by Mills, Kyle
“Me? Why?”
“Because there are people high up in our government who have been interested in you joining our little family for some time now.”
“Exactly what people and what family is that?”
Klein studiously ignored the first part of her question. “I work for an organization called Covert-One.”
“Never heard of it.”
“And neither has anyone else. We were formed as a fast-response team—small, agile, and outside the normal bureaucracy. I think you’re familiar with one of our top operatives…”
“Jon.”
He nodded.
“I can’t tell you how much that explains…,” she said before catching herself and falling silent again.
“And I can’t tell you how far beyond top secret the things I’m telling you are.”
There was no question of that. If it came out that there were forces in the U.S. government running a black ops group that circumvented oversight, there would be hell to pay. Having said that, she’d worked with the conventional intel community long enough to be sympathetic to the need for such a group.
“Do you know a man named Brandon Gazenga, Randi?”
“Never heard of him,” she lied smoothly.
Klein smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you? I wonder why it is, then, that you called your friend at the FBI and asked him to send someone to Gazenga’s house.”
This time, Randi didn’t bother to hide her surprise and Klein didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at finally getting a reaction out of her.
“Okay, Fred. I’m officially impressed. But what are we really talking about here? Why pick this moment to recruit me? Could it be that you sent Jon on an errand to Africa and something went wrong? That you need me to bail him—and you—out?”
He frowned and reached for another piece of cheese. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but I wouldn’t say your assessment is entirely inaccurate.”
“Then let’s cut to the chase. Why is Jon in Africa?”
Klein didn’t react immediately, thinking for a few seconds before using a remote control to start a video on the cabin’s television. “This was taken in northern Uganda two weeks ago. The men are from our top blacks ops unit. I’m afraid none of them are still alive.”
48
Northern Uganda
November 27—1904 Hours GMT+3
CALEB BAHAME PACED BACK and forth across the clearing, his gait becoming faster and stiffer as time passed. Most of his men had retreated to the safety of the jungle, but a few novices remained, unwittingly standing far too close.
Omidi glanced at his watch. Two hours late.
There was no way to contact the men bringing the weapons shipment in. The transfer to Bahame’s team had been successfully made, but there had been no communication from them since.
Even without the delay, it was a very delicate situation. Sembutu had agreed to allow Omidi to move freely around Uganda without informing the Western intelligence agencies and to allow the Iranian weapons delivery to go through, though now it appeared that he may have once again panicked. If he’d stupidly decided that arming Bahame was too much of a risk for the reward he’d been promised, then the situation was going to deteriorate very quickly and very dangerously.
A young soldier suddenly burst from the jungle at a full run, skidding awkwardly and losing his balance when Bahame raised a machete and started screaming. The boy held up a hand protectively, unintelligible words tumbling from his mouth. The violent rage burning in the cult leader’s eyes cooled so suddenly that it was hard to believe it had ever existed, and instead of dismembering the child, he cheerfully helped him to his feet.
It wasn’t necessary to speak the local language to understand what had happened. The shipment had been spotted.
It was another fifteen minutes before the first truck appeared, lumbering along the poorly maintained road used for transporting parasite victims to and from the villages Bahame overran. It was painted with the logo of one of the many aid agencies operating in the country, and when the first boxes were thrown from the back, emergency rations spilled out.
Despite their obvious malnourishment, the young soldiers emerging from the trees showed little interest in the food. It wasn’t until a box full of mortars was crowbarred open that their enthusiasm flared.
Bahame took personal control of the unloading, directing the crates of guns, mines, rifles, and ammunition to various storage areas at the edges of the camp, watching each one with glassy-eyed obsession.
When the second truck pulled up, he lost interest in traffic control and stepped back to examine the single enormous crate strapped to the flatbed. Omidi smiled imperceptibly. He hadn’t been sure if this one would actually arrive, but once again, God had provided.
“It is a gift,” the Iranian said. “From His Excellency the Ayatollah Khamenei to you.”
Bahame leapt onto the back of the truck and shouted for help as Omidi pressed two boys into service pulling down the ramps on the trailer. The front of the box was pried open and Bahame disappeared inside, his excited shouts audible as he kicked out the remaining sides.
When it was done, something that looked like a small tank sat amid the splintered wood. It was squat and angular, with thick Plexiglas windows and a single seat.
“It’s made by an American company for police bomb-disposal units,” Omidi explained. “I’m told it can take a direct hit from an RPG and travel more than sixty kilometers per hour.”
Bahame leapt to the ground and snatched the machine gun from around the neck of one of his soldiers. What was going to happen next seemed obvious, and Omidi threw himself to the ground as the sound of automatic fire ricocheting off steel filled his ears.
By the time he stood again, the African was already back on the truck, stepping over the body of a girl who hadn’t fled fast enough and reaching out to caress the undamaged skin of the vehicle. He opened the door and squeezed into the confined space, searching for the ignition. A moment later, the engine roared to life in a cloud of black diesel smoke.
