

 

The tape ended. Ten minutes went by.

Uni was cowering in the corner of the room, shaking uncontrollably. He was no longer sure where he was or how he got there or why he was soaking wet. But Kazeel was dead. He was sure of that. Sure enough that he wasn't going to watch the horrible video again.

Even his dull brain knew this meant
very
big trouble. The attack on America was certainly canceled. The seven men from the Pushi were gone. The Paki bodyguards as well. The real Dragos themselves—where were they? No one who had knowledge of the big plan was left. Except himself, of course. But Uni was not Kazeel or a martyr or a soldier of fortune. He was a
shuka.
A pair of eyes, a pair of hands, those were the extent of his abilities. Even in the best of circumstances.

An overwhelming dread was running through him. It felt like cement in his veins. Kazeel was gone and the plan broken—that was painful enough. But Uni had another problem: the
Crazy Americans
were now coming after
him.

He sat on the floor like this, crying for a very long time. God had fooled him, he thought. All that praying and sacrifice, and for what? His life would soon be over; sure enough, his end would be painful as Kazeel's. Or even worse.

But then he heard an odd electronic sound. It took him a moment to realize the source. Over on top of the TV. It was his cell phone, the one Kazeel had given him to use for outgoing calls only.

It was ringing.

But who would be calling
this
phone? Only Kazeel knew the number.

Uni picked himself up, walked slowly to the TV, took the phone into his shaking hands, and pushed the receive button. He heard a man's voice, speaking in Arabic but with a very strange accent, certainly not American. “Thank you for answering, my friend. And we are friends; let me first assure you of that. And we are friends of your friends. We are all one together. We are aware of what has happened to your colleague Kazeel. We grieve his loss along with you. But don't worry. We are here to help you. You must not be afraid.”

Uni was dumbstruck. At first, the voice sounded like Kazeel, talking to him from beyond the grave. But of course that accent—there was no mistaking that.

“Though we've had this setback, we can still proceed with the big plan. It is very important that we do. You just have to do exactly what we tell you and the attack will go off as scheduled. The people who will use the weapons are in place. As you know, they've been in place for years. Kazeel worked hard, and he put everything together. The weapons just have to get to their destination and our brother Kazeel can enjoy Paradise knowing his dream will be fulfilled.”

There was a short pause.

“We know you can do this because we have faith in you. In fact, my friend, the truth is, you are probably the most important person in the world right now. A true maker of history. As only you hold the
sharfa.
”

There was a longer pause.

“Now, I realize this might be a shock to you, but you must relax, as it is totally under control. I understand that by holding the
sharfa
you alone control the means to activate those agents hiding in America. And I realize, my friend, that your vow to our departed Kazeel was to never tell anyone that piece of information….”

A very long pause. “But, good sir, should you ever choose to unburden yourself of that weight, please let me be the one to lend you an ear. Do we understand each other?”

Uni was simply stunned by all this. Was he hearing right? Someone wanted the plan to proceed—without Kazeel? Who was crazy enough to want that?

The person on the other end of the phone anticipated the question. So he answered it before it was even asked.

“Who am I?” the voice said. “I am the
judus,
the newfound friend. But from now on, you'll know me as ‘Palm Tree.'”

South Manila
Two days later

Uni had no idea who Georgio Armani was or why he was wearing one of his suits.

Yet here he was, in a light gold pants and jacket ensemble, white Lord & Taylor shirt, red Savoy silk tie—and Gucci shoes, of course.

He was standing on the concourse of the Luzon Cricket Club, the exclusive resort on Manila Bay. This place had been built by the British a hundred years before, its snotty appeal surviving World War II and many periods of internal unrest in the Philippines. The club was palatial, white and silver and surrounded by a small forest of palm trees and tropical plants. Their colors were dazzling; they were reflecting wildly off Uni's mirrored aviator sunglasses. Less than 48 hours ago he'd been chased from this very same place. Now he was a guest for lunch.

He nodded to his limo driver; the car had been provided to him by the Xagat hotel, the same one he'd been tossed from, again just two days ago. The driver bowed deeply, lit up a cigarette, and settled down to wait.

Many things had changed for Uni ever since he made the connection with Palm Tree.

Once a derelict, Uni was now being treated like royalty at the Xagat Pacific. All it took was a phone call from Palm Tree to the hotel's owner, an old Arab friend, and Uni was given the Xagat's top suite, four rooms, two baths, much nicer than the room where Kazeel had stayed. The expensive clothes Uni found waiting for him in the suite's master closet. Unlike Kazeel, Uni could not pass for Asian. Therefore, he would have to pass for a gangster.

