by Marc Cameron
Umarov was heavy and it took all of Aleksandra’s strength to push his dead weight off her legs as the bartender peeked his head into the men’s room.
He stood in open-mouthed shock as she crawled across the tile floor toward him, blood smeared across her face.
“He… he…” She said little, letting her appearance and the dead man with his pants around his ankles tell the story. Willing her body to shake, she conjured up buckets of sniffling tears and tugged at the collar of her torn shirt in a show of horrified modesty. She’d worn her green lace bra and knew the bartender would be hard pressed to recall much for a police artist. Right now he saw her only as a pair of heaving breasts covered in gore.
“You’ll be okay,” he whispered, helping her to her feet. He passed her back to a wan-looking Cinnamon, who looked sickly pale and out of place, wearing nothing but her G-string and body glitter in the stark light of the restroom.
While the bartender and others went in to investigate the dead man with his pants around his ankles, Aleksandra slipped down the dark hallway and out the front door before anyone figured out that she was a great deal more than an innocent victim.
She had reached her rental car two blocks away by the time she heard the sirens. She put on a fresh shirt from her bag in the backseat. The bloody one she stuffed in an old McDonald’s sack before tossing it behind a palm tree. Less than six minutes from the time she’d exchanged gunfire with Mikhail’s killer, she took the entrance ramp to I-95. The man who wore Mikhail’s ring had surely murdered him — and was sure to be the one in possession of Baba Yaga. Whoever he was, that same man had just killed the Chechen she’d seen at Valentine Zamora’s party. Aleksandra calmed herself with slow, rhythmic breaths. She used her thumb to punch numbers into the disposable cell phone as she drove.
Somehow, Valentine Zamora held the answers, and if he had the answers, it was very likely he had the bomb.
“It’s me,” she said. “I’m going to South America.”
CHAPTER 23
December 28 Guinea-Bissau
West Africa
“Your employer is very persuasive,” General Bundu of the Bissau-Guinean Army said. He stood with his arms folded over his belly, which had grown considerably since his ascendance to top military leader. Legs spread wide apart like an oil derrick, he peered up at a cloudless West African sky.
“You have no idea,” Matt Pollard mumbled from his spot in the dry grass beside the general. Above them, well out over the Atlantic, a slender Boeing 727 came out of a long downwind to bank slowly for a final approach. The runway was little more than five thousand feet of relatively obstacle-free hardpan with the trees and shrubs cleared from the parched salt grass on either side to give wing clearance to large aircraft. The ocean lapped at a breakwater of large black stones at the far end of the strip.
Behind Pollard and the general, two dozen riflemen, dressed in the woodland camouflage uniforms of the Bissau-Guinean Army, stood guard over five palletized stacks of assorted boxes. The box Pollard was the most concerned with was packed in the center of the second pallet in line, hiding in plain sight. As far as he knew, no one at the airstrip but him was aware of the true contents of that particular case.
Off to the side, two rusted fuel trucks idled under the sparse shade of three lonely palms beside a tethered goat. Each truck contained about nine thousand gallons of jet fuel, more than enough to get the thirsty 727 refilled for her return flight as long as she was fitted with extra tanks.
Though Zamora hadn’t explained the details of his operation, it hadn’t been too difficult for Pollard to put it together. The U.S. war on drugs made it increasingly difficult to smuggle large quantities of product across the Mexican border. South American cartels had branched out to lucrative European markets. Large oceangoing trawlers were still a favorite method of transport, but with the glut of retired commuter aircraft on the market, cartels were able to purchase planes for pennies on the dollar. Large quantities of cocaine now moved via these DC-9s, 727s, and older Gulfstreams, primarily from Venezuela to West Africa. Sometimes it was cheaper to pay the pilots two or three hundred grand to fly over a load of dope, then once the delivery was made, torch the plane and fly home commercially.
But Zamora dealt in weapons, many of them coming from former Soviet Bloc countries. The return drug flights offered the perfect way of getting his guns and explosive ordnance back to South America.
