by Wilbur Smith
It all sounded like undiluted bullshit to Cross’s ears. But then, was it really so different to all the stirring, inspirational pep talks he’d given to his men before they’d gone out on missions, in war and peace alike? Sometimes you just had to tell people what they wanted and needed to hear.
“How was that?” he asked.
“Great, Mr. Cross, just great,” Nocerino enthused.
This was why Cross hated to work with yes-men. There were times when any leader needed subordinates who had the guts to point out where he might be about to go wrong. He said nothing, running his words back in his mind, looking for any possible hostages to fortune.
Nocerino must have sensed Cross’s uncertainty. “Don’t worry, sir. That was exactly what I needed,” he said. “Have a nice day.”
No sooner had Cross put the phone down than it rang again. “Yes?” he asked.
“I have another call from America,” Agatha said. “It’s a Lieutenant Hernandez from the Texas Rangers, investigating Johnny Congo’s escape.”
“You’d better put him through, then.”
“Actually, Lieutenant Hernandez is a woman.”
“A female Texas Ranger?” Cross smiled. “That sounds interesting.”
“Unusual, that’s for sure,” Agatha noted. “And everyone’s here for the meeting.”
“Tell them to come through to my office.”
“Certainly. I have Lieutenant Hernandez for you now.”
The line was switched. “This is Hector Cross, how can I help you, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Well, anything you could tell me about Johnny Congo would be a help.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
“Sure. I’m curious about the time Congo spent in Africa, prior to his being reapprehended a few weeks ago. We have reason to believe that he originally hired his attorney here in Houston using an alias, and we think he might have used the same identity to get out of the country.”
“Sounds to me like the simplest thing would be to ask the attorney,” Cross observed.
“That could be difficult. You ever tried asking a lawyer something he doesn’t want to tell you?”
Cross laughed. He was warming to this call a lot more than the last. “So, what can I do for you that the lawyer can’t?” he asked, waving Dave, Paddy and Nastiya into the room and pointing in the direction of the table at which he liked to hold team meetings.
“Just tell us anything you know about Congo’s activities during his years outside the U.S.,” Hernandez replied. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but very little’s been said here in the States about exactly how Congo came to be arrested in Abu Zara—like, for example, how he came to be there in the first place. But I have been able to establish that you had Congo in your custody and then handed him over to the U.S. Marshals. So is there anything you can tell me, anything at all that would help us figure out how he escaped and where the hell he is now?”
“Hmm . . .” Cross hesitated. “This is where I’m going to have to sound like a lawyer. You see, I very much want to help you in any way I can. Believe me, no one wants Johnny Congo despatched from the surface of the earth more than me. And no one is more pissed off that he escaped the punishment he so richly deserved.”
“But . . . ?” Hernandez interjected.
“But there were certain, ah, unconventional aspects to his capture which could, if described in detail, lead to possible allegations of—how should I put it?—less than fully law-abiding activity.”
Cross could see smirks spreading across the faces of his friends. Even Nastiya had abandoned her normally fearsome expression and was trying hard to suppress a giggle.
“Listen,” said Hernandez bluntly. “I couldn’t give a damn what you had to do to get that scumbag to Abu Zara. My jurisdiction doesn’t extend outside the state of Texas, and what happens in Africa stays in Africa. All I want to know is, what do you know that could help me?”
“Here’s what I can tell you. Johnny Congo had set himself up as the ruler of a place called Kazundu. It’s the smallest, poorest, most godforsaken spot on the entire African continent and he and his partner Carl Bannock turned it into their own private kingdom.”
“That’s Bannock, as in Bannock Oil?”
“Yes, the adopted son of Henry Bannock.”
“And by ‘partner’ do you mean business or personal?”
“Both. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where Carl Bannock is right now. He’s dropped right off the map.”
“Actually he dropped right out of a crocodile’s arse, more like,” quipped Paddy O’Quinn, under his breath.
