by Brad Taylor
I nodded. “Think about what you just said. If something went wrong, they could disavow any official Israeli response, correct?”
She didn’t answer, and so I continued, driving home the knife. “If Aaron is in danger, why are you finding out about this because of an attack on you? Why didn’t the Mossad contact you after he disappeared?”
She remained mute, and I said, “You know why. Just as I do. Because they used him as they intended. He was a throwaway, and when things went bad, they did just that.”
She said, “No. They will help. They are Israeli.”
I grabbed her arms in my hands and leaned into her face, aggravated at her naïveté. Knowing it was nothing more than hope. Shocked, Jennifer leapt forward. I flicked my head to her and snapped, “Back off.”
She did, unsure of what was about to occur. Jennifer knew, beyond any doubt, no matter what happened, that I would move heaven and earth to do whatever was required to help her. Because of that, she assumed that the organization we worked for would do the same. She was wrong—and Shoshana alone understood that. More so than me. I knew her history.
I returned to Shoshana and locked eyes with her. She made no move to resist. I said, “They will not help. They put Aaron into play precisely so they could cut him free. If you go to them, if you make a stink, they’ll react, no doubt. But it might not be the way you envision. They might cut him off completely. Cause him to be killed.”
She half-heartedly struggled to get free, saying, “They would never do that.”
I said, “You mean like they didn’t with you?”
She stopped moving and looked at me, and I felt the weird glow. I said, “I understand loyalty. I understand a unit’s mission. But some things supersede that, and you know it. We are those things, damn it. We mean more than the Mossad. Jennifer and me. And you.”
She sagged, no longer offering any resistance. She said, “Okay, Nephilim. Okay. What next?”
I said, “Let the Taskforce do its work. Let’s get a thread instead of hauling off half-assed. Aaron is tied in to our mission. I don’t know why, but let’s use what we have. You can’t get anything out of the Mossad, but you have us. Use that.”
I dropped my arms from her, and she looked at Jennifer, then back to me. She said, “You mean that?”
“I do. And I know you know that. So cut the shit.”
She tried to hide a smile, then said, “I thought you didn’t believe in me.”
“I don’t, but I know you do.”
Like a light switch had turned off, she became feral again, saying, “Don’t make fun of me.” I saw it and put the reaction in my back pocket. However good she was operationally, she had turned a corner with Aaron being gone. She was no longer on an even keel. It was something to remember.
Jennifer stepped in, saying, “Shoshana, come on . . .”
Shoshana looked like she was willing to take the fight even to Jennifer. I had seen enough.
I said, “Carrie—” and she glared at me. I repeated, “Carrie, we’re on your side. We showed that yesterday. Let the Taskforce do its work.”
The computer on our desk began bleating. It was our VPN chirping, along with a download from the Taskforce. The invisible hand of the United States was at work, and its reach was vast.
I said, “There you go. They’re calling now. Let me talk to the Taskforce, and then decide if you want to go off half-cocked on your quest for Aaron.”
She said, “Do you really want to help me, or are you just preventing me from screwing up your mission?”
Jennifer said, “You know better than that.”
She nodded, then said, “Okay, but make no mistake, my mission is Aaron, and if our paths diverge—if your mission comes crossways with mine—I’ll do whatever it takes to save him.”
I punched the accept button on the computer, saying, “Yeah, yeah. Shut up. I can’t have the Taskforce know you’re in the room.”
Before the screen cleared, she touched my shoulder. I looked at her and saw nothing but death. She said, “Nephilim. I mean that. Don’t cross me. If it comes to it, I will do to you what you would do to me to save Jennifer.”
Jennifer looked confused at the statement. Shoshana’s eyes were as cold as stone in a river. I knew she was serious because her statement was true. I would do what she said, if the roles were reversed.
I reached up and softly touched her cheek. “It will never come to that. Ever.”
She was shocked at the gesture, but I meant it. She smiled, a little bit of the feral still there, and I said, “Get away from the fucking screen.”
She backed off, and I leaned in to hear what the Taskforce had found.
28
Johan poured a drink from the hotel minibar, waiting on the stored video footage from the Mavic Pro to download. It was an amazing system, designed and innovated by market demands, and as such, was a technological feat that the slovenly procurement system of any military simply could not produce. By the time they had something like the Mavic, the Mavic would be in edition number twelve. Maybe that edition would work data at exponential speeds, but the Mavic he had was still transferring the video to his MacBook at a decidedly mundane rate.
After landing, Johan had spent eight long hours driving around Maseru, pinpointing and recording the grid of the locations the team would need to neutralize. Weak links in the chain and specific points of failure that were the underpinnings of the entire government.
It would seem ridiculous for a force of fewer than a hundred to attempt such a thing, but unlike other countries with multiple centers of gravity—such as the United States—Lesotho had essentially one: the capital city of Maseru.
All power radiated out from there, with every other village being simply a satellite that rotated around the host. Cut the weak links inside Maseru and the rest of the country would fall in line. Do it right and they wouldn’t even be aware of a change until it was already a fait accompli.
