Текст книги "Robert Ludlum's The Janson Command"

Автор книги: Robert Ludlum

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“Something tells me you might be right that those fake Legionnaires weren’t SR,” said Kincaid. “But that was a slick operation to launch on such short notice. It was almost as if someone expected us to snatch Iboga from SR.”

“Set up by someone who didn’t want him to stand trial in The Hague,” Janson agreed. “Who could include the Nigerian Directorate of Military Intelligence, the mysterious GRA, and American Synergy Corporation.”

“Maybe you should ask your friend Doug.”

“Not quite yet.”

Janson used his sat phone to call CatsPaw Research.“GRA? What have you found?”

“Nothing. No such company exists on the record.”

“Are they possibly a subsidiary of American Synergy Corp.?”

“That was one of my thoughts. I found no connection to ASC.”

Janson thought hard. “Are they possibly a government front? A CIA front or …” He let the thought lie between their telephones and the researcher finished it for him, “Cons Ops?”

“Well?”

“Could be. But there is no record. No paper trail. And certainly no digital trail.”

“The only piece of paper I know of was a business card.”

“What did it look like?”

“I didn’t see it. I was told about it. How would you like a trip to London?”

“Could I fly Business Class?”

“You can fly Business Class. Look up a fellow named Pedro Menezes. He’s a former oil minister of Isle de Foree. He says he took money from GRA.”

Kincaid reached across and tapped his arm. “The Amber Dawn. Didn’t somebody say it was owned by the Dutch?”

Janson said into the phone, “Look into a Dutch connection. Ask Mr. Menezes about Dutch independents.”

They rang off.

Kincaid reached over and tapped again. Urgently. “Paul!”

“What?”

“Where are his cigarettes?”

“Whose?”

“Iboga’s cigarettes. He had a lighter, but no cigarettes. No cigars.”

“Maybe he smoked the drug.”

“No, you eat ibogaine. You don’t smoke it.”

They looked at each other in astonished disbelief. What had they both missed? “Where’s his stuff?”

“My backpack.”

Janson scrambled for her backpack and found the mesh bag inside that contained the items she had taken from Iboga. He plucked out the Zippo cigarette lighter and brought it to the first officer’s chair. It looked like a lighter. The brand “Zippo” was stamped on the bottom of the case, with a flame dotting the letter i. He opened it. Inside, it looked like a lighter, with a rough steel wheel and a blackened wick. He held it to his nose. It smelled of lighter fluid. He flicked the wheel. To Janson’s disappointment, a spark flew from the flint and the wick ignited. He blew out the flame, pulled the mechanism out of the case, and turned it over. There was the cotton wool that absorbed the fluid with a screw head. He unscrewed it. Out fell a normal flint. He opened his pocketknife to an awl blade, snagged the cotton wool, and pulled it out. He looked inside the case. The interior was empty. He squeezed the cotton wool.

“Aha.”

He spread it on Ed’s keyboard and peeled the fibers off something hard inside and held it up for Kincaid to see. “What is this, a key? It looks like a key to a safe.”

Kincaid gave him a pitying look she reserved for covert operators who began their careers in the twentieth century. “Janson, it’s not a key. It’s a flash drive that looks like a key. You hang it on your key chain.”

Janson stuck the flash drive inside the nearest USB port and looked at Ed’s screen. “Numbers. Routing numbers. A list of them.” He called CatsPaw’s forensic accountant on his Iridium. “Try these,” he said, and read them off.

She called back in minutes. “Four banks in Zagreb.”

“Can you get into them?”

“Whose rules do you want to play by?”

“Corrupt dictator rules.”

“We can try to get in with the help of a certain third party to whom we’ve already hinted that a million-euro gratuity might be authorized.”

“Consider it authorized,” said Janson.

* * *

AS THEY APPROACHED the Strait of Gibraltar at an altitude of forty-two thousand feet, Janson switched off the Embraer’s radar so as not to broadcast their presence, leaving them dependent entirely on what their own eyeballs could perceive beyond the Embraer’s blind spots astern. He was searching the sky when suddenly a Royal Moroccan Air Force Mirage F1 rocketed up from Casablanca Air Base Number 4.

It would have nailed them for sure if Janson hadn’t glimpsed an early flash of sun on its swept wings. His hand had been poised over the flare switch since they drew within two hundred miles of Gibraltar, and he pressed it instantly. The chaff and flare nacelle departed the Embraer with a sharp bang. Moments after it ejected, its internal rocket fired and it flew astern, putting miles between it and the Embraer before it exploded open like a flower, scattering reflective chaff and burning hot points designed to show up on the Mirage’s acquisition suite as myriad targets.

