Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press. I am happy to report that today justice has been done in your High Court of Johannesburg. . . .”

  Outside the courthouse, the crowd had swelled to nearly 1,500 students, union delegates, political activists, and unemployed workers. The statement that would exonerate Zuma at the expense of his old friend and confidant had been given under oath—and as the word spread, any semblance of cohesion between members of the throng evaporated in an eruption of violent confrontation. Fists were thrown, people trampled, and a car was set ablaze on the far side of the square. Screams of fear and pain mixed with chants both bitterly denouncing and extolling the Zuma government as the police tried in vain to hold back the crowd from the president and each other. Flowing outward over the pavement, it pushed angrily against the flimsy metal barricades that had been erected seven hours earlier on the intersecting streets in front of the building. At the same time, the police captain in charge placed a frantic call to Metro headquarters, seeking permission to use the array of nonlethal deterrents at his disposal.

  In the confusion, no one noticed the young man who approached the police car parked alongside the curb on Kerk Street, 50 meters east of the courthouse. The teenager fumbled a key from his pocket, the same key that his brother-in-law—a sergeant with the South African Police Service and a longtime adherent of David Joubert—had given him the previous day. He reached into the backseat and found the plastic CNA shopping bag his brother-in-law had left for him. Pulling it out of the vehicle, he quickly checked the contents. Satisfied, he hit the automatic locks and closed the door behind him. He took a few seconds to check his position on the street and calm his nerves. Then he started moving toward the parking garage on the far side of the courthouse, the shopping bag dangling low in his right hand.

  Ten minutes after he finished addressing the press in the lobby of the Johannesburg High Court, President Jacob Zuma and his small entourage passed through a steel doorway and into the concrete expanse of the fourth-floor parking deck. The deck had already been swept by Alex Whysall and four other men, and the motorcade was waiting, a total of five vehicles idling in the otherwise deserted parking garage. The entire deck had been cleared out the night before, and any cars that had been left behind had been towed that morning. It was the kind of precaution that wouldn’t win Zuma any new supporters at the courthouse, but Kealey had insisted, and Zuma’s chief of staff, a man named Steve Oliphant, had reluctantly concurred.

  Ryan Kealey followed his charge through the door and started across the smooth concrete. The courthouse was attached to the parking garage, and in the near distance he could hear the sounds of the riot taking place at the intersection of Von Brandis and Kerk. With each step he took, the cacophony seemed to grow louder, closer, and more threatening, and he could no longer ignore the risk to the man he was charged with protecting. Quickening his pace, he moved close to the South African’s left shoulder.

  “Sir, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  The South African president stopped in his tracks and turned to face him. He looked mildly surprised by the request, but he nodded once and walked a few steps away from the waiting vehicles. Kealey followed and quickly explained his concerns.

  When he was done, Zuma nodded thoughtfully. He looked carefully at his head of security and wondered, not for the first time, what had brought him to this place. It could have just been the money, of course, and for most of the security contractors, he would have guessed that to be the primary motivation. In Kealey’s case, however, he did not feel comfortable making that assumption.

  The American was of medium height, lean and tan, with long, lank black hair that stopped just short of being inappropriate for the job he was tasked with. As usual, he was dressed casually in a faded black polo shirt, pressed tan slacks, and a pair of rugged, expensive-looking hiking boots. It was a uniform common to every member of the security detail. Unlike his peers, though, Kealey did not carry an automatic weapon. Instead, he was armed only with a 9mm handgun, which was holstered in a cross-draw position on his left hip. The man was as inconspicuous as he was effective—Zuma had learned as much over the last two months, much to his unspoken relief. He had expected a more visible presence at the start and had been vaguely disappointed, not to mention uneasy, when Blackwater had sent him Kealey and company.

  As it turned out, the eight quiet professionals had managed not only to keep him safe but also to keep a remarkably low profile in the process. In fact, they were so unobtrusive that the South African media had yet to pick up on the fact that he had outsourced his personal security to an American firm. He didn’t know how long that could last, but it was still a pleasant, if unexpected benefit to the whole situation.

  At the same time the man standing before Zuma remained a mystery, and he continued to find that a little troubling. He didn’t understand what could have prompted Ryan Kealey to sign on with Blackwater Worldwide. The man was a veritable legend in the U.S. intelligence community, and despite the CIA’s best efforts, his government had been unable to completely conceal the full scope of his contribution to the nation’s security. Zuma had wondered on more than one occasion what could have prompted the young American to walk away from all of that, though he had yet to come up with any likely scenarios. He suspected it had something to do with the haunted look that was never far from the young man’s eyes, though he would never have presumed to ask. Simply put, it was none of his concern, and besides, it didn’t really matter. The man’s capabilities were all Zuma truly cared about, and they were undeniably intact.

  The American was still awaiting an answer. Zuma sighed, shot a glance at his watch, and said, “What is your alternative, Mr. Kealey? Bearing in mind that I can’t stand around all day waiting for the police to do their job.”

  “We have a helicopter providing sniper support for the run back to Pretoria. It holds only four, but we can squeeze in seven, and we’ll send the rest of the men in the cars later, once the police manage to get things in hand.”

