Fahimah took the news with a straight face, even though, deep down, she was heartbroken. “Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll gather what they need right away,” said Fahimah as she took off to gather the necessary intelligence for the upcoming mission.
O’Reilly stood there as Mitchell left the room to prepare his plan and brief up the remainder of his team. Even though Mitchell had never met any of the people involved, they were innocent victims caught up in another country’s civil war. There was no doubt in O’Reilly’s mind that Mitchell wouldn’t hesitate to carve a path of devastation if need be to get them all home safely.
8
Moscow
Russia
Aleksi Platov left his wife to entertain their dinner guests. He slipped away and quietly made his way to his private study.
Dressed in a dark blue suit that fit snugly to Platov’s growing girth, he ran a hand through his thinning black hair while he waited expectantly for the call to come in. His cloud-gray eyes fixed on a painting on the wall depicting Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. Descended from royalty, Platov’s father had been a minor official under the old communist regime. The day after Gorbachev’s regime collapsed, his father bought a small diamond mine in Northern Siberia using illegally obtained mining reports and was soon one of Russia’s newest multi-millionaires. Five years ago, when he took over the reins of his father’s company, Platov quickly expanded Imperial Russian Diamonds holdings into West Africa. Before too long, his company was one of the richest in all of Russia.
The phone rang loudly, shaking Platov out of his reverie. He answered the call. It was from Alexander Bashilov, his business partner who oversaw all of his extensive mining operations in Africa.
“Sir, Liberia has fallen. I hate to say it, but our business agreement died with the late president,” announced Bashilov bluntly.
“Can we renegotiate the same deal with whoever becomes the next president?” asked Platov, seeing millions in bribes instantly vanish.
“I believe I can, but it will probably cost twice the sum we spent last time to negotiate an agreement exclusively beneficial to us.”
Platov clenched his phone tight in his hands until his knuckles turned white. He had already wasted ten million dollars buying the rights to mine diamonds in Liberia. The thought of paying an additional twenty million made the bile rise in his stomach.
“Do what you must,” said Platov bitterly.
“Sir, once the fighting dies down I’ll fly to Monrovia and commence negotiations with the new government.”
“Very good, Alexander. It’s a setback, but not the end of the world,” said Platov philosophically.
“Sir, you should be aware that Braxton Gray was seen in the capital before the coup commenced. My sources tell me that he met secretly with several of the leaders of the rebel factions in the days running up to the presidential assassination. I have no doubt in my mind that he is somehow connected to this mess.”
Platov clenched his jaw. “That son of a bitch again. If he’s there, you know that Seras is financing this revolution.”
“Yes, sir, the thought had crossed my mind as well.”
“Where is Gray now?”
“He left the capital hours before the coup erupted. It is reported that he is now somewhere in northwestern Liberia.”
“Doing what?”
“That I’m not sure, but if he’s gone north, there has to be a reason.”
“Diamonds,” said Platov spitting the word out. “Seras must have a lead on a new source of diamonds.”
“Makes sense. The coup could be a smokescreen to cover his illegal activities elsewhere. It’s not the first time he’s employed such methods. It worked well in Angola. Seras obtained quite a lucrative deal when the new government came to power there last year.”
Platov stood up and began to pace the room, his mind awhirl. If Seras has gone to this much trouble to cover her tracks, the payoff must be worth tens of billions, thought Platov.
“Alexander, I want you to find out precisely where Gray is and what he is doing. If, as we both suspect, a new source of diamonds has been found, I want it. I am tired of always being outplayed by that bitch. I don’t care what it takes. Do you understand me?” said Platov firmly.
“Yes, sir, I understand. I will make a few calls and make sure that we are ready to act right away.”
Platov smiled. “Thank you, Alexander. Your loyalty to this company and to me is beyond reproach. You will be richly rewarded when we get our hands on those diamonds.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Bashilov, knowing that his share would make him a multi-millionaire.
“I will leave this enterprise in your capable hands.” With that, Platov hung up the phone. With a broad smile on his face, Platov happily rejoined the party. For once he had a chance to screw over Seras, and he intended to enjoy every minute of it.
9
Military compound
Belle Yella, Liberia
Emily Martinez stood on the porch of an old army building, her arms crossed across her chest, while she watched more clouds roll in over the hills, dark and heavy with rain. For most of the morning, the heavens had opened up, turning the dusty red earth inside the ramshackle army compound into a thick, muddy soup, making walking difficult and any attempt to move any of the vehicles a near impossibility.
Even though she had been in Liberia for over a month, she had never seen rain like this before. At times during the heavy downpour, Emily could barely see to the other side of the compound.
Since arriving in the camp the day before, Emily and Cristoval had been allowed free rein of the small Liberian Army garrison. However, if they wandered too close to the front gate, well-armed soldiers would bar their way and point their rusty-looking AK-47s at them. Being held prisoner was bad enough, but what worried them the most was that none of their friends, or the local Liberians helping them, had been brought to the camp. Every hour that went by made them both fear for the worst. Emily knew that she could never trust Gray to keep his word, and started to fear that they had all been killed right after they left. Why she and her husband had been singled out still gnawed at her. It was a question for which she couldn’t find an answer.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Cristoval from behind Emily.