Omidi retreated to the makeshift podium set up at the edge of the jungle and dialed a number into his sat phone. The line clicked a few times and then a familiar voice came on.
“Yes?”
“The first two trucks have arrived.”
Bahame managed to get the vehicle down the ramps and started chasing his terrified men around the clearing.
“Then should we begin our final preparations?”
“Immediately.”
“We will wait for your signal.”
Bahame skidded a hundred and eighty degrees and began roaring in his direction, but Omidi didn’t bother to move. If there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that the African would never risk damaging the stage he used to display his godhood.
49
Langley, Virginia, USA
November 27—1129 Hours GMT–5
DAVE COLLEN LOOKED HAGGARD as he fell into one of the chairs facing Drake’s desk. The redness of his eyes suggested that he’d been up for at least twenty-four hours straight, and his expression implied that the time hadn’t been as productive as it needed to be.
“We still don’t have any details on what happened to Smith and his people during their arrest beyond the fact that they were taken to an old military base and released eight hours later. It could be nothing more than some soldiers happening to witness Smith pulling a knife on Sabastiaan Bastock—”
“Quite a coincidence,” Drake said. “And it doesn’t explain why Bastock seems to have ended up dead.”
“I’m not buying it either, but the people we have watching them don’t have access to that base. We have no way of knowing what happened there.”
“And after they were released?”
“They picked up a vehicle at the black market and drove north followed by some of Sembutu’s men. No stops to speak of until they got to a farm owned by Noah Duernberg. They spent the
night there and then headed deeper into Bahame country. That’s where we lost them.”
“Is there any link between Duernberg and the parasite?”
“None that we know of. He’s the second generation in that house. His father was a doctor by training and was loosely connected to Idi Amin.”
“A doctor? Is it possible he had experience with the infection?”
Collen shrugged helplessly. “He’s been dead a long time, and record keeping in that part of the world isn’t exactly state-of-the-art.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there?” Drake said, starting to lose control of his frustration.
“I told you before we got rid of Brandon that it was going to partially blind us in Uganda.”
“Do we at least have someone we can we send to Duernberg’s farm to look around?”
Collen shook his head. “That’s where the news gets worse. After Smith and his people left, the farm was burned to the ground with Duernberg in it. His wife and child were in an apartment in Kampala trying to work out a way to emigrate. We sent people there…”
“And?”
“They found them in the bathtub with their throats slit.”
Drake ran a hand over his mouth and it came away slick with sweat. Duernberg knew something, and someone wanted to keep it quiet. But who? Bahame was the obvious answer, but was it the correct one? The fact that Smith and his team had been taken to a military base and were now being followed pointed in another direction—Charles Sembutu. Could there be a connection between him and the Iranians?
Collen seemed to read his mind. “Larry, we’re losing control here. This started as an exercise in spinning data. Now we’ve got an American team lost somewhere in the jungle, an old doctor’s family murdered, and one of our most dangerous operatives sniffing around to the point that she has to be dealt with. I think it’s time we consider going to the president with what we’ve got.”
“Are you getting cold feet?” Drake said, the volume of his voice rising in the soundproof room. “Were you only in this as long as there was no personal risk? As long as—”
“Bullshit, Larry! I’ve been with you from the very beginning, and I’ve been the only one getting his hands dirty. You’re not stuck trying to find reliable people to track Smith through the damn jungle. And you sure as hell weren’t in Brandon’s bedroom when he died. But we’ve lost track of one of our top microbiologists and the world authority on parasitic infections. What if Bahame has them? Jesus, what if Omidi has them? Then we may not be looking at an unsophisticated infection that would be relatively easy to control. We could be looking at something that’s been weaponized.”
Drake opened his mouth to reply but instead took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t mean to question your commitment.”
“I guess tempers are running high,” he said, forcing a smile.
Drake nodded. “I agree that the risks—to us and to the country—are higher than we hoped. But I disagree that pulling the plug will change that. What would Castilla be able to do? Go after Bahame? He already took out our best team. Make our suspicions public? That will just turn into a bunch of political posturing that’ll give the Iranians even more time to work on this thing and cover their tracks. Khamenei’s losing his grip—he knows that better than we do. He’s going all-in on this. He doesn’t have any choice.”
Drake paused to let Collen respond, but the man just stared at the ground.
“Here’s what I propose, Dave. We initiate another shake-up of our bioterror response system—throw a bunch of new scenarios at them, including one that quietly approximates a worst-case scenario for this parasite being weaponized. That way we’ll have something that can be implemented quickly if the Iranians manage to refine the parasite before they release it. Casualties will be worse than our estimates but should stay within the three quarters of a million that we considered the high side of acceptable. In the end, though, I doubt we’re going to see that kind of sophistication. My hunch is that Smith and his team are dead.”
