Mystery Writers of America Presents Vengeance

by Lee Child

  Beth smiled. “Well, whatever the hell it is, I had a friend at the library do research for me. And I found out that you’ve tried four times to get a man elected president, and each time, you’ve lost. You have a reputation as a political loser. But this time, you were the closest you’ve ever been. Years and years of political failure, and you were now so very close to having your dream come true, to be chief of staff. The most powerful man in Washington, right after the president. Four, maybe eight years in the White House as chief of staff, and then millions of dollars doing consulting and lobbying work. It looked like your losing streak was finally about to break. And then the senator’s son started dating my daughter.”

  She paused, looking at his drawn face. “I could give a shit about your senator. Or any other politician. But you promised me justice, and you didn’t deliver. So I gave you a taste of what it’s like to be betrayed after so many promises. And I was the one to cast the final goddamn ballot.”

  Beth was surprised to see him wipe at his eyes. It looked like he was weeping.

  “Was it worth it, then?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “To destroy me like this, to hurt the senator, maybe even prevent him from getting to the White House?”

  She looked over at the corner of the store, where her daughter, Janice, was quietly and dutifully sweeping up the floor, her hands holding a broom, the same hands that still hadn’t gone back to her computer.

  “Yes,” she said calmly. “It was worth it.”

  AFRICA ALWAYS NEEDS GUNS

  BY MICHAEL NIEMANN

  Some days everything works out. Valentin Vermeulen hadn’t had one of those days in a while. He brushed a damp strand of blond hair from his broad forehead, a forehead inherited from generations of Flemish farmers. Like these ancestors, he waited for his luck to change.

  There was a slim chance it might. If, that is, the Antonov An-8 cargo plane was sufficiently late.

  He looked over the shoulders of the Bangladeshi air traffic controller. The radar scope’s scan beam raced in a circle, like the hands of a clock on fast-forward. No blips. The plane was about an hour and a half behind schedule.

  The reality of his assignment stared back at him through the dirty windows of what passed for the control tower of the Bunia airport. The humid bush, a single asphalt runway, white UN helicopters parked on makeshift helipads, white armored personnel carriers at strategic positions, soldiers in blue helmets milling about, a peacekeeping operation at the edge of the world.

  The usual Congolese hangers-on—were they Hema or Lendu? He never could tell the difference—sat in the shady spots, hoping for a small job, cash, or food. A quiet day in a very unquiet part of the world.

  Vermeulen pulled a Gitane Papier Maïs from its blue pack and lit it. He was used to air-conditioned offices in New York, to pulling together evidence from files and interview transcripts. Sure, there were trips to the field—Kosovo, Bosnia, even Cambodia once—but he always had his office in New York. Until he’d stepped on some important toes during the Iraq oil-for-food investigation. Next thing he knew, the UN Office of Internal Oversight Services sent him to the eastern Congo.

  An ancient air conditioner rattled in its slot above the door, blowing humid air into the room. It wasn’t any cooler than the air outside. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and took off his jacket. It had dark spots under the arms. The Bangladeshis didn’t seem to mind the climate. Their uniforms looked crisp.

  “There is the Antonov now, sir,” the air traffic controller said with the lilt of South Asians. He pointed to a blip on the radar. The timing was just about right.

  “How far is it?”

  “About ten miles, sir.”

  “How long until it lands?”

  “Fifteen minutes, give or take. Maybe more. Depends on the approach Petrovic takes.”

  “Is he usually late?”

  “Sometimes Petrovic is on time, sometimes he isn’t. This is Africa.”

  A loud voice crackled over the radio.

  “Central Lakes Air Niner Quebec Charlie Echo Juliet requests permission to land.”

  The voice had a strong Slavic accent.

  “Niner Quebec, this is Bunia air control, Bangladeshi Air Force controller Ghosh. Permission granted for runway ten. Visual flight rules in effect. Westerly winds, about three knots.”

  “Ghosh, you dumb Paki. When’re you gonna get a decent radar to guide me in?”

