Implant

by Jeffrey Anderson

  “Very fine work,” Markov said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re an excellent agent. One of the best I’ve worked with.”

  “Thank you. Did you fall for my trick in Querétaro?”

  “I did. Clever.” The compliment this time sounded more grudging.

  “I knew you’d find me. Once I figured that Sarah would send you, personally, I knew that I had to be careful. You have a certain reputation. And not just as a hard-ass.”

  Julia came into the room. “Thanks for helping.” She glanced back toward the door. Ikanbo still hadn’t come back. “Do you guys trust him?”

  “No, not really,” Markov said. “Professionally, I respect him. But he’s looking out for his own interests, that much is obvious. We have two responsibilities. First, we’ve got to stop Sarah Redd. If what she’s doing is not treason, it’s damn close. Sarah and—” He hesitated. “—and whoever might be helping her.”

  Ian glanced at Julia and saw that she recognized that hesitation for what it was. Markov was talking about her husband, Terrance. She no longer looked shocked by the news; there was a grim set to her mouth and she nodded.

  “Second,” Markov said, “we’ve got to stop whatever the CIA is doing in Namibia. We don’t keep the CIA and AFRICOM out of whatever mess is brewing then it’s going to go a whole lot worse for the United States when everything shakes out. A diplomatic nightmare, at the very least. At worst, things could blow up in a big way with the Chinese.”

  Ian looked out the door. He had a hard time seeing into the dark, but he could hear raised voices. What was going on? Was it nothing more than Ikanbo having difficulty convincing his men to trust the foreigners?

  “What are you thinking?” Ian asked.

  “I’m thinking that I’ll head back to the States, confront Sarah. Take it to the president, if I have to. You’ll stay here, take control of CIA resources in country, help Ikanbo in any way you can. He thinks there’s a coup in progress, and his brother is leading it. Our best way to stop that is to work through Charles.”

  “What about me?” Julia asked.

  “That’s tough,” Markov said. “You might be in more danger in the States than here.” He turned to Ian. “Will she get in your way?”

  “She hasn’t so far. I think she should stay with me.”

  “Good, then it’s settled. What’s keeping Ikanbo?”

  As if on cue, Charles Ikanbo stepped into the farm house from the front porch, alone. His face was frozen into a frown.

  “Okay, let’s talk,” Markov said.

  “We’ll have to do it on the road,” Ikanbo said, “because I’ve got to go back to Windhoek at once.”

  “What’s the matter, what happened?”

  “I just got a call from Windhoek. The army is out of its barracks. They’re marching on the city.”

  #

  Just after midnight, Namibian time, four T-55 tanks rolled north on the C-26. They moved at ten miles an hour in a clank of treads and the stink of diesel.

  William Ikanbo, Minister of Mines and Energy, and future president for life of Namibia, rode behind the tanks in the first of a caravan of trucks and jeeps. This was his day, when all of Namibia—no, all of the world would remember his bravery and cunning. The caravan carried a total of two hundred men. Another two hundred men had infiltrated the capital from the north. Colonel Helck—William’s main ally in the army—led these forces. The rest of the army knew nothing of the operation.

  The T-55 tanks were 1950s Soviet design, 1970s production. Slow, poor firing systems, with weak armor in an age of shells made of depleted uranium. Even the Blackwing mercenaries would be able eliminate them with little difficulty should it come to a pitched battle in the open.

  The Windhoek police, however, would find them formidable enough.

  First step, secure the capital.

  William had studied enough coups—successful and failed—to see one lesson played out again and again. Failed coups inevitably started in the countryside or in secondary cities. So long as the seat of government remained free, even in name only, the possibility of a counterattack remained.

  William wasn’t a military genius or great strategist. Many great leaders weren’t. But he had the same military background as his brother Charles and had served as a major under General Katz. The Old Crab, as he was known, had a greater talent for keeping himself in control than any military prowess.

  General Katz, in an affectation from his father’s German background, had, for decades, retired in the evening to sip himbeergeist, a schnapps with an unpleasant aftertaste of sour raspberry.

  Katz was almost eighty, drank more himbeergeist than ever, and even if someone dared disturb him in the night, would be too drunk to take action until morning. By morning, William and Colonel Helck planned to be in control of both the government and the army.

  The tanks forced cars off the road. A police blockade met them at the city limits. William had a moment of panic, but he quickly composed himself. The police couldn’t do anything against the tanks, but they could fire at the troop transports, which would force William to destroy them with the tanks. This had to be an action of the people against foreign influences. As soon as Namibians fought Namibians it would be a civil war. He couldn’t afford that, not in the early stages.

  William ordered a stop and got out of the truck to approach the barricade. The tanks and trucks idled. Men got down and smoked or squinted into the darkness at the flashing lights of the police cars. There seemed to be no sentiment to start a firefight with the dozen or so uniformed men who crouched behind their cars in the road in front of them.

  He grabbed a bullhorn and mounted the foremost tank. “This is William Ikanbo, acting head of state,” he said.

