Prometheus's Child s-2

by Harold Coyle

  A trout rose to the bait, snapped at the fly, and dived.

  “Whoa!” Bosco exclaimed. “You got ‘im, J. J.! Awesome!” He slapped his friend on the back. “How’d you know he was there?”

  “Ah, you learn.” He tugged on his rod, enjoying the small adrenaline spike and the tension of the fish fighting on the other end.

  He did not admit that the trout had surprised him as much as it did Bosco.

  Abruptly the line went slack. “He slipped the hook,” Johnson said calmly. “Didn’t sink it when he took the fly. But we’ll stay with Parachutes for a while, since they’re about the most versatile surface flies around. I’ll change to Woolly Buggers later in the day.”

  Bosco hefted his rod and looked around. The reservoir was ringed with tall evergreens, their piney scent filling the morning air. “This is nice, J. J. Better than I thought. Where should I try?”

  “Hey, I knew you’d like it here.” He pointed to his right. “Step out on those flat rocks. That way you’ll be clear of the trees when you cast. Remember, back to ten o’clock and forward to two.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Johnson watched his friend for the first few casts. Like most beginners, Bosco exaggerated the pause at the ten and two positions, but eventually the casts became more fluid and the range increased. During the morning he even got a couple of strikes.

  At the lunch break, the discussion turned to shop talk.

  Bosco began with more subtlety than usual. “Admiral Derringer’s a fisherman, isn’t he? Does he ever go fly fishing?”

  “Don’t think so. Far as I know he’s into deep-sea fishing. He got a near record marlin last year.”

  “Yeah, I remember him talking about that,” Bosco replied. He regarded the former Foreign Legionnaire. “Just before we went to Pakistan, wasn’t it?”

  Johnson shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. I was still pretty new with the company at the time.”

  “Well, Breezy and I really like working for SSI. We’re going to Chad, you know.”

  So that’s it. Johnson turned toward Boscombe. “You’re here to recruit me, aren’t you?”

  Bosco began to avert his eyes, then riveted them on Johnson’s. “How am I doing?”

  Johnson lifted his Coors, took a sip, then set the beer down. “You know, you missed your calling.”

  “Yeah? How’s that?”

  “Well, you’re a shit-hot recruiter, that’s all.”

  Bosco flicked his head as if avoiding a gnat. “J. J., what are you trying to say?”

  “I’m trying to say, dude, that I’m in. I’ll go to Chad.”

  Boscombe’s eyes widened in realization. “You sumbitch! You already made up your mind!”

  Johnson winked. “Gotcha.” He thought for a moment, then said, “There’s something you should know. Frank Leopole and Sandy Carmichael, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I’ve had lots of time to think about this kind of work since… the last job.”

  Bosco knew enough when to keep quiet.

  “I’m going to Chad because it’s a training job,” Johnson explained. “I don’t plan to work in the field again. Ever.”

  Bosco set down his beer. “J. J., I think I know where you’re coming from. But if you’re still worried about what happened in Pak…”

  “Damn straight it’s about what happened over there. I compromised a mission and put good folks in the crosshairs because… because I…” He swallowed hard.

  “Because the bastards tortured you. Is that it?”

  Johnson took a pull at his bottle. He hardly noticed it was empty. Finally he managed to speak. “No, man. Not because they tortured me. Because I broke!”

  “Well, hell, J. J.. Everybody breaks. Look at all those guys in the Hanoi Hilton. The gooks broke every one of ‘em. It’s not like you’re the only one who ever had too much pain. C’mon, man.”

  “No, that’s not quite right, Bosco. Some of them didn’t break. They died before they’d give in.”

  Bosco leaned forward and punched his friend’s arm. “Makes my case, J. J. If you hadn’t talked, the ragheads would’ve killed you. You know that. Besides, nobody got hurt because you talked.”

  “That was just luck. So I don’t ever want to be in that position again. There’s just too…”

  Boscombe was more perceptive than the hey-dude persona he showed the world. Something else is goin’ on here, he told himself.

