The glass trophy case reflected a wide smile. “As I predicted, SR has proved to be a disappointment.”
“But we’ve lost Iboga just when we need him most.”
“I would not call Iboga lost,” Doug Case replied with another smile for his reflection.
“What the hell would you call him?”
“Temporarily misplaced.”
“You sound damned sure of yourself.”
“I am in this instance, sir. Please don’t worry.”
“Don’t you think you should get yourself to Isle de Foree ASAP?”
“I already have an ASC Gulfstream gassing up at Hobby Airport. I’ll be aboard in twenty minutes.”
“I think you should go in force.”
“I’ve already beefed up security on the Vulcan Queen.”
“As a precaution?”
Doug Case went for broke.
It was time to claim his rightful role. Before the coup.
“Not a precaution. In anticipation of when you ask me to remove Chief of Staff Mario Margarido.”
The distorted voice made a noise that was probably a chuckle. “I admire you, Douglas. You do stay on top of things.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you ready to remove Margarido?”
“Of course, as I promised. Everything is set.”
“Do it!”
“Consider it done.”
“And when you get to Isle de Foree?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do everything in your power to support Kingsman Helms.”
That came as fast and final as a red-hot sword in the gut.
Case ran the possibilities: The Voice was Kingsman Helms himself, ensuring Case’s support. Or The Voice was the Buddha, who had chosen Helms as his successor. Or the Voice was an outsider, a board member or a rival who wanted his man Helms in charge of ASC.
A sword in the gut any way Case looked at it.
“Douglas, are you still there?”
“I will do everything in my power to support Kingsman Helms.”
“Excellent. I knew I could count on you.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Dawn
39°55′ N, 09°41′ E
Tortoli Airport, Sardinia, 820 miles south-southeast of The Hague
Iboga was seasick. He had gotten queasy in the RIB during the short run through the surf from the cliffs of the Vallicone peninsula to the cigarette boat waiting offshore. On the cigarette, he had groaned loudly and drunkenly as it sped him to the freighter cruising the Strait of Bonifacio. Hoisted aboard in a cargo net, the dictator proceeded to vomit wine on the deck.
In the bright light of the ship’s galley, which smelled of grease and coffee, Janson and Kincaid inspected every item that Kincaid had taken from the dictator. A thick, new lizard skin travel wallet contained authentic-looking French, Russian, and Nigerian passports, an international driver’s license, and Visa and American Express credit cards in the name of N. Kwame Johnson. There was a gold money clip full of euros, an old-fashioned Zippo cigarette lighter, the latest iPhone with a treasure trove of contact numbers, a beautifully crafted French shepherd’s folding knife, a gold and diamond Rolex watch, a plastic Baggie of loose pills, including oxycodone, aspirin, and Viagra, and several mini-Baggies, each holding a half a gram of a black powder, which Janson assumed was Iboga’s namesake hallucinogen extracted from the Tabernanthe iboga rain-forest shrub. He uplinked the data on the iPhone SIM card to the forensic accountants, along with the credit card numbers and passport numbers, with instructions to pass on to Research anything that did not serve their hunt for the money.
Iboga was too seasick to interrogate, shaking with dry heaves. Janson knelt beside him, coaxing him to drink water so as not to become dangerously dehydrated. There would be time on the plane to talk about the money. And more time, if necessary, parked on a runway in friendly territory.
Off the east coast of Sardinia, they lowered him into another RIB to slip ashore at Tortoli Airport. The RIB motored quietly through the last wisps of night, steered by Daniel. Iboga retched over the side.
“God punishes in mysterious ways,” Janson told Kincaid.
They were seated on the inflated tubes where they joined to form the bow. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but she heard a faint grin in his voice that relieved her deeply. This was the first he had spoken other than to issue quiet orders since they had left Corsica the night before. “How are you?”
“Hanging in there.”
“Like you told him, Paul. He gave you no choice.”
“Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”
Kincaid took his hand. There was a softness to it that always surprised her. “Janson Rules,” she said. “ ‘No killing anyone who doesn’t try to kill us.’ He would have killed you and killed everything you hope for.”
