Terror Bounty (18 page)

While Rick had found Dar es Salaam quite
big and contemporary, it had nothing on Johannesburg. One of the three capitals
of South Africa – for a reason he couldn’t understand but was undoubtedly
significant – it was on the same scale as Los Angeles. There were skyscrapers
everywhere and the city seemed to stretch on forever.

As he walked out of OR Tambo
International Airport to get a taxi, he was pleasantly surprised that the temperature
was much more comfortable, in the low 70s. After the tropical hellhole of
Greenwood’s hideout, this was greatly appreciated. After all, it was basically springtime
south of the equator, especially this far south.

“How far to the Westcliff?” he asked the
cabbie.

“Only 30 kilometers, depends on traffic.”

They got onto the freeway and Rick
cleared his mind. It was dark now and the city was like ten million fireflies
dancing before him. He felt a little ashamed of breaking down during the flight
but it had been beneficial, therapeutic. It was as if he had taken a load off
and gotten his priorities straight again.

He could do this. One more day and he
would be free to call in reinforcements. He’d find a way to contact Hertz
again, have him pick him up, and together they would work out the exact
location of Greenwood’s lair.

Uncle Peter had told him another attack
was coming. The terrorist hadn’t told him anything about that but it wasn’t
shocking either. If they acted fast enough he could stop this from happening.

They reached the Westcliff Hotel in under
an hour because of the traffic. It was located just off an affluent
neighborhood and the hotel itself was gorgeous, a sprawling pink building on a
hill. Greenwood was going all out. Rick had half expected to be put up at a
Motel 6.

After he checked in, he went to his room
and took a long shower. It was a pity he didn’t have a change of clothes.
Greenwood most likely hadn’t wanted him to take his bag for fear that he would
never come back. It was hard to know what he was thinking.

It occurred to Rick to use the phone to
contact Peter again, or Hertz, but the prospect of being under surveillance
couldn’t be overlooked. He crashed on the bed wearing only a terrycloth towel
around his waist and started watching TV.
Damn
, they even had the Food
Network in South Africa.

He was just getting into a show when
there was a knock at the door.

Okay, what now?
He got off the bed and stared at his clothes on the floor. What
should he do? Fight? Escape? No, this was stupid. If this was an assault they
wouldn’t have knocked.

He went to the door. “Who is it?”

“Front desk received a message for you,
sir.”

Rick got some money from his pants and
opened the door just a crack. There was a young bellhop standing there with an
envelope in his hand.

“Here.”

Hastily and without opening the door
further, he gave him the tip and got the envelope in return.

“Thank you, s–”

Rick closed the door before he could
finish. He tore the envelope open and read the note inside.

Instructions.

~  ~  ~  ~

Back in Zambia, Hertz threw caution to
the wind.

He drove his Mitsubishi to the edge of
the village and then walked the rest of the way. He kept his hands in sight,
not quite above his head but making it clear that he wasn’t wearing any
weapons. Word quickly spread that a foreigner was here and people came out of
their homes.

Chamba had his Beretta in his hand and
another OWL member was reaching for a dependable AK-47.

Hertz stated his intentions and soon he
was escorted to Greenwood’s house. The world’s most wanted man was outside,
reading a book by candlelight. He looked up at the visitors.

“This is Mr. Hertz, says he wants to talk
to my boss.”

Greenwood smiled. “I have this unholy
feeling that you work for Big Brother and somehow I’m not frightened.”

“You’re not?” Hertz said.

“I was expecting an airstrike from people
like you, perhaps even a Delta Force team. So the fact that this isn’t what’s
happening is intriguing.”

It was the CIA man’s turn to smile.

“I have a business proposition for you.”

It was time to discuss Operation
Blackthorne.

~  ~  ~  ~

Rick’s instructions had been extremely
vague and yet precise: to be at the bar downstairs by 11 o’clock. He followed
this to the letter and yet nothing happened.

