The devils' due

cotton Malone stood on the balcony and calmly watched the books burn.

He was standing next to Yossef Sharma, president of a tiny central Asian nation nestled firmly between Afghanistan, China and a host of other American enemies. Which was why Washington had, for years, conveniently ignored Sharma's excesses, including his audacious plan to burn nearly every book in his country.

"We've been collecting for the past month. The people have brought them from every town and village." Sharma spoke a mixture of Russian and Arabic unique to the region. "Tonight, there are fires in every quarter of the nation. All to rid us of Western influence."

"I almost think you believe that crap," Malone said, not taking his eyes off the spectacle.

"After tomorrow, possession of a single book, excepting the Koran, will be punishable by imprisonment. And if my people are anything, they're obedient."

Malone continued to watch as people, bundled in coats and jackets, picked their way over slippery cobbles to heap more books onto the blaze. Clatter from flutes and tambourines added to the surreal spectacle.

"That crazy obedience," Malone said, "more than anything else, explains your current predicament. The world believes this place is another Afghanistan, and you know what that led to."

"Lucky for me, and this country, you know that to be false."

He smiled. "More lucky for you."

Malone was a navy commander turned lawyer turned Justice Department operative, assigned to a covert division within Justice known as the Magellan Billet. Twelve specially trained agents, all lawyers, working under a no‑nonsense lady named Stephanie Nelle. On the outside, Nelle reminded most observers of their grandmothers, but inside she possessed the resolve of a Roman centurion. When he was first assigned Malone had thought the tour would be both limited and boring. But that was ten years ago, and the past decade had been anything but dull. Tonight was a good example. Here he was, standing on the balcony of a presidential palace beside a uniformed despot, while an immense bonfire fueled by books roared below, each breath from the cool, arid air laced with the scent of smoke and sorrow.

"You tell your government," Sharma said, "that I'm doing what I have to in order to survive. This nation is Muslim and these people demand a strong leader." The president motioned below. "You think they're burning those books because I ordered it? Never. It's because they want to."

Malone was no stranger. Twice he'd worked here, both times directly with Sharma. Malone had actually become interested in the country‑a mountainous region of over a hundred thousand square miles, home to four million people, 8.5 percent of whom were Sunni Muslims. He'd studied its history and knew about its expansive tradition of writers, poets and composers, most dating back to the Middle Ages. But yesterday he'd painfully watched while the entire national archive had been cleared. The loss of so much knowledge was incalculable, but a United Nations protest had been swiftly rebuked by Sharma. Now Malone's stomach turned. It was like friends were burning below. He was a confirmed bibliophile. Books meant something to him. His home back in Atlanta overflowed with them. He loved everything about them, and many times lingered a day or two after an assignment to peruse rare‑book shops.

In disgust, he allowed his gaze to drift away from the fire to the picturesque remains of mosques and other architecture lining the plaza. He knew that many of the buildings had stood since the nineteenth century, surviving the Soviet takeover in 1922, a Muslim rebellion in 1935, the fall of communism in 1991 and an Islamic revolution a year later. Finally, he faced Sharma and said, "Why am I here?"

"To see this happening."

He doubted that. And that, as far as he was concerned, was the trouble with central Asia. Truth was an underrated commodity. "And to give you this."

Sharma reached over to a small table and lifted up a book. The binding was tooled with brass fittings in excellent condition. Malone accepted it and studied the cover. In English was written, Canterbury Tales.

"I thought you might like that."

Sharma knew him well. One of his favorites. "After tomorrow, I'll go to prison if I have this."

Sharma smiled. "For you, an exception. I know how much you love them. It's a seventeenth‑century edition. For some reason we had it shelved in our archive."

He carefully balanced the book in his palm and was about to open it when Sharma stopped him. "Not here. Later."

He thought the comment strange.

"There's another gift. Inside. Especially for you. So later, back at your hotel."

He knew better than to question. So he nodded in understanding, slipped the tiny volume into his jacket pocket and turned his attention back to the bonfire.