“Still didn’t enjoy it. But thanks for the thought.”
“Don’t blow me off! It’s not a goddamned thought. I’m trying to screw your head back on straight.”
“Well, thanks for the head screwing. I mean it. Thank you.” He patted her arm distractedly, dialed his cell phone, shielding the light in his palm, listened to it ring, and hung up. “Still can’t raise the boys.”
Ed and Mike had reported earlier in the night that they had landed the Embraer at Tortoli Airport and parked as out of the way as they could. It was a tiny field outside the town of Tortoli—trees around the control tower, in Ed’s words—that handled a couple of tourist charters a day. The single runway ran from a bare-bones terminal to the beach, which the RIB was approaching. With the prevailing wind from the east, the Embraer had descended over the hills and would take off over the water, which meant hiking six thousand feet from the beach dragging Iboga in the dark.
They heard him retching into the gentle surf.
“Good thing we brought the dolly.”
The rubber boat ground ashore on the sand. Daniel helped them shoulder Iboga across the beach and went back for the dolly. They strapped him to it standing up. Its fat pneumatic tires rolled easily on the asphalt runway.
“Good job,” Janson told Daniel, shaking his hand.
“Get home safe.”
Each gripping a handle, Janson and Kincaid started rolling Iboga toward the distant control tower, which was invisible against the dark hills behind it. Janson flipped down his panoramics. There it was, a squat structure in a clump of trees. Parked near it was a plane—not the Embraer. Its engines were wing mounted. Hauling on the dolly handle, jogging beside Kincaid, he scanned the area around the buildings. There was the Embraer, showing no lights of course but pointed straight down the runway, with its door open for them and boarding stairs extended.
“I see the plane.”
The night glass’s infrared enhancement showed the bright bulge of the big Rolls-Royces on its tail. They appeared brighter than the buildings and the other plane, which meant that Ed and Mike had the engines warm, ready to take off in a flash.
Iboga stopped groaning. As was common with seasickness, the restorative effect of being on dry land was rapid. Suddenly he spoke.
“Where take?”
“Holland. The Hague. International Court.”
“I pay bribe. Let me go.”
“How much?” asked Janson, without slackening pace.
“Ten million euros.”
“Where are you going to get ten million dollars?” Kincaid asked scornfully.
“I get.”
“Hundred million,” said Janson.
“Seventy,” Iboga shot back. And Janson felt his hopes soar. Iboga was bargaining like a man who had no doubt he could raise the money. Nor did he sound concerned by the amount, as if he could easily afford it and have plenty, the lion’s share, left for himself. Unless he was scamming them, angling to distract them, looking for a chance to break away.
“Where?” Kincaid demanded. “How do we get the money?”
“You take me. I get.”
“Where?”
/> “First you say yes. And you give me back my stuff.”
“I’m not saying yes until you tell me where. And I’m damned sure not giving you anything back until I have the seventy million in my hands.”
After a moment of rolling in silence, Iboga caved. “Zagreb.”
Zagreb made sense, thought Janson. Zagreb was the capital of Croatia, among the most corrupt countries in eastern Europe, the kind of nation where transnational criminal organizations like Securité Referral could play a powerful role. He imagined the enormous kickback SR would have received from the Croatian bank, and even the government itself, for steering Iboga’s stolen money to them.
Suddenly Kincaid whispered, “What’s that?”
Janson heard it, too, from behind them, the rumble of heavy engines, approaching from the sea. He flipped up the panoramics. The control tower had grown visible in the predawn light.
“Turboprops.”
The aircraft engines rumbled overhead and faded toward the hills. Then they heard the plane turn around and the sound grew louder.
“Descending.”
The tower windows were dark, the field closed for the night. Whoever was approaching was coming in without air controller assistance. Janson and Kincaid picked up the pace so as not to be exposed in the landing lights. They followed the plane by its sound. Suddenly they saw its profile silhouetted against the graying sky, a high-wing, twin-engine transporter.
“Weird,” said Janson.
