“You spoke to Director Freeling in there. Did she say anything that might be useful?” Paulis asked.
DuBose was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “She was pretty out of it.”
Paulis leaned towards him. “Considering you work for the CIA, you’re a terrible liar, DuBose. I’m starting to get the distinct impression you don’t trust me.”
DuBose’s dark eyes met the man’s intimidating gaze. “Sir, right now, I don’t trust anybody.”
Paulis squinted at him, then nodded. “Good. That means you’re thinking clearly. But let me give you some advice. Figure out who your friends are, and do it fast. Because whoever is behind this, you can bet they’re not finished yet.”
Paulis turned and marched towards the door of Rebecca’s room. “And DuBose, I want twenty-four-hour protection on her room. You work with the security branch, and Director Freeling trusts you. So get your personnel recommendations on my desk ASAP. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
Paulis entered and shut the door behind him. The other two men took up positions guarding the door.
DuBose turned and continued toward the elevator. He slipped his cellphone out of his pocket and stared at it for a moment, hesitating.
You better figure out who your friends are …
He made his decision and dialed a number.
A woman’s voice answered. “Special Agent Zavala.”
DuBose stepped into the elevator. “Zavala, we have to talk. Alone. I’ll text you.”
The elevator doors slid shut, and the call went dead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was just past 4:00 a.m. when Caine and Nena crossed the border into South Sudan. There was no town or village to speak of, just a faded green sign written in both Arabic and English. The writing warned travelers to stop and present their documents. A pair of clay brick towers flanked the road. Sagging razor wire fences extended from each tower and ran along the border for a few hundred meters, until they came to an abrupt end. The border continued in the distance, open and unguarded as far as Caine could see.
A soldier shuffled from one of the towers and approached the car. His green beret and blue shoulder patch marked him as military police. He cradled an HK G3 assault rifle in his arms. He tapped on Nena’s window with the barrel of the rifle. She rolled it down and presented her travel papers. The soldier lowered his weapon and clicked on a tiny flashlight. He gave the papers a cursory glance, then turned the light into the car at Caine.
“Who is he?” the man grunted. His eyes looked heavy and tired, but they held a wary glint.
“Al'amn alkhasu. Private security,” Nena answered. “He is my bodyguard.”
The soldier nodded. “Passport.”
Caine reached over with a slow, non-threatening motion and handed the man his passport. The soldier flipped it open and glanced at the picture. He turned the page and slipped out the folded hundred dollar bill with practiced ease.
He handed the passport and papers back to Nena. “Be careful, Doctor Vasani. The rebels have been active in the south. Much fighting. Much shooting. Allah be with you.”
He waved them forward. They drove through the checkpoint and left Sudan behind them.
As Caine slipped his passport back into his pocket, he glanced over at Nena. She tugged her hijab scarf off her head, letting her thick, dark hair spill out around her shoulders. She looked over at him and noticed him watching her.
“In Sudan, I am a Muslim, because my father was a Muslim,” she said. “Even though my mother was Christian, I must follow Sharia law. I can be arrested for apostasy, for marrying a non-Muslim. I can be beaten or whipped for refusing to fast during Ramadan …” She glanced down at the scrap of fabric she clenched in her fist. “Or for not wearing a hijab. These things, and more.”
“And here, in South Sudan?”
She set the scarf down on the seat next to her.
“Here, my faith is my own concern. I need not discuss it with you, or anyone else.”
Caine nodded. “Fine by me.”
He slipped the Type 54 pistol from his bag and ejected the empty magazine. He racked the slide open and examined the interior for signs of wear and tear. The gun’s frame was nicked and worn, but the weapon’s mechanism was smooth and well-oiled. He would strip it down and clean it later, but for now he was satisfied. He loaded the fresh magazine of ammo and thumbed the slide release. The metal slide snapped shut, and he tucked the pistol into his waistband.
Nena watched him from the corner of her eye, but said nothing. They continued down the long road in silence, driving into the purple twilight that separated night from dawn.
The first sign of Malakal was a sparse cluster of tents and shelters scattered on the grassy plains. The paved roads that had carried them out of Sudan had long since given way to dusty trails of packed earth. Malakal County bordered the banks of the White Nile. Here, a slick of wet mud and clay covered the soft ground.
Caine looked out the window as the truck bounced and clawed its way across the uneven terrain. “Sure you don’t want me to drive? It’s pretty rugged out here.”
Nena clenched the wheel tighter in her small hands. “I have driven throughout most of South Sudan, Mr. Caine. I can manage just fine, thank you.”
“I’m sure you can. I thought you might be getting tired.”
She glanced over at him and smiled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound defensive. But we will be stopping soon. Look.” She pointed to a cluster of buildings in the distance.
“Malakal,” Caine said.
“What is left of it,” Nena added.
As they cleared the tents, the dirt road widened and the buildings grew closer. They were a motley assortment of shacks, warehouses and municipal buildings. Half the structures were burned-out husks. Those that remained standing were badly in need of repair.
