Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  "Ah. You are a fatalist."

  A shrug rolled Bolan's shoulders. "Call it what you like. It's still a fact of life. You can kill men, but not emotions or ideas. You can't kill hatred, greed or plain old everyday insanity."

  "But you devote your life to the pursuit of something you cannot attain," Umaru said.

  "Most people do," Bolan replied, "unless they suffer from a limited imagination. Cops spend their lives fighting crime, without believing it will ever go away. Doctors — the good ones, anyway — are dedicated to elimination of disease. Sometimes they win, but Evil's like a germ that mutates, learns to live on penicillin. So you need new medicine, new treatments, for the next stage of the fight."

  "Knowing that you can never win."

  "Knowing that someone had to try it, and you gave it your best shot."

  "And then? When you are finished?"

  "Then," Bolan replied, "you wait to see what happens. So-called holy men have been debating it since they invented speech. I'll let them stew about it, while I do my job."

  Umaru mulled that over for a moment, nodding, then asked Bolan, "Who's next?"

  "I don't want anyone to feel neglected," Bolan answered, opening his cell phone. "Let's give Uroil equal time, shall we?"

  * * *

  Arkady Eltsin felt as if he'd aged five years within as many hours. That was curious, since neither he nor Uroil had been damaged by the recent violence in Warri, but he understood the intricacies of his job and knew that things were always happening behind the scenes that might rebound to harm him, even if he hadn't authorized them or been made aware of their occurrence.

  So it was that he had summoned Valentin Sidorov once again, to face his second in command across the spacious desk, searching the younger man's pale eyes for any hint of treachery.

  "I take it that you are aware of the most recent incident in Warri?" Eltsin asked.

  "The warehouse incident?" Sidorov nodded. "It has come to my attention."

  "It was owned by one of our associates, I understand."

  "Agu Ajani. Yes."

  "And not, strictly speaking, a warehouse," Eltsin said.

  "As far as that goes, sir.....

  "In fact," he interrupted Sidorov, "it was some kind of drug lab, shipping center, or what have you."

  Sidorov's shrug was casual.

  "I don't know," he replied. "But say it's true. Why should we be surprised? Ajani is a criminal We knew that when we first began supporting him against the Itsekiri."

  "For our own advantage," Eltsin said. "Do you remember that, as well?"

  "Of course, sir. It's the reason we do everything."

  "And how do you suppose that it will help us now, to be associated with a known narcotics trafficker?"

  "It shouldn't be a problem," Sidorov replied, "unless someone discovers the connection."

  "And you don't suppose they will?"

  "I won't pretend that it's impossible," Sidorov said. "Ajani could expose us, but for what reason? How would it help him? There's no paper trail connecting Uroil to the Ijaw. Nothing can be proved."

  "Sometimes, suspicion is enough," Eltsin replied. "If my superiors suspected half of what's been done here.....

  "Nothing has been done, sir. Uroil came and offered riches to a nation hamstrung by corruption, mired in tribal warfare. Obviously, since we're not a charity, it was in hope of earning profits. Anyone in Europe or America who now condemns that motive is a lying hypocrite."

  "You know how these things work," Eltsin replied. "When the Americans cash in, they're 'spreading freedom.' When we follow their example, they all cross themselves and moan about an Evil Empire."

  "Hypocrites, as I just said."

  "But in the world view.....

  Eltsin's cell phone chose that moment to disturb him. Frowning, he retrieved it from a pocket, opened it and saw that the incoming number had been masked. Against his better judgment, then, he answered.

  "Yes?"

  "Arkady Eltsin?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

  "Who's this?" Eltsin demanded.

  "A friend."

  "I know my friends by name," Eltsin replied. "Goodbye."

  "Before you hang up," the caller said, "I'm just wondering. How badly do you want to stay alive?"

  "So now you threaten me?"

  Eltsin felt angry color rising in his cheeks.

