The Last Refuge (23 page)

“Mr. Meir,” yelled Khasni, striking the gavel on the table. “Stop these outbursts at once!”

“If you need more evidence of my murderous ways, unshackle me right now,” said Meir, standing up and pointing with cuffed hands at Paria. “I will kill another Iranian in front of your very own eyes. Would you like to watch me, Judge?”

“Be quiet!” yelled Khasni to little effect.

“Of course, Abu will have his henchmen stop me,” said Meir, his voice calm, almost quiet, yet somehow cutting through the racket of Khasni’s gavel and shouting. “He could never fight me himself. Paria could never actually get his hands dirty himself, could you, Abu? We both know who would win if they gave me a chance to fight you.”

“I order you—”

As Khasni hammered a gavel on the table in front of him, trying to get Meir to be quiet, Paria, whose arms had been crossed, let his hands fall to the side. He said nothing. His anger was obvious. He stared at Meir across the largely empty courtroom. Then, he walked out of the courtroom, slamming the door behind him as he departed.

Meir smiled, then looked down at Achabar. His defense attorney was leaning back, reclined in his chair, in quiet resignation.

“Do you want to go to your boss?” asked Meir, looking at Achabar.

All the while, Khasni’s hammering of the gavel had become a steady monotone, which Meir ignored.

Finally, Meir sat down, a gentle smile on his face. He looked around the courtroom and then at Judge Khasni.

Khasni stopped hammering the gavel, but remained standing. He leaned over the table, looking at the ground, shaking his head in disgust.

“In my twenty-four years as a judge, I have never seen such behavior,” said Khasni. “It is as if you want me to impose the gravest possible sentence. Or perhaps by your abhorrent behavior, you wish to dare me. Is that it? To dare me into being lenient?”

“Yes, that’s it, Your Honor,” said Meir sarcastically. “I would much prefer to spend the next fifty years of my life in an Iranian gulag than die. That sounds like it would be a lot of fun. Especially the torture with the car battery. And the cuisine. The bread was superb.”

“Your Honor,” said Achabar weakly. “My client is under extreme emotional duress. He is out of his mind, as they say.”

Meir glanced at the clock above the door. It was now eleven.

“We will take a recess until tomorrow evening,” said Khasni. “At which time, Moammar, you will have the opportunity to present the defense of Mr. Meir.”

Khasni hammered the gavel once, then turned and stormed out of the courtroom.

30

KARBU

TIME WARNER BUILDING

NEW YORK CITY

There were only six tables at Karbu, despite the fact that the restaurant could have routinely filled five times that number any night of the week; this lack of seating only served to heighten the allure of the exclusive, incredibly expensive establishment. Considered the best sushi restaurant in the city, it was practically impossible to get a reservation at Karbu. Entrees at the tiny restaurant on the forty-fifth floor of the Time Warner Building started at $375 per plate, individual chef tastings, single pieces of sushi made by Karbuyoshi Takayta himself, ranged from a simple piece of fresh tuna, flown in that morning from Iceland, for $175, to a more complicated and rare strip of Blue Marrow Osso Bucco, a soufflé of raw bone marrow and roe taken from the vertebrae of a female blue whale off the coast of Japan. Its price was a cool $4,000 per piece.

On a typical evening, Karbu played host to people for whom dropping thirty or forty grand on a meal was no big deal. Russians, usually oligarchs, their wives, girlfriends, or mistresses. Middle Eastern oilmen, Saudis mainly, some Saudi royalty, the occasional banker or real estate developer from Dubai. Some Europeans, fourth-generation royalty or telecom billionaires. Increasingly, Chinese entrepreneurs, some of whom were already billionaires despite living in a country that billed itself as a communist people’s republic. From the United States, it was hedge fund managers who came, private equity guys, some investment bankers, the occasional celebrity. Though not often. While the food was outstanding, Karbu had started to earn a reputation as a place for foreigners, impossible to get into, crowded with Arabs, usually with some sort of thuggish guard contingency just outside the restaurant’s doors. Takayta had to install a small waiting area for just this purpose, to keep some of these security types from loitering outside the restaurant’s entrance, a tight square of comfortable orange Barcelona chaises to the side of the entrance. On some nights, the chairs were filled with odd combinations; ex–KGB agents, now private security, guarding Russian mobsters, seated across the glass table from ex–British MI6 guarding Chinese Internet billionaires.

