Deep Cover (The Trigger Man Book 2), page 21
The proprietor shrugged. “You don’t want to go to the CAR.”
“Why not?”
The man laughed as he placed the cash in his wallet rather than the cash register. “It’s a war, man. The CAR is eating itself alive. Muslim versus Christian. Christian versus Muslim. Refugees turn up here every day, have done so since 2014, escaping the violence. They swamp the NGOs in this town with almost twenty thousand displaced persons now. You’ll see refugees if you head to the CAR, walking the road but all coming the other way.”
“Violence?” Pierce asked, playing the innocent. “I thought the CAR situation had settled down?”
The man’s laughter became like a roar. “Not with Daniel Eloko and his terrorists. He thinks he’s the next Joseph Kony. He thinks his soldiers are the next Lord Resistance Army. They find you, they will rob and kill you. They’ll use machetes to hack you to pieces. Don’t go to the CAR.”
Pierce nodded. From what he had read on Daniel Eloko, the warlord was very much like the terrorist Kony, controlling paramilitary organisations that raped and murdered their way across large tracts of Africa, smuggled diamonds, gold and ivory to fund their operations and purchase weapons, and promoted child prostitution and child soldiers. Ironically, Eloko had started out as a child soldier himself, so knew no better life to strive for. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll be careful.”
Outside at the bowser, a rusted 1980s model Jeep had parked next to Pierce’s Land Cruiser. A tall thin man in an orange shirt and sky-blue cargo pants several sizes too large peered into the vehicle’s windshield.
“Can I help you?” Pierce asked, his hand resting on the HK45CT pressed up against the small of his back.
The man looked up, startled. When he saw Pierce, he relaxed his stance and said, “Sorry. Are you Dr Mendez?”
“No.”
“Oh.” The hope drained from his face. “Are you a doctor? A medical professional?”
“No,” Pierce said again. “I’m a journalist. Danny Hunter.” He used the second of the two legends Valeriya and Yebin had prepared for him.
The man nodded. “A journalist, hey? Print?”
Pierce nodded. “Well, all the broadsheets are online now as well.”
“Which paper?”
“All of them. I’m freelance.”
“Okay. Well, maybe you could write a story about the refugee situation here. I’m happy to have our story published anywhere. The UN is moving in, again, because of Eloko and his forces. Refugee numbers are on the rise, and these people need doctors. We all need doctors.” He handed Pierce a business card, with the blue-on-white globe of the United Nations imprinted in the corner. It said his name was David Nogambi, an Aid Worker with the United Nations Refugee Agency. The address was Cameroon’s capital, Yaoundé.
“Sorry,” Pierce said as he took the gas pump and fuelled his Land Cruiser. “I only write travel articles. I’m here for the Dzanga-Sangha Special Reserve. You know, African forest elephants, western lowland gorillas, and bongo antelopes.”
“You are crazy. People don’t need to read about reserves they’ll never visit. Eloko’s bandits, they are there. You should stay here to write your story about him. Otherwise, he finds you, kills you, and takes your money and equipment. The UN gets nothing.”
“The reserve, you’re saying it’s dangerous?”
Nogambi laughed.
“Okay. I’ll be careful.” Pierce made a deliberate gesture to scratch his head as the tank filled, and he returned the pump to the bowser. “I have expensive cameras and audio equipment, laptops, satellite phones and… David, can you tell me how to secure it across the border?”
The UN worker looked bored now that he had figured there was nothing Pierce could do for him. “The border guards aren’t your problem. Pay them fifty euros each and you’ll cross, no problem. Other than the bandits, the deteriorated roads are problematic, from here all the way to Rwanda. This is the wet season, so sometimes the rivers are too high to cross. Also, the Anti-Balaka and Eloko’s thugs, they like to dig trenches through roads to make them impassable. Like I said, you are crazy to go. But I see you will go anyway. And I need to find my doctor.”
He climbed into his Jeep and drove off.
