“Gabby, you’re not going to like what I have to tell you,” his message said. “You should probably nod and argue and say things like ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘uh-huh’ to pretend you’re actually talking to somebody. This isn’t what it appears to be. I have a handheld computer on me with wireless satellite access to a database called SIPERNET that our intelligence agencies use to exchange information.”
“Oh really?” Duquette said out loud. “That’s interesting. I thought you were out of that business.”
“I’m recording this message in the bathroom. I just researched Hubert Nketia. He was arrested twice in New York for scams, one involving stolen calling-card numbers and another involving stolen credit cards. He was deported in 1992, but I’m guessing he bribed his way out of prison once he was sent back to Liger. His photograph came up as well. There isn’t any doubt, Gabby. I can show you if you give me a chance. This man is a con man and a convicted criminal. Okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, catching Dan’s eye. She looked upset, as if she were about to cry, then instantly changed her expression. She was an accomplished actress.
“I know you think he’s a cuddly old fart and he’s your kid’s godfather, but that’s part of the game, gaining your confidence. That’s why it’s called a con. Now let me tell you what I think and you just nod if I’m right. I think you have money in your case. Probably a lot of money. Nod if I’m correct.”
She nodded, looking at Nketia and smiling apologetically for having to take the call. She looked at Dan, with an expression of surprise.
“Smile once in a while. Remember that they still think you think this is a happy occasion. Did Nketia tell you he needed you to bring money to Liger and that you had to do it in person?”
“Yup, uh-huh,” she nodded, smiling brightly.
“Did he tell you that if you gave him the money in cash, he’d use it to bribe a government official to release an even larger amount of money? Or maybe food or something like that?”
She looked shocked, her eyes widening, as she nodded again.
“Uh-huh,” she replied.
“This is called a ‘Nigerian scam,’ but Nigerians aren’t the only ones who do it. It’s done in person, in chain letters, or on the Internet—it works like this. They get somebody with a good heart and money, like you, and they tell them they can help somebody else. Usually the con says there’s money in a bank, maybe an inheritance, but the bank manager won’t allow them to withdraw it unless they pay a fee or bribe him, something like that. So the well-meaning person gives the con man the money, and they never see him again. How much money is in the case—is it over a million dollars?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, still in shock.
“Is it over two?”
She nodded again.
“Uh-huh,” she said cheerfully.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll be the director. What I’m looking for is a sudden sickness, somewhere between Debra Winger in Terms of Endearment and that guy who had a snake burst out of his stomach in Alien. Your character’s motivation is, you don’t want to be killed. Okay? I will take you and your Zero case to the bathroom, once you get sick, and we’ll leave from there. The women’s room has a window. Okay?”
“Okey-dokey,” she said. “I wish you’d said something earlier.”
Sykes made a weak expression.
“I’m sure you would have if you could have,” she said. “Thanks, Wayne—you’re an angel. Bye-bye.”
She hung up the phone, handed it to Dan, making contact with his fingers as she did, then returned to her seat.
There were four men in the room, not counting Nketia and including the bartender. Unfortunately, Nketia had brought one of the children with him, a little girl who was probably two or three years old, with big pleading eyes and a sweet soft smile. He said they’d decided at the orphanage to name the girl Gabrielle. Wasn’t that nice? The girl’s presence made shooting up the room and stepping over the bodies on their way out problematic.
“Now tell me,” Gabrielle said. “This man who you say will help you release the relief funds for the food—you’re sure that he can be trusted?”
“Oh yes, yes,” Nketia said, gesturing with his hands. “He is my brother-in-law. If he were to do anything, my sister would not come to his bed for a year, and he is far too fond of her to allow that.” Nketia laughed. “He will spread your gift around to the appropriate people. That is just the way business is done here in Liger sometimes. There is no avoiding it. Now, unfortunately, the hotel has been very kind to allow us to use their facilities, but I’m afraid—what’s wrong?”
