four walls around him and some uninterrupted solitude… none of which was available in good ol’ Gabon courtesy of the droops, which was another reason for him to love the country, he guessed. Somebody could stick a gun to his head, tell him to put together a grocery list or else, and Scull doubted he’d be able to do it with all the fucking distractions in here.
But maybe his advanced age of fifty-three
Scull produced another low grunt of dissatisfaction and tapped a key on his laptop to wake it from its SLEEP mode, figuring he’d check his e-mail queue to see whether Sherm had come through with any dope on Nautel yet. After five hours of waiting impatiently in this crowded community nowhere, he’d about reached his limit…
He abruptly sat up straight. Miracle of miracles. Boldface on his inbox screen was a message from user name F. Sherman with the subject “Hope You Brought along Galoshes and Nose Plugs.” Cute, but what was it supposed to mean? Scull hardly cared. He was too busy noticing the little paper clip icon that indicated the message had arrived with a file attachment.
He highlighted the message and clicked it open. There were, in fact, several attached files. Large ones.
The e-mail’s body text read:
Per your request, I’ve got a thigh-high puddle of shit for you to wade through, Vince. And you better believe it stinks.
Scull opened the first file and browsed through it. Within minutes, he was ready to start holding his nose.
EIGHT
From Sledge Online (“The Alternative E-zine of News and Opinion”): Hot Briefs
YANK YOUR GRAND BOUBOU OUT OF THE CLOSET
An image of the normally reserved Roger Gordian shaking his derriere at a corporate romp charged with the frenetic dance rhythms of Makossa, Sahelian, and Congo pop musicians is one that would be
Ever dangle a feather lure over a cat’s head? It may be for the very purpose of seizing the media’s eye that the event I’ve described above has been scheduled for next week aboard an offshore drilling platform in the waters of Gabon, an equatorial African republic small enough to fit on a microscope slide and never heard of by many American specimens — at least none
“Yank your
Having sunk tooth and claw into Bennett’s string-and-feather jiggle toy, your spectacle-susceptible columnist must confess that his mouth is watering with anticipation as he prepares to join the creme de la press corps flying off to the event on Sedco’s charter. Which begs the question to those transculturally fashionable, hoity-toity readers who may be past visitors to Gabon — and to our destination city of Port-Gentil in particular — Can any of you recommend a Rent-A-Grand Boubou on short notice? The threads are a
Pointers and discount offers will be welcomed at our e-mail address, dear friends.
They drove to the airport in an armored Land Rover, DeMarco at the wheel, Wade beside him, Nimec and Scull in the backseat. There were several reasons the group was headed out, their wish to shore up security for Roger Gordian’s arrival the next day top among them, though all they’d felt free to discuss at the Rio de Gabao was their intention to direct a force buildup at their transit warehouse as a precaution arising from the Sette Cama ambush — provisionally labeled an attempted hijack, though they understood the book on that was a far cry from closed.
Another very pressing reason for their drive was one they would not under any circumstances have discussed in the open.
Scull had something he needed to show Nimec. A crucial document he’d extracted from a series of memorandums and correspondences his man Fred Sherman had been tipped to by an inside source at Nautel, and then had pried out of the company’s hands after separately informing three of its highest-ranking executives that UpLink would consider their withholding it from him a flat-out breach of trust and cause for summary abrogation of their as-yet-unsigned outsourcing agreement.
Those statements were no empty threats. The letter had widened Scull’s eyes when it came onto his computer screen at the cyber cafe, and only now in the protective confines of the vehicle — his laptop in a docking station that had swung out from behind its front seat at the touch of a button, the hard copy generated by a color printer integrated into his armrest — was he even moderately comfortable with the idea of pulling it off his hard drive.
“Here you go.” Scull took the sheet of paper from the printer’s output slot and gave it to Nimec. “A few casts of his line, and Fred got evidence that a mutual pal of ours, identity to be revealed, committed a serious foul.”
Nimec put the document on his lap. He felt totally out of sorts — his head cloudy, his stitched eyebrow tugging under its bandages, his ears still ringing from the combustive blast that had almost finished him just twenty-four hours earlier.
“So what do you think?” Scull said.
Nimec shot him an irritable glance. “Give me more than thirty seconds to look this over and I’ll tell you.”
Vince frowned but didn’t say anything.
Nimec went back to reading what he’d been handed, a scanned copy of a letter written on the executive stationary of Etienne Begela, Port-Gentil’s minister of economic development and the official who had feted Nimec’s advance team on their arrival. It was addressed to someone named John Greeves II, professional title Principal Claims Investigator, who was with the Risk and Emergency Management Division of a company called The Fowler Group, Ltd.
Nimec looked over at Scull. “Fowler… that’s a commercial insurer, right?”
Scull nodded.
“One of the ultra-biggies,” he said. “Networked with Lloyd’s of London.”
Nimec grunted and continued down to the text of the letter:
