by Mike Maden
“What threats are you referring to?” Finch asked.
“There’s a new ‘Scramble for Africa’ now under way. China in particular is making tremendous headway all over the continent, securing significant reserves of natural resources in the forests, oceans, and mines of that great continent. They’re also establishing strategic relationships with African governments along the way.”
“No offense, Madame Senator, but help me out here. Why do we care a fig if China is growing rice in Angola or fishing in the Gulf of Guinea?”
“The West owes a particular moral debt to the African continent for our centuries of exploitation, particularly our own sordid history regarding the slave trade. It’s our responsibility to see that Africa develops in a way that benefits all Africans, not just the wealthy dictators and oligarchs, and certainly we shouldn’t allow the continent to once again be reexploited by the mercantilist policies of the Chinese government. That being said, the Chinese are playing a very smart geopolitical game. The greatest opportunity for Chinese influence today—Chinese money, Chinese trade contracts, and even Chinese weapons—is Africa. If there’s ever going to be a shooting war between our two great nations in the future, the Chinese warships, tanks, and planes used against us will be built and fueled from the natural resources they harvested out of African soil.”
“Are you proposing we put American boots on the ground in Africa to stop the Chinese?”
“We already have boots on the ground over there. The reason why AFRICOM was created back in 2007—and by the way, I voted for that spending authorization—was to take on the al-Qaeda threat in Africa. But it’s been horribly neglected under President Greyhill. I’m drawing up a bill to strengthen and expand those forces to meet the rising tide of militant Islam that’s exploding across the continent, particularly in places where Chinese influence has taken hold. Mali, for example. I’d hate for that poor nation to become another staging base for al-Qaeda, the way they used Afghanistan.”
“I thought the French took care of the Islamic threat in Mali back a few years ago,” Finch said.
“The French managed to push back the threats briefly, but the al-Qaeda presence is on the rise. Jihadists all over the region have engaged in terrorist acts against pipelines, tourists, and local police forces. But, of course, not against Chinese facilities, at least not in Mali.”
“Are you implying a Chinese connection to terrorists in Mali?”
“There’s a natural alliance of interests, don’t you think? At least, if your goal is to push out Western influence. And isn’t that the stated goal of both the Chinese Politburo and the jihadist terror organizations?”
Finch shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I just think Americans have had a bellyful of foreign wars these days. As you’ve rightly pointed out, this nation still faces severe crises at home. Why get involved in a country like Mali? I’m willing to bet that half of Americans can’t even find it on a map.” He laughed. “I’m willing to bet that half of Congress can’t find it on a map.”
Fiero flashed her megawatt smile, hiding the rising rage boiling up inside of her. “I assure you, Howard, that those of us on the Senate Intelligence Committee are well aware of the location and significance of the nation of Mali. And let me give you an example of why the American people should care about what’s going on over there. Most Americans agree that we need to be moving forward as quickly as possible on green energy. We’re all too painfully aware about the effects of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases created by burning carbon fuels. Green energy is the future, and the future of green energy is energy storage in the form of batteries, and batteries aren’t possible without what scientists call rare earth elements. Mali is a potential new source of REEs, and the Chinese are locking them up even as we speak—the same way they did other resources, like lithium in Afghanistan after we pulled out. It’s clear to those of us on the Intelligence Committee that the Chinese are following a very deliberate resource strategy. And yet President Greyhill seems content to do nothing about this. So no one should be surprised if, in a few years from now, all of the batteries in our electric cars are all manufactured in China. Or, worse yet, maybe all of our electric cars themselves will have to be made over there because they won’t sell us the batteries.”
“So it’s your opinion that the United States needs to act on this matter? To secure what you term ‘REEs’?”
“What I’m saying is this. There’s no question that the American people are tired of war, but the American people are also very practical. As you suggested, Howard, most Americans simply aren’t aware of what’s going on in Africa, and I’ve decided to sound the alarm—even if it costs me an election. That’s what real leadership is all about. But President Greyhill seems to be more interested in winning an election than in protecting the interests of the American people. I just hope it’s not too late to act before then. And if I might quote President Myers, all it takes for evil to thrive is for good people to do nothing.”
“Interesting,” Finch said before turning to the camera. “We’ll be back after these messages.”
Fiero glanced over Finch’s shoulder. Fowler was standing by camera number two. He had a thin smile on his face, and he nodded his approval, adding a wink as an exclamation point.
A home run, in Harry Fowler–speak.
She just wished she could see Greyhill’s face when he finally watched the tape. It was her first shot fired in anger, and she’d aimed it right at Greyhill’s nut sack.
42
Adrar Province
Southwestern Algeria
10 May
The sand in front of them was mostly flat, dotted with the occasional juniper bush. Pearce had no idea how those plants could possibly thrive out here, but there they were. Just like the Tuaregs, he supposed. These nomads had managed to survive out here for two thousand years as well, despite the heat and seeming lack of water. Thrive, in fact, trading in spices, salt, gold, and slaves, purchased or stolen between empires.