Kincaid agreed. It looked like a C-160 Transall, the twin-engine turboprop that they had seen flown by the Deuxième Régiment Étranger des Parachutistes rapid-intervention units exercising in Corisca. It came down fast and skillfully. Landing lights blazed on at the last second, revealing a camo-green fuselage. The massive tricycle landing gear absorbed the impact. Propellers reversed with a roar and the Transall slowed so quickly that it was able to turn around in less than a third of the runway. With another roar, it came straight at them, landing lights aglare.
“What?” yelled Iboga, blinking, struggling to shield his eyes with his trussed hands. Janson and Kincaid had already flipped down their night gear, which neutralized the glare.
When they saw the rear cargo door spilling paratroopers onto the tarmac, they had only seconds to escape. But that would mean abandoning their prisoner and drawing fire at Ed and Mike on the Embraer.
“It’s the goddamned French Foreign Legion.”
“This is Italy. They can’t come here.”
“Looks like no one told them.”
A stentorian voice amplified by a bullhorn bellowed French.
“He’s saying, ‘Hands in the air.’ ”
“I got that.” They raised their hands. “Now what’s he saying?”
“Uhhmm … ‘We arrest Iboga … taken illegally from France.’ ”
Two soldiers ran up, grabbed the dolly’s handgrips, and wheeled Iboga to the Transall.
“Here come the cops.”
An Italian police car squealed around the terminal, past the control tower, and raced onto the runway with flashing blue lights. Two Carabiniere officers jumped out, straightened their black tunics, and swaggered toward the Transall. A French paratrooper stepped forward and fired a long, loud burst with his assault rifle. Bullets whistled past the police and blew out all the windows in their patrol car.
Kincaid said, “Since when does the French Army issue AK-47s?”
A second burst over their heads sent the Italians running into the dark.
Janson counted paratroopers. “That Transall holds eighty. I see ten.”
“They’re not Legionnaires. They’re as phony as ours were. Jesus, who the hell are they?”
“Just hope they keep the act up and don’t strafe us. Those AKs aren’t phony.”
“And just let them take Iboga?”
“We’ll follow them,” said Janson, with little hope. “If they don’t shoot our tires out.”
The gunmen in paratroop gear unstrapped Iboga from the dolly and helped him up the Transall’s steps.
At the top, the wary-looking Iboga suddenly broke into a grin so broad that it showed his pointed teeth.
“What is going on?” said Kincaid. “He looks happy as hell.”
“Wait,” said Janson. “It’s going to get worse.”
One of the phony Legionnaires presented Iboga with a bright yellow scarf, his signature Arab kaffiyeh. Iboga gathered it around his enormous skull. For a long moment he stood proud as a king. Then he gestured imperiously for the trooper to shoot Janson and Kincaid, who were still holding their hands in the air.
The trooper did not pull the trigger but with help of the others urged Iboga into the transport. He argued and kept pointing at Janson and Kincaid. It took four strong men to shove Iboga in the door. To Janson’s surprise, the last man up the ramp did not strafe the Embraer’s landing gear with his assault rifle. Instead, he threw a mock salute as the airplane started rolling down the runway, and pulled the door shut.
Janson vaulted up the Embraer’s steps, with Kincaid right behind him.
“Fire ’em up, boys! Follow that plane—Oh, God!”
Ed’s and Mike’s seat belts held their bodies in the pilot and co-pilot chairs. Their throats had been cut and the cockpit stank of blood.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Vicious, senseless…” Kincaid’s voice was cracking, her mouth trembling. “Why didn’t they just kill us instead?”
“Ed and Mike were easier to kill.”
There were times, Janson thought, that he was ashamed to be a human being. These two men, these gentle men, so precise in their skills, so quietly proud of the partnership they forged daily with the elegantly engineered Embraer, so ready to whisk Janson anywhere in the world, to change course without hesitation, to be always loyally at his service, to risk their licenses to play fast and loose to serve him, did not deserve to be murdered.
“Senseless,” Kincaid repeated. “They’re just pilots. They’re not— Oh, God, they were always so nice to me.”
Not quite senseless, thought Janson. There was purpose behind the murders. The phony Legionnaires had left him and Kincaid holding the bag, stuck on the ground, on foreign soil, with two dead men to account for. They would be tied down for weeks explaining to the Italian authorities. Under Italian law they could be held without charges for two years.