He sat at the round-shaped bar and,
remembering that South Africa was supposedly renowned for its wine, he ordered
a dark Bordeaux-style blend. It was delicious even for someone like him who
didn’t know the first thing about grape varieties and vintages.

He looked at his watch. He’d been here
half an hour, was considering having another drink or calling it off
altogether, and nothing had happened yet. He glanced around the room, there
were few people and no one was interested in him. Slow night.

What the hell, he would have another
drink. It could help because every time he wasn’t thinking about the mission at
hand his mind drifted off to Olivia. He couldn’t believe she was dead.

Sure, she had volunteered to follow him
but this was his fault all the same. He wondered if the British government
would come after him as an accessory to her death. But the worst part was that
he’d started to really care about her.

He missed her and that guilt would follow
him to his grave.

“Excuse me,” he said to the barmaid. “Can
I have another please?”

She smiled and produced a bottle of
Aaldering, began pouring a new glass.

“Say, you don’t know anything about
somebody meeting me here tonight, do you? Or maybe you have a package for me?”

“Are you Rick?”

At that he lit up. “Yes, that’s me.”

She reached under the counter and retrieved
an envelope which he snatched out of her hands.

Without waiting, he opened it. Inside was
a note and a key.

~  ~  ~  ~

His head light from the alcohol and
anxiety, Rick found a taxi to go to Johannesburg Park Station, the city’s
central railway hub. Thankfully, it was only three miles away and he got there
fast.

The note guided him to the storage
lockers and it didn’t take long to find the one which corresponded to his key.
He was frightened for a moment that opening this would trigger a bomb, but then
realized there were easier methods to kill him or blow up a train station.

So he opened the locker and inside found
a conventional briefcase.

This is it?

Somewhat let down by the anti-climactic
event, he hailed another cab and returned to the Westcliff after mailing the
envelope he’d been given. No more drinks, no more dithering. He would grab his
flight in the morning and return to Greenwood, get it over with.

Only he was incapable of letting it go.
What was the angle here? Was he really only just a courier?

He sat on a chair while the briefcase
rested on the bed. It looked like any other briefcase he’d ever seen. It was
made of cheap leather, there was a four-digit combination lock. What was in it?
Drugs?

More to the point, what if he got pinched
at customs on the way back?

“I shouldn’t even be trying this,” he
mumbled to himself.

He fell to his knees in front of the
briefcase and stared at the four little wheels on each side. That’s when he had
a
Eureka
moment. He dialed in 1-9-6-8.

The briefcase clicked.

He could almost hear Greenwood say, “That’s
how they did it back in ‘68.”

Holding his breath, he opened the lid.
Again, just an ordinary briefcase and it was empty. He ran his hands against
the lining and discovered it was yielding. There was a false bottom.

He inspected it more closely and pulled
out a vinyl strap. It revealed a secret compartment. Stuffed inside, with
styrofoam around it, was a glass vial.

“Jesus H. Christ…”

Inside the vial was a greenish liquid and
stamped on the glass was a familiar design: the biohazard symbol. Rick was
frozen, he couldn’t breathe.

What had he done?

Rick hardly slept a wink. He thought
about the options and found that he had none. Try to contact Hertz or even the
local cops? Greenwood and his people would know. Not only would he fail his
mission but he’d most likely be killed for his trouble.

He was exhausted when he left
Johannesburg and flew back to Dar es Salaam. In fact, he was almost too tired
to be afraid to be arrested carrying this biological agent, or whatever the
hell it was.

Maybe he even
wanted
to get
caught.

This wasn’t such a terrible prospect,
come to think of it. He would be taken out of the game by no fault of his own.
Sure, he could say goodbye to the $4 million but it might be worth it. Olivia
getting killed, and acting as a courier in what was undoubtedly a terrorist
plot, was it still worth compromising his morals?

No, it wasn’t.

In any event, no one gave him a second
look, not as he left South Africa and not as he passed through customs in
Tanzania. He went through a metal detector, answered a few routine questions,
and that was it.

