by Diane Capri
Jess checked her watch. “Nine forty-three? We could make it.”
“Suppose I agreed to take you along with me.” He glanced at her and crossed the runway. “You realize that worse things could happen than you’ve already been through?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute.” He paused and looked at her again. She looked straight back. “Look, the truth is that I could use a partner and your cover as my wife would work fairly well on this. But I’ve been to these places before and I know a lot more about this situation than you do. Things I can’t tell you. So can you take orders and do what I say?”
He veered off the marked route across the runway, and drove along the rear of a line of jets parked at the terminal. He curved in around the last aircraft in the line.
Jess grinned. “Why, Mr. Beaumont, after all the time we’ve been married, how can you question my fidelity?”
“This is no joke, Jess. Yes or no? You’ll do what I tell you or I’m leaving you here.”
“I hear you,” she replied. Which wasn’t the same as a promise. He probably didn’t have anybody for backup. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking.
A set of stairs led up to the departure level of the terminal. A man in a suit paced at the bottom of the staircase.
Hadlow screeched to a halt, hopped out of the car, and tossed the keys to the guy.
Jess followed him.
“Arnold Chapman. Nice to meet you.” Chapman shook hands and then offered an envelope. “I have one ticket for the UK, made out in the name on your passport. The American embassy will have someone meet you at Heathrow. They’ll sort things out from there. Just don’t leave the terminal, either here or at Heathrow and everything will go smoothly.”
She took the envelope.
Hadlow took the gun from her, and handed it to Chapman.
The man handled it like a live snake. “No one said anything about guns.”
“Then it’s your lucky day,” Hadlow said.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“If you’re feeling generous, you could wipe it thoroughly to remove any identifying prints or DNA and return it to the police in Zorita,” Hadlow replied.
The man opened his mouth, but Hadlow held up his hand. “There’s a flight for Kitande in Africa in thirty minutes.”
“Kitande?”
“Via Casablanca and Luanda. You have a credit card?”
“Well…of course.”
“Then let’s move.”
Chapman frowned at the gun. “Is this loaded?”
Hadlow ripped the gun from his hands, pulled out the magazine, ejected the round from the chamber, and shoved the parts back into his chest. “No.”
He pushed Chapman up the steps. “Now move. Mrs. Beaumont and I need tickets.”
Jess grinned.
Hadlow grimaced. “I need to have my head examined.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Saturday, August 20
11:30 p.m. WAT
Kitande, Africa
The flight to Kitande was long and delayed. During the layover in Casablanca, Hadlow chatted on a satellite phone that was as large as a brick. He connected Cantor’s cell phone to the satellite phone with a cable and spent the better part of half an hour watching a small blue bar grow across the screen.
“Don’t ask,” he said as she watched him.
Jess ate in Casablanca and Luanda, figuring she better make the most of every opportunity. They had long layovers, and took turns sleeping and keeping watch.
In Luanda she used her credit card to buy the local currency, which came in the form of five- and ten-thousand Kwanza notes. She split a couple of the larger denomination notes into thousands, and ended up with a bundle an inch thick.
The Casablanca and Luanda flights were pure luxury compared to the aging Cessna Caravan they flew to Kitande, where the seats were tiny and the ceiling so low that Hadlow was practically folded in two. Even Jess had to duck as they found their way to their seats. They were in the back row, and eight of the nine spaces were occupied.
The flight was delayed for two hours on the runway. The pilot turned the engines off to save fuel, and the temperature in the tiny cylinder soared. He had a small supply of sodas in an ice chest, which rapidly ran out.
Jess was filled with questions. She wanted to discuss everything with Hadlow, partly to make sense of what she already knew, but he remained quiet all the way to the approach to Kitande.
“We’ll see if we can find a way to trace Cantor. If not, we’ll find a room and make an early start tomorrow.”
“If Cantor is following Elden, why? What’s he worried about?” Jess mused aloud.
“Good questions. But it seems like Grupo Lopez employees are dying at a rather rapid rate to me.”
The nighttime approach into Kitande was easy. The town was small. Light spilled from houses sprawled haphazardly along its half dozen streets. Desolate looking roads led to all four points of the compass.
The pilot landed smoothly but braked hard on the short runway. The aircraft rolled to a single-story terminal building that was not much longer than the Cessna. Two large lights illuminated the aircraft and a patch of tarmac.
The passengers filed out. A few stood by the cargo hold.
“Wait up,” Hadlow said.
The pilot wrestled bags through a door at the rear of the aircraft. Hadlow picked up a small dark gray canvas suitcase. Jess contained her curiosity.
He pointed to the terminal. “We have a car booked.”
The terminal was basically a room with a single counter at one end. Behind it was a man who, according to the sign, handled tickets, food, and rental cars.
Jess checked her phone. She had cell phone service, but no connection to the internet.
She left Hadlow at the counter and wandered out the front of the building to a line of taxis. She counted three, an optimistic number given the number of passengers on the plane.