  “When you fly a decent aircraft, you lazy Chetnik.”

  Ghosh smiled and scribbled something into a logbook.

  “Can I intercept the plane right after it lands?” Vermeulen asked.

  “No, sir. No vehicles allowed on the tarmac during taxiing.”

  “Where will he stop?”

  “At the cargo area over there, sir.” Ghosh pointed in the general direction.

  Vermeulen grabbed his jacket.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Good thing he remembered their insignia.

  PETROVIC’S STOMACH BULGED over jeans made for a man twenty years younger. The Hawaiian shirt revealed dark chest hair decorated with a gold chain. His bullet-shaped head was shaved except for a bushy mustache—he was a bruiser who’d gone to seed.

  He stood by the cargo door of the Antonov and supervised a Nepali engineering platoon. Three soldiers pushed a pallet along a track to the rear gate, where a fourth put the pallet on a forklift and took it to a storage tent.

  Vermeulen found the corporal in charge inside the storage tent. The man checked his ID, shrugged, and gestured to the two pallets already unloaded.

  They were wrapped in plastic netting. The freight bill attached to each listed the number of boxes and their contents. Vermeulen checked each bill and counted the items on that pallet. They added up.

  He pulled at the netting of the nearer pallet. It didn’t budge.

  “You want it off?” the corporal asked.

  “Yes, I need to check the contents.”

  The corporal took a box cutter from his pocket.

  “Get the fuck away from my cargo,” a voice shouted from the entrance.

  Vermeulen and the corporal turned. Petrovic had jumped to the ground and hurried to the tent.

  “You better get the goddamn freight manifest signed before you open anything.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Ranko?” the corporal said, brows raised. “You never gave a rat’s ass about paperwork before.”

  “It’s my cargo until the paper’s signed,” the pilot said. His eyes—the color of dishwater—were cold and menacing, and he had the stare of a street fighter. It reminded Vermeulen of all the bullies he had encountered from grade school on. He took an instant dislike to the pilot.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Petrovic asked.

  “Valentin Vermeulen, OIOS investigator.” He pulled out his ID. “I don’t need a signature. I can investigate anything I like.”

  The pilot stepped closer. At six feet six, Vermeulen towered over Petrovic, but the latter’s bulk made him a formidable obstacle.

  “You ain’t getting near that cargo until the paperwork is signed.”

  “Okay, then let’s get it signed,” Vermeulen said. He turned to the corporal. “Just sign his manifest.”

  “I’m not allowed. The master sergeant does that, but he isn’t here right now.”

  “So I won’t be able to inspect the cargo until he returns?”

  The corporal nodded.

  “When will that be?”

  The corporal hemmed and hawed. “I’m not sure. Probably not today.”

  Vermeulen shook his head. This wasn’t going to be his day after all. He saw the sneer on Petrovic’s face and turned to leave the tent. The corporal followed him.

  Outside, he watched the forklift hoist a large aluminum container—wider and deeper than the pallets—from the plane.

  “What is that?” Vermeulen asked the corporal.

  “A refrigerated unit, sir.”

  “What’s in it?”
he asked, realizing too late that it was a dumb question.

  “Perishable food for the troops. Meat, frozen vegetables, and the like.”

  Vermeulen nodded. What was that old saying? An army travels on its stomach. That was also true for UN peacekeepers. The UN could not feed a whole brigade from local resources. Hell, the locals barely had enough to feed themselves.

  Petrovic climbed back into the plane. The white Toyota pickup assigned to Vermeulen waited outside the fence that enclosed the cargo area. He turned to it. Another wasted day on a lousy mission. Time for a drink.

  “To the hotel, monsieur?”

  Walia Lukungu’s arm hung out of the window. He was one of the locals who’d been fortunate enough to snag a job with the UN. His driving skills, though, were questionable. Vermeulen had the feeling of sitting in a Formula One race car every time they went anywhere.

  He was just about to nod when one of the soldiers inside the plane called to the corporal. The corporal answered, then shrugged.

  “Anything the matter?” Vermeulen shouted from the open pickup door.