“Do you know of any aliases Congo used when he was in Kazundu?” Hernandez asked, oblivious to the childish amusement her conversation was causing.
“No. But I can tell you this. Kazundu is a sovereign state that issues its own passports. Congo and Bannock almost certainly acquired Kazundan passports for themselves, diplomatic ones probably. And I doubt that too many other citizens of Kazundu left Texas en route to an overseas destination in the immediate aftermath of the escape. So if you can find a Kazundu passport on any passenger manifest, anywhere, chances are that’s Johnny Congo.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cross, that’s a very great help,” said Hernandez. “Just one other thing. We get the impression Congo had access to significant amounts of money. Did you get that impression, too?”
“Significant is way too small a word, Lieutenant. Johnny Congo has access to huge amounts of money. He can buy anything, bribe anyone, go anywhere.”
“You have any idea where he might have gone?”
“Not a clue. But I aim to find out. And when I do, I—”
“Don’t tell me,” said Hernandez. “There’s a limit to the amount of less-than-law-abiding activity I can ignore in one day.”
The moment her conversation with Cross was over, Hernandez contacted the U.S. Customs and Border Protection’s Houston field office at 2323 South Shepherd Drive. “Do me a favor. I’m working on the Johnny Congo investigation. We think he may have tried to leave the country in the immediate aftermath of his escape, using an alias. So I need a check on all persons leaving any of the ports of entry covered by your office, for any overseas destination between sixteen hundred hours and twenty-one hundred hours on the fifteenth of November. Look for anyone carrying a passport from Kazundu.”
“Ka-where?” asked the official on the other end of the line.
“Kazundu. It’s the smallest nation in Africa, spelled Kilo-Alpha-Zulu-Uniform-November-Delta-Uniform. It’s possible Congo was travelling on a diplomatic passport. Also the guy is loaded, so chances are he didn’t go scheduled. Look for private planes and yachts.”
“If he went by boat, he could have gone aboard anywhere, sailed out to sea and we wouldn’t have known about it.”
“Yeah, but the sea option is a long shot. I mean, boats are slow. And wherever Congo was going, he’d have wanted to get there as fast as he possibly could. So try airports, and specifically private aviation first.”
An hour later Hernandez had her answer. She called Bobby Malinga: “I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Well, I guess that’s better than all bad, which is all I’ve got so far.”
“The good news is that I know Johnny Congo’s alias. He called himself, get this: His Excellency King John Kikuu Tembo.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“Nope.”
“And CPB fell for it?”
“The man’s passport said ‘King,’ what are you going to do?”
“OK, so we’ve got a name. How about the flight?”
“He left Jack Brooks Regional Airport, south of Beaumont, on a Citation business jet. The plane was chartered from an outfit called Lonestar Jetcharters by a Panamanian corporation, and here’s the first piece of bad news: there’s no legal requirement in Panama to register the identities of shareholders in offshore companies.”
“So we have no way of knowing who hired tha
t jet?”
“Not unless they were real careless when they communicated with Lonestar, no. And my second piece of bad news is, I know where the jet was going. Trust me, you’re not going to like it.”
Hector Cross had been thinking about Johnny Congo’s movements, too, talking it over with Imbiss and the O’Quinns. “You’re a wanted man. You know that if you ever get caught and taken back to the States you’re going to be executed. But the good news is, you’ve got almost limitless resources. What are you going to do?”
“Me, I would prepare,” said Nastiya. “I would have Plan A, Plan B, Plan C. Money, passports, identities—all safely hidden, all ready for when they are needed.”
“Me too,” Cross agreed. “Carl Bannock was a sick, psychopathic, murdering bastard and Johnny Congo still is. The way the two of them lived in Kazundu was so decadent and depraved it made the Emperor Caligula look like a Mormon Boy Scout. But they weren’t stupid. You’re right, Nastiya, they must have had a plan, or plans, for breaking out of custody then getting away from the States. Next question: where would Congo want to go next?”
