Fatal Conceit Read Online Free PDF Page A

nobody, says anything about it; it doesn’t exist.” Fauhomme stopped talking and looked at the television screen, where the remaining two hostages were being herded onto a flatbed truck. “Tell the drone operator to light ’em up,” he said.
    â€œLight who up?” Lindsey asked.
    â€œThe hostages, who the hell do you think?” Fauhomme said. “We’ve got a hostage situation, and I won’t have this administration’s chances of re-election pulling a Jimmy Carter on me. They need to go!”
    Lindsey punched a number into his cell phone. “Take out the truck with the friendlies,” he said quietly. “Yeah, you heard me right, the friendlies; in fact, take them all out, as many as you can, but make sure you get that truck. Am I clear?” He put his cell phone down and looked back at Fauhomme. “Then what’s our story?”
    â€œOur story is that our peaceful trade mission was attacked by Chechen separatist terrorists, a cowardly betrayal of heroic Deputy Chief of Mission Huff and his brave security team, who were trying to offer the hand of friendship and instead were stabbed in the back,” Fauhomme said. “There were no survivors. I’ll bet the Russians will back us on this, but they’ll be bending us over a barrel for the next decade as payback.”
    â€œSomething’s happening with the drone,” Baum said.
    They all looked at the television screen just as it wavered and then went to black. At the same time, Lindsey’s phone buzzed. “Yeah?” he answered, then cursed. “What the hell do you mean you lost contact? Get it back!”
    A minute later, the screen blinked on again but all that could be seen were the buildings and vehicles, as well as a couple of bodies, now only slightly warmer than their surroundings, according to the drone’s infrared electro-optical sensor. There was no sign of life.
    â€œWhere in the hell did they go?” Lindsey asked and got back onhis phone. “Goddammit, expand the search area,” he yelled. “Do I have to tell you everything?” He ended the call with an angry push of a button and looked at Fauhomme. “They’re gone,” he said.
    â€œAnd you, my friend, are a master of the obvious,” Fauhomme said and stubbed his cigar out. “Just make sure they stay gone.”

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    â€œO N TWO, GO OUT ABOUT five yards, stop, wait for my fake, then take off and hook around the lady with the baby carriage . . . after that go long.”
    â€œYou’ve had me go long the last two plays,” Giancarlo complained, “and Zak had me covered both times.”
    â€œThat’s why he won’t expect it again,” his dad, Butch Karp, said with a wink. “Sell the short route; then when he bites, use the baby carriage to brush him off. We’ll burn him, baby.”
    Giancarlo rolled his eyes and shook his head. He and his dad were down 28–0 to his mom, Marlene, and his twin brother, Isaac, better known as “Zak” or, as he was referring to himself during this Saturday afternoon family game of touch football in Central Park, “The Glue-meister.”
    Zak was the main reason for the lopsided score. Although born only a few minutes before Giancarlo, the “older” sibling was bigger, stronger, faster. In fact, Zak was one of the better athletes in the New York City school system, the starting running back and middle linebacker on their high school football team and starting pitcher and center fielder for the baseball team.
    All in all, Giancarlo didn’t mind the accolades Zak garnered for his physical prowess. In fact, when they weren’t battling over thethings teen-aged brothers squabble about, he was proud of his sibling. Early in their boyhoods, Giancarlo had seen the writing on the wall when it came to who was going to be the superior athlete, and he was cool with it. Not that Giancarlo was