Implant Page 20

  Charles walked to the corner and opened the fridge. There was no beer, just his lunch, some soda, and plain yogurt that he ate whenever his stomach acted up. “Want a Fanta?”

  “No, I could use a beer. Or something harder if you’ve got it.”

  “A beer? What you need is coffee.” He didn’t mention that he kept a bottle of Scotch in the cabinet to share a drink when the president visited.

  “You know what worries me about you?” William asked abruptly. “I don’t trust your loyalties.”

  Charles was taken aback. “What are you talking about? I am completely loyal to this country. I have never taken a bribe, I have never been derelict in my duties. Nobody has ever claimed that I didn’t have Namibia’s best interests at heart.”

  William nodded. “That’s what I’m talking about. Have you seen Okisbo lately?”

  “You know I have. I go see mother twice a month. I just got back from the village the day before yesterday.”

  “And did you see the new clinic? The school?”

  “I did, they’re very nice. They both have your name on them. And big pictures of your smiling face in the lobby. But I can’t see how you came up with the money. And your job has nothing to do with health or education, so why are you messing around with schools and clinics?”

  “This is exactly my point,” William said in an excited tone. “You’re trying to tell me that I can’t help my own village, where my mother still lives, where I have three sisters and eleven nieces and nephews. And even if you didn’t tell me, it would be obvious that was your opinion because you’ve done nothing to help them.”

  “I’m a poor man. I don’t have the resources.”

  “You choose to be poor. You’re like a priest or a monk, you think it makes you righteous to walk around in shoes that are more polish than leather, in a six year old car.”

  Charles felt heat rising in his face. Leave it to his brother to spin corruption as a virtue. “Is there something you want to tell me that has something to do with my job, or is this a social call?”

  “All those people in Okisbo believed in you. They pitched in their money to buy you books, helped pay for your school.”

  “And now they expect payback, is that it?”

  “They expect gratitude.”

  “I am grateful. But the way I’m going to help them is not by letting Namibia sink into the same mire that has ruined half of Africa. You think taking bribes and doing favors for multinational corporations is going to help Okisbo?”

  “I built a school and a clinic,” William said. “What have you done?”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I need your help,” his brother said. “I know what this country needs, and I know what’s holding it back. I thought the Americans were going to help me, but the Americans only help the Americans. They didn’t like what happened in Kaokoland, and now they’re pulling out. But it’s too late now, I’ve got to take a risk.”

  “What kind of help are you talking about?” Charles asked. It had to be something big and dangerous. Because William must be desperate to come to his office, knowing how he felt about William’s way of doing business.

  “The Old Crab won’t help me, but there are other officers in the army, more sympathetic. Thing is, I can’t have you mucking around when I’m trying to make things right.”

  “Does this mean you’re planning an attack on the Blackwing contractors? Aren’t you the one who helped the Chinese get their concessions in the first place? You gave them preferential information to bid for leases.”

  “I’ve got to go,” William said, “but I want you to remember what I’ve done in Okisbo. I reward those who help me, and I never forget those who stood in my way. Think about it.”

  #

  Markov lay on his belly, staring through the scope on the sniper rifle as his two men broke down the hotel room door and burst inside with leveled shotguns. Two shots, one after another.

  Almost at once, he heard car doors open behind him, shouts in Spanish. That would be the two Mexican police officers that Carlos Aguilar had sent to keep an eye on him while he made the arrest. Except this was no arrest, it was an extra-legal execution.

  But Markov couldn’t take his eye from that sight, not while the possibility still existed—slim as it may be—that Ian Westhelle would burst free from that room, armed. It would be up to Markov to take him down.

  And so he ignored the Mexican police as they came behind him, shouting at him to step away from the rifle.

  Markov’s men emerged from the hotel room. They looked his way and shook their heads. Behind him, the Mexican police kept shouting. Lights blinked on in the other occupied hotel rooms.

  “Cálmense,” he told the police officers. Calm down. “Nothing happened. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Markov made his way across the parking lot with the riled up police officers trailing.

  “Room’s empty,” one of his men said. The third came around from the far side of the building where he’d been watching the back window.

  “What do you mean, empty? Then what were you shooting at?”

  “We’ll show you.” He reached around and flicked on the light and the entire group made its way inside.

  Even with the light on, Markov gave a start. There were pillows propped against the bed frame in such a way that at first glance it looked like someone sitting there. Ian and Julia had ’taken the hanger rod from the closet and propped it against the bed frame so that it looked like the pillow man was leveling a shotgun at the door.

  No wonder the agents had started firing at once. The shots had shredded the center pillows and scattered feathers across the bed.

  “He did it on purpose,” Markov said. “Made it look like someone was in here.”

  “Why would he do that?” one of his men asked.

  Markov eyed the contraption. It was a clever ruse. “Because he wanted you to shoot. Maybe the police would come, maybe we’d get tangled up with the locals and by the time we extricated ourselves, they’d be that much further ahead.”

  He glanced back at the Mexican police. Ian Westhelle had done well on that score. The officers calmed down now that they saw there was no body in the hotel room to clean up and explain to their superiors, but Markov would still have to explain to Aguilar why his men had burst in shooting. He’d promised they would fire only in self-defense.