  "A simple question. But you're right. There is a threat. Unfortunately, there's a good chance you'll be looking in the wrong direction when it hits you."

  "I have no time to waste on childish riddles," Eltsin said. He saw Sidorov leaning forward in his chair, trying to work out what was happening.

  "I'll come straight to the point, then," the caller said. "Someone close to you has sold you out. You're on the skids, and you don't even know it yet."

  "Because you say so?"

  "In your shoes," the caller said, "I might not buy it, either. But you're smart enough to see what's happening, assuming that you look below the surface."

  "If you have a point.....

  "Last night, your buddy's drugs went up in smoke. What's next? Who's next? Is it a tribal thing or something that's been cooking since the sixties? You remember Mao? Those territorial disputes when Khrushchev called the shots?"

  "That's ancient history," Eltsin said.

  "Maybe so. But then, you have to ask yourself who's paying me to take you out."

  And then, as Eltsin felt the color drain from his face, the line went dead.

  * * *

  "A dozen dead, you say?"

  "At least," Taiwo Babatunde said. "Maybe more."

  The confirmation put a smile on Ekon Afolabi's face. In fact, he felt like leaping from his chair and breaking into dance, some tribal rhythm signifying triumph over mortal enemies.

  The only problem was, he hadn't done a thing.

  He had considered taking out Ajani's drug plant more than once, but something always made him hesitate. He wouldn't call it fear, but apprehension was a decent word. If he attacked Ajani and was beaten, it would injure Afolabi in a host of ways beyond the simple loss of men and weapons. It could ruin him in Warri, and throughout the state.

  "Who should we thank for this?" he asked, half joking.

  "No one seems to know," Babatunde replied. "The drug agency suspects we did it, but the witnesses describe two men, one of them white."

  "Another white man?"

  Afolabi felt his tension mounting, heard the thumping of his pulse inside his ears as his blood pressure spiked.

  "Maybe the same one," Babatunde said, rolling his massive shoulders in a shrug.

  "Why would you say that, Taiwo?"

  "Well, how many white soldiers would you expect to find in Warri, Ekon?"

  "The Americans and Russians all have mercenaries posing as security," Afolabi said.

  Babatunde nodded. "And we know them, yes? We have their photographs on file before they've packed their footlockers. Our witnesses deny that any of them took the Ross girl."

  "But you suggest the same man hit us and Ajani. What sense does that make?"

  "Who knows the white man's mind, except another white man?" Babatunde countered. "All I know is that we cannot trust them."

  That was true enough. But still...

  The shrilling telephone distracted Afolabi, but he let one of his soldiers answer it. A man in his position was at no one's beck and call. He was about to dissect Taiwo's logic when the soldier — in this case, one Anthony Okotie, all of seventeen years old — approached him cautiously, clutching the cordless phone against his chest as if he feared it might escape.

  "Sir, it's for you," the young man said.

  "Who is it?" Afolabi asked.

  "He will not give his name."

  "Tell him to fuck off, then."

  "He says it's vital, sir. For your survival."

  Afolabi extended a languid hand, received the phone and brought it to his ear.

  "Who is it that disturbs me?" he demanded.

 
"Someone who can help you stay alive," a voice said.

  "You are a healer?" Afolabi asked sarcastically.

  "Prevention's more my style," the stranger said. "I thought you'd like to know that someone wants you dead."

  "That isn't news," Afolabi said. "Many people wish to see me dead."

  "Okay, then. If you'd rather wing it without knowing how they'll come at you, good luck. Sorry to waste your time."

  "Wait, now. What is it that you have to say?"

  "That all depends. How much is your life worth to you?"

  "So you want money?"

  "Just a fair exchange. I didn't get as much for picking up the lady as I might've liked," the caller said.

  A grimace twisted Afolabi's face. His stomach lurched.

  "You took her?"

  "Nothing personal A job's a job."

  "How do I know you speak the truth?"

  "I'm guessing that your people found the bike I borrowed, where the chopper picked us up. That would have been the second search party. Your first one didn't make it."

