“Making it easy for us,” DeLuca said, as if to finish the man’s sentence, in more ways than one. “Hold off, Scott. He’s out in the open. We’ll take it from here.”
There was no reason to make anyone else do it, and every reason to do it himself, to rid the world of someone who didn’t belong. He drew his Model 66, aimed carefully, and fired a bullet that struck Samuel Adu between the eyes. The man dropped where he stood, and DeLuca knew, without having to inspect the body, that the man was dead.
On their way back to Port Ivory and the Castle of St. James, hoping to make better time through the crowds by taking a broader street, they found themselves on Presidential Way, passing the presidential palace, where DeLuca saw, somewhat to his surprise, a fleet of white SUVs. He asked Captain Kudzimtuku to turn in the drive, and to block any of the SUVs from leaving. Two soldiers, both white, stood guard by the vehicles but made little effort to halt or challenge the visitors. DeLuca got out of the truck and was met on the steps of the presidential palace by Hugh Lloyd and by a man DeLuca assumed was Simon Bell, an assumption confirmed when Lloyd made introductions.
“Though by the look of you,” Lloyd said, “I gather your name isn’t Donald Brown and you do not actually work for the World Bank. Correct?”
“What are you doing here?” DeLuca said. As he spoke, he glanced up to a second-floor window where he saw a man, catching a brief glimpse, but it was enough to see that the man had duct tape across his mouth, and that his hands had been bound behind his back. It was enough of a glimpse to know, as well, that DeLuca had met the man somewhere before.
“Waiting to leave this godforsaken country,” Lloyd said. “In which case immediate would not be too soon. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Brown?”
“Why are you waiting here?” DeLuca asked, ignoring Lloyd’s efforts to charm him. He remembered where he’d seen the man in the window before. “And why do you have Hans Berger upstairs with duct tape across his mouth?”
Lloyd looked at Bell, who looked at Lloyd.
“That is an excellent question,” Lloyd said. “It really cuts to the heart of the matter. You see, some of our South African colleagues seem to feel it’s quite urgent that they be paid now, before we leave the country, and not later. Seems the person who was going to pay them is no longer able to. I’ve been trying to arrange for funding, but they’ve asked Mr. Berger to stay with them as collateral until I accomplish that task.”
“Here?” DeLuca said. “At the presidential palace? Was Daniel Bo…” Then he put it together. “Not Bo—Ngwema. He was paying you. He hired you to help him overthrow the government. Your job was to secure the palace.”
Lloyd said nothing.
“And Ngwema was in bed with the West African Oil Consortium,” DeLuca said. “That’s why your men are holding Hans Berger. They want WAOC to make up the difference.”
“I think you’ve read too many Tom Clancy novels, Mr. Brown,” Lloyd said.
“I don’t read Tom Clancy. And you’re an asshole,” DeLuca said. “You had an opportunity to save your ex-wife’s life and you didn’t lift a finger, because you were too busy guarding a bunch of gas pumps. You kill people for money. You’re also an international criminal for participating in a coup d’état. Your father will be so proud of you when he learns what you’ve been up to.”
“I’d prefer to keep my father out of this,” Lloyd said.
“Then tell him not to watch the news,” DeLuca said. “Especially your ex-wife. She’s going to love this.” He glanced up at the second-floor window again, where he saw a rather mean-looking merc with a machine gun. “But you’re busy now, so I’ll leave you to your negotiations.” He turned to Simon Bell. “They just don’t have the same level of commitment as real soldiers, do they? Nice to see how you’ve whipped them into shape. By the way, you all should smile,” DeLuca said, pointing up in the sky. “You’re all on satellite cam. And stand up straight, Hugh—it looks better on the nightly news when you don’t slouch.”
Back aboard the Johnson, DeLuca and his team were finally able to ramp down. They showered, changed, called their families, ate. In the conference room, DeLuca learned that Wes Chandler had been canned as the head of CIA operations in Liger and that Robert Mohl had been appointed in his place. Mohl appeared to be taking his new responsibilities seriously. His dress was sharper, his shirt tucked in now, his shoes polished, and there was more evidence of the keen intelligence DeLuca had sensed lurking beneath his furrowed brow.
DeLuca found a private moment with Mohl and congratulated him.
“It’s a big job,” Mohl conceded. “Maybe more than I can handle, just between you and me. Given all the new changes.”
“You’ll be all right,” DeLuca said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” Mohl said.
“How long has it been since you had a drink?”
“Two days,” Mohl said. “Almost exactly.”
“How long before this that you’d gone two days without a drink?”
“I don’t remember,” Mohl said.
“So you’re what, sixty-two or -three?”
“I’m fifty-one,” Mohl said.
“Sorry,” DeLuca said. “So you started drinking when? When you were eighteen or so?”
“About that,” Mohl agreed.
“And how many drinks a day have you averaged?” DeLuca asked. “Be honest. I don’t give a shit, so don’t lie.”
“Six?” Mohl said. “Some days more, some days… Maybe six.”
“Let’s say six,” DeLuca said. “Thirty-four years, times 365 days, that’s 12,410 days, times six, that’s about 75,000 drinks. I don’t know about you, but 75,000 drinks is over my limit. You gotta know when to say when.”
“I’ve said when,” Mohl said. “I’m not drinking anymore.”
“Probably a good plan,” DeLuca said. “Just remember—you were born sober. You know how to do it.”
“Ambassador Ellis is looking for you,” Mohl said. “He seems pretty upset about something.”
“You piece of shit,” were the ambassador’s first words when he managed to take DeLuca aside, confronting him on the flight deck. He was wearing his traditional red bowtie over a short-sleeved white shirt and linen pants held up with suspenders. “Who the hell do you think you are? Who gave you the authority to tell President Bo he could come here? Or to tell Ngwema we’d be dropping bombs in ten minutes?”
“Did he think I said ten minutes?” DeLuca said innocently. “I told him ten days. No wonder they were acting so nervous. Did I say minutes? Well that explains it.”
“Don’t be coy with me, Agent DeLuca,” Ellis said. “I was going to go easy on you because you saved my life, but who do you think you are? You think you’re a one-man regime change? On whose authority did you—”
“Mr. Ambassador,” DeLuca said, “blow me.”
Ellis looked shocked.
“No one speaks to me like—”
“And shut the fuck up, while you’re at it. I found a videotape in your office. I know you thought you shredded or burned everything, but you missed one. Guess what’s on it? Did you know they passed a law to prevent sexual tourism that says an American citizen can be tried under American age-of-consent laws for acts committed abroad where the age may be lower or nonexistent?”
To DeLuca’s knowledge, they hadn’t, but it was something he’d always thought would be a good idea. When he’d seen the videotapes burned and melted in the wastebasket in the ambassador’s office, he’d thought little of it. When Preacher Johnson told him the rumors that Ellis had made tapes of himself having sex with young girls, he dismissed it, but when he saw with his own eyes how widely the moral decay emanating from the Bo administration had spread, reaching from top to bottom, he reconsidered the rumors. He was bluffing now, because he had little to lose, but he could see by the look on the ambassador’s face that he was guilty of something.
“This is preposterous,” Ellis said. “This is blackmai
l.”
“You can call it what you want,” DeLuca said. “But here’s what’s going to happen. I keep secrets for a living, Ambassador, and I’ll keep this one, because I know you have a wife and kids back home, and I don’t want to hurt them, but I will if I have to. You’re going to resign. You’re going to say something about how it’s time for new blood to help the new government get on its feet and that you need to step down. Say whatever you want to say, but do it today.”
“You can’t give me orders,” Ellis said.
“Yes I can,” DeLuca said. “See you at the briefing.”