“The death sentence had been imposed in Texas, so that’s where Congo was going to be taken and that’s the starting point of any escape,” said Dave Imbiss. “No way he’d want to get on a regular scheduled flight: too risky, too little control and there’s no need because he can afford to go private. I don’t think he wants to have to refuel, because if the plane’s on the ground, stationary, it’s too easy a target, so you’re looking at a radius of around three thousand miles, max, from take-off point. So that’s all of Mexico and Central America, the Caribbean and the northern half of South America. I’m guessing, but the furthest major city he could reach would probably be Lima, Peru.”
“Unless he flew north,” Paddy O’Quinn pointed out. “The Canadian border’s only a couple of hours’ flight time from Houston. And that’s a very big country for a man to get lost in.”
“It’s also a country that’s on good terms with the United States,” said Cross. “If I were Johnny I would want to go somewhere that isn’t going to cut a deal with Washington to send me right back to the execution chamber.”
“Or somewhere that has a powerful enough criminal network to make the government illegal. There are plenty of people in Mexico who could shelter Congo for a price,” Imbiss said.
Cross nodded thoughtfully. “Fair point. But does one criminal ever trust another? And would you want to be in a Mexican drug baron’s debt? Congo needs to feel secure. And that means having a government watching his back.”
“Cuba,” said Imbiss decisively. “Gotta be.”
“No, too many Americans,” Nastiya objected.
“In Guantánamo, maybe. But the base is cut off from the rest of the island. And you won’t find any Americans there.”
“Sure you will.” Nastiya grinned triumphantly. “When I was in the FSB we went to Cuba for training in tropical conditions—and also so the senior officers instructing us could have good time lying by pool, drinking rum, screwing Cuban girls. In Havana we were shown the Swiss embassy. It’s a big building, almost the biggest embassy in Havana, and all this for little Switzerland? No. One-quarter of the building, or maybe less, is for the Swiss. The rest is what they call the ‘American Interests Section’ of the Swiss Embassy. In other words, unofficial American Embassy. And you know how everyone knows that? Because there is company of U.S. Marines in Havana, guarding Swiss Embassy. They have their own residence, the Marine House. Best steaks, best beer, best big-screen TV in all Havana.”
“And you know that because . . . ?” Paddy asked.
“Because I am a girl who loves a man in uniform, darling,” Nastiya teased, pouting at her husband. “Seriously, Hector, Congo would be crazy to go to Cuba. The whole island is under constant surveillance: satellites, spy planes, signal intercepts. Congo could not last a day there without being found, even if Fidel Castro himself hides him under his own sickbed.”
“So it’s not Canada, it’s not Mexico, it’s not Cuba,” said Cross, getting up from his desk and walking over to a table that was easily big enough to seat six for dinner, half of whose surface was taken up with a single, enormous hardback book that was actually slightly longer than the table was wide. “The Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World,” said Cross as the others got up to join him. “Forget all that internet nonsense, this is still the best way of finding places on our planet.” He opened the book and started turning poster-sized pages until he came to an image of Central America. “Right. This is southern Mexico and here’s the border with Guatemala and Belize. I’m going to keep turning pages until we’ve been through every country or Caribbean island, one by one, and worked out a shortlist of possible refuges for a killer on the run. And once we’ve got a shortlist, we’ll start thinking about how to find and catch the bastard.”
They’d been talking for an hour, and had come up with four possible destinations when Cross received another call. “Lieutenant Hernandez,” Agatha told him.
“Just wanted to say thanks for your help,” Hernandez said. “Turned out you were right. And since you’ve already apprehended Johnny Congo once and shown your desire to hand him over to the appropriate federal authorities, I’ve decided, upon due reflection, to change my mind and share the information we’ve ascertained with you.”
“Because you have faith in the fact that I’m a law-abiding individual who knows how to do the right thing?”
“Exactly,” said Hernandez. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
“So what have you got?”