  “No, sir. It’s just that those chaps in Kampala have trouble counting past three. Now there’s one refrigerated unit more than the cargo manifest says, but one was missing last week. It happens all the time.” The corporal shook his head. “That’s the trouble with contractors.”

  It took a moment before the significance of the corporal’s comment sank in. Once it did, Vermeulen felt a familiar adrenaline rush. A clue. He ran back to the tent. The container hovered on the tines of the forklift. Its front consisted of a grille that covered the compressor and fan, and the large door was sealed with a plastic cable tie and bore some sort of label.

  “I must check that extra unit. Now.”

  The corporal shook his head.

  “You heard Petrovic. We can’t open anything until the cargo is signed for.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll take responsibility for opening it.”

  Vermeulen signaled the forklift driver to place the unit on the ground. He pulled his pocketknife out and bent down to cut the plastic tie. A strong hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back from the container. Petrovic.

  “Keep your fucking hands off that unit,” he hissed, taking a boxer’s stance.

  “I won’t and you can’t stop me.”

  Vermeulen turned back to the unit. Before his knife reached the plastic tie, he felt a gun barrel against his head.

  “Drop the knife and turn around slowly.”

  Vermeulen turned to face Petrovic, who kept pointing the gun at him. The corporal and the other soldiers stood and gaped.

  “Listen, asshole. You can’t check the cargo until it’s signed for. So why don’t you go to your hotel, get some rest, find a whore, whatever, until that formality has been taken care of.”

  The sight of the pistol took the wind out of Vermeulen’s sails. But he decided to play tough.

  “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

  Petrovic’s eyes narrowed.

  “I will,” he said. His tone left no doubt that he meant it. “ ‘Courageous Pilot Prevents Pilfering of UN Supplies.’ It’ll play well in New York. And don’t count on these guys helping you. They don’t want any trouble. They want to go home.”

  Vermeulen swallowed. He had overplayed his hand. Without a weapon, he could do nothing. In a vain attempt to maintain his dignity he picked up his knife, straightened his jacket, and turned to the Toyota.

  “Take me to Colonel Zaman, Walia.”

  THE CEILING FAN spun lazily. Small eddies in the smoke rising from his Gitane were the only indicators that the hot air moved at all. Stripped to his shorts, Vermeulen lay on the bed in his hotel room. His third bottle of Primus rested on his stomach. At least the beer was cold, even though it tasted like piss. He lifted the bottle to check the name of the brewery. Brewed under license of Heineken. Damn! You’d figure a former Belgian colony would at least have a decent Belgian beer, like De Koninck or Celis. Hell, he’d even settle for a bottle of Duvel.

  He drew hard on his cigarette. The coarse tobacco crackled and sparked.

  Colonel Zaman, commanding officer of this UN outpost, had been unavailab1e. His deputy, a timid paper pusher in a major’s uniform, was afraid to make a decision. He rattled off the usual excuses: Can’t order Nepali soldiers without talking to their superiors. Better wait until their master sergeant signs the manifest. Yes, the pilot was out of line, but he was right about his cargo. No harm done. The weapons, if they were there—the major made no effort to hide his skepticism—would still be there in the morning. Extra guards would make sure of that.

  What was Vermeulen doing here? Chasing gunrunners? That seemed so futile. There’d be plenty whether or not he nailed that son of a bitch Petrovic and whoever worked with him. But would it come to that? Judging from his past experience, no.

  He could easily write his report now. Inconclusive evidence, no witnesses, peacekeepers absolved—the usual bureaucratic-speak that declared victory even as it left everything unchanged. It would make everyone happy.

  This job stank, Vermeulen knew that. More than once, he’d been ready to call it quits. But each case was a new opportunity, a chance that, this time, justice would be done. That’s why he couldn’t write the report yet. But his reservoir of hope was slowly running dry.

  He lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl upward until it reached the faint turbulences below the fan.