  “J. J., I know you’re prob’ly still having, well, trouble, with what happened there. Bad dreams? Things like that?”

  The brief nod again. “Something like that.” He stared into the empty long-necked bottle. He wondered how much he could tell Bosco and keep his self-respect. The scars on his back, buttocks, and upper thighs were physical reminders of the scalding he received at the hands of the Islamist cell in Pakistan, headed by the tormented genius determined to destroy the SSI team sent to find him and prevent the spread of the Marburg virus.

  But the emotional scars went bone deep.

  Almost without realizing it, Johnson found himself talking.

  “I met a girl, Bosco. A really good woman. We knew each other before she got married but now she’s divorced and we ran into each other not long ago. We’re getting serious. I mean… really serious, you know?”

  Bosco wondered how to respond when Johnson continued. “It’s like, I keep visualizing what it’s going to be like the first time we go to bed. She’s going to see my scars and if I haven’t told her about it, she’ll wonder why. But if I tell her before, she’ll know that I cracked and she…”

  “You think she won’t want to be with you?”

  Johnson shrugged. “Maybe. I mean… hell, man, I just don’t know.”

  Bosco let a feral grin escape his lips. “Shee-it, J. J., do I have to draw you a picture? Unless you want to spend the rest of your life holding hands with women, tell her the whole story. Maybe it won’t matter. Hell, maybe she’ll want to comfort you. But at least you’ll be over the hump, you know? Either it’ll work out with her or it won’t. If not with her, then with another gal.” He finished off his Coors and set it down. “Next subject.” He belched and added, “Gimme another brew.”

  13

  SSI OFFICES

  Leopole and Mohammed had some news to share.

  Addressing the staff, Leopole began, “I’ve heard from some embassy folks in Chad, and I think you all need to know what you might find over there.

  “We learned that at least two French PMCs were operating in-country. The frontrunner is called Groupe FGN, which is named for the original three partners. Apparently only one of them is still alive— chap named Geurrier — but he’s largely retired. His family runs the company but the hands-on guy is a hard case named Marcel Hurtubise, ex-Foreign Legion and jack of all mercenary trades. He’ll literally work for anybody, and has, especially in Africa: Sudan, Libya, Algeria, and so on.”

  “I wonder how he stays legit with those clients,” Carmichael said.

  Leopole gave a sardonic grin. “Well, he also works for the French government. One of his recent jobs was UXB removal in Kosovo, and that sort of work lends respectability. It checks the Humanitarian box.”

  Sandy shook her head. “UXB?”

  “Unexploded bombs, or ordnance generally. It’s an old Brit term but today it usually means land mines. They’re really un-PC in some circles.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember. That was one of Princess Di’s big causes.”

  “Yeah. I guess she never heard of the DMZ.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one along the thirty-eighth parallel. It sort of keeps North Korea out of South Korea.”

  Foyte fidgeted. “All right, so how does the French outfit affect us?”

  “I don’t know that it does for sure, but there’s something going on. The two senior members of the other PMC disappeared several days ago. The others went home on Air France.”

  Foyte emitted a long, low whistle. “You think�
��”

  “Yeah.”

  Carmichael leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Frank, I see where you’re going. But there must be other explanations.”

  The crew-cut head bobbed. “Sure, lots of ‘em in that area. But we can’t overlook the possibility that there’s been some corporate feuding.”

  “Man, talk about cutthroat competition!” Foyte almost smiled. “Are we likely to rub noses with these guys?”

  Leopold arched an eyebrow. Dan Foyte’s idea of rubbing noses had nothing in common with Eskimo greetings. “Don’t know, Gunny. But it’s something to keep in mind.”

  Foyte accepted that advice and shifted gears. “All right, what can we expect in Chad right now? Who will we work with before the French take over?” The team leader needed to know for planning purposes.

