The Janson Command (38 page)
Freddy Ramirez apologized for having come up short one shooter. Janson acknowledged the scant lead time, told him not to worry about it, as the weight of one less man would translate to a few more miles of fuel, and thanked him warmly for rushing directly from the action in Corsica.
As expected, no trustworthy pilot had been found.
Kincaid calculated her V
1
and rotate speeds—both higher owing to the comfortingly longer runway and the weight of the passengers and their weapons—and got cleared for takeoff using the Embraer’s legitimate November-Eight-Two-Two-Romeo-Papa call sign and a flight plan filed for Praia, Cape Verde Islands. Both transponder and AFIRS (Automated Flight Information Reporting System) operated normally until Janson disabled them in international airspace over the open ocean three hundred miles south of the Canaries and west of Africa, out of ground-based radar range.
Janson continued working his phone. He spoke with the arms merchant Hagopian in Paris; Dr. Hagopian’s half-Portuguese, half-Angolan agent in Luanda; Neal Kruger, whom he tracked down to Cape Town, where he claimed to be “on holiday”; and Agostinho Kiluanji and Augustus Heinz, the “Double A” gunrunners whose agent was desperate to get back into Hagopian’s good graces after forcing Janson to catch up with the freighter in a helicopter. After repeated attempts, he finally made contact with the pilots who owned LibreLift in Port-Gentil, Gabon.
“All right, that’s the last of them,” he told Kincaid, satisfied that he had made every contact he could for the moment yet sharply aware that not all would bear fruit on such short notice. “We’re good to go.”
“Catch some sleep. You look a hundred years old.”
Janson closed his eyes on a bunk across the narrow aisle from Ed’s and Mike’s shrouded bodies. As Doug had reminded him in Houston, “Devoted followers have a habit of getting killed in our line of work.”
Whatever happened to Janson Rules? He should have taken better care of Mike and Ed. Weren’t Janson Rules about innocent civilians? He should have warned his pilots that Paul Janson’s good works put them at risk of dying for the paradox of atoning for violence with violence. Were the murders of Ed and Mike “punishment” for his murdering Hadrian Van Pelt? How would he make amends for this?
“You look worse,” said a weary Kincaid, when he relieved her on the flight deck.
“How we doing on gas?”
She reported good news. The Flight Management System, which was monitoring fuel burn and the latest winds, had found a fuel-saving route above the jet stream that would allow them to fly direct to Isle de Foree.
“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.
B
usy 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
was
busy. 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 Queen
drill 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
not
turning 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.”
“How long will I last defending my palace? An hour? Two? Maybe three. Time and again I have proved tougher than I thought I was.”
“Don’t even
try
to defend this palace. Consolidate your forces and lead your men defending Black Sand Prison.”
Poe shook his grizzled head. “I will consolidate my forces here.”
“That will play into Iboga’s hands. If you defend the palace instead of the prison his officers will escape and rouse the army.”
“You see the dilemma. Even with your help, I don’t have enough men to defend both the palace and the prison.”
“But it is not a dilemma. All you have to do is defend the prison long enough for me to neutralize Iboga.”
“No. I cannot go to the prison.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot. I will not.”
“I don’t understand,” said Janson.
An elderly man interrupted. “Acting President Poe suffered in Black Sand. Felt fear and pain you could not imagine.”
“I
can
imagine,” said Janson.
Poe said, “Then you understand that every man has his limit. This is mine. I cannot go to that place. I will fight here in the Presidential Palace.”
“You’ll die in the Presidential Palace,” said Janson.
“If need be. I am not afraid to die.”
“Dying won’t help your country, Mr. President.”
Jessica Kincaid, who had been listening in the doorway, stepped into the office. “Why don’t we take you away to Lisbon or London? While we defend the prison and hunt Iboga.”
“Good idea,” said Janson.
“No,” said Poe. “Once off Isle de Foree I am nothing but a pretender to the throne. I must remain in command of sovereign territory.”
“Back to the mountains,” said one of the older men.
“No, my friend, we aren’t strong enough to hide in the mountains. At best, I would be isolated. At worst, hunted down like an animal.”
“We did before.”
“Before we went en masse,” Poe said patiently. “I’m sorry. We had time to build defenses, time to get support from outside, money, gunrunners. Iboga underestimated us last time. He won’t give us such time again.”
Kincaid gestured for a word with Janson. He stood close and she whispered, “He’s talking about defending the undefendable, Paul. I do not want to die defending the undefendable.”
“Agreed.”
The boy piped up with another idea. “Could we ask Nigeria to send soldiers to help us?”
“
Not Nigeria!
” every Isle de Foreen in the room chorused, which evoked sudden laughter. For a moment the tension was broken.
“There is another way,” said Janson.
Poe interrupted bitterly, “To be valuable to giants is a curse.”
Paul Janson repeated, “There is another way.”
“What way?”
He felt Kincaid staring at him.
“Did they gas the helicopter?” he asked her.
“Topped up.”
“Freddy, are you there?”
Freddy Ramirez stepped in from the hall, filling the doorway like a bull.
Janson addressed the room. “Listen up! Every fighter to the prison. Hold it at all costs. On the double.” He turned back to Kincaid. “Take your rifle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“President Poe, let’s get aboard that helicopter.”
“No,” Poe protested. “Where are you taking me?”
“You and I will slay giants.”
“But where?”
“The one place,” said Paul Janson, “where the president of Isle de Foree will be safe, visible, and totally in command.”
T
he anorexic French pilot of LibreLift’s ancient Sikorsky S-76 had developed a severe cough in the weeks since he had ferried Janson and Kincaid out to the gunrunners’ freighter. Janson thought the pilot sounded like a man dying of throat cancer. The sharp stink of leaking fuel irritated inflamed membranes. The burly Angolan co-pilot cast his partner worried looks as he hacked and hacked.