He was heartsick. The inner circle of CatsPaw and Phoenix was small, very small. His family. Jesse, Quintisha, his pilots. He stared out the windshield. How many miles had Ed and Mike looked through it taking him places he had to go? The Embraer was pointed east down the runway. The sky was brightening over the sea. The Carabiniere would be radioing reinforcements.
“I’ll get towels and blankets,” he said. “We’ll lay them out aft.”
Kincaid followed him to the back of the plane, stumbling like a woman wrenched from sleep. They got blankets and towels from the linen locker and hurried forward, Janson moving with increasing urgency. He stopped to retract the stairs and lock the door. He found Jessica on her hands and knees in the cockpit, toweling blood off the deck. They wrapped Ed and Mike as best they could in the blankets, carried them aft, and strapped them into the fold-down bunks.
“Iboga looked surprised. He didn’t expect to be rescued.”
“Yeah, I saw that. Fucking SR.”
“These guys weren’t necessarily SR. SR would have shot everyone in sight. Cops, us.”
“They did Ed and Mike.”
“They did the bare minimum to leave you and me holding the bag so the Italians will hunt us instead of them. We can spend a year in Italy. Or we can try and get out of here so we can track down Iboga and his money.”
“And get who did this to Ed and Mike?”
“Have you been practicing takeoffs on the simulator?”
She tore her eyes from the shrouded bodies. “Yeah, Ed set it up. Mike sat in with me.”
“How’d you do?”
“Aced it. Second try.”
Jans
on said, “It’s been a while since I’ve flown and I expect you’re better at it than I am.”
“Not saying much.”
“I’ll lay smoke. You get us out of here.”
* * *
KINCAID WIPED MIKE’S blood off the left-hand chair, climbed in, and adjusted it forward so she could reach the rudder pedals. Ed had taped a card to the throttle on which he had written “V1 114” and “VR 130.”
V1 was her all-important takeoff-decision speed, which Ed had based on the weight of the aircraft, the length of the runway, the temperature, and the speed of the wind. It told Kincaid that she had until the fifty-thousand-pound jet plane was hurtling at 114 knots—130 miles per hour—to decide not to take off. If she lost an engine slower than that she had to abort. Above 114 knots, she had to try to take off. She showed Janson the bud that Ed had set on the airspeed indicator at 114 knots. It would be Janson’s job, as the one not flying the ship, to call out, “V1.” At VR, rotation speed—which Ed had written as “130 knots”—Janson would simply call out, “Rotate,” so Kincaid would know when to draw back on the control yoke to elevate the nosewheel off the runway.
Janson climbed into the co-pilot chair, slipped on the headset, and turned his attention to the electronics. “Laying smoke” meant using the Embraer’s defensive aid suite to make Air Traffic Control think that the twin-engine passenger jet was either elsewhere or nowhere at all.
But first he switched off the transponder, which replied to radar queries from ground control and other airplanes. Then he shut down the AFIRS (Automated Flight Information Reporting System) air-to-ground data link service that had recently replaced the antiquated “black box” onboard flight data recorder. Now they would leave no electronically enhanced trail in the sky.
He checked the flight plan in the computer. Ed had filed for The Hague, Holland, eight hundred miles to the north. That was now out the window.
“We’ll hang a right, shoot low and fast as we can down the coast past Sardinia and out of Italian territory into Mediterranean Free Flight Airspace.”
“Let’s see if I can get off the ground, first.”
Kincaid touched the left-hand engine master switch, then the start lever. Number One engine’s compressor started cranking on battery power. Janson watched her eyes flicker between controls and monitors. The Embraer’s automatic engine start sequencer made it slightly similar to starting a car in that she did not have to decide when the turbine was spinning fast enough to introduce fuel and when to ignite it. The engine caught immediately. She let it spool up as she used its generator to crank the Number Two engine’s compressor. Number Two was balky. The sequencer refused to ignite the fuel.
Robert Ludlum’s The Janson Command Page 28