Malone returned to his hotel room. The fire was still burning strong after two hours, when he and Sharma vacated the balcony. He locked the door and removed his jacket. Its brown leather smelled of ash.

He sat on the bed and studied the copy of Canterbury Tales. A second Speght edition, dated 1602. A text read and owned by the likes of Milton, Pepys, Dryden and Pope. Worth in the neighborhood of ten thousand American dollars, provided a copy could even be found.

Yet he was now holding one.

Given to him by Yossef Sharma.

He opened the book and, toward the center of the dingy yellowed pages, found a scrap of paper. He freed it and read the feminine English script.

In the mountains, to the north, visit the ruins of Rampur. Arrive at noon tomorrow. Someone wishes to speak with you, alone.

Sharma had gone to a lot of trouble to pass him this message. He apparently wanted Malone to go‑which was the real reason why he'd been invited to the country‑but did not want any fingerprints of his on the effort.

Typical Sharma. The man was a friend of the United States, but no one, other than a few with the highest security clearance, knew that. To the world Yossef Sharma was an oppressive ruler of an unimportant nation, but for years he'd quietly provided the West with some of the best intelligence out of central Asia. He possessed a superb spy network and the price for his services was the privilege to run his country as he saw fit. Of course, his efforts at generating utter chaos among his much larger neighbors was protected by one lucky truth‑none of them had time to bother with him.

But now this.

What was Sharma up to?

Malone awoke early and prepared himself for the journey north. He secured a car from the American embassy along with a road map and noted that Rampur lay about two hours away, across some of the highest ranges in the country. The drive from the capital wound across Alpine terrain, through narrow passes where snow still lingered even now, in August. Cave entrances honeycombed many of the precipices.

He drove leisurely, taking care to ensure that he was not being followed. He motored through flat‑bottomed valleys that housed compact villages, where he spotted more remnants of last night's carnage in piles of smoldering books.

He found Rampur.

Earlier, at the American embassy, he'd learned that Bactrians in the first century, Arabs in the seventh, Turks in the tenth, then Mongols, Afghans, Russians and Soviets had all, at one time or another, claimed the site. Alexander the Great himself even laid siege to its walls. Currently, the surrounding forested hillsides, mountains and valleys were owned by the government, and a sign a few miles back had warned about loitering. Another sign, posted just off the pavement ahead, specifically forbade any entrance to the ruins. But Malone had been invited, so he stepped out into the brisk thin air and stuffed his Billet‑issue Glock into a shoulder harness beneath his jacket. He knew that wild boar, brown bears and snow leopards all patrolled these mountains. But he was more concerned with two‑legged predators, the kind that toted automatic weapons.

A gravelly path wound upward and required a steady foot and the practiced head of a mountaineer to negotiate. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he stopped to grab his breath, admiring distant snow‑covered peaks that matted the horizon.

Another sign noted the beginning of the archeological site and again warned of no entrance. Beyond, an aimless accumulation of limestone slabs, most of which were once walls and towers, lay piled upon one another. Thorny bushes grew in clumps among the weathered stone, colored by summer irises and edelweiss. No evidence existed of any recent archeological exploration. In fact, the desolate spot, overhung by cliffs, appeared long abandoned.

He checked his watch.

11:57 a.m.

"Mr. Malone," a male voice called out.

He stopped walking and touched the Glock inside his jacket. "I was told you speak this language," the voice said in Arabic. "You were told right."

"I was also told you're a man to be trusted."

He knew that honor, however misguided, was important to the central Asian culture. "I try to be."

Twenty feet ahead, a man stepped into view. He was tall, maybe six and half feet, with an olive complexion. He wore a dingy white robe that draped his lanky frame. Wrinkles scored his forehead, as straight as if drawn with a ruler, and his dull, silver‑gray hair and beard hung shaggy. A black turban wrapped his scalp and he hobbled forward with the aid of a long stick.

Malone aimed the Glock.