“Up or down?” asked Kincaid.

Janson debating diving to the deck again, versus the attention that maneuver would draw before they made it under the radar. “Up. Fast.”

Kincaid fire-walled it west.

Perplexed and angry controllers queried them on the radio with swiftly increasing urgency. Janson ignored those who spoke fluent English and bullshitted the rest. Five minutes passed slowly. Had the Mirage given up? Or was it coming back for them? He cast his eyes in every direction he could see, praying that the immense blue sky would not be split by the silver dart of a warplane.

At last it looked like they had escaped notice. The Mirage had given up. Nor did additional interceptors appear in the windshield. Ahead and to either side all they could see was the blue North Atlantic Ocean. Eleven hundred miles to the southwest lay the Canary Islands, two and a half hours’ flying time.

Kincaid confirmed that the autopilot had the course, stood up, and stretched.

“Mike would have been proud of his pupil,” Janson told her.

“If they were SR, I don’t understand why they didn’t kill us. Iboga sure as hell wanted them to.”

“Maybe Iboga wasn’t calling their tune. That was as much a capture as a rescue.”

“You mean to take his dough? But they had him weeks before we took him. If they wanted his money they could have forced it out of him.”

Janson’s sat phone chimed the bell-like note that indicated Quintisha Upchurch was calling. “Yes, Quintisha.”

“Acting President Ferdinand Poe would like to speak with you, urgently.”

Janson called Poe. The old man answered in a voice high-pitched and anxious. “Do you have Iboga?” he shouted.

“I did, Mr. Acting President. I’m afraid I lost him. I’m working at getting him back.”

“I told you he would escape.”

“Yes, I know and—”

“You don’t understand. They killed Mario Margarido.”

“Who killed him?”

“Who knows,” Poe said, adding bitterly, “He supposedly drowned in his swimming pool.”

“Where is Chief of Security da Costa?”

“I don’t know.”

“I will be there in thirteen hours.”

“Iboga is coming back. I know it.”

“I will be there ahead of him. I guarantee it.”

THIRTY-NINE

Janson telephoned Doug Case. “Anything new underground?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m forty thousand feet aboveground on a company jet drinking champagne and thirty-year-old Bordeaux and eating beef Wellington.”

“You’ll miss that luxury in your new government job.”

“It was great the first hour; now all the guys and the too-few gals are text messaging their kids at home. Folks don’t know how to party anymore.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Isle de Foree. We’ve got a big media shindig aboard the Vulcan Queen. Where are you?”

“Italy.”

“Italy? What are you doing in Italy?”

“Talking my way out of a jam. What’s the media thing about?”

“It was supposed to be a public signing of ASC’s exploration agreement with Ferdinand Poe—ASC and the new acting president shaking hands for the world to see. Only I just heard that Mario Margarido died. God knows what monkey wrench that will throw into it. Mario was pretty much the voice of sanity in the rebel regime– Listen, I gotta go. I got calls stacked up.”

“Doug. Any new information on GRA?”

“Ground Resource Access? No.”

Janson put down the phone and looked across the engine control pedestal at Kincaid. “How’s old friend Doug?” she asked.

“Closemouthed,” answered Janson. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye? I’ll babysit the autopilot while I make some calls.”

“I’m not that tired.”

“I need you rested.”

“What’s up?”

“Can you land this plane in the Canaries, take off again the second we refuel, and land it again on Isle de Foree?”

“I just aced a takeoff. Any luck, I can ace another. They’re ten times simpler than landings: push straight down the runway, rotate on the right speed. But landings, if you get too slow, you undershoot; too fast, you might overshoot. The plane wants to keep on flying unless a wind shift punts you sideways or a wind sheer drops you like a rock. What I’m telling you, Janson, there’s a reason Mike never let me land her myself. Twice will be pushing my luck.”

“How’d you do on the simulator?”

“Two out of three.”

“So you’re getting better.”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s going to be tough finding a pilot we can trust to join us in the Canaries on short notice. Besides, with all the crap I’ve added to the plane, the most we can carry without burning too much fuel to make Isle de Foree is eight people and gear, including the pilot.”

“So?”

“I’d rather put the additional weight into another shooter than a pilot who can’t do anything but fly. Particularly if I can’t find one I can believe in.”

“We’re going to war?”

“Add it up. Poe’s chief of staff drowned in his swimming pool. American Synergy Corporation brass are heading to Isle de Foree for a ‘media event.’ And Iboga is loose because I blew it. I’m obliged to fight him when he shows up in Isle de Foree.”

“It’s the kind of war you hate: off-the-cuff; decisions on horseback; flying by the seat of your pants; winging it.”