The drivers sat in a group around a table sporting an oversized umbrella that would have looked at home on the waterfront at Monaco. They watched her approach.
“English?” she said hopefully.
A bald man stood up. “Where to?”
Jess smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t need a taxi.” She pulled a thousand Kwanza note from her pocket. “I was just wondering if any of you saw a young man on the earlier flight. Tall.”
The man frowned, and rattled off rapid-fire Portuguese to the rest of the group. They shook their heads, and talked among themselves.
“Felipe Cantor? Spanish.”
One of the men clicked his fingers and said something that seemed hopeful. The bald man relayed his comments.
“There was a man from Spain. Three hours ago.” He laughed and patted his head. “Black hair. Beard.”
“Yes.” She nodded with a big smile. “Where did he go?”
There was more discussion before the bald man spoke. “Rooibank. On the coast.”
She handed over the note, and withdrew another from her pocket. “What’s in Rooibank?”
The bald man shrugged. “Fishermen. Maybe he goes to fish. Like the others.”
Jess frowned. “Others.”
The bald man conferred with the group for a moment. “Usually when Spanish come here, they go fishing.” He gestured to the group. “But they don’t use our taxis. They have a Land Rover. Big. Expensive.”
“But Felipe used one of your taxis?”
The bald man nodded and pointed to the driver.
“Exactly where did he take him?”
The bald man scribbled an address on the corner of a cigarette packet. “A hundred miles.” He pointed west. “A good road.”
Jess thanked them and handed over a five-thousand note, for which they rewarded her with big grins and happy nods.
Hadlow exited the terminal building, jangling a set of keys. “We’re set.”
“I have an address. Cantor went west. Rooibank. A hund
red miles. On the coast.”
Hadlow looked west. “What’s over there?”
“Fishing, they say.”
Hadlow sneered.
“We won’t know till we get there,” Jess replied.
The car turned out to be a five-year-old Opel. It had dents all over it, and its ash tray had been well used. The stale cigarette smoke was noxious but the car started right away and the tank was full.
Hadlow drove. He took the road west. They kept the windows open for the breeze so they could breathe.
“What’s in the bag?” Jess asked.
“I’m sure you can guess.” He pulled a gun from under his jacket and handed it to Jess. “I did some work out this way before. If you’re going to risk your own life, least I can do is give you the chance to protect it. You can shoot, right?”
“Want to challenge me to a contest?”
He laughed. “Something tells me I’d be way out of my league.”
She grinned. The pistol was heavy with a V engraved on the grip and she wondered who it had belonged to.
“Vektor. It’s South African,” he said. “Fifteen rounds. Nine-millimeter. Rugged. Safety’s at the back. Just one rule here. You only draw it when all other options are gone, and you only shoot when you have a solid chance of hitting your target.” He waved his hand in the air. “There’s a lot of civilians around, and no matter what, this isn’t their fight.”
Jess smiled. “I think we’re going to get along fine, Hadlow.”
In the middle of an African night, the sky filled with a million stars, and the milky blue of a lonely moon.
The Opel’s engine hummed along like a windup toy. The lights of the town faded fast. The road became rougher the farther they drove. Jess was tired, but she refused to go to sleep and kept her gaze probing the dark. But she saw no sign of human activity.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Sunday, August 21
2 a.m. CAT
Kumbha Airbase, Zambia, 150 miles inside the Zambia-Angola border
Tebogo knelt in the bushes. The sun had long gone and the new moon that had replaced it offered no help to unaided eyes.
In front of him lay Kumbha airbase. It wasn’t an important airbase. But it was in Africa where there was no shortage of land. So the government had erected miles of fencing to secure the property they had claimed.
He laughed to himself. The government forces of most countries were fools. They always assumed their opponents would carry out the most obvious attack, they never put themselves in their opponents’ position. They never looked to see how they could be defeated, they simply stopped thinking after their first possible solution.
The government’s solution was an eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with a barbed wire roll. His answer was bolt cutters. His team would be through the government’s illusion of security in seconds.
Kumbha airbase might have occupied acres of land, but its buildings were clustered to one side of the runway. The buildings were separated by a taxiway, hangars closest to the runway, offices, and the control tower on the other side. The control tower was a good three hundred yards from the offices. It probably wasn’t ideal to be so far from the aircraft, but the land rose in that direction, and the government had economized by building a shorter tower than normal.
The offices were in two rows of five decrepit buildings erected in the seventies, most likely by the son of a corrupt government official.
The only building that looked cared for was the fire station. It had a single large roll up door, and therefore a single fire engine. Perhaps no surprise for a small airbase, but soon it would be revealed as a glaring mistake.
There were six hangars in a straight line, parallel to the runway. The aprons had been arranged for the aircraft to roll into the hangar at the rear and exit from the front. Exiting the front of the hangars put the aircraft onto the taxiway beside the offices. At the far end of the hangars, the taxiway turned right onto the runway.
It was probably an efficient layout for the operation of the base, but it made Tebogo’s job more difficult.