Zamora had been clear on one thing. Pollard’s job was to escort the bomb back to Venezuela, where he could work on it away from prying eyes, perform what maintenance it needed, and get past the Permissive Action Link. In simple terms, the PAL was the arming code for the bomb, the encrypted signal that permitted someone to blow it up. The U.S. had been using them since the 1960s in one form or another to safeguard against the very scenario Pollard now faced. Later PALs were impossible to bypass. As nuclear physicist Peter Zimmerman put it—“Bypassing a PAL should be about as complex as performing a tonsillectomy while entering the patient from the wrong end.”
Pollard wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to pull it off. He was, however, certain that if he didn’t, Zamora and his insane girlfriend would murder Marie and Simon without a second’s thought.
It was the perfect conundrum for his ethics class. Who is more important? The two people in the world you love the most, or fifteen thousand strangers? Should sheer numbers matter, or was the worth of one soul comparable to that of a thousand others? Pollard’s skull ached from rehearsing the arguments over and over, then sobbing himself into an exhausted sleep.
Zamora was obviously sure enough Pollard would choose his family that he didn’t even bother to put a guard with him. Perhaps Zamora knew him better than he knew himself.
General Bundu raised his hand and twirled it in a tight circle as the big jet made a breaking turn at the end of the runway amid a cloud of red dust and lumbered back toward them. His men sprang into action, jumping onto a gang of three ancient forklifts to be ready to unload as soon as the plane came to a stop. More time on the ground meant more chance of interception.
“The goal is to exchange cargo by the time they have finished fueling,” Bundu said, taking a square tin of snuff from the breast pocket of his uniform. “The pilots don’t like to stay on the ground too long.” His men moved with antlike precision, but the general’s eyes flicked this way and that with each order he gave as if the entire operation was his first time.
One of the forklift operators rolled up to the front of the aircraft and raised an empty pallet up as the front door swung open. A slender man who was obviously the pilot stepped onto the pallet and grabbed the attached handrail. He wore sturdy boots, jeans, and a well-worn leather jacket. Silver-gray hair was mussed from wearing a headset for hours on end.
The forklift driver backed up a few feet and lowered the pallet smoothly to the ground. The pilot stepped off and strode over to where Pollard and Bundu stood.
Pollard started to shake hands, but realized maybe that wasn’t the thing to do with these drug-running types.
“Change of plans,” the pilot said, peering between bushy gray eyebrows and the top of his Ray-Bans.
Bundu tensed and Pollard held his breath.
“How so?” the general asked.
“We’re offloading here as usual,” the pilot said. “But the boss says we are not to take this cargo back to Caracas.”
“The boss?” Pollard asked. “Zamora said not to take the load back?”
“That’s right,” the pilot said. “But we still need to get airborne again right away.” He began to look longingly at the dilapidated hangar. “I gotta take a serious dump and I’d just as soon not cram myself in the head on board that box of bolts.”
“I don’t understand,” Pollard said. “What am I supposed to do with the… items we have on hand?”
“I don’t give a shit,” the pilot said, turning for the hangar. “And neither does Rafael Zamora.”
Pollard grabbed him by the shoul
der.
“You mean Valentine Zamora,” he said.
The pilot tore off his sunglasses and glared at Pollard. “Son,” he hissed. “You’ll want to let go of me now.”
Pollard nodded and stepped back.
“Sorry,” he said. “Rafael?”
The pilot turned to go. “Rafael is Valentine’s daddy. Those are his drugs being off-loaded from his airplane.”
“But we have to get this load back,” Pollard said, his voice sounding more desperate than he would have liked. He left out the part about his wife and son being killed if he failed.
* * *
Pollard borrowed Bundu’s phone and called the emergency number Zamora had given him.
The Venezuelan sputtered with anger at the news. “He said what? Never mind what he said…. The device must get to… Tell the pilot I will pay him double… No, tell him I’ll have him shot…. Wait, put him on and let me tell him myself… ”
Pollard took a deep breath and held it for a long moment, wracking his brain. It killed him to think up viable solutions for this man.