  "And you call me now because.?.."

  "I answered that already. When I got my paycheck, it was short. I'm settling accounts before I get the hell out of Dodge."

  "I don't know Dodge," Afolabi said.

  "Never mind," the caller answered. "Do you want to know who pinned the target on your back or not?"

  * * *

  Umaru had peepared a list of targets in the Warri area that covered both Ijaw and Itsekiri factions, plus some operations run by criminals who stood outside the bloody snarl of tribal conflict. Bolan, scanning through the roster, spied a commonly recurring name and asked, "Who's this?"

  Umaru followed Bolan's pointing finger, frowned and said, "Idowu Yetunde. He's a wealthy gangster. What we call a godfather."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Why be surprised? Your films are popular throughout Nigeria. The Godfather had great influence on our criminals. They crave respect, which they obtain by force or bribery. Our godfathers support and counsel politicians who will serve them. Those, we call the godsons. Most of them are stupid, greedy men, but they are loyal to those who place them in the government. Disloyalty is the only sin. Its penalty is death."

  "Small world," Bolan said.

  And it all sounded familiar, sure. Back in the States, some members of the old-line Mafia had been afflicted with "Godfather syndrome" after Brando won his acting award for portraying Vito Corleone. The top man in New York's Five Families insisted that the movie's haunting theme be played each time he walked into a restaurant or nightclub.

  No one with an instinct for survival laughed.

  "So, tell me more about Yetunde."

  "As I said, he is a major criminal Much of his money comes from drugs, illegal weapons, prostitution, gambling- For the past ten years or so, he's also made a fortune from the Internet."

  "How so?"

  "You've heard of 419 confidence games?" Umaru asked.

  "Advance-fee fraud," Bolan replied.

  "Correct- Named for Section 419 of Nigeria's criminal code, governing fraud- E-mails go out around the world, offering fabulous rewards to someone who will help the sender with some private difficulty. Details vary. He's in prison, or has wealthy relatives in custody. His bank account is frozen by the state, or he must pay a legal fee to claim a great inheritance. He asks a perfect stranger for some small — or not-so-small — amount of cash, and promises to split his fortune with the benefactor he has never met when all has been arranged."

  Bolan had never tackled organized con men, but he knew they duped gullible millions worldwide with their 419 scams, also called the "Nigerian letter" technique for its most frequent point of origin. According to the last report he'd seen from Justice, 419 scammers raked in eight billion dollars every year, and their haul was increasing, despite public warnings to would-be investors.

  The urge to get rich in a hurry, without working, seemed to be a universal human weakness, and the rip-off artists loved to milk their cash cows dry.

  Bolan pointed to an address on the hit list that was decorated with a penciled asterisk. "Is this his main hangout?" he asked Umaru.

  "Yes. Yetunde has an office and apartment there, above his largest boiler room. Is that the proper term?"

  "It works for me," Bolan replied, imagining a cyber-sweatshop where Yetunde's minions worked keyboards around the clock, mass-mailing pleas for cash around the globe.

  "You wish to visit him?" Umaru asked.

  "It's like you read my mind," Bolan replied.

  Chapter Eleven

  Idowu Yetunde lit his first cigar of the morning and swirled its fragrant smoke around inside his mouth before exhaling a gray cloud. Each cigar cost him roughly the equivalent of three dollars, U.S. — but Yetunde believed he got his money's worth.

  It was a subject near and dear to him: the acquisition and distribution of wealth. Like most Nigerians outside the country's ruling dynasties, Yetunde had come up from nothing, running wild through Lagos with a gang of urchins, living by his wits and nerve. Experience soon taught him that the stronger boys were often less intelligent than he, and they could be persuaded to protect him — even serve him — if he proved his worth.

  Of course, it hadn't been as easy as it sounded. He was scarred from battles nearly lost but nearly didn't count, as long as he came out on top at last.

  And Idowu Yetunde always came out on top.

