The senior diplomat lifted his cup and took a long sip, thinking about it. The word operation said much in itself, he thought. It seemed to imply a prolonged, potentially dangerous task, and he realized that he had misjudged the man sitting across from him. Despite his rather ineffectual appearance, the consultant was clearly not the kind of man who worked from a desk. Regardless of what he was trying to accomplish in Sudan, Reynolds had no doubt that James Landis would be in it up to his neck . . . and assuming that was the case, it could mean only one thing for Reynolds and his staff of seventy.
He set down his cup and looked at the younger man. “We’re not going home, are we?”
“No, Mr. Reynolds, I’m afraid you’re not. The embassy will not be evacuated, and diplomatic ties will not be severed. But there are going to be some changes around here, and I assure you, they will be for the best. Now, can I count on your cooperation?”
Reynolds was still hesitant, but he was also boxed in, and—he had to admit it—more than a little curious. “Yes, you can.”
“Good.” Landis smiled. “Now, here is what I need from you.”
Ten minutes later the consultant emerged from an elevator on the ground floor of the embassy. He crossed the scuffed floor of the crowded lobby, ignoring the cursory glance of a marine corporal standing post. As he headed for the main entrance, he did his best to skirt the restless crowd, his ears filled with the low, angry buzz of 80 people standing in line to get or apply for their visas. Unlike the people waiting in line, he was in a good mood, and it was getting better with each step he took toward the door. The meeting with the chief of mission had taken less than fifteen minutes, and it had accomplished a great deal. He had secured Reynolds’s assistance—not only for the transfer of incoming funds, but also for the housing of personnel, should the need arise. The embassy was now a sanctuary of last resort—not only for him, but also for his assets, most of whom were Sudanese nationals—and the letter of introduction, which had made him uneasy to begin with, even though he’d understood the need for it, was now a pile of gray ash in the steel garbage can sitting next to Reynolds’s desk.
Despite his warnings as to where it would lead, Landis had no doubt that the chief of mission had been on the phone to Washington the minute he’d left the room. What he’d said to the older man had been true. Regardless of who Reynolds called, he would be told nothing more than what he already knew. In fact, depending on who he called first, he would probably be told in no uncertain terms to back off and keep his mouth shut, which was fine with Landis. More than anything, the meetings back at the State Department had focused on the consequences of failure—on what would happen if it all went wrong.
It had been decided that the biggest threat to the entire operation was the possibility of a leak. As always, the damage it could do would depend entirely on where it was sprung. A leak on the local level, for instance—a botched recruitment, perhaps, or a note slipped from one of his assets to someone in Bashir’s regime—would end up with Landis dead and his network rolled up; a leak in Washington might well lead to one of the biggest scandals since the Iran-Contra affair.
The national opposition to Bashir was as generally widespread as it was internally divided and fractious. There was the Justice and Equality Movement, or the JEM. And the United Resistance Front, led by Bahr Idriss Abu Garda, the JEM’s deputy chief before his split with its founder Khalil Ibrahim—a man now seen by many former followers as no less an opportunist and demagogue than Bashir. Then, of course, you had the Sudan People’s Liberation Army and its Abdel Wahid al-Nur and Minnawi factions . . . and others.
The man who called himself Landis thought it almost unimaginable that anyone in the United States government would be bold enough to try pulling these groups together, or even to decide a coalition was within the realm of possibility. But history had seen stranger bedfellows joined—if not quite united—for a common purpose.
Given the possible fallout—especially on the political side of things—Landis had never expected it to get this far. Somewhere along the line, he had expected someone to lose their nerve, and to some extent, he still expected it. Yet he did not intend to waste valuable time planning for that eventuality. If the powers that be decided to call a halt to the whole thing, he would not draw back easily for them. If it failed, the operation might still end up as a minor footnote in history. If it succeeded, it would be considered one of the most audacious ever conceived and seen to fruition.
