by Tom Clancy
“Maybe it’s because there isn’t one,” DeMarco said. “But who were these guys? Does it seem to you we were up against two-bit bushwhackers?”
Nimec considered that.
“I wouldn’t lump together every robber gang in the neighborhood as two-bit,” he said. “Some are made up of breakaway soldiers. Men who’ve had combat training from foreign advisers. Russians, Brits, Israelis, our own Green Berets to name a few. The bunch that hit us could fit into that category.”
DeMarco shook his head.
“It still doesn’t explain their ordnance,” he said, and jerked his chin toward the windshield. Up ahead of them, SGF2 mist and dark gray smoke from the burning lead Rover and trees had commingled to blur out the sky and forest, its acrid stench seeping into their ventilation system. “Whatever they used for a showstopper was heavy duty.”
Nimec bounced DeMarco’s main points against his logic. He really didn’t know what could or couldn’t be inferred from them. It was hard for him even to think straight. A man was moaning in pain, maybe dying, less than five feet in back of him. Hard to think. At first blush, though, he didn’t see that the incidents could be compared. The strike in Brazil had been massive, well organized, perpetrated by an enemy that had carefully assessed and exploited UpLink’s vulnerabilities. But their ambushers had gone after a small supply convoy and badly underestimated its defensive strengths. Given the hotel room buggings, and the extent of the surveillance on UpLink personnel in Port-Gentil, Nimec understood there was a very credible possibility that the men who’d struck at them here had backers with a wider agenda and substantial resources — which was a handful of needles and broken glass in itself. To go beyond that at this stage, though…
Nimec wasn’t ruling anything out, not until he’d had a chance to reflect with a clear head. But he’d been with Roger Gordian’s organization long enough to realize it had many disparate enemies, and wasn’t about to make any broad jumps drawing conspiracy theories.
He expelled a breath, looked out his window. The Skyhawk was finally wheels down in the grass.
“We’ll pick up on this later,” he said over the loud whack of its blades. “The guys on that chopper are going to need an assist getting our wounded aboard.”
* * *
His arms crossed over his chest, Vince Scull sat in front of his idling laptop computer at a cramped corner table in a cyber café called Zèbre Passage, which translated in English as Zebra Crossing, and seemed about as absurd a name to him as Scintillements. More ridiculous, actually. Maybe it was a sign he was getting old, but Scull often looked fondly back on the days when the name of a business would convey most of the information prospective customers needed to know about the services it offered, the products it sold, and whatnot. Macy’s Department Store. Woolworth’s Five and Dime. Ebinger’s Bakery. Howard Johnson Restaurant and Ice Cream Parlor. A customer walked off the street into any of those places, he not only had a very definite idea what he could expect to find, but knew the family name, and in some instances the first and middle initials, or even the full name, of its founder. Talk about a lack of consumer awareness, how were you supposed to draw people through your storefront door when the sign above it told nothing about what you were peddling?
Scull made a grumbling sound and shifted in his chair. What the name Zebra Crossing had to do with a joint that served rollups, scones, coffee, and bottled mineral water while providing Internet access to its customers, he didn’t know. He also couldn’t fathom how the twentyish men and women typing furiously at their keyboards — all of whom were white, and probably the dilettante kids of expat businessmen, and most of whom had come in wearing backpacks with padded sleeves designed for their computers — were able to concentrate on their work amid the flurry of other customers placing orders at the counter, carrying food trays past their tables, settling into chairs, or getting books, file folders, and other odds and ends out of their packs. They seemed so damned self-conscious about looking earnest and definite as they clacked away at their machines, some with headphones over their ears. What were they writing? Class papers? Travel articles? Online music reviews? Books, God forbid?
Scull didn’t understand how they could get anything accomplished. His job assignments took him everywhere on the planet and involved gathering information in every kind of physical environment, but when he actually sat down to prepare a coherent written evaluation, he needed a quiet office, or at the very least a room where he had four walls around him and some uninterrupted solitude… none of which was available in good ol’ Gabon courtesy of the droops, which was another reason for him to love the country, he guessed. Somebody could stick a gun to his head, tell him to put together a grocery list or else, and Scull doubted he’d be able to do it with all the fucking distractions in here.