  “What the hell that means?” someone shouted back in pigeon English. “You not the president.”

  “Go back to your barracks!” another police officer shouted.

  “I am acting president, until the state of emergency subsides,” he responded. “I’m under orders of General Katz, who received an urgent request from the president two hours ago to rescue him from the presidential palace. He is being held by foreign mercenaries and CIA spies.”

  There was no response to this. They had heard no such thing, probably because the president would be home at bed at this hour. William had two men inside the palace who, while unable to get to the president himself, would make sure the man got no communication from outside the building until it was too late.

  “We’re moving forward,” William said. “Get your cars off the road, I have no time to stop and argue. The future of the country is at stake.”

  He returned to the trucks and ordered the convoy to continue forward. It started at a creep. The police cars stayed where they were, lights flashing. Officers made calls on cell phones or car radios.

  But William had set off enough confusion that they didn’t shoot as he approached. They stood to the side, unable to take any action as the tanks knocked the cars aside with no more effort than if they’d been tin cans.

  Ahead, the lights of Windhoek blinked.

  #

  William surrounded the presidential palace without opposition. As soon as he entered the city, Colonel Helck sent his men into action. They took control of police stations and television stations. They would lift the news blackout as soon as they had the situation under control.

  He was prepared to move on the palace when he got a call from Helck. “We’ve entered the Central Intelligence headquarters. Brief firefight, two of my men dead, one CIS officer. Building under control, no further resistance.”

  One small knot of worry dissolved. “Very good. And my brother?”

  “Nowhere to be found. We interrogated one man who said he is involved in an action against suspected CIA agents. Not sure where, yet.”

  This was good and bad. He’d worried most about Charles, and his overinflated sense of importance. That arrogance! Sanctimonious in his claims about the purity
of the Namibian system of government. Those attitudes might lead him to do something rash.

  That Charles was out of Windhoek solved the immediate problem. William could bring most of the intelligence services under control with either bribes or threats.

  The bad was obvious. Charles had connections to the Chinese and their foreign mercenaries. He had the loyalty of a number of men, both here and outside the capital. William needed CIS support, or this could turn into a bloody, protracted battle.

  “I want him arrested. Once you’ve got the Old Crab under control, that needs to be your number one priority. If he resists—” William hesitated. Charles was his brother, after all. What would mother say? “If he resists, you must eliminate him and any men who fight with him.”

  “Understood.”

  The men had now set up a perimeter around the palace. It would take a bit longer to arrange the tanks and mortars. The presidential guard inside would fight back; the battle must be decisive.

  William’s next step was to place a call to his contact in the U.S. Government. He dialed Sarah Redd’s direct number and to his surprise, she picked up, rather than let it go to voice mail.

  “This is William Ikanbo.”

  “What is it?” she said, irritably. “I thought I told you—”

  “We’ve moved forward with the plan. The president is in custody.” A slight exaggeration, but one that should shortly be true.

  “What? I told you—”

  “Just as we agreed,” he said. “Now, I need air support. What about those Blackwing contractors?”

  “You know I can’t do that. If I commit military resources, I...no! We disavow any involvement in this affair, in fact—”

  “You can uncommit the U.S. Government,” William said, “but you can’t uncommit yourself. I’ve got too much evidence, and if things go badly for me, then I guarantee that they will go badly for you.”

  She said nothing and even through the silence he could feel her weighing the threat. And considering countermeasures, no doubt. Could she assassinate him? Turn actively against the coup?

  “You watch that Blackwing camp,” he continued. “I don’t care what else you do, but under no circumstances are the mercenaries to get involved. If they do, I swear you will go down.”

  He hung up. The tanks flanked the building. Half a dozen mortars and four truck-mounted M2 Browning .50 caliber machine guns completed the arsenal, complemented by nearly two hundred soldiers.

  The presidential guard resisted the attack when it came. Gunfire erupted from windows and balconies as soon as the tanks broke through the gates. William ordered return fire. The heavy machine guns sliced through walls while mortars slammed into the building. Tanks pummeled the walls until they collapsed into piles of brick and broken glass. The noise, light, and violence left him stunned.

  His troops streamed through these breaches into the building. The firefight continued inside as the president’s guard refused to concede a meter of ground without suffering or delivering casualties.

  William led his personal guard through the shattered remains of the palace. He spotted two of his soldiers collecting silver candlesticks and platters from a dining hall. “Not yet, you idiots. Clear the building, first.”

  Reluctantly, they set down their loot and picked up their guns. Doing so saved their lives as a man burst into the room through an open door on the far side of the room with a drawn handgun. He fired off a wild shot before the two soldiers cut him down.

  As fiercely as it raged, the battle ended within about fifteen minutes. Dead and dying men lay everywhere, equal in number from both sides. They found the president in his offices, sitting calmly at his desk. He rose when William entered the room.

  The president was a veteran of the independence movement, a once formidable physical presence who now showed his age. He rose, leaned against his chair with a hunch of bony, narrow shoulders. Time had turned his hair white, bleached and blotched his skin and turned his face puffy in a way that blurred his race. He could have been Asian, European, Herero, Baster.

