“Don’t you think you should get yourself to Isle de Foree ASAP?”
“I already have an ASC Gulfstream gassing up at Hobby Airport. I’ll be aboard in twenty minutes.”
“I think you should go in force.”
“I’ve already beefed up security on the Vulcan Queen.”
“As a precaution?”
Doug Case went for broke.
It was time to claim his rightful role. Before the coup.
“Not a precaution. In anticipationof when you ask me to remove Chief of Staff Mario Margarido.”
The distorted voice made a noise that was probably a chuckle. “I admire you, Douglas. You do stay on top of things.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you ready to remove Margarido?”
“Of course, as I promised. Everything is set.”
“Do it!”
“Consider it done.”
“And when you get to Isle de Foree?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do everything in your power to support Kingsman Helms.”
That came as fast and final as a red-hot sword in the gut.
Case ran the possibilities: The Voice was Kingsman Helms himself, ensuring Case’s support. Or The Voice was the Buddha, who had chosen Helms as his successor. Or the Voice was an outsider, a board member or a rival who wanted his man Helms in charge of ASC.
A sword in the gut any way Case looked at it.
“Douglas, are you still there?”
“I will do everything in my power to support Kingsman Helms.”
“Excellent. I knew I could count on you.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Dawn
39°55′ N, 09°41′ E
Tortoli Airport, Sardinia, 820 miles south-southeast of The Hague
Iboga was seasick. He had gotten queasy in the RIB during the short run through the surf from the cliffs of the Vallicone peninsula to the cigarette boat waiting offshore. On the cigarette, he had groaned loudly and drunkenly as it sped him to the freighter cruising the Strait of Bonifacio. Hoisted aboard in a cargo net, the dictator proceeded to vomit wine on the deck.
In the bright light of the ship’s galley, which smelled of grease and coffee, Janson and Kincaid inspected every item that Kincaid had taken from the dictator. A thick, new lizard skin travel wallet contained authentic-looking French, Russian, and Nigerian passports, an international driver’s license, and Visa and American Express credit cards in the name of N. Kwame Johnson. There was a gold money clip full of euros, an old-fashioned Zippo cigarette lighter, the latest iPhone with a treasure trove of contact numbers, a beautifully crafted French shepherd’s folding knife, a gold and diamond Rolex watch, a plastic Baggie of loose pills, including oxycodone, aspirin, and Viagra, and several mini-Baggies, each holding a half a gram of a black powder, which Janson assumed was Iboga’s namesake hallucinogen extracted from the Tabernanthe iboga rain-forest shrub. He uplinked the data on the iPhone SIM card to the forensic accountants, along with the credit card numbers and passport numbers, with instructions to pass on to Research anything that did not serve their hunt for the money.
Iboga was too seasick to interrogate, shaking with dry heaves. Janson knelt beside him, coaxing him to drink water so as not to become dangerously dehydrated. There would be time on the plane to talk about the money. And more time, if necessary, parked on a runway in friendly territory.
Off the east coast of Sardinia, they lowered him into another RIB to slip ashore at Tortoli Airport. The RIB motored quietly through the last wisps of night, steered by Daniel. Iboga retched over the side.
“God punishes in mysterious ways,” Janson told Kincaid.
They were seated on the inflated tubes where they joined to form the bow. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but she heard a faint grin in his voice that relieved her deeply. This was the first he had spoken other than to issue quiet orders since they had left Corsica the night before. “How are you?”
“Hanging in there.”
“Like you told him, Paul. He gave you no choice.”
“Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”
Kincaid took his hand. There was a softness to it that always surprised her. “Janson Rules,” she said. “ ‘No killing anyone who doesn’t try to kill us.’ He would have killed you and killed everything you hope for.”
“Still didn’t enjoy it. But thanks for the thought.”
“Don’t blow me off! It’s not a goddamned thought. I’m trying to screw your head back on straight.”
“Well, thanks for the head screwing. I mean it. Thank you.” He patted her arm distractedly, dialed his cell phone, shielding the light in his palm, listened to it ring, and hung up. “Still can’t raise the boys.”
Ed and Mike had reported earlier in the night that they had landed the Embraer at Tortoli Airport and parked as out of the way as they could. It was a tiny field outside the town of Tortoli—trees around the control tower, in Ed’s words—that handled a couple of tourist charters a day. The single runway ran from a bare-bones terminal to the beach, which the RIB was approaching. With the prevailing wind from the east, the Embraer had descended over the hills and would take off over the water, which meant hiking six thousand feet from the beach dragging Iboga in the dark.
They heard him retching into the gentle surf.
“Good thing we brought the dolly.”
The rubber boat ground ashore on the sand. Daniel helped them shoulder Iboga across the beach and went back for the dolly. They strapped him to it standing up. Its fat pneumatic tires rolled easily on the asphalt runway.
“Good job,” Janson told Daniel, shaking his hand.
“Get home safe.”
Each gripping a handle, Janson and Kincaid started rolling Iboga toward the distant control tower, which was invisible against the dark hills behind it. Janson flipped down his panoramics. There it was, a squat structure in a clump of trees. Parked near it was a plane—not the Embraer. Its engines were wing mounted. Hauling on the dolly handle, jogging beside Kincaid, he scanned the area around the buildings. There was the Embraer, showing no lights of course but pointed straight down the runway, with its door open for them and boarding stairs extended.
“I see the plane.”
The night glass’s infrared enhancement showed the bright bulge of the big Rolls-Royces on its tail. They appeared brighter than the buildings and the other plane, which meant that Ed and Mike had the engines warm, ready to take off in a flash.
Iboga stopped groaning. As was common with seasickness, the restorative effect of being on dry land was rapid. Suddenly he spoke.
“Where take?”
“Holland. The Hague. International Court.”
“I pay bribe. Let me go.”
“How much?” asked Janson, without slackening pace.
“Ten million euros.”
“Where are you going to get ten million dollars?” Kincaid asked scornfully.
“I get.”
“Hundred million,” said Janson.
“Seventy,” Iboga shot back. And Janson felt his hopes soar. Iboga was bargaining like a man who had no doubt he could raise the money. Nor did he sound concerned by the amount, as if he could easily afford it and have plenty, the lion’s share, left for himself. Unless he was scamming them, angling to distract them, looking for a chance to break away.
“Where?” Kincaid demanded. “How do we get the money?”
“You take me. I get.”
“Where?”
“First you say yes. And you give me back my stuff.”
“I’m not saying yes until you tell me where. And I’m damned sure not giving you anything back until I have the seventy million in my hands.”
After a moment of rolling in silence, Iboga caved. “Zagreb.”
Zagreb made sense, thought Janson. Zagreb was the capital of Croatia, among the most corrupt countries in eastern Europe, the kind of nation where transnational criminal organizations like Securité Referral could play a powerful role. He imagined the enormous kickback SR would have received from the Croatian bank, and even the government itself, for steering Iboga’s stolen money to them.