Before he could speak, Zamora began ranting again. “I’ll call my father and find out what this is all about. Tell General Bundu to shoot the pilots if they try to leave before I call back.”
The line went dead and Pollard relayed the message to a stunned Bundu.
“This job proves much more difficult than I imagined,” the deflated general whispered. His round face drooped like a despondent schoolboy’s. “If I shoot Rafael Zamora’s pilots he will send men to murder me. If I don’t shoot Rafael Zamora’s pilots, Valentine Zamora will come to Africa and murder me himself.”
Luckily for everyone involved, the pilot’s business inside the hangar took long enough that Valentine was able to call back and ask to speak to him. The pilot stood chatting for a full minute. His head swiveled this way and that as if he expected a raid at any moment. At length he shrugged and said, “Okay, I’ll keep our deal going. But if your father finds out, we’re all dead.”
He passed the phone back to Pollard.
“It seems my father believes our shipments bring unnecessary scrutiny on his high office,” Zamora said. “The bastard has barred me from doing business in my own country, Matthew. Can you believe that? He said he’d have me arrested if I landed in Venezuela with a load of weapons.”
Pollard swallowed. He didn’t know what to say. He only wanted to see his wife and son again.
“In any case,” Zamora went on. “Your priorities have not changed. Do as the pilot tells you. I will see you soon — and when I do, I hope for your family’s sake everything is in working order.” His voice grew giddy as if they were old friends. “Okay then, bye now… ”
Pollard switched off the phone and let his hand fall to his side. He looked at the pilot for directions.
“Load your shit,” the pilot said. “Looks like I’m taking you to Bolivia — if the bastards don’t shoot us out of the air.”
CHAPTER 24
The spacious interior of the Gulfstream V gave Valentine Zamora room to stretch his legs as he reclined in one of two buttoned leather seats at the front of the cabin. Monagas sat in the other, and the gap-toothed twins lay in the settees along the cabin walls behind, each with her nose glued to a cell phone.
Zamora had a wet cloth over his eyes and his own phone pressed to his ear.
“I told you, we have nothing to worry about,” he said. Discussions like this made him want to strangle something helpless. “The move to Bolivia is a mere hiccup.”
“I understood our purchase included the use of your pipeline into the United States,” the voice on the other end said. It clicked with a thick Arab accent “The American border is a very long way from Bolivia.”
“I am aware of the geography.” Zamora clenched his teeth. “All that is left is for you to transfer the balance of what I am owed to my Cayman account. Things are already set in motion to move the product north. I have planned for all eventualities, Inshallah.” He threw out the Arabic as a statement of solidarity.
“Oh,” the voice said, unimpressed. “Make no mistake. This is most definitely God’s will. We are looking closely at the target you suggested. It seems worthy—”
Zamora rose up in his seat, ripping the wet cloth from his eyes. “Of course it is worthy!” He fought to keep from screaming. “What could possibly hurt the Americans more than this?” The call was scrambled, but he stopped short of actually naming the interfaith choir. One could never be certain of the American NSA.
“Is not the device ours once we purchase it?”
“Of course it is.” Zamora stood to pace up and down the aisle as he spoke. One of the gap-toothed twins reached out to give his leg an affectionate touch and got the back of his hand in return. “But things are already set in motion.”
“Relax,” the voice said. “We are merely exploring other avenues. My brother is looking at your route as well as your target.”
Zamora ran a hand through his hair, wracking his brain. “Do you not trust me, my friend?”
“Of course,” the voice said. “I trust — but tie my camels tightly. Before there can be a target, I need your assurance that you can actually move the device up from Bolivia.”
“You have my word,” Zamora said. “There is nothing to worry about.”
Zamora ended the call and turned to watch the clouds outside the G Five’s oval window. Of course there was nothing to worry about. Nothing but thousands of miles of jungle, poorly maintained aircraft, guerrilla armies, and the governments of most of the free world that wanted to see him killed — and that didn’t even take into account his father.
