One Child

Copyright 2010
Registration No. 1076838
Enthriller by Jeff Buick

This story is based on a mixture of fictional and true events. The true events, however, have been
fictionalized. All fictitious characters presented in this novel have granted the publisher their
exclusive biographical and personality rights. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

All trade-marks presented are owned by their respective owners.

Some of the companies in this book are real and some are not. When real companies are presented,
their details have been fictionalized and any resemblance to real persons within those companies is
entirely coincidental. All fictitious company's rights, including their common law trade-mark rights
and domain names, are hereby owned exclusively by the publisher.

Brief passages of ONE CHILD may be quoted for news, review and discussion. All other uses of
content within ONE CHILD must receive written approval of the publisher prior to any form of
reproduction.

Videos and photographs are either owned by the publisher or used with permission.

Contact the publisher Enthrill Entertainment Inc. at [email protected] for any queries or
comments you may have.

978-0-9866199-6-0

Book Layout, Cover Design and Interactivity by Francomedia.com
Cover Photo by A.J. Valadka & IStockphoto LP
Published by Enthrill Entertainment Inc.

Acknowledgements

One Child
would not have been possible without help from numerous people.
This book has many different plot themes woven together, and I'm the first to
admit that I'm not an expert in any of them. So here are the people who kept me
accurate and on track. Any errors that made it through to the final print run are
entirely mine.

Jill Klacza
Laura Rushford
Bill Schultz
Janis Rapchuk
Matthew Gow
Cade Seely
Michael Hornburg
Bryan Taylor
Kim Knudsen
Wayne Logan
Celia Rushford
Kevin Franco
Cameron Chell
Cory Cleveland
Robert Greenwald

and

The entire team at Francomedia
Christina, Colin, Dave, Sandor, Nicholas & Ryan

Jeff Buick

Dedication

To the memory of Harvey Chan

The tyranny of distance was the greatest threat to our enduring friendship. But
every time I picked up the phone and heard your voice, it was like we had spoken
only yesterday. Though your time on earth was short, you left a legacy of smiles
and warm-hearted acts of kindness in your wake. You worked hard at being a
good friend, a loving husband and a devoted father - now it's time to rest.

Jeff Buick

Prologue

Kandahar, Afghanistan

A harsh wind attacked the room on the top floor of the dilapidated building, tearing at the loose fabric over the solitary window and driving tiny particles of sand into even the smallest gap. It stung against exposed flesh - a thousand angry bees attacking in the darkness.

A man was huddled inside the tiny apartment, treasuring the last shreds of the night. The sun would be up soon and the relentless heat would return. Every day, without fail, the temperature rose until it threatened to suck the oxygen from the air. He was at the mercy of the elements - in a country mired in constant turmoil by an endless stream of would-be conquerors. Some days he loved his native Afghanistan. Some days he hated it.

Kadir Hussein reached out with gnarled fingers and pulled together two pieces of torn cloth that covered the window. For a moment the onslaught of sand ceased. The young girl asleep in his arms twitched as he moved, and he stopped. She slept so little. She was so small, so frail. She needed to sleep. Her body shuddered - mild convulsions that accompanied hunger pangs.

Hunger. More relentless than the heat.

He glanced down at the worn tile floor, at the two younger girls sleeping under threadbare blankets. At least they ate yesterday. He and Halima had gone without. He was the father and she was the older sister. They sacrificed so the young children could have something in their bloated stomachs. Eleven years old and Halima was already well versed in the harsh lesson of poverty. He wondered if she remembered the days before they lived in the small room atop the apartment building. She said she did, but it was so long ago. Almost two years. He hoped her memories were more than a collection of blurred images.

Light filtered through the gap in the curtains. The cool night air wouldn't linger long once the sun rose. Today would be difficult. They had no food, which was usual, but they had drunk the last of their water, and surviving the heat without it was impossible.

Kadir stared at his youngest daughter. Only five years old. A mere baby when they had arrived at the dusty, bleak building on the outskirts of Kandahar. Much too young to remember her mother or their life on the fertile banks of the Arghand River. He closed his eyes and envisioned a time when their lives had been different. His wife was at the
tandoor
, baking naan for their evening meal. Kids running about the small hut on the edge of the pomegranate field. The family goat trying to push its way into the house. She was smiling, amused by the goat's persistence. Always smiling, despite a hard life providing meals and clean clothes for her husband and the girls.

The vision slowly dissipated. Their home faded and was replaced by a side street in Kandahar city. His wife's expression changed, first filled with apprehension, then horror. He could see them clearly - the soldiers rounding the corner - the Taliban fighters spraying the street with bullets - his wife caught in the crossfire. He, screaming and running toward her. Her body jerking as the bullets cut into her flesh. The food and water she was carrying spilling across the broken pavement.

