African Dragon (15 page)

34.

Kinshasa

Cory Stewart walked through the streets of Kinshasa in jeans and a polo shirt, looking like the other white men trying to find business opportunities in the third world. Kinshasa was a strange city. Some avenues were the same wide streets you would see in any major city, except that some of the side streets were literally dirt roads. Old primitive houses were down the block from large apartment buildings. An occasional new Mercedes would zip past an ox drawn cart. Worlds had definitely collided here.

Most of the people on the streets were Africans, but the whites and Asians seemed to be from every corner of the globe. As Cory walked, he could hear the lilt of Irish accents, Indians speaking in Hindi and accented English, Russian, American English, and various Middle Eastern dialects. Occasional Chinese banter would catch his attention, but there was nothing to be learned by walking the busy business district. He was on his way to a secret meeting with one of Prime Minister Gugunga’s most trusted people, his chief of staff, a man named Lucien Zabanga.

The meeting between Zabanga and Cory Stewart had been set up by a Congolese businessman named Michael Motumba that Langley had recruited the year prior. He was in the computer business and anxious to see his country enter the twenty-first century. CIA had convinced him that his cooperation would ensure the future of his nation, and more importantly, his failing company. Langley had “signed a contract” for his computer services for fifty-thousand dollars, US. They had received nothing for this contract other than the ability to call Michael whenever they needed him. He was a low-level asset, but in this case, he had ties to the prime minister that made him extremely valuable.

Michael Motumba had contacted the prime minister’s office to arrange the meeting, but never actually spoke to him personally. He had been given to Lucien Zabanga, his chief of staff, and Zabanga had agreed to meet with Cory Stewart. Motumba had told Zabanga that Stewart was an important American with government ties, and came to offer the prime minister and the president support ‘in this most perilous time for their government.’

Michael led Cory down the busy streets of Kinshasa until they reached an office building that appeared fairly new. It was ten stories high, and was impressive looking in a skyline that lacked many skyscrapers. When they arrived, Michael told Cory to go to room 515 on the fifth floor. He would meet him down the block at the outdoor cafe on the corner when he was finished.

Cory entered the building and waited for almost five minutes for an elevator that never came. He ended up taking the stairs with the rest of the sweaty, grumpy businessmen traveling up and down the staircase in the building whose elevator hadn’t worked in five months. “Waiting for parts from Belgium,” was the standard line from the building’s superintendent. He walked down the hall and stopped at 515 where he wiped the sweat off his face and onto his jeans. He took a deep breath and walked in, and as he closed the door behind him he knew he was a dead man.

Seated in front of him was indeed, Lucien Zabanga. But, seated next to him were two Chinese men and three large Africans with their automatic weapons across their laps. As Cory reached for the doorknob behind him, to try and make a break for it, a large man stepped up from behind him and pressed a Glock 17 into his ribs.

“Have a seat, Mr. Stewart,” said Zabanga. “Or shall I call you something else? How many names do you have?”

Cory felt the sick feeling of defeat creep into his stomach. The air seemed to leave his lungs instantly. He had been a field agent for fifteen years and been in and out of some hairy places. To be taken down so casually was as embarrassing as it was final. He felt a sudden calm as he realized his fate. With such a large team in the field, he made his decision instantly. He was dead anyway. He wasn’t going to say anything that would get the entire team killed with him.

Cory threw his elbow as hard as he could into the man’s throat behind him, and with his other hand, grabbed the pistol. The gun went off as he grabbed it, but missed Cory. He popped his knee twice into the man’s face as he went down, the three large men behind the desk diving across the office at him, furniture flying everywhere. Cory yanked the weapon free from the man’s limp hand and rolled across the office floor getting his finger into the trigger guard. The three men dove at him, wanting him alive, and Cory managed to fire three rounds quickly into the first man now grabbing his ankles. The other two were on him quickly, tackling his legs. Cory knew he’d never take them all. He couldn’t risk it. He shoved the Glock into his mouth and pulled the trigger before the men could get it out of his hand. He never heard the gun go off or the screaming of Lucien Zabanga and the Chinese, desperate to take him alive.

