Lights flickered under the wings as the Antonov shredded the clouds at twelve hundred feet. The pilot leveled off in the direction of what had to be the airstrip, a rectangle of lights embedded in the darkness ahead.
They were all business now, jabbering in Russian as the plane sank toward the runway. The landing gear dropped with a terrifying thump, and for a moment, Wilson was sure they’d been hit – though by what or by whom he had no idea. Pressing his forehead against the window, he could see the exhaust pouring over the wing, the ailerons fluttering, and, up ahead, a handful of trucks and military vehicles standing in a field, headlights beaming the way.
The plane could not have been at rest for more than thirty seconds when the cargo door began to lower. By then, Zero and Khalid were at the ready, duffel bags in one hand, H.K.’s in the other. The Diadora bags were left where they were, on the floor of the plane. They wouldn’t be needed in Africa, and the guns could not be taken to Antwerp.
Belov led them down the ramp, where they were blinded by the lights of trucks and military vehicles parked on the verge of the airstrip. Wilson took a deep breath, inhaling Africa for the first time.
“Max!” A giant loomed in the headlights, came forward and embraced the Russian with a rumbling chuckle. By Wilson’s estimate, he would not have been out of place in the forecourt of the San Antonio Spurs, and looked to be about Wilson’s own age. He had ritual scars on each of his cheeks and a large diamond in the lobe of his left ear. Dressed in combat boots and taupe fatigues, he wore a double-barreled shoulder rig with a Glock hanging, half-cocked, in each of his armpits. One step behind him, and on either side, was a cherubic-looking twelve-year-old with a Kalashnikov.
“Commander Ibrahim, permit me, I introduce Mr. Frank,” Belov announced.
Commander Ibrahim crushed Wilson’s hand in his own, all smiles, then stepped back with a look of exaggerated suspicion. “American?”
Wilson nodded.
Belov, looking nervous, said, “Mr. Frank is Mr. Hakim’s good friend. We do good business together.”
Commander Ibrahim nodded thoughtfully. Finally, he said, “Takoma Park.”
The African’s voice was deep, with a British accent. But Wilson had no idea what he was talking about. “Excuse me?”
“Takoma Park! Do? You? Know it!”
Wilson glanced at Belov, but the Russian looked away, as if to say, You’re on your own. “You mean, the suburb – the one in Maryland?”
“And D.C. – part of it’s in Dee Cee.”
Wilson nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been there once or twice.”
Commander Ibrahim thumped his chest with his fist, then pointed a finger at Wilson. “Well, I was there two fucking years!”
Wilson didn’t know what to say. Said: “Hunh!”
Commander Ibrahim turned to the boy-soldier on his right. “That’s my homey,” he declared.
The kid laughed.
The drive to the mining camp near Bafwasende was about fifty kilometers along a dirt track that, to Wilson’s surprise, was in decent condition. They rode in a sleek Mercedes sedan, with Commander Ibrahim in the front beside the driver, smoking a spliff. Wilson availed himself of the foldaway wet bar to nurse a tumbler of Glenmorangie, neat, and Belov did the same. For Wilson, it was a narcissistic moment, but for Belov, it was just another day at the office.
Their escorts, front to back, were an armored personnel carrier and a “technical.” The latter was a Jeep Grand Cherokee whose roof had been sawn off to accommodate a light machine gun where the rear seat had been. Flat-black with primer, the defrocked SUV had improvised armor, as well as a constellation of bullet holes in the front left fender. An effort to putty them over with epoxy had been unsuccessful, and cosmetically insane.
The APC was a BTR-70, according to Belov (who’d sold it to Commander Ibrahim). It had coaxial machine guns and was totally amphibious. “Nice Russian car!” Belov bragged. “They make in Arzamas plant – in Nizhny Novgorod. But heavy! Ten tons, I think!”
“Eleven,” Ibrahim corrected.
Belov was about to disagree when their conversation was cut short by a burst of machine-gun fire from the technical.
Wilson saw a group of men scatter from the side of the road, scrambling into the bush.
Belov and Commander Ibrahim laughed.
“What the fuck was that?” Wilson asked.
Ibrahim chuckled. “Local people,” he said. “No worries.”
“Did we hit ’em?”
Ibrahim shrugged. “I don’t know.” The way he said it, he might as well have added, Like it matters?
Wilson glanced out the back window, saw the sky brightening in the east. “So where did they go?”
Belov snorted. “Nowhere! They’re back in five minutes. Like roaches!”
Ibrahim turned to Wilson. “You saw the rope?”
Wilson shook his head. He hadn’t seen anything but half a dozen men running for their lives.
“There was a rope across the road,” Ibrahim told him. “They tie it to a tree.”
“So?”
“When cars come, they raise the rope. This means you’re supposed to stop.”
“You didn’t stop,” Wilson said.
“I have an armored personnel carrier. Why the fuck would I stop?”
Belov chuckled. Ibrahim laughed.
“They call themselves ‘tax collectors,’” the commander said, his smile fading to black. “So I guess they think they’re the government. But I don’t think so. You ever see a tax collector sitting beside the road with a rope?”
Wilson shook his head.
“Well,” Ibrahim said, “I see it every day. And it pisses me off.”
They continued on their way for nearly an hour, until they arrived at a compound of prefabricated buildings, huddled together behind a concrete wall topped with razor wire and broken glass. Half a mile from the mining camp, the compound was Commander Ibrahim’s “executive offices and military headquarters.”
“You might as well get some sleep,” Ibrahim said, “while my friend and I go over the cargo. I’ll show you around this afternoon.”
This was fine with Wilson, who was tired from the long flight. Trailed by Zero and Khalid, he followed a bare-chested pygmy up a staircase to the building’s second floor, where half a dozen rooms were set aside for visitors. The rooms were simple but well kept. Wilson’s came with an air conditioner that sounded like a truck with a thrown rod. Even so, it brought the temperature down to the eighties, and wrung a steady stream of moisture from the air.
Wilson kicked his shoes off, and lay down on the bed. As tired as he was, sleep was hard to come by. He felt a mosquito land on the hairs of his arm and, opening his eyes, watched as it began to feed. When it seemed to Wilson that the bug was engorged, he closed his fingers into a fist, and tightened the muscles in his arm. The mosquito was trapped, its proboscis pinned beneath the skin. Wilson’s veins stood out in low relief. His arm trembled. The insect popped.
It was one of the games he’d played in Supermax.
He closed his eyes again, then just as quickly opened them when he heard a quarrel in the hallway outside his room. Getting to his feet, Wilson stepped into his shoes, went to the door, and pulled it open.
Zero and Khalid were arguing with a pygmy who, fierce and terrified, was threatening them with a knife. A Ugandan soldier came pounding up the stairs, yelling at everyone to “Knock it off!”
Wilson pulled his bodyguards away, while the soldier did his best to calm the pygmy.
“What’s going on?” Wilson asked.
The soldier looked up. “He says your friends insulted him.”
Khalid scoffed.
The soldier turned to Khalid. “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”
Khalid hefted his Heckler and Koch, as if to say, Not likely.
It was the soldier’s turn to scoff. “He would have filleted you.”