Pierce took his Land Cruiser through the town until he found a house with thick wooden planks scattered in its yard. He offered ten euros for four lengths of timber, which the owner accepted, strapped them to the rack of his Land Cruiser, and drove east into the mud, the rain, the mist and the dense, imposing jungle.
44
Bayanga, Central African Republic
After the Cessna taxied and came to a halt in Polytope’s poor excuse for a mining camp, Walsh stepped out and immediately smelled the stench of a rotting jungle. Then he heard screeching monkeys scrambling in the tall jungle trees growing to the edge of the runway. The army of primates had discovered a flowering tree ripe with fruit ready for the eating. They fought each other for the easy pickings and hissed often, warning other hungry animals and birds away. They reminded Walsh of the team he had picked for this failing mission.
He checked the straps were tight on his ballistic vest and that the holstered M9 Beretta semi-automatic pistol on his hip was within easy reach. He could do nothing about the constant stabbing pain in his gut.
“Sergeant. Molly,” he said with a nod as Alex Trager and the Scottish nuclear scientist approached him, both with red eyes and glum faces. “I’m sorry to hear about Javor. He was a good man.”
Trager’s lips tightened. “Pierce killed him.”
“Not directly, but that is why we are here, to deal with him. Pierce is coming to us, so we’ll be ready.”
Trager raised a questioning eyebrow to this revelation, but made no comment.
They took Trager’s Jeep and drove to the camp. Trager behind the wheel, Walsh next to him and Molly in the back. The roads were more mud than anything else, and the jungle grew close enough for the leaves to hit them through the open windows. Litter of every kind polluted the road.
“You two aren’t saying much?” Walsh said after some time.
“Lots of people are dying, Idris,” Molly said without looking at either of them. Walsh could tell because he regularly checked on her through the rear-view mirror.
“And lots more will. You’re not losing your nerve, are you, Molly? You’re not starting to think you had a better deal with Hezbollah?”
No one said a word. Walsh again reminded them of the hellholes he had saved them from, and how he could make their lives miserable once more if they didn’t cooperate. He needed them focused and afraid, just long enough so he could extract himself from this mess should he need to.
Molly said, “Idris, don’t you care that thousands of people will die of radiation poisoning? Do you know how horrible that kind of death is? Your body erupts with sores. Your gums bleed, and the constant nausea stops you from eating. Hair falls out as your organs fail. If you’re lucky, you die before you go blind.”
Walsh tensed, then grimaced. “Stop the car!”
Trager slowed, then halted the Jeep.
Walsh turned to Molly and stared her down. “I’ll give you one chance, Molly McEwan. You can get out of the car now and walk away from all this. I won’t stop you. I’ll make sure no one stops you. You are free to go, to live your life however you want to live it.” He stepped out, opened her door and gestured for her to get out.
She didn’t move, and she wouldn’t look at him.
“Last chance.”
She crossed her arms and sank into the back seat.
“I thought so. If I hear you complain or question me again, or moan about the unfairness of our conspiracy, then it’s all over for you. You understand me? I’ll hand you over to Eloko and his men, and we all know that won’t end well. Your torments will become so horrible you will beg for death long before your end.”
After many seconds passed, while Molly refused to look at Walsh or speak to him, he noticed Trager fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. Closing the door again and returning to his seat, Walsh quickly spied Trager slipping his SIG Sauer P226 semi-automatic pistol behind his leg and out of Walsh’s sight. He looked guilty, but also terrified. Walsh decided it was best just to pretend he hadn’t seen the gun. He still needed these two weak-assed individuals, so he’d pander to their emotions just a little longer.
“Neither of you have anything to say?”
Trager cleared his throat. “No. I’m good.” He looked to Molly. “We’re both good.”
“Good! Now that’s sorted, shut the fuck up, Molly.” Walsh turned to Trager. “Drive, Sergeant. We have an important meeting to attend.”