Taking his cue from the Tuaregs, Pearce had pulled off his combat boots. Not only was this cooler, but now it was his soft feet resting on the camel’s neck rather than the hard soles. No point in making the camel suffer.
After an hour in the wooden saddle, his backside was already getting sore even with the cloth padding added. It didn’t bother him too much. Saddle sore was a rite of passage where he grew up. The soreness was even a kind of comfort. Not everything about his childhood had been miserable. Life in the mountains working for his dad’s failing sawmill was always hard, but a whole lot better than growing up in a slum or refugee camp. There were days he missed Big Sky Country. But today wasn’t one of them.
The ride on the one-humped camel was remarkably comfortable, better than on most horses he’d ridden over long distances. Maybe it was the soft sand, too, and their big padded feet. They hardly seemed to leave an impression. The camel’s gait was long and graceful, like a slow-drifting creek. The effect was hypnotic. Their elongated shadows rode just ahead of them and to the right, gliding across the sand. Pearce had let the rope rein drop from his hand. His camel was so docile that it followed the animal in front without any guidance from the loop of rope tied around its lower jaw.
What struck him most about the journey now was the utter silence, save for the swishing sound of the camel’s soft pads on the sand. If he hadn’t heard that he might have thought he’d gone deaf. As a Westerner, he was accustomed to the constant bombardment of big-city noise, as true in the Third World these days as anywhere. This was a welcome respite. But soon he found himself battling his demons again. “Like a house swept clean,” the silence soon gave way to bad memories. Memories he’d tried to bury, but always returned. Johnny Paloma, especially. He nudged his camel on, even managing to get him to pick up speed. Caught up with Early’s.
“How’s the arm?” Pearce asked.
“This? Fine. In fact—” Early slipped the sling of
f, tossed it in the sand. He flexed his arm, grimacing a little. “Feels good.”
“How about your head wound?”
“Head wound? There’s nothing wrong with my head.”
“Really? Then why in God’s name are you out here instead of at home with Kate and the kids?”
Early’s handsome face darkened.
“Last time I saw you was on a Facebook post in Santorini with the family,” Pearce added. “You look better without a beard and the olive-drab bandage wrapped around your noggin, too, by the way.”
“Santorini. Yeah, that was a great trip,” Early finally said. “We always have great trips.”
“So?”
“You know how it is. Kind of hard to ride the bench once you’ve played in the game.”
“An adrenaline junkie? Fine, I get it. So take up hang gliding.”
“Not the same. Besides, hang gliding doesn’t pay as well.”
“You don’t need any money. Kate’s dad is loaded.”
“I’m no freeloader. And after the Myers thing, well, let’s just say I wasn’t getting a lot of offers. The K Street cats want access, and I was persona non grata on the Hill, even with the blanket immunity.”
“And Kate’s okay with this?” Pearce pointed at the wilderness. “Shouldn’t you be coaching a Little League team or cutting the grass?”
“This was supposed to be temporary. Then I was promised a replacement.”
“But Cella’s father never found one?”
“Sure he did. Problem is, I found him, too. With his throat cut ear to ear, bled out in the sand a half mile east of Timbuktu. I called it in. ‘Another guy’s on the way,’ he said. Until then, I sit tight. At twice my rate, too. That buys a lot of Little League uniforms.”
Pearce thought about that. “You’re worth it. Cella’s lucky to have you.”
Early laughed. “Tell her that. She wants me gone so bad she can taste it.”
“What’s the story with her?”
Early eyed him. “You tell me, partner. You have a longer history with her than I do.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing. Which tells me a whole lot.”
“Her dad has always had someone around to protect her. I’m just surprised it’s you, that’s all.”
“It was a gig. I took it. I’m home as soon as I can get there.”
“I’m flying out in five days. Come with. Trust me, Cella will be fine. Especially with Mossa and his men around.”
“You sure? The noose is tightening around his neck, in case you haven’t noticed. That’s why she sent her kid away.”
“What kind of mother does that?”
“The kind that loves her kid.”
“Then why didn’t she go with her?”
“If you know Cella, you know how fierce she is. She’s devoted to the old man.”
“How did she ever decide to raise a family out here? You’d think she’d move back to Italy just for the sake of her daughter.”
“She’s a complicated lady. You’d have to ask her.”
“That means the noose is tightening around your neck, too, you know.”
“I got a big neck. Stiff one, too.”
“Seriously. You might not walk away from this one.”
“Can’t help that. I’ve been hired to do a job. I’m going to see it through. So would you, if you were me. I think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Unlike me, a handsome Army Ranger on a grand adventure in the Sahara, you look like a steaming turd recent shat out of a cat’s anus, a dim shadow of the CIA stud I used to know. What the hell happened to you?”
“After the Myers thing, I kinda lost it. Did some shit I probably shouldn’t have done, but had to. You know how it is. “
“Yeah, I do.”
