Hell's Choir (NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER SERIES Book 3)

by Mark Mannock

  “Yes,” I responded.

  “Mr. Sharp, I have an inquiry from Vice President Blake.”

  Unexpected.

  “Yes?” I responded again.

  “Sir, the vice president heard your name last night as they introduced the band. He says it rang a bell in the back of his mind. He wondered if by any chance you are related to Colonel Brighton Sharp of the US Marines?”

  “Yes, I am,” I replied. “He was my father.”

  “Respectfully, sir, if that’s the case, I’m instructed to invite you up to the vice president’s suite at three this afternoon. It would appear, sir, that Vice President Blake knew your father quite well.”

  I was taken aback. It’s not every day that you get invited for a personal chat with the second most powerful man on earth.

  There wasn’t much I could say apart from, “I’ll be there.”

  At 2.55 p.m., two poker-faced Secret Service agents escorted me out of the lift and onto the tenth-floor corridor. As we walked along the hallway, I sensed their professional appraisal, their X-ray eyes scanning me as a potential threat. At the doorway to the vice president’s suite, four more agents hovered.

  “Mr. Sharp,” said the elder and probably most senior of the group. He used a wand to scan me for personal weapons before knocking on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opened it and walked through. I followed him in. Another agent followed me.

  It was an impressive and incontestably luxurious environment that I entered. The imposing figure standing in the center of the room was equally impressive. At close quarters, Vice President Jefferson Blake was a striking man. Marginally over six foot, evidently muscular, even under his well-cut business suit, he radiated a strength of character the most politicians would kill for.

  “Mr. Sharp, Nicholas, if I may, please come in and sit down.”

  I took several steps toward him and held out my hand. “Mr. Vice President, it is an honor.”

  We both sat down.

  “I’m sorry to drag you up here,” he began, “but the Secret Service people seem to take exception to me prowling the corridors of hotels in foreign countries. It limits my movements.”

  “I understand, sir, not a problem.” Like I have anything else to do. I continued. “I believe you knew my father?”

  “Yes, I certainly did. He was a very influential person in my early military career. If it wasn’t for him, I may well have walked a completely different road.”

  “How so, sir?” I asked.

  “At one point I had doubts about staying in the Marines and pressing ahead with my military vocation. I was considering leaving to pursue a civil law career, focusing on social justice. Your father was the one person who made me see that the qualities and skills that I would pick up in the Marines would stay with me for life, even when I pursued other paths. Of course, he was right. I owe him a lot.”

  “He was very persuasive, and annoyingly logical in his arguments,” I said. “I fear he had a similar impact on my own career choices.”

  “Were you a military man before you became a musician?”

  “Yes, sir, a Marine scout sniper, three tours of duty.”

  “But you got out?”

  “Yes, sir — I felt another calling.” I saw no need to elaborate on what had been a complex situation, seeded in the back streets of Baghdad.

  “It appears we may have a fair amount in common, Nicholas.”

  “Yes, sir, it does. Could I ask how you associated me with my father when you heard my name on stage last night?”

  “Yes, I seemed to recall that at some point your father had mentioned you to me in passing conversation. He said that you had become an outstanding musician and a terrific shot with a rifle. He seemed uncertain which way you would fall.”

  That surprised me. My father never seemed uncertain about anything.

  My leg started to vibrate followed by the distinctive sounds of my ringtone. Shit. I hadn’t even left it on silent.

  “I’m so sorry, sir—I must have forgotten to turn it off.”

  “Not a problem,” said the vice president. I’ll pour us each a drink while you take the call.

  It was Greatrex.

  “I can’t talk now,” I whispered. “I’m meeting with the vice president.”

  “Yeah, and I’m in a group chat with the Queen of England.”

  Some people believe nothing you say. I hung up.

  Jefferson Blake and I spent the next twenty minutes chatting about life in the military and the exploits of my father, before being interrupted by one of his aides.

  “I’m afraid I must send you on your way, Nicholas. Duty calls.”

  “Certainly, sir, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “It surely has, my friend.”

  My friend.

  A Secret Service agent seemed to appear out of nowhere to guide me to the door. I shook the vice president’s hand and turned to follow the agent out.

  Then, out of the blue, Jefferson Blake asked, “When do you fly out?”

  “Tomorrow evening, after a final show with some local musicians,” I responded.

  With a chuckle, the vice president of the United States then made me an unrefusable offer. “We’re flying out the morning after. How would you like a lift? If the press and my aides leave me alone long enough, we may get a chance to exchange some more Brighton Sharp stories.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vice President, that would be an honor.” I paused for a moment. “Sir, without being presumptuous, is there any chance I can bring a colleague along? He’s also a former Marine now working in the music industry.”

  Blake looked undecided, but only for a second. “Sure thing, why not?”

  I turned and left the room.

  So, Greatrex and I were going for a ride on Air Force Two. Who would have thought?

  Chapter 3

  Now

  The lobby was still eerily silent. Fortunately, no surprises there.