But maybe his advanced age of fifty-three was why he didn’t compute, excuse the pun. Or maybe, just maybe, people thinking they could do honest, roll-up-your-sleeves, get-your-underpants-sweaty work in public places where they could also showcase their lightning-fast notebooks was one major reason so much of everything sucked rotten pigeon eggs nowadays.
Scull produced another low grunt of dissatisfaction and tapped a key on his laptop to wake it from its SLEEP mode, figuring he’d check his e-mail queue to see whether Sherm had come through with any dope on Nautel yet. After five hours of waiting impatiently in this crowded community nowhere, he’d about reached his limit…
He abruptly sat up straight. Miracle of miracles. Boldface on his inbox screen was a message from user name F. Sherman with the subject “Hope You Brought along Galoshes and Nose Plugs.” Cute, but what was it supposed to mean? Scull hardly cared. He was too busy noticing the little paper clip icon that indicated the message had arrived with a file attachment.
He highlighted the message and clicked it open. There were, in fact, several attached files. Large ones.
The e-mail’s body text read:
Per your request, I’ve got a thigh-high puddle of shit for you to wade through, Vince. And you better believe it stinks.
Scull opened the first file and browsed through it. Within minutes, he was ready to start holding his nose.
EIGHT
GABON, AFRICA CALIFORNIA
From Sledge Online (“The Alternative E-zine of News and Opinion”): Hot Briefs
YANK YOUR GRAND BOUBOU OUT OF THE CLOSET
UpLink and Sedco Get Down on an Unlikely Stage
by Mannee Almonte
An image of the normally reserved Roger Gordian shaking his derriere at a corporate romp charged with the frenetic dance rhythms of Makossa, Sahelian, and Congo pop musicians is one that would be muy quick to grab attention in business and social circles. Add to that picture a dance stage supported by huge pontoons and anchor cables and a background of soaring steel derricks, flying masts, and industrial lifting hooks, and even regular financial observers accustomed to the idiosyncratic styles of a Forbes or Bloomberg couldn’t ignore it.
Ever dangle a feather lure over a cat’s head? It may be for the very purpose of seizing the media’s eye that the event I’ve described above has been scheduled for next week aboard an offshore drilling platform in the waters of Gabon, an equatorial African republic small enough to fit on a microscope slide and never heard of by many American specimens — at least none we know. But there and nowhere else, the head of a telecom giant renowned for having transformed the role of private enterprise in “advancing global democratization” (Whuzzat? Dunno. We’re just quoting the Wall Street Journal.) will join the top dog of an ambitious petroleum company to sign, seal, and celebrate a new partnership that seeks to compete with the older and slipperier oilfish who have dominated that aquatic territory for decades. Add their political hosts in the region, and you’ve got quite the must-see must-be jamboree.
“Yank your grand boubou out of the closet,” enthused the event’s master-of-ceremonies — and Sedco CEO — Hugh “King Hughie” Bennett in a recently televised Financial News Netw
ork appearance, referencing the flamboyant embroidered dress costumes worn throughout the African continent. “Work hard, play hard’s my motto; and we’re all getting ready to kick up our heels for this one.”
Having sunk tooth and claw into Bennett’s string-and-feather jiggle toy, your spectacle-susceptible columnist must confess that his mouth is watering with anticipation as he prepares to join the crème de la press corps flying off to the event on Sedco’s charter. Which begs the question to those transculturally fashionable, hoity-toity readers who may be past visitors to Gabon — and to our destination city of Port-Gentil in particular — Can any of you recommend a Rent-A-Grand Boubou on short notice? The threads are a must—just ask King Hughie.
Pointers and discount offers will be welcomed at our e-mail address, dear friends.
* * *
They drove to the airport in an armored Land Rover, DeMarco at the wheel, Wade beside him, Nimec and Scull in the backseat. There were several reasons the group was headed out, their wish to shore up security for Roger Gordian’s arrival the next day top among them, though all they’d felt free to discuss at the Rio de Gabao was their intention to direct a force buildup at their transit warehouse as a precaution arising from the Sette Cama ambush — provisionally labeled an attempted hijack, though they understood the book on that was a far cry from closed.
