by Vince Flynn
“Who won?”
“It appears the attackers did. The fact that Ward’s chopper is gone suggests he made it out, though.”
“To where?”
“He had a hangar to the southeast that he was to be evacuated to if something like this happened. There was a jet there that would then take him to Johannesburg.”
“And is that what happened?”
“No, sir.”
Cook’s eyebrows rose and he leaned back in the sofa. “Then what?”
“We haven’t been able to get anyone to the compound, but the hangar isn’t far from Mbarara and we had someone there we could use. According to him, both Ward’s chopper and the jet are still there. And there’s evidence of a firefight.”
“Can I assume that no one’s heard from Ward since?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“So, they flushed him out of his compound and then took him at his hangar where the situation would be more controllable,” the First Lady said. She seemed almost purposefully monotone. No concern. No surprise. All the gains she’d made in feigning humanity suddenly melted away. To the point that it seemed almost intentional. A subtle message so that she could measure his reaction?
“That’s our take on it as well, ma’am.”
“What about David Chism?” the president asked.
“Our assumption is that he was on the chopper with Ward.”
Nash looked on numbly as the Cooks pondered what they’d heard. Finally, the president spoke. “Then it sounds like we’re playing a waiting game. I assume the FBI will be contacting Ward’s people to handle any potential ransom negotiations?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we’re coordinating with the Ugandans to see if there’s any way of finding him.”
Nash nodded.
“We appreciate the briefing,” the president said, standing. He took Nash’s hand and held it in a crushing grip, looking straight at him with an intensity he normally softened. “And we appreciate everything you’ve done for us since I took office. I know it’s been a difficult transition. Now, what about your friends? Mitch, Scott Coleman, and the others. Were they at that camp?”
Nash’s mouth suddenly went dry enough that it was hard to get the words out. “We believe so, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Mike,” Catherine interjected. “But we need to stay positive. They probably escaped into the jungle, right? They’re the best in the world and no one’s been able to kill them yet. We’ll set up a conference call between you, the secretary of state, and the Ugandan president for later this morning. He should be able to help us determine what happened and coordinate a search if necessary.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I think it would be more appropriate if you had the secretary of state coordinate with Irene. Not me.”
The First Lady shrugged noncommittally. “Whatever you prefer.”
29
SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA
RAPP toweled off and walked from the bathroom to the cabin’s living area. It encompassed about five hundred square feet, with a rattan ceiling, hanging woodstove, and stylish African furniture. Through the open windows, he could see the ubiquitous emerald mountains stretching to the horizon. It was hard to ignore the peaceful beauty of the place. Having said that, it was also hard to ignore that it was an illusion. The calm before the storm. Or, more accurately, the calm between the endless series of storms that had been battering him for the last twenty years.
Overall, though, not a bad place to ride things out for a while. He imagined that a stay at this particular Ugandan eco-lodge would cost a significant chunk of the CIA paycheck he no longer officially received. At the moment, though, everything was on the house. Scott Coleman had rented the entire mountaintop facility and replaced most of the staff with loyalists. All at Nicholas Ward’s expense, of course.
Someone had left a duffle on the bed while he was in the shower and he dug through it. Most of his stuff was still at what remained of Ward’s compound and Claudia had sent replacements. Because he was a captive audience, she’d limited herself to all the things she’d bought for him that lurked unworn in the back of his closet. Linen slacks, leather sandals, Italian silk shirts. All meticulously pressed, folded, and separated by sheets of tissue paper.
Once dressed, he crossed his polished wood porch to a boardwalk that undulated through a series of similar cabanas. The main lodge was to the east and he assumed it contained the kitchen, which was all he was interested in at this point. What he needed right now was a few hours kicking back in the sun eating everything he could get his hands on. Achieving his ideal bike-racing weight would have to be put on the back burner for a while.
“Mitch!”
Scott Coleman appeared in the doorway of a cabin similar to the one he’d been put up in. Choppers had been arriving on a regular basis since early that morning, bringing in people and supplies. He’d likely come in on the last of them. Still clad in sweat-stained bloody fatigues, he let out a low whistle as Rapp approached.
“You look amazing! Like a movie star or something. Next time I want the hangar gig.”
“I’m not in the mood, Scott.”
“You’re never in the mood,” his friend responded dismissively.
“Where are we at?”
“Thanks to all the hard work I did while you were here having the wrinkles steamed from your ascot, we’re in good shape. Though I have to admit that the water cannons turned out to be not as good an idea as I thought.”
“How so?” Rapp said, putting on a pair of expensive sunglasses to cut the glare. He’d thought the cannons were one of Coleman’s customary strokes of genius.
“That slope turned so slick we had to set up a winch to get the bodies out.”
“But everything looks convincing?”
“Yeah. The mines made a little bit of a mess, but we managed to piece together enough bodies to make it work. And I mean that literally. We had to use duct tape to put some of them back together. Then we blew a hole in the east wall and laid them out around the compound.”
“And you got it all done before the spy satellites came overhead?”
“Two hours to spare. Anyone looking at those photos will figure that we held our own for a while, but then were overwhelmed by the superior numbers.”
