The Freedom Broker, page 18
The general surveyed the black carcass of the plane’s fuselage, then zeroed in on her. “Ms. Paris, I believe. I’ve worked with your father over the years. Welcome to Kanzi. This must be your lucky day.”
Hardly. “I’ll consider myself lucky when I’m sitting in an air-conditioned restaurant eating a steak.” She forced her lips into a tight smile.
The general laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “I’ll kill the cow myself if I have to—we don’t want our guests to be disappointed.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rif calculated his options should things go sideways. There weren’t many. The AKs pointed in their direction were difficult to ignore. He’d recognized General Ita Jemwa immediately from the files Hakan had on Nikos’s kidnapping.
“Let’s get you somewhere cooler. My camp is two hours west of here.” General Jemwa adjusted his beret and snapped his fingers. The soldiers sprang into action, repacking the water and supplies into the Land Cruiser.
Rif and Thea rode with the general in the newer truck. The air-conditioning was heavenly after being stuck in the unforgiving desert for hours.
Sitting next to the huge soldier, Rif experienced a flicker of sympathy for Nikos. He couldn’t imagine how frightened a twelve-year-old boy would be faced with this gigantic man as his kidnapper.
The Land Cruisers negotiated the endless sand dunes, targeting the setting sun. The general shifted his bulk to face Rif. “We intercepted your distress signal on our radio and realized you were close by. What happened?”
“Technical difficulties,” Rif said.
“Of the most serious kind, apparently,” the general said. “You’re very fortunate to have survived that crash.”
“The pilots died saving us.” Thea was smart to say that. Keep your potential enemies in the dark about a teammate’s aviation skills. She had a hell of a poker face. “We need to reach Victoria Falls Hotel in Zimbabwe by noon tomorrow. Can we arrange for a helicopter to pick us up at your camp?”
“Let’s get you showered, fed, and rested. Tomorrow will take care of itself.” The general smiled, clearly enjoying his control.
Rif sensed Thea’s unrest, understood her impatience. She was torn up about her father. Every minute she was away from cell reception was a minute she wasn’t searching for Christos. Perhaps they should take a closer look at General Jemwa. After all, he had a history of kidnapping as well as a past with the Paris family. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t unusual for more than one family member to be abducted by the same person or group, especially if the family acquiesced to the demands too quickly. Soft targets made kidnappers greedy. These abductions were twenty years apart, but maybe the Kanzi oil negotiations had acted as a catalyst for Jemwa. A need for money? A power move?
“Your hospitality is appreciated, but it’s urgent that we reach the hotel. Our negotiations start tomorrow,” she said.
“We’ll make sure you arrive on time. In fact, I’ll be traveling with you—I’ve been consulting on security measures for the event, and I already have an advance team in place.”
“Excellent, then it won’t inconvenience you to leave tonight.”
“We have a celebration planned for our soldiers this evening. But don’t worry: as my guests, you’ll be included in the festivities.”
“How gracious.” Her words hung in the air. “Any chance you have a satphone at the camp?”
“Absolutely. It wasn’t working this morning, but we can try again tonight.”
So, the general wanted to control their communications, but why? Was he an opportunist trying to use them as leverage in a business deal? Was he involved in Christos’s kidnapping? Or was he kidnapping them?
The caravan pulled into an encampment surrounded by electrified fencing and armed sentries. For now, they were the general’s guests.
Or, perhaps more accurately, his prisoners.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Given that General Jemwa’s training camp was in the middle of a desert, Thea was impressed by its creature comforts. Two soldiers brought hot water for the tub inside the permanent-feeling tent where she’d spend the night. After bathing, drinking another large bottle of water, eating two sandwiches, and injecting the insulin that still seemed sufficiently cool from her insulated pouch, she finally felt rejuvenated.
But concern weighed on her mind. She had Papa’s cell phone, but it’d been all day since she’d had proper service. If the real kidnapper tried to reach her and was dumped into voice mail, who knew what he would do to her father?
She also needed to discover who’d sabotaged the plane and poisoned the pilots. How many people had had access to the Gulfstream? Hakan would fly in a team to analyze the crash site and recover the remains of the flight crew. She was missing something. No ransom demand, and every effort to investigate was met with violence. The killing wouldn’t stop until they figured out who’d taken Papa and neutralized the threat.
With any luck, the plane wreckage would offer some new clues. If there was any useful evidence, her boss would find it. Hakan. He’d be so worried. She was rarely out of touch for an hour, let alone an entire day.
Another pressing problem troubled her. With only enough medication left to last until the next afternoon, she had to reach the pharmacy in Victoria Falls before midday so she could purchase more insulin and other supplies. Her stockpiles had blown up with the Gulfstream. With no access to medication and no outside communications, she felt naked, vulnerable.
Dressed in a colorful sarong the general had provided, she left her tent to find the others. The camp doctor had taken Peter and Brianna to the medical pavilion for a thorough checkup, as they were both showing signs of heatstroke. She explored the camp, following the row of torches lining the main thoroughfare. The beauty of the firelight was in direct contrast to the militarized setup of the place. Simple, structured, with one goal in mind: training killers.
The combination of the brisk wind and her wet hair sent a shiver across Thea’s shoulders. With the sun gone for the night, the desert was cooling down.
A massive tent at the end of the row caught her attention. It was circular, and the heavy canvas looked durable, weathered. Spartan outdoor furniture huddled under a beige awning. No doubt the general used this pavilion as his quarters.
She strode over to the opening. “Jambo, anyone here?”
Silence greeted her. She paused for a moment, then tried again. No response.
It wasn’t as if she could ring a doorbell. She pushed back the flap, peered inside, then entered the spacious tent. On the left, eight rattan chairs encircled a round table. A likely meeting spot for the general and his top lieutenants.
She moved deeper into the pavilion. The next room was a fully stocked kitchen with stainless-steel appliances supported by a generator. Off to the right was a fully outfitted office. She did a double-take. The desk, the chairs, even the lampshade—all the furniture mirrored the pieces in her father’s former study in Kanzi. Right down to the crystal ashtray on the desk and the humidor beside it. What the heck?
Creepy.
She strode over to the desk, her nose wrinkling at a familiar smell. She raised the lid on the humidor and looked inside. Sure enough, Flor de Cano Short Churchills lined the box. She remembered sitting on the deck of the Aphrodite with Papa as he smoked these cigars. She lifted one to her nose and sniffed. Alarm ricocheted through her.
“Care to join me for one?” The low rumble of the general’s voice jolted her back to the present. She almost dropped the cigar.
“Afraid they aren’t to my taste. But, interestingly, they are my father’s favorite brand.” Not to mention that the whole office was a duplicate of her father’s long-ago study.
Amusement showed on his bullish features. “A man of refined taste, your father. Perhaps you can both join me for dinner at my villa? I could educate you on the merits of the cigar’s delicate flavors. That would be a memorable meal. As Raúl Juliá used to say, a cigar is as good as the memories that you have when you smoke it.”
He had to be toying with her. But the fatigue, the pressure—they could be making her paranoid. “You must know that my father’s been kidnapped.”
The general’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened. Gut feeling? His expression lasted slightly longer than genuine surprise. But that was only her intuition talking.
“Very sorry to hear that. I’ve been here training my men. We don’t get much news.”
“My father does a lot of business in Kanzi. Any thoughts as to who might want to abduct him?”
“My guess would be the Chinese, as they are quite keen on winning those oil rights, but it could be anyone. Billionaires and their families are always targets.” He shrugged. “By the way, how’s your brother doing? I don’t know if you remember, but twenty years ago, I rescued him from a brutal warlord named Oba.”
Rescued him. Right. It required every ounce of her self-restraint not to punch him. This giant was a master manipulator, a born liar. She glanced at the books lining the shelves of his office, everything from the classics to biographies. A sophisticated sociopath, he used his brawn as well as his brains to dominate others.
“Yes, that’s right, you collected the million-dollar reward for Nikos’s return. I knew you looked familiar.”
“That money saved countless lives. We farmed land, grew crops for food. Your father became a local hero.”
In Nikos’s journal, “the General” had hated Papa because he’d bought all the crops for biofuels. Now the story had been rewritten, her father starring as the white knight?
“I was hoping to use your satellite phone,” Thea said, needing this conversation to end.
“Of course, but please hurry. The men are eager to start the festivities.” He passed her the phone. “Join us at the fire pit when you’re done.” He vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, light on his feet for such a large man.
She plunked down into the nearest chair, her mind swirling. Motive—what would be General Jemwa’s motive for taking Papa? Money . . . power . . . oil . . . revenge? The possibilities were endless.
She dialed her boss’s cell. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hakan Asker.”
“My feng shui seems to be off today.” Their code that the line wasn’t secure.
A slight hesitation. “Where are you?”
“We had a unique landing in Kanzi. Rif, Peter, Brianna, and I are now enjoying the hospitality of General Ita Jemwa at his desert camp. Would be good to know who had access to the plane.”
“You need air support?” It comforted her to hear his voice. Hakan would investigate, locate the wreckage.
“The general offered to transport us to Victoria Falls in the morning. But if I don’t check in with you by eleven my time tomorrow, please send help. You can trace the GPS coordinates from the phone, right?”
“Definitely.”
“We drove around sixty miles southwest of the crash. That should help you find the plane.”
“Thanks. And text me when you arrive in Zimbabwe.”
“Will do. How’s Aegis behaving?”
“You don’t want to know. Let’s just say that my couch is looking rather unstuffed.”
She smiled. “I told you he needs intense, daily exercise to keep the digging at bay.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll have the newest recruit doing long runs with him every day now. They both need the exercise.”
She shouldn’t ask but couldn’t help herself. “Anything new on your end?”
“Always. You know how busy I’ve been. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
“Perfect.” Hope rose in her heart. Hakan had new information, maybe a lead.
“Send Rif my best.”
“Will do. I should thank you for insisting we travel together. He’s come in handy.”
He laughed. “My boy has his charms.”
“Let’s not go overboard. Until tomorrow.” She replaced the receiver and rested her head in her hands. The last thing she wanted to do was go to a party hosted by a sociopath, a man who could very well be holding Papa captive. After all, he’d already kidnapped one Paris and lied about it. Why not another?
And why stop at two?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rif sat by the fire, pretending to swig from the bottle of spirits that was being passed around the circle of men. General Jemwa’s soldiers had traded their uniforms for traditional garb, their ebony skin glistening with sweat from the fire, white paint smeared across their cheeks and bodies. Spears and shields perched on the ground beside these warriors.
After they had enjoyed a meal of rice and goat on a spit, their dancing would start. Jaramogi, the general’s second-in-command, would kick off the first performance. Rif had attended many native celebrations when he worked in Zimbabwe and Chad. Hell, he’d even admit to kicking off his shoes to join in the odd mbende step. But tonight, he needed to remain on guard.
They weren’t among friends.
Peter’s skin had deepened to a rosy pink, an indication that he was three, or maybe more like six, sheets to the wind. The CFO might be a whiz with numbers and contracts, but he had zero common sense. Stuck in the middle of the desert in a war-torn country, they were at the mercy of a dangerous man—getting drunk was a dumb-ass move. At least there’d been some good news. He’d checked on Brianna in the medical tent, and she was feeling much better.
He sensed the men’s focus shift toward the lane leading to the tents and turned to see what had captured their interest. Thea glided toward the fire in an emerald sarong, the rich color highlighting her piercing green eyes. Her long, dark hair reflected the firelight. He regretted his part in giving her the scar on her right cheek, but the mark took nothing away from her beauty. It actually made her more striking—and human.