He knew the man's full name. Usamah bin Muhammad bin Awad bin Laden. But the West called him simply Osama bin Laden. What had Sharma said? Someone wishes to speak with you. Someone, indeed.

"I assure you, Mr. Malone. I'm no threat."

He was actually wondering about others.

"And I'm alone."

He kept the gun level. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

Bin Laden shrugged. "Believe what you wish. I asked for this meeting and I came alone, as I asked you to do."

He decided that if the goal was to kill him he'd be dead already, so he lowered the Glock. "Why am I here?"

"I'd like to surrender myself to you."

Had he heard right? The entire United States military was looking for the fugitive standing before him. At last count, rewards of over twenty‑five million dollars had been offered. And bin Laden simply wanted to surrender?

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"I'm tired of running."

"Since when?"

Bin Laden grinned. "I learned about you. We're about the same age. I'm forty‑nine, you're five years younger. Haven't you ever wanted to stop what you're doing?"

Actually those thoughts were occurring to him more and more of late, but he wasn't going to discuss his doubts with a murderer. "What do you want?"

Bin Laden shuffled over to one of the boulders and sat. Mal‑one came closer, but kept some distance, still wary.

"Your military. Your president. They want me dead. They want to show photographs of my corpse to the world. That wouldn't be so bad. I'd be at peace and my followers would have my death to avenge. I'd continue to lead them even from the grave. Not a bad fate. There are others though with different plans. These others want to prevent such a glorious ending for me."

Malone couldn't care less.

"They want me dead, but they want no one to know. In fact, they actually want to keep me alive, even after I'm dead. You see, my continued existence, even if only a perception, is far more valuable to them than my public death."

Malone had read briefing reports of how bin Laden was a master at oratory, so he told himself to listen with care‑debating with the devil had never been productive for anyone.

"I want to cease my wanderings. I want to become your prisoner. I'll be tried in a court. That's your way. There, I'll have a forum from which to speak. More important, my followers will know I'm alive. And when you finally execute me, they'll know I'm dead. Either way, I win."

"We may not execute you."

"But those others certainly will."

He flushed the poison from his ears. "Sharma knows you're here?"

Bin Laden nodded. "These ruins have been a great refuge. No one has ever looked in this country for me. Sharma is your friend. You trust him, though you want no one to know that. So I chose this as my haven. Now, with my blessing, Sharma offers me to you. But he wants no credit. You found me. You captured me. That's the way it will be. I've sent many martyrs to die for our cause‑"

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

Bin Laden seemed unfazed by the interruption. "Look around you, Mr. Malone. Ancient battles occurred here. Mainly with bows, spears and stones. The custom was, after a battle, for warriors to bring the heads of the slain to their officers for a reward. Great honor came from having the most heads."

"You should know."

His enemy's stern face melted into a grin. "Many heads have been brought to me. Now it's my turn to do the bringing." "But you want your death to be a spectacle." "No leader wishes to die in obscurity." "Why me?"

"Sharma says you're.a good man."

His mind swirled with possibilities as he tried to decide what to do next. Bin Laden seemed to read his thoughts.

"You have arrangements to make. I understand. Do so. But know this. I'll surrender to you tomorrow, here, at noon. And only to you. Alone."

He raised the Glock. "Why not now?"

"Look around you, Mr. Malone."

His gaze strafed the ruins. On the cliffs above him he spotted eight turbaned men with automatic rifles. "Thought you said you came alone?"

"I lied. But you're still breathing, which shows that I'm telling the truth about surrendering. Tomorrow, here, noon. Alone." And the devil shuffled away.

Malone returned to the capital and, from the American embassy, immediately made contact with Stephanie Nelle at the Magellan Billet offices in Atlanta. He told her what happened, and six hours later he was informed that an army special forces unit would covertly enter the country from Afghanistan by 7:00 a.m. the following morning. He had no intention of taking possession of bin Laden alone, nor did the military want to be absent when that happened. So he'd made, as bin Laden had said, arrangements.

