“Every damned one of them. My great uncle, twice removed, died and left a fortune to education. I became involved with a man who preached that real change required violence, and for a reason I’ll never know, decided I wanted to watch this violent change take place in a faraway land so that I could decide for myself if it was required. It turned out, I agreed with the violence and it agreed with me.”
“Did you ever see the man again?” Sam persisted.
“The builder?” The general nodded. “Three months ago. I had heard things were getting pretty bad back home in what is now called the Democratic Republic of Congo. The President was weak, and had let the country fall into ruin. When I got there the same stranger who’d predicted all the changes in my life turned up again. Would you believe it, I swear the man hadn’t aged a day! Sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t the hand of God, telling me what I needed to do?”
“And what did he tell you to do?”
“He gave me a fortune in gold. Not in bullion but weird religious artifacts and things. One of the things he gave me was this solid golden skull. The thing looked hideous, but also beautiful somehow at the same time. I asked him what the hell I was supposed to do with it all… and you know what he told me?”
Sam shook his head. “What?”
“Save the world. He then told me to raise an army and overthrow the current government. Once I had done that, he said I would unite all of Africa. He was so confident and everything else he’d told me had come true, I was certain that I had been given some higher purpose by God himself. And then when I felt so powerful, you know what he tells me?” The General paused for effect. “He tells me there’s a book, written by Nostradamus. He tells me he’s paid a woman to find the book and that I must destroy it.”
“What’s inside the book?”
The General squinted at him, and answered the question obliquely. “I asked the strange builder of the future…”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he had no idea what was written inside. Only that if it was ever read the world would be sent down a tangent. A path it was never meant to follow. It may surprise you, with your western mindset, but the alternative path of the future could be a much worse one. And so I’m destroying the book, mobilizing the largest army since World War II and uniting Africa.”
Sam looked at the general and thought quick and hard to answer two questions.
How did Ngige, or his mysterious benefactor know of a future that so closely resembled the worst case scenario predicted by the greatest minds of the intelligence agencies in the U.S. and abroad?
And, what was inside the book of Nostradamus that prevented that future from coming true?
Chapter Twenty-One
“Now, I’m afraid it’s time you finish that cigarette and give me the book,” the General said. “The sun is coming up and it’s time I get a move on.”
Sam nodded and took two long, deep drags in from his cigarette. He watched as the smallest of air bubbles surfaced on the otherwise still water at the edge of the oasis. His lungs stung as he inhaled the smoke, and he had to consciously make the effort not to cough. The butt of the cigarette, fueled by the oxygen rich air, glowed, burning at an unimaginably hot temperature. He withdrew the cigarette long enough to speak.
“It’s in the sand.” Sam said as he watched the tiny air bubbles reach the surface of the otherwise still water at the edge of the oasis.
“Where?” General Ngige asked.
More bubbles surfaced, three feet behind the general. “I buried it about twenty yards over there,” Sam said, pointing away from the oasis. About halfway up the sand dune. “You should still see the recently overturned sand where I buried it.”
“Deng,” Ngige said. “See if he’s telling the truth.”
“Yes, sir,” the mercenary replied.
General Ngige looked at Sam. His mouth was set hard, but his voice soft, almost betraying a sense of loss for what he was about to do. “Where do you want it?”
Sam shrugged. “If you’re giving me a choice, I’ll have it on a deserted island in the Caribbean in about fifty years from now.”
“Very funny, Mr. Reilly.” The General shaped his fingers to make a pistol and said, “Between the eyes or the back of the head?”
“Well if you’re going to be impatient, I’ll take it between my eyes. You can look at me while you do it.”
“General!” The mercenary at the edge of the sand dune yelled. “I’ve got it!”
“Well… well. I must thank you for your honesty, Mr. Reilly,” General Ngige said. “I really don’t like torture, although it is the only choice in certain circumstances. I am so glad that you didn’t force this to be one of them.”
Sam drew a deep breath in, as though it were his last. The cigarette burned right down to its butt. The mercenary next to him attached a full magazine to his AK-47.
In the distance the three men heard the second mercenary yelling something. All three turned to look, and saw the mercenary waving both hands frantically.
“What does that fool want?” the General asked.
“It appears he’s trying to warn you about something,” Sam said, cheerfully.
“What?” the General asked.
“This!” Tom yelled, withdrawing the sidearm from the General’s holster. In the same movement he aimed the Berretta at the closest mercenary — the one pointing his AK-47 towards Sam — and pulled the trigger.
The mercenary swung his weapon around. But he was too slow. By the time he faced his attacker two Berretta 19mm parabellums struck his forehead — turning it into a pink spray in an instant. His weapon finger pulled at the trigger, emptying all 32 shells in a wide arc by the time his body hit the ground.
The General reacted with reflexes that were much faster than his age suggested. Swinging his right arm he punched Tom in the area known by boxers as the sweet spot at the side of his jaw. The inertia forces the mandible sideways potentially sending all residual energy into the brainstem with the greatest likelihood of knocking most opponents out.
Tom Bower was far from average.
He was a giant of a man. Six foot, eight inches tall. Framed in two hundred and forty pounds of muscle, hardened by a lifetime of heavy physical labor. He’d never boxed professionally, but he’d had his share of bar-fights when he was younger and he had no trouble holding his own. If there was ever a man whose jaw was built to take a beating, Tom was that man.
Sam watched the General’s fist make contact with Tom’s jaw. He was certain the impact hurt the General as much as it did Tom. The impact rattled Tom momentarily, but was far from enough to put him down. The General looked surprised that Tom was still standing. Ngige launched forwards for the Berretta, which was still locked in Tom’s massive hand. Like a crazed banshee, he bit at Tom’s hand, trying to free the weapon.
Sam ground the butt of his cigarette, burning at a temperature of eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit, deep into the General’s right eye. The General screamed in agony. Instead of fighting, the General turned and ran.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sam raced to catch the General and then dived to the ground. AK-47 shells raked the sand eight feet to his side. The second mercenary, the one who’d gone to retrieve the book of Nostradamus, no longer afraid of hitting his commander, had taken aim and was firing at them.
“You okay, Tom?” Sam asked.
“I’m good,” Tom replied. “He got a lucky hook shot at me, that’s all.”
Sam shuffled forwards on his elbows and knees. He picked up the AK-47, which had fallen when Tom had killed the first mercenary. “Let’s just hope this guy doesn’t get a lucky shot off.”