by Mark Parragh
Crane let the car’s GPS navigate toward the address Georges had given him. As he drove, he reassessed his resources and considered how he would take down Einar Persson. He had the pistol and Mossberg shotgun he’d bought from Georges's friend Ntone. He’d been expecting a different kind of fight; he’d have chosen differently for this one. But there was no time to rearm himself. It would have to do.
More important than the weaponry was figuring out how Einar would expect him to come, and then doing something he wouldn’t be ready for. He would get close, then park the car reconnoiter the site on foot. He’d try to locate Einar and Romy, then figure out Einar’s lines of fire. From there, he’d have to improvise.
His Hurricane Group handlers had hated improvisation. Crane found that kind of ironic, since he always seemed to be doing it in the field.
Doubt started nagging at the back of Crane’s mind as the GPS reported him closing in on the address. He was heading deeper into Yaoundé’s more upscale quarter. He would have expected Einar to choose someplace more remote and less patrolled for his ambush. What was he up to?
Crane pulled over and checked the address again. It was right. He keyed it into his phone, and it came back with the same location. He was less than a block away, and the GPS was pointing him onto the campus of the École Nationale Polytechnique.
Something was very wrong. Crane slipped the pistol into his waistband and got out. The street was shaded, and a comfortable breeze ruffled Crane’s hair. He passed students walking in small groups or sitting under trees with books open. Young men and women posed and flirted. A campus patrol officer gave Crane a curious look as he passed, but then moved on.
This was not someplace you brought a struggling hostage and set up a death trap. Not by a long shot.
What’s going on, Georges?
The taxi dropped Georges off in Bastos, outside Patrice Kamkuma’s walled compound. Georges steeled his nerve as the car drove away. This place had been in the Kamkuma family since before Georges was born. If Yanis himself wasn’t here, someone would know where he was.
Two security guards stood at the gate, watching him with suspicion. Georges fought down his fear. There was no going back now. Romy’s life was in the balance. He slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and walked steadily across the street.
The guards were big men in ill-fitting suits. He could see the radio handsets on their belts and what he knew were guns beneath their jackets. They looked him over as he approached, sized him up. They clearly didn’t consider him much of a threat.
“What you want here?” one of them said gruffly.
“I’m Georges Benly Akema,” he said, and he saw the reaction. These men knew that name. He was in the right place. “I need to speak to Yanis.”
“Arrived at Destination,” said the phone. Crane looked up at an imposing masonry facade. The main doors opened, and a student came out, loaded down with a heavy backpack and carrying a laptop.
The sign beside the doors gave the building number. In French, it read, “Computer Engineering Building.”
There was no mistake, Crane realized. This was the place. This was where Georges had studied before Kamkuma’s attack on his mother shattered his old life. It was an address he knew by heart, easy to recall in the moment.
He cancelled the navigation app and called Georges’s number. The phone rang just once, then rolled immediately over to voicemail. The phone was switched off.
Son of a bitch.
Georges had lied to him, sent him on a wild goose chase. There was only one reason. Georges wanted him safely out of the way so he could do something fiercely brave and very stupid. He was going to get himself killed, and probably his sister as well.
Crane had to find him, and fast. But he had no idea where to look.
“Damn it, Georges,” he muttered.
It was about two in the afternoon right now. That meant it was five in the morning in California. Crane sighed and punched in the priority access number for the war room at Myria Group. He just hoped someone was awake over there.
The guards had strong-armed Georges through the gates and hurried him inside. They’d rifled through his laptop bag and kept it. Then they’d brought him here, into a well-furnished study. The walls were lined with books Georges was sure Yanis Kamkuma had never opened. His father probably never had either. They were meant for show, like the ornate wooden desk where his bag now lay and the portrait of Ruben Um Nyobé, the murdered father of Cameroonian independence.
Two different guards stood behind him, members of Yanis’ gang. And behind the desk stood Yanis Kamkuma himself. Georges had never actually seen Yanis before. For someone who had had such an enormous impact on his life, that seemed wrong. They should have met. For a moment he had the wild thought that if he’d just tutored this man in college, all their lives could have turned out so very differently.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Yanis asked finally. “Just walking in here. Alone. Unarmed.” He gestured toward the laptop bag. “But you made sure to bring that. What’s going on?”
“I came to ask for my sister’s life,” said Georges. “You hurt us. She’s hurt you. Let’s call it even. A clean slate. Let her go, and I’ll take her away from here. You’ll never see us again.”
For a moment, Yanis just stood there. Georges could see the raw disbelief on his face. Then Yanis laughed, a short, bitter laugh, and the gang members standing behind him laughed with him.
“Pathetic,” said Yanis. “Your sister, her at least I understand. We cut up your mother. She wants revenge. I’ll kill her for that, but I respect it. But you. You’re the elder son. The man. If there’s to be revenge, that’s on you to do. You step up like a man and fight. You don’t send your baby sister to kiss up like a whore and then stab a man in the back!”