They met again, half an hour later, sitting at a conference table with Ellis and with Captain McKinley from the LBJ, Robert Mohl, General Kissick representing the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Webster, Admiral Pulaski, Captain Long, Captain Gates, Hanson Sedu-Sashah, General Rene LeClerc from the United Nations, Lionel Ayles-Kensey representing British interests, and Colonel Suarez from the 27th Infantry, as well as with Phil LeDoux, who was conversing with LeClerc in French when Kissick called the briefing to order. They asked DeLuca for his opinions on a variety of issues. IPAB? “Minimal influence,” DeLuca said. “Some traction in the north, but mostly a small number of disorganized imams and dispersed terrorists struggling for power within the organization.”
“Dadullahjid?”
“Windbag.”
“John Dari?”
“Someone we can and should work with,” DeLuca said. “The Robin Hood image is true. And it’s not just a myth he perpetuates. He’s the real deal. A natural leader.”
“Paul Asabo?”
“Probably the single most unifying force in Liger,” DeLuca said. “He pulls together all religions, tribes, and political factions. I think the likelihood that power will corrupt him is minimal.”
“Do you think he’s really going to hold general elections in six months?”
“Absolutely,” DeLuca said. “Just like Jerry Rawlings did in Ghana. I also predict Asabo will be elected in a landslide with Dari as his running mate, but I’ve learned my lessons about predicting elections from living in the U.S.”
“What about the Ligerian People’s Liberation Front, and General Mfutho?”
“I saw about a hundred LPLF troops running down the road in their underwear,” DeLuca said. “I only know they were LPLF because we found a big pile of uniforms up the road from where we saw them. Weapons, too. My sense is, what they’re saying on the news is correct. These people just don’t want to fight anymore. Certainly not each other. They’re desperate for help, but they’re also desperate for peace.”
“Recommendations?” Kissick asked.
“Can I give a personal opinion?” DeLuca said.
“Absolutely,” Kissick said. “We’re all just scrambling for purchase here. I want a brain dump, and we’ll sort it out later.”
“Brain dump it is, sir,” DeLuca said, having to chew the expression a while before spitting it out. “It’s my understanding that in this circumstance, unlike in Iraq or Afghanistan, Civil Affairs has been putting together a massive supply of men and material to assist in the reconstruction of Liger, after Operation Liberty’s first phase was completed. We have food, medicine, water, hospital equipment and CASHs, engineers and all that, close at hand and in place to suppress any possible post-phase-one insurgencies. Do I have that approximately correct? The practical applications, if not the political interpretations?”
“You do,” Kissick said.
“Then my recommendation would be that we skip phase one and go straight to phase two,” DeLuca said. “A massive and immediate projection of soft power. Both because they need it now, and because it’s a void that someone else is going to fill if we wait. That was how IPAB had gained a foothold in the north to begin with, by assisting the people there on the local level. They’re still there, and the void is bigger than ever, and they’re in the best position to fill it, unless we jump. I say send in the Marines and the 27th immediately, and make sure they’re armed and trained to protect themselves and provide security, but make sure they all know how to change diapers and build schools, too, because I believe we would be both welcomed and respected if we did. It was not my sense that there’s a strong anti-U.S. or antiwhite sentiment in Liger. There’s not going to be an insurgency, unless we start blowing stuff up. They just want help. But what do I know? I’m just a lowly spook.”
“We’ll take it under advisement,” Kissick said.
“The thought has merit,” Ayles-Kinsey said. Sedu-Sashah and LeClerc nodded in support. “I see it as a time when might makes wrong. The Ligerians have seen how the West supports a regime with arms. If they see Asabo changing that arrangement and bringing in food instead of guns, it would certainly shore up support for him. Particularly in the north, where the need is greatest. I think…”
DeLuca listened, but he knew his contribution to the discussion was done.
