He stood rock still. He wasn’t going to let Cobb know for a second he was scared. But who wouldn’t be? The dark end of a rifle barrel was not a pleasant sight.
Cobb lowered the gun.
Malone had guessed right. They wanted him alive. Who better to start the ball rolling than some American agent who claimed bin Laden surrendered to him and that there was some sort of conspiracy designed to conceal bin Laden’s death. The military would deny the assertions and, in the process, supercharge the world’s fear of bin Laden. He’d have nothing for proof and they’d have the terror of the past.
Easy to see who’d win that battle.
“Go on, Malone. Get out of here. Go tell the world what you know.”
Not a chance.
He slammed the heel of his boot into Cobb’s right knee. The move clearly caught the man off guard. Maybe he’d thought him incapable? He heard bone break and he planted a fist into the jaw. Cobb cried out in agony as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his wounded leg. Malone lifted the rifle from the ground.
“I’ll say it again. You’re no better than he was. He killed for Allah. You do it for profit.”
“The…devil…got his due.”
Malone slung the rifle out into the open air, beyond the crumbled wall, and left.
* * *
Malone zipped his suitcase shut and checked out of his hotel. Downstairs, he stepped out into the frigid evening and searched the crowded street for a taxi to the airport. One appeared and he quickly climbed into the back seat. The driver eased his way through stop-and-start traffic. Darkness came quickly this time of year to central Asia and night had enveloped the city by the time they stopped at the terminal. He handed the driver forty rubles and was about to leave when the man said in Russian, “Mr. Malone, my president has something for you.”
He stared at the driver from the rear seat as the man handed him a brown envelope.
“He also said to wish you well.”
Malone thanked the man and added another twenty rubles for his trouble. Sharma’s reach was extensive, he’d give the man that. Through the envelope he felt the distinctive outline of a CD. Inside the terminal he checked his bag, then, with his carry-on draped over his shoulder, headed for the gate. There, he opened the envelope and saw that it contained a disk, along with a note. He read the message, then inserted the CD into his laptop.
On the screen appeared a video. He watched while the phony colonel named Cobb shot Osama bin Laden. Then, with the help of the other paramilitary members, whose faces Malone recognized, Cobb burned the body. The screen went dark, then a new video began. This one featured him and Cobb hours earlier. Malone found his earphones and switched on the audio. The sound of their voices was excellent and their entire encounter, including Malone’s assault, was recorded.
Then the screen went black.
He shook his head.
Yossef Sharma had been watching. Though he was the head of a nation that possessed no means of adequately protecting itself, the president was a clever man. He’d wanted the United States to have bin Laden because that’s what bin Laden wanted. But that had not happened. So Sharma had delivered another gift. One that Malone would this time personally hold on to until the moment was right. A little legwork would be needed, but it shouldn’t be hard to track down Cobb, his cohorts and their employers. After all, that was the Magellan Billet’s specialty.
He read again the note that had been included with the disk.
MAKE SURE ALL THE DEVILS GET THEIR DUE.
Damn right.
He stood and headed for his plane.
* * * * *