Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  "Be still my heart," Grimaldi said, half smirking. "I'd say Daddy got himself a bargain."

  "Someone else has got his markers," Bolan said. "We're just the go-to guys."

  "As usual," Grimaldi answered. "Wouldn't it be nice to get an oil well for a Christmas present? Maybe just a little one?"

  "And change tax brackets?" Bolan said "No thanks."

  In fact, he hadn't filed a tax return since he had died officially, back in Manhattan, several years ago. He also had no income, in the normal sense, but managed to collect enough in passing for his simple needs.

  It was remarkable how generous a loan shark or a drug dealer could be when you negotiated in their native language: pure brute force.

  Bolan watched Mandy Ross vanish into the limousine and wished her well Her father lingered on the pavement for another moment, meeting Bolan's gaze through the LongRanger's tinted Plexiglas, and raised one hand in some kind of peculiar half salute before he turned away. Bolan sat still until the stretch had pulled away before un-buckling his safety rig.

  "What now?" Grimaldi asked.

  "You hit that cafeteria, or catch some shut-eye," Bolan said. "I need to see a man downtown."

  "I don't mind riding shotgun," Grimaldi remarked.

  "I wouldn't want to spook him," Bolan answered. "He's expecting one white face, not two."

  "I kind of hoped that we were finished."

  "We are," Bolan said. "I've got some solo work to do. Putting some frosting on the cake."

  "Why do I get the feeling someone will be choking on it?" Grimaldi asked.

  "Well, you've seen me cook before."

  "Okay. But if the kitchen gets too hot..."

  "You'll be among the first to know," Bolan replied.

  Besides the borrowed wheels, he had a chance of clothes waiting, to trade-off with his sweaty, battle-stained fatigues. There should be time enough for him to shower, change and stow his hardware in the drab sedan K-Tech had furnished him, before he had to meet his contact.

  As to what would happen after that, well, it was anybody's guess.

  * * *

  "There was some difficulty overnight, I understand," Huang Li Chan said His voice was soft, but no one well acquainted with him would mistake it for a casual or friendly observation.

  "Yes, sir," Lao Choy Teoh replied.

  The two men sat with Chan's large desk between them, in his office on the top floor of a building owned by China National Petroleum, in downtown Warri. A glass of twenty-year-old Irish whiskey rested on the desk in front of Chan. None had been offered to his visitor.

  "You may explain," Chan said.

  As CNP's top man in Nigeria, Chan had no need to browbeat his subordinates. They recognized, to the last man and woman, his authority within the firm, and in the country. No Chinese except Beijing's ambassador in Lagos had authority to countermand Chan's orders. Anyone who tried was likely to be slated for a quick flight home and some "reeducation" on the precedence of duty to the state.

  "Apparently the kidnapping of Jared Ross's daughter has been unexpectedly resolved," Teoh replied.

  "How so?"

  Chan had received his own report of the event, but he desired both confirmation from his chief lieutenant and more detailed explanation of the incident.

  "Our friends at MEND report a raid against the camp where she was held. Some of their personnel were killed, the woman was extracted and pursuit proved fruitless. They are furious and crave retaliation, but confusion handicaps them at the moment."

  "There is more?" Chan asked.

  "Yes, sir. A helicopter bearing unknown passengers landed at K-Tech Petroleum's compound a few hours after the raid. It wasn't a corporate aircraft, yet it remains."

  "And you find that significant?"

  "The timing is... suggestive, sir. Of course, we don't know who the helicopter brought to visit Ross."

  "You've run the registration number?"

  The International Civil Aviation Organization, an agency of the United Nations, issued alphanumeric code numbers to aircraft for use in flight plans and maintained the standards for aircraft registration — "tail numbers" in common parlance — including the code numbers that identify an airplane or helicopter's country of registration. The ICAO's nearest regional office, serving West and Central Africa, was a short phone call away, in Dakar, Senegal.

  "I have, sir," Teoh confirmed. "The 'J5' prefix indicates official registration in Guinea Bissau."

  "What brings it here, then?" Chan wondered out loud.