“It wasn’t your screwup. You are not obliged to fight it.”

“You’re right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I better get some sleep.” She stood up. “Your airplane.”

Janson slid into the left-hand seat. “Got it,” he said. “Sleep fast.”

* * *

WHENEVER MIKE, A former Naval aviator, would touch his wheels to the ground early on the landing strip as if replicating the carrier landings of his youth, he warned Jessica Kincaid never to try the stunt. There was simply too much danger of landing short.

She let two thousand feet of tarmac on the southeast coast of the Canary Island of Fuerteventura race under her tires to be sure she had the runway made before she pulled the power back clear to idle. The Embraer dropped hard, bounced, and swerved. The swerve was a deadly invitation to overcorrect. But she steadied the beast with a race car driver’s sure hands, confident that the eleven-thousand-foot runway built for 747s packed with tourists gave her a mile more run-out room than she needed.

Things went as well at the terminal. Freddy Ramirez’s employees at Protocolo de Seguridad had worked miracles with the airport’s general aviation assistant operations manager. Money changed hands, and the Embraer was refueled and ready to fly even before Freddy himself drove up to the boarding stairs in a windowless airport security van with four men carrying trombone, double bass, keyboard, and guitar cases. Uncommonly fit-looking for middle-aged musicians, they turned out to be retired Spanish Navy Special Operations Unit officers.

Freddy Ramirez apologized for having come up short one shooter. Janson acknowledged the scant lead time, told him not to worry about it, as the weight of one less man would translate to a few more miles of fuel, and thanked him warmly for rushing directly from the action in Corsica.

As expected, no trustworthy pilot had been found.

Kincaid calculated her V ₁and rotate speeds—both higher owing to the comfortingly longer runway and the weight of the passengers and their weapons—and got cleared for takeoff using the Embraer’s legitimate November-Eight-Two-Two-Romeo-Papa call sign and a flight plan filed for Praia, Cape Verde Islands. Both transponder and AFIRS (Automated Flight Information Reporting System) operated normally until Janson disabled them in international airspace over the open ocean three hundred miles south of the Canaries and west of Africa, out of ground-based radar range.

Janson continued working his phone. He spoke with the arms merchant Hagopian in Paris; Dr. Hagopian’s half-Portuguese, half-Angolan agent in Luanda; Neal Kruger, whom he tracked down to Cape Town, where he claimed to be “on holiday”; and Agostinho Kiluanji and Augustus Heinz, the “Double A” gunrunners whose agent was desperate to get back into Hagopian’s good graces after forcing Janson to catch up with the freighter in a helicopter. After repeated attempts, he finally made contact with the pilots who owned LibreLift in Port-Gentil, Gabon.

“All right, that’s the last of them,” he told Kincaid, satisfied that he had made every contact he could for the moment yet sharply aware that not all would bear fruit on such short notice. “We’re good to go.”

“Catch some sleep. You look a hundred years old.”

Janson closed his eyes on a bunk across the narrow aisle from Ed’s and Mike’s shrouded bodies. As Doug had reminded him in Houston, “Devoted followers have a habit of getting killed in our line of work.”

Whatever happened to Janson Rules? He should have taken better care of Mike and Ed. Weren’t Janson Rules about innocent civilians? He should have warned his pilots that Paul Janson’s good works put them at risk of dying for the paradox of atoning for violence with violence. Were the murders of Ed and Mike “punishment” for his murdering Hadrian Van Pelt? How would he make amends for this?

“You look worse,” said a weary Kincaid, when he relieved her on the flight deck.

“How we doing on gas?”

She reported good news. The Flight Management System, which was monitoring fuel burn and the latest winds, had found a fuel-saving route above the jet stream that would allow them to fly direct to Isle de Foree.

“Good job.”

Janson sat in the first officer chair. Then, keeping one eye on the autopilot, he went online to learn everything he could about Vulcan-class drill ships.

FORTY

Busy night in Porto Clarence,” Jessica Kincaid noted as she taxied the Embraer back from a landing on Isle de Foree International Airport’s short, windswept runway that had turned every man on board pale.

Janson scanned the field for aircraft Iboga might have come in on.

It wasbusy. Janson’s had been the only plane on the tarmac when he flew out after taking the job to capture the dictator. Tonight, three gold and white American Synergy Corporation Gulfstreams were parked at the lavish terminal Iboga had built to honor his regime. A euroAtlantic Airways Boeing 777 was getting ready to depart and a TAAG Angola Airlines 737 was taxiing toward the runway. The presence of scheduled passenger planes indicated to Janson that Ferdinand Poe had persuaded the airlines that Isle de Foree was sufficiently stable to resume commercial service to Lisbon and Luanda, which was no small achievement.

