by Steve Richer
“We’re not here about immigration,” she said.
“That means I was almost right about the carjacking part, wasn’t I? Except it’s something much more precious to me that you want to steal.”
“Actually, lad,” Hewitt began. “We’re in need of firepower and were hoping to make a transaction with you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Preston shoved him back. “Don’t be a smartass. Rodriguez, he told me about you. Now take us to your stash and maybe we can all do a little business together.”
Chapter 62
The four of them drove for 20 minutes in the three-car convoy. Preston rode with Durham in case he tried any escape maneuver. He didn’t and had a curious look about him, clearly wanting to see how this situation would play out. They parked outside the small hangar, everyone got out, and the officer opened the doors.
Jasmine quickly swept the area with her gun and flashlight but there was no one except for huge stacks covered with green tarps.
“Clear.”
They all walked in and Durham switched on some lights.
“How did y’all know Rodriguez again?”
“We were in Iraq together. He was a good friend. He wanted me on the deal but I declined.”
“And now you want to buy my stockpile?”
“Well you see, Captain Durham,” Preston said genially. “I’m into target practice.”
The officer went to the stacks and yanked on the tarps to reveal brand-new, gleaming crates of weaponry. All eyes were riveted to the merchandise.
“I got M-249 SAWs, I got M-4 Carbines, I got M-9 Pistols and M-203 Grenade Launchers. I got M-240B Machine Guns, C-4, and even Javelin RPGs. I have enough to field an entire regiment.”
Preston opened some crates to inspect the merchandise. He picked up an automatic weapon and quickly regretted it. It was so new that it was still covered in cosmoline grease.
“How about ammo?”
“You could last a month in Iraq or a week in Detroit with what I have.”
Preston nodded silently and made some calculations in his head. He hadn’t wanted to bring an actual shopping list of what he needed.
“Okay, I’ll take a hundred M-4s—”
“Whoa, downshift your Nova for a minute,” Durham interrupted. “I didn’t bring you here to pick and choose. You want my merchandise, you take it all.”
“But I don’t need it all.”
“Then y’all can go to JC Penney for all your shopping needs.”
He turned around and headed for the exit. He was now convinced they really weren’t here to steal his stuff. He wasn’t afraid of being shot in the back.
For his part, Preston looked at Hewitt and Jasmine. This was their last chance to arm the mercenaries. They didn’t know anyone else to supply them. It was up to him to take the plunge.
“Wait. How much do you want for it?”
Durham turned around and strolled back.
“Almost nothing, $2.5 million. But for that price I can guarantee transport on a C-17 anywhere in the world.”
Wow, that was a lot of money. Preston pulled out his phone and brought up his browser. He surfed onto his bank’s website in the Caribbean and looked at his account details.
The balance flashed on the small screen: $2,375,500. He hesitated, his eyes darting between the weapons and Jasmine who remained impassive.
“All I have left is $2,375,500. Take it or leave it.”
It was Durham’s time to dither. He crossed his arms and stared at his merchandise. He shook his head silently before turning back toward Preston.
“You got yourself a deal.”
“I’ll transfer half the funds tonight and you’ll get the rest once we reach our destination.”
“That sounds dandy,” the officer said at they shook hands.
With the transaction completed, Preston and Hewitt headed for the exit. Jasmine started to follow them and then turned around abruptly.
“Can I ask you a question, Captain?”
“You ain’t gonna ask me about some sort of insurance plan, are you?”
“Do you know who killed Rodriguez?”
At that, Captain Durham brightened. “Hell yeah! It was some low-level Tijuana enforcer who lives in San Diego, Hector Provenza. He’d been trying to muscle in on our deal for months.”
Jasmine was beaming as she wrote the name down in her notebook.
~ ~ ~ ~
As huge and important as Dover Air Force Base was to be American military infrastructure, no one seemed to mind that four civilians were walking around the runway toward the imposing C-17 cargo plane.
Preston, Hewitt, and Gervasi tried to act like they belonged here but Jasmine kept looking around as if they were about to get caught at any minute.
It wouldn’t happen. Durham had all the right contacts and had a man usher them onto the Delaware base and into the Globemaster plane. Before long, they were seated along the hull in the cargo compartment which was a whopping 88 feet long by 18 feet wide.
Only a few seats had been set up and the rest of the space was taken up by the newly acquired weapons. The aging loadmaster was making sure everything was properly strapped down.
Officially, the plane was going to the Middle East but an unscheduled stop in Africa would take them to their destination. Well, close enough; they were to be dropped off in the Congo.
Preston turned to Jasmine who sat next to him. Ever since that night in his trailer she had been cold to him. It was like she was mad at herself for having gotten intimate with him.
She was polite and professional but in no way indicated that she wanted to repeat the experience. It demoralized him because that’s all he wanted to do.
“It’s your last chance to get off, Jasmine,” he said as the aft loading ramp closed. “It’s gonna be a hell of a lot more dangerous than you can ever imagine.”
