Lords of Corruption

by Kyle Mills

  Fedorov turned toward Flannary and smiled. "So that's about it isn't it, JB? All your notes were at that house, and now they're a pile of ashes. Everything about this in the magazine's archive, all the phone messages, and virtually all the e-mails have been erased -- even your friend Josh's. He was in his account when my people found him."

  Flannary stared back at him, but the image was starting to swim. Probably just another milestone on his slow journey to bleeding to death. At this point, sooner would probably be better than later.

  "Are you thinking about your Swedish Jesus freak, JB? Are you? Because I guarantee she'll be dead by tomorrow." He thumbed to the blond girl behind him. "You've never met Laura Hagarty, have you? I understand that your friend Josh practically raised her from a baby. So when it comes down to her or Annika Gritdal, who do you think he'll choose?"

  Flannary turned his attention to the blond girl for a moment. Laura Hagarty. Of course. He was losing his ability to think.

  "That's right," Fedorov continued. "He'll give up your little Swedish bitch in a second."

  "Norwegian." Flannary managed to get out.

  "What?"

  "She's Norwegian, you sociopathic Eurotrash prick." The act of getting out an insult that long left him feeling like he'd run a marathon.

  "I don't think her nationality will matter much to the Africans I hand her over to, do you?" Fedorov said, walking behind Page and tossing a rope over a rafter above him. He began casually tying a slipknot in one end as he spoke. "Just one more thing to do, eh, JB? I need the password for your e-mail account."

  Page threw himself back and forth in his chair, trying futilely to prevent the makeshift noose from being slipped around his neck. Unable to watch, Flannary fixed his gaze on Laura Hagarty, but the terror etched on her face was just as bad.

  He hadn't realized how numb he'd become over the years. How easy it was for him to detach himself from the violence and misery around him. Maybe Annika was right about there being a God. And now He had decided to show Flannary the difference between being a spectator and being a participant.

  The sound of Page trying to scream through the tape over his mouth finally pulled Flannary back into the present, and he looked back at his old friend. Fedorov was standing with one hand on the rope and the other on Page's shoulder. "The password, JB. Give me the password."

  "What's in it for me?" he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  "What's in it for you?" Fedorov's brow furrowed. "You make me curious. What do you want?"

  There was no point in asking for anything unreasonable -- his bargaining position wasn't that strong, and his ability to enforce any agreement between them was nonexistent. "Kill them quick."

  Tracy's head fell forward, her young body convulsing as she finally began to sob. Even after all this, she'd thought he would save her. That he'd be the shining hero.

  "Let me think about that," Fedorov said and then threw his weight into the rope, hoisting Page up by the neck.

  There were any number of cranes running across the warehouse's ceiling, but Fedorov didn't use one, instead fighting personally with the rope, trying to get the chair entirely off the floor.

  Page's eyes bulged and his face turned red as he tried to fight, lacking the leverage to do much more than rock his shoulders. It took only a few moments before his body went slack, but Aleksei held him for much longer than that, his knuckles turning white around the rope and his eyes flashing with sadistic joy.

  Finally he let go. The chair's legs slammed back to the floor and Page's body slumped forward against its bonds.

  Fedorov removed the noose and put it around Tracy's neck. She didn't bother to resist, instead fixing her gaze on Flannary as he tried to push himself into a sitting position.

  "If you do that to her, you'll never get my password. You hear me, Aleksei? Never."

  "I still have Hagarty's sister."

  "You can't kill her until he gives up Annika. And . . ." His voice lost its strength, and for a moment he wasn't sure it was going to come back. ". . . I'm not going to last

  that long."

  Fedorov pulled a handgun from his waistband and pointed it at Tracy's head. Flan-nary expected some kind of discussion: a "who goes first" negotiation, a few threats. But it didn't happen that way. She was still looking right at him when the bullet penetrated her skull.

  He was having a hard time breathing, and he let his head sink back to the floor. For the first time in twenty years, he wanted to cry. But it was too late for that.