Katie Foxx was dressed in a simple red and black dress. She looked down at her plate. She did not like sushi. Where she grew up, in Canton, Connecticut, the thought of eating raw fish would have made her and her three older brothers laugh in disgust. But here she was. She smiled at Tacoma. She watched as the tall, brown-haired Nebraska farmboy wolfed down his fourth piece of raw flounder.

“Hey, slow down, Robbie,” said Foxx. “That’s two hundred bucks a pop.”

“Yeah, but it’s so fucking good, Katie,” said Tacoma, smiling. He reached up to wipe his mouth. As he did, Foxx caught a glimpse of Tacoma’s weapon, tucked in his shoulder holster, .357 magnum SIG P226, suppressed. It was standard-issue SEAL armament, where Tacoma had come from before joining Foxx’s paramilitary team within CIA National Clandestine Service.

Over Tacoma’s shoulder, she watched Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations, Amit Bhutta. He was seated with two other Iranians, both unquestionably security guards.

“He’ll be finished soon,” Foxx whispered.

Foxx reached down. She picked up the piece of reddish fish, threw it in her mouth. After all, if he was going to pound down hunks of raw flounder at two hundred bucks a pop, she was damn well going to join him. She started chewing. It tasted like raw fish. It felt, in her mouth, like raw fish. She looked agonizingly across the table at Tacoma. He had a big, mischievous, gloating grin on his face.

“That bad, huh?” he asked.

“Disgusting,” she said, swallowing.

At Bhutta’s table one of the big, dark-haired Iranian security guards stood, whispered something into a wrist comm.

“They’re moving,” said Foxx.

Tacoma picked up the cue and nodded at the waitress for the bill. A minute later, it arrived.

Bhutta, Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations, stood. He stepped toward the marble counter, behind which was a short Japanese man with a bright red chef’s hat. Takayta smiled as Bhutta approached.

“Here he goes,” Foxx whispered.

Foxx stood up as the bill came. Tacoma paid with cash.

They moved to the restaurant entrance. Foxx reached for Tacoma’s hand, looked up into his eyes as they walked past one of the three Iranian security detail.

“I love you,” said Foxx as Tacoma held the door, playing to the Iranians, who watched the swooning couple pass in front of them to the door.

“Thank you,” said Tacoma to one of the men as he held the door.

“Congratulations,” the man said in a thick Middle Eastern accent, smiling.

At the elevator door, they stood. Tacoma leaned forward, holding Foxx’s face gently between his hands. He leaned forward and kissed her. They embraced and kissed for more than a minute.

“You taste like fish,” she said, pulling back for a breath before locking lips again and closing her eyes.

Behind them, the sound of Bhutta’s entourage. The two security guards from the restaurant were joined by three others. Five Iranians in all, along with the Iranian ambassador.

One of the Iranian guards came to the elevator. He pressed the button.

Tacoma, sensing the approaching group, pulled his lips back from Foxx. He acted slightly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” Tacoma said bashfully to the Iranian who pressed the elevator button behind his back.

“It’s no worries,” said the Iranian in a thick accent.

“Were you engaged this evening?” asked another man, behind Foxx, in near-perfect English.
Bhutta.

“Yes, sir,” said Tacoma, smiling. “Tonight. Thank you for asking.”

“It’s always nice to see,” said Bhutta. “It reminds us that there are other things that matter in this world. Sometimes we forget, don’t we?”

The elevator door opened.

“Please,” said Tacoma, glancing down at Foxx. “We’ll take the next elevator.”

“Are you sure, then?” asked Bhutta. “All right.”

The Iranians moved past Tacoma and Foxx, stepped into the open elevator.

“We don’t mind,” said Bhutta from inside the elevator. “There is plenty of room.”

“Are you sure?” asked Tacoma, glancing in at the tall, distinguished-looking Iranian.

“I insist,” said Bhutta, reaching forward, pressing the door open button.

Tacoma and Foxx stepped into the elegant, mahogany-walled elevator. The doors closed behind them. Foxx quickly scanned the group of Iranians. In addition to Ambassador Bhutta, there were five men guarding him. Foxx noted the small gumdrop camera in the upper-right corner of the elevator.

The elevator began to descend.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” asked Foxx, smiling at Bhutta.

“Yes,” said Bhutta. “It was wonderful. My favorite restaurant in New York.”

“That was our first time,” said Foxx, wide-eyed. She looked up at Tacoma. “It was amazing.”

The elevator dropped silently. Foxx watched the green digital on the wall as the numbers descended: 35 … 34 … 33.