Gabrielle was holding her gut, her eyes bulging.
“Oh, my God,” she said painfully. She raised a hand in the air, feeling her stomach with the other. “I think it’s nothing. It’s… Oh, Lord, please…”
She looked absolutely green. Her performance was remarkable as she sickened and fell to her knees, grasping the coffee table for balance. Sykes helped her to her feet. She said she had to go to the bathroom.
“My medicine,” she said to Sykes. “It’s in my case—would you bring it, please? I apologize. These things happen suddenly sometimes. Dan, could you assist me?”
Nketia gestured to one of his men to help her. Sykes took her other arm and threw it over his shoulder, and together, the two men helped Gabrielle Duquette to the bathroom. Sykes grabbed his backpack on the way.
Once inside the bathroom, he grabbed the other man by the hair and pounded his head against the wall. The man slumped to the floor, unconscious.
“Oh, my God,” Gabrielle said, stepping back from the unconscious body. Sykes locked the bathroom door.
“He’ll be all right when he wakes up,” Sykes said, even though he didn’t know that to be true. He kept his voice to a whisper, wary that someone was on the other side of the bathroom door. “Maybe a slight memory loss, but that’s in our favor, too. Make some sick sounds while I open the window.”
Behind him he heard a retching sound that was utterly realistic.
“Are you all right, Gabrielle?” someone on the other side of the door called out. “Would you like me to call a doctor?”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she called back. “I think it might have been food poisoning. Can you give me ten minutes?”
They were out the window in one.
In front of the Safari Inn, beneath a broad, thatched portico, two limos waited. A single driver leaned against the fender of one of them, smoking a cigarette. Sykes told him Hubert wanted to have a word with him. When the driver was gone, Sykes disabled one of the limos by ripping out the ignition wires, then started the other, with Gabrielle in the backseat. He stepped on the gas when he saw two men in his rearview mirror, pointing rifles at them from the portico and firing. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the rear window.
“Well that’s good news,” he said. “I was sort of hoping these were bulletproof.”
“I don’t know why you had to hurt that man,” she said.
“Why?” Sykes said. “Seriously? Because he would have killed us both in a heartbeat, that’s why. It’s not like in the movies, where the good guy always has to wait for the bad guy to draw first. The only reason they didn’t just kill us and take the money right away was they probably thought they could get more out of you down the road.”
They drove for ten minutes in silence. Sykes was afraid that Nketia was going to call ahead to have somebody meet them and rob them, so he took a side road, guided by Scott DeLuca on his SATphone and by the map that Scott downloaded to his CIM.
“Is that the thing you know that I don’t?” Gabrielle Duquette said at length. “About killing people? You’re not really retired, are you?”
“No, Gabby, I’m not,” he said.
“So you lied to me, then,” she asked.
“Yes,” Sykes said. “I did.”
The limo was running on fumes by the time they reached the airport, pulling onto the tarmac and stopping next to the
helicopter hangar. They’d ridden the rest of the way in silence. When Sykes inquired about the whereabouts of his pilot, he was told by a mechanic that Captain MacArthur had been arrested, for treason, the mechanic believed. Gabrielle Duquette waited for him by the chopper.
“Just tell me one thing,” she asked him, “because I have to know. Are you on my side?”
“Are you kidding me?” he said. “The daughter of Princess Leia and Han Solo? How could I not be? Unfortunately, I have more bad news, I’m afraid. MacArthur shan’t return.”
“What do you mean?” Gabrielle said. “Where is he?”
“Somebody took him,” Sykes said, trying the door to the helicopter, which opened. “Let’s get inside. I’m feeling a bit conspicuous, standing out here in the open.”
Sykes closed the helicopter door behind him. It was cool inside with the air-conditioning running, which meant MacArthur had left the auxiliary power unit on. An alert on his CIM informed him that a convoy of LPLF trucks was speeding toward the airfield and would arrive in ten minutes.