  "We made a deal," Fedorov said.

  And a deal was a deal.

  "Mtiti," Flannary said. The body of the woman next to him had cooled to the point that it could no longer provide the heat he needed. God, how he hated the cold.

  "That's it," he heard the man with the laptop say. "I'm in."

  A moment later, Fedorov's face was hovering over him, silhouetted by the lights above. He pressed the barrel of his gun against Flannary's forehead. "What does it feel like, JB? What does it feel like to watch every friend you've ever had die because you decided to save a bunch of niggers who don't want to be saved? Do you really believe that any of this would have made a difference?"

  Fedorov's voice was becoming increasingly distant, but his question still made it through. Something for Flannary to ponder on his way to hell.

  Chapter 38.

  Josh Hagarty was surprised when they pulled up to Stephen Trent's bougainvillea-entangled gate, though he wasn't sure why. In America, driving through the high-rent district with a dead body and a kidnap victim was frowned upon, but here it was just business as usual. Who was going to stop them and complain? The cops? Soldiers? A concerned citizen? Not likely.

  He had briefly considered trying to get the back hatch open and running for it, but quickly dismissed the idea. He was trapped in a universe created and presided over by the all-powerful Umboto Mtiti. There was nowhere to go.

  Gideon parked and came around back, yanking the door open and dragging Josh out by the hair. What fight was left in him disappeared when he noticed the flag-decorated black Mercedes near Trent's front door. He'd seen it many times on the blurry black-and-white televisions that populated the country, and he knew exactly who it belonged to. Everybody did.

  Gideon gave him a shove that sent him stumbling forward, interrupting his effort to get control of the fear that was making it hard to think. There was something about unfamiliar danger -- danger not normally part of your world -- that was so much more potent. In America, drunk drivers and fatty foods were the most likely candidates to kill you, but everyone worried about terrorists and sharks. Mtiti seemed to embody everything dark, everything that had hidden in Josh's closet when he was a kid.

  And yet the maid smiled politely as she opened the door for them, the spotless hallway was decorated with fresh flowers, and the soothing sound of classical music hung in the conditioned air.

  Mtiti didn't rise from his chair as they entered Trent's office. Josh only looked at him for a moment before turning away. While he was certain that Gideon was responsible for the actual killing, all he could see in Mtiti's face was the dirt-filled eyes of that old woman in the jungle. Hers and thousands of others.

  "Please have a seat," Trent said, pointing to a chair.

  Josh did as he was told, trying to ignore the fact that the president of the country seemed to be trying to bore a hole in the side of his skull with his stare.

  "I want to explain some things to you," Trent started. "I know that you don't have much experience in Africa, but I do. And I can tell you that this is one of the best-run and most peaceful places on the continent. Is it perfect by European or American standards? No. But it's also not Somalia. Or Rwanda, or Liberia, or Sudan. You have no idea what President Mtiti has to deal with: tribal animosity that goes back a thousand years, massive illiteracy, cultural barriers to advancement that are virtually insurmountable, a thirty percent AIDS rate. . . . Do you understand what I'm saying, Josh?"

  Honestly,
he didn't understand why they were talking at all. Particularly about the general social ills of Africa. The smart money was to just say yes, but at this point he knew his fate was already determined.

  "And how does that gravesite fit into your philosophy, Stephen? Was that caused by the illiteracy or the cultural barriers to advancement?"

  Mtiti started to laugh, a deep rumble that seemed to have genuine humor tainted by only a hint of homicidal mania. "You're like all the others aren't you? Just another pampered little boy who comes to my country -- to the place where my ancestors were born -- to tell us the right way to live."

  Josh stayed focused on Trent but heard the creak of the chair as Mtiti leaned forward. "We don't want to live like you. We don't want to cower in our homes, afraid of everything, doing what everyone else tells us. Because of me, my country, my people are free. They have what they need."