  Greatrex and I traversed the vast space, searching for any sign of life as we walked. We saw no one, just an empty cavernous expanse that seemed all wrong. When we passed an impressively sizable indoor atrium and happened into sight of the large glass front doors, everything changed. Several men in khaki military fatigues blocked the hotel entrance. They seemed tense and alert but faced away from us toward the street outside.

  As we approached the doors, they automatically opened. The soldiers seemed to be surprised at the sound and quickly swung around. When they swiveled, they instinctively raised their weapons. Jack Greatrex and I found ourselves staring down the barrels of six high-powered rifles.

  “Hey, calm down, fellas,” I suggested as we both raised our arms. “We don’t want any accidents.”

  One of the soldiers, the first to regain his composure, stepped forward. By the epaulets on his shoulders, I assumed him to be the most senior ranking officer.

  “Who are you?” he demanded in faltering English.

  “Nicholas Sharp and Jack Greatrex. We are musicians with the US exposition contingent,” I said. “Officer, something is dreadfully wrong. There are—”

  Before I could finish, the officer interrupted. “All the performers and extra US personnel flew out at midnight last night. How can I be sure you are who you say you are and why are you still here?” Before I could reply he continued aggressively. “Identification papers and passports, please. Now!”

  “They are up in our rooms,” replied Greatrex. “You need to listen to us…”

  The Sudanese officer looked decidedly uncomfortable. He had made no comment regarding the empty hotel, and he seemed quite perturbed to see us.

  “One moment,” he said.

  The soldier sidled a few paces aside, out of earshot, and whispered hurriedly into his radio. A couple of minutes later he returned. He didn’t look happy.

  “You are to go back inside and wait in the hotel lobby. Two of my men will accompany you. My commanding officer will be here shortly.”

  He spoke to the
two men nearest him in rapid Arabic. On cue, they indicated toward the empty lobby with their rifles before unceremoniously marching us back through the glass doors and into the hotel.

  “Tell me I’m dreaming,” I said to Greatrex.

  “’Fraid not,” replied the big fella. “That man didn’t want to hear a word we had to say. It was like he already knew.”

  “Agot tahit was as ‘kut!,” barked one of the soldiers. Neither of us spoke the language, but he undoubtedly meant that we should sit down and shut up.

  Twenty minutes later, a Sudanese Army SUV in camouflage livery pulled up in front of the hotel. A very official-looking soldier in an overly tidy uniform laced with braid and military ribbon bars stepped out. On the crown of his head, an olive-green beret featuring a red and gold insignia enforced his status. After talking briefly with the officer on duty, he marched through the lobby doors toward us.

  “I am Colonel Agiid Abdulmuti Al Bahari Tijan of the Sudanese Armed Forces. Who might you be?” inquired the colonel in impeccable English.

  Again, we identified ourselves.

  “You were due to leave Khartoum last night. Why are you still here?” he demanded.

  My frustration growing rapidly by the minute, I responded.

  “Colonel, why we are still here is a long story and doesn’t really matter. The point is, there are dead American Secret Service personnel scattered around this building. There is no one else in sight, and it appears that the vice president of the United States of America has gone missing.”

  The colonel said nothing. He stared at us as though we were aliens.

  Finally, “We are aware of the situation.”

  “You are aware? Please tell us what the hell you are aware of? Nothing is making sense here.” My patience abandoned me completely.

  Again, the colonel waited before he answered.

  “There is a situation. It has national and international ramifications. These events do not involve you.”

  “Of course they damn well involve us,” said Greatrex. “We are sitting right in the middle of the whole freakin’ mess.”

  More silence.

  Then, “You two gentlemen are to return to your rooms. Do not leave the hotel. Do not make any further explorations around the hotel. I will have men stationed on your floor. All remaining guests have been evacuated. We will make the same arrangements for you shortly.”

  “With respect, Colonel, that is nowhere near good enough. We insist that you make provisions for us to be taken to the US Embassy immediately,” I demanded.

  “That will not happen, Mr. Sharp. Your embassy has been… isolated. No one is entering nor leaving it. All electronic communication to and from the embassy has also been blocked.”

  Greatrex and I glanced at each other. What the…?

  Too much was unclear, but evidently we had landed ourselves in some kind of major political upheaval. The situation ran so far above our pay grade it was ridiculous.

  “Colonel, can you at least tell us the status and location of Vice President Jefferson Blake?” I requested.

  “I’m afraid that information is not available to me, nor to you. Now, gentlemen, my men will escort you to your rooms. Good afternoon.” With that, Colonel Agiid Abdulmuti Al Bahari Tijan turned around and left.

  “Just here for the music?” I said, looking at Greatrex.

  “No comment,” came the terse reply.

  Greatrex was sitting in a lounge chair; I was perched on the end of the bed in my room. The soldiers hadn’t insisted we go to our separate rooms as we both had accommodation on the same floor. Guarding one room equated to an easier task.

  “This feels so far beyond ‘not right’ that it’s absurd,” I said.

  “It makes no sense,” observed the big fella. “Getting caught up in a political coup in a reasonably unstable country is one thing. When American personnel are killed and a sitting US vice president goes AWOL, well, that’s a whole different level of nightmare.”