  He had been reasonably wealthy when the oil boom lured him from Lagos down to Warri. At the same time, idle conversation with an old-school swindler had enlightened Yetunde to the wonders of cyberspace. A relatively small investment got him started, and today he ranked among the top five con men in Nigeria, if not all of West Africa. Yetunde could retire tomorrow, never work another day, and still live out his life in luxury.

  But what would be the fun in that?

  The truth was, he enjoyed preying on human weakness, whether through long-distance fraud or catering to other vices — drug addiction, sexual frustration, the compulsive need to gamble. You could say that human frailty made Yetunde strong.

  But he wasn't invincible.

  Yetunde never got himself confused with Superman. He knew that bullets wouldn't ricochet on contact with his body. That he couldn't walk through fire unharmed, or ride the shock wave of a bomb blast with a smile etched on his face. And he couldn't survive in prison with the perverts.

  To avoid such things, Yetunde had a private army of enforcers, plus the law-enforcement officers who sold their badges and their honor for a little something extra on the side. He had the godsons he had sponsored in political careers, ready to take his calls at any hour of the day or night and do as they were told.

  Invulnerable? No. But well protected, certainly.

  And yet, he worried that it might not be enough.

  The intertribal violence in Delta State was constantly increasing. The authorities couldn't control it; some of them no longer tried. Yetunde purchased peace of mind by shelling out protection payments to both sides, juggling his books to make the loss look tax-deductible, but as the local rate of violence increased, he doubted that appeasement could protect him.

  Not that he considered shutting down. Far from it.

  On the contrary, he had considered different ways to get the greedy bastards off his back, from helping the authorities convict the rival leaders, to eliminating them himself. So far, there had been no clear opportunity. But if the mayhem escalated any further, he imagined that it would be relatively simple to kill Afolabi and Ajani, planting evidence to blame each for the other's death.

  It helped, of course, to have police on his payroll.

  Before the week was out, with any luck, Yetunde might be liberated from his bondage to the warring tribes. But first, he had more pleasurable business to conduct in his apartment two floors up from what he called the Warri Data Center, where his lackeys worked around the clock to swindle idiots in every time zone on the planet.

&nbs
p; Waiting in his bedroom at that very moment was a delicious eighteen-year-old.

  Yetunde couldn't keep from smiling as he waited for the private elevator that would take him to his quarters. Everything, he thought, was looking up.

  * * *

  "Yetunde owns the building, top to bottom?" Bolan asked again, determined to confirm it.

  "That's correct," Umaru said.

  "He doesn't rent out space to anybody else? No one inside but his employees?"

  "Guards. Computer operators. Staff for his apartment, I assume."

  Bolan had parked his stolen car behind the Warri Data Center, half a block downrange and partly shielded by a large overflowing garbage bin that smelled ripe enough to rate a dozen health code violations.

  "When's their trash pickup?" he asked.

  Umaru blinked and frowned at that. "I'm sorry, I have no idea. If I had known.....

  "Forget it. They have room to work around us if they come while we're inside."

  Worst-case scenario, they might emerge with shooters on their heels, to find a garbage truck obstructing their retreat. The obvious solution: deal with any gunmen on the premises before they left.

  No sweat — unless Yetunde had an army waiting in the square, four-story red-brick building. In which case, they could wind up sweating blood.

  "Ready?" he asked Umaru.

  In the shotgun seat, Umaru double-checked his Daewoo K-2 rifle, making sure he had a live round in the chamber and the safety off. Bolan did likewise with his Steyr AUG, confirming that the see-through plastic magazine was fully loaded, the rifle's fire-selector switch set for 3-round bursts.

  The alley he had chosen was deserted as they stepped out of the Honda, carrying their rifles slung and more or less concealed from any distant passersby. A few more seconds and it wouldn't matter who was watching. Bolan wondered if Yetunde's lair was soundproofed to prevent eavesdropping by competitors or the police, but in the last analysis it didn't matter.