His assistant nodded silently.
“Do you agree?” Drake prompted.
Collen finally met his eye. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Larry. You’re right. We always knew that taking down the Iranians wouldn’t be easy, but…”
“We hoped it would be easier than this,” Drake said, finishing his thought.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. Randi Russell. Where do we stand with her?”
“The news is better there. She’s locked down tight—physically and electronically—and she doesn’t seem to have done anything at all since contacting the TSA.”
“No more follow-up on Brandon’s death with her FBI contact?”
“Nothing.”
“Has she made any more attempts to get in touch with Smith?”
“Not after the second call to Fort Detrick.”
“So you’re confident she’s gotten nowhere?”
“All I can say is that I’m fairly confident she doesn’t know anything more than whatever was written on the piece of paper Brandon put in her pocket.”
“Do you think she’s given up? Should we step back from our plans to deal with her?”
Collen shook his head. “If it was anybody else, I’d say we should reassess. But Randi Russell never gives up. Once she gets her teeth into something, she doesn’t let go until she’s satisfied. My take is that she’s hit a dead end and this is just a pause while she figures out her next move.”
“I agree. Now’s the time to do this—before she gets hold of some loose end we missed. Have you contacted Gohlam?”
“Everything’s set. We’ve given him all her details and he’s waiting for the go-ahead.”
Drake drummed his fingers on his desk, fixing for a moment on the closed door to his office. Padshah Gohlam was an Afghan mole living in Maryland on a student visa. The CIA had known about him since the beginning and let him into the United States to try to ferret out his contacts. They’d managed to crack his communications system, which allowed Collen to impersonate his Afghan handler while circumventing the agency’s surveillance. As far as Gohlam knew, he was being activated to take out an American operative responsible for the deaths of countless jihadists across the globe.
It was a seemingly perfect scenario. Not only would there be no reason for anyone at the agency to be suspicious of Gohlam’s motives; they would be very anxious to sweep their failure to control him under the rug. Randi Russell would disappear and the details of her death would be swallowed by a black hole of administrative ass covering.
“Do it.”
“To be clear,” Collen said carefully, “you’re telling me to give him the signal to take out Russell.”
Drake nodded. “Do it now before she figures out a way to bring all this down on top of us.”
50
Northern Uganda
November 27—2105 Hours GMT+3
CAN YOU HOLD IT out a little more, Sarie?”
She pressed herself tighter to the bars and twisted the padlock in her hands, giving Smith a better angle to attack it with the rusted saw. They’d been at it for hours and he guessed they weren’t much more than a sixteenth of an inch through the hardened steel. But what was the alternative? Sit and wait for death?
His arms felt like they were on fire and the sweat streaming down his nose occasionally choked him as he gulped the blood-scented air. When he nearly fumbled the blade, he finally staggered back and let Howell take over.
Dr. De Vries was standing lookout at the edge of the only passage into the chamber but was too old and decrepit to be counted on for much else. The infected woman imprisoned next to them was weakening fast, lying in mud created by her own blood. She saw him looking at her and lunged feebly at the bars with twisted, shattered hands. It wouldn’t be long now before she was too far gone to do even that. And then Bahame would be back.
Smith pressed his back to the cave wall and slid down into the dirt, trying futilely to find something he’d
missed. Some way to get out of there.
“How do you know Bahame?” Sarie said.
Her face and Howell’s were only a few inches apart, and she seemed to be searching his eyes for the answer.
“There was a time we ran in the same social circles,” he said, starting in on the lock.
“It’s a little late to be mysterious, isn’t it? We’re going to die here.”
Howell stopped sawing for a moment. “Dead is dead and almost dead is alive. Very different things.”
He went back to work, and Smith turned his attention to the equipment in the lab. There had to be something there. Something they could use.
He was examining the broken generator against the wall for what must have been the twentieth time when Howell started talking again.
“I did some work in Angola years ago. After it was finished, I decided to travel around the continent a bit. See the sights. I ended up in a village not far from here where an aid agency was working on an irrigation project. They were a man down and I had some knowledge from growing up in farm country, so I threw in for a bit…A tad higher, dear.”
Sarie adjusted the position of the lock and he continued. “Bahame wasn’t the man you see today. He was leading a group of former drug runners and cutthroats on a bit of a pillaging-and-raping spree. I suppose this was before he found God.” Howell smiled bitterly. “In any event, I’d been at the village for about six months when he and his men showed up.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, they overran us quite quickly—the people living there were a peaceful lot. No weapons beyond the tools they used for farming.”
“But you got away.”
“You’d be surprised how effective certain farm tools can be in the right hands. I killed six or seven of Bahame’s men before I was forced into the jungle. I tried to get back, but I’d been shot and couldn’t move very quickly. I’m afraid by the time I managed to stop the bleeding, it was over.”
“Who is Yakobo?”
