Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  Kealey took a careful glance around. Either business was slow at this hour or Gaston was discouraging customers from the garden. A glance through the glass patio doors leading to the café’s interior told him it was probably the latter—there were plenty of people at the inside tables. But the only others in the garden besides Abby and himself were a middle-aged white couple in matching white shorts who had the unmistakable look of tourists, and a dark-skinned teenaged girl sipping coffee while watching videos on a notebook computer. He was certain none of them were eavesdropping. Or even within earshot if he kept his voice down.

  “How did you find out about the pirate grab?” he said after a while.

  “With a grab of our own,” Abby said. “Pirates choose their targets by different means. Years ago they were mainly opportunistic. But they have since extended their tentacles into customs offices around the world.”

  Kealey considered that. “If they get a shipping officer on the take, he can tell them where a ship’s going. Give them the route it’s taking to its destination. Even tip them to what’s on a manifest.”

  “And if he is in the right position, items not on the manifest,” she said. “Since the nominal buyer was Egypt, the tanks and helicopters were technically legal cargo. We don’t know whether any banned armaments may have been aboard, but it is certainly possible.”

  “So you’ve got an inside man working all ends against the middle—someone you nailed and cut a bargain with.” Kealey was nodding. “He gets paid to set up illegal trades by one party, passes that information to the pirates, then sings to your people about it.”

  “And in exchange we let him stay out of prison.”

  Kealey sat there a minute, recalling Harper’s rundown on Simon Nusairi and his alter ego David Khadir.

  “The pirates . . . Are they connected to our man from Paris, Marseille, and recent parts unknown?” he said.

  Abby gave him a look. “I couldn’t tell you with certainty whether there’s a direct line of communication between them, “ she replied. “What we know is that our man, as you say, has linkages to many individuals and organizations whose reputations are the definition of nonexemplary. One is Ishmael Mirghani—”

  “The war chief who cut loose from the SLA and the JEM?”

  “Then started the Darfur People’s Army, yes,” she said. “I see you’ve been well briefed.”

  “Well enough to get me on a red-eye to Cameroon,” Kealey said. “Now I’d just like to know what I’m doing here.”

  “I’ll come to that in a moment.” Abby nodded her head at his parfait cup. “First, I thought we agreed you would have some dessert.”

  He stared across the table. “You’re serious.”

  “And you are noticeably not eating it,” she said. “Have a taste, please.”

  Kealey frowned, slowly scooped out a mouthful, and ate. Abby sat watching him, that amused sparkle in her eyes again.

  “How is it?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Like I’d expect mango custard to be.”

  Abby chuckled, and Kealey suddenly felt an alien smile touch his lips. It took him by surprise.

  “Is the name Hassan al-Saduq at all familiar to you?” she asked.

  He shook his head in the negative.

  “Saduq has been a middleman for a great many arms deals over the past two decades, primarily between the Russian Federation and various nations in Africa and Central Asia. He has a long-standing relationship with the Federal Security Service.”

  “KGB lite.”

  “A fair characterization,” she said. “I suppose you could make a similar comparison between Saduq and Adnan Khashoggi. Although not one to hobnob with Western aristocrats and celebrities, Saduq has accumulated substantial wealth and invested millions in Russia’s Sudanese oil exploration.”

  “Are you telling me he’s the one who did the deal that the pirates mucked up?”

  “We can’t prove it but believe that to be true,” Abby said. “What we do know is that Saduq is about to meet the pirates to negotiate the shipment’s resale.”

  Kealey locked eyes with her. “To Mirghani?”

  “Yes.”

  And through him to Nusairi, Kealey thought. He stared at Abby some more, blew a long stream of air out his mouth. “Saduq . . . He set up his own customers to be hijacked.”

  “Again, it is what we believe.”

  “And when is the meet set to happen?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Here in the capital?”

  She shook her head. “In Limbe, if our intelligence is correct.”

