The Devils' Due Read online

  Experience a heart-pumping and thrilling tale of suspense!

  Originally published in THRILLER (2006),

  edited by #1 New York Times bestselling author James Patterson.

  In this alternative-history-with-a-twist Thriller Short, New York Times bestselling writer Steve Berry explores one of Cotton Malone’s early missions, from a time when Malone was still employed as one of the Magellan Billet’s twelve agents.

  Malone is sent on a mission to a small, central Asian country run by an enigmatic dictator, Yossef Sharma, whose alliance with the United States must be kept under wraps. It’s not a mission Malone enjoys, since Sharma has a penchant for burning books. Things get even more interesting when Sharma connects Malone with the world’s most infamous criminal, a man who wants to surrender. Things are not always what they seem, and Malone will need Sharma’s help if he plans to set things right and give the devil his due.

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  The Devils’ Due

  Steve Berry

  CONTENTS

  The Devils’ Due

  STEVE BERRY

  History, action, long-lost secrets, intricate conspiracies and international settings—these are the main ingredients in a Steve Berry thriller. His debut, The Amber Room, dealt with a legendary Russian treasure, a room paneled entirely in amber, stolen by the Nazis in 1941. The Romanov Prophecy answered the question—What happened to the two children of Nicholas II, the last tsar of Russia, whose remains have never been found? The Third Secret revolved around the Catholic Church, Marian visions and shocking divine messages.

  In his fourth thriller, The Templar Legacy, Berry introduced Cotton Malone, a lawyer/agent who worked with the Justice Department for many years in a special unit known as the Magellan Billet. Deciding the risks were too great, Malone retires out early, moves to Copenhagen and opens an old-books shop. Unfortunately, trouble seems to follow Malone, and The Templar Legacy is just the first of several adventures Berry plans for Malone and the cast of supporting characters. The Devils’ Due is a tale from before Malone retired, when he was still active with the Magellan Billet.

  Another unique situation with far-reaching consequences.

  Typical for Cotton Malone.

  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.
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  “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. Malone 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.