“Good job.”

Janson sat in the first officer chair. Then, keeping one eye on the autopilot, he went online to learn everything he could about Vulcan-class drill ships.

FORTY

Busy night in Porto Clarence,” Jessica Kincaid noted as she taxied the Embraer back from a landing on Isle de Foree International Airport’s short, windswept runway that had turned every man on board pale.

Janson scanned the field for aircraft Iboga might have come in on.

It wasbusy. Janson’s had been the only plane on the tarmac when he flew out after taking the job to capture the dictator. Tonight, three gold and white American Synergy Corporation Gulfstreams were parked at the lavish terminal Iboga had built to honor his regime. A euroAtlantic Airways Boeing 777 was getting ready to depart and a TAAG Angola Airlines 737 was taxiing toward the runway. The presence of scheduled passenger planes indicated to Janson that Ferdinand Poe had persuaded the airlines that Isle de Foree was sufficiently stable to resume commercial service to Lisbon and Luanda, which was no small achievement.

He saw a brand-new S-76D helicopter in gold and white ASC livery lift off. Another was boarding a line of men in shirtsleeves with carry-on luggage. Assuming that they were ASC company men being ferried offshore to the Vulcan Queendrill ship for the “media shindig,” Janson looked for Doug Case’s wheelchair, but didn’t see him. Maybe out with the first load.

The Isle de Foreen immigration officer who had cleared the Embraer when they were last here greeted Janson warmly. Janson asked where he might find Chief of Security da Costa.

“You just missed him. He’s boarding the Lisbon flight.”

“Da Costa’s leaving?” Now, with Iboga on the loose? “The Lisbon plane’s still on the ground. I have to see him.”

“Come! Run! Perhaps we can catch him. We’ll deal with the paperwork later.”

The immigration officer led Janson into the terminal, where the emptiness of the vast building suggested that the commercial flights were not yet carrying many passengers. Lights were on everywhere, but few of the counters were manned and the travelers lined up at the gate to the euroAtlantic Lisbon flight were but a handful.

“There!”

Janson crossed the space at a dead run.

Da Costa, who was carrying a blazer over his arm and pulling a small wheeled bag, looked stunned to see him. “What are you doing, here, Mr. Janson?”

“Where are you going?” Janson asked.

“Lisbon. Holiday, actually.”

Janson said, “I understand that Chief of Staff Margarido passed away.”

“Tragic. So young.”

“Isn’t it an odd time for you to leave on holiday, with President Poe’s chief of staff suddenly dead?”

Da Costa answered with a bland smile and a blithe, “This is a long-planned trip. Farewell.”

“Are you aware that Iboga could be coming back?”

“I’m aware that you did not catch him. Farewell, Janson. I must go.”

“Give me a parting gift,” asked Janson.

“A gift?” Da Costa looked at him curiously. “I am not a wealthy man, Janson.”

“Not a bribe. A gift that might make you feel a little better about leaving now of all times.”

“What gift?”

“Before you leave for Lisbon, order Poe’s presidential guard to form up at the palace.”

“I can’t do that. They’re on maneuvers in the interior.”

“No one is guarding the palace?”

“A few remain.”

“Then please order them to give me clearance to land a helicopter at the palace.”

Instead of asking Janson why, da Costa took out his cell phone. He looked relieved for a chance to help. “I can do that for you. How is the helicopter marked?”

“LibreLift. Gabon ‘TR’ prefix to the registration number.”

Da Costa spoke briskly into his phone. Then he told Janson, “It is done.”

“Thank you. Are you sure you don’t want to postpone your holiday?”

Da Costa looked Janson in the face. A muscle was twitching in his cheek. “I survived as a spy in Iboga’s stronghold by trusting my instincts. My instincts now tell me to board what could be the last flight to Lisbon. Please don’t look at me with such disdain. It is not easy to turn your back.”

“I know,” said Janson. “It’s almost as hard as notturning your back.”

Da Costa flushed red. He spoke in a whisper. “The people who bribed me to leave think I did it for the money. I did it for my life. It’s over, here. Iboga will rule. I would be a dead man to stay.”

“Who gave you the money?”

Da Costa walked away. Nearly to the gate, he stopped and headed back.

Janson met him halfway. “Change your mind?”

“No,” said da Costa. “But here is another gift. If I were you, I would read the flight status video display.”

Janson’s eyes shot to the nearest monitor. One more flight was scheduled tonight, an arrival from Angola. TAAG Angola Airlines 224 from Luanda, which had been originally scheduled for 2100, nine o’clock, was marked “Late” and was now rescheduled to arrive at midnight.

The security chief’s pained smile told Janson all he had to know. Friends of Iboga, who was half-Angolan and a veteran of Angola’s civil wars, had helped the deposed dictator board that flight so he could return to Isle de Foree.

* * *

THEY TOOK TAXIS to the Presidential Palace, two to accommodate the Spanish shooters’ instrument cases, one for Janson and Kincaid and their bags.

“First time I ever took a cab to war,” she muttered. “Where did everyone go? The streets are empty.”

The palace itself was as surreally quiet. A single uniformed guard with an assault rifle and a pistol on his hip waved them inside and handed Janson a grease-stained business card that read: “LibreLift.”

Janson sent Kincaid to speak with the anorexic French pilot and found Acting President Ferdinand Poe in his office with several elderly men and a boy of fourteen. Poe wore a white linen suit, his comrades their jungle fatigues. All were armed. Poe himself had a compact FN P90 on his desk with a stack of spare magazines, an incongruous sight until one recalled that less than a month ago Poe had been defending a rebel camp in the caves of Pico Clarence.

“Where is my army?” Poe echoed Janson’s question bitterly. “Some units are on abruptly scheduled so-called ‘maneuvers,’ along with my guard. Several others are in their barracks, waiting to see what happens.”

“Are they neutral?”

“For the moment. They fear Iboga more than me. They won’t risk angering him until they see which way the wind blows, and it won’t take much longer to see that it is blowing in my face.”

“Where are Iboga’s officers?”

Poe surprised him. “In Black Sand Prison, where they belong.”

“Still in prison? Who’s keeping them there?”

“My few loyal men hold the prison.”

“Well, that’s a damned good beginning,” said Janson. “As long as they’re locked up they can’t turn the army against you.”

“I fear that when Iboga arrives he will arrive in enough force to take the prison and free his officers. They will rally his former troops. When that happens it will be all over but the killing.”

“I’m afraid he’s on an Angola Airlines flight. He’ll be in Porto Clarence by midnight.”

“Goddamn Angolans! They probably held the plane for Iboga in hopes this nation implodes so our oil won’t compete with theirs.”

“I gather that’s exactly what happened.”

“And they probably permitted him to carry a load of weapons in the hold.” Ferdinand Poe picked up his gun. He stared at it, hefted it familiarly in his scarred hand, and mused, “I never thought I would be a soldier. Or die a soldier’s death.”

“The latter’s a bit premature,” said Janson. “You’ve got good men at the prison, and a few good men here.” He nodded at the old men and the boy. “And I have a small but powerful unit to help them. Iboga can do nothing until he releases his officers.”