  A door slammed down the corridor. The UN had chosen Bunia as the headquarters for the Ituri Brigade, so a bevy of aid organizations had descended here as well. Those with more money occupied several rooms the Hotel Bunia reserved for its important visitors. He’d seen a few at breakfast, B-list Hollywood personalities wearing brand-new safari clothing and big smiles.

  More steps in the corridor. They slowed as they reached his door. He raised his head. A slight scraping on the floor. A quick retreat.

  He jumped up, almost spilling the beer. A note was stuck under the door. He pulled the door open. The corridor was empty.

  The note contained a single sentence: Come to the Club Idéal at 9 tonight.

  He checked his watch. Eight thirty.

  THE DRUMMER HAD played this beat a million times. Half asleep, he rested against the wall. His hands seemed to have a life of their own. The two guitar players were a little more animated, stepping out, swinging their guitars as they kept the soukous melody flowing at the right speed. Not that it mattered. Nobody was paying attention to the music. Two couples moved on the tiny dance floor, but to Vermeulen it seemed more like foreplay than dancing. Sure enough, one of the couples disappeared behind a ragged curtain, the girl squealing in pretend delight.

  He found an empty table. The reek of sweat, cigarettes, and beer that had assaulted his nose began to fade into the background.

  A man with a limp had waited for him outside the hotel and hustled him into a beat-up old Citroën 2CV. The man said, “Club Idéal,” over and over until Vermeulen figured the ride would be no riskier than walking alone at night. Like all OIOS investigators, he was unarmed.

  A girl in a blond wig, maybe seventeen, if that, wiggled her hips as she came to his table. Her breasts were barely concealed beneath a ragged tank top.

  “Je suis Lily. Tu veux quelque chose?”

  Lily’s blond wig stood in startling contrast to her ebony skin. He stared at her. Although there was no real resemblance, Lily reminded him of his own daughter. Gaby had run away at age fifteen after he divorced his wife. The police didn’t care much. Runaways were common in Antwerp. So he searched for her himself. Staking out her friends, asking questions until he found her, in a hole not much different from the Club Idéal.

  Lily’s smile faded a little under his stare. She suddenly seemed self-conscious. He caught himself.

  “Yes, a beer, please.”

  “Primus or Nile Special?”

  Tired of Primus, he chose Nile Special.

  The girl came back with the bottl
e and sat down at his table.

  “You want company?”

  He took a swig from the bottle and examined her again. You should be doing homework, he thought, or working at a decent job. His own daughter had finally turned a corner, gotten clean, and made it to the university. But the price had been estrangement. They hadn’t spoken in five years. All he knew was that she worked for an import-export company.

  Lily lingered a little and bent forward, hoping to change his mind by giving him a glimpse of her breasts. He shrugged and smiled apologetically. She got up, wiggled her hips under the impossibly short skirt, and rejoined the other girls by the bar.

  None of the men in the bar was in uniform, but he knew most of them were UN soldiers or contractors. What else was new? Wherever there were soldiers, there were whores.

  He finished his beer and noticed the beginnings of a pleasant buzz. One more and he’d be in the right spot. But he held back and lit a Gitane instead. Who knew what this meeting would bring?

  A big woman waddled to his table. Of indeterminate age, she wore a brightly colored muumuu and an equally colorful cloth wrapped around her hair. She sat down. Close up, her round face showed the ravages of living at the margins in a poor country.

  “My girls, you do not like them?”

  He really didn’t feel like defending his celibacy to the madam of the brothel. “Your girls all seem a little too young for their jobs.”

  She waved her right hand with a worldly flair. “Age, what is it? Polite men don’t ask.”

  “I thought that applied only to women over thirty.”

  Her face lit up with a smile. “A gentleman in Mama Tusani’s club! What a surprise. Let me buy you another beer.”

  She motioned to the counter. Lily brought another bottle and a glass with a milky fluid for Mama Tusani. She didn’t leave.

  Vermeulen clinked his bottle to her glass and took a swig.

  “Nice place you got here,” he said.

  It was a blatant lie. She knew it but smiled anyway, swaying to the rhythm of the music. When the song ended, she leaned over.