They arrived at Eloko’s headquarters a few minutes later. Many quasi-soldiers in their green military uniforms and with outdated assault rifles wandered the base on supposed guard duty, cigarettes or marijuana spliffs hanging from their mouths. The base too was a disgrace and lacked the military discipline Trager had grown to expect during his career. Rubbish piles had a sickly-sweet smell that would have left Walsh gagging if he hadn’t already grown used to their stench from his many previous visits. The huts were rotten wood and falling apart. Rusting military vehicles and armoured personnel carriers were older models from the Cold War era that spewed thick diesel fumes from their exhausts. Loud thrash-metal music played from whining speakers. Under a thatched hut roof, a soldier fucked a prostitute, his ass gyrating in the air for everyone to see. Further down the road, the naked corpse of a supposed Seleka spy hung upside down from the branch of a high jungle tree. Eloko’s men had cut him in many places so he had bled out, and now the flies circled him night and day.
Fuck, he hated this hellhole.
When they stepped from the Jeep, the three entered the one decent transportable hut, propped up on concrete blocks so the wet wouldn’t rot the shaky floorboards.
Inside, Ponsonby and Eloko sat next to each other at the table. For the first time in months, all the key conspirators had congregated in one location.
Seated in the middle of the room was Rupert Ponsonby, with his ironed and expensive shirt, designer jeans, aviator sunglasses and buffed-up hair to hide his thinning scalp. The only aspect of him that was cheap was the gumboots worn to protect his feet from mud. His left hand hid under a bandage, healing a broken finger. Another bandage under his shirt covered his recent bullet wound. Yet Ponsonby looked elated, like he had just won big on the races or completed a business deal that would make him another easy million dollars. Almost dying from an assassin’s bullet didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.
At the worktable next to Ponsonby, Captain Daniel Eloko sat in meditation, yet projected the typical arrogance expected of African warlords. His uniform, while threadbare, was clean, and his burgundy beret projected an unspoken image of authority. He sat with his hands clasped in prayer around a gold cross that hung around his throat, and mumbled a sermon to his god. The captain asked the “all mighty” for the strength to destroy his enemies and bring peace to the Christian paradise he had created inside the Central African Republic. He prayed for several minutes, ignoring everyone in the room.
Clasping his hands together, Walsh looked at them all one by one and said, “Good. You are all here. It’s time to slaughter Mark Pierce and bring our conspiracy to a close.”
45
Eloko called a boy soldier into the hut, then told him to bring beers for his guests. Because of his liver, Walsh insisted on a non-alcoholic beverage and requested a Coke. The boy nodded and exited, while the stock of his AK-47 slung over his back dragged on the floor.
The warlord gestured for everyone to take a seat, to remind everyone he was in charge. But everyone knew the actual power of their group lay with Idris Walsh. The American spymaster, however, didn’t care for other people’s pretences, only for results, so didn’t correct Eloko.
Once seated, they waited in silence until the drinks came. When the boy returned, he still carried his AK-47 while he balanced the drinks in his tiny hands, the weapon weighing him down and exaggerating his already small stature.
Walsh took the Coke the young boy offered him. The humidity was worse inside the hut, where there was no breeze, and the spymaster was soon sweating more than anyone else. He took a tablet from a prescription bottle and washed it down with the sugary caffeinated drink. He touched his gut as it spasmed painfully. When the pain passed, he said, “Pierce is on his way to us. I have an asset in play who just reported he’s tracked our enemy to Cameroon. This asset should soon eliminate Pierce once and for all. But if my man fails and Pierce reaches us, Captain, you will need to have your men ready.”
“Do not be afraid. Captain Eloko’s Ghost Men of Africa will not fail me. They have God’s strength and my magic to protect them. Each volunteer carries the bullet I have divined will be the bullet that kills them, so as long as they carry their bullets on their person, no other bullet can harm them. Even if fired from a weapon used by Mark Pierce.”
Walsh snorted out a fake laugh. “Bulletproof, hey?”
“Exactly!”
“More importantly, they have my training,” said Trager.