Another very pressing reason for their drive was one they would not under any circumstances have discussed in the open.
Scull had something he needed to show Nimec. A crucial document he’d extracted from a series of memorandums and correspondences his man Fred Sherman had been tipped to by an inside source at Nautel, and then had pried out of the company’s hands after separately informing three of its highest-ranking executives that UpLink would consider their withholding it from him a flat-out breach of trust and cause for summary abrogation of their as-yet-unsigned outsourcing agreement.
Those statements were no empty threats. The letter had widened Scull’s eyes when it came onto his computer screen at the cyber café, and only now in the protective confines of the vehicle — his laptop in a docking station that had swung out from behind its front seat at the touch of a button, the hard copy generated by a color printer integrated into his armrest — was he even moderately comfortable with the idea of pulling it off his hard drive.
“Here you go.” Scull took the sheet of paper from the printer’s output slot and gave it to Nimec. “A few casts of his line, and Fred got evidence that a mutual pal of ours, identity to be revealed, committed a serious foul.”
Nimec put the document on his lap. He felt totally out of sorts — his head cloudy, his stitched eyebrow tugging under its bandages, his ears still ringing from the combustive blast that had almost finished him just twenty-four hours earlier.
“So what do you think?” Scull said.
Nimec shot him an irritable glance. “Give me more than thirty seconds to look this over and I’ll tell you.”
Vince frowned but didn’t say anything.
Nimec went back to reading what he’d been handed, a scanned copy of a letter written on the executive stationary of Etienne Begela, Port-Gentil’s minister of economic development and the official who had fêted Nimec’s advance team on their arrival. It was addressed to someone named John Greeves II, professional title Principal Claims Investigator, who was with the Risk and Emergency Management Division of a company called The Fowler Group, Ltd.
Nimec looked over at Scull. “Fowler… that’s a commercial insurer, right?”
Scull nodded.
“One of the ultra-biggies,” he said. “Networked with Lloyd’s of London.”
Nimec grunted and continued down to the text of the letter:
Dear Mr. Greeves,
After giving it every consideration, I must regretfully inform you that I cannot approve your request for permits to conduct an inspection of the offshore site where Messrs. Dupain and Bouchard lost their lives. Please rest assured that my judgment by no means reflects a negative conclusion about your very reputable firm but is rather a matter of having to perform my governmental duties in good conscience.
A complete review of all data surrounding the incident done in consultation with Nautel Submarine Maintenance, and specifically Captain Pierre Gunville, leaves me certain that any manned deepwater procedures would be of great physical hazard to those operating in the area, while yielding no further information that would be helpful to your agency. As you know, Captain Gunville has already completed a postaccident inspection of the site using a remote underwater vehicle, and his report is quite exhaustive.
Though I hesitate to exceed my authority knowing the disappointment this refusal of application shall cause you, it is my personal recommendation that Nautel’s findings be taken as definitive insofar as any claims of indemnity that have resulted from the grievous occurrence of 4 May. I am aware that The Fowler Group is the trusted insurance underwriter of many prominent companies doing business in Gabon, especially those involved in petroleum and mineral prospecting. These enterprises fall directly under my ministerial auspices, and I would be saddened if their relationships with you were to suffer from the impression that appropriate compensations for losses incurred during their explorations might be unduly challenged, however erroneous that notion might be.
I am enclosing a copy of Nautel’s recommendation to me and will, of course, be happy to provide any other material you may need for your records.
Yours Very Truly,
Etienne Begela
Nimec took a moment to digest everything, then looked up at Scull again.
“Gunville was lying outright at the club,” he said. “He told us Nautel didn’t conduct an accident inspection, meanwhile the truth is that it did.”
“That he did,” Scull said. “Himself. Personally.”
“He also told us nobody else wanted to check out the site, when this Fowler Group was pushing the government for permission.”
“And he helped stop them.” Scull was nodding. “I knew it, Petey. That songbird’s chirping was meant to lead us straight into the deep, dark woods. Fucking blindfolded.”