She turned and saw that her husband had washed and shaved. “I am still wondering why we are here.”
Cristoval placed a hand over one of Emily’s and smiled. “It’s you, my dear. Your father is worth a ton of money. They’ve kidnapped us for ransom. I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t already in negotiations with your father. It’s only a matter of time before we are released.”
Emily smiled. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“I know I am. Trust me, this will all be over soon enough.”
“Cristoval, I’m really scared for all the people we left behind.”
“So am I. Perhaps they will be part of the deal?”
She wasn’t so sure. She was about to say something when she noticed Braxton Gray, now dressed in loose-fitting, tan-colored pants and a dark green shirt, making his way through the mud toward them.
“Looks like we’re going to be blessed with another visit by our jailer,” said Emily under her breath.
“Good afternoon,” said Gray with a smile on his face as he stopped in front of the barracks. He grabbed a stick and scraped the thick, red mud off the bottom of his boots before stepping up on the wooden deck.
“Good day,” replied Cristoval, trying his best to sound polite.
“I hope you aren’t too inconvenienced by all the additional security measures that we have put in place for your protection,” said Gray.
Cristoval pulled Emily close. “Mister Gray, please do not pretend that this is not a kidnapping. We are both aware that this sort of thing happens all too often in the Third World. What we would like to know is, what you have done to my students, our friends, and the Liberian workers.”
Gray smiled. “You needn�
�t worry about your friends. I had them moved to another location. They are quite safe. And just to put your minds at ease, you are not being held for ransom, either.”
Emily and Cristoval exchanged a disbelieving look.
“Where are our friends?” Emily asked.
“Mrs. Martinez, for now you don’t need to know, but I can assure you that you will both be joining them soon enough. However, for now, I have my orders, which are to keep you safe until someone who wants to meet you arrives here,” said Gray as he looked down at his gold Rolex watch.
A chill crawled up Emily’s spine. She didn’t like the sound of that at all. “What could he possibly want with us?”
“She,” corrected Gray.
“Okay, what could she possibly want from us?”
“Answers, and that is all I am prepared to say right now,” said Gray. “Now, is there anything I can do for either of you?”
“Yeah, take my husband and me to our friends and then leave us all alone,” said Emily, locking her eyes on Gray.
“Sorry, I can’t do that.” With that, Gray turned to leave.
“Why are you here, Mister Gray?” asked Emily.
“Pardon?” replied Gray.
“Why are you here? You are not Liberian. In fact, if I were to guess I would say that your accent sounds like you come from London. Am I right?”
“You have a good ear for accents, Mrs. Martinez. Let’s just say that I facilitate things for people. In the next few days it will all become clear to you.” Saying no more, Gray turned his back and walked away.
Emily squeezed her husband’s hand tightly. “If this isn’t about kidnapping for ransom, just what the hell is going on? Why does someone we’ve never met want to talk with us?”
“I’m sorry, dear, but I’m just as confused as you are on this. Hopefully in the next couple of hours we’ll finally find out what this is all about. Once we know what they want with us, then perhaps we can find a way out of this mess.”
Emily leaned her head on Cristoval’s shoulder and looked out at the lush, green jungle surrounding the camp, her heart heavy with concern for the people she had left behind. None of it made any sense, but deep down she knew that not all was lost. Her father would find a way to get to her; of that, she had no doubt. However, it would take time for someone to get to them. With grim determination, Emily resolved to stay alive as long as possible, no matter the cost.
10
Lungi International Airport
Freetown, Sierra Leone
A blue and white, 737 commercial jet from British Midlands International came to a gradual halt in front of the rundown main international airport terminal. As soon as the plane stopped, a small army of airport technicians dressed in dirty blue coveralls sprang to life. Stairs were hauled over while several dilapidated-looking buses rumbled up to the plane to move the disembarking passengers to the terminal and the waiting customs agents.
Mitchell stepped out of the plane and felt the warmth and stifling humidity of an early evening in Sierra Leone. The thick, tropical jungle had crept right up to the runway like an impenetrable green wall, waiting for the day when it could claim all the land around the airport back. At the bottom of the stairs, Mitchell saw their contact, a young man dressed in a dark blue policeman’s uniform, waving up at him. Mitchell casually waved back and, with Jackson close behind, he walked over and stuck out his hand in greeting to the police officer.
“Good day, sir, my name is Assistant Superintendent David Sellu,” said the young Sierra Leonean police officer as he energetically shook Mitchell’s and then Jackson’s hands.
Mitchell made the introductions as Cardinal and Sam, followed by Yuri, joined them.
“Sir, I am to escort you through customs, and then take you to the far end of the airfield, where your helicopter is waiting,” said Sellu as he waved over a couple of blue police Land Rovers that had seen better days.