Words like “duty,” “honor,” and “loyalty” were more than just slogans for men like Pearce and Early. Early heard rumors that Pearce had gotten his revenge on the Russian responsible for the death of Myers’s son.
“But it was more than that. You were right about her, Mikey. She was the real deal. I actually started to believe again. And then she was forced to resign. Politics as usual.”
“And then what?”
Pearce blew out a long breath. “I ran, I guess. Hid in the work. At least, the humanitarian stuff.”
“How was that working for you?”
“Okay, until a few days ago.”
“What happened?”
“The last job went sideways. One of my guys got killed.”
“I thought you weren’t working security anymore.”
“That’s the hell of it. We weren’t. For just that reason. We were trying to track a few rhinos. Johnny got killed anyway.” Pearce didn’t describe the condition of Johnny’s corpse when he found it. “I wasn’t there when Johnny needed me. He paid the price.”
“He signed on. He knew what he was in for, working for you.”
“Should’ve been me, not him.”
“Someday, it will be. You know that. So do I. It’s just that his ticket got punched before yours did. You’ve got to let that go.”
Pearce thought about that for a while. “If Cella left, though, you’d leave, right?”
“I’m a huge fan of Mossa, but I’m a bigger fan of my wife and kids. If you can convince her to vamoose, I’m on the next flight out of here with the two of you.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Early laughed. “Good luck with that.”
43
Pearce’s cabin
Near the Snake River, Wyoming
10 May
Myers’s body craved a good run, but her common sense told her to stay put and out of sight. Heaven only knew what kind of resources may have been deployed to find her. Even George Clooney owned his own spy satellite these days, but at least he was putting it to good use keeping tabs on African warlords. By now her disappearance had raised alarms with whoever was behind the Tanner suicide. She had to assume they were still looking for her.
Neither she nor Ian had slept in the last few days as they applied digital brute force to the vast data sets she had proposed in their search for the identity of Tanner’s blackmailers. In lieu of sleep, Myers resorted to periodic yoga stretches and body-weight exercises to keep the blood flowing and her muscles taut, fighting the inertia of countless hours of software writing and data analysis. She found a couple of crates and rigged up a crude standing desk to do her computer work. She’d read recently that sitting for more than three hours per day increased heart disease by sixty-four percent, among other pathologies. Sitting, apparently, was the new smoking.
Myers checked the clock on her computer. It was almost time for Ian to check in. She’d passed on her assigned data analyses as they were completed over the last two days, but she still kept crunching data sets, following other leads that popped up. There was no question in her mind that the person or persons behind Tanner’s death were political, and most likely American, though international criminal syndicates had been known to play powerful roles in American political life, especially at the state and local levels both in the past and recently.
The one solid conclusion she had reached was that her old friend was as clean as she thought he had been. She’d known Tanner and his family for years and knew him to be an honorable judge and wonderful father and husband. But Myers was after his killer or killers, so she went after his records hammer and tongs, pulling out all of the stops, digging down to the subatomic level. To her great relief, she found absolutely nothing. With Ian’s help, she had been able to secure Tanner’s FBI background checks—as president, she’d only been briefed on the glowing summaries—and discovered that the FBI couldn’t believe his pristine personal and professional life. More than one of the FBI’s interviewees had referred
to him as “Saint Vincent.”
Meyers had even managed to find one of Tanner’s fourth-grade report cards posted on the Internet—someone had found it at a garage sale and put it up, inappropriately, on Pinterest. Even then, according to his teacher, Tanner was an outstanding young gentleman with impeccable manners, social skills, and high academic potential. Taken together, her inability to find any dirt likely meant that the blackmail “evidence” used against the esteemed jurist had to have been manufactured out of whole cloth.
For a brief period of time she began to wonder if Tanner’s death was somehow pointed at her, some kind of payback for a slight—real or imagined—committed by her while in office; but she’d been out of office and out of the political loop long enough that she eventually dismissed the idea. What would be the point now? Besides, if these people were powerful enough to get a man of Tanner’s character to put a gun in his mouth and blow his own brains out, she knew that they could have just as easily come after her with whatever “evidence” they had concocted against him.
Her monitor dinged. Ian was checking in. “Here, Margaret.”
“Good to see you, Ian.” Myers saw that he looked as tired and baggy-eyed as she did. The two of them had hardly slept the last two days as they sorted through the mountains of data they had compiled. “What do we have?” Myers asked. She had forwarded her findings to Ian and he had spent the last two hours cross-referencing their results.
“There is a lot of outrage in American politics, isn’t there?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Some of that is ginned up by the politicians themselves to rally votes, but mostly it’s bad policies by a failed government that’s hurting millions of Americans fueling that rage.”
“I don’t know if this is the right list or not, but based upon everything we discussed and the search results we have generated, there are four congressmen, three senators, and five corporate CEOs that rise to the top of the outrage list. These are some very hated people.”
“Then those are our targets. Any connections between them?”