  “Well, evidently the blue beanies will leave some folks in place for transition, though the U.N. generally isn’t real happy with the situation. But there’s not much choice. Either they help hand over to us and the French or they leave the place totally on its own, which simply isn’t realistic.”

  Leopole looked around the table. “All right, people. It’s crunch time. We need to select a training team leader and his deputy.” He circled something on his briefing paper. His choice had already been made.

  Sandy Carmichael saw the motion, knew its meaning, and tacitly concurred. “How about Gunny?”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Leopole replied.

  Foyte was genuinely surprised. “Hey I don’t speak French, let alone Arabic.”

  Leopole chuckled to himself. Hell, the sumbitch hardly speaks English!

  Carmichael conceded, “No way around that. But you’ll have our translators as well as whatever the Chadians have over there. And J. J. Johnson’s fluent in French. You’ve worked together before. You two should make a good team.”

  “So he’s going?” Foyte asked.

  “Yup.” Carmichael gave a sly grin. “Seems that he took Bosco fishing— and Bosco landed him!”

  “That’s not how I heard it,” Leopole replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I called J. J. last evening. He admitted that he already decided to go. Just wanted to have some company so he lured Bosco in. Played him like — well, like a trout!”

  14

  N’DJAMENA, CHAD

  The kidnapped Vespa driver stirred at the sound of a key in the lock. He had lost track of time, and suspected that was not coincidental. Judging by the fading light through the narrow window, it was evening. Probably the third day.

  He rose from the floor where he had been trying to sleep. But his captors kept a bare bulb illuminated in the high ceiling — too high to reach. He was sore, tired, hungry — and frightened.

  Two men opened the door and motioned him out. One carried a truncheon and appeared capable of using it. The prisoner accepted the tacit invitation and stepped into the adjoining room. He had been blindfolded when he arrived, and welcomed the view of his immediate surroundings.

  Directed to a chair, the man sat and was immediately grasped from behind. Two other thugs secured him with cargo straps around the chest, and abdomen, pinning his arms.

  The older man turned from a companion and regarded the prisoner. In French-accented English, he said, “Your passport says that you are David Scourby, an Englishman. We know that you are David Olmert, and you are Israeli. You are working with at least two other Jewish agents, and you have been watching us. You are going to tell us why.”

  Olmert’s mind raced. They didn’t know who I was before. That’s why it took three days. But they still don’t know about Alex and the others.

  I have to tell them something.

  “We were interested in the French security company.”

  The inquisitor smiled grimly. His right hand snapped out, striking Olmert’s left cheek. “We know that! We caught you reporting their takeoff!”

  Strapped into the chair, Olmert could only glare at his tormentor.

  “Who did you report to?”

  “To my superior, of course.” And so the game goes, each step leading to the next.

  The Frenchman’s left fist struck the bridge of Olmert’s nose.

  An ambidextrous bastard.

  “Well?” The interrogator spat it out.

  Olmert shook off the blow. “Nathan. That’s the name he uses.”

  “Your accomplice is known to you by an alias?” Left, right, left. Hard, full-force punches, expertly delivered. This time they drew blood. Olmert tasted the salty tang on his tongue. He knew that his nose was broken.

  Forcing himself to focus, he realized that he had seen the thug before. Through a rifle scope — the day the two competing contractors had been murdered along the Aozou Strip.

  That knowledge settled over David Olmert like a shroud.

  N’DJAMENA

  It was time.

  “Etienne, call Gabrielle in here.” Marcel’s voice was irritated, petulant.

  Etienne Stevin recognized the signs.

  Olmert was again strapped to his chair. He looked the worse for wear following a full day of threats, cajolery, and beatings. Not even cigarettes to the soles of his feet elicited full disclosure.

  Marcel Hurtubise tolerated Gabrielle Tixier for any number of reasons, not least of which was her sadomasochistic streak. She specialized in humiliation.

  Entering the room, the young woman wielded a pair of scissors that she snipped playfully around her face. She wore a sleeveless blouse, tied at the midriff, with a pair of green shorts.