“Good, I hate walks in the park.”
Gervasi turned to them, his face a mask of professionalism.
“He’s right, you know. Maybe you should go back to the office. There’s a promotion waiting for you in Washington.”
Preston glanced at her and decided to be bold. He discreetly reached for her hand and took it in his. She didn’t protest.
“I’m staying,” she whispered, staring at him.
His heart swelled, maybe there was hope for the two of them. But first they had to survive a coup that promised to be anything but bloodless.
Chapter 63
The C-17 purposely avoided populated areas. It touched down on a small unpaved runway in the western part of the Democratic Republic of Congo just before sunset.
Gervasi had been able to pull some strings and have the Kinshasa station chief call in some favors. Three old trucks were waiting for them and for the next hour everyone pitched in transferring the weaponry to the vehicles.
From there, they drove an hour in complete darkness. In the back of his mind, Preston was keenly aware of the possibility that the local drivers could be staging an ambush. It wouldn’t be difficult to drive them in a secluded area crawling with their buddies.
All they’d have to do was to kill them and steal their merchandise.
Even though Gervasi said the CIA vouched for these guys, Preston was ready. During the long flight, he had gotten himself a Beretta pistol from his inventory. He’d cleaned it up and loaded it. He would probably not survive if they were outnumbered but he was determined to go down fighting.
As it were, the drivers could be trusted. They came to a halt at a river wharf and spent another hour unloading the trucks. This time, the equipment had to be loaded onto a barge.
They worked by flashlights and even though it was night the humidity made the experience unbearable. They were soaking wet right from the get-go.
“This is where we go our separate ways,” Gervasi said after the boat was fully loaded.
Preston shook his hand. “Can’t convince you to tag along?”
“As much as I enjoy a good rumble in the jungle, my agency frowns on supporting African revolutions. In public anyway.”
“Right.”
“I’ll see you when this is over.”
While he walked back toward the trucks which would drive back to Kinshasa, the others climbed onto the barge. The engines were cranked up and they sailed upstream.
The plane’s landing had been planned because of the proximity to the border. As a result, they entered Katoga a few hours later.
The captain was a seasoned smuggler, mostly contraband alcohol, and had no trouble reaching his destination. The water was still when the boat came to a halt by the shore.
Waiting for them was Carver. He had lit lanterns and had hung them in an S pattern in the nearby trees as a signal that everything was okay.
“Welcome back to Katoga,” he greeted.
With him was a dozen mercenaries and they quickly threw ropes to secure the barge to the shore. Before the Westerners had even disembarked, they were hauling off crates.
“Everything on schedule?” Preston asked.
“Like a virgin’s monthly cycle.” He then noticed Jasmine and looked away in embarrassment. “Sorry. Everything is good to go. Once we get this equipment cleaned up and distributed, my boys will be ready.”
Preston nodded. This was real.
~ ~ ~ ~
The apartment in the capital had been paid for six months but Preston was nevertheless surprised that it hadn’t been rented out again. He had expected the landlord to find another tenant after he’d been taken away by soldiers.
He still had a key and it worked. The flat hadn’t been visited since his departure as was evident by the thin layer of dust.
They slept for almost twelve hours upon arriving. The journey had been brutal. After a breakfast that could actually be an early dinner – or was it lunch? – Carver joined them. They gathered around the kitchen table to study maps and a handful of documents. They had come up with a way to overthrow the government.
But was it even feasible?
“Are we all agreed on the plan?”
Carver nodded, his military game face on. “Sure thing, man.”
“All right, go over it again. We have some people to meet.”
Hewitt and Preston stood up. The latter took his pistol, racked the slide back, and put it down in his pants, in his lower back.
~ ~ ~ ~
No one was working in the Katoga Today newsroom. All eyes were riveted to the small television set which was mounted near the ceiling as if this was a hospital room from the 60s. There was a special broadcast and not one person in the country wanted to miss it.
On the screen, former dictator Nyassi was being marched up the gallows. There wasn’t much ceremony aside from some military personnel reading condemnation documents out loud.
Hewitt wished he had drunk a little more. He’d seen his share of gruesome footage in his career but this was live and about to get worse. The camera wasn’t shaky and it made the whole proceeding seem much more official than that infamous Saddam Hussein execution video.
Next to him, Gabriel Jammeh, the new editor-in-chief, looked at the TV with genuine glee. It was cathartic for him after having spent years in jail for having criticized the tyrant. And this was the reason why Hewitt felt bad about what he had to say next.
“We made a mistake, lad. Arly Traore is no better than Nyassi.”
“I know,” the man replied.
“Really? I was afraid you’d be supportive of the new regime after all we’ve been through.”
While the dictator’s head went through the noose, Jammeh said, “Everything we write is now being censored, even the cricket scores.”
“Would your newspaper support another regime change?”