  Kealey drew an imaginary map. The coastal city was about 90 klicks—or 50 miles and change—to the southwest.

  “This intel,” he said. “How about sharing how you got it with me?”

  Abby started to reply, glanced over to her right, closed her mouth. A tall, heavyset man with skin the color of roasted almonds, Gaston was approaching their table from the doors to the indoor café.

  “Abby, mon amie, please excuse the interruption,” he said, flashing Kealey a courteous smile. He tilted his head back toward the glass doors. “It is likely a coincidence—they occasionally stop here as they make their neighborhood rounds—but two uniformed agents of the city council have stopped in and requested an outdoor table of my barista.”

  She nodded her appreciation. “Merci,” she said. “We will be on our way in a moment.”

  Kealey glanced through the doors as Gaston withdrew, saw the uniformed men standing at the counter.

  “They different from the gendarmes?” he asked.

  “Council agents are civil functionaries. . . . You might consider them the equivalent of housing inspectors. In Yaoundé they mainly chase off unlicensed street vendors. Their latest big campaign was to clear the streets of call-box owners—people who run phone lines from indoor connections to the street and charge a small sum to customers who need to make emergency calls. Many in the city cannot afford mobile phones and depend on them.”

  “And how’re they a problem?”

  “They aren’t . . . but they make easy marks for shakedowns.” Abby shrugged. “Officials here line their pockets any way they can, which is why I trust none of them.”

  “What if it’s one who’s got his hand out to you?”

  “I just assume he’ll be holding his other hand out to somebody else.”

  Kealey grinned but said nothing.

  “I will tell you more when we have time,” she said. “Right now we’d best make our plans.”

  “When do we leave for Limbe?”

  “Tonight,” she said. “The drive is only a bit over an hour.”

  “The two of us going alone?”

  She shook her head. “I have some associates who can be trusted. A couple with RB Yaoundé—the regional Interpol bureau. And another few that are dependable.”

  He nodded, waiting for the rest.

  “We’ll pick you up at nine o’clock,” she said. “Walk two blocks from your hotel, turn the corner, wait halfway down the street. You’ll be between the Avenue Foch and Rue de Narvik.”

  Kealey looked at her. “More cloak and dagger?”

  Abby Liu shrugged, collected her purse from where she had hung it over her chair.

  “Don’t push me, Kealey,” she said, her eyes flashing again. “It’s enough I haven’t insisted you eat more of your African fool.”

  Closed up for the night, the cluster of variety shops had gaudy window signs that advertised everything from used DVDs and children’s clothing to cigarettes, aphrodisiacs, and condoms. Kealey was standing outside them in the night when the vehicle pulled up against the sidewalk—a gray BMW SUV X5.

  Its darkly tinted passenger-side window rolled partway down, Abby Liu looking out at him. Then the rear door swung open.

  “Better get in,” she said.

  Kealey leaned forward to glance inside, saw two men in the rear, behind Abby and the driver, then rapped the door with his knuckle as he slid into the back
seat with them. As he’d expected, it had the solid thump of 3/16-inch armor plate.

  The car swung from the curb, glided off along the lightless street.

  “Etienne Brun, Léonard Martin . . . Ryan Kealey,” Abby said, shifting around to face him over her backrest.

  Kealey looked across the backseat at his fellow passengers. Sitting farthest from him, against the opposite door, the one named Brun had extended his arm as Abby made their introductions. He was a wiry, light-skinned black man with a shaved head.

  Kealey gripped his hand, looked at the man between them, shook his as well. Martin was white and broad-shouldered, his longish blond hair combed straight back from a high forehead.

  Kealey settled back, met the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

  “Dirk Steiner,” the man said in German-inflected English. The soft bluish glow of a dashboard GPS unit revealed his sharply angular features. “I have heard much to recommend you, Mr. Kealey.”

  Kealey grunted. “I hope it outweighs whatever else you’ve heard about me.”

  The man laughed a little but said nothing, his eyes on the winding road ahead of him.

