“And neither has anyone else. We were formed as a fast-response team — small, agile, and outside the normal bureaucracy. I think you’re familiar with one of our top operatives…”
“Jon.”
He nodded.
“I can’t tell you how much that explains…,” she said before catching herself and falling silent again.
“And I can’t tell you how far beyond top secret the things I’m telling you are.”
There was no question of that. If it came out that there were forces in the U.S. government running a black ops group that circumvented oversight, there would be hell to pay. Having said that, she’d worked with the conventional intel community long enough to be sympathetic to the need for such a group.
“Do you know a man named Brandon Gazenga, Randi?”
“Never heard of him,” she lied smoothly.
Klein smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you? I wonder why it is, then, that you called your friend at the FBI and asked him to send someone to Gazenga’s house.”
This time, Randi didn’t bother to hide her surprise and Klein didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction at finally getting a reaction out of her.
“Okay, Fred. I’m officially impressed. But what are we really talking about here? Why pick this moment to recruit me? Could it be that you sent Jon on an errand to Africa and something went wrong? That you need me to bail him — and you — out?”
He frowned and reached for another piece of cheese. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but I wouldn’t say your assessment is
“Then let’s cut to the chase. Why is Jon in Africa?”
Klein didn’t react immediately, thinking for a few seconds before using a remote control to start a video on the cabin’s television. “This was taken in northern Uganda two weeks ago. The men are from our top blacks ops unit. I’m afraid none of them are still alive.”
48
Caleb Bahame paced back and forth across the clearing, his gait becoming faster and stiffer as time passed. Most of his men had retreated to the safety of the jungle, but a few novices remained, unwittingly standing far too close.
Omidi glanced at his watch. Two hours late.
There was no way to contact the men bringing the weapons shipment in. The transfer to Bahame’s team had been successfully made, but there had been no communication from them since.
Even without the delay, it was a very delicate situation. Sembutu had agreed to allow Omidi to move freely around Uganda without informing the Western intelligence agencies and to allow the Iranian weapons delivery to go through, though now it appeared that he may have once again panicked. If he’d stupidly decided that arming Bahame was too much of a risk for the reward he’d been promised, then the situation was going to deteriorate very quickly and very dangerously.
A young soldier suddenly burst from the jungle at a full run, skidding awkwardly and losing his balance when Bahame raised a machete and started screaming. The boy held up a hand protectively, unintelligible words tumbling from his mouth. The violent rage burning in the cult leader’s eyes cooled so suddenly that it was hard to believe it had ever existed, and instead of dismembering the child, he cheerfully helped him to his feet.
It wasn’t necessary to speak the local language to understand what had happened. The shipment had been spotted.
It was another fifteen minutes before the first truck appeared, lumbering along the poorly maintained road used for transporting parasite victims to and from the villages Bahame overran. It was painted with the logo of one of the many aid agencies operating in the country, and when the first boxes were thrown from the back, emergency rations spilled out.
Despite their obvious malnourishment, the young soldiers emerging from the trees showed little interest in the food. It wasn’t until a box full of mortars was crowbarred open that their enthusiasm flared.
Bahame took personal control of the unloading, directing the crates of guns, mines, rifles, and ammunition to various storage areas at the edges of the camp, watching each one with glassy-eyed obsession.
When the second truck pulled up, he lost interest in traffic control and stepped back to examine the single enormous crate strapped to the flatbed. Omidi smiled imperceptibly. He hadn’t been sure if this one would actually arrive, but once again, God had provided.
“It is a gift,” the Iranian said. “From His Excellency the Ayatollah Khamenei to you.”
Bahame leapt onto the back of the truck and shouted for help as Omidi pressed two boys into service pulling down the ramps on the trailer. The front of the box was pried open and Bahame disappeared inside, his excited shouts audible as he kicked out the remaining sides.
When it was done, something that looked like a small tank sat amid the splintered wood. It was squat and angular, with thick Plexiglas windows and a single seat.
“It’s made by an American company for police bomb-disposal units,” Omidi explained. “I’m told it can take a direct hit from an RPG and travel more than sixty kilometers per hour.”
Bahame leapt to the ground and snatched the machine gun from around the neck of one of his soldiers. What was going to happen next seemed obvious, and Omidi threw himself to the ground as the sound of automatic fire ricocheting off steel filled his ears.
By the time he stood again, the African was already back on the truck, stepping over the body of a girl who hadn’t fled fast enough and reaching out to caress the undamaged skin of the vehicle. He opened the door and squeezed into the confined space, searching for the ignition. A moment later, the engine roared to life in a cloud of black diesel smoke.
Omidi retreated to the makeshift podium set up at the edge of the jungle and dialed a number into his sat phone. The line clicked a few times and then a familiar voice came on.
“Yes?”
“The first two trucks have arrived.”
Bahame managed to get the vehicle down the ramps and started chasing his terrified men around the clearing.
“Then should we begin our final preparations?”
“Immediately.”
“We will wait for your signal.”
Bahame skidded a hundred and eighty degrees and began roaring in his direction, but Omidi didn’t bother to move. If there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that the African would never risk damaging the stage he used to display his godhood.
49
Dave Collen looked haggard as he fell into one of the chairs facing Drake’s desk. The redness of his eyes suggested that he’d been up for at least twenty-four hours straight, and his expression implied that the time hadn’t been as productive as it needed to be.
“We still don’t have any details on what happened to Smith and his people during their arrest beyond the fact that they were taken to an old military base and released eight hours later. It could be nothing more than some soldiers happening to witness Smith pulling a knife on Sabastiaan Bastock—”
