Bargain With the Devil: A Historical Espionage Thriller, page 11
Volkov and Okong herded their troops out the door, banishing them to opposite ends of the yard.
While this was going on, De Wet noticed Avakian on the periphery. “Thanks for all the help, mate.”
“Not in my employment contract,” said Avakian. The bar table was unbroken, so he paused to recharge his glass with another two fingers of scotch. “Besides, it seems I’m the only one around here who’s not packing heat.”
“Excuse me,” said a mature female voice behind them.
Avakian turned, and there was an elegantly dressed, silver-haired matron, face flushed and moist from all the excitement. “Yes?”
“Could you possibly pour me a large vodka?” she said.
“Certainly,” Avakian replied. Evaluating his customer with the eye of the barkeep he’d been in his younger years, he loaded a glass with ice and filled it to the brim with Stolichnaya. “Lemon? Lime?”
“Thank you, no.” She took the glass and drained it in three swallows, throat muscles pumping up and down. “How very exciting.”
“Quite,” said Avakian. He was waiting for her to wipe her mouth on her sleeve, but De Wet’s hand on his arm was beckoning him back to the study. “Please excuse me.”
“Of course,” she said, turning to the man next to her, who was queuing up for a drink himself. “Could you pour me a large vodka, please?”
On the way back to the study Avakian said to De Wet, “A little racial tension between the camps?”
“Who fucking knows? Bloody Russians can’t stay away from the booze even when they’re on the job. And the bloody Nigerians. Stiff-necked blacks always looking for an insult.”
It was always the human resources issues, Avakian thought.
In the study Okong was shouting at Volkov. “Keep your Russian animals under control!”
“Control?” Volkov shouted back. “If my men did not follow orders all yours would be dead. You know nothing of discipline!”
Avakian began scouting out available cover, in case this little alpha male struggle for dominance culminated in pistols being drawn again.
But Payne-Best solved that, though totally unintentionally. “Do you have any idea what that ruined furniture cost?”
Next to him De Wet sighed loudly. Avakian didn’t get far along in his countdown before the other two halted their squabble and rounded on Payne-Best.
“Furniture?” Volkov bellowed. “You are talking to us of furniture? You want perhaps me to write you a check?”
And then Okong followed it up with, “Just because your wife has squandered your money, do not think you can present us with any bills.”
“I don’t know about you,” Avakian said under his breath, “but I’m feeling so much better about our little conspiracy.”
“Don’t be a drama queen,” De Wet ordered. “You never worked with generals? This is par for the course.”
“That true about Payne-Best?” Avakian muttered.
“Don’t pretend you can’t use the cash,” De Wet retorted.
“There’s a difference between wanting it and needing to have it,” said Avakian.
“I was never at the top,” said De Wet. “I was paid, but never a piece of the action. This is my time. Payne-Best has a style he needs to maintain, that’s his business. You mind yours.”
At least Avakian now knew why the men he thought wouldn’t need this gig actually needed it badly. Neither of them had been among the top people in Corporate Solutions. And now it was time to finish defusing the situation. “Gentlemen,” he said in a tone firm enough to cut through the noise.
It gave him the silence he wanted. “Gentlemen,” he repeated, in a lower register now that he had their attention. “It’s getting late. What do you say we finish up our business?”
They stared at him for a moment, then Volkov began to laugh. “What do you say?” he demanded. “The voice of reason.” Then to Avakian alone. “This ability, it is worth money, my friend. And I know what I speak of. Negotiation is my business.” He thrust a hand toward Avakian, as if presenting a beauty queen. “The quiet man who keeps his head.”
“Right,” said Payne-Best, who always seemed just a bit tardy in salvaging a situation.
“You want me to do a close-target recce of all the objectives in Benin,” Avakian said, leaning over the table and picking up the conversational threat as if nothing had happened. He also intentionally used the British military term. “You want a surf zone and beach reconnaissance. You want a detailed look at the airport in case a beach landing isn’t tenable. You want a sense of the security situation in Cotonou; equipment, morale, and training of the police and military, and their routines. You want the schedule for the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. In short, you want the view from the ground.”
“Exactly,” said Payne-Best. He tapped the maps on the table. “Which of these do you need to take with you?”
“None,” said Avakian. “I’m not walking around either South Africa or Benin with military topographic maps or sat photos in my pocket.”
“When will you leave?” said Volkov.
“I’ll start making arrangements as soon as the money is deposited into my account,” said Avakian. “As far as details, I’ll be keeping my itinerary to myself. I won’t be checking in on the phone while I’m there, or sending any e-mail updates. I’ll give you a call when I get back.”
“Is all that paranoia really necessary?” Payne-Best asked. “We want you to complete the mission, after all.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Avakian. “My concern is anyone who doesn’t.”
“No one outside this room knows anything about the operation,” Payne-Best said coldly.
