Smith worked at Fort Detrick and had been involved with stopping the Hades virus that killed so many in the West. Only an idiot would believe that one of America’s foremost bioweapons experts would take a leave of absence to study Ugandan insects. And Sembutu hadn’t become one of the most powerful men in Africa by being an idiot.
It was an impossibly dangerous situation that seemed to get more out of control every day. The Americans could normally be counted on to take a hands-off approach in all things African as long as their own interests weren’t threatened. If they were, though, that apathy could turn. The lion must not be awakened.
His phone began to ring and he immediately picked up. “I am here.”
“What did you learn?”
Mehrak Omidi’s voice was low, as though he was trying to hide his conversation from those around him — something that was almost certainly the case.
“Smith says he’s on a leave of absence, studying a parasite that affects ants in the North.”
“Ants,” Omidi replied in disgust. “Do they have so little respect for you that they would expect you to believe such a story?”
Sembutu bristled. Dealing with the Iranians was even more unpleasant than dealing with the Americans. For all their talk of Western arrogance, the Iranians’ unshakable belief that they were God’s chosen people was both insufferable and dangerous. Right now, though, they were in a position to give him what he desperately needed. The Americans were not.
“I want them dealt with,” Omidi continued.
“And what does this mean — dealt with?”
“I think you understand me perfectly, Mr. President. I want them questioned and then I want them killed.”
“Killing American and British military men wasn’t part of our agreement.”
“The Ugandan north country is a very remote and very dangerous place, Mr. President. People disappear here every day.”
32
Brandon Gazenga pulled into his garage and closed the door, sealing out the cold wind that had descended on the Washington area. A poorly placed bag of garbage nearly trapped him in the car, and he had to push with his shoulder to open a gap large enough to slip out. Another month and he was going to have to start parking in the driveway.
He’d said it before, but now he really meant it: this weekend he was going to rent a truck and haul all this crap to the dump. And then he was going to hire one of those organization consultants — preferably a dour old British lady with a riding crop. The time had come to take back control of his life.
The house wasn’t in much better condition, but at least it was warm. He flicked on the lights and looked around before committing to the short trip to the kitchen. The Uganda operation had been burning a hole in his stomach for months, but now it was starting to kill him. Smith and his team had been arrested and the initial report that it was because of a fight by the hotel pool went out the window when he received confirmation that they’d been taken to a high-security military base.
And then there were the tentative reports that Mehrak Omidi was personally on the ground in northern Uganda. Finally, and perhaps worst of all, there was Randi Russell and the note he’d put in her pocket.
Had she found it yet? What would she think of an anonymous request for a meeting? Would she report it?
The truth was that there was absolutely no way for him to know. He was just an analyst with delusions of grandeur. Most of what he knew about clandestine meetings he’d learned from James Bond movies just like everyone else.
But this wasn’t a cheesy action flick and he wasn’t Sean Connery. Drake and Collen had put their careers — maybe even their lives — on the line for this operation, and they wouldn’t be happy to find out that some nobody from Langley’s basement was working behind their backs. Not happy at all.
He made his way to the refrigerator and pawed through a mishmash of aging takeout containers until he found something that looked like it was still edible.
He left the living room dark, falling into a leather chair and stabbing into the box of General Tso’s chicken with a dirty fork. The romantic fantasies he’d had about moving into operations were long gone now. There were no Panama hats and ceiling fans. No supermodels or fast cars. Just the constant nagging feeling that you’d made a fatal mistake somewhere and someone was slinking up behind you to make you pay for it.
Going back now, though, wasn’t an option. Randi Russell had his note, and if he didn’t show up to the rendezvous, it was unlikely she would just let it go. Her reputation for tenacity was one of the many reasons he’d picked her.
He crammed another forkful of chicken into his mouth, not hungry but also aware that if he lost any more weight he’d have to buy all new suits.
Things would be better soon. Russell was going to come through like she always did. She’d know what to do, who to talk to. But mostly, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.
Gazenga put the empty food container on his cluttered coffee table and headed for the bedroom, locking the door behind him and positioning an empty beer bottle so it would tip if anyone tried to get in. He stripped to his boxers and crawled beneath a traditional African blanket his mother had given him. The lump in the pillow made by the Colt beneath it was even more comforting than it had been the day before, and he caressed the grip for a few moments before rolling onto his back and staring up at the dark ceiling.
Things were going to get better. Soon.
Gazenga awoke in a sweat, his stomach cramping and a numbness spreading through his chest. At first he thought it was just a dream and gave his head a weak shake to wake himself, but that just brought on a wave of nausea.
The clock glowed four a.m. as he pushed himself into a sitting position and struggled to get in a full breath. Because of his frequent travel in Africa, he’d had more than the normal complement of illnesses in his life, including bouts of malaria and river blindness. Enough to know when something was seriously wrong.
His cell phone was still in his pants and he was sliding awkwardly off the bed when he froze. The blackout shades he’d recently bought in an attempt to help him sleep were fully drawn but the light from the clock was enough to pick out an unfamiliar outline near the door. A chair? Had he put it there for extra security? No, he’d used a beer bottle. The chair should have been—
“How are you feeling, Brandon?”
A surge of adrenaline shot through him and he reached beneath his pillow. Nothing. The gun was gone.
“Sorry, I had to take that. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
The voice was familiar, but it still took him a few moments to identify it in the absence of its normal context.
“Dave? What are you doing here?” Gazenga said, his initial shock turning to a deep sense of dread. It was Russell. It had to be. They’d somehow found out. “Has…has something gone wrong in Uganda?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Gazenga reached for the light next to him, but his arm didn’t respond normally and he just ended up pawing weakly at the shade.
“You know why I’m here,” Collen said. “Tell me what you gave Randi Russell.”
“Russell?” Gazenga said, feigning surprise as he tried to calculate his options with a mind clouded by fear and lack of oxygen. “What are you talking about?”
He slid the rest of the way from the bed, discovering that his legs would no longer support him and collapsing to the dirty carpet.
“We have video of you sliding something into her pocket on the elevator, Brandon. You’re wasting time. And you don’t have much left.”