Malone met the unit at a prearranged point on the highway north of the capital. It consisted of six soldiers and two officers, all dressed in nondescript civilian clothing. Colonel Rick Cobb was in charge, a slender man with reddish‑blond hair and deep‑set green eyes. Malone explained what he wanted the unit to do, then left them on the side of the road as he drove off for Rampur.

At precisely noon Malone strolled back into the ruins. A pall of impenetrable mist shrouded the precipice and shielded the cliffs overhead. He stepped with caution, waiting to see what would happen.

Bin Laden appeared, just like yesterday. Today, Malone wasn't going to chitchat. "Ready to go?"

"As promised."

He withdrew his Glock.

"That's not necessary."

"Makes me feel better."

His prisoner shrugged. "Then, by all means."

"Your friends here today?"

"Until we're safely away. Then they'll be gone."

It took twenty minutes to hike down to Malone's car, the going slow because of bin Laden's cane‑assisted gait. Before loading the Arab into the passenger's seat Malone frisked him. Bin Laden seemed to expect the violation and did not resist.

They left Rampur and started the drive back for the capital.

About halfway, Malone spied the same battered cars on the side of the highway. He eased onto the shoulder and parked behind them.

The doors to both opened and the American unit poured out. "Friends of yours?" bin Laden calmly asked. "Your keepers."

"The deal was I surrendered only to you."

"I lied."

Malone left the following day. President Sharma attempted no contact, but he expected none. The announcement that Osama bin Laden had been captured would come through the White House, and the American military would receive full credit. Contrary to what bin Laden may have thought, Malone neither expected nor desired public acknowledgment.

Nor, he knew, did Sharma.

Both their jobs were done.

Two weeks passed with no announcement. Malone was dispatched to Germany, then to Bulgaria, Australia and Norway. After another two months and still nothing, he decided to see what was happening. Stephanie Nelle was likewise curious, so she made an official inquiry.

"Cotton, they don't know what we're talking about," she told him over the phone from Billet headquarters.

He was between planes in London. "Stephanie, I drove the SOB in my car. He was sitting beside me. I turned him over to an army colonel."

"I gave them the name of the officer. Rick Cobb. He's a colonel, assigned to special forces, but that day he was on leave in the United States. Nowhere near you. That's been verified."

"You get a description of him?"

She told him, and it in no way matched the man to whom he'd handed over bin Laden. "What the hell's happening here? They playing games with us?"

"Why? The president would give his left nut to have bin Laden in custody."

Malone heard what bin Laden said to him. These others want to prevent such a glorious ending for me.

"I need to talk to Sharma. I'll get back to you."

Malone found an Internet portal in a business alcove of the international terminal. There, he connected his laptop and sent an e‑mail, which he knew was precisely how Sharma liked to communicate. The president hated telephones‑uncontrollable‑ and preferred to retain a hard copy of all his messages. So Mal‑one kept his message simple:

MY GIFT IS GONE.

His plane was not for another two hours, so he sat and waited. Interestingly, the response came in less than ten minutes.

REVISIT THE RUINS.

Malone knew that was all he was going to get. Obviously, Sharma had been expecting contact. Malone had been on his way back to Atlanta for three days of rest before his next assignment.

Not anymore.

Late autumn had a firm grip on the Pan Mountains as Malone parked at the base of the ridge that led up to the Rampur ruins. The air was a solid forty degrees cooler than it had been three months ago, and snow draped the surrounding peaks in long veils.

He reached beneath his parka and withdrew his Glock. He had no idea what was waiting for him, but he had to follow Sharma's lead.

He climbed in measured steps, careful on the frozen earth. He entered the site and allowed his senses to absorb the same barren desolation. He pressed on and explored, his mind alert.

Automatic gunfire startled him.

Bullets ricocheted off boulders.

"Far enough, Malone," a man said in English. "Let your gun hit the ground."

He released his grip and turned. "Colonel Rick Cobb" hopped down from a narrow cliff and descended the stacked boulders.

