“We’d better get going,” said Pierre. “We need to keep far ahead of them.”
37
Jane tried the number a couple of times before she gave up. Then she plugged her phone into her notebook and made a secure connection. She traced the call.
What the hell is he doing in Congo?
She booted up the satview. The globe spun and zoomed into an area of jungle in the DRC near the Rwandan border. There was a little flag on the mountainside. Why would Jim be in a place like that?
She selected the Situations, Issues, Threats icon and a window opened and loaded. The scroll bar shrank and shrank. The software wasn’t loading a report: it was loading an encyclopedia of trouble. She scanned it. The tags said: Insurgency, Genocide, Civil War, Trafficking. Never mind deep shit, Jim had got himself into a major clusterfuck. The DRC was about as far away from her and America as you could get. It was in the middle of Africa and, as such, on the edge of the world.
She called Max Davas.
Max was waving his arm over the digital whiteboard. His room of Quants – like bank traders, but each with a PhD in maths – didn’t seem to get his point. These guys were so smart that with the advanced physics of their derivatives they had nearly bankrupted the world only a few years ago by accidentally creating the equivalent of a financial black hole. Davas hired the best of the best.
The phone in his pocket was buzzing and he knew if it rang it was more important than a room full of his private army of brilliant but today pea-brained mathematicians.
“It’s intuitively obvious,” he said, in conclusion, and pulled out the phone. “Excuse me,” he said, and made for the office door.
The mathematicians looked at the fluctuating surfaces on the whiteboard and then at each other. They liked to think their peers didn’t understand and hoped they thought they did.
“Jane, an unexpected pleasure.”
“Do you know why Jim is in deep shit?”
“No,” said Davas, “only that he went to the Congo to try and find his broker.”
“Funny place to go look for your broker.”
“The man fell out of a helicopter over a mine Jim has an ownership in.”
“OK,” said Jane. “I just got a text from him saying he’s in big trouble.”
“What exactly did it say?”
“It said, ‘In deep shit’.”
“Just that?”
“Yes.”
“So he must be in really deep shit,” said Davas.
“Yes.”
“That’s very bad.”
“Max, I’m going to need your help. Stand by.”
She called John Smith. “Have you heard from Jim?”
“Why?” asked Smith.
“Is that, like, no?”
“It could be.”
“He’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Don’t know. I just got a single text.”
“What did it say?”
Jane sighed with irritation. “‘In deep shit’.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“He must have been pushed for time.”
“Yeah, well, that’s my thinking. The signal came from a sat phone smack in the middle of the African jungle.”
“Need help?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can probably get backing,” said John.
“In DRC?”
“DRC? That’s a tricky one.”
“Tell me about it. Look, stand by, OK?”
38
Jane went digging and pulled up the mine. Barron was some mad crazy London stock. Its price had been flying and it was all over the London financial pages.
Typical, thought Jane. She pulled it up on the satview. The compound looked like an army campsite with three, maybe four hundred soldiers on it. She parcelled the image out to analysis with an emergency priority on it and started probing for information on company staff.
The CEO was flying back to London from Kinshasa.
She forwarded his details to Smith. “Arrest at the airport. I’m coming over.”
John was immediately on the phone. “What have you got?”
“The boss of this mine, Bartholomew Mycock, just left the area and is headed back to London. There’s a small army parked on the property and the message came from five to ten miles away from it.”
A newsflash from the analysts flashed across the bottom of her screen: “Targets Mai-Mai insurgents. The troops are insurgent.”
“Possible candidates,” said the ticker, “CRA … FRDKI … FNRA … M40 … MLA …”
“Tagged target acquired,” said the screen.
“Stand by,” said Jane, hanging up.
A little green soldier sat alone in a box on the top right-hand corner of the screen. She right-mouse clicked it and selected focus. The map zoomed in; the view was blocked with cloud. She went to radar, which was dramatically lower resolution, but all she could see was jungle canopy. She switched back to visual view and put it on track. The point was jiggling as she’d expected, but was Jim moving or was it just noise?
They had tagged Jim’s ass in the hospital in Venice – some bright person in Washington didn’t want such a valuable piece of collateral to go missing. And during the operation on his ruptured torso, they’d put a transponder in one of his bust ribs that let them keep tabs on him, as if he was an expensive sports car. They had been so very right to do so.
She called Smith back: “Screw arresting Mycock. We’ve just got to get to Jim fast.”
“OK,” said Smith. “I’ll do my best at my end.”
“I’ve got a fix, I’ll send you co-ordinators.”
“That was quick,” said Smith.
“We don’t rely on the BBC for intel,” she snapped.
“How close did the sat-phone signal get you?”
“I’m looking right at the spot.” Trouble is, she thought, it’s not moving. “Stand by.”
She called Davas. “I’ve got to get into the DRC within hours,” she said. “There’s a small army of insurgents parked right on Jim’s mine and he’s up in the hills in the middle of the jungle. If we don’t go get him quick, he’ll be toast.”