Landis did not consider himself to be a vain man, but the prospect of being right there, on the knife edge of history, filled him with a kind of exhilaration he’d never known, and he wanted nothing more than to see it through to the end, regardless of how it played out.
He slowed as he approached the main entrance, then shifted course, heading for a discreet door set in the far wall of the lobby. Like all U.S. embassies and consulates, the building in Khartoum was secured by a detachment of U.S. Marines, all of whom had passed through a specialized training program at the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group, or MCESG, located in Quantico, Virginia. Post One, the security hub for the entire embassy, was located just inside the main entrance, where it served to deter an attack from the street. Inside the small, overheated room, Landis was met by the detachment commander. Reynolds had already called down for him, and the confused but compliant marine sergeant had the appropriate materials packed and waiting. Less than a minute later Landis was walking out the front door into the afternoon sunlight, an olive green rucksack slung over his right shoulder.
The car, a dusty black Ford Escort, was waiting on Ali Abdel Latif Street, engine idling. The vehicles lined up behind it were honking incessantly, turbaned men leaning out of their windows to scream insults in Arabic at the driver, who had parked with the rear end of the Escort jutting into the road, just as Landis had instructed.
He could see that the diversion had worked perfectly. As the confused scene played out, all eyes were fixed on the car in the road and not on the lean, dark-haired American descending the steps of the embassy. Hitting the street, Landis turned right and started weaving his way through the pushy pedestrian traffic, walking quickly toward the intersection at Nillien University where in two minutes’ time he would be picked up by the man in the Escort.
Satisfied with what he had seen in the street, he had missed the one person who had not been distracted, a fellow American who’d been climbing the steps as he’d been descending. He did not see the man stop at the top of the steps, turn, and stare after him. The man was still staring after Landis as he turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Then, shaking his head, he walked forward and entered the building, a welcome blast of cool air hitting his face the second he opened the door.
Seth Holland was officially listed on the embassy’s organization chart as a budget and resource manager with the Defense Institute of Security Assistance Management. In keeping with this exalted title, his office on the fourth floor was large and comfortably furnished, with French windows that opened up to the inner courtyard. It was the kind of office that, in the budget manager’s absence, might be occupied by the CIA’s chief of station in Khartoum. Fittingly, this was the position that Holland, a twenty-year Agency veteran, actually held.
Unlike the man in charge of the embassy, Holland’s workload had increased sharply since the attack on Camp Hadith. But as he stepped into the elevator and jabbed the appropriate button, he wasn’t thinking about reports of increased rebel activity in the Nuba Mountains, or the sharp, unexplained increase in anti-Bashir demonstrations, which had recently begun popping up all over the city. Instead, Seth Holland was thinking about the dark-haired man with the rucksack he had seen on the steps, and two thoughts in particular.
Who was that man, and where have I seen him before?
CHAPTER 9
JOHANNESBURG
Outside the parking garage on Von Brandis Street, the situation had gone from bad to worse. The police, unable or unwilling to hold back the mob any long
er, had been overrun by hundreds of screaming men and women, a great many of whom had focused their rage on the crippled Toyota and the two men trapped inside. The truck was surrounded on all sides, and it was being rocked violently from side to side. The doors and windows were being kicked and beaten with bats, metal chair legs, and bare hands, but so far the heavily armored exterior had managed to withstand the furious assault.
In the front passenger seat, Alex Whysall was working frantically to repair the radio, even though he suspected the problem was not with the unit itself. The engine wouldn’t start, which wasn’t surprising in and of itself, given the force of the explosion beneath the vehicle. But it wasn’t even trying to turn over, indicating that the battery was probably out of commission. Although the battery itself was surrounded by additional steel plating, it was possible that the explosion had severed the cables. This would explain why they couldn’t communicate with the other vehicles in the motorcade, as the radio drew its power directly from the battery. Though Whysall had tried to reach the other vehicles using his portable radio, it didn’t have the necessary range. In short, they were completely cut off from the rest of the team.