He opened his eyes and the images were gone. But not the sting of the memory. Holding her, cradling her head as warm blood trickled over his bare arms onto the dusty ground. Feeling her last breath against his skin. He cursed the vividness of the scenes that played out in his mind. And cherished them. It was all he had left of the woman he had loved.

Halima stirred and opened her eyes. She looked up at him, focusing on his rugged face, creased with worry and hope. A hint of a smile passed over her lips and disappeared. She closed her eyes and snuggled tighter to his body, her thin fingers grasping at his tunic.

"Sleep," he said quietly, his voice a pleasant break from the incessant wind.

Her eyelids flickered, then opened. Large brown eyes stared at him through strands of tangled hair. "We have no water. I should go to the well before the sun is up."

"I can fetch the water today," he said. He knew she wouldn't allow it. Her sisters were too young and weak for him to be gone so many hours.

"No, father." A small hand appeared from one of the folds of his tattered tunic and pushed back her hair. "I'll go."

"It's so far," he said. "More than a kilometer."
And the streets are not safe
, he thought.

"I've walked it lots of times." She pulled tighter to her father. "No one bothers me. Sometimes I think they don't even see me."

A ray of sunlight poked through the hole in the curtains and illuminated Aaqila. She was tiny for five, half the size of the children who lived in the city and had food on the table two or three times a day. Sleep was the best part of her day, when the hunger pangs were bearable and her body was cool and rested. Her chest rose and fell slightly with the rhythm of her breathing and her eyelids flickered as the sunlight touched them.

"I had a dream last night," Halima said, her eyes locked on her youngest sister.

"Dreams are good," her father said. "Do you remember what you dreamt?"

"Yes, I do." She licked her cracked lips with a dry tongue. "I was someone important. I'm not sure why, but people were talking about me. Many, many people. They had pictures of me."

"You
are
important, Halima."

"No, father. Not just to you. To hundreds of people. Maybe even thousands."

"How are such things possible?" Kadir asked.

She shrugged, her shoulders pressing into his chest. "I don't know. But they were talking about me. Saying that I changed the world."

Kadir tilted his head so he could see her eyes. They were shining with excitement. "You changed
my
world, Halima. You made it so much better."

Her eyes dimmed and the smile slowly faded. "Do dreams come true?"

Kadir considered the words. They were thoughtful words, and an important question to an eleven-year-old girl. His answer was equally important. He was her world and what he said and how he said it would help form the woman she would become.

"Yes, they do come true."

The light crept back into her eyes.

He pushed at a few errant strands of hair with his weathered fingers. "But dreams may not always appear exactly as we saw them. Sometimes they find other ways of showing themselves."

"Will I know when it happens?" she asked uncertainly.

"Oh, yes, Halima, you'll know." There was confidence in his voice and it satisfied her natural curiosity.

Aaqila stirred and opened her eyes. Confusion prevailed for a few seconds, then she rolled over and crawled to Kadir and Halima. She wrapped her arms around her sister and lay still and quiet. Sunlight streamed into the room and the temperature rose sharply. A new day had arrived. With it would come intense heat, hunger and thirst. Satisfying the most basic needs meant getting food and water. And if they were successful, there was always someone else nearby who needed food and would use violence to take it.

Their world was about survival. Kadir knew that was the key. Nothing more than surviving, day by day. He was a common man. His dreams had nothing to do with changing the world. His dreams were to have food and water. To have a house with thick walls, where there was relief from the blistering summer sun and the bitter cold of the Afghan winter. He wondered when, if ever, things would change? He had no answers. He had nothing but an unwavering will to survive and to protect his children.

Every day, without fail, he prayed that would be enough.

Chapter

1

Midtown Manhattan, New York City

The computer screen glowed softly, bathing the polished wood desk in an eerie blue. Beyond the wall of windows lay the lights of Manhattan, and to the north, a massive black rectangle defined Central Park. A lone figure sat at the desk, staring out over the city.

His city.

William
Fleming
had seen much of the world, moving about when he was young, but New York was where he had settled. He had staked his claim to the American dream and built a fortune while millions of others treaded water. They lived in the world they created - he lived in his. And William
Fleming
's world was one of privilege and excess.

The Forbes List for 2010 had ranked him as the 35
th
richest person in the world, with an estimated net worth of ten-point-three billion dollars. Not bad for a kid who had delivered groceries from his father's store on the back of his bicycle in his native Hungary in the early sixties. Life under communist rule was difficult, especially for a teenager with a head full of opinions that went against the ruling party. He stayed below the Soviet's radar until 1975, when he was seventeen. Then everything changed.