  Strangely, he understood Mtiti's point. In a way, Orwell had been right. Freedom really could be slavery. In the United States, most people didn't question the thousands of rules that made the West's complicated machine function. If a neighbor pissed them off, they couldn't cut off his head and put it on a fence post. They had to just grin and bear it, or maybe hire a lawyer. The Africans had no such constraints. As long as you were on top, you were free in a way that the average American would never understand.

  "Mr. President . . ." Trent cautioned, and Mtiti leaned back in his chair again. Obviously, they had agreed to let Trent handle whatever it was they were trying to handle.

  "Josh, there are realities here. You've seen them. The Yvimbo rebels have to be kept down. If not, this country is going to slide lino a genocidal civil war that'll last for the next twenty years. Unfortunately, there's an unpleasant side to keeping things under control."

  "An unpleasant side? Are you kidding me?"

  "Don't start getting indignant, Josh. You're not stupid. What if the president let those guerrillas in the South get strong enough to rise up? What do you think would happen?"

  "Those weren't rebels, Stephen. They were farmers. And you can just get off your high horse -- we both know that this isn't about helping the locals."

  "They're all rebels," Mtiti growled. "All of them."

  "He's right, Josh. The tribal divisions aren't going anywhere. One tribe or the other has to be in charge. You think things would be better if it was the Yvimbo? You think they'd be enlightened rulers?"

  It was a particularly uncomfortable subject in light of the fact that he and Annika had been arguing over this same point only two days ago. And, as he recalled, he'd taken Trent's side.

  "So we created this arrangement," Trent continued, gesturing respectfully toward Mtiti. "The country remains stable, its image around the world is raised, and we all benefit financially. How is that worse than the other charities? You think they don't enrich themselves? Who do you think lives in the mansions in this neighborhood? The directors of charities. Men who destabilize African countries with foreign ideas and money while they live like kings."

  "There's a difference," Josh started, but Mtiti leapt to his feet.

  "There is no difference!" he screamed. "This isn't about helping to you people. It's about telling the savages how to live. It's about your European superiority. It's about you stripping our natural resources to make money so you can build weapons and make even more money by selling them to us!"

  "Excellency," Trent said, holding his hands out in a plea for calm, "please . . ."

  Josh felt as though every muscle in his body had completely locked, and they didn't start to relax again until Mtiti sat.

  "Josh, the reason we hired you is because we think you can understand what you've heard tonight. Because you can be a valuable part of this organization."

  "You're offering me a job?"

  "You've already got the job,"Trent pointed out. "I'm offering you a promotion."

  Josh actually smiled at that. "A promotion?"

  "Remember what I said earlier? About your sister driving a Mercedes around the Harvard campus? We can still make that happen."

  "My sister."

  "We don't want to hurt her, Josh. And frankly, we don't want to lose you. I'm offering you a win-win situation. I hope you see that."

  It seemed incredibly unlikely. They needed something from him, and the minute they got it, they'd kill everyone who posed even a remote threat to them. There was no way in hell that Umboto Mtiti and the man in the article he'd been sent were going to jeopardize a megamillion-dollar enterprise for an overeducated twenty-six-year-old ex-con.

  "Can I have some time to think about it?" Trent shook his head sadly. "And wait for the article to come out?"

  Josh felt a burst of adrenaline course through him but tried not to let it show. "What do you mean?"

  "JB Flannary is dead, Josh. And so are his editor and assistant. All their files have been destroyed."

  Josh was forced to wipe the sweat from his forehead before it ran into his eyes and blinded him.

  "We're holding all the cards, Josh. There's no reason for this to be difficult. Take the deal I'm offering --"

  "Why are we still talking?" Mtiti cut in, his patience obviously at its end. "Who were those people at the project to you? You didn't know them. They were nobody. But your family. Your sister. Is she not important to you?"

  He clearly expected an answer, and Josh cleared his throat in an effort to keep his voice from shaking. "Yes, she's important." "You'd like her to live? Is that right?" "Yes."