Sagan waited for him on the concourse as
he came out of the gate. He was as unsmiling as usual.

“This is the correct briefcase?”

“Hello to you too,” Rick said. “And no,
this isn’t the briefcase. I picked yours up, memorized the brand and model, and
then I went shopping for an identical briefcase. Of course this is the one.”

“Let’s go.”

They left the terminal and Rick followed
him to the general aviation area where they returned to the same white
Beechcraft plane.

With the blindfold on, the rumbling of
the aircraft’s propellers, and the fatigue having built up to the breaking
point, Rick slept through the entire flight after all.

~  ~  ~  ~

It was overcast for the first time as
they drove in the Jeep toward the village. Once more, it was only when they got
close that he was allowed to remove his blindfold.

He saw the villagers in the distance. They
were tending to their small fields, herding animals, taking care of children.
They didn’t seem to be concerned with anything outside of their immediate
needs.

He wondered how many of them knew who
Greenwood really was. Was he just a white man renting a house? Or did they know
that he was a mass murderer? Did they agree with his views, with his methods?
And if they didn’t, would they turn on him if they found out?

Maybe ignorance was bliss after all, he
figured.

He had the briefcase on his lap to keep
it from bouncing around on the uneven road. Knowing what was inside scared him
to death. What if the vial broke? Would he be killed on the spot? Would it
infect everyone around him?

Greenwood was beaming as he walked to the
Jeep as it returned to its usual parking spot.

“Rick, how are you, my friend? Did you
have a nice trip? I always found South Africa to be wonderful. It’s such a
beautiful land with great people.”

Eager to get it over with, Rick
dismounted and gave him the briefcase.

“Here.”

“That’s beautiful, thank you. Do you know
what’s inside?”

Rick swallowed dryly. “Uh, no.”

No one could possibly have bought his
answer, he thought. However, Greenwood showed no sign of having noticed. He
smiled again.

“It’s something that will allow me to
reach my goal.”

“And just what is your goal?”

Greenwood smirked and began walking back
toward the center of the village. Rick kept up with him.

“The things I’ve done so far have been
small potatoes. I want to do a massive score, something that’ll make headlines
for months, for years. I want to do something that will be remembered for
eternity.”

“Okay, I can understand this. Strike big,
get people’s attention. But you’ll have the entire world after you.”

“It doesn’t matter, Rick. You know what
is going to happen afterwards?”

“What?”

“I plan to surrender shortly after my
next attack,” Greenwood whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “The trial will be
a media sensation, a perfect venue for me to explain my views, to reach as many
people as possible.”

Rick shook his head, not understanding. “But
you can’t possibly get away with this. They’ll convict you for sure.”

“I know, I’m fully expecting the death
penalty. Did you know that the average time between conviction and execution is
15 years? I’ll write a book about it all while I await execution, I’ll have
plenty of time. I can write several books, do interviews. Hell, maybe I can
even get married! If Charles Manson can get someone to marry him while he’s
inside then I suppose I can too.”

“It’s suicide.”

“It’s martyrdom. I really don’t mind
dying if it makes people understand. It has to be the government that kills me,
they have to advertise it too. I’ve been aiming for that moment for over two
decades. And now we’re there.”

He stopped and turned toward Rick who was
grappling with this speech.

“I’ll help you with your project now,
Rick.”

“What?

“Your own budding organization. I’ll help
you set up covert funds, establish targets for you. Do you have your notes with
you?”

It took several seconds for Rick to snap
out of it. “No, it’s all back in the States, I didn’t want to go through
customs with them, you know?”

“All right, I’ll meet you in America in a
few days. We can do everything once I’m over there.”

“Great, thanks.”

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Do you have a
cellphone number where I can reach you?”

Since he had lost his phone in Amsterdam
and wasn’t sure if he could port his number to a new phone once he got back
home, he gave him his e-mail address.