“Send a request to the President and copy it to me,” said Davas. He looked at his smartest employees, each one a young genius. “I may be some time,” he said, picking up his little netbook. “Please have this worked out by the time I return. I need you to understand it.”
Davas walked quickly to his corner office in the black rhomboid building overlooking the Hirst-Brault Expressway in Hendon, Virginia. Jane’s email was waiting for him. He forwarded it to the President and wrote below the header: “As you know, Jim is my planned successor. We have no credible replacement and in fairness I should have expired long since. If you would, please, kindly give this the highest priority.” He sent the message and closed the netbook, then returned to the meeting room.
Only he understood the maths that let him model the world’s markets. Only he could codify the insights necessary for the US government to stay one step ahead of the efficient market. When it finally caught up with the profligate US economy it would tear down its walls and smash its aqueducts like the Hun had destroyed Rome.
Yet Jim could see this future in his mind’s eye. It was a unique skill and beyond price. Where Davas’s army of computing slaves would take a day to render an outcome from Yottamips of calculations, the young guy could just glance at a chart and see everything.
When Davas was gone, only Jim would stand between the US – the world – and a collapse into barbarism and war because only Jim could replace him and his market simulations.
The man who could see even ten minutes into the future of the financial markets could, as Davas had done for twenty-five years, control the finances of the world.
A box flashed on Jane’s mission screen. Approved. She opened the resources box. If priority was low she would be flying coach class on her own dime. If pri
ority and resources were high enough she could move mountains.
“Wow,” she said. “Ninety-nine/ninety-nine.” She could go to war against France with that kind of clearance. The commanding officer was Acting Major General J. Brown.
The Jim situation had got her promoted a whole two jumps.
The bastard, she thought, shuddering with a flash of fury and clenching her fists. Then she smiled. This time she could repay him double by saving his ass, a debt that no amount of money could repay.
She stared at the map. Was the dot at the feet of the red-soldier icon now making a line? She zoomed in. The line made a jagged pattern but the range seemed to be expanding. It jumped about fifty yards to the right and continued to blip around, then jumped a few more yards. She tweaked the smoothing setting but it didn’t help. The crazy line was moving east. Unless someone was carrying Jim’s body, he was alive.
She forwarded the mission to Bill and Will at Special Ops. That would shit them up.
Will was first on the screen. “Holy cow,” he said, by way of introduction.
“Holy cow,” responded Jane.
“Better get you to Andrews Air Force Base.”
“I’m coming from the office,” said Jane. “It’s about a hundred miles to you from Charlottesville. If you can keep the roads open I’ll be less than an hour with my bike.”
“I’ll get on to it.”
Bill came on line. “Hey.”
“Got to run, Bill. Catch you at the base.”
She called Smith. “I’m going straight in. Do anything you can.” She closed down the computer and walked straight to the car park and her bike. Acting Major General Brown. She fired the bike up. She was going to have a fun forty-five minutes. She thought about the resource allocation and the priority: 99/99 was off the dial. She must be missing something. It was like Jim was an aircraft carrier that had gone missing with a hull full of nuclear Tomahawks.
If the Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14 had been a horse, she would have stuck her spurs into its flanks. The bike screamed down the road to the gatehouse. She swiped the pad and the gate opened. She would be driving at 120 m.p.h. in just over six and a half seconds.
39
It was dark and the fire was building. They had made it to within about a quarter of a mile from where Pierre thought the pygmies’ territory began. They hadn’t had any contact with the Christ Reunion which Jim found infinitely reassuring: with every step they took their chances of being captured reduced. Pierre didn’t seem so sure. They shared the last of the rations; a French toast pocket, processed jalapeño cheese and crackers. Jim had some caffeinated chewing gum, tomato sauce, salt and pepper straggling in the last ziplock bag.
“They will track us,” said Pierre. “They will come after me because I told them I knew where the star came from. That kept them from killing me.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” said Jim.
“Tell me,” said Pierre, “why you came for me?”
Jim looked embarrassed. “Was I supposed to leave you there?”
“Yes,” said Pierre. “I would have left you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you warn me to run away?”
Pierre squeezed his nose hard and looked into his lap. “That was stupid,” he said.
“So I’m stupid too.”
Pierre looked up. “I think my parents are alive.”
“I didn’t know you thought they were dead.”