The only thing they still had working for them was the helicopter, which Whysall could see hovering southwest of their position and more or less directly over Kerk Street. He assumed it was reporting everything to Ryan Kealey, the head of the PSD, but Whysall had no way of signaling that they were okay. Stupidly, he had lent his cell phone to another man on the detail earlier in the day, and he’d forgotten to get it back. He only hoped that someone was on the way to get them out, and soon. It wouldn’t be long before the mob found a way into the vehicle, and once that happened, they would not be able to defend themselves for long.
At the intersection just north of the M2, the second disabled Land Cruiser was coming under heavy fire. Kealey had managed to find his 9mm, but he was folded awkwardly to the side, his head crammed against the passenger-side door. Tilting it up and to the right, he screamed for the men in the backseat to keep down, then looked over at Ramón Flores. The Honduran was slumped over the steering wheel, his thick arms limp at his sides.
Kealey could hear rounds pounding into the rear windshield now, but the bullet-resistant glass seemed to be holding. He knew it was specced to stop anything up to a 7.62mm rifle round. Anything heavier than that would pass right through, and a sustained assault from weapons of a lesser caliber would eventually have the same effect. Either way, they couldn’t just sit and wait for help to arrive; they had to move immediately.
The engine was still running. Kealey couldn’t tell if the truck was drivable or not, but there was only one way to find out. Shifting his weight onto the console between the seats, he leaned into Flores, twisted his body to the right, and jammed his left foot onto the brake. Reaching back awkwardly, he shifted the vehicle into reverse without looking, then moved his foot onto the accelerator. The truck lurched back and careened off an unseen object before it started to pick up speed. Kealey could hear men shouting outside, and he was vaguely aware of people diving out of the way, but he ignored all of it, just as he ignored the two men lying prone in the backseat. Looking over the shoulder rest of the driver’s seat, he swerved around two stationary vehicles, then swung the wheel hard to the left, whipping the truck back in the direction they had come from. The sudden maneuver brought the vehicle to a screeching halt.
In the rearview mirror, Kealey now had a clear view of two police Land Rovers, one of which had suffered obvious damage to the front end. The vehicles were white with blue stripes and lettering, and the light bars on both were flashing, though the sirens were off. They were parked about 30 meters away, and a quick count yielded six men. Four of them were already sprinting toward the damaged Blackwater SUV; two more were getting back into the Land Rovers, anticipating a possible chase. They were all wearing standard South African Police Service attire, and when Kealey saw the field dress uniforms, he endured a moment of doubt, even though he knew what he had to do. He shook it off, holstered his Beretta, and reached for the metal case tucked under his seat. Flipping the latches, he opened the lid to reveal the components of a Fabrique Nationale FNC Para.
Slumping low in the seat, he slapped the lower edge of the rearview mirror with the tips of his fingers, angling it so that he could see through the back windshield without exposing his upper body. Then, without taking his eyes off the approaching police officers, he put the assault rifle together by feel, sliding the bolt into the upper receiver before closing the upper and lower receivers into place with the front and rear pins. Locking the bolt to the rear, he slid one of the preloaded steel magazines into place, then let the bolt snap forward, chambering the first 5.56mm round.
A low groan to his right caught his attention, and Kealey snapped his head around, searching for the source. It took him a second to realize that Flores had regained consciousness, as the man was still slumped over the steering wheel. As Kealey stared at him, though, he groaned again and raised his head a few inches, a thin trickle of blood spilling out of his mouth and over his unshaven chin.
“Flores!” Kealey shouted.
The Honduran stirred but didn’t respond.
“Flores, wake up! Come on, wake the fuck up! We’ve got to move! Flores!”