He saw a brand-new S-76D helicopter in gold and white ASC livery lift off. Another was boarding a line of men in shirtsleeves with carry-on luggage. Assuming that they were ASC company men being ferried offshore to the Vulcan Queendrill ship for the “media shindig,” Janson looked for Doug Case’s wheelchair, but didn’t see him. Maybe out with the first load.

The Isle de Foreen immigration officer who had cleared the Embraer when they were last here greeted Janson warmly. Janson asked where he might find Chief of Security da Costa.

“You just missed him. He’s boarding the Lisbon flight.”

“Da Costa’s leaving?” Now, with Iboga on the loose? “The Lisbon plane’s still on the ground. I have to see him.”

“Come! Run! Perhaps we can catch him. We’ll deal with the paperwork later.”

The immigration officer led Janson into the terminal, where the emptiness of the vast building suggested that the commercial flights were not yet carrying many passengers. Lights were on everywhere, but few of the counters were manned and the travelers lined up at the gate to the euroAtlantic Lisbon flight were but a handful.

“There!”

Janson crossed the space at a dead run.

Da Costa, who was carrying a blazer over his arm and pulling a small wheeled bag, looked stunned to see him. “What are you doing, here, Mr. Janson?”

“Where are you going?” Janson asked.

“Lisbon. Holiday, actually.”

Janson said, “I understand that Chief of Staff Margarido passed away.”

“Tragic. So young.”

“Isn’t it an odd time for you to leave on holiday, with President Poe’s chief of staff suddenly dead?”

Da Costa answered with a bland smile and a blithe, “This is a long-planned trip. Farewell.”

“Are you aware that Iboga could be coming back?”

“I’m aware that you did not catch him. Farewell, Janson. I must go.”

“Give me a parting gift,” asked Janson.

“A gift?” Da Costa looked at him curiously. “I am not a wealthy man, Janson.”

“Not a bribe. A gift that might make you feel a little better about leaving now of all times.”

“What gift?”

“Before you leave for Lisbon, order Poe’s presidential guard to form up at the palace.”

“I can’t do that. They’re on maneuvers in the interior.”

“No one is guarding the palace?”

“A few remain.”

“Then please order them to give me clearance to land a helicopter at the palace.”

Instead of asking Janson why, da Costa took out his cell phone. He looked relieved for a chance to help. “I can do that for you. How is the helicopter marked?”

“LibreLift. Gabon ‘TR’ prefix to the registration number.”

Da Costa spoke briskly into his phone. Then he told Janson, “It is done.”

“Thank you. Are you sure you don’t want to postpone your holiday?”

Da Costa looked Janson in the face. A muscle was twitching in his cheek. “I survived as a spy in Iboga’s stronghold by trusting my instincts. My instincts now tell me to board what could be the last flight to Lisbon. Please don’t look at me with such disdain. It is not easy to turn your back.”

“I know,” said Janson. “It’s almost as hard as notturning your back.”

Da Costa flushed red. He spoke in a whisper. “The people who bribed me to leave think I did it for the money. I did it for my life. It’s over, here. Iboga will rule. I would be a dead man to stay.”

“Who gave you the money?”

Da Costa walked away. Nearly to the gate, he stopped and headed back.

Janson met him halfway. “Change your mind?”

“No,” said da Costa. “But here is another gift. If I were you, I would read the flight status video display.”

Janson’s eyes shot to the nearest monitor. One more flight was scheduled tonight, an arrival from Angola. TAAG Angola Airlines 224 from Luanda, which had been originally scheduled for 2100, nine o’clock, was marked “Late” and was now rescheduled to arrive at midnight.

The security chief’s pained smile told Janson all he had to know. Friends of Iboga, who was half-Angolan and a veteran of Angola’s civil wars, had helped the deposed dictator board that flight so he could return to Isle de Foree.

* * *

THEY TOOK TAXIS to the Presidential Palace, two to accommodate the Spanish shooters’ instrument cases, one for Janson and Kincaid and their bags.

“First time I ever took a cab to war,” she muttered. “Where did everyone go? The streets are empty.”

The palace itself was as surreally quiet. A single uniformed guard with an assault rifle and a pistol on his hip waved them inside and handed Janson a grease-stained business card that read: “LibreLift.”

Janson sent Kincaid to speak with the anorexic French pilot and found Acting President Ferdinand Poe in his office with several elderly men and a boy of fourteen. Poe wore a white linen suit, his comrades their jungle fatigues. All were armed. Poe himself had a compact FN P90 on his desk with a stack of spare magazines, an incongruous sight until one recalled that less than a month ago Poe had been defending a rebel camp in the caves of Pico Clarence.