Eloko gave the Australian an icy stare.
Trager drank his beer and looked away. Walsh noted that the special forces veteran was falling apart. Or perhaps, instead, he was detecting the signs of guilt. What was Trager hiding from Idris Walsh?
Trager eventually stared back, and Walsh found his confidence again, and Trager said, “Well, what intel do you have?”
Walsh threw two files on the table with prominent photographs of two women pinned to their front covers. Both were attractive, the first Asian with long dark hair, the other a fair-skinned Caucasian with a dark pixie-style haircut. “Rachel Zang and Mackenzie Summerfield. Two disgraced CIA operatives who turned against me and have allied with Pierce. Both are dangerous in their own ways. Zang because she is a skilled paramilitary operator, as dangerous as Pierce and just as effective. Summerfield because she is one of the best intelligence analysts and mission planners I’ve ever come across. Captain, you need to watch the airports and borders for these women too, and you need to kill them on sight. Pierce alone will be dangerous enough, but if he teams up with these two…”
“May I?” Trager gestured to the files. Walsh nodded, so Trager gathered them up. He perused them for a long minute, then threw the files back on the table. “I’ll deal with them both.”
Eloko and Trager both hunting Pierce, Zang and Summerfield with separate teams. This concept appealed to Walsh because of the chaos and confusion it would cause, so said, “Well then, we are all agreed. The three enemies must die. No capture. No intimidation. Two teams to take him out, delivering just simple death?”
Ponsonby picked at a nail. “I want to see the bodies.” When all eyes fell upon the Englishman, his voice rose an octave. “The cad shot me. I could have died. I need to know Pierce won’t come after me again.”
Walsh’s nod was slight.
No one else spoke a word.
Then Walsh threw another file on the table. “You should also know that this morning, Pierce secured a secret US Navy SEAL weapon and supply cache in Cameroon. That’s how my man knows he’s there, because the cache triggered a coded message back to SEAL headquarters, and a camera inside filmed Pierce opening it.”
Trager said, “Your man is ex-SEAL?”
Walsh nodded. “That’s the inventory list Pierce stole.”
Trager grabbed it without asking for permission and scanned the contents. “Modern assault rifles, pistols, sniper rifles, even a fucking Switchblade drone-missile combo. This just gets better and better.”
“I’m not the one who allowed Pierce to frame me as an assassin.” Walsh spoke through gritted teeth.
Trager tensed, then slowed his breathing and seemed to focus on what all this intel Walsh was throwing at them meant. “What about Pierce’s past, before he joined the CIA? Walsh, do you have clearance to know what that was? Because if Pierce knows secret SEAL in-country supply drop locations, he’s got to be ex-SEAL. Intel like that could be the difference between us surviving this, or all of us dying in a muddy jungle cesspit in a few days from now.”
“You overestimate Pierce,” said Eloko, his hands again in prayer. “The man is a non-believer. I’ve already divined his future. He will die, in two days from now, at my hands. I will shoot him in the gut, just outside this hut after I have tortured him, and he will bleed out. You need not fear this man.”
“This is bullshit!” Trager exploded. “This operation is a fucking mess, and none of you seem to see it. Javor’s dead. Pierce is free and now has allies. The assassination attempt against you, Ponsonby, has exposed us and drawn public links between us all except Walsh.” He pointed to Ponsonby and Eloko. “And worst of all, we’ve got two volatile dirty bombs in play that anyone could discover before we get the other four into place.”
“We are all aware of the situation, Trager,” said Ponsonby, looking down his nose at him.
Trager squeezed his fists together, and the muscles in his arms tightened like coiled ropes. Then a mosquito buzzed near Trager’s ear, distracting him, so he waved his hand close to warn it away, ruining the macho display of his raw power.
“Are you done?” said Walsh.
Trager nodded, realising that he had overreacted to the mosquito.
“Then we are in agreement.” Walsh spoke before any of the other conspirators could. “Three targets, marked for death.”