They drove past a stone and brick church near the center of town. Wood scaffolding surrounded its bell tower, and workers swarmed around the base. They patched holes in the tower’s walls with a mix of rocks and cement. The heat outside was already brutal, and the workers’ clothes were stained by dark patches of sweat.
“South Sudan’s government says that peace has finally come to Malakal,” Nena said. “Officially, they signed a ceasefire with the rebels a few years ago. But the truth is, neither side ever really stopped fighting. Each group blames the other when there is shooting, but the killing never stops for long.”
“The city is in a strategic location,” Caine said as he stared out the window. He watched a group of children, only a few years old, splash in a pothole filled with stagnant, green water. They were playing with the remains of a black rubber tire. The collapsed frame of a charred school house leaned against the trees behind them.
He looked back to the road. “There are oil fields to the north.”
“Yes,” she said. “And where there is oil, there is always blood.”
Nena spun the wheel and turned down a bumpy side street. She smiled as they drove towards a small cluster of colorful buildings. “Here we are—”
The smile on her face melted away, replaced by a grimace of fear.
Caine heard her gasp. He stared out the windshield. Ahead of them was a bright pink shack, where an old, stooped man sold an array of used furniture and knickknacks. Next to the shack another burned-out shell of a building sank into the soft ground.
Nena opened the door and stepped towards the charred ruins.
“Nena, wait.” Caine glanced around the street. A few local women walked along either side of the dirt road, carrying jugs of water. A man in a pink polo shirt pushed a wheelbarrow filled with sacks of cement. Nobody stopped or paid them any special attention.
Caine exited the vehicle and pulled out his shirt tails, allowing the fabric to cover the butt of his pistol. He jogged over to Nena, who stood in front of the charred wood beams, staring. Her face was frozen, as if in shock.
“Nena, are you okay?”
�
�This was my clinic,” She said.
Caine put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
A pair of South Sudanese soldiers rounded the corner. They spoke in low voices and laughed, despite the sweat and exhaustion that lingered around their faces.
Nena ran over to them. Caine stayed where he was, keeping an eye on her and the pair of armed men.
“The clinic,” she cried out. “I was here the other day … what happened?”
One of the men took off his green beret and wiped a slick sheen of sweat off his shaved skull.
“Sorry, Doctor Vasani. There was a fire. We think it was rebels, hiding in the city.”
“Just a small group, Doctor,” the other soldier added. “We find them soon. There is no more fighting here, I promise you. You can reopen clinic, keep helping the sick.”
Caine stepped through the blackened archway of the ruins and prodded at a pile of debris with his foot.
“But what about my staff?” Nena continued speaking with the soldiers behind him.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We give them proper burial. We will catch the rebels, I promise. Good day, Doctor.”
Caine bent down and examined a speck of metal embedded in a charred beam of wood.
As the soldiers turned and paced down the dirt road, Nena joined Caine in the ruins.
“My clinic … the people who worked here …” Her voice was distant, as if describing a half-remembered nightmare. She looked around at the other buildings on the street. “Why would rebels burn down my clinic, but nothing else?”
“I doubt they did,” Caine muttered.
“What?”
Caine pulled out his tactical pen. He inserted the tip into the piece of wood and pried out the shiny sliver of metal. He held it up to the light.
“This is a 5.56 NATO round. The rebels in this area mostly use Chinese AK-47 knock-offs.”
“So what?”
“Those guns don’t fire this kind of bullet.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked. “Maybe they just got different guns.”
Caine shook his head. “Not likely. But either way, we already know Takuba’s men targeted you in the north. It only makes sense they would have searched here first.”
“Then Takuba must have taken the samples. What do we do now?”
He looked up. A few men stood at the corner, staring at the crumbled building. Caine scanned the rest of the street. A group of women glanced at him and Nena and spoke in hushed whispers. They were starting to attract attention. The city’s population was almost completely East African. Nena’s mixed heritage allowed her to blend in as a local. Caine knew the same could not be said for him.
“We should get off the street,” he muttered. “Takuba’s men may still be in the area.”
He felt the eyes of the men in the street follow him as they walked back to the truck.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Special Agent Zavala wrinkled her nose and grimaced. “God, what is that smell?”
DuBose took a sip of cold coffee and stared out the window of his rental car. “We’re on the Black River. Wastewater Treatment Plant is less than a mile away.”
Zavala sipped her own coffee and shuddered. “Asqueroso. Disgusting.”
Across the street, a crumbling brick warehouse perched above the riverbank. A thick mist filled the air, and a cool breeze blew across the dark water, sending ripples across its surface. DuBose watched a homeless man in a tattered raincoat push a shopping cart along the sidewalk. The rusty metal cart creaked and rattled as he moved past them. In a few minutes, he was gone. There was no other movement or sign of life around the dark, abandoned building.
“We’ve been here for hours,” DuBose muttered, keeping his eyes focused on the warehouse. “No trucks, no security guards. Hell, even the crack addicts seem to avoid this place. You sure your intel is good?”
Zavala raised her eyebrows. “After what happened today? I’m not sure of anything. Blackwing Capital is like a financial blackhole. Dummy corporations, proxies, forged documents … My friend in the Financial Crimes Investigation unit said she’s never seen anything like it. Other than CIA front companies.”
