Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (192 page)

Charles turned it off in disgust. If only he’d moved more quickly. If only he hadn’t lost his spotter before Ian Westhelle got the Caesar artillery ready for fire support. If only the presence of the American jets dropping bombs in support hadn’t stiffened the rebels’ resolve.

The enemy renewed its attack. They drove Charles into a tighter circle, protected only by a few trees, some smashed buildings, and whatever return fire he could direct to hold them off. For almost an hour he had been fighting the losing struggle. Another twenty, thirty minutes and he would have to surrender. Save some of his men.

Suddenly, the enemies at the airport stopped shooting in their direction. It took a moment to realize what was happening, even as the sounds of battle—grenades, the heavy thump of machines guns, together with the lighter chatter of small arms—increased in that direction.

Ian Westhelle’s voice came over the radio. “Here I am. Better late than never.”

“Get those tanks,” he said. “They’re killing me.”

“Where?”

“In front of the palace.”

“Got it. Give me a sec to pinpoint their location.”

The shells seemed to come from nowhere, and arrived at such velocity that he neither saw nor heard them come. A flash of light and heat and the turret flew off the first T-55, with the second knocked back a good five meters, disabled.

For a moment, the sounds of battle seemed to cease, and then the fighting grew more furious than ever. He caught his first glimpse of Ian and the Blackwing troops. They had the enemy on the run, but there was nowhere to retreat. Some rebels squirted out to the west, but the rest emerged from their protective ditch or behind the concrete wall. Exposed, they were easy targets.

Ten more minutes of fighting and the CIS and Blackwing forces merged. Charles couldn’t see Ian, but he didn’t wait to regroup and make plans for a counterattack. The rebels at his back along the airport were gone, the forces that had pinned him onto the road seemed to be pulling back, uncertain, and the enemies guarding the palace had lost their two tanks.

Ian wasn’t done calling in artillery strikes. Shells blasted enemy APCs, machine gun nests, mortars, enemy-controlled buildings, and any other target that showed itself.

Charles led a group of two APCs, a Humvee, and two trucks to assault the palace itself. Within minutes he was at the front doors. He directed gunfire, RPGs, and small mortars at the walls, doors, and windows. Small arms fire cut down two of his men as they set up a .50 caliber machine gun, but he returned better than he got.

As soon as he had the grounds reasonably secure, he jumped down from his vehicle and gathered a small force to assault the palace. The Blackwing troops were still engaged with rebels on the road and mop up actions near the airport.

Charles entered the building with twenty men. It was less than half the force he’d taken to assault the farm house, and he felt a hint of the old caution returning. But he didn’t dare wait. Their advantage might be temporary; if the American jets returned, they could annihilate his forces, destroy the Caesar artillery. He had to end this, now.

He didn’t like the Presidential Palace, never had. It represented everything wrong with Africa. It was gaudy, ornate and oversized. Built by the North Koreans (now
there
was a model for Namibia to follow) at a cost of a billion Namibian dollars (officially), and dedicated with great fanfare. It was a monument to a glorious socialist future and freedom from imperialism.

Stepping inside, he was shaken by the destruction. The art and cultural icons on display had been looted or destroyed. Cabinets lay on their sides with doors smashed to splinters. Bullet holes tore up plaster and marble tables lay in pieces. The paintings were gone from the wall, every niche that had once held a pot or basket—Namibian heritage—had been emptied. Some of these things lay broken on the ground. Most were simply gone.

A half dozen rebels made a stand in the hallway off the cabinet meeting rooms. Charles lost one, killed three, took three more captive. He lay the prisoners side by side on their bellies, had his men jab them with gun barrels.

“Where is he? Your so-called president?”

They were quiet.

“It’s over, he’s lost. And you are the traitors who supported him. Speak up or I’ll line you up against the wall and execute you for treason.”

“End of the hall. Last room on the right. He’s trying to call an American helicopter to send a rescue.”

Charles left two of his men to guard the prisoners. He led the others down the hall. They kicked in each door in turn, to guard against ambush, but most of the rooms were empty. He took two more prisoners, but avoided more firefights.

There were only two men in the last room, William and a single bodyguard. William was speaking on a cell phone, pleading with someone on the other end. He turned as Charles entered and his face fell.

The guard threw down his weapon and lifted his hands. He stepped away from William, distancing himself from the former Minister of Mines and Energy, the self-proclaimed president of Namibia.

William dropped his phone and bent as if to grab for the man’s gun. Charles didn’t shout a warning, just waited with a feeling of grim satisfaction for his brother to make the move. He had a dozen men in the room already, each with a weapon pointed at William Ikanbo. Let him do it, let him pay for his crimes right here and now.

But his brother seemed to think better of the move, no doubt making the same calculation. He stopped, straightened and lifted his hands to put them over his head.

Charles ordered the two men taken, searched, then sent most of his men to continue to search the palace for holdouts. He sent the bodyguard off to join the other captives, but kept his brother lying on his belly in the middle of the room with his hands bound behind his back.

He wasn’t given to gloating, but couldn’t help but say, “How did the Americans come through for you, then?”

“You ruined everything,” William said. “If only you’d helped me, we could have saved Namibia’s oil for Namibians.”

“For you and your friends, you mean.”