For the first few hours inside the huge suite he sat in the smallest chair, wrapped in towels, not moving, not touching anything. Just sitting there, so certain a mistake had been made. Frequent visits from hotel staff, including a very contrite Tiffany, finally convinced him it was not so. They taught him how to turn on the TV, how to order dirty movies, how to start the Jacuzzi. He soon made himself at home, cleaning out every Coke and nut in the minibar and even ordering room service. Somehow, though, they never did manage to bring him his extra towels.

Palm Tree called him frequently over the next two days, always via his special cell phone. He stayed of the attitude that the big plan could continue. Much had already been invested in this thing: time, money, risks of being caught, found out. For the collusion to be revealed now would drop such a bombshell in the world community, Palm Tree's government would most likely not survive. A war might even result. Still, the plan had to move forward, or at the very least the weapons had to make it to America.

This could be done, Palm Tree said, by Uni simply walking the steps that Kazeel himself would have walked had he not flown off to Paradise. It might not be as impossible as it seemed. Anyone who knew Kazeel knew Uni. He was, in effect, Kazeel's perfect substitute. Uni was so unique, such an unmistakable character, no one—inside Al Qaeda or out—would question his authority to act for Kazeel. In the meantime they would keep it a close secret that the superterrorist was now in heaven. The first order Uni carried out was to destroy the hideous videotape.

During these phone chats, some of which Uni took in the Jacuzzi, Palm Tree talked about what had to be done. It boiled down to three things: getting the missiles and the launchers in the same place, making arrangements for their packing and shipment, and being on hand when the weapons were actually shipped. It sounded easy, at least to Uni.

Palm Tree laid out for him a number of simple instructions, which Uni put down on index cards, telling him where he had to go and what he should do once he got there. (These notes included the magic words: “Palm Tree sent me.”) If they were able to do all these things together, then Uni could activate the
sharfa
and the big attack would come off—and Uni would be the new hero of the Muslim world.

This was heady stuff for the
shuka.
The excitement. The phone calls. The macadamia nuts.

It was almost enough to make Uni forget that Kazeel was really gone.

One thing Palm Tree emphasized, though, was Uni not lingering too long in the hotel room, caught up in the evils of bathing, TV, and the minibar. Time was short, and it was important that he properly attend to details. That's what he was doing now. That's why he was at the Luzon Cricket Club.

First on his to-do list was meeting Palm Tree's prime contact in Manila. Uni knew only that the person would be a “friendly face.” He entered the club's lobby and was immediately spellbound by its grandeur. This certainly wasn't the Impatient Parrot. He was approached by a gorgeous Filipino girl. She was dressed in a short, tight mini-skirt and blouse, the servants' uniform of the club. She seemed to know who Uni was right away.

She took him lightly by his arm and led him out to the veranda. This place was
beaucoup
beautiful. More palms, more incredibly bright flowers and plants, with much glass and stone and peacocks in vivid feathers, strutting about with authority. The shade from many willow trees cut down on the brutal noontime heat.

The girl led him to a table tucked away in the corner of the patio. Three men were sitting here. One was dressed in a black suit, black shirt, black tie. He rose to shake Uni's hand. Uni didn't recognize him at first.

“Captain Ramosa,” the man finally said, reminding him. “We meet again.”

Now Uni remembered. This was the police officer who'd saved them from the Crazy Americans in the back room of the brothel. All that seemed like it had happened years ago and not just a matter of a week or so. Besides, Ramosa looked different. His hair was a lighter color and no longer greasy. His mustache was gone and he looked like he'd had a skin peel. He appeared, for want of a better word, to be more sophisticated, and not the rat with a badge they'd met in the Impatient Parrot.

The two other men were his personal bodyguards. They weren't as nattily dressed as Ramosa. On the table in front of them were three tiny coconut shells, cut in half and lined up in a row. The men had been playing a game when Uni arrived. Ramosa saw Uni's curiosity and smiled again. He lifted up the first half-shell to reveal a large yellow poker chip underneath. He lifted the second shell to reveal a red poker chip of the same size. Under the third shell was a sparkling gold coin. Ramosa tugged at his shirt sleeves like a magician, then began moving the shells this way and that, over, under, and around. After a few seconds, he stopped, then looked up at Uni.

“Where is the gold coin, my friend?”

Uni pointed to the first shell. Ramosa lifted it: the red poker chip was beneath. He lifted the middle shell to reveal the gold coin.

