Arch Enemy (10 page)

T
he Gulfstream G550 carrying Morgan and the four members of the Zeta tactical team touched down in Abidjan at 10
A.M.
They were met on the tarmac of Bigny Airport by two shiny black Audi A6 TDI sedans, which drove straight out into the street from the runway, bypassing all customs and immigration.

Which was good, because the luggage they were carrying wasn't exactly legal.

“Who's this we're going to see?” It was Spartan, her legs sprawled in her black denim pants, taking up half the middle seat. Her muscles showed under her T-shirt, and a tattoo of a Greek warrior peeked out under her shirt on her neck under her cropped blond hair. “And whose ass are we going to kick?” Although she was the only woman on the tactical team, she never let any of them forget she was as tough as any of them.

“General Moussa Jakande,” said Morgan. “Of the FRCI—the Republican Forces. Apparently he's an old acquaintance of Smith's. As far as ass-kicking goes, I think you'll get your chance.”

“Where doesn't Smith have friends?” she said, entranced by the unfamiliar landscape. Spartan wasn't much of a world traveler.

They passed a street market full of stalls set up under black umbrellas, people wearing bright colors carrying large baskets on their heads, and a group of kids playing soccer on a field of dirt. With all the hallmarks of the third world—the decades-old cars, chaotic traffic, and people walking barefoot on the dirty sidewalk—Abidjan also showed signs of recent development, its skyline full of cranes raising new buildings.

The drivers took them to the Deux Plateaux district, where wealth was evident in the new-model European cars and high-walled houses. The Audis pulled into a luxurious apartment complex where security guards performed a full check of the cars, although they didn't ask them to open their luggage.

A servant in a black tuxedo was waiting for them in the parking lot. He escorted them into an elevator to the penthouse.

They—Morgan and Spartan, Bishop, Diesel, and Tango—walked off right into the apartment, appointed with Louis XV furniture, rococo end tables, and cabinets holding collections of ivory and jade ornaments. On the walls were copies of Renaissance masterpieces, skins of exotic animals on the floor. The living room opened up into a vast balcony with an infinity pool. Hand shielding his eyes from the harsh sun, Morgan looked out at the view, making out the ocean in the distance.

The four-man tactical team sat ill at ease on the edge of their seats, like any wrong move might cause something to break. Morgan was used to the luxury—missions often demanded he travel in these circles—but the tac team guys were all ex-military and special ops, more comfortable roughing it in the desert or jungle than this.

“Which one of you is Bevelacqua?”

Morgan turned around from admiring the view to find a serious man in gold-rimmed round sunglasses, gray-haired, wearing a green military uniform, a vintage chrome Colt .45 in his belt holster. Stepping forward, Morgan extended his hand in greeting.

“General Jakande,” he said, shaking Morgan's hand. “Welcome to my home.”

“We're grateful for your hospitality,” Morgan replied.

“Would you like something to drink?” He motioned to a white drink in a liquor bottle. “Bangui. Palm Wine. Our national beverage.”

“Thanks,” Morgan said, holding up a hand in refusal. The tactical team let him speak for them.

“Myself, I prefer Bordeaux,” said Jakande, sitting down on an ornate armchair, all done in gold leaf.

Morgan sat across from him in a plain low-backed wooden chair. “I was told we may be able to help each other.”

“Indeed, I believe we can. You are looking for a man. An arms dealer.”

“I'm told you know where he is,” Morgan said.

Jakande crossed his legs. “He was here in Abidjan earlier today. He arrived in advance of his shipment of weapons.”

“How can we get to him?”

“I am afraid it is not that simple. In the city, he is under the protection of General Onobanjo. So are his guns, under heavy guard.”

“General? As in the Republican Forces, like you?” Morgan questioned.

“The politics in Côte d'Ivoire are complicated, Mr. Bevelacqua. See, there is a very powerful warlord here by the name of Stéphane Madaki. He has gained power by taking control of illegal gold mines in the interior. They use slaves to extract the gold. And General Onobanjo likes gold.”

“Put that way, it sounds pretty simple.”

“We live in a delicate balance,” Jakande said. “Onobanjo has troops loyal to him and can call on them to fight other battalions of the army if he wants to. He knows nobody wants civil war. And if he allies with Madaki, I am not confident that we would beat them. So we are forced to turn a blind eye as they amass ever greater wealth and power.”

“So you have a rogue warlord and a general in his pocket, and you can't do anything about it.”

Jakande shrugged. “My hands are tied.”

“So that's where I come in, I take it?”

“This shipment of weapons your Mr. White is bringing would give Madaki, the warlord, a decisive superiority. With his numbers and proper guns, he would be able to challenge our national army.”

“So you can't fight them head-on and you can't stop the shipment.”

“That's right. But perhaps you can. The convoy carrying the weapons left Abidjan earlier this morning. I have their current location, although I do not know where they are going. But they will not be hard to follow. When you have found their destination, you will find Madaki and Mr. White.”

