Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (183 page)

“Of course I know, you bastard,” Ikanbo said. “I know what you’re doing, how you’ve corrupted the government, how you’re planning to—” He sputtered out, lifted his gun to pistol whip Markov again.

“No wait, listen to me. Listen!”

Ikanbo paused with the gun held back over his left shoulder, ready for a back swing with the butt.

It was time for Markov to make a choice.

His father had been a respected physicist at a university in eastern Ukraine until he complained one too many times of the factionalism, the playing of party favorites, and other corrupt factors that had nothing to do with science. Enemies had blocked his research projects, denied him advancement, and even destroyed his research. He had defected with his family from the Soviet Union to the United States in the 1970s, where he opened a mail-order camera shop to take care of the family. Markov’s mother went back to school to get a nursing degree. It was a step down from her position as an ear, nose, and throat specialist in the Soviet Union, but neither parent had the money or the time to repeat a combined two decades of education.

Markov’s parents had focused attention on their sons, especially Anton, the oldest. “It doesn’t matter if you’re an immigrant,” his father said on more than one occasion. “You can get anywhere in this country. Because it doesn’t matter who you know, it’s just what you do that counts. Just obey the rules, keep your nose down and work hard.”

Markov recognized, even from a young age, what sacrifices his parents had made for him. He would never let them down. And he would follow the rules. But what was his father’s bigger lesson, to follow the rules, to be blindly loyal, or to make a difficult path and stick with it?

Because this was where he would forever cross the line. Markov could take torture, as much as any man. He could carry out hard orders for his country. But he couldn’t stand by while superiors committed acts of treason.

And so he was going to talk. He was going to take a chance on Charles Ikanbo.

He said, “We were set up, by our own government. My agents were sent into the ChinaOne camp, then attacked by their own forces when they were discovered by the mercenaries. What we found was disturbing.”

“I’m listening.” Ikanbo lowered the gun.

“There’s oil in Namibia. A big strike at the ChinaOne camp.”

“I know that. That’s not news.”

“Do you know how much oil?”

Ikanbo said nothing in response, just looked at him. And so Markov explained, just as he had to Julia and Ian. The size of the field, the money involved, the stakes for a world desperate for every additional drop.

After Markov finished, Charles Ikanbo was silent for a long minute. He looked back and forth from Markov to Julia, then to the two men who’d remained with him in the basement computer room, presumably his most loyal.

“There was something that kept bothering me,” Ikanbo said. “I knew why China made such a big deal over the camp. Their national pride is at stake, and they are desperate to show they belong in Africa, that it shouldn’t just be the Americans and Europeans with the right to plunder and steal our resources.” A wry smile. “Or develop them, if that’s the word you prefer. But why would the American government get involved?”

“We’ve gone to war for oil,” Markov said.

“Yes, but not in Africa. Why do that when you can bribe, manipulate, or threaten? And you’ve got Angola and Nigeria, much bigger oil provinces than Namibia has ever been.”

“Until now,” Markov said. “This one oil field changes everything.”

“Yes, it has. I’ve realized something. America isn’t immune to corruption.
Americans
aren’t immune. It just takes a much bigger bribe to make them turn against their country, but only because they’re richer to start with.”

Markov wasn’t so sure. He’d spent a lot of time in Africa, enough to see the weakness of its institutions and how many people considered themselves Herero, Tutsi, or Kikuyu, before they considered themselves Namibian, Rwandan, or Kenyan. Nevertheless, Ikanbo’s point was valid, much to Markov’s disgust.

“Cut us loose,” Markov said. “We’re not your enemies. We’re your allies.”

“Is that right? And how are you going to help me? By infiltrating the country and meddling in Namibian affairs? If you’re really working against your own government, how long until they send another team after you?”

“I
am
the team sent in, to recover Dr. Nolan and Ian Westhelle. Unless you keep me from communicating with…”

“While we’re talking about Ian Westhelle,” Ikanbo said with a smile. “Maybe you can tell us where he’s gone. He’s a fugitive in this country. Wanted for murder. Whatever else happens—”

“It’s not his fault!” Julia interrupted. “He’s innocent.”

Ikanbo turned his head sharply. “Yes, how is that?”

“Julia,” Markov warned. Then, to Ikanbo, “I can explain.”

He was surprised to hear that Ian was free. He must have gone upstairs, maybe outside, before the Namibians arrived. Could he possibly escape through the bush? Would he?

“Yes, go ahead and explain,” Ikanbo said. “Explain how an innocent man killed dozens of people, including my agents. Explain how he innocently picked up his gun and put a bullet through someone’s head.”

Markov took a deep breath. This was shaping up to be an insurmountable problem. “Dr. Nolan is right, Westhelle is innocent. He was...manipulated into attacking the camp and your men. I’ve seen the evidence.”

Yes, and destroyed the evidence, too. Even if he could have explained to the Namibian Central Intelligence Director about the implant, that was one step Markov couldn’t take. From there it might easily get back to the Chinese and endanger future operations.

“Manipulated?” Ikanbo asked in a suspicious tone. “What does that mean?”

“It means that he was acting under direct orders. Orders that if he violated, would have meant great harm or even death to his family.”

Ikanbo snarled. “You Americans make me sick. Well until I see this agent, and interrogate him, I won’t believe anything you tell me. Until then, you’re just CIA agents with a clever story.”