Between the fence and the hangars was two hundred yards of open ground. It was the shortest distance from the fence to the hangars, and therefore the entry point that carried the least exposure time. But they would be easily visible to anyone in the control tower with night vision equipment.
As ordered, Tebogo placed the final call for authorization. “We are in place.”
“Excellent.” Sánchez, the cold-hearted bitch, seemed to smile across the connection. “Call back when your mission is completed.”
She disconnected. He returned the phone to his backpack and then checked behind him.
His men had formed up into their teams. There were three groups of three. Each group consisted of two of his fighters and one pilot. The pilots were Angolan, and he considered them mostly as more baggage his team would be required to carry.
His was the fourth group. His second-in-command, Umi, a mountain of a man called Mort, and two more Angolan pilots.
His men were heavily armed. They carried Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles with night scopes and suppressors. They were excellent pieces of engineering, and he’d been lucky to get them at a bargain price.
Besides the H&K, each team carried an MC60 mortar from a defunct South African company. The mortars were extremely simple and lightweight, a tube with a small shock absorbing brace, and an inclinometer to judge range.
Each team had eight shells carried in a pack on their backs. It was a heavy load, but the ability to spread firepower over a wide range always disoriented an opponent, usually pushing them into defensive positions, fearing they were fighting a much larger force.
The pilots had been given handguns. They carried them wearily, and he wasn’t sure they knew how to use them. The airmen were in poor physical condition. Jogging through the bush from their drop-off point had been difficult, but his men had done it while also carrying a fifty-pound load.
They had to stop numerous times for the pilots to catch up and recover. He had no respect for their lack of ability, but he needed them for one critical aspect of the escape.
The means of escape was also their prize. Each of the six hangars housed a single Antonov An-12, a fifty-person transport aircraft. They were old, but the design had held up to the test of time in the harshest of environments. Of the six aircraft, two were hangar queens that had been cannibalized to keep the other four flying. The four flying aircraft were farthest from the fence and closest to the route through to the runway.
Launching any aircraft was a prolonged process. Even if one wasn’t concerned with details such as flight plans and tower control, the big issue was fuel. Fortunately, their employer had deep pockets. Two tankers of aviation fuel had arrived at the base gates the day before. Paperwork showed the fuel was for the base, but Tebogo knew the base’s storage tank was already full.
No base commander was going to turn away fuel, so the tankers were directed to brim each aircraft, even the two hangar queens.
All that was left was the two minutes for the engines to come up to speed. Two minutes was both fast and slow. To him and his men it would be agonizing. He had prepared a distraction.
Tebogo wasn’t a bloodthirsty killer. He’d been involved in all sorts of battles, but given the choice, he would always take the path of stealth and distraction rather than weapons and violence.
He tapped Umi on the shoulder, and showed him his watch.
Umi keyed the microphone on his radio, twice. The click, click of static alerted the teams. They had practiced the operation. They all knew what to do. And if the plan had to be improvised, they’d planned for that, too.
They checked their equipment and switched off safeties. Except for emergencies, they would maintain radio silence and communicate with hand signals.
With a thumbs-up from every man in the group, Umi extended an antenna from a plastic box, and glanced at Tebogo for final approval. Tebogo nodded, and Umi pressed a butto
n on the box.
A second later, a mile away on the other side of the airbase, a blinding flash lit up the sky.
The earth trembled and a pounding explosion rent the air.
The first explosion was followed by a second, and a third.
The blinding flashes were joined by a flickering glow that grew stronger by the moment.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
As the forest fire raged, a commotion started on the base. People ran in and out of the offices in a frenzy. Tebogo’s night vision, the type used by the US military, couldn’t bring the tower closer. He could distinguish nothing but movement. He hoped from the better vantage point, the air traffic controllers would be directing the base response.
Seconds later, a siren wailed and flashing lights lit up on the fire station. Its metal door clattered as it rolled up. The fire engine revved hard and began its labored exit. It turned away, lumbering along the apron and onto a road out of the far side of the base.
What looked like two school buses painted with camouflage stopped outside. People poured out of the buildings and the buses left a few moments later. A ragtag collection of vehicles loaded down with men and equipment followed.
Tebogo rotated his arm over his head and pointed forward. The teams approached the fence, bolt cutters ready, and thirty seconds later they were through. The last team zip-tied the ruined fence into something that would pass a first glance before separating to head for a small hut between the office buildings and the fence.
Tebogo led the way to the first hangar, He ran hard, the base’s wailing siren blotted out most noise. The tarmac taxiway was far easier going than the rough open ground.
At the hangar, the teams spread out, using the barrels and boxes littering the area for cover. Tebogo peered around the side of the hangar. The taxiway was empty, but plenty of lights were on in the buildings. He had to hope they had simply been left on as the bulk of the personnel evacuated.
Through his night vision he could see the team at the hut. One man remained on guard while the others went inside. He counted off the seconds. At sixty he began to worry, but they emerged before he reached ninety. The guard raised his hand and yanked it down. He repeated the gesture twice to make sure it had been seen, and then the team headed toward the hangars.