The prime minister’s residence and parliament were first, of course, but those were the no-brainers. Others were less obvious but just as critical, such as the lone Lesotho television and radio station and the sole Internet provider. Stop the flow of information and stop anyone from even knowing a coup was in progress.
In addition to the levers of information and government, he had to prevent the engagement of the one martial arm the prime minister commanded, the Maseru police, and that meant the police headquarters building. Johan couldn’t attack all the stations in the city, but he could prevent the central command from issuing orders—which would be critical.
While General Mosebo would guarantee no military would respond, the police were another story, as the prime minister had made a concerted effort over the last year to co-opt them—precisely because he feared General Mosebo’s growing power base within the Lesotho Defence Force.
Finally, Johan had to pinpoint the location of no-fire zones—areas that would remain neutral and stay out of the fight, unless Johan’s men carelessly provoked them. Top of this list was the US embassy. He knew that the US ambassador was currently backing the prime minister in his spat to have General Mosebo removed from the head of the LDF, and that backing had teeth, with millions in aid money being used as a bargaining chip. This had led to most of the parliament siding with the prime minister—and had left Mosebo out in the cold. The embassy would sit out the violence, hiding in their enclosure, but only if they didn’t feel threatened. If they did, Johan’s men might be facing a battalion of Marines, ostensibly to protect the embassy but more likely to project American influence. The key was not to give them an excuse.
Other countries’ embassies were marked as well, but only because they could cause issues with the consolidation of power. They had no force projection capability, but they most certainly could withhold recognizing the new government, acting in a tiff because some of Mosebo’s men had dropped an
errant mortar into their compound.
After he’d finished getting the grids to all the locations, he’d come back to his hotel and loaded the destinations into the Mavic Pro. Attaching his smartphone to the controller, he’d taken it out on his balcony and then sent the drone flying.
The thing was a marvel of technology that beat any military system he’d ever worked with. With a thirty-minute flight time, a seven-kilometer range, software-driven obstacle avoidance, and a high-resolution, gimbal-stabilized camera, he could cover every target he’d located on the ground from his hotel balcony, getting video that would be more useful for assault planning than the top secret satellite images he’d used in the past.
He’d had to swap batteries twice, but eventually he had a bird’s-eye view of every target, to complement his on-the-ground reconnaissance. He was satisfied with the work and was about to contact the team in Cape Town to learn their progress, when he heard a knock on the door to his hotel room.
He closed the computer, glancing at the gear strewn around his bed, thinking of hiding it. He went to the door first. He regretted it the moment he put his eye to the peephole.
Outside were three thugs, tall and meaty, with close-cropped Afros. And they weren’t in any type of uniform. They weren’t maintenance or hotel staff. Which meant they had the wrong door. Or he was in trouble.
Through the door, he said, “Can I help you?”
He heard, “Mr. van Rensburg?”
Shit. Johan glanced back, wishing he’d taken the time to sterilize his room. The drone was on the bed, with the computer attached to it by a USB cable. Next to the window was the drop zone beacon, working through its software and GPS signal.
No time to stall, idiot. Why did you ask the question? In intelligence, it was always the little things that caught you. Complacency. Something he’d taken advantage of with the Israeli not two days before. And now he was guilty.
He thought about running to the bed and furiously cleaning what he had, but he wouldn’t be able to hide the systems in a place they wouldn’t find with a minimal search. Even if he could, they might have a key, and if they did, they’d come in only to find him shoving everything under the bed.
He said, “Yes? Can I help you?”
“Open the door. We have some questions.”
He paused, then said, “Pardon me?”
“Open the door. We’re from Lesotho security, and we have some questions related to your safety. Please. We mean no harm. We can do it right here in the hallway.”
Lesotho security? What the hell does that mean?
“I’m sorry. I’m not in the habit of opening the door to strangers in a foreign land. Let me call the front desk.”
He put his eye to the peephole and saw the lead Neanderthal grin. He heard, “Do it. We’ll wait.”
Shit. They’re real. There was no way they’d bluff this far. They’d already talked to the front desk and had cowed whoever was there.
He heard, “Johan? You still there?”
Thinking furiously, he said, “Yes. I’m here.”
“This won’t take a moment. The longer you stall us, the more we fear for your safety.”
What a fucking lie.
He made his decision. Get in the hallway and close the door. Let them talk to him out there. Don’t let them in the room. If he couldn’t defuse what they had in mind then he was screwed anyway.
If they demanded to go in the room, he, in turn, would demand hotel personnel accompany them. Which should at least give them pause.
He flung open the door and pushed past them, jerking it closed. He said, “What on earth are you talking about? Why are you here?”
They circled him, and one, taller than the others, leaned in and said, “Are you Johan van Rensburg?”
“Yes. You know that. What’s this about?”
“It’s about your nonstandard travel today. It’s about your work for the Americans.”
Americans? What the hell?
It wasn’t lost on him that it was the second time he’d heard that word in the last two days. America cared as much about Africa as it did for a nose hair that had grown too long. And yet, he’d had an American interdict his team in Tel Aviv, and now he had a bunch of thugs accusing him of the same.
He said, “I’m not American. I’m South African.”
“Passport?”
He handed it over, now sure he was in the clear. Whatever the Americans were up to here, it had nothing to do with him.
The brute took it, then said, “Follow me.”
Johan said, “Wait, what? I’m not going anywhere.”
The man held up his passport and said, “Yes, you are, if you want to get this back.”
Johan was now sure that they were from the Lesotho police and he’d been tracked somehow. And if they suspected anything, they’d confirm it with the evidence in his room. He needed to prevent that. They hadn’t asked for his key, which was a plus. If he refused, they might. He was sure he could win a battle of wits alone at police headquarters, but he couldn’t if they confronted him with his equipment.
Johan said, “Okay, okay, what do you want to talk about? We could do it at the bar.”
“Not the bar. We have a place that’s secure. Someplace you’ll be safe.”
Johan saw his face and knew it had nothing to do with being safe and everything to do with controlling the environment. The easy answer would be, No, let’s do it right here, in my room, but that was a nonstarter. So far, they’d made no move to open his door. Go? Or not?
He decided to go. They had thought he was American, and when he’d proved he wasn’t, it had altered their calculation. They had an order, which was to bring him in for questioning, and they’d execute that order even if their information was wrong.
He’d talk to the man calling the shots. Once that guy saw his passport, he’d be cut free.
He said, “Okay, but I can’t stay long. I have a dinner reservation upstairs. Are you going to let me make that?”
“Yes. Of course. We only want to protect you.”
Right.
They left the hotel, Johan sandwiched in the back of an SUV between two thugs who never smiled. They wound around the city streets and then headed into the country. The drive began to confuse him. If they were police, he should have traveled to their headquarters—a location he now knew intimately.
They didn’t. They pulled onto a dirt track outside an eight-foot-tall barbwire fence, and Johan recognized the location. Set against the backdrop of a high ridgeline, it was the Makoanyane Military Base. The location of the headquarters of General Mosebo’s Special Forces Company. The very people his men were training outside of Cape Town.
What the hell?
29
They drove through the gate, the soldier manning it looking intently at Johan—probably the only white man he’d seen today—and then wound around a dirt track, weaving between concrete buildings. They stopped outside of a U-shaped structure set off on its own, surrounded by woods, the wings made of cinder blocks and crumbling. The driver parked, and the thug on the left exited the vehicle, waving him to get out. He did so and was immediately flanked by the other men, one on each side and one in the back.
They led him toward the south wing, the portico crumbling with age, and into a space that looked like a classroom. The walls were covered with sheets, hiding what was behind them, but he could make out an insignia: the 505th Intelligence Battalion. The intelligence organization for the Lesotho Special Forces Company. General Mosebo’s private spy organization.
He had little time to reflect on that, because in front of him were three men seated behind a table. On the other side of the table was a single chair.
So they’d staged this. They’d set up this little interrogation facility in the time they’d driven here. Which told him volumes. One, they weren’t an element
that habitually did questioning, because if they had been, they wouldn’t have taken the time to turn a classroom into an interrogation facility. They would have just taken him straight into a cell with iron rings and blood on the wall.
Two, they weren’t that switched on, because the cloth on the wall did little to hide what was behind it. Clearly, it was a little bit of amateur hour, which explained why they hadn’t searched his room. Even so, he had to tread lightly, because there was no way he could let on what he was doing here. They worked for General Mosebo, but that meant little. Mosebo wouldn’t lift a finger to help him. The men in the room had no idea of the plans in motion, and if they learned it from Johan, Mosebo would deny it, hanging him out to dry. Literally. Not an entertaining thought.
The one in the center, a tall, reedlike man, said, “Take a seat, please.”
Johan did. One of the thugs who brought him in began pacing behind him, causing him to want to look over his shoulder. Intimidation.
The man on the right had his passport and was flipping through it. Johan said, “What’s this about?”
The man on the left stared at him, trying to look aggressive. He had almost no neck, a bald head, and deep-set eyes. Johan tried to look suitably intimidated, but the man reminded him of a frog. He spoke, and his English was so bad Johan could barely understand it.
“You are an American spy.” At the end of the statement, he snorted, an odd, out-of-place utterance.
Johan didn’t have to feign shock, because it was the last thing he expected. He said, “What the hell are you talking about? I’m from South Africa. I’m a photographer. I only came here to take pictures of your landscape. The Maletsunyane Falls and the highlands.”
The man on the right slapped the table hard and said, “You lie. Look right here.”
He held up Johan’s passport and pointed. “An H-1 visa for the United States. You work for them.”
Johan could not believe his bad luck. These men hated the United States for backing the prime minister in his fight against General Mosebo, and he was here to help them get exactly what they wanted, but they were blinded by their paranoia. The irony wasn’t lost on him that his presence was, in fact, a good reason to be paranoid. Or that because he’d worked as a security contractor for a duplicitous asshole in the United States, he was now suspected of being a spy. He’d ended up killing that man, but he couldn’t say that here.