No one except all the other guests who saw that little bodyguard rumpus and then watched the five of them return to the study together. But Avakian didn’t mention that. What he said was, “All the better then. Let’s hope it stays that way.” He looked around the table. “This is usually the point where threats are communicated. Rather than bothering with all that, let’s just say that I have no desire to spend the rest of my life on the run from any or all of you gentlemen. You checked me out. You know that when I’m hired the job gets done. Let’s just say you’re aware of my concerns, and I’m aware of yours.”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said De Wet.
Chapter Seven
Avakian knew that the CIA would want to hear everything about his meeting with the conspirators as soon as possible. And that was exactly why he had no intention of telling them. At least not just yet. For the very same reason he refused to share his Benin itinerary with the coup plotters. This kind of business attracted some major control freaks, and if you gave them the opportunity and your cell number they’d be micromanaging your every move. More important, there was always the chance that at any point someone higher up in the CIA might decide that it was time to put an end to the plot, probably by notifying either the South African or Benin governments. Such a person would not consider Peter Avakian’s welfare a high priority, and if the plug got pulled at the wrong time he might very well find himself in a Benin jail trying to explain to unsympathetic ears that he was actually one of the good guys, working for the CIA. Who of course would never admit it.
You needed a visa to visit Benin. Which ordinarily wouldn’t be a problem, except that the country was so poor it only had ten embassies around the world. And none of them was in South Africa. The best he could come up with was a two-day trip. South African Airways from Cape Town to Johannesburg, then on to Nairobi, Kenya. Then Kenya Airways from Nairobi to Lagos, Nigeria. A day layover to pick up a visa at the Benin Embassy in Lagos, then the next day’s Kenya Airways flight to Cotonou, Benin. There were more direct routes, but only with African airlines that no sane person with any other alternative ought to contemplate flying on.
As he drove around Cape Town doing some last minute shopping Avakian had a sense of being followed. In a way it was reassuring that it had finally happened. Not that he planned to do anything about it. Always better to let them think you were oblivious. Might be mercenaries, or the CIA, or even South African security doing routine surveillance. The list was getting longer every day.
It happened when he stepped out of the Cape Town pharmacy with his prescription in hand. Atovaquone and proguanil, an anti-malaria combination that he’d have to take in Benin. At least they’d come up with something better than mefloquine. That stuff always gave him terrible nightmares.
The car door slamming attracted his attention. Avakian turned and put on his sunglasses while he waited for Patience Mbatha to make her away across the parking lot to him.
“This is what happens when I don’t give you my phone number?” he said. “You stalk me?”
“I stalk you because you won’t give me your phone number,” she replied.
“Touché,” said Avakian.
“I need to talk to you.”
Avakian looked out over the parking lot. Amateurs. Always the biggest problem. “I didn’t figure you were here to get a prescription filled. Are you aware that you’re under surveillance at this very moment?”
She started to whirl about, but he clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Do not look around.”
“Under surveillance by who?” she said.
“No idea. I didn’t plan to walk up and ask them who they were representing.” He thought it over. “Were you in the cab?”
“Yes.”
“And how long have you been following me?”
“Since you left your hotel.”
At least it would give him an alibi if someone saw her tailing him. “Anyone else with you? The truth, if you please. I know how many people have been following me, but now I need to separate the players.”
“It was just me.”
Good. That meant two cars switching off, and maybe one backup in parallel he hadn’t seen yet. That was better than the team of four vehicles he thought he’d been looking at. “That just leaves open the question of whether they’re following me, you, or both of us. Now don’t move your head. Do you see the tallest office building, over my shoulder, two blocks down the street?”
“Yes.”
“Walk directly there. Go inside, take the stairs to the first floor. Wait for me right beside the elevator. I may be fifteen minutes or more. If I don’t show up after forty-five minutes, then walk back to your car and leave the area. Now read that back to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Repeat what I just said.”
She did.
“Great,” he said. “Now I’m going to give you some body language as if I’m telling you to get lost. Feel free to stomp off angrily.”
“What?”
Avakian held a hand up to her face, as if telling her to shut up. Then he waved his finger back and forth under her nose, as if delivering a lecture. It was condescending enough that she didn’t need to be Meryl Streep to act angry. Then, for the finale, a dismissive flip of the hand and he said, “Take off now.”
She surprised him by getting up in his face and yelling, “Fuck you!”
Avakian had to work to keep from laughing. He hoped she found that cathartic.
He sat in his car and watched. She went down the street but the surveillance didn’t. He kept watching in case they had someone farther down the street as a cutoff, but nothing picked her up when she crossed the intersection to the next block.
So it was all on him. That was good. It was always nice to know who was following you, but you could tell a lot from the numbers and the level of professionalism.
If you had multiple cars, eyeball vans with one-way glass and cameras, multiple walkers with everyone changing clothes and taking bicycles out of their trunks, then your ass was in trouble because you had the first team on you and they were official.
Or if you just kept bumping into a single, but everywhere you went, then they’d wired a GPS into your car. Probably with an ignition kill switch for whenever they decided to scoop you up.
This bunch was the same two cars. So it could be anyone. CIA. Mercenaries. Nigerians. Russians. Local cops investigating the Nigerians or Russians. Or anyone else, for that matter.