  “Etienne and Leo are both Interpol colleagues— we’ve been working together for a while,” Abby said. “They’re specialized officers for maritime crime. Dirk’s our liaison with the EU’s antipiracy task force.”

  Kealey thought for a while, then shrugged.

  “I suppose it leaves me the odd man out,” he said. “Since I don’t know a single goddamned thing about pirates, boats, or water.”

  A faint smile crinkled Abby’s features. “Somehow I doubt you’re being altogether truthful,” she said. “Be that as it may, I’ve been advised that you do have other knowledge and abilities that ought to be valuable to us.”

  “Namely?” Kealey asked.

  She turned around in her seat and then reached under the glove box. When her hand reappeared a moment later, it was holding something low between the two front seats.

  Identifying it at once, Kealey reached forward and took the weapon from her grip. It was a Brügger & Thomet MP9 tactical machine pistol with a high-capacity magazine and sound suppressor attached to its bore.

  Abby returned to watching him over her backrest as he examined the carbine on his lap. “Does your skill set include using that particular item?” she asked.

  He looked at her in the dimness of the SUV’s interior, their eyes meeting, then holding steadily. “What exactly are we getting into here?”

  “I told you about Hassan al-Saduq’s meet tonight, yes?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, Saduq owns a pleasure boat . . . a small yacht,” she said. “We have learned it is currently anchored in a Limbe marina.”

  Kealey’s eyes remained locked on hers. “Is that where you intend to take him?”

  “There or in the bay, however circumstances dictate,” she said. “Ultimately, it will be your call.”

  “Why the hell is that?”

  Abby did not so much as hesitate for an instant.

  “It should be apparent, Kealey,” she said. “We’re counting on you to lead us.”

  CHAPTER 15

  LIMBE, CAMEROON

  “Nicolas, you will please excuse my tardiness?” said Hassan al-Saduq. He sat at the table. “I trust your wait has been agreeable.”

  Chewing his tomate cravettes, Nicolas Barre looked across the hotel dining room, where a sultry blond singer in a black strapless gown was accompanying her own smooth French vocals on the keys. “My men have had enough to occupy them,” he said. “Hopefully not too much for their own good.”

  Saduq grinned. “I’m told boredom is a killer.”

  “Perhaps,” Barre said. His eyes were on the blonde. “But I’ve no fear of losing any of them to it here at this fine establishment.”

  Saduq sat at the table, his smile growing broader. Even through the melancholy piano music, his attentive ear could detect the clatter of roulette wheels in the casino across the lobby of the Hotel Bonny Bight.

  Barre had reached for his wineglass and washed a mouthful of shrimp down with a gulp. “I suppose the diversions will keep my dogs from raising too much hell, since I won’t be back to rustle them together,” he said. “It would be best for the city of Limbe—most especially its innocent young women, I think—if I brought them along with me.”

  Saduq laughed. “I have five wives, and not one would have even flirted with innocence if I’d caught her out of the womb,” he replied, deliberately avoiding the issue. He had not gotten as far as he had in life without being cautious, and their transaction was simply too sensitive to be conducted within range of very many eyes and ears. At his insistence, Barre would come onto the yacht alone. Barre, however, had accepted that condition only after putting forth one of his own, stipulating that he rendezvous with a motor launch approximately three kilometers offshore once their deal was cemented. His reasoning was evident enough. The meeting with the launch was insurance—if he did not show up, the sea rogues aboard would be instantly put on alert for a betrayal. And would be prepared to react in an unpretty manner.

  Studying the pirate, Saduq could hardly fault him for seeking to equalize the terms of their handoff. He, too, had survived as long as he had thus far only by making wariness his close friend and ally.

  Barre ate under his momentary scrutiny, digging into his meal with enthusiasm. He was a whipcord lean Somali with a deep mahogany complexion, a diamond stud in his right ear, and a black scorpion tattoo peeking over his shirt collar. “Will you be joining me, Hassan?” he said, glancing up from his dish. “The shrimp is exceptional.”