“Can we take the limo?” Gabrielle said.
“Negative,” Sykes said, trying to think. “It’s out of gas.” He saw a pair of Jeeps parked on the apron by the hangar door. It would take him a while to steal one.
“What about this?” the actress asked him. “Can you fly this?”
“Can I fly a helicopter?” Sykes said. “No, I can’t.”
“You said you’ve flown in them hundreds of times,” she argued.
“In the back,” Sykes said. “It’s not like a car—Daddy doesn’t let you sit on his lap and pretend.”
“What are our alternatives?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, none,” Sykes said. He eyed the cockpit’s control panel, picking up the checklist he’d seen MacArthur referring to. It was written in a language he didn’t recognize. The labels on the dials and instruments were in English. As far as he could tell, the fuel tanks were full. He dialed a number on his SATphone, then took a radio headset and wedged the phone next to his ear so that his hands would be free. The meter on the face of the telephone, indicating remaining battery power, was down to a single bar.
“Scottie,” he said when he got through. “This is urgent. Patch me through, ASAP, with a chopper pilot—somebody who knows the Chinook. Forty-six, I think. Maybe forty-seven. I’m going to need some help.”
Thirty seconds later, Sykes heard a voice, a pilot named Captain Evans who asked him what the problem was.
“The problem is, I’m not a pilot.” Sykes said, “but we have no other means of evac.’”
“All right,” Evans said hesitantly. “I suppose if we take it slow…”
“Let’s take it fast,” Sykes said. “We’re going to have company soon.”
“Okay,” Evans said. “Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re sitting in?”
“I’m in a Chinook.”
“What model?”
“I don’t know,” Sykes said. “Where would I find the model number?”
“Oh, Jesus,” the actress said, rolling her eyes.
“It should be painted on the tail, on the aft pylon, below the service numbers,” Evans said. “Why don’t you get out of the helicopter and check? It’s rather important.”
When Sykes returned, he told Evans they were in a CH-47D, which Evans told him, sounding relieved, was a good model to fly solo, with a FADEC or Full Authority Digital Engine Control system that made it something like starting a car.
“I gather the APU is on and you’re in ground idle. There are two levers on the console above you. Those are your engine condition levers. They’re about eight inches long with knobs on the end. Advance them forward simultaneously until they lock. The rpm gauge on the instrument panel in front of you should read 100 percent. Do you see it? It’s a white needle…”
“One hundred percent,” Sykes said. The engines thundered as the aircraft began to vibrate.
“Next to the engine condition levers, to the left, you’ll see three switches. These are your generators. Push the two leftmost switches forward to shut them off. You’ll also see two switches to the right of the condition levers marked PTS—these are your power transfer switches. You need to turn them off to pressurize your flight controls…”
“What’s he saying?” Gabrielle shouted above the roar.
“Be with you in a minute,” Sykes told her.
“Now you can turn the APU generator off,” Evans said. “That’s the switch next to the two generators you already turned off. Now, on the center console, you should see a rotary knob marked AFCS in the off position. That’s your Automated Flight Control System. I want you to look at the controls. Do you see the artificial horizon indicator?”
“Got it,” Sykes said.
“Your airspeed indicator is to the left and your altimeter is to the right. The circle below it is your compass. Above it, you should see the Master Caution Panel. Do you see a pair of lights marked AFCS? I want you to turn the rotary knob to the position marked ‘both on.’ The two AFCS lights on the Caution Panel should extinguish.”
“Got it,” Sykes said. The rotors on the bird were turning at full speed, three in the front and three in the back, spinning in opposite directions. He gave Gabrielle Duquette one of the MAC-10s and told her to cover the hangar if someone came out and tried to stop them. She took the weapon reluctantly. He saw a line of white trucks in the distance, pausing at the airport gates.
“Now I need you to lock down the aft wheels,” Evans said. “You should see a swivel switch on the rear left portion of the center console. I want you to pull that back…”
“Got it,” Sykes said.