He and his sister were on their daily route home from the family store on a warm June afternoon, bicycling past the palace in their hometown of Kormend. It was more of a cluster of three main buildings with six smaller ones than a real palace. Janka was two years older and wearing a skirt with a white blouse. As they passed the group of buildings, a middle-aged man dressed in a crisply-pressed suit rushed out. He insisted they stop and come in for something to drink. He had seen them riding by numerous times and wanted to show them around the grounds. Both of them were suspicious, but it was the era of communism and nothing good would have come from denying an important man a simple request.

The man had been drinking and within fifteen minutes was trying to seduce Janka. When he pulled up her skirt and yanked down her panties,
Fleming
hit him. Hard. The man went down and didn't move.
Fleming
checked for a pulse. He was alive, which was lucky for Janka. If the man was dead, she would have been an accessory to murder, but with him simply unconscious, it meant Janka could still remain in Kormend with the rest of her family. For
Fleming
, however, it was a different story. He was a marked man, and jail awaited him if he remained in Hungary. He immediately fled his homeland, going over the nearby Austrian border, never to return. He emigrated from Austria to the United States and changed his name legally from Laszio Farkas to William
Fleming
.

As he settled into his life in America, one thought burned through his mind a hundred times a day.
If his family had money, and if they had used it to pay off the official, he could have stayed in Hungary.
He vowed that would never happen to him again. That he would always have enough money to buy his way out of trouble. It had proved to be a very valuable lesson over the years.

Fleming
looked away from the cityscape and stared at the newspaper article he had clipped from the
Times
. The Irish rock band, U2, was playing Luzhniki Stadium in Moscow on August 25
th
. He could care less. He liked their music, but other than that, they were nothing more than a collection of musicians who had hit the big time. What he did care about, and the reason he had kept the article, was the person who was bringing the band to Russia.

Dimitri
Volstov
.

Fleming
's jaw clenched tighter and his temperature rose at the thought of the charismatic Russian. To
Fleming
, he was nothing more than a black-market street-trader who had befriended the Russian political hierarchy and rode on their coattails to incredible wealth.
Volstov
's company,
Murmansk-Technika
, was one of the largest energy producers in Russia. It held substantial oil and gas leases in Siberia and was active in building nuclear facilities in six regions of the country. Its net worth ran into the hundreds of billions of dollars. All this owned by a man who had actually owned pig farms at one time. Worked with pigs - in their pens.

"A travesty," he whispered to the empty room. "Makes The List look like nothing but a damn joke. Old man Forbes would be sick." He crumpled the newspaper and threw it in the small wastepaper basket under his desk.

To William
Fleming
,
Volstov
was more than some upstart pig farmer.
Volstov
was a thief. The man who had stood between him and a pipeline deal in 2002 that was ultimately worth a quarter of a billion dollars. The money was substantial, and important, but it was not just the money that
Fleming
cared about.
Volstov
had humiliated him, and that he
did
care about. The Russian had invited a select group of influential men and women to his country dacha in Konsha-Zaspa. During the party, he quieted the group and made an announcement. He listed his partners in a pipeline that stretched from Turkmenistan to Russia, via Kazakhstan. It was a deal worth six billion dollars and one that identified the major players on the world stage. Despite a promise to bring
Fleming
in on the deal,
Volstov
reneged, due to complications with the government in Kazakhstan.
Fleming
was left standing alone in a room filled with people who knew exactly what had just happened.

Then, instead of simply cutting him out of the deal and letting it die quietly,
Volstov
had brought in the media and issued press releases detailing who the major players were. And who was left out. The world of the ultra-rich was a small community and
Fleming
was branded as an outsider. It took years to wriggle his way back in. And even now, despite his incredible wealth, there were still many European families and businessmen who considered him damaged goods.

Eight years wasn't enough time to soothe the anger. It roiled inside him, a relentless sea of hate that some days threatened to consume him. All time had done was magnify the loathing and the desire for revenge. He had no doubt that the Russian would pay. The only questions were - when and how.

He leaned forward and retrieved the paper from the wastebasket. He set it on his desk and smoothed the creases, then reread the article in its entirety. The editorial slant was easy.
Volstov
was being hailed as a hero for organizing the event and bringing the world's most popular band to Moscow. The concert date was August 25
th
and he did the math. Twenty-nine days.
Fleming
stared at the scrap of paper, wondering if it was an opportunity.