  “Why, William? Why would you do such a thing?”

  “It’s only to protect you, Mr. President. There are spies and foreigners in the capital, in the palace. Imperialists and neo-colonialists. They are trying to take over Namibia.”

  “Oh, William. Why?” His tired, watery eyes looked around the room, at the men pulling art work from the walls and rifling through the mahogany cabinets near the doorway. It wouldn’t be long before they carried off the cabinets themselves.

  “They’re just soldiers. They need a bit of a reward.”

  Indeed, they would need to be restrained, eventually. William would need to repair and refurbish the palace for his own use. It wouldn’t do any good to see it completely destroyed.

  “This is nothing. They’re just looting things. You, William, are looting the Namibian state. The Namibian people.”

  The president wobbled suddenly on his feet. He reached a hand for his desk to steady himself. He staggered, his hand catching not the desk, but an open drawer.

  “Don’t let him fall!” William snapped. He needed the president whole, healthy looking when he put him on TV, not with a gash above his forehead, like he’d been beaten.

  Two of his men rushed to grab the old man. There was a pop and one of them staggered backwards with a shocked look on his face. The president straightened. He no longer looked frail, but quite alert. The gun in his hand barely wobbled as it pointed at William. The old man gave him a look of triumph.

  Too late William realized that the president had not been falling, he’d been reaching for a gun. Too late he realized that he was going to die. Killed by an old man.

  Two shots rang out. The first came from the president’s gun, the second from one of the guards. The president fell to the ground without a cry.

  William examined himself and realized he was unhurt. Miraculously, the president had missed at a distance of two meters. The wobble in his hand had saved William.

  He turned to the man who’d fired the shot that killed the president. “What did you do that for?”

  “He was, I—“

  “Oh, never mind. We’d have had to kill him sooner or later anyway.”

  William glumly looked over the president’s body. Why did everything have to be so difficult?

  A final burst of gunfire sounded somewhere in the building, then everything was quiet except for the sound of smashing furniture and looting.

  Chapter Thirty-seven:

  Markov called Sarah Redd while Charles Ikanbo organized his men to leave the farmhouse. Ian and Julia and Markov’s men were loading the Land Rovers.

  Sarah picked up, spoke in a low voice. “Anton, is that you? What the hell is going on there?”

  Because Markov was always straightforward professionally, people tended to forget that he’d been a field operative, trained to lie effectively.

  “Westhelle is dead,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Shot him myself. I’ve got his body wrapped in a tarp in the back of the truck. I’m going to remove it from the country before attempting to extract the implant.”

  “Very good.” She sounded relieved. “See, and you thought you weren’t up for the challenge.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” he said. “Westhelle was damn good, and smart too. I took some blows. Lost a man.”

  “What about Dr. Nolan?”

  “She’s still free. I’m closing in, but it will take a little more time.”

  “Get it done, then call me back.”

  “There’s one other thing,” he said. “The situation on the ground is deteriorating rapidly.”

  “How so?”

  “The Namibians are after us. One of our safe houses was compromised and we had a shootout with Central Intelligence Services.”

  Throw in a little truth, mixed with lies. It was the way one operated when in hostile territory. The irony was that hostile territory now included the Director of Natio
nal Intelligence, herself.

  “And it’s going to get worse,” he continued. “You’ll hear about it by morning, but the upshot is that I’m afraid we’re in the middle of a coup.” And you know that already, don’t you?

  “Really? Are you serious?” She sounded so surprised that Markov had to remind himself that he wasn’t the only trained liar.

  “Yes, very. Please advise. Once I neutralize Nolan, do you want me to leave the country or stay to observe?”

  “Do not leave the country. Your men, either. I need resources on the ground to have current information on this situation.”

  “Understood. I’ll be in contact shortly.”

  He hung up the phone, satisfied. She still trusted him, and wanted him in Namibia to help ease the coup along.

  Markov made a second phone call, this one to the U.S. Central Command base in Djibouti.

  He found himself talking to a Colonel Garcia, U.S. Air Force. “You need a pickup in Namibia?” Garcia asked. “What’s going on down there anyway?”

  “You might know as much as I do,” Markov said. “I’m in the field and have been dark for several days.”

  “All I know is that they’ve got us on standby for some major operation in Namibia. I don’t have the operational details myself, but it’s a joint operation with the Rangers.”

  Markov found himself dismayed that Garcia knew as much as he did, given that he was obviously willing to share it with anyone who happened by. No matter that Markov had the highest possible clearance, he did not need to know. Missions had failed for lesser slips.

  Still, the news surprised him. The operation in support of Ian Westhelle and Kendall Rose had come from a small covert airfield in the Caprivi Strip. If the massive base in Djibouti—thousands of miles away—was involved, then Sarah Redd was pulling no punches. Or maybe this went way beyond Sarah Redd. Markov froze at the thought. Was that possible? The operation was too big for the CIA to handle on its own. The defense department was involved. What did the President know?