  She strode slowly to Olmert, fixing his eyes with hers. She made a point of smiling and saw the fear cross his face. He knows what’s coming, she thought. C’est bon.

  She traced the curve of his cheek with the point of the scissors, lingering around the eyes. Then she began cutting his shirt away. Marcel watched impassively; Etienne was less detached. He shifted on his feet and licked his lips.

  Gabrielle gave the little-girl pout that she had mastered as a child. It had worked on Papa, up to the point that he became aroused by it. She had fled at thirteen and met Marcel six years later. Yes, he was cunning, violent, and amoral, but he was generally good to her. Sometimes she wondered why; childhood abuse often left victims doubting their own worth.

  This was not one of those times.

  She waved a manicured finger in the captive’s face. The sheen on his skin told her all she needed to know. Gabrielle Tixier had long since been able to sense the presence of fear.

  “You are not very talkative, mon cher. Don’t you like to make conversation with your hosts?” She gave an exaggerated roll of her blue eyes. “Oh! Now I understand. All this male atmosphere. It is so dull, isn’t it?”

  She stepped close and placed her hands behind Olmert’s head. She stroked his matted hair with her left hand, cooing at him.

  Then, with her right hand, she snipped his left earlobe. He screamed in pain and surprise. “Bitch!”

  “There, you see?” She caressed his cheek with her free hand. “It is so much nicer to talk to little Gabrielle. Actually, I am doing us all a favor. I have shown you that we make no idle threats, and perhaps that will save you much pain. Also, it may save us some time. It depends on you, mon petit.”

  She held his jaw and snipped the right earlobe as well. Blood trickled down his neck. “Let that be a lesson to you, cheri.”

  The pout again. “Now, won’t you tell me what Marcel and Etienne want to know? Please?”

  Olmert’s face was reddened with fear and rage. He glared at her with hateful eyes. “Why should I talk? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  “Did I say such a thing? No, of course not. But as I said, you can save yourself much pain.” She curled the ends of her mouth. “Oh, yes. A great deal of pain.”

  Slowly, as if choreographed, Gabrielle turned to the two men and nodded. They walked away without looking back. Olmert felt a shudder, a liquid tremor in his bowels.

  Gabrielle clicked the sciss
ors again. Without speaking, she began cutting away the rest of his shirt. It was awkward, as he was tied to the chair, but she proceeded with enthusiasm, humming to herself.

  When the shirt was gone, she cut a slice from each pectoral. Then she turned to his trousers.

  She pulled the tattered remains of Olmert’s pants from beneath him and flung them across the room. Then she leaned over him, allowing her breasts to press against his chest, and carefully snipped through his briefs. First the left side, then the right. The shorts fell away.

  Still grasping the scissors, she clasped his head in her hands. Stroking his face, she gave him the little-girl pout. “Won’t you talk to Gabrielle, David? Before I have to cut you…” She glanced downward.

  He turned his face away, choking down a sob.

  Three minutes later Gabrielle emerged from the room. “He broke, poor boy. They always do, you know. But there is not much to tell. Most of what he said, you already guessed. He is working for a cutout, a private contractor with ties to Israeli intelligence. His field partner is an American. They were at the airport to confirm that the other contractor had left after… well, after their team disappeared.”

  Marcel leaned forward. “What does he know about that?”

  She shrugged. “I did not ask. You said you wanted to know why they were observing the other firm and who pays them.”

  The former Legionnaire rubbed his stubbled chin. “All right. I will ask him myself, but he will not talk about that. He’s not stupid. He knows it would mean a bullet for him.”

  “Then…”

  “Then he gets a bullet anyway. Whatever he says.”

  15

  BEALETON, VIRGINIA

  Sandra Carmichael turned off Route 17, taking 644 eastward. Following the signs, she soon came to a private air park. She drove past the sign advertising orientation flights on weekends, May through October.

  Terry Keegan was waiting for her. There wasn’t much activity on a Friday morning in April.