“I'm going to need a guide,” Morgan said.

Jakande grinned. “I have already arranged one for you, my friend. I think it is better for you two to go alone, for now. You will attract less attention on the road traveling in twos. Other than that, I can give you limited support. I will outfit your men, provide guns and transportation. But it cannot be traced back to me.”

“Understood,” said Morgan. “Your help is much appreciated.”

“I do not want thanks. I want you to kill Madaki. If you do that, it is I who will be grateful to you. Come. We have no time to waste. I have your guide waiting downstairs.”

Morgan grabbed his case and opened it for one last check. A MAC-10, his Walther PPK, and rounds for both, plus a sat phone.

He said good-bye to the tactical team. “I'll be in touch,” he said to Bishop. “Once I have the location, we'll plan the extraction of Mr. White.”

“Good luck,” Bishop said, holding his fist out for Morgan to bump.

Morgan went down the elevator, carrying the gun case and his duffel bag. He walked out into the garage, where he was met by a tiny woman with a thin waist and matte skin. She had black curly hair cropped short around her skull and was wearing camo pants. Her chest bore a long diagonal scar that started on her left shoulder, disappearing between her breasts into her black tank top.

“Mr. Bevelacqua. My name is Yolande Ekwensi.” She spoke in a French Ivorian accent, with a flat affect, showing no emotion at all. “I am your guide.” She extended her hand.

“I think there's been some mistake.”

“There is no mistake.” She didn't sound defensive, just annoyed. “I was sent by General Jakande to be your guide.”

“I was just expecting someone more—”

“Male?” She looked at him with contempt. “There is no one else who will take you. These are dangerous areas. You need a guide with
real
balls.” She grabbed at her crotch to demonstrate. “Come. Let us go.”

He liked her already.

She motioned toward her dented white Jeep, opening the back for Morgan to put his case and bag in. He then got into the car, which felt a bit off. He wasn't used to being in the passenger seat.

They moved out. As soon as they drove past the security gate and out into the blinding sun, she lit a cigarette. Then she slipped on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. “Do you have guns back there?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He put on his own aviators.

“You'll want to keep one on you after we drive out of the city.”

They drove along northward on the Boulevard des Martyrs, dodging yellow taxis and cyclists. “Do you carry?” he asked.

“Glovebox.”

He popped open the compartment and found a Smith & Wesson MP 380 automatic.

“Just enough firepower.”

“It keeps impertinent men in line,” Ekwensi replied sarcastically.

He pushed the compartment shut and sat back. It was going to be a long drive.

B
ruce Ansley adjusted his tie in the mirror and then looked for his shoes. One he found where they should be, at the foot of the bed. The other was missing. He looked around the room, his back aching as he bent down to look under the bed. Nothing but a couple of dust bunnies and a lost sock. He grumbled under his breath and went downstairs where Annemarie was making bologna sandwiches for the kids. She was watching the tiny old TV in the kitchen—some talking heads discussing foreign policy.

“Does anyone know where my shoe is?”

“I think I saw Cory with it,” Annmarie replied.

“Cory!” he called out. He walked halfway up the stairs. “Cory!”

“What?”

“Do you have my shoe?”

The boy ran to the upper landing of the stairs from his room. “I was playing boat, Dad.”

“Well, Dad needs his shoe. Go get it.”

On his way back to his room, Cory met Pam, who was just coming out of hers. “Aren't you a little old for pretending shoes are boats?”

“Ms. Lambert says it's good to use your imagination,” he said, running out of his room with the shoe held high above his head.

“Ms. Lambert is just hiding the fact that you're actually retarded. She doesn't want to make you feel bad.”

“Pam, you'd better stop that. Your sister's just teasing you.”

“I know, Dad.” He held out the shoe. “Here you go.”

“You have your toys,” he said, following his son downstairs. “Try to leave my stuff alone, all right?”

Bruce took the milk out of the fridge and glanced at the TV. The cable news network was now showing video footage of Russian tanks. Bruce switched it to a fluffy morning news show on which a blond woman and a bland brown-haired man drank coffee and talked about the weather.

“The kids don't need to be exposed to this goddamn stuff,” he said, pouring himself a bowl of raisin bran.

“Pam, did you finish all your homework last night?” Annemarie asked.

“I'll finish it during morning break.”

“Pam, I swear, if I get another call from your teacher—”

“I'll take
care
of it, Mom, jeez.”

“Don't talk to your mother like that.”

“I did my homework, Mom!” Cory broke in.

“That's very good, sweetie. Bruce, could you take care of the gutters later?”

“After work,” he said. Then, to his kids: “The bus arrives in less than five minutes. Time to go wait on the curb.”

“But Dad, it's cold!”

“You're not making everyone wait because you're cold. Go on. Take your brother. Give your mother a kiss.”