Nimec was thoughtful. He started rubbing his forehead out of habit, touched the bandage over his eye, felt the wound smart. Later, at the hospital, there would be more tests. He hoped they came with painkillers.
“What about Begela?” he said, jerking away his hand. “You think he was being straight with the insurance man about why he nixed the permit apps?”
Scull shrugged.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” he said. “Could be he’s just a careful guy. But the thing that sticks out at me is how strong he went at Fowler. Real heavy-handed. Begela couldn’t’ve made it any clearer he’d be spreading bad word about their coverage if they didn’t back off, which to me sounds like political blackmail.”
“Agreed,” Nimec said. “That’s pretty sleazy for somebody who writes about his good conscience. Don’t know what kind of fair play laws they have in this country, but in ours, he’d have been pushing toward a serious breach.”
Scull nodded.
“Big time, Petey,” he said. “Big time.”
They rode along in silence a while. The Rover took a sharp turn and swung Nimec to one side, making him a little dizzy as he braced himself in his seat.
DeMarco flicked a glance at him in the rearview.
“Sorry, chief, almost missed our exit,” he said. “Guess I was too busy thinking about what Vince said to you a minute ago.”
Scull leaned forward over the backrest. “About what?”
DeMarco shrugged, his eyes on the road again.
“Gunville trying to lead us into the woods,” he said. “Because I have to admit, it sounds to me like there are more big bad wolves running around in them than we can count.”
* * *
“Are you going to come out and say this is the last time, or does it have to be me?”
Roger Gordian paused silently over an open valise on the bed, a starch
ed, pressed, and folded dress shirt in his hands. His wife’s question was not altogether a surprise, and he had no wish to avoid it. While Gordian had trouble sharing his innermost thoughts even with those dearest to him, the days when he’d kept them in a lockbox were long past. The sharing wasn’t always comfortable, but he did it for those he loved, and because in his heart he acknowledged it was important for him, too. With Ashley, now, especially, he tried. Their marriage had suffered too much when he hadn’t.
Sometimes, though, he still needed urging. And if Ashley had intentionally posed her question as an ultimatum to grab his attention, she’d succeeded.
Gordian put the shirt into the valise, then turned to face her. She stood over by the dresser across the room, packing items into a new luggage accessory she’d bought him in one of the designer shops down at the Stanford Shopping Center whose names he could never quite remember. No doubt, the thing was overpriced. Admittedly, it was handy and useful. He wasn’t sure what to call it… a deluxe travel kit, maybe. Black with two clear-plastic zipper pockets and an opaque nylon pouch below them, it was designed to look like a downscaled garment bag, hanger hook and all, when unrolled. Roll it up, buckle the strap, and the bag turned into something that resembled a cross between a standard shaving kit and SWAT fanny pack. Clever.
“Don’t you think we ought to discuss this before either us makes any declarations?” he said.
She gave him a look, her large eyes penetrating.
“We can,” she said. “But whether or not you care to admit it, we both know the way it should be.”
Gordian was quiet again. Ash’s orderliness and thoroughness were, as ever, impressive. She had laid the newfangled travel kit atop their dresser and loaded it with enough personal hygiene supplies to keep him clean and scrubbed for months if he wound up cast adrift on a remote tropical island, assuring he would make an impeccable presentation of himself when rescuers arrived… or the resident cannibals took him to their leader, whichever came first. Filling the upper pocket were a soap bar in a lidded plastic dish, nail clippers, cotton swabs, a deodorant stick, a scissors and tweezer set, a roller-type lint remover, a comb, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, toothpaste, toothpicks, a pack of Kleenex, and a washcloth folded into a perfect compact square. The pocket underneath held similar contents — sunblock, insect repellent, disposal razors, a styptic pencil, a small can of shaving gel, and a Ziploc bag containing smaller bottles of mouthwash, antiseptic, shampoo, and conditioner. In the open nylon pouch under the two clear pockets, Gordian could see an assortment of vitamin, aspirin, and prescription drug containers, including a vial of antimalarial tablets he had begun taking a week ago in preparation for his trip, and the nebulizer he used whenever his breathing gave him difficulty.