“Has anyone showed up to take a closer look?”
“Not yet, but when they do, I’ve got guys on the ground that’ll turn them back. Some bargain-basement rockets, AKs, and the like. What we’ve done out there won’t bear close scrutiny, but I’m guessing no one’s going to want to die trying to confirm what they already think is obvious.”
“Communications?”
“We set up in a storage shed with satphones and Internet access but have it completely locked down. No one gets anything in or out except you and me. Ward isn’t happy about it and he’s asked for a word. It’s hard to tell with him, but he seems pretty hot. I get the feeling that he knows more about what’s going on than he lets on.”
“And your men?”
“No one got so much as a scratch. Wick took out the diversion team in less than sixty seconds and the people in that gully…” His voice faded for a moment. “Well, let’s just say that once we activated the minefield, they didn’t have much of a chance. You should check out the video, though. That drug they take is no joke. There were guys that didn’t slow down even after they’d lost limbs. Watching a guy with no legs trying to drag his way up that slope to get to us was kind of disturbing. Like a bad zombie movie or something.”
“Maybe later. I need to find something to eat first.”
“Roger that. Ward’s cooks are hard at it. Springbok steaks with a rosemary reduction and roasted, locally grown vegetables.”
“Working for the richest man in the world has its perks,” Rapp observed.
“If you ignore all the death and destruction.”
“Yeah. Anyway, nice work, Scott. And relay that to the guys.”
“More than nice. You snatche
d Gideon Auma and I took out at least fifty of his guys. I know you’re here to figure out who’s digging around in the CIA’s mainframe, but in the process, we may have just dismantled a terrorist group that makes ISIS look like a bunch of nuns. Seriously, man. You know what Auma’s been doing around here for the last decade. When we get to the pearly gates, this might be the one that gets us through.”
Rapp laughed. “Maybe you. But I’m pretty sure I’m screwed.”
“Yeah. Probably. But until then, at least you’ve got the springbok steaks and rosemary reduction.”
* * *
There was a long line leading into the lodge’s kitchen facility. Joe Maslick was near the front, holding a plate that suggested he was going in for seconds. The dirty faces of the men Coleman contracted with were familiar but not so much so that he could put a name to most of them. Then there were Ward’s people—softer, cleaner, and more nervous looking.
He took a place at the back of the line but stood there for only about fifteen seconds before a young man in khakis approached hesitantly. “Mr. Rapp?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Ward would like to invite you to dine with him.” He pointed toward a plank walkway that led to a set of stairs. “He’s up there. In the main cabin.”
Rapp nodded and climbed the steps that seemed to lead straight into the deepening blue sky. He found Ward on a massive deck that cantilevered over the side of the mountain. Despite the fact that temperatures were still in the high sixties, he was standing in front of a fire built in a stone enclosure that matched the scale of the deck. Near the north railing, a table had been set up with place settings for two.
Upon hearing Rapp’s footsteps, Ward glanced over his shoulder and then returned his gaze to the flames. The glass in his hand looked like it contained a couple of fingers of whiskey, but his expression suggested the alcohol hadn’t kicked in yet. Coleman was right. The man didn’t look as happy as he should have been to be alive, richer than anyone in history, and no longer in danger from Gideon Auma.
It was likely that his dark mood had something to do with the program playing on a television inside the cabin. It was a newscast relaying unconfirmed reports that Ward’s compound in Uganda had been attacked and that he and his people were missing. Possibly even dead.
“Do you know how much money I’ve lost today, Mitch?”
“Is it more than a hundred bucks?”
“It’s more than a hundred billion bucks.”
Rapp wasn’t surprised by the number. It hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind, but there was never any question that his plan was going to tank the stocks of any company that Ward or Chism were involved in.
“You’re still not exactly short rent money.”
“My wealth—and my ability to generate it for others—is like Samson’s hair. The source of all my power—”
“To save the world.”
A bitter smile spread across Ward’s face. “I’m being prevented from sending or receiving messages. Can I assume you have something to do with that?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t hire you to imprison me, Mitch.” He took a sip of his drink. “Or to bankrupt me.”
“What if I convince Scott to give you a discount?”
“Funny.”
“Are you going to offer me a drink?”
Ward indicated a sideboard next to the door leading into his cabin. A stellar bottle of bourbon was sitting next to a bucket of ice. Rapp took advantage of both.
“You have problems and I’m trying to solve them,” he said, taking a position close enough to the fire to feel its heat. The sun was starting to sink in the west, throwing the landscape into shadow.
“How so?”
“Someone powerful wants you and Chism in Gideon Auma’s hands. It’s plausible that Auma orchestrated the attack at the research facility by himself, but he needed sophisticated intel to get to you at your compound.”
Ward nodded slowly, considering his situation. “It’s my understanding that you have him?”
“Correct.”
“May I speculate?”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s clear that you didn’t set all this up on the fly. You knew the attack was coming and you were ready for it. You had my pilot divert from the hangar he was supposed to take me to, suggesting the intelligence you’re referring to included its existence and my escape plan.”