  "Then we have an understanding."

  Mtiti rose and strode across the office to the hallway.

  "Thank you, Mr. President," Trent called after him, but Mtiti gave no indication of hearing as Gideon ran after him.

  Trent waited until he was sure they were gone before he spoke again. "You've caused me quite a bit of trouble, Josh."

  "More than Dan did?"

  "Don't be so ungrateful. I can tell you that a friendly conversation in my office isn't what Mtiti had in mind. If I hadn't intervened, you'd be hanging by your balls while his people burned you with acetylene torches."

  "Then I guess I should thank you."

  "It's time for you to start thinking about yourself and your sister, Josh. Trust me when I say that you don't want to leave her to what Aleksei has planned. No one should die like that. Particularly not a young girl."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to tie up the last loose end." "Annika."

  Trent nodded. "Where is she?"

  He didn't answer.

  "I know this is difficult, Josh. But the president is going to do whatever's necessary to make sure she never leaves this country. It's better for everyone -- including her -- to end this now."

  "I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"

  "You don't have any choice at all. Now, answer my question."

  The sweat had formed at his hairline again, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. "I don't know exactly. I dropped her off on the road, and she said she was going to find a place where she could stay off Mtiti's radar. She could be a hundred miles from there by now."

  The serene mask that Trent wore barely flickered. "Do you have a way to contact her?"

  "She has my phone. I was going to try to get it turned back on."

  "If we did that, if we reactivated it, you could call her? Set up a meeting?"

  Josh stared at the window behind Trent, trying to penetrate the darkness outside. "Like I said. I don't have much of a choice."

  Chapter 39.

  The farther south they drove, the more the leafy branches on either side of the shattered road closed in overhead. They deflected the sun but also trapped the humidity and created a sense of claustrophobia that Stephen Trent found unbearable.

  He shouldn't have been there. They'd passed into Yvimbo rebel territory two hours ago, an area made uncontrollable by its steep, jungle-covered mountains and plunging valleys. The best Mtiti could do was blockade the area and try to keep its inhabitants too hungry and p
oorly armed to rise up.

  Gideon was driving, and a young man holding a machine gun was sprawled over the passenger seat. Trent was in the back, staring out the open window for any sign of danger, while Josh sat wedged between him and another armed young man. The smell of sweat was overwhelming, but Trent knew that he was responsible for much of it.

  He glanced back over his shoulder and saw a matching white Land Cruiser trailing only a few feet behind, this one containing five of Mtiti's men posing as aid workers, their weapons just out of sight. A proper armored escort was impossible. Word of it would spread like wildfire through the region, likely tipping off Annika Gritdal and even more likely causing them to become the victims of an ambush. This was the best they could do -- a delicate balancing act between camouflage and firepower.

  "This is close enough," Trent said. "The village she's hiding in is only a few more miles."

  He grabbed the seat in front of him as Gideon pulled onto the edge of the dirt road. Their chase car skidded to a stop behind, and the men jumped out to patrol the edges of the jungle with machine guns held tightly in front of them. So much for subtlety.

  Trent grabbed Josh's arm and pulled him from the vehicle. Gideon was already standing in the road, one hand on the pistol shoved haphazardly into his pants.

  "Give him the keys," Trent ordered. Gideon held them out, but when Josh reached for them, he closed his fist. "If you run, we'll find you. And we'll find her. What I did to Dan will be nothing --"

  "That's enough, Gideon!" Trent said. "Just give him the goddamn keys and let's get this over with."

  Josh accepted them, his expression impossible to read. "You're not going with me?"

  Trent put an arm around his shoulders and led him out of earshot of the men around them.

  "If Annika sees me or Gideon, she'll know what's going on, and it's hard to say what the villagers might do. None of the locals have to get hurt. You just need to go in there, get her, and bring her to us. Then we can get back to our lives. Our good lives."