  “I prefer to dine once we’ve concluded our business,” Saduq said. “But don’t rush. I would hate to see good food wasted.”

  Barre took another bite of the tender shrimp, then drank more of his wine as the lounge performer continued singing, her voice sultry and wistful, the notes gliding from her baby grand piano in minor arpeggios: “Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle. Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié. Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle. Les souvenirs et les regrets. . . .”

  “She is a strikingly beautiful woman,” Barre said. His eyes had held on her. “Do you understand French?”

  Saduq gave a small shake of his head. “Barely enough to exchange pleasantries.”

  “She sings of a lost lover, the passage of seasons, and lingering regret,” Barre said. “Such an emotional delivery . . . I wonder if she carries some personal sorrow.”

  Saduq chuckled. “Would you try to make her forget it?”

  “Do not laugh,” Barre said with a shrug. “I may return here some other night and introduce myself to her.”

  Saduq looked at him. “Tender soul that you are, Nicolas, I have no doubt you’d be ready with a healing touch,” he said. “But I have found the best way to avoid sadness and regret is keeping my mind on one thing at a time . . . and for this night it is the business at hand.”

  A 52-foot Ferretti with an open flybridge, broad sky lounge, and streamlined hull, the motor yacht rocked gently in the berthing area with other quayside luxury vessels, her interior and running lights on.

  “There’s Saduq’s boat,” Abby said, pointing out the right side of the windshield. “The Yemaja.”

  Kealey studied it from the SUV’s backseat as they approached. The name on its hull was easy to spot in the streetlights along Avenue de la Marina. A couple of dark-suited men stood near the foot of the dock, no less visible to him.

  He shifted his gaze to the glass-fronted, balconied, four-story building up the harbor, its entry spilling more brightness into the night. “Is that the hotel?”

  Abby nodded. “We believe our friend Hassan has a silent stake in its ownership—he isn’t hesitant to diversify his portfolio,” she said. “Still, we’ve managed to slip a casual employee onto its staff.”

  Kealey grunted. A short while ago Abby’s cell phone had trilled, and when she disconnected after a brief exchange with the caller,
she’d reported that Saduq had arrived at the hotel to join another man in its restaurant.

  “This plant of yours . . . he’s sure Saduq is alone?”

  “She is, yes,” Abby said. “Or entered alone, at any rate. Danielle plays a fine piano in the dining room, has a lovely voice, and is quite observant. Unfortunately she cannot see through walls.”

  Kealey thought in silence. He was willing to bet the arms broker had bodyguards with him somewhere—besides the two at the dock. And then there was the posse Abby had said accompanied Saduq’s contact. According to her information, he’d brought at least four men into the place with him, though they had vanished into the casino once he was seated at his table.

  “Take it slow going past the boat,” Kealey told Steiner, leaning forward. “Or as slow as you can without being conspicuous.”

  Steiner nodded behind the steering wheel and moments later was driving by the yacht. Kealey hastily counted three men moving about the deck and guessed they represented close to the Yemaja’s entire staff. A boat that small, Kealey figured Saduq could take it out into the bay himself if he had a pilot’s license. But if he was going to hold an important meet aboard her, there would be a man at the helm, maybe a hand or two to assist him. You could probably add a galley steward to the crew list, since Saduq would be the type to like sailing in style. That would be about it.

  “What’s next?” Abby asked from in front.

  Kealey had been grappling with the same question. His eyes intent, he noticed a dimly lit outdoor parking lot at the end of the dock, a row of tall royal palms forming the boundary line between its far side and the hotel grounds.

  “Any idea who belongs to those vehicles?” he said, nodding toward the small number in the lot.

  “It is general marina parking,” Brun said across the backseat. “Also for the hotel’s staff.”

  “What about its guests?” Kealey asked.

  “The Bonny Bight has valets. An underground garage,” Brun said.