“It’s not one of ours. At least, not one the director knows about. This friend … You sure you can trust her?”
Zavala glanced at him. “I’m still not sure I trust you. Anyway, of all their holdings, this warehouse was the only one she could find in the DC Metropolitan area. And speaking of your director, she dodged my question before all hell broke loose.”
“Yeah? What question was that?”
“Louisiana. This rogue operative, Caine. You helped him escape the FBI dragnet, didn’t you?”
DuBose stared at her. "You still won't let this go? What do you want from me?”
“The DNI is still missing. My guess is he’s not gonna turn up alive anytime soon. Caine is our number one suspect. I want to know why you helped him escape custody.”
DuBose shook his head. “Look, I don’t know Caine very well, but I do know he’s not some domestic terrorist, or a gun for hire. The guys he's after are connected to the guys who killed Lapinski. And who tried to kill us, by the way. Besides, he’s not the FBI's problem anymore.”
Zavala squinted at him. “Why? You mean he’s out of the country?”
DuBose nodded. He took another sip of coffee. “Yeah. He’s on mission. So trust me. Let this go. Caine’s not your guy.”
Zavala smiled. “Well, you did come to me for help, so I guess I should trust your judgment of character.”
DuBose nodded. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He set down the coffee and opened the car door.
Zavala glanced at him in surprise. “What the hell are you doing?”
DuBose stepped out of the car. “Look, there’s clearly nobody here. Either there’s something useful inside or not. Either way, we’re not gonna find it out here.”
He shut the door and walked across the street. Zavala exited the car and hurried after him. They approached a pair of rusted metal doors on the street side of the building. There were no streetlights on the industrial road. The entrance was shrouded in darkness. Zavala pulled a small flashlight from her belt and clicked it on.
DuBose tugged at the door. It was locked. He glanced behind them. The street was empty.
“Stand back,” he said. He drew his pistol from a shoulder holster and aimed it at the door.
Zavala grabbed his arm. “Take it easy, big guy. I have a better way.” She reached into her purse and removed a slim metal tension bar, along with a plastic tool that resembled a glue gun. A long, thin needle extended from the tip of the device.
DuBose stood behind her as she inserted the tension bar into the door’s lock. She twisted the bar and slid the needle-like device into the lock above it. She pulled the trigger on the plastic gun several times. After a series of loud clicks, the tension bar rotated freely, and the lock popped open.
She pulled on the door. It opened with a loud, rusty creak. She turned and flashed DuBose a smile.
He laughed and gestured inside. “You always carry a snap gun in your purse?”
“Comes in handy when I forget my keys.”
Their footsteps echoed through the dark warehouse. A musty, chemical smell filled the air. Zavala traced the walls of the building with her flashlight. A set of metal stairs led up the southern wall, and led to a catwalk which ran around the sides of the building. The narrow walkway terminated at a metal door high above them. Beyond the door, a row of offices hung over the warehouse floor. Their windows were opaque with dust and cobwebs.
The beam of her flashlight settled on an enormous pile of trash and rubbish gathered in the center of the building. “Looks like whoever was here cleared out in a hurry,” she said.
DuBose picked up a torn, crumbling file box. A fine layer of brown, powdery dust fell to the ground. Zavala coughed.
“What the hell is that? Smells like rotten eggs!”
DuBose tipped the box and
a ream of old papers cascaded to the floor. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a sensitive nose?” He looked up. More identical boxes were piled high in the center of the warehouse. The stacks almost reached the second-level catwalk. The same brown dust covered every flat surface. Particles shimmered in the air, caught by the beam of Zavala’s flashlight.
The special agent picked up one of the crumpled sheets of paper. She unfolded the sheet and studied it.
“Numbers. It’s just rows and rows of numbers.” She held the sheet out to DuBose. “It must be some kind of code.”
DuBose swept the brown dust off another box and dumped it to the floor. “Same here. More numbers.” He lifted up another sheet. “There’s a letterhead on this one. AHA.”
“Let me see that!” Zavala snatched the sheet of paper and held it under her flashlight. “Tienes Razon. You’re right. AHA … African Hunger Alliance.”
“What’s that?”
Zavala stood up and coughed. The particles of dust swirled around them. “African Hunger Alliance is a nonprofit organization. They just began operating in the last couple years or so. Here's a list of donors."
She ran her finger down a typed list of company names. "Clayton … all of these companies showed up in the Financial Investigation of Blackwing Capital. They've each been making regular monthly donations.”
DuBose dumped another box of papers to the floor. He looked up at Zavala. “So Blackwing is behind AHA? But why? What are they doing with all that money?"
She flipped to another page. "According to this report, AHA was founded to provide relief and support to the people of South Sudan, and other African nations. They’ve been making monthly food shipments there since they opened their doors."
DuBose stood up. "South Sudan?"
She nodded. “Yes, there’s a terrible famine there.”
He grabbed her arm. “Come on, we have to go.”
“What? We still need to search all these boxes!”
He pulled the special agent towards the door. “Remember when I said Caine was out of the country, on mission?”
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