The driver wasn’t responding. Movement in his peripheral vision caught Kealey’s attention, and he turned his head to the right. Through the window behind the driver’s seat, directly above the prone figure of Jacob Zuma, Kealey could see two of the SAPS officers who had ambushed them. The Africans had closed to within 20 feet of the Land Cruiser. Both men had their assault rifles up in a firing stance, and one was shouting something that Kealey couldn’t decipher through the glass. The muzzles flashed, and the glass in the driver’s side door turned opaque. The sound of the shots followed a split second later, and even inside the vehicle, they were loud enough to prompt another panicked cry from the president’s chief of staff.
Kealey resumed shouting at Flores as the SAPS officers continued to fire on the vehicle, expending their 30-round magazines in a matter of seconds. Most of the rounds seemed to hit Flores’s window, which was partially pushed in from the force of the incoming fire. Kealey could see that it wouldn’t hold up for much longer, and he realized what their assailants were trying to do. By focusing their fire on that one part of the vehicle, they would be able to defeat the reinforced glass much faster than they would with sporadic fire to all the windows. It was a sound strategy, and it also offered the best chance of stopping the Toyota dead in its tracks, as the truck obviously wouldn’t be going anywhere once the driver was killed.
They were quickly running out of options, and there was no time left to think it over. Operating purely on instinct, Kealey grabbed Flores’s left shoulder and jerked him back in the seat. The Honduran’s head bounced off the headrest, but he stayed upright, the muscles in his face working as he tried to return from the brink of consciousness. Leaning over him, Kealey put the muzzle of his FNC to the driver’s side window and squeezed the trigger. A single round tore through the one-way resistant glass, penetrating the single flexible layer of Makroclear polycarbonate sheeting.
The muzzle blast was impossibly loud inside the Land Cruiser, and it worked where shouting had not. Flores came awake with a start, his eyes snapping open, his arms flying up in a purely defensive gesture. Before he could do anything else, Kealey jammed the muzzle of his rifle into the small hole he had shot through the glass, then twisted the barrel from side to side to work it through the tiny gap. When he had it all the way through, he leaned to the left, his shoulder pressed hard against the steering wheel, which was positioned on the right-hand side of the vehicle. He was unable to see his target’s specific position due to the damage the window had sustained, but aiming in the police officers’ general direction, he fired half a dozen rounds in rapid succession. By the time he squeezed the trigger for the last time, he was temporarily deafened by the force of the muzzle blast in the confined
space.
He pulled back, jerking the barrel of the FNC free of the window. Flores was shouting at him, his face twisted in rage, pain, and confusion, but Kealey couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Pointing through the front windshield, he shouted for the other man to drive. As if to emphasize his point, the driver’s side window was suddenly hit with another burst of automatic fire, and Flores immediately slammed the truck into gear. It was more an instinctive reaction than a direct adherence to orders, but Kealey didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were moving out of the kill zone.
The front windshield was one of the few windows still intact, giving Kealey a good view of the road ahead. As the ringing in his ears began to subside, he pointed to an upcoming side street and shouted for Flores to turn. Incredibly, the Honduran actually followed the order, spinning the wheel hard to the right.
As the vehicle swerved, Kealey twisted in his seat to look through the rear window on the driver’s side. The top half of the window was clouded from the impact of incoming fire, but beneath that he could see the police officers running back to the Land Rovers, both of which had accelerated up to the officers’ position. Kealey was disappointed to see that he hadn’t managed to get lucky with one of his rounds. All four of the men outside the vehicles were still moving, though one appeared to be running with a lopsided gait, his free hand pressed to his left upper thigh, his dark face contorted in pain. As he watched them move, Kealey realized that they had fanned out to approach the Toyota. It was a smart tactical maneuver, as it made them less susceptible to incoming fire, but it also meant they had farther to go to get back to their own vehicles. Flores’s fast departure had given them a short head start, but they didn’t have more than twelve seconds lead time, and Kealey knew they would have to use it wisely.
Andrew Britton Bundle Page 152