"I was told you returned to the country yesterday," Cobb said. "So I knew you'd be here today."

"I like to be punctual."

"Funny, too. What a guy."

"And you are?"

"Colonel Rick Cobb. Who else?"

"You know I don't buy that." "That's all you're going to get."

"Okay, Colonel Rick Cobb, you plan to tell me what happened to bin Laden?"

"How about I show you?" Cobb motioned with the rifle. "That way."

Malone walked past more mounds of rubble and turned a corner. A cold breeze raked his limbs and dried his lips. He spotted a blackened splotch of earth near where an outer wall once stood. Weather was rapidly erasing the traces, but it was clear something had been burned there recently.

"All that's left," Cobb said. "Shot him myself, right about where you're standing, then we burned the murdering asshole till there was nothing left."

"And the purpose of that?"

"Damn, you have to ask? He killed Americans. He was an enemy of the state." "You're no soldier."

"Soldiers have rules, and rules have a nasty way of interfering with what's right. I work outside the rules."

"Bin Laden said you were after him. He told me you wanted him dead, but for no one else to know. Care to tell me the point?"

"Come on, you're a bright guy. America is spending tens of billions of dollars on the war on terror. More money than anyone can even comprehend. It's like manna, my friend‑straight from heaven."

Malone was glad his suspicions now seemed confirmed. "And there are a lot of corporations getting rich."

"Now you're thinking. Have you looked at the stock prices for some of the defense contractors? Through the roof. Lots of smaller companies are making a fortune, too. Can't let that end."

"And you work for them?"

"They all got together and decided to hire one team. The best in the business. Hell, we developed a better intel network than the government. Took us over a year, but we finally got close to bin Laden. We damn near got him twice. About eight months ago, though, he dropped from everybody's radar. Gone. We were beginning to worry, until you called in."

"We contacted the military that day, through official channels, not you."

Cobb nodded. "That you did. But we have friends real high on the food chain. After all, this is a gold mine for the military, too. Nobody wants this gravy train to end. So they called us and, luckily, we were nearby."

"So you brought him back here and killed him."

"Good a place as any. His people ran like scalded dogs after you two drove off. I sent a few additional men to keep an eye on this place. So instead of driving south to the Afghan border, we just doubled around and came here. Over and done with it in two hours. His body burned fast."

Something else he wanted to know. "Why use real military‑personnel names? We checked, there's a Colonel Rick Cobb."

The man shrugged. "Makes it easier to move around. Damn computers allow everybody to be monitored. We choose the guys on leave. Our friends at the Pentagon kept us informed. Like I said, can't let the gravy train end."

"Why would it?"

"Get real. You know the answer. Americans have short memories. They get blown up on 9/11, they invade a few places, kick some butt, then capture Saddam. Next thing they want is it all to end. Public opinion is already fading. Politicians are feeling the heat. That means budget cuts, priorities shifting‑all bad things for my employers. Last thing they need is for bin Laden to be corralled. No. Keep him out there. Make him a threat. Let 'em wonder. Stalin did the same thing with Hitler after World War II. He knew the bastard was dead, but fueled everyone's fear that the devil may still be alive and kicking. All to keep his enemies off guard."

"So you now control bin Laden's existence."

"Every damn bit of it. And we plan on making him quite the badass."

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you. I have a message. My employers want you to stop snooping around. Leave it be." "Why would I?"

"'Cause you got squat to show for anything. What are you going to do? Claim you captured bin Laden? You'd sound like a nut. No body, no photo. There's nothing left of him for any DNA match with one of those twenty or so kids he supposedly fathered. It's over. Let it be. Move on."

"And if I don't?"

"We're not in the habit of killing our own, but we're not opposed to it either."

"You're no better than he was." He started to leave, but Cobb quickly blocked the way. "I'd move if I were you."

The gun came level. "You a tough guy, Malone?"

"Tough enough I don't need a rifle to protect myself from you."

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. Mal‑one 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.