“I’m impressed. Go on.”
“The fact that the world seems to think I’m either dead or in the hands of a terrorist suggests that you created a little theater at my compound. Maybe made it look like you lost the battle.”
“Yes.”
“It occurs to me that you could have just told me I was in danger and moved me to a location well out of Auma’s reach. But you didn’t. Why?”
“You tell me.”
“Because you’re not working to solve my problems. You’re working to solve your own. And putting me out as bait was convenient.”
Rapp took a sip of his drink. Ward continually proved he wasn’t a stupid man. In a way, it was like dealing with Irene Kennedy’s private-sector mirror image.
“What problem do you figure I’m trying to solve, Nick?”
“Clearly not the question of my safety or the economic ramifications of my American-based companies taking a hit.”
“Your point?”
“A minute ago, you mentioned sophisticated intelligence on me. If I had to bet, I’d say that’s the problem.”
“Why would I care who has what information on you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a foreign enemy who’s playing out a strategy you don’t understand. Or maybe you think the information came from the US government. Maybe even the CIA itself. In that case…” He waved a hand around him. “All this could be nothing more than an attempt to find a spy in your organization. What do you people call it? A mole hunt?”
“There’s such a thing as being too smart for your own good, Nick.”
“Not in my experience,” he said. This time his smile wasn’t as bitter. “Besides, Irene won’t let you kill me—she sees me as a useful idiot. And you still listen to her, right? She’s the only one now that Stan Hurley and Thomas Stansfield are gone.”
“You’re heading out onto some pretty thin ice now, Nick.”
“I live my life on thin ice. There’s no way for someone like me not to.”
Two men with trays appeared on the steps and Ward pointed to the table by the railing. Rapp took a seat, and they were served the springbok that Coleman had promised.
“Can I assume you’re going to question Auma, Mitch? Find out where he got his information and put an end to all this?”
Rapp didn’t answer immediately, calculating how much to say. “Yes. But it probably won’t be that simple. People with the kind of information he was fed don’t deal directly with men like him. They work through intermediaries. Finding the original source will take a little effort.”
“Everything worthwhile does,” Ward said, popping a bite of meat in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “So, we’ll be kept here incommunicado until you’ve tied everything up? With me watching everything I’ve built collapse? With my people’s families thinking they’re dead?”
“Look, Nick. I know this isn’t ideal, but if you want to help the world, here’s a good opportunity. We’ve got Auma and we’ve killed a lot of his followers. But there are a lot left and most of them are probably beyond redemption at this point. Without central leadership, they’ll break up into small terrorist cells and still have the capacity to bring down a lot of misery on the people around here. One of the things I can find out is the location of their camp. The Ugandan government doesn’t want to operate on the border, but Scott can. And with an exact location, he can turn that camp into a burning hole in the ground.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes before Ward broke it. “I suspect that there are a lot of children in that camp who aren’t beyond redemption. And a l
ot of slaves—largely young girls. They’d all die.”
“Happens every day, Nick. You’re a big-picture person. You know as well as I do that all those pictures aren’t pretty.”
Ward shook his head. “I can’t order people dead and then pay mercenaries to make it happen.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve talked about this before, Mitch. I’m wealthy. Or at least I was until I met you. But that doesn’t give me the right to do whatever I want.”
“Are you sure? I see that as a lack of imagination. You have more money than a lot of countries. You are the undisputed master of technology. And you have Scott Coleman, the most talented private contractor in the world, on your payroll. The reality is there’s nothing you can’t do. And that scares the shit out of you.”
Ward went back to his food, falling silent for almost a minute before speaking again. “It does scare the shit out of me.”
“Don’t live your life in fear, Nick. You’ve got an opportunity to dip your toe in the water here. I find my mole. You get miraculously rescued. And Gideon Auma’s entire organization goes up in a fireball.”
Ward looked a bit dejected as he stabbed at the vegetables on his plate. “Can I think about it?”
Normally, Rapp would have said no, but he still hadn’t questioned Auma. Until then, he really didn’t even know what he needed from Ward.
“Sure. Sleep on it. We’ll talk in the morning.”
30
THE game trail turned steep enough that Rapp had to grab at trees to slow his descent. The backpack he wore contained an assortment of implements that wouldn’t normally be carried by the ecotourists who eagerly flocked to this region. Nor the former CIA operative who’d come so reluctantly.
Thanks to a combination of exhaustion, luxurious bed linens, and the hum of jungle insects, he’d slept like a rock the night before. By the time he’d staggered to the shower, though, his mind was already consumed. Not by Gideon Auma, though. By Nicholas Ward.
Of course, he’d read what the Agency had on the man, but it was mostly just mundane factoids and columns of shockingly large numbers. In truth, his background was largely what would be expected. Top of his class at MIT until he dropped out. Various tech start-ups, a number of which had shot straight into the stratosphere. Finally, investments in cutting-edge technology and controlling interests in companies that largely enjoyed similar trajectories. He seemed to be a man who could see the future and take advantage of that vision on pretty much every level.