“If this means the end of censorship, count me in.”
They shook hands right at the moment when the trap door flew open and Nyassi fell to his death, his neck snapping audibly.
~ ~ ~ ~
By the time the TV broadcast had switched to a show about elephants – while officials took care of the dictator’s body off-camera – Preston was walking through the market. It was busy as always and the sounds of haggling were everywhere. He didn’t notice any of it.
The next part of his plan called for him to do something that was one part against his better judgment and two parts against his pride.
It was Hewitt who had decided they should do this. He was mad, he should have insisted for the Englishman to do it himself. He hadn’t. Deep down he knew it would be much more effective if he personally did it.
After turning into three different alleys, getting lost twice, Preston finally stopped in front of a fruit stand. It wasn’t a prime location and there weren’t any customers.
Behind the bananas was Colonel Chikaba, the half-blind former secret police chief. He was taken aback by his visitor and his expression quickly morphed into suspicion.
“Hello, Colonel.”
“What are you doing here?”
“How would you like to be General Chikaba, Minister of Defense?”
“Thanks to you, I am now a banana salesman.”
“It’s a waste of your talents. It’s in my power to give you a promotion. Do you want it or should I ask someone else?”
Chikaba turned away from him and went about his business of arranging produce.
“You don’t even want to entertain the idea?” Preston asked.
“Is this a trick? You want to humiliate me further? You want me to do something illegal so you have an excuse to execute me?”
“Look, you and I, we had our differences. But I’m man enough to realize you were doing your job. Now it’s my turn, I have a job to do. The people who used me to take over this country are gonna be worse than Nyassi. If you really care about your country, about your people, then perhaps we can both do something about it.”
Chikaba’s eyes darted between Preston and the fruits. Was this for real?
Chapter 64
The plan was put into motion the following day. At four o’clock sharp, Jasmine presented herself at the presidential palace.
She was alone, unarmed, and her only ally was the fact that she was a blond American girl with a federal law enforcement badge. If she failed the simple task for which she was responsible, the coup would fail.
Taking deep breaths while straightening her blouse to keep her nerves in check, she followed a secretary into the large presidential office. It was no longer the domain of Westerners; they had relinquished it to Arly Traore.
The head of state was behind his desk only his chair was perpendicular to it. He was reclining as he read documents and two beauticians were kneeling before him, performing a pedicure.
“My apologies, Your Excellency. This is Jasmine Needham from the United States. She assures me meeting Your Excellency is of the utmost importance.”
Visibly annoyed, Traore set his documents down and glanced at Jasmine.
“Very well, you may leave us.”
The secretary bowed and left. Jasmine walked further into the room and stopped across the desk.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President.”
“It’s always my pleasure to come to the aid of my friends in the United States,” he said with sudden cheerfulness. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here on behalf of my government. As you can imagine, we can’t really use official channels at this stage.”
“Of course. These are precarious times.”
“What I have to tell you is of vital importance for national security. Your national security.”
She came closer still and leaned forward over the desk. Her goal was to stress just how confidential this really was.
“Yes?” he said, urging her to go on.
“We need to discuss this in private.”
He weighed the situation for a moment and then snapped his fingers. Unfazed, the beauticians got the message and stood up. They curtsied and hurried out of the offi
ce.
“You can tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite trust these surroundings.”
The president chuckled at how absurd she was. “I assure you this place is absolutely secure.”
“Mr. President, I have every reason to believe it is not and this is why I was sent here.”
“You think someone might have put listening devices in my office?”
“You think they wouldn’t?” Jasmine shot back.
He blinked and gulped. This American had a point. His benefactor had gone to extremes to put him in power. Was bugging his office beneath him after all this? Absolutely not.
Jasmine decided to strike while the iron was hot. “Do you know of a place away from the palace where we could go which could offer more privacy?”
“We could stroll in my gardens?”
“Anything more secure, somewhere absolutely out of reach?”
“Well, there is the presidential retreat, in the mountains.”
“Okay, that sounds adequate. We need to go there right now, sir.”
Traore nodded, not exactly in command of himself any longer. He stood up and slipped into his shoes.
“We will have to wait though. We have to let my people arrange security at the retreat before we go.”
“Absolutely, I understand. The matter I have to discuss with you relates to your security so it’s important you take precautions.”
She wasn’t even lying.
~ ~ ~ ~
While the Katoga airport was still under military control, it was starting to go back to normal. International flights had been allowed to resume. In the spirit of publicity, citizens were allowed to travel out of the country, not that they had the money to do so.
Colonel Chikaba followed two soldiers with sloppy uniforms – some things never changed, he thought. After going through the terminal, they marched along the tarmac until they found a parked Mercedes.
Leaning on the luxury car was Burt Embry. His arms were crossed and his eyes missed nothing. It was evident that Chikaba was coming to see him. Just as he stopped in front of him and was about to speak, his cell phone rang. He picked it up.