  "I'm afraid we don't know, sir."

  "But can we find out? That's the question, eh, Lao?"

  "As you say, sir."

  Subservience had its limits. Although he enjoyed wielding power, beyond any question, Chan sometimes wished for aides who displayed more initiative than simple fawning obeisance.

  "We once had eyes inside K-Tech Petroleum," Chan said.

  "She was dismissed, as you recall, sir. Their security discovered her communications with our private operative."

  "Yes, a nasty business."

  "Thankfully resolved," Teoh added, "by her suicide."

  If such it was. Chan had been raised from infancy to trust the state and to deny religion in all forms, but he wasn't inclined to question a convenient miracle. And if someone in his employ had helped the burned spy to decide that her life was intolerable, how was Chan to know?

  "Make every effort to identify the latest visitors," he ordered. "Maintain tight surveillance on the K-Tech grounds and staff. Inform me instantly of any new and unfamiliar faces on the scene."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And while you see to that," Chan said, "I will attempt to pacify our Itsekiri friends."

  * * *

  The Warri headquarters for Uroil — with its home office in Yekaterinburg, on the eastern slope of the Ural Mountains — stood a mere two thousand yards from the office building owned by China National Petroleum. Its drab gray walls and modest logo gave nothing away to passersby.

  "Bad news for the Chinese today, I take it," Arkady Eltsin said. "And their underlings, too."

  "Unfortunately, not so bad for the Americans," Valentin Sidorov replied.

  As an agent of Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service — known as the SVR — Sidorov answered first to Moscow, but his present orders placed him at Uroil's and Arkady Eltsin's disposal. Eltsin understood that his command of Sidorov had limits, and he hadn't tested them.

  Not yet.

  "The Ross girl," Eltsin said, nodding. "Who was it, do you think? The CIA?"

  "I doubt it," Sidorov replied. "The quality of personnel available to them is scandalous, these days. So much of what they used to do is handled now by private military companies, it's doubtful they could manage any kind of paramilitary operation. Or that they would risk it, in the present climate."

  Eltsin knew what that meant, as would anyone who'd watched the great United States in recent years. After declaring "war on terror," Washington had botched the liberation of two nations from Islamic dictators, had let bin Laden slip away despite repeated vows to punish those responsible for 9/11 and had alienated most of its long-time allies in the process. The CIA, while given carte blanche to abduct and abuse suspected terrorists in the guise of "extraordinary rendition," was kept on an increasingly short leash in other spheres.

  "Remember Cuba?" Eltsin asked, then snorted. "No, of course you don't. You weren't born yet, for God's sake!"

  "I'm familiar with the history," Sidorov replied.

  "I was going to say that Langley couldn't manage a new Bay of Pigs nowadays, but forget it. Who do you suspect?"

  "No one yet. Without more information, I'd only be guessing."

  "So guess," Eltsin urged. "We're all friends here, supposedly. Let your hair down for a change."

  That was funny, considering Sidorov's buzz cut that left his scalp shining through stubble, but Eltsin refrained from laughing at his own bon mot.

  "All right, if you insist. One of the private
firms, most likely. There were nineteen in America, at last count, half a dozen in the U.K., and at least one each from Australia, Japan, Norway and South Africa. Take your pick from Raytheon, Gray Talon, Omega or any of the rest."

  "That doesn't exactly narrow it down," Eltsin chided.

  "How can I? If the individuals responsible could be identified.."

  "It would accomplish nothing, I suppose, to ask our Ijaw comrades?"

  "I'm told the girl was rescued by a white man," Sidorov replied. "The Ijaw would not hire one, even if they could afford the going rate for such an operation. And why would they wish to help K-Tech Petroleum?"

  "To vex the Itsekiri, I should think," Eltsin replied.

  Sidorov frowned, considered it and shook his head.

  "No. They might raid the camp themselves and steal the girl, then ask for ransom on their own behalf. But as it is, they hate white foreigners as much as Afolabi's people do."

  "They don't hate us," Eltsin reminded him.

  "You think not? Dam the flow of money to their war chest, and find out how loyal they are to Mother Russia."

