“I was at Debecka Pass.”
That was one of the most significant battles of the second Iraq War. I’d heard a general on CNN call it a “hero maker,” and yet the mainstream news barely mentioned it. “Special Forces?”
He nodded. He did it the right way, just an acknowledgment without puffing up with pride. I liked that. “That where you picked up the scar?”
“No, sir, my daddy gave me that when I was sixteen.” That was the only time he didn’t meet my eyes.
I moved on. Joker. “Read it out,” I said.
“CPO Samuel Tyler. U.S. Navy. Friends call me Skip, sir.”
“Why?”
He blinked. “Nickname from when I was a kid, sir.”
“Let me guess. Your dad was a captain and they called you ‘Little Skipper.’ ”
He flushed bright red. Hole in one.
“SEALS?”
“No, sir. I washed out during Hell Week.”
“Why?”
“They said I was too tall and heavy to be a SEAL.”
“You are.” Then I threw him a bone. “But I don’t think we’re going to be doing much long-distance swimming. I need sonsabitches that can hit hard, hit fast, and hit last. Can you do that?”
“You damn right,” he said, and then added, “Sir.”
I looked at the last guy. Jolly Green Giant. He towered several inches over me and had to go two-sixty, all chest and shoulders, tiny waist. Yet for all the mass he looked quick rather than bulky. Not like Apeman. One side of his face was still red and swollen from where I’d hit him.
“Give it to me.”
“Bunny Rabbit, Force Recon, sir.”
I shot him a look. “You think you’re fucking funny?”
“No, sir. My last name is Rabbit. Everyone calls me Bunny.”
He paused.
“It gets worse, sir. My first name’s Harvey.”
The other guys tried to hold it together, I have to give them that-but they all cracked up.
“Son,” said Top Sims, “did your parents hate you?”
“Yeah, Top, I think they did.”
And then I lost it, too.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sebastian Gault / The Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / Four days ago
SO MANY PARTS of Gault’s plan were in motion now, and it was all going beautifully. Gault and Toys, together and separately, had been on-site to oversee the most critical phases, and it had been like taking a stroll in a summer garden. No one they knew could move around the Middle East with the freedom Gault enjoyed; certainly no one in the military. Even ambassadors had five times the restrictions that were imposed on him. He, however, was unique. Sebastian Gault was the single biggest contributor-in terms of financial aid and materials-to the Red Cross, the World Health Organization, and half a dozen other humanitarian organizations. He had poured tens of millions into each organization, and he could say, with no fear of contradiction or qualification, that he had helped to ease more suffering and save more lives than any other single person in this hemisphere. Without benefit of a government behind him, with no armies, no overt political agendas, Gault, through Gen2000 and his other companies, had helped eradicate eighteen disease pathogens, including a new form of river blindness, a mutated strain of cholera, and two separate strains of TB. His comment at the World Health Summit in Oslo had first been a beauty of a sound byte and had later more or less become the credo of independent health organizations worldwide: “Humanity comes first. Always. Politics and religion, valuable as they are, are always of second importance. If we do not work together to preserve life, to treasure it and keep it safe, then nothing we fight for is worth having.”
In truth, the wisest statement Gault had ever heard-and he heard it from his own father-was that “everyone has a price.” Good ol’ dad had added two bits of his personal wisdom as codicils to that. The first was: “If someone tells you that they can’t be bought it’s a matter of you having not offered the right amount.” And the second was, “If you can’t find their price, then find their vice and own that.”
Sebastian Gault loved his father. Damn shame the man had smoked like a furnace, otherwise he might be here to share in the billions rather than lying dead in a Bishops Gate cemetery. Cancer had taken him in less than sixteen months. Gault had been eighteen the day before the funeral, and had stepped right in as owner-manager of the chain. He sold it immediately, finished college, and invested every dime in pharmaceutical industry stock, taking some risks, acting as his own broker so that he saved his fees for reinvestment, buying smart, and constantly looking toward the horizon for the next trend. Unlike his peers he never bothered looking for the Golden Fleece pharma stock-the elusive wonder drug that will actually cure something. Instead he focused on new treatment areas for diseases that might never be cured. It wasn’t until well after he made his first billion that he even paid attention to cures; and even then it was cures for diseases that nobody cared about, things that affected tribes in third-world shit holes. If it hadn’t been for Internet news he might never have even gone in that direction, but then he had a revelation. A major one. Cure something in the third world, take a visible financial loss on the effort to do so, and then let the Internet news junkies turn you into a saint.
He tried it, and it worked. It was easier than he expected. Most of the third world diseases were easy to cure; they exist largely because no major pharmaceutical company gives a tinker’s damn about starving people in some African nation whose name changes every other week. When Gault’s first company, PharmaSolutions, found a cure for swamp blight, a rare disease in Somalia, he borrowed money to mass-produce and distribute the drug through the World Health Organization. The WHO-the most well-intentioned and earnest people in the world, but easily duped because of their desperate need for support-told everyone in the world press about how this fledging company nearly bankrupted itself to cure a tragic disease. The story hit the Internet on a Tuesday morning; by Wednesday evening it was on CNN and by Thursday midday it was picked up by wire services everywhere. By close of business on Friday PharmaSolutions stock had doubled; by the close of business the following week the stock price had gone vertical. That was the first time Gault, then twenty-two years old, made it onto the cover of Newsweek.
By the time Gault was twenty-six he was a billionaire several times over. He openly pumped millions into research and scored one cure after another. When he launched Gen2000 he stepped into the global pharmaceutical arena for real, but by then he owned billions in stock in other pharma companies. The fact that at least half of the diseases for which he ultimately found a cure were pathogens cooked up in his lab never made it into the press. It wasn’t even a rumor in the wind. Enough money saw to that; and so far his father-bless his soul-had been right. Everyone had a price or a vice.
Toys was reading the London Times. “Mmm,” he murmured, “there’s speculation-again-about your being given a knighthood; and another rumor about a Nobel Prize.” He folded down the paper and looked at Gault. “Which would you prefer?”
Gault shrugged, not terribly interested. The papers dredged that much up every few weeks. “The Nobel win would drive up the stock prices.”
“Sure, but the knighthood would get you laid a lot more often.”
“I get laid quite enough, thank you.”
Toys sniffed. “I’ve seen some of the cows you bring home.”
Gault sipped his drink. “So how would a knighthood change that?”
“Well,” Toys drawled, “ ‘Sir Sebastian’ would at very least get some well-bred ass. As it is now you seem to rate your playmates by cup size.”
“Better than the half-starved creatures you find so thrilling.”
“You can never be too thin or too rich,” Toys said, quoting sagely.
They were interrupted by the chirp of Toys’s cell phone. Toys looked at it and handed it over without
