Hidden Agendas

'You know I'm not talking about the operation, I'm talking about you going along.'

'Rank has its privileges, Toni. I was a good field op, once upon a time. I need to get out once in a while. The administration and politics of this job grind you down.'

'It's dangerous.'

'Crossing the street is dangerous.'

He saw she was really concerned about him, and he didn't want to be flip, so he said, 'What would make you feel better about this?'

'You not going.'

'Aside from that?'

She looked him straight in the eyes. 'If I went with you.'

He started to shake his head. 'I need somebody here to run things—'

'For three or four days? Bring in Chavez from nights, shift Preston over from Operations. They can handle things for that long.'

'I don't know—'

'Oh, it's fine for you to go play in the field but not me?'

'It's against regulations for both of us to be on the same plane,' he tried. He knew it was lame when he said it.

'You're going to quote regulations at me? You're going to toss the rule book out the window, go along on a mission you'd never get approved if the Director knew about it, and then talk to me about both of us flying on the same plane?!'

Ooh, she was mad. It was a side of her he'd never seen. And of course, she was perfectly justified in feeling that way, and he knew it.

'Okay,' he said, holding up his hands in surrender. 'Okay, you're right. You can go.'

'I can?'

And in those two words, he heard what she must have sounded like as a little girl. In her concern, anger, and her sudden astonishment, she was in that moment drop-dead gorgeous, calling to him like a Siren. He wanted to hug her, kiss her — and he wanted to fall on the couch with her. Not a good idea, and certainly not a good idea here in the office, but that was how he felt.

Something was going to have to be done about this. He was going to have to do something.

'You're right. We'll work something out. That way, we'll both be looking for new jobs if this goes sour.'

'I can live with that.'

'Good. Now go take care of those other details we need handled, okay?'

'Right,' she said. She smiled at him, stood there for what seemed a long time, then very softly, so softly he wasn't sure he had heard it, said, 'I love you.'

And then she was gone, and he was standing there with his mouth open, caught totally flat-footed and stunned.

Monday, January 17th, 6 p.m. Bissau, Guinea-Bissau

Hughes sipped at his drink, a good brandy in a monogrammed crystal snifter, and frowned up at the President's chauffeur/bodyguard.

'You're sure?'

'Sorry, sir, but he wasn't on the plane. I would have recognized him. I did drive him around when he was here before. He's rather difficult to miss.'

'Yes. Well, thank you anyway.'

The chauffeur departed, and Hughes reached for the Cuban cigar in the ashtray on the table next to the overstuffed chair in which he sat. The cigar had gone out. He carefully relit it, using one of the wooden matches from the carved ivory box.

'This is a concern for you?' Domingos said. He puffed on his own fine cigar and blew out fragrant smoke.

'Not really,' Hughes said. 'Platt will show up sooner or later. If not today's flight, then tomorrow's or the next day's. I have his money, and the arrangement was for him to collect it in person.'

'Giles will take care of him whenever he arrives,' Domingos said. 'Not to worry.'

Hughes swirled the brandy, lifted the snifter to his lips, and sipped it. 'I'm not worried at all, Mr. President.'

'Please, you must call me Freddie. We are going to have a long and very pleasant association together, no?'

'But of course, Freddie.'

Monday, January 17th, 7 p.m. Tanaf, Senegal

Platt had driven his rented Land Rover to Sedhiou, where he'd taken the dinky ferry across the sluggish and brown Casamance River, then south to Tanaf. From there, if he stayed on the road, he was only about five miles away from Senegal's southern border with Guinea-Bissau. If he stayed on the road, it would take him through Olo Province south across the Canjambari River by way of Mansoa, and into Bissau from the northeast. That was if he stayed on the road. Thing with a Land Rover was, you didn't have to stay on the road if you didn't feel like it. And most of the roads around here were dirt tracks anyhow. He didn't particularly trust the guy who'd rented him the Rover, but the guy was white, and he'd said there were more ways to cross the border unseen than you could shake a stick at, and that was probably true.

It wasn't that far, as the crow flew, from where he was to Bissau, maybe fifty miles, but if the crow had to walk it on these crappy paths it was not only longer, it was a lot slower than the bird could fly with one wing busted. Platt would probably get there while it was still dark, assuming he didn't get pulled over by some native Army patrol out for blood. He was prepared for that, having bought himself a K-bar sheath knife, a Browning 9mm semiautomatic pistol, a vintage AK-47, and enough ammunition for both guns to take out a small-town high school football stadium. Plus he had picked up two WWII surplus hand grenades — German potato mashers, the dealer told him, old, but guaranteed to work.

If he ran into some local soldiers who wanted to give him grief, he'd see if could mash them like potatoes. Nobody in this dark land was gonna stop him getting where he wanted to go, not without being real sorry if they tried.

And after he had gotten far enough out in the boonies, he had pulled over and taken time to apply a couple of coats of the darkest tanning foam he could find. He wasn't exactly black, but he was a kind of nutty brown, and with a baseball cap on to hide his hair, he didn't look much like a white man at any distance more than a few yards.

Platt found a cow path or something a couple of miles away from the border, leading through a grassy field and a couple of plowed areas, then into some woods. He stayed on the compass until he came to a fence that stretched off into the woods in both directions.

Must be the border, he figured.

The fence that protected the border was three whole strands of rusted barbed wire tacked to wooden posts that were mostly rotted away.

Damned savages couldn't do any better than that? Jesus. No wonder they never amounted to nothin' over here. This fence wouldn't keep the livestock in back home.

He hacked most of the way through one of the posts with the K-bar, then knocked it the rest of the way down with the Rover's front bumper and rolled across the border.

Welcome to Guinea-Bissau, hoss. Hope you enjoy your visit.

He had gotten kind of turned around, so he pulled over to check the map. And it was a lucky thing too. While the hot engine ticked, he heard another vehicle. He got out of the Land Rover and moved down the trail.

Ahead was a beat-up pickup, painted jungle green, with four soldiers in it, two inside, two in the back. They had AKs like his, and they were cruising along slow, looking.

Platt realized that if he hadn't stopped, he might have run right into them, and with four guns against his one, that could have been real bad — especially if they had seen him first, which they would have probably done, since they were looking and he wasn't.