Hernandez gave Cross the details of Congo’s alias and means of transport. Then she said, “You want to know where the Citation was headed?”
“Very much.”
“Caracas, Venezuela.”
“And it could get there on one tank of fuel?”
“With a thousand miles to spare. Get there fast, too, the Citation cruises at over six hundred mph. You know how folks like to eat late in Latin America?” Hernandez asked.
“I’d heard that, yes.”
“Well, King John Kikuu Tembo made it into downtown Caracas in time for dinner.”
“Then I hope he choked on his food,” said Cross. He put down the phone and turned his attention back to his team. “We have two priorities now. The first is to track down exactly where in Venezuela Johnny Congo, or whatever he’s calling himself now, is hiding before the U.S. authorities grab hold of him. He’s got away from them twice. I’m not willing to risk him doing it a third time. I’ll take charge of this myself. It’s personal business and I’ll pay for any costs that are incurred.”
“So you are planning on going out to Caracas?” Dave Imbiss asked.
“Not immediately. You remember when Hazel was murdered how Agatha drew up a list of the top private detectives in every country where there was anyone who had ever threatened her, or had reason to want her dead? We’ll do the same this time, find the best man—”
“Or woman,” Nastiya interjected.
“Or woman in Venezuela and get them on the case. They’ll have local knowledge and contacts we can’t match. Just to be on the safe side, get people working in the border areas of Colombia, Brazil and Guyana. I don’t want him slipping into a neighboring country without us knowing about it. As and when someone finds Congo I’ll go out and deal with him.”
No one asked what Cross meant by that. There was no need.
“If you want a hand, when the time comes, you can count on me for anything you need,” Paddy O’Quinn said, “and I’m sure that goes for all of us. It’s time that bastard paid for what he did to Hazel.”
“Thanks,” said Cross as the other two murmured their agreement with Paddy. “Now, back to company business. Bannock Oil has a multi-billion-dollar investment a hundred miles off the Angolan coastline and it needs protecting. I’ve had an unofficial briefing from someone at the State Department in Washington and it seems that we may be heading into stormy water.”
Cross
gave a brief outline of the information Bobbi Franklin had given him. “What it amounts to,” he concluded, “is that we need to be thinking about this on two levels. The first is the development of a basic defensive strategy that will enable us to deal with any threat that we’re likely to face against the rig, or Bannock A, or both. And the second is an intelligence operation, looking at anyone who might carry out an attack, starting with Mateus da Cunha. Paddy, you’ve got Special Forces experience, so I’m putting you in charge of defensive planning. Talk to some of our old chums down in Poole. They’ve been training on North Sea rigs for donkey’s years.”
“You mean you’re making me talk to the bubble-heads? Jaysus, Heck, that’s a lot to ask of a Hereford man.”
“Now, now, Paddy, don’t insult the SBS,” Hector cautioned him, barely suppressing a grin as he pretended to be stern. “I’ve heard they’ve got one or two half-decent fighting men. Even if they are only tarted-up bootnecks.”
“Excuse me,” said Nastiya, “but what are you talking about?”
“Have I not told you, darling, about the fierce rivalry between the two main elements of the United Kingdom Special Forces? You see, Major Cross and I were, as you know, proud to serve in the SAS, the first and still greatest of all the world’s Special Forces, and that’s an Army unit, based in Hereford. But the Royal Navy, feeling left out, decided it wanted a force of its own. So it took a slice off the Royal Marines and called that the Special Boat Service and packed them off to Poole, where they could play all day at the seaside. We call them bubble-heads on account of the bubbles coming from their diving suits. And we call Marines bootnecks because . . . do you know, I have absolutely no idea why we do that, but we do. And each unit despises the other, until threatened by an outsider, like a Septic, for example . . .”
“For Septic tank read Yank,” Dave Imbiss explained wearily.
“In which case,” O’Quinn concluded, “we join forces and become the Lads, and you’d better not mess with us or you’ll live to regret it.”