Six hours later, the airlift began, Operation Manna, the White House had dubbed it. In the next twenty-four hours, over three thousand relief sorties were flown by U.S. C-141s, C-130 Hercules, and C5 Galaxies, bringing in water pumps, water purification units, solar cook stoves and windmills, construction materials and engineers, field kitchens and field hospitals, doctors and medical personnel, along with all the TV crews and newspaper reporters they could muster, after the White House determined they would use Operation Manna as an opportunity to tweak America’s image abroad. As the planes flew, the White House announced its intention to release over $500 million in aid to West African countries, in addition to funds committed to rebuild Liger, and dismissed $35 billion dollars in prior debts accrued by Liger and its neighbors. A White House spokesman said plans were being made to hold a rock concert on the White House lawn to benefit the victims of the war.
Gabrielle Duquette had stayed in London, though she’d been invited to participate in the relief effort. One London newspaper had called her a hypocrite for refusing to go, and said that when push came to shove and she was really needed, she wasn’t willing to put her money where her mouth was.
Dan Sykes considered bringing flowers with him, but he knew she’d received enough flowers in her lifetime to fill a stadium. When he knocked on the door to her hotel suite, after using a few CI techniques to discover the name she’d registered under, he was surprised again to see her answer it. She was wearing a thick white bathrobe over flannel PJs. She didn’t have any makeup on, and she had bed-head, but her smile was lovely. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Sykes said. “Flying stateside, but I had a layover. I thought I’d check in.”
Sykes noticed Band-Aids on her feet.
“Blisters,” Duquette said. “I don’t think anybody was meant to walk twenty miles in Prada sandals. The problem is, if I go out, somebody is bound to take a picture of my feet, and then everyone will want to know how I got them. Can I get you anything from the minibar?” she asked.
“I never use the minibars,” Sykes said. “Too expensive.”
“It’s on me,” Duquette said.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“How’m I doing?” she said, sitting on the couch. “I guess I’m all right. Thanks for sending the helicopter to come get me. And thanks for not being the person flying it, too.”
“I told you I’d get you home,” he said. “I was hoping to meet your son.”
“My nanny and my son Jonathan are flying in tomorrow,” Gabrielle said. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen him. I feel like I’m a terrible mother. But other than that. How are you?”
“Not a scratch,” Sykes said, holding out his arms to show her. “It got a little sketchy there for a while, but I think we straightened it out. I was worried about you.”
“About me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes you see things, in a war, that you’re not meant to see. Or you do things. It can change you. Particularly if you don’t have anybody to talk to about
it. In my business, they train you to hold your emotions in, to get you through and out the other side, but they never talk about what you’re supposed to feel afterward.”
“I’m an actress,” she told him. “We’re trained, too. Emotions on demand. Also to keep smiling, because you never know where the cameras are.”
“Yeah,” Sykes said. “Well, there’s no cameras here. In the military, if you don’t have friends to talk to about it, you can go crazy. And since the only people you can talk about it with are the people who’ve been through it with you, you stick together. That’s why nobody talks about war, except with other veterans. Nobody else would ever understand.”
“Okay,” she said, looking at him. “I think I get it.”
“So anyway, I came by, in case you needed somebody to talk to. Because if you try to hold it in, it’s just going to hurt you more.”
She looked at him for a second, and then her façade began to crack, and she began to cry, softly at first, but then she was overwhelmed. Sykes sat next to her and held her, stroking her hair and doing what he could to comfort her. She cried for fifteen minutes. It was the first time that Sykes had seen her lower her guard. She was silent for another fifteen minutes, her head pressed against his chest, her eyes closed.
“You must be hungry after your flight,” she said at last, drying her eyes. “Why don’t you let me whip you up some waffles and bacon, Canadian style?”
“Well,” he said. “I’m not really ready for waffles and bacon, just now.”
“I didn’t mean just now,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, not getting what she meant.
“Oh!” he said, getting what she meant.
She smiled at him.
“Dan,” she said, closing her enormous eyes and kissing him. She looked at him, their eyes three inches apart. He felt like he was sitting in the front row at a multiplex before a full-screen closeup. “Turn off your phone,” she whispered. “You’re going to be busy.”
Mission Liberty Page 28