Georges took a breath and kept his calm. He couldn’t afford to let Yanis rattle him. “I didn’t send her. She’s been away; we didn’t know where she was ’til now. I just want to take her home.”
“I heard of you,” Yanis said, stalking around the desk toward him. “Before all this. They say you’re some kind of genius with computers. You were going to get out of Cameroon, be a big man in America. So much smarter than me.”
Georges said nothing. Yanis leaned in, studying his face. “Bullshit!” he shouted, and Georges felt a fleck of spittle hit his cheek. “You’re nothing! You’re weak! Coming here to beg for your sister.”
“I’m not begging,” said Georges. “I’m here to make a deal.”
“Oh,” said Yanis. “Oh! A deal is it? You’re crazy too, man! What have you got to deal with, smart boy? What do you think will make me just let your sister go after what she’s done?”
“Two things,” said Georges. “One. Money.”
Yanis scoffed. “Look around. I got money.”
“Not like this,” said Georges. “They were right about me. I am a genius with a computer. I can get into any system anywhere and do anything I want. You got your father’s nice house. You take spending money from shopkeepers. You run a couple small time rackets. That’s little league. With nothing but that laptop right there on your desk, I can rob a bank without ever walking inside. No cops. No trouble. I can take as much as I want, and they’ll never even know what happened. I can get you real money.”
He could see Yanis imagining the possibilities despite himself. “You can do that?”
“I already did,” said Georges. “Just a sample. To show good faith.”
The two men guarding him traded a look. He had them hooked. Now he needed to reel them in.
Yanis shook his head. “I can’t let her do what she did to me and walk away. Can’t let that stand. Your sister has to die.”
“Someone has to die,” Georges said.
Yanis had been walking away across the room. Now he stopped and turned around.
“What are you saying?”
“It doesn’t look good,” said Georges. “One girl killing a whole bunch of your gang. Even if
you get her, it still looks bad. But there’s someone else. That’s the second thing. The man who came with me.”
“The white man? The detective from America?”
“He killed one of your men. He was seen outside the club with a gun. What’s to say he didn’t kill the others as well?”
Yanis was looking at him in frank disbelief now. He was reassessing the situation, re-evaluating the man who’d walked into his compound alone and unarmed.
“They’ll buy it on the street,” said Georges. “A whole crowd saw him shoot down one of your men. And that’s a different story, isn’t it? It’s not about how the Ibiza Boys are small time, weak enough that one girl cut them up all on her own and got away with it. Now you’re big time. Big enough that someone went all the way to America for a professional killer to take you down. And he got some of you, but in the end, you killed him and put his head on a stake so everyone would know not to mess with you.”
Georges fell silent, waiting. He was terrified, but he didn’t dare show it. This was the crucial moment. This was where it would either work or…he didn’t want to think about what would happen next if it didn’t work.
“You giving up your friend to me?” Yanis said quietly.
“He’s hired help. She’s family. Blood. I’ll do what I have to do.”
Yanis let out a slow whistle. “Damn, smart boy. You’re harder than I thought.”
Yanis glanced over at the laptop bag laying on his desk, then back to Georges.
“Tell me more about the money.”
Chapter 51
It took a little more than half an hour for Coco to return from the Afriland First Bank with the briefcase. Even before he said a word, Yanis knew it was true. Coco looked thunderstruck, and he carried the briefcase like he was afraid it would slip through his fingers and evaporate into mist.
“Ten million francs,” Coco murmured as he handed Yanis the case. He nodded toward Akema, still sitting in the same chair with his two guards at his back. “I told them the password he said, and they just gave it to me. No questions.”
Yanis turned and set the case down on the desk beside Akema’s laptop. He snapped it open and looked at the tight bundles of purple 10,000 Central African Franc notes. This was a year’s income for a working man in Yaoundé. A fortune in the farm country back in Adamawa. He closed the case again and looked back at Akema, who smiled.
“That’s just a taste,” Akema said. “I can get more. But only when my sister’s back safe.”
“You already have your sister,” Yanis said. “What aren’t you telling me, smart boy?” The answer dawned on him even as he spoke. “Wait, I know! Your detective’s not your friend anymore, is he? He figured out how you’re getting the money to pay him, and he wants more, am I right?” The boy was like the goose that laid golden eggs. It made sense that the American wouldn’t settle for just an egg or two. Yanis certainly didn’t intend to.
Akema looked down at the floor. “We argued,” he said quietly. “He took her. I couldn’t stop him. He wants me to bring the money to a farm in Mfou.”
“So why not pay him? It’s nothing to you. You can get all the money you want.”
Akema looked up at him. “If I pay him off, I’ve still got to worry about you. But if I pay you instead…”
Yanis grinned. The boy thought he was doing the smart thing. He had no idea how far over his head he was. “You pay me off, I take out the American for you, and you and your sister are home free.”
“Something like that,” said Akema. “You need him to be the killer. I need my sister. I’ll throw in enough money to make you forget she was ever here.”
