A young soldier suddenly burst from the jungle at a full run, skidding awkwardly and losing his balance when Bahame raised a machete and started screaming. The boy held up a hand protectively, unintelligible words tumbling from his mouth. The violent rage burning in the cult leader’s eyes cooled so suddenly that it was hard to believe it had ever existed, and instead of dismembering the child, he cheerfully helped him to his feet.
It wasn’t necessary to speak the local language to understand what had happened. The shipment had been spotted.
It was another fifteen minutes before the first truck appeared, lumbering along the poorly maintained road used for transporting parasite victims to and from the villages Bahame overran. It was painted with the logo of one of the many aid agencies operating in the country, and when the first boxes were thrown from the back, emergency rations spilled out.
Despite their obvious malnourishment, the young soldiers emerging from the trees showed little interest in the food. It wasn’t until a box full of mortars was crowbarred open that their enthusiasm flared.
Bahame took personal control of the unloading, directing the crates of guns, mines, rifles, and ammunition to various storage areas at the edges of the camp, watching each one with glassy-eyed obsession.
When the second truck pulled up, he lost interest in traffic control and stepped back to examine the single enormous crate strapped to the flatbed. Omidi smiled imperceptibly. He hadn’t been sure if this one would actually arrive, but once again, God had provided.
“It is a gift,” the Iranian said. “From His Excellency the Ayatollah Khamenei to you.”
Bahame leapt onto the back of the truck and shouted for help as Omidi pressed two boys into service pulling down the ramps on the trailer. The front of the box was pried open and Bahame disappeared inside, his excited shouts audible as he kicked out the remaining sides.
When it was done, something that looked like a small tank sat amid the splintered wood. It was squat and angular, with thick Plexiglas windows and a single seat.
“It’s made by an American company for police bomb-disposal units,” Omidi explained. “I’m told it can take a direct hit from an RPG and travel more than sixty kilometers per hour.”
Bahame leapt to the ground and snatched the machine gun from around the neck of one of his soldiers. What was going to happen next seemed obvious, and Omidi threw himself to the ground as the sound of automatic fire ricocheting off steel filled his ears.
By the time he stood again, the African was already back on the truck, stepping over the body of a girl who hadn’t fled fast enough and reaching out to caress the undamaged skin of the vehicle. He opened the door and squeezed into the confined space, searching for the ignition. A moment later, the engine roared to life in a cloud of black diesel smoke.
Omidi retreated to the makeshift podium set up at the edge of the jungle and dialed a number into his sat phone. The line clicked a few times and then a familiar voice came on.
“Yes?”
“The first two trucks have arrived.”
Bahame managed to get the vehicle down the ramps and started chasing his terrified men around the clearing.
“Then should we begin our final preparations?”
“Immediately.”
“We will wait for your signal.”
Bahame skidded a hundred and eighty degrees and began roaring in his direction, but Omidi didn’t bother to move. If there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that the African would never risk damaging the stage he used to display his godhood.
49
Dave Collen looked haggard as he fell into one of the chairs facing Drake’s desk. The redness of his eyes suggested that he’d been up for at least twenty-four hours straight, and his expression implied that the time hadn’t been as productive as it needed to be.
“We still don’t have any details on what happened to Smith and his people during their arrest beyond the fact that they were taken to an old military base and released eight hours later. It could be nothing more than some soldiers happening to witness Smith pulling a knife on Sabastiaan Bastock—”
“Quite a coincidence,” Drake said. “And it doesn’t explain why Bastock seems to have ended up dead.”
“I’m not buying it either, but the people we have watching them don’t have access to that base. We have no way of knowing what happened there.”
“And after they were released?”
“They picked up a vehicle at the black market and drove north followed by some of Sembutu’s men. No stops to speak of until they got to a farm owned by Noah Duernberg. They spent the night there and then headed deeper into Bahame country. That’s where we lost them.”
“Is there any link between Duernberg and the parasite?”
“None that we know of. He’s the second generation in that house. His father was a doctor by training and was loosely connected to Idi Amin.”
“A doctor? Is it possible he had experience with the infection?”
Collen shrugged helplessly. “He’s been dead a long time, and record keeping in that part of the world isn’t exactly state-of-the-art.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there?” Drake said, starting to lose control of his frustration.
“I told you before we got rid of Brandon that it was going to partially blind us in Uganda.”
“Do we at least have someone we can we send to Duernberg’s farm to look around?”
Collen shook his head. “That’s where the news gets worse. After Smith and his people left, the farm was burned to the ground with Duernberg in it. His wife and child were in an apartment in Kampala trying to work out a way to emigrate. We sent people there…”
“And?”
“They found them in the bathtub with their throats slit.”
Drake ran a hand over his mouth and it came away slick with sweat. Duernberg knew something, and someone wanted to keep it quiet. But who? Bahame was the obvious answer, but was it the correct one? The fact that Smith and his team had been taken to a military base and were now being followed pointed in another direction — Charles Sembutu. Could there be a connection between him and the Iranians?
Collen seemed to read his mind. “Larry, we’re losing control here. This started as an exercise in spinning data. Now we’ve got an American team lost somewhere in the jungle, an old doctor’s family murdered, and one of our most dangerous operatives sniffing around to the point that she has to be dealt with. I think it’s time we consider going to the president with what we’ve got.”
“Are you getting cold feet?” Drake said, the volume of his voice rising in the soundproof room. “Were you only in this as long as there was no personal risk? As long as—”
“Bullshit, Larry! I’ve been with you from the very beginning, and I’ve been the only one getting his hands dirty. You’re not stuck trying to find reliable people to track Smith through the damn jungle. And you sure as hell weren’t in Brandon’s bedroom when he died. But we’ve lost track of one of our top microbiologists and the world authority on parasitic infections. What if Bahame has them? Jesus, what if Omidi has them? Then we may not be looking at an unsophisticated infection that would be relatively easy to control. We could be looking at something that’s been weaponized.”
Drake opened his mouth to reply but instead took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dave. I didn’t mean to question your commitment.”