  He walked around the room, careful not to touch anything. There were two beds, the first with the pillow man and the second closer to the bathroom. Both beds had been slept in.

  Markov thought about that for a minute. The scene challenged his assumptions.

  Most importantly, if Ian Westhelle had suffered a psychotic break it didn’t show. He was sane enough that Julia had followed him 2,000 miles, across national borders, of her own free choice. And he was sane enough to change cars, pass the border in disguise, and pull off this trap to slow pursuit.

  But what about the crazed man in the jail cell in Namibia? And the official story about how Ian had killed Kendall. Was that all a lie?

  As for Julia, she obviously hadn’t come along for a thrilling romantic fling, as he’d been thinking since Utah. She was an attractive woman, nicely built and with a cute face. If she’d thrown herself at Ian, surely they’d be sharing a bed by now.

  Combined, these details added to an uncomfortable conclusion. Julia and Ian really did intend to go back to Namibia. And why? To find out the truth, of course.

  So what was Markov doing trying to stop them?

  #

  It was almost noon before Markov escaped the mess in Querétaro. It took another six hours of frantic calls and Mexican security personnel pouring over airport surveillance footage to discover that Ian and Julia had flown out of Mexico City that morning—just an hour or two after Markov’s men burst into their vacated hotel room. Destination: Cuba.

  Almost twenty-four more hours passed before he followed their trail first to Frankfurt, Germany and then to Cape Town
, South Africa.

  Markov pinged a pair of field agents in Namibia to bring them live, three more in South Africa. By the time his quarry had a rental car and disappeared into South Africa, Markov was already on a company jet in Mexico City, taxiing across the tarmac.

  Meanwhile, Sarah Redd emailed, texted, and phoned again and again. They were mostly demands for results and/or updates. He was too exhausted to deal with her at the moment or do anything but find a way to get to sleep. He refused offers of drinks, coffee, and food from the CIA flight crew and settled into his bed. It was dark now, but he flew east, and all too soon the plane and the rotating Earth would conspire to jerk him back into daylight.

  Minutes later the vast, glittering expanse of Mexico City spread below him. The plane angled sharply as it left the city behind, and made a direct course for Namibia. There were benefits of having his own jet to command. With any luck, he’d arrive before Ian and Julia.

  Chapter Twenty-eight:

  Julia waited until the plane was only an hour from Cape Town on the twelve hour flight from Frankfurt before she detached the satellite phone from the seat in front of her. She hesitated with her credit card.

  It would be the first time that she’d used a card since she’d taken out money from the ATM in Nephi, Utah. She figured the call itself could be traced, so it wouldn’t matter at this point if she gave up her location by using the credit card.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ian asked. He leaned in and kept his voice low enough that she had to strain to hear it over the ambient roar of the engines and the other sounds inside and out of the cabin.

  She leaned in as well, so close she could smell him. Neither of them had bathed since that dumpy place in Querétaro, where Ian had insisted on leaving in the middle of the night. Said he had a bad feeling. Either his instincts had saved their lives or cost them a good night of sleep. She couldn’t decide.

  Since then, they’d passed every hour either in air conditioned cars, airports, or on planes, so he didn’t smell bad, just very much like a man.

  “We need Terrance’s help,” Julia said. “Assuming we get Kendall’s implant we’ll still need to get at the data. I know how. Chang liked to pawn off the little stuff so he taught me how to get the data, do routine analysis, that sort of thing. It was too mundane to waste his time on.” She rolled her eyes, “So he gave it to the brain surgeon. Anyway, I’ve got the probe, and we can buy a new laptop in Cape Town, and we’ll be all set with hardware. But we don’t have the client software installed on the laptop.”

  “What do you mean client software?”

  “The implant has its own software, right? Preinstalled, tells it how to go into its different modes and all that. And the probe can activate it, make it send out a bunch of data.”

  “Got that part, okay.”

  “So the laptop can capture all the data, but it needs the client software to know how to do that.”

  “Ah, I got it. Well, we can pick up a laptop in South Africa, but it doesn’t exactly come with CIA stuff preinstalled.”

  “Exactly. I’ll need to access my email account and have someone send me a bunch of zipped up files with all the software. I’ll install it and we’ll be good to go. Terrance can get the software for me.”

  “Assuming we can trust him,” Ian said.

  “Things have been tough lately, I admit it. But once I tell him what’s going on, he’ll help. He’s not a company man like Markov.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “About as sure as I am that you’re not crazy. Which is to say…mostly sure.”

  He smiled. “Fair enough. You’re taking a risk on me, I can take a risk on your husband.”

  She slid the card into the reader, then dialed Terrance’s cell phone. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Julia?”

  “It’s me, honey. Sorry I didn’t call earlier and I’m sorry I lied about going to that conference.”

  “I don’t care about that, I just want to know if you’re okay. Did he take you hostage?”

  “No, nothing like that. Everything is fine.”