***

Michael Motumba sat at the coffee shop watching the front of the building for Stewart. He figured it would be at least a half hour, so he ordered a small meal and got comfortable. The sight of a black SUV roaring up the street took him by surprise. More surprising was watching Lucien Zabanga hustle out of the building with two Chinese men and two large bodyguards. They piled into the large truck and took off in a cloud of dust. Motumba dropped his coffee mug, quite literally, on the floor.

He was up and running as the truck sped away, a waiter chasing and screaming at his for leaving without paying his bill. He raced up the stairs to the fifth floor, drawing comments from the people he pushed past on the staircase. When he got to the fifth floor, he ran down the hallway to the office reading 515 and threw the door open. It bounced off the body behind it. Michael pushed the door until it was open enough to slide inside the office. He had never seen anything like the scene inside. Cory Stewart was on the floor, most of the back of his head splattered across the wall next to the door. A large black man lay at his feet covered in blood, his eyes half open, but not seeing. Another was leaning up against the wall behind him, his mouth open and tongue already swollen.

“Oh God,” he said quietly. He stood staring for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then fear overtook him. Zabanga knew his name—knew the name of his company—knew where he lived and worked. Michael stepped back over Cory, saying a prayer as he closed the door behind him and ran back down to the staircase. When he hit the street, he kept running, not even knowing where he would go.

35.

Cascaes, Julia, Jon, and Pete stopped the truck outside camp and walked in cautiously, after observing it from a distance to make sure all was as it should be. When they saw Smitty and Ernie P. walk casually to the campfire to start cooking dinner, they figured it was safe. They headed right for Mackey’s cabin where they would debrief him on what they had seen. They were surprised when they entered and found Mackey throwing things all over the cabin like a drunken lunatic. Mackey stopped, embarrassed, when they entered and caught him wild-eyed in mid-throw of a box of MREs.

“What’s wrong?” asked Cascaes, shocked to see the boss so out of control.

“God damn it!” he screamed. “They got Cory. Those fuckers killed him.”

“
What
?” Cascaes exclaimed, equally shocked. “What happened? How did you find out?”

Julia’s hands covered her open mouth without her even realizing it.

“Dex just called me. He got a frantic call from their asset in Kinshasa—some low-level informant that set up the meeting.” Mackey sat down on an ammo crate and took a deep breath to regain his composure. “According to this guy in Kinshasa, Cory went up to meet with Lucien Zabanga, the prime minister’s chief of staff. He was there to get permission for us to go on offense and disrupt the PAC camp. Washington wasn’t going to do anything without direct approval from the government. So Cory goes up to some office and they bushwhacked him. This guy that set it up said he saw Zabanga with his own eyes, with two Chinese and some bodyguards. Cory apparently took two of them out before they shot him in the head. At least it was quick.”

“Think they got anything out of him?” asked Cascaes, wondering how long before an armed column moved into the fish farm.

“No. Dex said that the guy saw Cory’s body. He had been shot in the head right by the door of the office relatively quickly after he went up. He must have realized it was wrong right away and put up a fight. Dex said there were no signs of torture. Cory would’ve died before he gave us up anyway.”

“He did, boss,” said Cascaes quietly.

“Fuckers. And Washington still won’t give us a green light. And that’s
after
we know that Zabanga is with the Chinese.”

The satellite phone rang right on cue. They all looked at each other.

“Until right now, you mean?” asked Cascaes, hoping it was the order to blow the shit out of the PAC camp.

Mackey picked it up right away. “Fish central,” he said.

“Mac, be advised, you are ‘green light’ to take out Zabanga. Move quickly before he takes out Prime Minister Gugunga. They must all be getting nervous by now. They know we have assets on the ground and the Marines offshore. You need to move immediately. We will be sending you coordinates, addresses and photos of all of the known regular locations.”

“Zabanga? Why doesn’t the PM go after Zabanga himself and let us take a whack at the PAC camp? Zabanga is all the way in Kinshasa—the PAC camp is walking distance. We could be in and out before they knew what hit them.”

“The prime minister never knew about the meeting, Mac,” said Dex. “Our man arranged it through Zabanga’s office. By the time Washington is able to speak to him directly and convince him that Zabanga is with the PAC, he’ll be dead. And Gugunga won’t know whom to trust, anyway. Hell, we don’t know whom to trust over there, either. The sitting government is going to come apart at the seams if the PM or the president is assassinated. The PAC will move in and whole civil war will last about ten minutes. You need to take out Zabanga and anyone that gets in your way, and we’ll try and reach the PM and the president through Washington. Tonight, Mac. You need to move out right away.”