“Watch closely this time,” Ramosa told Uni, moving the shells again. Uni kept his eye on the shell he knew held the coin beneath, but when Ramosa stopped and it was time for him to pick again, the shell he selected held the yellow poker chip instead. Ramosa's men laughed as their boss lifted the shell next to the one Uni had picked to show it was covering the gold coin.

“Try again,” Ramosa told Uni—and he did, a dozen more times. But no matter how hard he tried to keep track of the gold piece, Uni never managed to pick the correct shell. Ramosa's men were in hysterics by this time. The
shuka
was an easy mark for the shell game. Ramosa ended the episode with a flourish, moving the three shells with even quicker motions and then, even before asking Uni to select, turning over all three himself to reveal that nothing remained under any of them.

Uni was clearly fascinated—and very confused.

“It's a game of misdirection,” Ramosa told him. “Something you should remember for the future.”

He gave a nod to his men, and they quickly departed, taking the shells with them. Uni finally sat down, selecting the seat directly across from Ramosa.

“I have heard about our setback,” Ramosa said to him, once Uni was settled. “I liked Kazeel. I really did. But can you carry on?” Uni indicated he could, but Ramosa's expression revealed he wasn't so sure.

A waiter approached, and suddenly a watercress salad and a bottle of mineral water appeared in front of Uni. He'd never had either. He sniffed the greens and sampled the water with his finger. Then he looked across at Ramosa, who nodded in a friendly manner. Only then did Uni begin to eat.

The back lawn of the club was bright green and well manicured. The water of Manila Bay lay beyond, sparkling, alive with junks, fishing boats, and ferries, many, many ferries, brightly colored; one moving at top speed close to the beach was painted in vivid, glaring green. Ramosa spoke amiably, about Manila Bay, about the salad, about the peacocks. Uni was certain the birds were being kept and fattened for the menu someday. Ramosa had to ask him to stop throwing morsels of food to them.

Finally, he got down to business. Ramosa said to him: “We can secure both the missiles and the launchers tonight. We can put them together by early morning. Pack them correctly and they'll be on their way by tomorrow night. There are many people in this city who will help us to this end.”

He took out a matchbook and wrote an address on the back.

“But first, you have things to do, and so do I,” he said, passing the matchbook to Uni. “Meet me at this place, tonight, at ten. And we will begin the final leg.”

Uni took the matchbook. A silence passed between them. Ramosa sipped his mineral water.

“I understand you are carrying a key piece of information regarding the implementation of this attack,” Ramosa finally said to him. “Something referred to as the
sharfa.
This must be quite a burden for you, holding the key to putting the plan in motion. If so, I am here to tell you, should you ever want to share that information, please be my guest.” He smiled, but this time not so flashy. “I mean, if recent history is our guide, should anything happen
to you,
my friend…well then, all would be lost, wouldn't it?”

But Uni wasn't really listening. He'd finished his salad and was now using one of the five spoons next to his plate to scoop up the remains of the dressing. This done, he began to lick the plate clean, as he usually did at mealtime. Only the appearance of a bowl of sherbet stopped him. Ramosa took a call on his cell phone, and this signaled the end of their meeting.

They shook hands and Uni left. He was intercepted again by the girl in her tight club uniform. This time she took his hand tightly in hers and walked him to the front door. As she bid him good-bye, she pressed a card into his hand. It was her private phone number.

Uni picked his teeth with the card, then threw it away.

 

His next destination was a section of Manila called Makak.

It was a strip of beach near the poorest section of the capital city. The structures here were built on stilts, as high tide and sewage frequently ran in the streets. There were many drug addicts and hookers and street beggars down here. There were also many small-time export shops in the area. Housed in tiny huts clustered together into a dreary marketplace, they were known to deal in everything from the cheapest trinket to HD TVs, much of it stolen or illegal knockoffs of expensive items, much of it destined for the United States.

Uni's limo looked very out of place here. His Armani suit did, too. His Guccis became muddied as he stepped out onto the street. He had to push a few little beggars away; the limo driver beeping the horn got rid of most of them. This time the limo driver remained in the car, though, with the windows up and doors locked. He kept the engine running, too.

Uni found the address he was looking for. It was a small, dilapidated hut down a very dark, very busy back alley. The front door was open; Uni walked right in. Here he found boxes stacked to the ceiling, all containing the same item: a plastic Buddha. They were all of the same design, the tubby deity sitting cross-legged, bemused smile, flowing robes, a tiny 10-watt bulb inside to illuminate the illuminated. Like the poker chips, they came in either red or yellow. There were easily hundreds of them here, thousands perhaps.