The Ares Decision (13 page)

W
HAT’S SO IMPORTANT THAT
it couldn’t wait?”

Dave Collen closed the door behind him, giving it a solid push to make sure it was sealed. “We have a problem with Brandon, Larry.”

“What kind of a problem?”

Collen slid his laptop onto Drake’s desk and brought up a security video depicting an elevator full of people. “Watch him.”

Drake leaned into the screen, squinting as the doors opened and five more people crammed themselves into the already crowded space. One of those people was Gazenga, and he wrestled his way to the back, taking a position next to a beautiful blonde.

The elevator descended three floors and Gazenga pushed his way back to the front. After he exited, the video ended.

“So, he doesn’t like taking stairs?” Drake said. “I don’t see that as a life-or-death issue.”

“Watch more carefully,” Collen said, restarting the video. He paused it at the point where Gazenga settled in next to the woman and proceeded frame by frame. “Look at his right arm.”

Everything below the elbow was obscured, but Drake saw Gazenga’s shoulder come up a bit and then drop back down when the elevator stopped. The woman glanced up at him and then watched incuriously as he got off.

“The elevator jerked, he bumped the woman next to him, and then he left. What are you driving at, Dave?”

“He put something in her pocket. Watch it again.”

Drake frowned skeptically as it rolled for a third time. It was possible to interpret the movement of his arm as lifting his hand level with the pocket in her jacket, but it was a hell of a lot easier to interpret it as nothing.

“I appreciate your thoroughness, Dave, and I think a little paranoia is probably warranted at this point, but—”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“Randi Russell.”

Drake knew the name—everyone with sufficient clearance did—but they’d never met personally. “Last I heard she was chasing some Taliban explosives expert through the Hindu Kush.”

“Yeah. Apparently he met with an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“He got in the way of one of Randi’s bullets and then fell off a six-hundred-foot cliff. She’s back at headquarters for a couple months while things in Afghanistan cool off.”

“Okay, but she and Brandon would have no way of knowing each other, and as far as I can remember, she’s worked on every continent on the planet
except
Africa. If you’re right and he’s getting cold feet, why would he go to her?”

Collen fell into one of the chairs facing Drake’s desk. “Smith had a fiancée awhile back—she died from being infected by the Hades virus.”

“So?”

“Her name was Sophia Russell.”

Drake felt the knot that had been tied in his stomach since he’d started this operation tighten. “They’re related?”

“Sisters. And to the degree that Russell and Smith are close to anyone, they’re close to each other.”

Drake stared down at the frozen image on the laptop for a moment. “Still, it could be a coincidence.”

“There’s more security footage of what Brandon did
after
he got off the elevator. He had no business on that floor and just went straight for the stairs and back to his office.”

The tightness in Drake’s stomach began to spread to his chest. “Have we checked her out?”

“As soon as I got this, I had her called into a meeting. We turned the heat up and she took off her jacket. When they broke for coffee I checked her pocket. Nothing.”

“Then either there was nothing there to begin with…”

“Or she got the message.”

Drake opened a drawer and pulled out two Excedrins, downing them without a drink to stave off the headache he knew was coming. “If he did pass her something, it could have been anything—an invitation to a private chat room or to an e-mail account with a damn treatise on everything we’ve done.”

“I’ve gone through all his computer usage,” Collen said. “He’s a clever little bastard, but I found the footprints of his search for someone to contact. I’m pretty confident that we have a handle on everything he’s done electronically.”

“Then a time and place. A meeting.”

Collen nodded.

“If you’re wrong and she has something on us…”

“The minute I saw the video I put heavy surveillance on her. If she knows something, we’ll eventually find out about it.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough, Dave. Randi Russell is the last person we need getting her teeth into this thing. If she…” Drake’s voice lost its strength for a moment, fading under the weight of the disaster scenarios playing out in his mind. He stood and paced across his expansive office for a few moments before stopping on a rug that bore the CIA seal. “Are we prepared to move against Gazenga?”

“We’ve been ready since the day we brought him in. Should we go?”

“Can we afford to?”