Mackey exhaled slowly, trying to keep from getting angry again. The mission seemed to be spinning out of control. Mackey tried to catch up in his head—he had half of his team watching the PAC camp, dozens of villagers wandering in and out of his base every day to sell and transport fish, a casualty from a mission that he hadn’t designed, and now an assassination mission in Kinshasa all the way on the other side of a very large country, the same place his man was killed, that would require his best sharpshooter and spotter,
plus
a team for close quarter contact if necessary. He was getting stressed.

“All right, Dex. I’ll put together a team for Zabanga, but what about the PAC? They’re training every day that we sit here with our thumb up our ass. We can still disrupt their camp. They’ll never know what hit them.”

“Look Mac,” Dex said. “I’m feeling the pressure at my end as well. I know you’d love to blast that base, but we don’t get to make that call. So far, the Marines are just there to rattle the saber back at the Chinese, but I don’t think the president wants to go toe to toe with a billion Chinese. If you go starting up a firefight over there, you’d be on your own against ten thousand guerrillas. President Kuwali doesn’t even know you exist, so you wouldn’t be getting any help from them. If the PAC moves against Kinshasa, it will take a couple of days. Just keep watching the base for now.”

“All right, all right,” said Mac, frustrated.

“And listen, we got the photos and video from your boys over at the mining operation. The little kids they have working are their ‘canaries in the coal mine.’ The director is meeting now to try and decide what to do with the evidence of the mining operation that is supposedly shut down.”

“Yeah, well maybe the World Health Organization will invade and take out the PAC,” said Mackey sarcastically.

“Yeah, right after the UN,” said Dex. “Keep me in the loop, Mac. Good luck, out.”

Mackey leaned back against the wall of the cabin. “This mission has been fucked from day one,” he grumbled to no one in particular.

“So what now?” asked Cascaes.

“I’ll call Hodges and Jones back from the PAC camp. They’ve been sitting up there with Moose, Ripper, Woods, Koches and Theresa watching the base. Hodges and Jones can try and snipe Zabanga, but I need a team of four to get in closer in case they can’t get a shot.”

“There’s four of
us
,” said Cascaes.

“You haven’t even sat down from your trip to the mine yet,” said Mackey.

“No biggie. We’d need a truck for Kinshasa anyway. We can grab a nap on the way.”

Mackey’s eyes went to Julia then back to Cascaes. “Who are you gonna bring?” asked Mackey.

Julia had seen it. “Mac, don’t give me the macho bullshit. I’ve done my share of wet work before. Chris and I can walk on the street without anyone looking at us twice.”

Mackey rubbed his eyes, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

“And we’ve got their back,” added Jon.

Mackey threw his arms up in surrender. “Fine. Go get something to eat, get cleaned up because you smell like shit, and meet me back here in two hours ready to move out. Hodges and Jones will be here waiting for you. You can take the truck.”

Julia thought about the old piece of junk truck. “We might be faster walking,” she said with a smile. Her smile broke the tension, and she patted Mackey’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry about Cory,” she said quietly. The four of them walked out to change and grab some food before gearing up for a long trip to Kinshasa.

36.

Moose was watching the PAC camp through high-powered binoculars when his earpiece crackled. It was Mackey from the fish farm telling him to send back Hodges and Jones immediately for a different mission. The choice of personnel wasn’t lost on Moose.

“They get to pop somebody?” he said quietly. “Because they can pop the head dink right now if you want.” Moose was watching Shen Xun-jun at the head of the parade ground observing his troops on an obstacle course. Hodges did, indeed, have Xun-jun’s head in his crosshairs at that precise moment. He would have been very happy to separate the man’s head from his body.

“Just get them back here and stay out of sight. We still aren’t cleared to engage the PAC yet. Observation only.”

“Yeah, well I am observing a shitload of them practicing to kill us,” said Moose.

“Just be sure they don’t. Out,” said Mackey as he hung up.

Moose relayed the order to Hodges and Jones, who packed up and double timed it all the way back to the fish farm. They arrived, somewhat winded, at Mackey’s cabin just as Chris, Julia, Jon and Pete arrived in civilian clothing.