The men studied her with great interest. He could hardly blame them. They had probably been separated from women for months while posted at the testosterone-laden camp.
She slipped in between him and Peter, sitting cross-legged on the ground.
“I spoke to Hakan. He was startled to hear where we were,” she said.
“Full circle from twenty years ago.”
“Except this time it’s Papa who has been taken. I wonder if our host is involved.”
“Anything’s possible,” he said in a low voice.
“I found a humidor in the general’s tent filled with Papa’s favorite cigars, and his office has the exact same furniture as my father’s former home office in Kanzi.”
“Definitely weird. But why kidnap the man who could make your country richer than Saudi Arabia?”
The pounding of drums drowned out her response. The soldiers danced to the staccato beat, the sound and rhythm of the drums reflecting the heightened mood. As the men gyrated their hips and shimmied their shoulders, they merged into a circle. Each man took his turn inside the ring, often balancing on one hand, feet straight up in the air. Jaramogi stood out among the crowd, his tremendous strength and agility on display. The general’s troops were a cohesive force—one might even say battle-ready.
A tremor of warning rumbled through Rif. He’d spent half his life in war-torn countries watching rebels plot to overthrow existing regimes. This camp in the middle of the desert didn’t feel like a government-sanctioned training ground; it was more like the general’s private headquarters. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the site, four armed guards were posted at the only exit, and the surrounding desert was utterly inhospitable; it was the perfect spot to “disappear” someone. Maybe Jemwa was biding his time to see how the oil negotiations went before he made a move. Nothing would surprise him.
Their host finally made an appearance, dressed in full uniform, the numerous medals pinned to his jacket covering only a small portion of his massive chest. He swaggered around the campfire, slapping backs with his bearlike paws, a cigar hanging from the left side of his mouth. The heady tobacco scent infused the air. Thea was right—it was Christos’s favorite brand.
The drumming intensified, the earth thumping to the beat. Roasted goat, a hundred men who hadn’t showered in days, the threat of scorpions and snakes. Best party he’d been to in a long time. Right. The last time he’d been in the desert, it had ended disastrously.
It had been a perfect night for a raid. A sandstorm shrouded the UN food depot in an ominous brown cloud. Rif continued patrolling the perimeter, a gust of wind blasting sand into his eyes. His lips were caked with dirt, so he spat out the gritty bits, then tramped past the spindly security gate in search of rebels. Standing orders were to shoot on sight. Everyone knew about the curfew, and they had to protect the refugees’ food stores. The emaciated evacuees were already down to eight hundred calories a day. If they lost any more food, the gravediggers wouldn’t be able to keep up with the bodies.
He’d spent the day hanging around the communications hut listening to reports of rebels moving in the night, defying the curfew. His unit was on high alert, protecting thousands of grain bags in the middle of the barren Chad desert. Sure, the rebel army also needed food, but he’d be damned if he’d let the bastards steal the supplies he was guarding.
The storm intensified, the gritty residue battering his exposed cheeks as he strained to see through his night-vision goggles. Damn things were useless in these conditions. He ripped them off and replaced them with clear-lens shooting glasses. They weren’t much better.
What he wouldn’t do for an ice-cold Coke. He thought of the local boy Kinshasa, an eight-year-old whose family lived in a neighboring village. The little guy was entrepreneurial, always showing up with cold drinks to trade for cash or food. This time of night, he’d be curled up inside his simple home, safe and sound.
Rif had spent his off-duty hours teaching the scrawny boy English. He’d broken his usual rule about not getting involved with the locals, but he had no regrets. Wasn’t much else to do in the desert besides getting blotto on local beer, and he wasn’t much for that. The kid’s spunk inspired him, reminding him of Thea, who bounced back no matter what happened to her—witness how she’d pursued K&R work in response to her brother’s kidnapping.