  “We need to find a way to communicate with US authorities. We have no idea how much they know about what’s going on here. I can’t imagine anyone in Washington is twiddling their thumbs while the second-in-command of the county has gone ‘location status unknown,’” I replied.

  I pulled out my cell phone for what must have been the tenth time. Still no signal. We had also tried my laptop. The toolbar at the bottom of the screen indicated no internet connection.

  “Short of smoke signals, I have no ideas,” I concluded.

  Abruptly there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in, it’s open,” ordered Greatrex.

  To our surprise, in strolled Jumaa Al Fadil, our guide from a few days ago. He carried a tray of food.

  “How in God’s name…?” I began.

  “A few piasters here, a few American dollars there, and I managed to persuade the soldiers guarding the hotel that you would need food. No one wanted to be responsible for your malnourishment,” he laughed.

  “How did you know we were here?” asked Greatrex.

  “Quite straightforward really,” said Jumaa. “Remember, I remained with you last night until well after the plane with most of your contingent left? When I heard of the unrest, I came straight to the hotel, knowing that you would not have made it out of the country with your fellow countrymen. I saw the soldiers loading a few remaining guests into a bus, presumably to be taken to the airport for another flight out.”

  “And we weren’t among the guests,” I added.

  “No, I figured the soldiers wouldn’t have checked your rooms because they assumed you left last night. No one suspected you had arranged to catch a lift with the vice president. I tried to tell the soldiers, but no one wanted to listen.”

  “You are a very resourceful man, Jumaa,” said Greatrex.

  “I’m beginning to think we don’t appreciate the half of it,” I chipped in.

  Jumaa just offered his sassy grin and shrugged.

  “Well, my inventive friend, you better tell us what you know. We are flying blind here, and obviously something has gone terribly wrong.” I sat and waited.

  Jumaa began, “Yes, in the middle of the night there was an uprising, a coup. As you are aware, those in charge of the military here have been struggling in a leadership battle for some years with those promoting democratic reform. We hoped we had made it through that period, but… apparently not.”

  Our Sudanese friend paused thoughtfully for a moment before continuing.

  “I suspect that the success of the international exposition of which you are a part, in addition to the very positive relationship that has developed between our president and your vice president, has played a role in this.”

  “How so?” asked Greatrex.

  “Well, there are some in the military and many others in extreme Islamic groups that believe that the movement for democratic change is not right for our county. They are convinced it will have a negative impact on our people’s religious rights. They see Christianity as a threat, and the intrusion of the West represents that threat. Accordingly, the success of the exposition had become an overwhelming problem for those opposing democracy.”

  I marveled at Jumaa’s succinct appraisal of Sudanese politics.

  “You are a bit more than just a tour guide, aren’t you, Jumaa?” I suggested.

  “Yes, perhaps. I have been quite active in the movement for constitutional change. I have also been very fortunate to avoid the wrath of those who oppose it,” he replied.

  “Okay,” said Greatrex. “I get the whole thing about the continuing instability, but surely kidnapping a US vice president and murdering Secret Service agents couldn’t be part of a bigger plan for the country’s management?”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are right,” responded Jumaa. “As we speak, I have no doubt that our country’s military and civilian leaders are negotiating their way through this situation. They have done it many times before. The trouble is, many of our religious zealots have seen this as wel
l and are growing tired of the dance. I’m fairly certain that the deaths of your countrymen and the removal of Vice President Jefferson Blake have been actioned by an outlying radical extremist group.”

  “You mean terrorists,” I said.

  “Yes, Nicholas. I don’t want to alarm you, but it is my belief that Vice President Blake has been kidnapped. It is also my belief that the most likely group responsible are violent Islamic terrorists from within my country.”

  Neither Greatrex nor I responded.

  “One more thing,” added Jumaa, “if these people are part of or in any way related to the extremist group I am thinking of…” Our new friend seemed to hesitate.

  “Well?” I asked

  “Well, they will not hesitate to kill your man if they don’t get what they want.”

  Chapter 4

  The three of us sat in silence.

  It wasn’t my nature, nor I’m sure anyone else’s in that room, to let this go and just wait to be safely rescued. That is, of course, if that’s what the authorities had planned for us. I knew we would try to do something, but I had no idea what.

  “Communication,” announced Greatrex, “that has to be the first step. We can’t do anything until we get in touch with the US government. We don’t know if they are planning something as we speak. If we get in their way, we could be creating more problems.”

  “On the other hand, if they don’t know what’s happened, they won’t be planning anything and we’ll need to act,” I added. “Jumaa, how much information about all of this has gotten out of the country?”

  “I’m sure the world knows there has been some sort of coup. They wouldn’t have let people fly out if secrecy had been their main concern. I’m equally sure your president will be worried—he should be. The trouble is that the Sudanese authorities are very good at controlling the flow of information across our borders. While it’s probably public knowledge that there has been unrest, the details will be sketchy. Those in power have shut down the internet and blocked any electronic communications. The embassies in Khartoum would have been the first locations they targeted.”