by Kyle Mills
“And you brought along a former SAS man?”
“It seemed wise, Mr. President. I have some military training, but in the end I’m just a medical doctor—”
“You think my country is unsafe? That I cannot control it?”
This was probably a good time to dust off the little he knew about diplomacy. The purpose of the room was very clear, and spending the next few days strapped into one of those chairs freshening the stains on the floor wasn’t how he wanted to end his life.
“Not at all, sir. I’m fully aware of the strides Uganda has made since you became president. But I also know how hard it is to implement reforms in remote rural areas, so I decided to err on the side of caution.”
A humorless smile spread across Sembutu’s face. “I am not a simpleton, Doctor. I think you’ll find I’m not so easily handled.”
“It wasn’t my intention, sir. I—”
“Why were you at the hospital?”
Smith had spent much of the time they’d been imprisoned there considering every reason they could have been arrested, but their visit to the hospital had run a distant second to their side trip to see Peter’s arms dealer.
“We found some research on a parasite that infects humans and wanted to ask Dr. Lwanga if he was familiar with it. We—”
“And then you described something very much like Caleb Bahame’s attacks on villages in the North.”
Smith let his expression go blank. “Caleb Bahame? The terrorist? I don’t understand, sir. This is a parasite that causes insanity and blood loss. What would that have to do with Bahame?”
Sembutu examined him carefully, but it was impossible to discern if he was buying the completely plausible lie. Americans tended not to pay much attention to the various skirmishes going on in Africa. Why would an army doctor know the details of Bahame’s attacks?
“It doesn’t matter if you understand what this has to do with Bahame, Colonel. He is a psychotic who fills children with methamphetamines, paints them with blood, and convinces them to kill their own families. The uneducated people in the rural areas believe it is magic, and this is how he spreads misery in my country. If it becomes public that there is an American army doctor taking an interest in him, it will only serve to strengthen his legend and people’s belief in his power.”
“But we didn’t intend—”
“I don’t care what you did or did not intend!” Sembutu shouted. “If Bahame succeeds, he will kill every living thing in Uganda and then move on to other countries. America cares little about this, but I have a responsibility to the people of my country. To my subjects.”
“Mr. President,” Sarie cut in, her voice displaying a calm Smith knew she didn’t feel. “We’re not experts on politics or war. We’re just scientists…”
Sembutu glanced in her direction for a moment and then back to Howell and Smith. “All evidence to the contrary.”
“Our main objective is a parasite that affects ants,” she continued. “This was just something interesting that came up when we were doing research. We’d already discarded the idea of looking for it because we concluded that if Dr. Lwanga hasn’t heard of it, it probably doesn’t exist.”
“An ant…,” Sembutu said skeptically.
“Yes, sir. I do a lot of work with ants.”
The room went silent for a few moments before Sembutu spoke again. “I have to tell you that if it weren’t for Dr. van Keuren, you may well have found yourselves residents of one of our prisons. But her work with malaria has been a great help to people throughout Africa and I am indeed aware of her work with insects.”
He held their passports out across the desk. “I’ve included a card with my personal phone number. If you encounter any problems, you have my permission to use it. And as military men, if you should come across any information on Bahame and his army, I would very much appreciate you passing it on to me. I understand that your government and many others question my legitimacy and methods. But I believe that you are realistic men who understand the way the world works. And as such, you understand that, while I may not be perfect in the eyes of the West, I am the lesser of the evils in this situation.”
Smith didn’t immediately move, a bit stunned by the sudden, almost schizophrenic turnaround. Was Sembutu saying they were free to go in return for the remote possibility of them passing him some minor intelligence?
“That’s very gracious of you, Mr. President,” Sarie said, snatching up the passports before the man changed his mind.
Sembutu nodded. “We are most grateful for your work, Doctor, and wish you continued success. Good day.”
* * *
CHARLES SEMBUTU WATCHED the three whites being escorted out of the room and sat alone as their footsteps faded. Despite the fact that they were lying, they would be taken back to their hotel, and when they checked out they would find their bill taken care of by the Ugandan government.
Smith worked at Fort Detrick and had been involved with stopping the Hades virus that killed so many in the West. Only an idiot would believe that one of America’s foremost bioweapons experts would take a leave of absence to study Ugandan insects. And Sembutu hadn’t become one of the most powerful men in Africa by being an idiot.
It was an impossibly dangerous situation that seemed to get more out of control every day. The Americans could normally be counted on to take a hands-off approach in all things African as long as their own interests weren’t threatened. If they were, though, that apathy could turn. The lion must not be awakened.
His phone began to ring and he immediately picked up. “I am here.”
“What did you learn?”
Mehrak Omidi’s voice was low, as though he was trying to hide his conversation from those around him—something that was almost certainly the case.
“Smith says he’s on a leave of absence, studying a parasite that affects ants in the North.”
“Ants,” Omidi replied in disgust. “Do they have so little respect for you that they would expect you to believe such a story?”