  "You're a cynic, Valentin."

  "A realistic judge of human nature," Sidorov said, correcting him.

  "You think they're human, then? I'm not so sure," Eltsin said.

  "They'll surprise you, one day, when you least expect it," Sidorov replied. "It won't be pretty."

  "Perhaps, when we have pumped their country dry," Eltsin returned. "Not as long as they're in love with money and have something left to sell."

  "I'll reach out to Ajani and Jumoke," Sidorov told Eltsin. "There's a chance that we can stir the pot a bit, after this incident."

  "And see what floats up to the top," Eltsin replied. "Vodka, before you go?"

  * * *

  "Why aren't you coming with me?" Mandy Ross demanded, staring down her father with a measure of intensity he'd thought impossible for one so pampered.

  "Hon," he said, "we've been all over this. You know the answer. This is where I work. I have to be here."

  "No, you don't!" Mandy insisted. "Let somebody else come in and man the shooting gallery. Somebody.....

  "Younger?" he anticipated her, half smiling.

  "Older," she replied. "Someone who's finished living anyway, and doesn't have a family. Someone who won't mind being shot or blown to pieces by a pack of murderers."

  "I can't just cut and run," Ross said.

  "Oh, wait — I know this one. Because it isn't manly, right? I've got a news flash for you, Dad. Even Dirty Harry knew when to quit. A man should know his limitations."

  That made him bristle. "Are you saying I've reached mine?"

  "That's right!" she said. "For this place, here and now, I am. There's nothing in this country worth your life. The money doesn't matter."

  "You say that because you've always had it," he replied.

  "I've always had you, too. Ask me which one I'd rather do without."

  "Mandy, this trouble should be settled soon."

  "Oh, sure. And it's been going on how long, now? Since the sixties? We learn history at Vassar, Dad. I've learned that nothing ever changes for the better here."

  "It may surprise you."

  "With your funeral?"

  Ross felt his irritation slipping over into anger.

  "That's enough!" he snapped. "You're on thejet in one hour and out of here, even if Clint has to hog-tie you. Got it?"

  "Right, then." He couldn't tell if her eyes were glassy with anger or brimming with tears. "Will you at least send Cooper with me?"

  "Who?"

  "Matt Cooper. Jesus, Dad! The man who saved my life? Does any of this ring a bell?"

  "Sorry," he said. "We weren't exactly introduced."

  "Whatever. Can he drive me to the airport?"

  "Sorry, no. He's gone already," Ross told her, fudging it, unsure if that was literally true or not. "His job's not done, apparently."

  "Apparently? As if you didn't know."

  "He doesn't work for me, Princess."

  "I see. He does a good deed every day, and this time he just happened to select Nigeria. Makes perfect sense."

  "He was referred to us, all right? By whom, I couldn't say. That kind of thing is need-to-know, and it appears I don't."

  "I swear, Dad, sometimes.....

  "If you plan on packing anything, you need to start right now," he warned. "One hour till your flight. Tick, tock."

  She turned and fairly stormed out of the office, which was bad, in terms of parent-child relations, but a bonus if it got her moving without any further argument. When she was gone, he buzzed Clint Hamer in.

  "All ready, boss?" asked K-Tech's top security consultant in Nigeria.

  "We're getting there. You know the drill, right?"

  "Absolutely. Straight out to the airport, wait until she's airborne, then straight back."

  "And anyone who tries to stop you on the way.....

  "Will wish he hadn't, while he's bleeding out," Hamer replied.

  "Sounds fair to me," Jared Ross said.

  * * *

  Bolan had half expected that the loaner car would be a classic from Detroit, but K-Tech had surprised him. He supposed it stood to reason, after all. When they were pumping oil from five continents, why would the corporate brass care whose engine burned the fuel and spewed its waste into the atmosphere?

  So, he was looking at a reasonably new and clean Toyota Yaris, four doors and a hatchback, in some kind of silver-gray shade that he thought should be unobtrusive in traffic. It wouldn't be the fastest car on the road, or much good for ramming, but Bolan wasn't planning to enter a NASCAR event.