“And where are you from?” asked Bhutta, directing his question to Foxx.

She smiled, glimpsed the digital: 24 … 23 … 22.

“Canada,” she said. “I moved to the U.S. ten years ago.”

Foxx moved her right hand behind her as she smiled up at Bhutta, smoothly, unnoticeably. She quickly felt for the folds in her overcoat behind her, then, like riding a bike, moved her fingers to the small custom-made sew-in along the back of the wool coat. She glanced up at the elevator digital: 15 … 14 … 13.

She felt the butt of her Glock 18, already set to full auto.

“Canada,” said Bhutta, nodding. “I love Montreal.”

Tacoma’s eye caught the digital. He got the signal, the number “ten” used by Foxx, a double meaning. He reached his right hand inside his blazer, gripped the butt of one of the SIGs. He moved his left hand behind him, against the elevator wall, then to the small of his back, gripping the other suppressed SIG P-226, which had been tucked uncomfortably behind him the entire meal.

12 … 11.…

Foxx swung the weapon from behind her back in the same instant Tacoma ripped the pair of SIGs out, crossing his arms, left aimed right, right left.

Bhutta’s mouth opened in shock and surprise. The Iranian security guards reached for their weapons.

Foxx swung the Colt sideways, firing. Slugs tore from the muzzle as she moved the gun left to right, hitting the mahogany of the elevator wall, tearing up chips of wood, then striking the first guard chest high, knocking him backward. A second guard, to Bhutta’s right, was struck by a bullet to the forehead.

At the same instant, Tacoma pumped the triggers on his guns, blasting a guard to Bhutta’s left through the eye socket, then, to that guard’s left, another thug, a slug through the forehead.

It all took less than three seconds.

Bhutta lurched at Foxx amid the tornado of wood dust and blood that quickly fogged the small elevator in chaos.

The last Iranian, immediately to Tacoma’s right, found his handgun in his shoulder holster, pulled it.

Bhutta dived toward Foxx, but she greeted his lurching frame with a quick, brutal martial kick to the neck, which sent him flying backward and down, landing awkwardly on top of one of his dead security guards. Bhutta watched from the ground, helpless, clutching his throat as Tacoma finished off his last surviving security guard with a bullet through his neck, dropping him before he could get a shot off.

Tacoma turned, pulled the red emergency door alarm. The elevator came to an immediate, rough stop. The floor counter read two.

Tacoma removed a small silver key from his pants pocket. He stuck it in the console above the alarm. Turning it, the elevator moved again.

“Who are you?” asked Bhutta as Foxx moved above him, Colt trained at his skull.

The elevator bypassed the first floor. It continued down into the building’s basement.

“Stand up, Mr. Ambassador,” said Foxx calmly, staring hard into the black eyes of the Iranian ambassador.

The elevator came to a stop at B4, a service floor in the building’s basement. The doors opened. Waiting outside the doors was Dewey; dressed in jeans and a blue button-down shirt, his arms crossed on his chest in front of him. His bright blue eyes were as blank, as expressionless, as stone. Behind him were two men, machine guns trained on the elevator door. Behind them, a black Chevy Suburban.

“We need a cleanup crew,” said Foxx to one of the men behind Dewey.

Dewey stared at Bhutta, still down inside the elevator.

The Iranian looked thoroughly confused and disheveled, and he struggled to stand. He looked around him as he made it to his feet. Along the back wall of the elevator, five corpses lay in a growing pool of crimson, which moved quickly across the tan carpet.

“This is against the law,” said Bhutta, regathering himself, anger and outrage in his voice, sticking his finger out toward Dewey.
“It’s against international law!”

“Shut the fuck up,” interrupted Dewey, grabbing Bhutta’s outstretched hand, quickly flipping his wrist backward, then yanking his arm behind his back and thrusting him toward the back door of the Suburban. “You’re the last son of a bitch I want to hear talk about international law.”

31

ABOARD BOEING P-8A POSEIDON RECONNAISSANCE UNIT 995

AKA
DOUBLE JEOPARDY

1,190 MILES OFF THE COAST OF NEWFOUNDLAND

The sea, this far north in the Atlantic Ocean, lay cold and empty. A horizon of black. Brutal, shearing winds cut like a knife through salty, rain-soaked air. Jagged, foam-crossed peaks of massive waves stretched in steady lines for literally hundreds of miles, followed by stunning, deep black canyons that dropped like cliffs into the chasm.