near Mwinilunga, Zambia
Pearce tossed Whit Bissel the keys to the brand-new Cessna bush plane parked on the grassy apron in front of the hangar. The motor ticked, still hot from its recent flight. They stood next to it, admiring its lines.
“I don’t know what to say.” The beefy blond missionary still wore his oily coveralls and the same wire-rimmed glasses.
“Don’t say anything. It was easier to buy you this than telling you I’m sorry for the way I acted, which I am.”
“That plane’s worth a lot more than the avgas you borrowed from me before.”
“You mean stole from you, not borrowed,” Pearce said. “I bought the plane in Jo’Berg. There’s a Cessna dealer down there.”
“I heard about your friend. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“His name was Mike Early,” Judy said. “He was my friend, too.” She was walking up from Whit’s house carrying a tray with glasses of tea. “How does she fly?”
“Better than the pilot,” Pearce said.
“But you’re the pilot. That’s not saying much.” Judy grinned. She’d taught him how to fly. He was actually pretty good at it, just not as good as she was. “What’s wrong with your hand?” She nodded at the bandage wrapped around his left hand.
“This? Nothing. Just a little cut.”
“Those are the worst,” Whit said, sipping his tea. “Especially paper cuts. They really sting.”
Judy gave Pearce the stink eye. “You know lying’s a sin, right?”
“I’m a sinner, all right. But I’m not lying.”
He wasn’t. It really was a cut—from Guo’s combat knife. Pearce had used it to open up the Asian’s belly, then plunge it through his throat and pin him to a tree. Pearce could still hear the frenzied hyenas whining and yelping as they fed on the dying operator.
Pearce reached for a glass of tea. “Thanks. Cheers.”
Judy set the tray down on a workbench just inside the hangar. She walked back past the Cessna. Saw something in the tail’s vertical stabilizer.
“Hey, there’s a bullet hole.”
Pearce and Whit got closer.
Whit nodded. “Sure looks like one.”
Judy and Whit turned to Pearce. He shrugged. “Yes, it is.”
“And?” Judy asked.
“I’ll call Comair. They can fly someone up from Jo’Berg and fix it.”
“No need. That’s an easy patch job,” Whit said. He headed back to the far end of the hangar to grab some tools.
Judy leaned in close. Whispered. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“What you don’t need to worry about. Everything’s fine.”
“You sure? You’re okay?”
“Better than okay. I promise.”
Pearce really was feeling pretty damn good. Ian’s intel, as usual, had been dead-on. He found Guo and his men in the DR Congo aiding a regional warlord in exchange for a diamond mine contract. Pearce took out Guo’s men with single shots to the head before turning Guo to dog food. A twofer, as far as Pearce was concerned.
“How about you?”
Judy smiled. “It’s good here.”
“Any chance you coming back?”
“Do you know why I left the first time?”
“I have an idea.”
“I lost faith in a lot of things, including humanity. People suck.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But when I walked into that bar? I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. I don’t regret doing it, because you’re my friend and Mike was in trouble. But after he died and you nearly got killed, I woke up.”
“To what?”
“I’ve been running for a long time. Especially when I was working for you. Don’t get me wrong, it was great, but it was still running. It’s time to stop running.”
“The God stuff?”
She smiled. “Something like that.”
“Still friends, though. Right?”
Judy threw her arms around his neck. “You’ll always be my friend. I just can’t do what you do anymore.”
Pearce held on tight. “You ever need anything, you call, you hear?”
A truck horn blasted in the distance.
“’Bout dang time.” Pearce checked his watch.
“Africa time.” Whit laughed, walking up. He tossed a toolbox in the grass.
A big diesel fuel truck pulled onto the long grassy airstrip, followed by a flatbed truck carrying a big empty plastic storage tank.
“Two thousand gallons ought to keep you for a while, Rev. Thought you could use a proper storage tank, too.”
Whit shook his head. “You’re too generous, Troy.”
“You did me a favor by not knocking me on my ass when I told you I was taking your fuel.”
“How could I resist? You were quoting scripture.”
Judy laughed. “Yeah. What’s the story with that?”
“Some other time.” Pearce turned to Whit. “And I’ve prepaid for another two thousand gallons. Just call the distributor when you need it.”
“I’m embarrassed. How can I can ever thank you?”
“First thing, take care of this woman. She’s the best.”
The big towheaded missionary blushed. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Second, I need a favor.”
“Anything.”
The big diesel tanker rumbled to a stop near the hangar, its big hydraulic brakes blowing air. Whit jumped up on the running board and showed the driver where he wanted the storage tank placed. The driver nodded, released the brake, and pushed on. Whit jumped back down and returned to Pearce.
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“I need a ride back to Jo’Berg in that brand-new Cessna of yours in the morning. Need to catch a flight home.”
Whit laid a strong hand on Pearce’s shoulder. “Africa can use a good man like you. Plenty of honest work to do just around here.”
You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what I’ve done, Pearce thought.
“Thanks, but I’m done with Africa for now.”
Judy threw her arms around Troy’s neck again. “You’ll always have a place here if you need it.”
“Hey, Pearce. You can steal my gas, but not my girl.” Whit’s big toothy smile flashed just a hint of menace.
Pearce shook the big missionary’s hand. “One more favor, Whit. Make damn sure I get an invitation to the wedding, okay?”
62
Sino-Sahara Oil Corporation Building
Bamako, Mali
7 July
The Chinese had picked the location for the new Sino-Sahara Oil corporate high-rise to annoy the Americans. The newly completed forty-story building stood on the banks of the Niger River, but more important, towered over the lowly American embassy just a half mile away.
To Zhao’s dismay, the building replicated the garish modernist designs he loathed. That was because Zhao’s uncle, the chairman of CNPC, hired an unimaginative Beijing architectural firm owned by Zhao’s cousin, who provided the chairman with the appropriate kickback.
The building’s sole design virtue, in Zhao’s opinion, was that it was now the tallest building in the city by far. With any luck, the sunlight gleaming off of the soaring mirrored-glass skyscraper would blind the American ambassador or, at the very least, annoy him to distraction, reminding him daily of China’s rising dominance on the continent.
Zhao’s luxury suite on the top floor was proof of his dominance as the new head of the corporation. Mossa’s death and the resulting collapse of the Tuareg rebellion had guaranteed China’s acquisition of the new REE deposits and cemented Zhao’s reputation as the man who could always be counted on to complete the most difficult missions. Vast new economic and military resources were now flowing into Mali and the region. Zhao’s political future was assured and his family wealth enlarged, thanks to his success.