“The short answer is no,” Collen said. “We think Omidi is in Uganda, and Brandon’s using his contacts to try to confirm—contacts I don’t have a relationship with. On the other hand, can we afford not to?”

“Damn Castilla and his ops team! This should have never gotten this complicated. Do it. Get rid of him. And I expect you to pick up the slack, Dave. No excuses.”

“What about Russell?”

“It’s the same story, isn’t it? Killing her is dangerous. But leaving her alive is potentially suicidal.”

“Then we’re considering dealing with her?”

Drake gave a short nod.

“I’ll start laying the groundwork, but it’s going to take time. When it comes to walking away when she should be dead, Randi Russell is a witch. This has to be planned to the very last detail.”

“We don’t have time to play around, Dave. I want to see a summary of possible options by tomorrow afternoon.”

A
NY HOPE THAT THEIR
arrest had been a simple matter of the army’s coincidentally showing up at the worst possible moment could now be safely discarded. The situation they found themselves in exceeded even the worst-case scenarios Smith had come up with on the ride there. And he was a man whose life could pretty much be summed up as one worst-case scenario after another.

There had been no calls to the embassy, no lawyers, and no questions asked or answered. The windowless room they were in was made entirely of crumbling concrete, with a rusty steel door that looked like it had been salvaged from a battleship. The air was hot and increasingly unsuitable for breathing as the carbon dioxide from their breath slowly built up.

Furniture consisted of three chairs, each bolted down and each equipped with sturdy leather straps on the arms and legs. Much worse, though, were the streams of dried blood leading from beneath them to a drain in the floor.

Sarie was feeling around the jamb, slipping her shaking fingers into the gaps and pulling futilely when she managed to get a grip. Howell had nodded off on the floor shortly after he’d satisfied himself that there was no way they were getting through the door, past the guards posted outside, and out of the dilapidated military base beyond. Saving energy and air to fight another day.

Smith crossed the room and put a hand on Sarie’s shoulder. They’d been trapped there for eight hours, and probably half of that she’d spent pacing like a trapped animal.

“Why don’t you take a piece of floor next to Peter and get some rest. Let me work on the door for a while.”

She looked back at him, obviously trying to control her fear but still looking a little wild-eyed. “We have to get out of here, Jon. This isn’t America. The government can do whatever it wants to you. They can—”

A quiet grinding became audible, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her behind him as he backed away. Howell was immediately on his feet and skirting the wall to take a position in a corner to the side of the door that was now slowly opening.

Five heavily armed soldiers poured in, taking up positions that made any thought of escape impossible. Howell folded his arms casually in front of his chest with no fewer than three guns lined up on him.

The next man who entered was easily recognizable. He was well over six feet, with spindly legs that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his bulky torso or the countless medals splashed across his uniform.

Charles Sembutu. The president of Uganda.

He’d enjoyed iron-fisted control over the country for years now, but that control was slipping. It was widely believed that he’d tolerated Bahame’s rise, using the man’s brutality to drum up fear that allowed him to consolidate ever-more power in order to “fight terrorism.” But he’d gotten greedy and given Bahame too long a leash, leaving Kampala in danger of being overrun from the north.

A leather-backed chair and a desk with the presidential seal laid into it were rolled in, and Sembutu sat, spreading their passports out on the blotter. “Dr. van Keuren’s reputation precedes her,” he said, appraising Smith coolly. “And despite his fake passport, I’m sorry to say that Mr. Howell’s does as well. But you…You are a mystery.”

“My name is Dr. Jon Smith. I’m a microbiologist with—”

“The American army,” Sembutu said, finishing his sentence. “With a fairly varied background, yes? Special forces, Military Intelligence. And I’m told you’re quite capable with a knife.”

“That was—”

“You’ll speak only when I ask you a direct question,” Sembutu said, slapping a massive hand down on the desktop. “What are you doing in my country?”

“I’m on a leave of absence from the army. I’m a virologist by training, but I’ve been spending some time on parasites lately. I had an opportunity to come on this expedition with Sarie and I took it.”