Sembutu bristled. Dealing with the Iranians was even more unpleasant than dealing with the Americans. For all their talk of Western arrogance, the Iranians’ unshakable belief that they were God’s chosen people was both insufferable and dangerous. Right now, though, they were in a position to give him what he desperately needed. The Americans were not.
“I want them dealt with,” Omidi continued.
“And what does this mean—dealt with?”
“I think you understand me perfectly, Mr. President. I want them questioned and then I want them killed.”
“Killing American and British military men wasn’t part of our agreement.”
“The Ugandan north country is a very remote and very dangerous place, Mr. President. People disappear here every day.”
32
Annandale, Virginia, USA
November 22—0026 Hours GMT–5
BRANDON GAZENGA PULLED INTO his garage and closed the door, sealing out the cold wind that had descended on the Washington area. A poorly placed bag of garbage nearly trapped him in the car, and he had to push with his shoulder to open a gap large enough to slip out. Another month and he was going to have to start parking in the driveway.
He’d said it before, but now he really meant it: this weekend he was going to rent a truck and haul all this crap to the dump. And then he was going to hire one of those organization consultants—preferably a dour old British lady with a riding crop. The time had come to take back control of his life.
The house wasn’t in much better condition, but at least it was warm. He flicked on the lights and looked around before committing to the short trip to the kitchen. The Uganda operation had been burning a hole in his stomach for months, but now it was starting to kill him. Smith and his team had been arrested and the initial report that it was because of a fight by the hotel pool went out the window when he received confirmation that they’d been taken to a high-security military base.
An
d then there were the tentative reports that Mehrak Omidi was personally on the ground in northern Uganda. Finally, and perhaps worst of all, there was Randi Russell and the note he’d put in her pocket.
Had she found it yet? What would she think of an anonymous request for a meeting? Would she report it?
The truth was that there was absolutely no way for him to know. He was just an analyst with delusions of grandeur. Most of what he knew about clandestine meetings he’d learned from James Bond movies just like everyone else.
But this wasn’t a cheesy action flick and he wasn’t Sean Connery. Drake and Collen had put their careers—maybe even their lives—on the line for this operation, and they wouldn’t be happy to find out that some nobody from Langley’s basement was working behind their backs. Not happy at all.
He made his way to the refrigerator and pawed through a mishmash of aging takeout containers until he found something that looked like it was still edible.
He left the living room dark, falling into a leather chair and stabbing into the box of General Tso’s chicken with a dirty fork. The romantic fantasies he’d had about moving into operations were long gone now. There were no Panama hats and ceiling fans. No supermodels or fast cars. Just the constant nagging feeling that you’d made a fatal mistake somewhere and someone was slinking up behind you to make you pay for it.
Going back now, though, wasn’t an option. Randi Russell had his note, and if he didn’t show up to the rendezvous, it was unlikely she would just let it go. Her reputation for tenacity was one of the many reasons he’d picked her.
He crammed another forkful of chicken into his mouth, not hungry but also aware that if he lost any more weight he’d have to buy all new suits.
Things would be better soon. Russell was going to come through like she always did. She’d know what to do, who to talk to. But mostly, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.
Gazenga put the empty food container on his cluttered coffee table and headed for the bedroom, locking the door behind him and positioning an empty beer bottle so it would tip if anyone tried to get in. He stripped to his boxers and crawled beneath a traditional African blanket his mother had given him. The lump in the pillow made by the Colt beneath it was even more comforting than it had been the day before, and he caressed the grip for a few moments before rolling onto his back and staring up at the dark ceiling.
Things were going to get better. Soon.
* * *
GAZENGA AWOKE IN a sweat, his stomach cramping and a numbness spreading through his chest. At first he thought it was just a dream and gave his head a weak shake to wake himself, but that just brought on a wave of nausea.
The clock glowed four a.m. as he pushed himself into a sitting position and struggled to get in a full breath. Because of his frequent travel in Africa, he’d had more than the normal complement of illnesses in his life, including bouts of malaria and river blindness. Enough to know when something was seriously wrong.
His cell phone was still in his pants and he was sliding awkwardly off the bed when he froze. The blackout shades he’d recently bought in an attempt to help him sleep were fully drawn but the light from the clock was enough to pick out an unfamiliar outline near the door. A chair? Had he put it there for extra security? No, he’d used a beer bottle. The chair should have been—
“How are you feeling, Brandon?”
A surge of adrenaline shot through him and he reached beneath his pillow. Nothing. The gun was gone.
“Sorry, I had to take that. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
The voice was familiar, but it still took him a few moments to identify it in the absence of its normal context.
“Dave? What are you doing here?” Gazenga said, his initial shock turning to a deep sense of dread. It was Russell. It had to be. They’d somehow found out. “Has… has something gone wrong in Uganda?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Gazenga reached for the light next to him, but his arm didn’t respond normally and he just ended up pawing weakly at the shade.