“When the Christ Reunion took my village they killed and killed. But they found me and I told them I could speak English. Adash came and he gave me a pistol and all the soldiers laughed. ‘Kill your father now and your mother and sister will live and then you will follow me,’ he said. My father was begging me to kill him. He was crying, ‘Kill me, son. Please kill me.’ But I was not crying I was filled with hate, blind red anger. So in a fury I took the pistol and I pushed it into Adash’s throat and said, ‘You will die first and then we all go see God.’ He was smiling, smiling, laughing at me, with his death in my eyes and me with his gun in his throat. He didn’t care and he said he would let my family live as long as he owned my soul. So that was how it was, but soon I knew my family were dead. Adash would kill all he came across. He butchered everybody. Why would he have not killed my family as soon as I couldn’t see? But I hoped and I followed him, but my hope died in my heart and my heart became a stone.” He clenched his fist. “Dead like the burnt rocks that fall from the mountain. But Adash told me they were dead yesterday, and I know that what he tells you is lies. Truth is poison in his mouth and twisting is everything. So I have hope. My family is far away. They must have made themselves safe. Once you meet Mai-Mai, if you do not flee you die.”
“How are we going to handle the pygmies tomorrow?”
“We try to trade.”
“And then?”
“We keep moving. Until we get to Goma or find a big UN unit we will not be safe. Adash will stop at nothing to find the diamond mine, to find me.”
Adash sat in the darkness of the bungalow. None of his men had been able to figure out the generator and the lights went out at midnight. He had called his commanders from all over the region. They were to converge on the mountain and find the boy and the owner Evans. Then they would share in the spoils of the mine.
Since the civil war had fallen into a violent kind of peace, his commanders had become increasingly hungry. Men were drifting homewards. War had brought power and money, but peace drained it away again. The mine would reignite the struggle and Christ Reunion would stand alone, a fluid horde that would sweep everything aside.
40
Heathrow wasn’t Baz’s favourite place, but compared to the DRC it was like walking through the gates of heaven to be serenaded by flapping angels with trumpets.
He was tired so he was pleased to zip through Immigration and Customs. He was going to flop at the Dorchester and count his winnings. Ralph had excelled himself, and for all his selling, the share price of Barron was still over four pounds. He had made a royal killing, more than all his other deals put together. He was back, he was made, he was done.
He sat in the empty first-class carriage of the Heathrow Express, watching the stupid news from the BBC. Why did they import this misery? What was more, why did it have to be piped into his happy little first-class bubble? They could fuck off with their depressing reports – how about some soothing music instead?
His mobile rang.
“Mr Mycock,” said a deep cut-glass accent. It was a rich African voice.
“Yes,” said Baz.
“I’m Julien Julius,” said the voice.
It was the Congolese Minister for Interior Infrastructure.
“What can I do for you?” Baz almost added “mate” but stopped himself in time.
“I wondered if we could meet.”
Too late, thought Baz.
“I was hoping in London,” continued Julius, “if that’s not too inconvenient, as I’m in England for a bit.”
Baz grinned slyly and put his feet up on the seat in front of him. “Oh, I think I could manage that. How can I reach you when I arrive?”
“Call the embassy.”
“Is it regarding anything in particular?”
“Oh,” said Julius, “just a few ideas I’ve got. I thought we could have a chat.”
“All right,” said Baz. “I’ll be with you as quickly as I can.” His original plan was accidentally in play. He was going to have some fun with it.
Will was pushing the digital map around on the tabletop screen. “So you want to go right now – you won’t even wait a day?”
“Not if I don’t have to,” said Jane.
“You want to just drop right in there, no back-up, no nothing?”
“Is that so unusual?”
“Without proper planning? Hell, yes.”
“He may already be dead. His survivability is limited to hours.”
“We can fly you in a B1 Lancer, refuel at Lajes Fiel
d in the Azores and drop you out the bomb bay into the jungle. You’ll be hanging in a tree, dead, in about nine hours from now.”
“I’ve done a jungle landing.”
“At night?”
“Yes.”
“Two,” said Bill, “if I recall. But we can drop you on one of the lava flows. That’s maybe a fifteen-kilometre hike to Jim.”
“Sounds good,” said Jane.
“All you have to do is find him, get him to a lava flow and we can chopper you out.”
“Got to tell you,” said Will, “that no one’s ever jumped from a B1 before, it’ll be a first for everyone.”
“How do the crew get out?” asked Jane.
“The whole cockpit jettisons.”
“We’ll work it out,” said Bill. “We’ve got about an hour because they’re landing in about fifteen.”
“B1 is designed for dropping nukes,” said Will, “so it’s just made for you.”
“Why, thank you, Will,” said Jane.
“With a bit of luck we can drop you in at dawn their time,” said Bill.
“Kit me out,” she said. “I don’t want to waste another moment.”
“Move very slowly now,” said Pierre, “and call out like me. Yoyoyo!”
“Yoyoyo,” hollered Jim.
“Look down at your feet like you are humble. Yoyoyo!”
Jim hunched up. “Yoyoyo.”
“Yoyoyo,” called Pierre.
They came to a clearing with tall grass.
“They are watching,” he said. “Yoyoyo. Sit down here next to me. Yoyoyo. Slowly.”
“Yoyoyo,” called Jim, dropping to the ground, his legs crossed under him.
The Twain Maxim Page 20