A voice spoke from the stairs behind them. “And what would you ask me, if you could?”

It was Ian Westhelle. He held an AK-47 and had somehow armed himself, slipped past the men upstairs, and opened the door without anyone noticing. He wore the uniform of one of Ikanbo’s CIS agents.

Markov’s jaw dropped in amazement. And admiration.

Ikanbo and his men recovered quickly. The two men standing by Julia lifted their weapons. Ikanbo fumbled for something at his waist.

“Put them down!” Ian barked.

They froze. Ikanbo seemed to size up the odds, then gave a curt nod to his men. They set down their weapons.

“And you. Take out whatever you were reaching for. Slowly. Do it. Now set it down.” When the Namibians had done as Ian commanded, he glanced first at Julia and then back to Ikanbo. “You have a knife?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Cut him lose, then set down the knife and walk over to the corner to stand with the others. No,” he said to the two men. “Back away from the doctor.”

Ikanbo did as he was told. Moments later, Markov was free and armed with the knife. He cut the duct tape on Julia’s wrists. She got up, glowered at Ikanbo and especially at the man who’d touched her, then made her way over to Ian’s side at the bottom of the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Ian asked.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Markov collected the two rifles and took them over to stand by Ian and Julia. He thought about that moment at the hotel in Mexico, where he’d planned to put a bullet in the man’s head. And thought about how relieved he’d felt to see Ian standing on the stairs, armed.

“What now?” Ikanbo asked. “Are you going to kill us?”

Markov waited a split second, to see if Ian would jump in. It was unclear at the moment which of the two CIA agents was in charge. Official hierarchy no longer meant anything. But Ian waited for him to take the lead.

“No,” Markov said, “we’re not going to kill you. Because I was telling the truth. We are not your enemy.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

There was a tense moment at the CIA safe house while Ikanbo’s men and Markov’s much smaller group negotiated themselves from mutual enemies into a temporary cease fire.

Ian found the man he’d overwhelmed and tied up. The Namibian was where he’d left him, bound and woozy from Ian’s blow over the head, stuffed into a storage shed. Ian apologized and then retreated to let Charles Ikanbo deal with the man’s anger.

In the darkness, with a handful of white and mixed race Namibians in Ikanbo’s force, he’d found it easy to infiltrate the farm house. There were a lot of men; not all of them knew each other well. At the top of the stairs Ian had simply told the two men that he needed to deliver a message to Ikanbo, then shut the door and crept down the stairs into the middle of the intense interrogation.

Getting out alive once the bullets started to fly would have been a different story, but fortunately, things had turned out well.

Ikanbo sent his men to guard the perimeter of the building. He seemed angry when he heard how his men had failed to keep Ian from infiltrating, but didn’t dress anyone down in front of the other men. That would come later, Ian guessed, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

Markov, for his part, sent his men downstairs, with the order to keep anyone from messing with remains of the computer equipment. It was just to get them out of the way, Ian thought.

That left Ian and Markov alone momentarily in the front room. Ikanbo was still outside. Julia had gone to the bathroom. She looked to have mostly recovered from the interrogation, but still looked pale.

“Very fine work,” Markov said.

“Thank you.”

“You’re an excellent agent. One of the best I’ve worked with.”

“Thank you. Did you fall for my trick in Querétaro?”

“I did. Clever.” The compliment this time sounded more grudging.

“I knew you’d find me. Once I figured that Sarah would send you, personally, I knew that I had to be careful. You have a certain reputation. And not just as a hard-ass.”

Julia came into the room. “Thanks for helping.” She glanced back toward the door. Ikanbo still hadn’t come back. “Do you guys trust him?”

“No, not really,” Markov said. “Professionally, I respect him. But he’s looking out for his own interests, that much is obvious. We have two responsibilities. First, we’ve got to stop Sarah Redd. If what she’s doing is not treason, it’s damn close. Sarah and—” He hesitated. “—and whoever might be helping her.”

Ian glanced at Julia and saw that she recognized that hesitation for what it was. Markov was talking about her husband, Terrance. She no longer looked shocked by the news; there was a grim set to her mouth and she nodded.

“Second,” Markov said, “we’ve got to stop whatever the CIA is doing in Namibia. We don’t keep the CIA and AFRICOM out of whatever mess is brewing then it’s going to go a whole lot worse for the United States when everything shakes out. A diplomatic nightmare, at the very least. At worst, things could blow up in a big way with the Chinese.”

Ian looked out the door. He had a hard time seeing into the dark, but he could hear raised voices. What was going on? Was it nothing more than Ikanbo having difficulty convincing his men to trust the foreigners?

“What are you thinking?” Ian asked.

“I’m thinking that I’ll head back to the States, confront Sarah. Take it to the president, if I have to. You’ll stay here, take control of CIA resources in country, help Ikanbo in any way you can. He thinks there’s a coup in progress, and his brother is leading it. Our best way to stop that is to work through Charles.”

“What about me?” Julia asked.

“That’s tough,” Markov said. “You might be in more danger in the States than here.” He turned to Ian. “Will she get in your way?”

“She hasn’t so far. I think she should stay with me.”

“Good, then it’s settled. What’s keeping Ikanbo?”

As if on cue, Charles Ikanbo stepped into the farm house from the front porch, alone. His face was frozen into a frown.

“Okay, let’s talk,” Markov said.