“You know why I’m here,” Collen said. “Tell me what you gave Randi Russell.”
“Russell?” Gazenga said, feigning surprise as he tried to calculate his options with a mind clouded by fear and lack of oxygen. “What are you talking about?”
He slid the rest of the way from the bed, discovering that his legs would no longer support him and collapsing to the dirty carpet.
“We have video of you sliding something into her pocket on the elevator, Brandon. You’re wasting time. And you don’t have much left.”
“What have you done to me?”
The shadow grew as Collen stood and took a step forward. “I poisoned you at our meeting this afternoon. That last cup of coffee, remember? It’s an interesting compound based on botulism that causes paralysis and respiratory distress. The official cause of death will be the half-rotted food in your refrigerator. That is, unless you tell me what I want to know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gazenga said, struggling to focus. The past and present were becoming muddled as his brain was slowly starved.
“I’m not going to ask again,” Collen said, anger beginning to take shape in his voice.
“I’ve never even met Randi Russell. She’s stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq or something.”
Collen looked through the dim light at the prone figure of his colleague, examining the unnatural position of his mostly paralyzed limbs and the impenetrable shadow hiding his face. It was a frustrating and extremely unfortunate situation. The fact that the loss of Gazenga could put the operation in jeopardy was bad enough, but the lack of anything but the threat of death to extract information was potentially disastrous. There was no choice, though. Other techniques, while more reliable, were slow and left obvious marks—something that they couldn’t afford. The young man’s demise had to be above even the slightest suspicion.
“I have the antidote with me, Brandon. We’re not angry. You got scared and you made a mistake. It happens to everybody. Just tell me what I want to know and we can fix this.”
Gazenga gulped at the air like a dying fish, panic clearly starting to set in. “I didn’t tell her anything. Just a… just a time and a place to meet.”
Collen knelt and pulled a bottle containing two large pills from his pocket, shaking it so the young man could hear their seductive rattle. Of course, they were nothing but an over-the-counter pain reliever, but desperation had a way of making true believers out of even the most ardent skeptics.
“That’s good, Brandon. Very good. Now, just tell me where and when and we can put this behind us.”
33
Outside Kampala, Uganda
November 22—1046 Hours GMT+3
THIS TIME THE CROWD parted easily as their cab approached the elaborate archway. Of course, they still got a lot of stares, but by and large, weapons remained shouldered.
“Here is fine,” Peter Howell said, reaching over the seat and holding out the two hundred euros they’d negotiated. “We won’t need a ride back.”
The three of them piled out of the vehicle and dumped their packs on the dusty road before removing Sarie’s scientific equipment from the roof. A few of Janani’s men came out to help carry it inside, where their boss was sitting on a low stool drinking tea.
“Peter!” he said, rising and shaking the Brit’s hand. “You have once again returned safely to me.”
“Barely. Did you know that Sabastiaan was in town?”
“I heard rumors. But now it is my understanding that he is no longer alive. No great loss to the world, in my humble opinion.”
They followed Janani back to the outdoor range, where a table had been laid out with two custom handguns and two Belgian-made assault rifles that looked stock but probably weren’t.
Smith picked up the pistol with a tag bearing his name and sighted along it. The grip felt like it had been molded to his fingers and the balance was dead-on.
“Wi
ll it be adequate?” Janani said.
“It’s a work of art, my friend.”
The African smiled and turned to Sarie. “You think I forgot you, but like all beautiful women, you jump to conclusions.”
He put a hand on her back and escorted her to another table, where a scaled-down bolt-action rifle rested in an aluminum case. It was another beautiful specimen, with a Swarovski scope and gleaming black barrel. Those qualities, though, were overshadowed by a stock painted with colorful flowering vines. The artistry was undeniable, but a little out of place.
Janani offered the weapon to Sarie with both hands, frowning as he looked down at the pink and yellow blossoms. “I told my youngest wife about you, and she insisted that I allow her to do these decorations. She’s only sixteen, and I am embarrassed to say that I find it impossible to deny her anything. Of course, I can have one of my men replace the stock before you leave.”
Sarie accepted the gun, examining the lifelike images winding around the smooth wood. “Absolutely not. Tell her it’s beautiful.”
The African smiled broadly, obviously pleased that he wasn’t the only one who appreciated his wife’s work. “So everyone is happy, then? Our transaction is on the path to being a good one?”
“Didn’t we also talk about a vehicle?” Smith said.
“Of course! How could I forget?”
They followed him into a small warehouse, threading through an extensive inventory of steel and exotic hardwoods on their way to a Toyota Land Cruiser parked at the back. It was a deep maroon with oversized tires and a crowded light bar across the top.
Smith stopped a few feet away, appraising his reflection in the chrome bumper. “I don’t suppose you’d have anything that would blend in a bit better?”
“Blend in?” Janani said, sounding a little insulted. “If you want a twenty-five-year-old pickup that drags on the ground, go to a used-car dealer. I trade only in top-of-the line merchandise.”