  “If they do, Mr. Kealey. I know you’re aware of where I stand with many of them as a result of this trial.”

  Kealey grunted. “I’ve checked out the Metro captain in charge. He’s no believer in Joubert, and I think we can trust him as much as anyone. He says they’ll have the area secured in forty minutes or less.”

  “Is there room for my aide on the helicopter?”

  Kealey glanced over at the chief of staff, who was already sliding into the backseat of the fourth armored vehicle, a white Toyota Land Cruiser. “He’ll have to stay here, sir. I’m sorry, but I can’t leave you with less than six security officers. Company policy.”

  Zuma appraised the younger man with a slight frown. Something about the way he said “company policy” made the South African leader think that Kealey couldn’t care less about the company or its policies. Even the word sir was somehow impertinent coming from this man’s lips. At the same time, he was standing there giving his honest, unbiased opinion, and that warranted some degree of respect and consideration. Zuma was a practical man, and he prized his personal welfare far above the formalities of his office.

  He thought about it carefully. Usually, he didn’t hesitate to follow the American’s suggestions regarding his personal security. But on this occasion he desperately needed some time to confer with his chief of staff. He was due in Cape Town in two days’ time, where he was scheduled to address the National Assembly regarding the budget he had submitted two months earlier. He needed every minute between now and then to pin down his position and clarify his arguments—and that, more than anything, made his decision for him.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Oliphant and I have a great deal of work to do, and it cannot wait. I realize there is some level of threat, but I’m sure your people can handle it. Now, are we ready to go?”

  Kealey hesitated, but the other man’s words had made it clear that his decision was final. “Yes,” he said. “We’re ready to move.”

&nb
sp; He followed his principal to the armored SUV. Steve Oliphant was already seated in back, and Zuma took the seat next to him. The driver, a former commando in the Honduran army, closed the door behind the South African president as Kealey moved around the front of the vehicle to the passenger-side door. On the way he made eye contact with Alex Whysall and pointed toward the fifth vehicle, another Land Cruiser. Whysall nodded and started to move, as did the rest of the team. As the doors slammed shut on every vehicle, the sound reverberating off the cold cement walls of the parking garage, Kealey climbed into the fourth truck and shut the door, the driver following suit a few seconds later.

  Ramón Flores looked over and raised an eyebrow. Kealey held up a finger, indicating he needed a minute. He turned on the radio and performed a quick communications check. Once he was satisfied that everything was in working order, he ordered the first vehicle to move. Flores followed a few seconds later, and the five vehicles began the short run down to street level.

  It had taken the teenager ten long minutes to fight his way through the dense, riotous crowd, during which time he had nearly lost the shopping bag twice. Scrabbling hands had caught at the thin plastic on several occasions, and one man had made a halfhearted attempt to tear it out of the teenager’s grasp, but the bodies around them had changed position at the last second. He had used the shift in momentum to pull away from his assailant, who was quickly swallowed by the surrounding sea of flailing limbs. Miraculously, the bag had stayed intact through the entire ordeal. Now, as he slipped unnoticed past one of the fallen barricades, the weight of its contents caused the plastic handles to cut into his hand, cutting off the circulation to his sweaty fingers. The pain was intense, but he did his best to set it aside, knowing that he could not afford the slightest distraction.

  The entrance to the parking garage was less than ten meters away, and on the second level, through a narrow gap in the concrete decks, the teenager caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting off white paint. He couldn’t hear the engines over the deafening roar of the aggressive mob, but he sensed that the vehicles moving rapidly through the garage were the ones he was waiting for. Returning his gaze to ground level, he kept moving forward, aware that the police officers behind him were still fighting and failing to keep the crowd back. They hadn’t used the gas yet, but the teenager knew it was coming, just as he knew that the riot would eventually be contained. In his mind, the police were not to be blamed, despite the brute force they were using to put down the revolt. After all, his own brother-in-law was currently fighting to contain the violence, even though he privately supported the pro-Joubert factionalists. The two groups had no way of knowing that they wanted the same thing, but the teenager knew, and he was ready to act on behalf of them all.

  The gate leading into the ground floor of the parking garage was already in the elevated position, as his brother-in-law had said it would be. The teenager could not detect any sign of a police presence in or around the concrete structure, yet he knew it was there. As he quickened his stride, he reached into the bag and found the plastic switch by feel. Summoning his courage, he flipped it over and started to run, his feet pounding over the sunlit cement. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a police officer in full riot gear shouting at him, telling him to stop. But he ignored the man and kept moving forward at a dead sprint, the heavy contents of the shopping bag bouncing painfully against his leg.

  The first Toyota appeared without warning, the vehicle’s glossy paint reflecting the white winter sunlight. The heavy truck swung a hard right onto Von Brandis, the street directly in front of the parking garage, and a second Land Cruiser followed less than five meters behind. The teenager kept sprinting forward, eyes fixed on the fast-moving motorcade. The rioting crowd was a dull, distant roar; the shouted commands of the police officer nothing but meaningless gibberish in his ears. All his attention was locked on the gleaming white vehicles in front of him.