  He needed wheels for pure mobility, and possibly to help him stay alive. If the loaner should be damaged in the process, he'd find some way to replace it.

  That was life.

  Grimaldi, having taken his advice, wasn't around when Bolan stored most of his hardware in the trunk. A baggy shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, hid the Beretta 93-R in a fast-draw shoulder rig, with spare mags pouched under his right arm. And just to be on the safe side, he held back a couple of Russian-made RGO-78 frag grenades — the "defensive" model, with ball bearings packed around eighty-five grams of TNT, with an effective killing radius of twenty yards.

  Bolan was hoping that he wouldn't need the pistol or grenades for his preliminary meeting with Obinna Umaru, but he knew that banking on a free ride was the quickest way to wind up lying in a gutter or a shallow grave. He would hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

  He had a map of Warri and an hour to kill before their scheduled meeting at a marketplace on the city's north side. Bolan decided to spend the time touring his new battleground, and checking for tails in the process.

  But first, he wanted to check out the car.

  No matter where you went, on every continent, auto theft was a problem. Millions of company cars came with LoJack technology or its equivalent, GPS systems that let the home office keep track of all wheels on the road, for whatever reason. Bolan had no reason to believe that Jared Ross would shadow him, but it was best for all concerned — and Bolan, in particular — if his movements in Warri went unobserved.

  Once he was safely off the K-Tech lot, Bolan found a place to park and went to work. He used a simple scanner, the size of a cigarette pack, tuned to the standard LoJack frequency of 173.075 megahertz and found the transceiver hidden underneath the padded liner in the trunk. He took it out, pitched it into a nearby vacant lot strewed with rubbish, and then performed a second scan of the Toyota, running through assorted other frequencies that might betray a second homing device.

  His ride was clean.

  Now all he had to do was to pass the time until his rendezvous, ensuring that he wasn't followed from the K-Tech property by either friend or foe.

  For in the present situation, either one could get him killed.

  Chapter Six

  Obinna Umaru was worried. He was early for his meeting with the stranger from America, and while
he had taken every precaution en route from his home, he still couldn't escape a sense that he was being watched.

  Perhaps, at last, he was becoming truly paranoid.

  It would be no surprise, considering the secret life he had selected for himself. At twenty-three, Umaru supplemented his moderate income from computer data analysis with covert paychecks from Nigeria's National Intelligence Agency, the State Security Service, the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency — and yes, the American CIA.

  That last addition to his list of moonlighting engagements had given Umaru pause, forced him to consider that he might somehow be a traitor to his homeland, but he had finally decided that the rate of crime and terrorism in Nigeria had grown beyond all reason. Anything that he could do to make a difference would be worthwhile, even if it meant working with a group of foreigners.

  And if he made some money in the process, why, so be it.

  Umaru wasn't an idealist, nor was he deluded. He understood that the CIA worked first for American interests, and only thereafter considered the needs of other nations. But Yankee interests were generally served by suppressing violent crime, and Umaru had cause to believe that America's competitors for oil and other natural resources in Nigeria — specifically, the Russians and Chinese — each played a role in the perpetuation of endemic mayhem nationwide.

  So he would serve whoever served his country best, within the limits of his understanding and ability.

  And he would try not to be murdered in the process.

  To that end, Umaru had armed himself with a folding knife and a black-market pistol. It was a Chinese QSZ-92 semiautomatic, exported for foreign sale as the NP-42. Chambered in 9 mm, it weighed 1.7 pounds with its 15-round magazine loaded, and the double-action trigger allowed Umaru to draw and fire without first cocking the hammer.

  Umaru had practiced with the pistol until he felt confident that he could draw and hit a man-size target, provided, of course, that the target stood still and didn't return fire. As for living men with guns, trying to kill him, well, Umaru hoped that he would never have to test himself.

  The marketplace was crowded, the perfect place to lose yourself. But by the same token, it made spotting a tail more difficult. Each time Umaru glanced around, he found a different pair of eyes appearing to examine him. Was one of them a spy, sent to observe him, or was he a victim of his own imagination?