“Y’all got a date?” said Hodges in his southern drawl.

“Yeah, with you, hotshot,” said Cascaes. Trade the ghillie suits for civvies. We are heading to Kinshasa. We have a target for you.”

“No shit?” said Hodges. “Who’s the sad sumbitch that’s gonna meet the Reaper?”

“The same guy who had Cory killed,” said Cascaes.

“Oh shit,” said Hodges and Jones simultaneously.

“What happened to Cory?” asked Hodges.

“He went to meet with Lucien Zabanga, the chief of staff for the prime minister, and Zabanga set him up. Now you get to even things up.” Cascaes handed Hodges a headshot of Zabanga that Mackey had printed for him off of his computer, downloaded from Langley only an hour before. “This is your target. If you can’t get a shot from a safe distance, then we’ll have to take him out the old fashioned way. But that may get complicated in downtown Kinshasa—the PM doesn’t even know that Zabanga betrayed him yet.”

“When are we heading out?” asked Hodges.

“As soon as you can change and grab an MRE for the road.”

Hodges and Jones both hustled off to get changed and gear up for the next mission, while the four of them entered Mackey’s cabin.

“The boys are back,” said Cascaes. “We should be ready to roll in a few minutes.”

“Okay. Here are the GPS coordinates and addresses of his most likely locations,” said Mackey as he handed him photos and a small hand held computer. He has a large house just outside the city that is actually on the way to Kinshasa. I would make that your first stop. He will most likely have plenty of bodyguards there with him. If you can take him out there, you can get out fairly easily and get right back here. If you have to go to one of his other known addresses, it will be trickier. They are in the city and a sniper shot is unlikely. Just get in, and get the hell out in one piece. I don’t have any safe locations in Kinshasa for you.”

They were interrupted by Mackey’s secure phone buzzing. It was Moose.

“Hey boss, we got lots of activity over here. Looks like maybe two company sized units gearing up and getting ready to move out. You boys better get out of Dodge. If they’re heading your way, they’ll outnumber you a hundred to one—which would be okay if I was there with you, but you’re on your own, you better beat feet.”

“Have they left yet?” asked Mackey.

“Negative, but the gates are open and they are forming up columns of vehicles. They look pretty damn organized, Skipper. They must have had trucks under cover, ‘cause I am looking at dozens of pickup trucks. Some of them have machine guns mounted in the back; most of them are just transport.”

Mackey cursed under his breath. “Okay, sit tight and keep watching. You call me back as soon as you have anything else. Out.”

Mackey reiterated the information to the others.

“So now what? You want us to stay here?” asked Cascaes.

“Now you sound like Moose. Two thousand against nine—you being here is going to even the odds? No—you go find Zabanga. I’ll monitor things from here, and if they head this way, we’ll take off and contact you when we can. Smitty and Ernie P. have this place so full of C4 that if they show up we’ll blow them all to Hell anyway.”

“Yeah, we saw,” said Julia.

“Okay, get on the road. Stay in touch. Take the truck west along the Lukuga River until you get to the railroad station. You can’t miss it, it’s the only thing out there. Get on the train at Kabalo. You can pick up the Kinshasa Express there. You might make it by tomorrow night.”

“Mac, by tomorrow night, you may have a full scale war on your hands. Are you sure about this?” asked Cascaes.

“Nope. I’m not sure about a damn thing. Like I said, this mission is one giant clusterfuck. I am going to have my team spread out all over the damn country when the shit hits the fan, and I don’t like it one bit. But I’m not calling the shots, Chris.”

Cascaes looked at Julia. “Mac—I’ll leave Jon and Pete with you. Four of us can handle Zabanga. You may need the extra firepower here.”

Mackey bit his lip and thought it over. “You sure, Chris? Zabanga may have a small army himself over there.”

“One hundred percent, boss. We’ll take him out and be gone before his men even know what happened.”

“Okay. Jon, Pete—you two are spared the train ride. Instead, you can circle the wagons with us and wait for the PAC forces to assault this little fish farm.”

Jon and Pete looked at each other and shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss. And the boat is still good to go if it gets too hairy. We can be in Tanzania in forty minutes.”

“Okay, that’s it then. We’re out,” said Cascaes. “Good luck, boss. We’ll check in when we arrive.”