The door closed and the house was quiet. Bruce munched on his cereal.

“I saw something so strange on the news earlier,” said Annemarie. “Some university official was left hanging from the university library up in Massachusetts.”

“Like, hanged dead?”

“No, not dead, just hanging there upside down. What do you make of that?”

“Must've done something.”

“Corrupt, they said,” said Annemarie. “Took money from the university.”

“Allegedly,” said Bruce. “They always have to print
allegedly
with stuff like that or they'll get sued.”

“Well, he
allegedly
stole several hundred thousand from the school,” she said. “Looks like he deserved what he got.”

“Still,” said Bruce. “There's due process. Vigilantes never know when they might get an innocent man.”

“These guys always get away with it. I say he had it coming.”

“Well, I have to go,” he said as he chewed his last mouthful, putting his bowl in the kitchen sink.

“Don't forget—”

“Gutters. As soon as I get home.”

He kissed her and walked out through the garage. On his way into work, he made his usual stop at the post office. He parked and walked inside, pulling out the key from the coin pouch in his wallet. He found his box and inserted the key.

The key had started sticking about five years ago, and had only gotten worse since. He turned it with some effort and held his breath. The usual sense of doom filled him. He swung the door open.

Empty
.

He exhaled, closing the post office box, and walked out into the cold winter sun.

A
ndrea Nyhan walked up the stairs to the fourth floor of the Acevedo building. It was congested, both elevators being out until they figured out what the hell had happened. Chatter echoed in the stairwell, just business as usual for most people, transposed from the elevator to the stairs. But for her it was different. For her it was something like a solemn duty, some small way of paying homage to Dom.

She opened the door from the stairwell into the office. The elevator—
the
elevator—was cordoned off with caution tape, even though there was also a sign on the call buttons indicating that both elevators were
OUT OF ORDER
. Some understatement.

When Burt saw her, he opened his mouth, she guessed, to give her the news, but stopped himself. It must have been obvious she knew, from her puffy eyes, maybe still a little watery. Instead he just grimaced. She responded with a sorrowful hint of a smile.

A pall of silence hung over the entire office and seemed to muffle even her footsteps as she walked.

She glanced over at Dominic's cubicle. It was a sort of involuntary tic, a little everyday gesture timed to her walk to her own desk. He'd always been one of those idle office what-ifs, and those glances were always accompanied by ill-defined fantasies of mingled sweat and tangled hair and cuddling up close and tuckered out against cold winter nights. Sometimes she flashed on breakfast, too, making eggs and pancakes for him, or long autumn afternoons of leaning against him with a book as he tapped away at his laptop.

These were airy wisps of fantasy, previously dissipated by the time she sat down at her chair, but now they took on the pungency of bitter regret. The fantasies that left with the dead sometimes pierced the deepest.

Violet Zanger intercepted her before she reached her desk. She was dressed in vast swathes of dark purple cloth swishing with each clomping step.

“Oh my God, honey, did you hear?” she said, laying her arm mother-like on Andrea's shoulder. Andrea resented the assumed familiarity, but she didn't have the energy to tell her to screw off.

“I got the e-mail,” she said with a sniffle.

“I was just beside myself when I found out. Did you know I talked to him that morning? Just to think, I might have been the last person to talk to him!”

“Maybe. I think he usually says good-bye to Burt.” It felt good to take that away from Violet, that self-satisfaction in the reflected glory of being somehow involved in the thing everyone was talking about. Still, there was something awful about how Andrea's imagination was filling in his last moments. She flashed on him in the elevator, the interminable weightless seconds as the car hurtled to its final stop. “How are you holding up, Violet?”

“I was just in shock. In total shock. Such a handsome young man. What a waste. Can you imagine that poor mother?” She blew her nose on her handkerchief. “But I'm praying for his soul. And meanwhile, we have to carry on, right?”

It was amazing how Violet played out her little private drama in the wake of the death of someone she barely knew and would gossip about in life.

“Anyway, Dominic's funeral will be held tomorrow at nine, at Christ Church, you know in Cambridge? Steve is giving us special dispensation to attend. You know, if you want to pay your respects.” She added in a whisper, “Closed casket, of course.”

Andrea scowled at the image this brought up. “Of course, Violet. I'll be there. Thank you.”

She walked on, but was apparently not destined to make it to her desk, because she ran into Marvin Brainard, who had worked with her and Dominic on network security.

“Did you hear about Dom?” he asked.

“Yeah, I heard.” Her voice was tinged with bitterness. “Got cornered by Violet and got all the gory details.”

“Look, you need anything, I'm here, okay?”

She acknowledged the offer with a tearful smile. At least he had the common sense not to press her on it.

In spite of herself, Andrea looked back toward Dom's desk. Tears welled up in her eyes. When she reached her desk, she put away the stack of papers on her desk into a drawer. Then she leaned her head down on her desk and wept.