But before any of that mattered, Matthew Pollard had to make the damned thing work.
CHAPTER 25
Virginia
His bags packed, Quinn switched on the standing lamp beside his leather sofa and plopped down with the two-foot cardboard box he’d picked up from the post office. Flicking open his ZT folder from his pocket, he broke his own rule about using a “people-killing” knife to cut cardboard.
Quinn knew what was inside before he opened it. Smiling, he lifted the fourteen-inch curved blade.
He picked up his phone with the other hand.
“Ray,” he said when the other party answered. “You are the man!”
“You got it?” Ray Thibault’s smiling voice came across the line. He and his son, Ryan, ran Northern Knives in Anchorage. Both were on Quinn’s short list of trustworthy people. Ryan wore his hair in a buzz cut and shared his father’s easy laugh and religious zeal for all things edged. An expert pistol shot and knife fighter, Ryan carried a straight razor in his belt. Not everyone respected a pistol, he reasoned, but nearly everyone had been cut at least once. It was something they wanted to avoid at all cost — which made a straight razor a formidable psychological weapon. Ray preferred an Arkansas Toothpick. All grins and friendly advice, both father and son gave off a calm but deadly don’t-screw-with-me air.
“It looks like you left a kukri and a Japanese short sword in a drawer together and they had offspring,” Quinn said.
“We call it the Severance.” Ray gave an easy chuckle. “We talked about calling it the Jericho, but I thought you might get pissed. Anyway, when we heard about Yawaraka-Te, Ryan and I wanted you to have something to use.”
Quinn turned the knife in the lamplight. It was fourteen inches long and nearly an eighth of an inch thick along the spine. A black parachute-cord strap hung from a hole in the nasty skull-crusher pommel. The olive drab scales felt as natural in Quinn’s hand as the throttle of his motorcycle.
He missed Yawaraka-Te, and frankly could not wait until Mrs. Miyagi had her repaired. But for the utilitarian chores he might find in South America, Severance seemed to be the perfect blade. It looked to be the kind of knife that could cut down a small tree or convince an opponent that he should comply in order to keep his head.
“Mind field-testing it for us?” Ray asked, the sparkle in his eyes almost audi
ble on the phone.
“I appreciate this more than you know, Ray.” Quinn weighed the blade in his hand, feeling the balance and heft of it. “But the places I go, you might not get it back.”
“Good deal,” Ray said. “Now about that other matter. Just send her by. I think I know exactly what she needs… ”
* * *
“Are you really going to buy me a pocketknife?” Mattie Quinn asked ten minutes later when Jericho had her on the phone.
“Everybody needs a knife, sweet pea,” he said. “Go ahead and check me right now.”
“Okay.” Mattie giggled. “Dad, have you got your pocketknife on you?”
“I have my pants on, don’t I?” Quinn said, sharing their inside joke. When she was barely old enough to understand, he’d promised her that if was wearing pockets and she caught him without a knife, he would buy her a soda.
“Mom says I might be too young.”
“I’ll square it with Mom,” Quinn said, knowing full well Kim was likely on the other line. “Do you cut up your own steak?”
“Of course, Dad. I’m seven.” He could hear her crinkling her nose in that adorable way of hers.
“Well, the way I see it, a steak knife is way bigger than a pocketknife.” Quinn practiced the line of reasoning he planned to use on Kim. “I already talked to Ray about which one.”
“I like Ray,” Mattie said. “He’s got the pet piranha.”
“All you have to do is get Mom to take you by the store,” Quinn said. “Merry Christmas, sweet pea.”
“Miss you, Dad,” she said.
“Miss you too. Can you put Mom on?”
“Sure,” Mattie said. “I’ll go get her. But you should know, she’s pretty mad about you not coming home for Christmas.”
Kim picked up immediately.
“I’m not mad,” she said, defending herself. “Just disappointed… for Mattie. What’s up?”