The trucks approached.
“Excellent,” Evans said.
“Any way we could expedite would be appreciated,” Sykes told Evans, watching the trucks as the gate swung open.
“There’s a lever on your left, mounted to the floor,” Evans said. “That’s the collective. It changes the pitch on the rotor blades…”
“You can tell me everything you want about how helicopters work later,” Sykes said, the trucks approaching. “We really have to be going.”
“Pull up on the collective and hold it at the point where you achieve lift,” Evans said. “When you’re twenty or thirty meters up, you can nudge the cyclic forward a few inches. That’s the stick between your legs. You’ll feel the aircraft tilt slightly …”
Sykes throttled up as the massive aircraft rose clumsily into the sky. He saw below him where soldiers trying to aim rifles at them were knocked to the ground by the rotor wash. If anybody fired on them, it was too loud in the cockpit to hear it. Following Captain Evans’s instructions, he turned the aircraft and accelerated just as the lead truck in the convoy chased them across the tarmac. Then they were fully airborne and flying, with the distance between them and the airport increasing.
“So far so good,” Sykes said. “Captain Evans? Hello?”
The battery in his SATphone was dead.
It was going to make landing a bit tricky.
DeLuca, Vasquez, and Asabo had returned to the Hotel Liger in Baku Da’al earlier that morning, spending the night in the rain forest canopy and descending the ropes at first light. The Park Motel was deserted when they returned to it, the bar looted, as was the lobby and all of the guest cottages. On the banks of the pond, they saw three crocodiles that had been shot to pieces and coarsely butchered, their heads and claws taken, the rest bloated in the sun and infested with flies and coprophagia. The Cressida had been shot to pieces as well, the passenger compartment filled with debris and broken glass, and it had been set on fire, too, but the tires were intact and, to DeLuca’s amazement, the vehicle started when he turned the key.
“You gotta love Toyotas,” he said.
“The guy at the rental desk isn’t going to like it,” Vasquez said.
As they drove, they listened to the radio. They heard a DJ who seemed to be ranting and raving, a lively reggae tune playing in t
he background as he spoke. DeLuca asked Asabo to translate.
“This is a Muslim station,” Asabo said. “He is saying to kill all the Christians and all the white people. That the Ligerian People’s Liberation Army cannot do the job alone, so they need the help of every patriotic Muslim and Kum and Da. He says the Fasori have oppressed them for too long. Now is the time to strike and strike hard, until your arm is weary, but Allah will give you new strength. That sort of thing.”
DeLuca turned the dial until he stopped at a different station, where a different DJ was speaking with equal vehemence. Again, Asabo translated.
“This is a Christian station,” Asabo said. “He’s saying that the Fasori and the Da have been friends for a hundred years and that the Kum are cold-blooded killers who’ve tried to drive a wedge between them. He says the Da and the Fasori people must kill the Kum. And that the government will try to help them, but the government cannot do it alone.”
Asabo stopped.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “It’s hard to listen to these statements. They’re both saying the same thing. My country is insane.”
When they arrived, they saw that the hotel’s front courtyard was crowded with refugees, women and children crying and huddled on blankets beneath makeshift tarps, guarded by AU and UN soldiers who were too few to resist any sort of significant attack. There were two buses in the driveway, each painted white with the blue United Nations logo on the front, back, and sides and the letters UN large enough to be unmistakable. UN soldiers loaded whites and Europeans onto the buses for evacuation. DeLuca noted that Tom Kruger and Roddy Hamilton and the journalist he’d met at the poker game and knew only as Kurt had boarded the bus as well.
DeLuca was standing on the porch when a slender white man carrying a small suitcase approached him.
“Excuse me?” the man said. “Would you happen to know where I might find any American military personnel?”
“Military?” DeLuca said. “I don’t think they’re here yet. Is there something I could do for you?”
Mission Liberty Page 17