Mitchell thanked Sellu. They all jumped into the idling vehicles and then headed over to a ramshackle side office where they were quickly ushered through customs. Mitchell had been through numerous questionable airports throughout the world and came expecting to have to grease the wheels to get themselves and their equipment through quietly. However, with Sellu closely scrutinizing everything and cajoling the customs staff to hurry up, they were all through customs and on their way in less than two minutes. A new record, thought Mitchell.
Waiting for them at the end of the runway were their luggage and several wooden crates laid out beside a gray-green Soviet-era Mi-8 Hip helicopter without any identifiable markings on it, closely guarded by a couple of tough-looking soldiers wearing camouflage fatigues. Yuri was the first out of the vehicle; he stood there, running his hands through his thick, greasy, black hair, swearing away in Russian at the state of the helicopter. Mitchell had seen the act before. Yuri always loved to complain, but somehow, miraculously, when push came to shove, he always managed to get everything to work.
The team, knowing that every minute counted, quickly set about loading their equipment into the back of the no-frills, but spacious, Mi-8. Yuri and Cardinal quickly stowed everything in place and then tightly lashed it all down to the metal floor to keep it from moving about in flight. Sam busily went through all the computers, combat radios, and satellite communication gear, methodically ensuring that it all worked. No one in the team needed to be reminded that when things turned bad, as they often did, communications meant life.
The sun soon disappeared behind the tall palm trees lining the airstrip. Sellu quickly ordered one of the soldiers to haul over a portable generator and light, so they could continue in the dark.
As they worked, a couple of large, golden-haired baboons raced out of the underbrush, ran past the helicopter, howling and yelling at one another as they fought over a piece of fruit, totally ignoring the people working there.
Mitchell and Jackson stood off to one side, hunched over a map. Before they left New York, Fahimah had provided them with several satellite images of the Liberian Army compound where Emily Martinez’s signal was still coming from. Although twelve hours old, the pictures were still invaluable to Mitchell and Jackson in helping them plan their next moves.
“Sir, I was instructed to ensure that you get these,” said Sellu, pointing at two locked, wooden crates being hauled over by a couple of sweating soldiers. Placing the crates down, the soldiers went in search of something cool to drink.
A smile crept across Mitchell’s face as he walked over and opened up the nearest crate. Inside were several brand new AK-74s, along with a handful of 9mm Browning pistols.
“I’ve got tons of ammo, grenades, and several LAWs in here,” said Jackson, checking out the contents of the other crate. “I’d rather we had our own stuff than these Russian hand-me-downs.”
“So would I, but the Liberians are still armed mainly with old Soviet equipment, so it only makes sense to use the same in case we need extra ammo,” pointed out Mitchell.
Jackson simply shrugged and closed the lid on the crate.
“Sir, please accept these weapons with the compliments of the government of Sierra Leone,” said Sellu with a snappy, British-style salute and a flash of his white teeth. “It is the least we can do for the friends of General O’Reilly.”
Mitchell knew of O’Reilly’s involvement in helping to train Sierra Leone’s counterterrorism teams in the early days after their brutal civil war. It was evident that his name and reputation were respected even to this day.
“Thanks,” said Mitchell to Sellu as he watched the crates being loaded into the back of the helicopter. “Do your people know we are coming?”
“Most definitely, sir,” replied Sellu. “The local police detachment in Kenema is waiting for you. I called them myself to ensure that everything was set. You should get there in a few hours, if the weather doesn’t turn against you.”
With a quick handshake, Mitchell and his team boarded the MI-8, closed the large swinging rear doors behind them, and
were soon airborne.
Yuri had flown dozens of MI-8s during his time in the Russian military. He quickly got a feel for the helicopter. He revved the engines, banked the helicopter over and headed east, flying over the top of the jungle, spread out like a dark green sea beneath them.
A couple of hours later, Yuri brought the aging helicopter to rest on a dusty police helipad on the eastern edge of the town of Kenema. A small detachment of soldiers from the local military base was waiting to greet them. While Yuri, assisted by a couple of soldiers, stayed behind to refuel the Hip, Mitchell and the remainder of the team were escorted over to a minuscule wooden building that had once been a police station. It was barely large enough for a couple of people to work in, but Mitchell knew that it would do for their purposes.
Despite working through the night, it was almost dawn before Sam and Cardinal had all the satellite-communications gear up and running. Quickly aligning the briefcase-sized portable satellite dish, Sam established a secure link with Fahimah back at Polaris HQ. Fahimah had been sitting by her workstation, patiently waiting for someone to contact her. She quickly provided them with the latest intelligence coming out of Liberia, along with a couple of new satellite images of the camp holding the Martinezes. Sam thanked her, and then printed off several copies of the pictures, that she handed to Mitchell to study.
Aside from a few new vehicles in the compound, there hadn’t been any appreciable changes from the last images taken over twelve hours ago. A smile crept over Mitchell’s face. If there hadn’t been any changes to the camp posture, then they weren’t expecting any visitors.
Sam and Cardinal gathered up everyone’s rations and started making breakfast while Jackson used their laptop to select primary and alternate landing zones for their insertion. Yuri, once he finished refueling the chopper, would have the last say on the flight path to be used.
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