  “Okay, thank God you’re okay. Sarah said there was some kind of accident in Utah and you might have been…”

  “Accident?” she said with a snort. “That was no accident. They tried to kill me.”

  “We can talk about it later. Let’s just get you home. Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you,” she said. “I’m not sure you believe me and won’t tell Markov or Sarah. I told you, they tried to kill me, and they’ll do it again.”

  “What are you talking about? They wouldn’t try to kill you, that’s just crazy talk.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” Julia didn’t like the snap in her voice. She took a deep breath. “Just trust me for now, okay?”

  She expected him to push back, but he said, “Okay. But there’s got to be something I can do. I feel helpless sitting here, wondering what happened.”

  So she told him what she needed. He listened quietly while she explained how he could email the zipped up files for the client software.

  “If you’re right that they’re looking for you,” Terrance said when she’d finished, “then you might be locked out of the system. And if not, they’ll be monitoring your email.”

  “I thought about that, which is why you have to email the files to my personal account.”

  “You want me to send top secret files to an account hosted by a free web service? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Damn it, Terrance, they’re trying to kill me!”

  Ian squeezed her arm and she looked to see that the outburst had drawn the attention of people in other seats. She lowered her voice, “Do you want me to die? Because if you don’t, you’ve got to help me.”

  Her husband said nothing for a long time. There was something noisy in the background, like heavy machinery running. And someone shouted for Terrance.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” he said. “But yeah, I’ll send the files. Just don’t…don’t ever tell anyone about this. I need my job, no matter what happens.”

  “Thanks for the help. I really mean it.”

  “Sure, be safe.” He hung up.

  Ten minutes ago Terrance thought she was dead. Now he couldn’t manage an “I love you.” She held the receiver, awkwardly, noticing Ian’s gaze.

  Julia replaced the phone in its cradle just as the stewardess started her announcement. We are now beginning our initial descent into Cape Town, South Africa. At this time please turn off all personal electronic devices…

  She looked out the window to see a green, hilly country stretching away from a sweep of blue ocean. The vastness of Africa stretched to the east and north. She glanced back to Ian to see him looking past her shoulder with a distant look in his eyes.

  #

  Terrance Nolan was sick of being poor and had decided to do something about it.

  After he hung up the phone with his wife, he ducked his head to stay beneath the propeller and climbed into Malcolm Hathwell’s helicopter. It lifted into the air from its pad on an office tower in Lower Manhattan. The helicopter dipped its nose and turned north.

  “The only way to travel in New York,” Malcolm said over the noise of the propeller. “You should have called when you crossed the bridge and I’d have sent it to pick you up.”

  “I had a car and driver,” Terrance said in a tone he meant to sound dismissive. He was too proud to mention that said car was yellow with a meter.

  A few years ago Terrance and Julia had taken the tour to the observation deck on top of the Empire State Building. Julia’s idea of course—it was too silly and touristy for his taste—but he had to admit that the view was breathtaking. This was even better, like a topographic map of the city that scrolled beneath them as they flew north. Skyscrapers flew by in clumps, first at Lower Manhattan, and then Midtown. Finally, the green swath of Central Park drifted below and to their left.

  As they traveled, Malcolm pointed out a rea
l estate development that he had a hand in, favorite restaurants and galleries, a friend’s yacht in the East River, an office building where he was a part owner. The guy may have been a hedge fund manager and rich as a Saudi prince, but he wasn’t sitting still.

  “So how are things with you?” Malcolm asked. “You know, I always pegged you as a Wall Street guy myself. I remember cribbing off your test that time in stats and wishing I knew my numbers as well as you did. Was surprised when you took a government job.”

  “The CIA is a good stepping stone for other positions. Think tanks, private boards, all of that.”

  “Sure, but you’ve got to get out early enough to make it worth your while. Start earning a living.”

  Truth was, Terrance’s career had stalled. Some of it was Julia’s fault; if she hadn’t been so damn preoccupied with medical school and then her residency—building her own career, in short—he could have put in the hours, made the contacts necessary to get ahead.

  At this point he was a nobody. Until he became a somebody, all those think tanks and private boards would have no use for him.

  In the meantime, he needed money. His backers had disappeared the instant Sarah Redd pulled the plug on the project. Maybe they hadn’t given up on Namibia, but they’d given up on Terrance Nolan.

  It had been a perfect plan. Sarah would send CIA assets to Namibia, find out the strength of the Chinese camp. Then, when the coup went down, American air power would neutralize the Blackwing contractors while the rebels took control of the Namibian government. All that oil would still be in the ground and someone would have to get it up. The new government would offer no-bid contracts to Sarah and Terrance’s friends, who would, in turn, show proper appreciation to their benefactors.

  Sarah had the authority to pull it off, Terrance the knowhow to make friends in appropriately low places. The implants were perfect subjects, since they didn’t even need to know what they were looking for. They could scope out the military base, and Sarah could get the full specs on everything necessary to make the coup successful with a minimal commitment of U.S. troops and aircraft. But now the coup was off. Terrance had almost panicked before a beautiful realization occurred to him. He’d bet on the wrong horse, but that didn’t matter because the race hadn’t started yet. Still time to change his wager.