“Where is my army?” Poe echoed Janson’s question bitterly. “Some units are on abruptly scheduled so-called ‘maneuvers,’ along with my guard. Several others are in their barracks, waiting to see what happens.”

“Are they neutral?”

“For the moment. They fear Iboga more than me. They won’t risk angering him until they see which way the wind blows, and it won’t take much longer to see that it is blowing in my face.”

“Where are Iboga’s officers?”

Poe surprised him. “In Black Sand Prison, where they belong.”

“Still in prison? Who’s keeping them there?”

“My few loyal men hold the prison.”

“Well, that’s a damned good beginning,” said Janson. “As long as they’re locked up they can’t turn the army against you.”

“I fear that when Iboga arrives he will arrive in enough force to take the prison and free his officers. They will rally his former troops. When that happens it will be all over but the killing.”

“I’m afraid he’s on an Angola Airlines flight. He’ll be in Porto Clarence by midnight.”

“Goddamn Angolans! They probably held the plane for Iboga in hopes this nation implodes so our oil won’t compete with theirs.”

“I gather that’s exactly what happened.”

“And they probably permitted him to carry a load of weapons in the hold.” Ferdinand Poe picked up his gun. He stared at it, hefted it familiarly in his scarred hand, and mused, “I never thought I would be a soldier. Or die a soldier’s death.”

“The latter’s a bit premature,” said Janson. “You’ve got good men at the prison, and a few good men here.” He nodded at the old men and the boy. “And I have a small but powerful unit to help them. Iboga can do nothing until he releases his officers.”

“How long will I last defending my palace? An hour? Two? Maybe three. Time and again I have proved tougher than I thought I was.”

“Don’t even tryto defend this palace. Consolidate your forces and lead your men defending Black Sand Prison.”

Poe shook his grizzled head. “I will consolidate my forces here.”

“That will play into Iboga’s hands. If you defend the palace instead of the prison his officers will escape and rouse the army.”

“You see the dilemma. Even with your help, I don’t have enough men to defend both the palace and the prison.”

“But it is not a dilemma. All you have to do is defend the prison long enough for me to neutralize Iboga.”

“No. I cannot go to the prison.”

“Why not?”

“I cannot. I will not.”

“I don’t understand,” said Janson.

An elderly man interrupted. “Acting President Poe suffered in Black Sand. Felt fear and pain you could not imagine.”

“I canimagine,” said Janson.

Poe said, “Then you understand that every man has his limit. This is mine. I cannot go to that place. I will fight here in the Presidential Palace.”

“You’ll die in the Presidential Palace,” said Janson.

“If need be. I am not afraid to die.”

“Dying won’t help your country, Mr. President.”

Jessica Kincaid, who had been listening in the doorway, stepped into the office. “Why don’t we take you away to Lisbon or London? While we defend the prison and hunt Iboga.”

“Good idea,” said Janson.

“No,” said Poe. “Once off Isle de Foree I am nothing but a pretender to the throne. I must remain in command of sovereign territory.”

“Back to the mountains,” said one of the older men.

“No, my friend, we aren’t strong enough to hide in the mountains. At best, I would be isolated. At worst, hunted down like an animal.”

“We did before.”

“Before we went en masse,” Poe said patiently. “I’m sorry. We had time to build defenses, time to get support from outside, money, gunrunners. Iboga underestimated us last time. He won’t give us such time again.”

Kincaid gestured for a word with Janson. He stood close and she whispered, “He’s talking about defending the undefendable, Paul. I do not want to die defending the undefendable.”

“Agreed.”

The boy piped up with another idea. “Could we ask Nigeria to send soldiers to help us?”

“ Not Nigeria!” every Isle de Foreen in the room chorused, which evoked sudden laughter. For a moment the tension was broken.

“There is another way,” said Janson.

Poe interrupted bitterly, “To be valuable to giants is a curse.”

Paul Janson repeated, “There is another way.”

“What way?”

He felt Kincaid staring at him.

“Did they gas the helicopter?” he asked her.

“Topped up.”

“Freddy, are you there?”

Freddy Ramirez stepped in from the hall, filling the doorway like a bull.

Janson addressed the room. “Listen up! Every fighter to the prison. Hold it at all costs. On the double.” He turned back to Kincaid. “Take your rifle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“President Poe, let’s get aboard that helicopter.”

“No,” Poe protested. “Where are you taking me?”

“You and I will slay giants.”

“But where?”

“The one place,” said Paul Janson, “where the president of Isle de Foree will be safe, visible, and totally in command.”