Avakian stayed on foot, and took a much more roundabout route to the office building. They stayed with him, but they stayed in their cars.
As he walked in he glanced at the building directory and went right for the elevators. Patience Mbatha was standing right there when the door opened onto the first floor, and Avakian stepped out. It was an older building and he didn’t see any security cameras in the corridors, but they probably had them in the elevators.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“Eighth floor,” Avakian replied.
No security cameras in the stairwells. And, thankfully, Patience wasn’t even breathing hard. On the eighth Avakian followed the numbers until he found what he was looking for. “Here we go,” he said, opening the door for her.
“Do you have a medical condition?” Patience asked.
“No.”
“Then why are we in a doctor’s office?”
Avakian motioned her toward a chair. “Because it’s a doctor’s office. They barely pay attention to you if you’re signed in. Otherwise you’re just waiting for someone.”
She gave him one of those reappraising looks he was getting used to. “You’re quite capable, aren’t you Mr. Avakian.”
“Pete,” Avakian said. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been scared out of her wits. Instead she was all geeked up over the cloak and dagger stuff. Which was not really a good thing. “Now, you said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Who would be following you?”
“I told you, I have no idea. Have you been doing things that would get people interested in following everyone you’ve been meeting?”
“I?” she said, all surprised. “Why would they be following me?”
Avakian wasn’t about to tell her she wasn’t being followed. “You’re the one running around interviewing people about mercenaries.”
“Don’t talk about me,” she retorted. “You were at Payne-Best’s house two days ago.”
Avakian kicked himself for not considering the obvious. Yeah, he’d taken a cab and then walked on foot. But as movie stars knew all too well, all it took was a photographer hiding in the bushes with a long lens shooting everyone who came in and out of a house. “You got me interested. So when he called and invited me over for drinks, I went.”
“Are you working with him?”
Now he was going to find out how much gossiping Payne-Best’s civilian friends had done. “No. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re in the process of doing some corporate headhunting.”
Her expression was pure skepticism. “You expect me to believe you’re not working with them.”
“If I was, I’d hardly be sitting here talking to you.”
That provoked a little reevaluation. He could see that she was at least thinking about buying it.
“I know they’re planning a coup somewhere in Africa,” Patience said. “And I know that Dmitri Volkov is part of it. Please don’t tell me you didn’t talk to him at Payne-Best’s house.”
This operation was as leaky as a sieve. It made Avakian wonder why he’d bothered to go to the CIA at all. Then again, if history proved anything it was that hustling journalists were a lot better at digging up information than the CIA. He decided to roll the dice. “Of course he was there. But I didn’t speak to him.”
“Please.”
“He’s not the kind of guy you walk up to and say hello. Have you seen his bodyguards?”
“So you were at a party with the world’s foremost gunrunner yet you didn’t speak to him.”
“No. And if you’re thinking of trying for an interview I don’t recommend you springing out of the bushes at him all of a sudden.”
“Then what do you think Payne-Best and Volkov were doing together?”
Avakian was reassured that she hadn’t mentioned Okong. But then even he hadn’t known what the man looked like until they were introduced. “Who’s being disingenuous now? Mercenaries need guns, and gunrunners need customers.” He paused. “Either that, or their kids are on the football team together at some private school, and their wives are best friends.”
“I should think the second part was less likely.”
“I probably wouldn’t either if I was a reporter.” Oh, no. He could tell by the look on her face. She’d made up her mind about him and was going to put in the shot. Always be closing.
Patience didn’t disappoint. “Pete, you can help me with this story. Exposing these people would be very important.”
Man, she was just glistening with ambition. “If I’m sure of one thing,” Avakian said, “it’s that your magazine cannot afford my hourly rate.”
“We should have dinner tonight and discuss it.”
Okay, that was it. He wasn’t joining any more teams. “Patience, you’ve been flirting up a storm, and I’m sure that has everything to do with my rugged good looks and nothing to do with your story.”
“That was unfair, Pete. To both of us.”
It always was when you got your hand caught in the cookie jar. “Maybe so. You’re a very attractive woman, but there’s a lady back in America I’m in love with. But that’s not why I’m not going to meet with you again. You’re messing with dangerous people, and you’re putting me in danger. Which to me means you either don’t care that you’re putting me in danger or you’re oblivious to the fact that you’re putting me in danger. Both are equally bad. “
Now she was pouting. “You’re being very unfair.”
“Maybe. But let me tell you something. If I was working for the mercenaries I wouldn’t just not be sitting here talking with you. I’d be giving them your name. And you’d be dead.”
“Isn’t that rather dramatic?”
“No, it’s good advice from the security professional, if you’ll take it. You need to ask yourself whether this scoop is worth it, on a strict cost-benefit basis. I’m not saying don’t write about it, but maybe it would be better to wait and file your story after whatever it is happens. Because these are people who would think nothing of having you shot down in the street and making it look like an everyday robbery. And it wouldn’t cost them any more than the amount of money they normally carry around in their pockets on a given day. Happens to journalists in Russia every month.”