“And you brought along a former SAS man?”

“It seemed wise, Mr. President. I have some military training, but in the end I’m just a medical doctor—”

“You think my country is unsafe? That I cannot control it?”

This was probably a good time to dust off the little he knew about diplomacy. The purpose of the room was very clear, and spending the next few days strapped into one of those chairs freshening the stains on the floor wasn’t how he wanted to end his life.

“Not at all, sir. I’m fully aware of the strides Uganda has made since you became president. But I also know how hard it is to implement reforms in remote rural areas, so I decided to err on the side of caution.”

A humorless smile spread across Sembutu’s face. “I am not a simpleton, Doctor. I think you’ll find I’m not so easily handled.”

“It wasn’t my intention, sir. I—”

“Why were you at the hospital?”

Smith had spent much of the time they’d been imprisoned there considering every reason they could have been arrested, but their visit to the hospital had run a distant second to their side trip to see Peter’s arms dealer.

“We found some research on a parasite that infects humans and wanted to ask Dr. Lwanga if he was familiar with it. We—”

“And then you described something very much like Caleb Bahame’s attacks on villages in the North.”

Smith let his expression go blank. “Caleb Bahame? The terrorist? I don’t understand, sir. This is a parasite that causes insanity and blood loss. What would that have to do with Bahame?”

Sembutu examined him carefully, but it was impossible to discern if he was buying the completely plausible lie. Americans tended not to pay much attention to the various skirmishes going on in Africa. Why would an army doctor know the details of Bahame’s attacks?

“It doesn’t matter if you understand what this has to do with Bahame, Colonel. He is a psychotic who fills children with methamphetamines, paints them with blood, and convinces them to kill their own families. The uneducated people in the rural areas believe it is magic, and this is how he spreads misery in my country. If it becomes public that there is an American army doctor taking an interest in him, it will only serve to strengthen his legend and people’s belief in his power.”

“But we didn’t intend—”

“I don’t care what you did or did not intend!” Sembutu shouted. “If Bahame succeeds, he will kill every living thing in Uganda and then move on to other countries. America cares little about this, but I have a responsibility to the people of my country. To my subjects.”

“Mr. President,” Sarie cut in, her voice displaying a calm Smith knew she didn’t feel. “We’re not experts on politics or war. We’re just scientists…”

Sembutu glanced in her direction for a moment and then back to Howell and Smith. “All evidence to the contrary.”

“Our main objective is a parasite that affects ants,” she continued. “This was just something interesting that came up when we were doing research. We’d already discarded the idea of looking for it because we concluded that if Dr. Lwanga hasn’t heard of it, it probably doesn’t exist.”

“An ant…,” Sembutu said skeptically.

“Yes, sir. I do a lot of work with ants.”

The room went silent for a few moments before Sembutu spoke again. “I have to tell you that if it weren’t for Dr. van Keuren, you may well have found yourselves residents of one of our prisons. But her work with malaria has been a great help to people throughout Africa and I am indeed aware of her work with insects.”

He held their passports out across the desk. “I’ve included a card with my personal phone number. If you encounter any problems, you have my permission to use it. And as military men, if you should come across any information on Bahame and his army, I would very much appreciate you passing it on to me. I understand that your government and many others question my legitimacy and methods. But I believe that you are realistic men who understand the way the world works. And as such, you understand that, while I may not be perfect in the eyes of the West, I am the lesser of the evils in this situation.”

Smith didn’t immediately move, a bit stunned by the sudden, almost schizophrenic turnaround. Was Sembutu saying they were free to go in return for the remote possibility of them passing him some minor intelligence?

“That’s very gracious of you, Mr. President,” Sarie said, snatching up the passports before the man changed his mind.

Sembutu nodded. “We are most grateful for your work, Doctor, and wish you continued success. Good day.”

C
HARLES SEMBUTU WATCHED
the three whites being escorted out of the room and sat alone as their footsteps faded. Despite the fact that they were lying, they would be taken back to their hotel, and when they checked out they would find their bill taken care of by the Ugandan government.

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.”