“You think it’s going to be any better now? You think the Chinese are going to give you their profits? Believe me, I’ve seen the leases. They’re keeping the oil, keeping the money. This was a gift and you threw it away.”

“Oil is a curse, not a gift,” Charles said. “I don’t care how much money it gives us—whatever it is, it will be plenty, I’m sure—but we’d have been better off had it never been found.”

“You’re a fool.”

“And you’re a traitor who threw everything away. You had plenty, but you got greedy and now you’ve got nothing.”

“You won’t keep me in prison. There are too many men in Parliament who helped me. You can’t get rid of them all and sooner or later they’ll pardon me. I’ll get out and I’ll have more influence than ever.”

“You might be right,” Charles said. He took out his sidearm, kneeled with his knee against William’s back and placed the barrel against his brother’s head. His voice hardened. “I’d better make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“What? No!”

He pulled the trigger. A shot echoed in the room. From the corner of his eye, Charles saw his men flinch. And then his brother’s blood and brains splattered his hands and face.

“My God.”

It was a woman’s voice, and Charles turned, surprised, to see Julia Nolan standing in the doorway, followed by Ian Westhelle. The CIA agent wore a look that was both exhausted and alert, depending on whether you were looking at the intensity in his eyes or at battle fatigue in the rest of his features. He seemed to take in the entire room with a glance.

Julia rushed to William Ikanbo’s side. She felt for a pulse, then shook her head.

“There are more wounded. I’m going to see what I can do.” She stepped from the room, and was joined by a pair of Blackwing bodyguards.

“The battle is over,” Ian said to Charles after Julia was gone. “The rebels are either surrendering en masse or throwing down their weapons, stripping off their uniforms and trying to disappear into the city.”

Charles gave Ian a hard look. Time to find out what kind of man this South African turned American really was. “And what about your Blackwing forces?”

“Still securing the city. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll pull them back, out of Windhoek.”

“As soon as I’m ready?”

“You give the word and I’ll have my men moving in ten minutes.”

“Good enough.”

“I hope you do the right thing for Namibia,” Ian said. “You’ll have emergency powers, and sometimes these emergencies never end, if you know what I mean.”

“This one will,” Charles said, firmly.

“Good. Then it’s over.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

For a hedge fund manager, getting an unexpected visit from the SEC was as welcome as seeing a SWAT team at a crack house.

Malcolm Hathwell sat in his power chair, behind his ten foot long granite desk, with the views of Wall Street at his back. The two SEC guys sat on the other side. A pair of men in dark suits with ear pieces—like secret service agents—stood at the doorway to his office. Another man walked through the room, picking up objects casually and rudely from his shelves, as if examining them for bugs or other evidence.

“You’d better get to the goddam point,” Malcolm said.

A tall, slender man gave him a smile through thin lips. He’d introduced himself only as Mr. Bishop. “You know why we’re here. Let’s get that out of the way up front.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You really only have one hope, Mr. Hathwell, and that is to cooperate immediately and fully. I know that most insider trading involves a hefty fine, maybe a weekend stint in a country club prison. This is not like most cases. It encompasses possible treason, a scandal that must be snuffed out before it spreads, and a clear and present danger to the U.S. financial system. How does life in maximum security prison with no hope of parole sound to you?”

Any hope that this may have involved something else, some other, more minor indiscretion, vanished at once. Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt fear at someone’s threats. He was very, very afraid now.

“The funny thing about insider trading cases,” Mr. Bishop said, “is that everybody thinks their situation is different. Somehow they’ll get away with it, because somehow this is not the same as at that other firm. Guy like you, rich beyond belief, gets so greedy for that next billion that he doesn’t stop and think of the risks. What’s the difference between having one billion or ten? Seriously.”

There was no answer to that question. If you didn’t already understand the difference, nobody could explain it to you. “What do you want?” he asked. “Is there something specific you’re looking for? Some sort of confession?”

“Unnecessary,” Mr. Bishop said. “Your partners already capitulated. They were all too happy to let you take one for the team. I think they might escape with five, ten years. That’s not my decision.”

“Then what?”

“I need names. You got this information from somewhere. I need to know who and what. And I need it now.”

“Are you making some sort of offer?”

“No. Except to promise that my pleasant demeanor changes in sixty seconds if you don’t start talking.”

He needed to talk to legal, better yet, find a criminal defense lawyer. He hadn’t admitted anything, and surely shouldn’t. All the stuff about his partners was probably a bluff. They would be talking to their lawyers even now, refusing to communicate to the SEC except through their attorneys.

“Thirty seconds, Mr. Hathwell.”

“An old college buddy,” he blurted.

“Go ahead.”

“He works for the CIA. He came to me last week with information about an oil play in Namibia.”

From there, it didn’t take long for Malcolm to tell the man everything he knew. He worried that the confession would do nothing to save his skin. But he was too scared. Once he started talking, he couldn’t shut up. Terrance Nolan had it coming to him, involving Malcolm in all this.

Dumbass.

________

Sarah Redd grew impatient while waiting in the hotel room for Markov to arrange her escort. Bastard hadn’t bothered to call off the media hordes. In fact, she could still see him out the window from time to time, watching her room. It was raining and he wore a trench coat with his hands shoved deep in its pockets. No doubt his tiny brain was still scheming for a way to arrest her for her alleged crimes.