Yanis turned and paced the room. Akema sat quietly. Coco and the pair of men behind Akema watched him to see what he would do. The boy wanted to make him his hired hand, someone to go do the dirty work of getting the girl back. Maybe it was because he could rustle up money whenever he needed it, or maybe he’d just spent too much time in America. But he assumed he could just buy his way out of whatever problem he fell into. He just had to flash his money, and people would do whatever he wanted. Yanis would teach him otherwise. But this had to be handled carefully. He knew the fairy tale. The goose would keep laying golden eggs as long as you were patient. But if you got too greedy and killed it, you got nothing.
And Akema was right about him needing the American. The American hit man story would indeed play much better than the truth. It would instantly repair his reputation on the streets. It would even satisfy his father.
But there was more to this. He still knew the truth. The girl had to pay for what she’d done. But once he had her and her brother, and the dead American to take the blame in public, then they could both pay for a long time.
He looked back to Akema. “One hundred million francs.”
Akema didn’t blink. “When I have my sister back unharmed.”
Yanis smiled. It was a predator’s smile, like a great cat ready to pounce.
“Tell me where we can find her.”
As it turned out, the war room was staffed, even at five in the morning local time. Someone picked up immediately. A man’s voice Crane didn’t recognize.
“How can I help you, Mr. Crane?”
Crane looked at the Computer Engineering Building one more time, then shook his head and set off quickly toward the car.
“Georges has ditched me. I need to find him before he gets himself hurt. Do you have a location on him?”
“You’re in Cameroon, right?” said the voice. The man sounded nervous, like a student who’d just been called on by the professor and didn’t know the answer. “This is all kind of ad hoc. We don’t have coverage on either of you. We did the transfer. Could he be at the bank?”
“What transfer?”
“He called in about an hour ago. He asked us to wire ten million Central African Francs to a password-coded bank account in Yaoundé. He said you needed it.”
Crane glanced at his watch. Georges must have made that call right after he left. Why did he need…
“How much is that in dollars?”
He heard keystrokes, then, “a little over seventeen thousand.”
Why did Georges need seventeen thousand dollars?
“And you’ve got nothing else on him?”
“I’m sorry, sir. No.”
“Do whatever you can. If you pick up anything at all, call me immediately.”
“Understood. Good luck, Mr. Crane.”
Crane slipped the phone back in his pocket. When he reached the car, he headed back toward the hotel. Perhaps Georges had left some kind of clue behind that would tell Crane what the hell he thought he was doing.
Chapter 52
Things moved quickly once Georges gave them the location, Yanis had assembled the men he had at the house. He’d called in a few others who were away on various errands. Within minutes, he had a dozen men ready to converge on the orchard in Mfou. They left one man behind to watch him and took off in a battered commercial van.
Georges hoped he’d done the right thing. He was smashing two dangerous enemies against each other, and Romy was in the middle. But he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t send Crane into an ambush and get him killed. Persson wouldn’t be expecting this. Yanis and his gang should be enough of a match for one man, but it would be violent. He could only hope his sister came through it unhurt. Persson had nothing to gain by hurting her, and Yanis now had a very good reason to keep her safe. She would be all right, he told himself. She had to be.
He sat with his arms tied to the arms of the chair and writhed with nervous energy. The waiting was killing him. Through the casement window across the room, he saw a squirrel dash up the trunk of an Iroko tree outside. Another one followed, and they chased each other around the tree. Georges wanted to get up, move, pace the room, hit something.
The man they’d left to watch him was doing a fine job of it. He leaned against the bookshelves and stared at Georges in naked fascination.
“Hey, w
hat’s your name?” Georges asked.
“Manu.”
“Could I have some water, Manu? While we’re waiting here?”
Manu pushed off the shelves and walked slowly toward him. Georges could see the wheels turning behind his eyes.
“You just…” he made little typing motions with his fingers, “on your laptop, and boom. The bank gives you money? That must be something.”
Georges said nothing. He couldn’t really just type his way into the local banks. Ironically, that was because they weren’t sophisticated enough. Too much was still done by hand instead of by computer. He’d faked it once, for people ready to believe computers were magic and that he was some kind of wizard. But he couldn’t do it again.
“Do it for me,” said Manu. “Ten million francs. You set it up and give me the password.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“Forget the deal! We got you! You and your bitch sister! We don’t work for you. You work for us now, until we’re done with you.”
Manu slapped his face hard. A shock raced through him, and he tensed against the cords binding him to the chair.
“Yanis won’t like it if you hurt me,” he gasped in desperation.
Manu leaned in until his face was just inches from Georges's own. He grinned.
“Boss said to soften you up a little.”
Then the beating started in earnest. Blows fell around his face until he couldn’t tell one from the next. He tasted blood, then felt it fly from his mouth as a hard slap spun his head to one side. When Manu tired of hitting him, he bent Georges's fingers back until he wailed with the pain in spite of himself.
He was no hero. He shouldn’t have come here. He wasn’t made for this.
Manu stomped hard on the top of his foot, and Georges cried out again. His body insisted that he react to what was happening. He had to move, protect himself, but he couldn’t, and the frustration grew almost as intense as the pain.