He checked his watch and switched off his computer. Other business called. The soft Italian leather soles on his shoes made no sound against the ebony hardwood floor as he approached the door. It opened automatically and he walked through without breaking stride. On the other side, grasping the handle, was a stocky man dressed in Armani. He fell in behind
Fleming
and they took the private elevator to the underground parking garage. A Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows was waiting next to the elevator shaft.
Fleming
slipped into the back seat. His bodyguard settled into an identical vehicle parked immediately behind
Fleming
's.

"Kellari,"
Fleming
said to the driver.

The vehicles entered the traffic - oddities among the surge of yellow cabs. The drive between his office on the Avenue of the Americas and the Greek restaurant was less than five minutes. The driver parked at the curb and
Fleming
got out without a word. The maître d' greeted him by name and walked at a quick stride through the packed dining area. A few people nodded as
Fleming
passed and one man stood and offered his hand. The maître d' motioned to a table tucked in the back of the restaurant. A thin man dressed entirely in black was seated in one of the chairs.
Fleming
sat opposite him.

"I'm tired, Jorge. I hope whatever you have is worth my time."

Jorge Amistav leaned forward. The Armenian, with his olive skin and black hair, could easily have been one of the Greek businessmen having a late dinner. In reality, he was an arms dealer.

"I don't think you'll be disappointed."

Their waiter appeared at the table. "Can I get you something to drink, sir?" he asked, setting a menu on
Fleming
's napkin.

Fleming
asked for Maker's Mark bourbon, then turned back to Amistav. "What do you want?"

"I have another warehouse filled with armaments. All of them are next to untraceable."

Fleming
shook his head. "We've done this before. I didn't like the risk then. I like it even less now."

"These ones are almost free." He smiled, revealing crooked teeth. "The profit margin is much better than the last deal."

Fleming
traced his finger across his napkin. "What's the bottom line, Jorge?"

"Thirty-five million in your pocket. After expenses."

Fleming
sat back in his chair and stared out over the room. For a moment he was a ten-year-old, on his bicycle, bags of groceries in the basket. The summer Hungarian sun was warm on his arms as he pedaled along the bumpy road, delivering milk and bread and other staples to the elderly people who couldn't make it to his father's store. Two cents a delivery. Thirty deliveries a day. Ten hours of pedaling to make sixty cents. And now, this man sat in front of him offering thirty-five million dollars if he financed and invoiced one deal.

"What's your end of things?"
Fleming
asked.

"Two million for my contact at the warehouse and three for my fee."

"Thirty-five is good,"
Fleming
said slowly. "But there's usually a downside to deals like this. What's the risk?"

Amistav smiled. He knew the question was coming.
Fleming
wasn't stupid. Far from it. "The weapons are rejects. They didn't pass the necessary testing. They were slated to be destroyed, but I have a contact inside the warehouse who..." he paused to choose the right word, "saved them."

The waiter returned with the bourbon. "Your drink, sir." He set it on a coaster.

"Thank you,"
Fleming
said. "So you're suggesting that I supply our troops with defective weaponry. I'm not sure I like that idea. The last time we sold the US military weapons, at least they worked properly."

Amistav shook his head. "The military standards are ridiculous. I don't know the exact figures, but it's something like a one or two percent fail rate and they toss it in the reject pile. That means the gun is firing at 98 to 99 percent efficiency. I think that's pretty damn good."

"What's the rate of fire for an M-4?"
Fleming
asked.

Amistav shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"Ninety rounds per minute. So if the soldier in the field keeps the trigger depressed for a full minute, and the gun is firing at 98 percent efficiency, it will jam."

"Nobody fires for a minute without stopping. The magazines don't hold enough bullets."

"The magazine holds 30 bullets."
Fleming
sipped his bourbon and set it back on the coaster. "And M-4s no longer have a fully automatic setting. Single shot or three-round bursts are the only options." He settled back into the leather chair. "The fact is that at 98 or 99 percent efficiency, the gun will fail at some point in time."

"Probably."

"No, Jorge, not probably. Definitely. Don't ever try to bullshit me on armaments,"
Fleming
said.

"Sorry."

A roar of laughter from a table of eight shot through the room and most people glanced at the origin.
Fleming
didn't. He simply looked irritated at the noise. He took another sip of bourbon.

"Leave it with me. I'll let you know tomorrow."

"Okay." A bead of sweat ran down the arms dealer's forehead. He picked up his napkin and dabbed it away. "Should I call you?"

"I'll call you."

Fleming
finished his drink and walked back through the restaurant. His Lincoln was parked directly outside and the second one appeared from down the street in seconds. The man in the Armani suit followed him and jumped into the tailing vehicle. They disappeared into the New York night.