  The fourth Toyota had just made the turn when he flung the shopping bag forward with an underhand motion. He instantly turned to run as the plastic bag and its deadly contents slid over the pavement, coming to rest in the path of the oncoming vehicles. The police officer tackled him a split second later, slamming his head to the pavement, fracturing his skull in three places. The teenager was already dead when the bomb he had thrown went off, directly beneath the passenger-side wheel of the fifth and last vehicle in the Blackwater motorcade.

  Aside from the driver, Alex Whysall was the sole passenger in the last Land Cruiser. As they passed under the raised gate of the parking garage, the driver, Stiles, was the first to see the young man running toward the truck. He shouted a warning as the African slung an object toward the vehicle. The young man immediately turned to run but didn’t get more than a few steps before a police officer slammed him to the ground. Neither Stiles nor Whysall saw what happened from that point forward. Both men’s eyes were glued to the white shopping bag that had just slid in front of their vehicle.

  Reacting instinctively, Stiles swore and pulled the wheel hard to the right. He punched the gas, trying to clear the unknown object, but it was too late. A powerful explosion rocked the Toyota a split second later, lifting the front end a full two feet off the cement, tearing the front axle away from the frame. After what seemed like an eternity, the truck came crashing down with a resounding bang, slamming both men forward in their seats.

  For a few seconds Whysall was too dazed to fully comprehend what had just happened. He was dimly aware of the frantic radio traffic coming over the dash-mounted unit, as well the roar of the angry crowd gathered in front of the courthouse, less than 30 meters west of their position. He couldn’t see through the windshield, as the blast had turned the glass opaque, but through his side window, he had a clear view of the policemen standing between their incapacitated vehicle and the frenzied, swelling mob. Presented with a new target in the form of the smoking SUV and the security people trapped inside, a segment of the crowd had broken off from the larger mass and was now surging forward with renewed vigor.

  Stiles was slumped over, his head resting against the partially fractured driver’s side window. Reaching over, Whysall shook his shoulder and said a few words, trying to get a response, but the man didn’t react. Whysall unbuckled his seat belt and shifted over to check Stiles’s pulse, using his forearm to push down the air bag, which had deployed the instant the bomb went off. Stiles’s pulse was steady and strong, and he realized that the driver had merely been knocked unconscious when his head had hit the reinforced glass.

  Breathing a short sigh of relief, Whysall took a few seconds to appraise the situation and check himself for injuries. He didn’t feel as if anything was wrong, apart from the whiplash he’d sustained when the front of the truck hit the pavement. But he knew full well that shock and adrenaline could temporarily mask the pain of almost any injury, no matter how serious. Still, a quick visual examination didn’t reveal any obvious problems, and he couldn’t just sit there and wait for help. The crowd was already on the move, and it didn’t look as if the police could hold them back for much longer.

  Why the hell aren’t they using the tear gas? What the hell are they waiting for? The restraint being used by the South African Police Service and Johannesburg Metro PD didn’t make sense to the former marine, especially after what had just transpired. The police officers knew exactly whose motorcade had just been attacked; that was the whole reason they were conducting crowd control to begin with. Looking over, he could see that the majority of the officers forming the wall were dressed in full riot gear: composite helmets, chest protectors, black rubber batons, and clear convex shields. They knew what they were up against, so why hadn’t the captain authorized the use of nonlethal deterrents?

  Whysall remembered his earlier concerns, thinking it appeared he’d been right all along. The police captain’s loyalties seemed not to lie with the president, but with the official who had just been convicted. It would explain why the attack had been allowed to take pla
ce. Whysall wondered if someone had been given the wrong information—if they had been told that Zuma would be in the last vehicle—or if the man who had thrown the bomb had just made an error in timing.

  Somehow, he doubted that it had been a real attempt on the president’s life, as it was all but guaranteed to fail. But that didn’t change the fact that he and Stiles were now dead in the water—stuck with a disabled vehicle, no clear route of escape, and a hostile crowd numbering in the thousands.

  Reaching forward, Whysall grabbed the handset and pushed the transmit button, hoping that the radio still worked, praying the police could somehow restrain the mob, and silently doubting that they had even the slightest chance of surviving the next few minutes.

  At that precise moment the four remaining vehicles in the president’s convoy were racing east on Pritchard, approximately one kilometer east of the courthouse. Kealey had seen the explosion in the rearview mirror, but he’d ordered Flores to keep going. While he’d wanted nothing more than to stop and assist the men in the last vehicle, he had not been willing to risk so many lives—his principal’s above all—without knowing the specific nature of the threat. He’d seen only a bright flash behind him, and it could have been anything, though the resulting shock wave had been severe enough to convince him that the vehicle carrying Whysall and Stiles had probably suffered a crippling blow.

  He had been trying to raise the two men without success, which could mean only one of two things: either the radio had been knocked out during the attack, or the men in the last vehicle were too badly injured to respond. Kealey could only hope it wasn’t the latter. Doing his best to ignore the commotion in the backseat, he placed a second call to the pilot of the Bell helicopter buzzing 500 feet over the incapacitated SUV. He had already ordered the pilot to maintain his position above the parking garage, where he would be able to keep watch on the developing situation.