Kill Switch (9780062135285) (22 page)

Anya spoke with more certainty. “What I do know is that General Kharzin
won't
stop. Most everyone at the SVR detests him. He's a Cold War–­era warrior, a real dinosaur. He believes Russia's brightest days died with Stalin. If Utkin has been feeding him intelligence all along, then he understands LUCA's potential as a weapon. Properly introduced into an ecosystem—­like a rice paddy in Japan—­a single speck of LUCA would systematically destroy that ecosystem. And not just that rice paddy, but
all
of them.”

“That must not happen,” Bukolov pressed.

“I agree,” Harper said. “I'll begin making arrangements.”

11:10
A.M.

After settling some minor issues, Harper asked to speak to Tucker alone.

“Have we made a devil's deal here, Tucker? Part of me thinks we should just firebomb this cave if we find it.”

“It may come down to that. But you've also made one hell of an assumption.”

“Which is what?”

“That Kane and I are going to Africa.”

“What? After everything we just discussed, you'd consider bailing out?”

Tucker chuckled. “No, but a girl likes to be
asked
to the dance.”

Harper laughed in return. “Consider yourself asked. So what's your assessment of Anya and Bukolov. He plainly doesn't want her along.”

“I say that's his problem. Anya's earned her place on this mission.”

“I agree. She seems to know almost as much about LUCA as he does. And considering the stakes, it wouldn't hurt to have a different perspective on things. But the good doctor will not like it.”

Tucker sighed. “The sooner Bukolov learns that his tantrums will get him nowhere, the better it will be for everyone once he reaches the United States.”

“How soon can you get me a list of supplies you'll need?”

“A ­couple hours. I want to be under way tonight. In Springbok by noon.”

“Understood.”

“And I need to ask a ­couple of favors.”

“Name them.”

“First, find the family of the Beriev pilot.”
Elena
. “Make sure they know where to find her body and reimburse them for the Beriev.”

“And second?”

“Make sure Utkin's body is returned to his family. They're in a village called Kolyshkino on the Volga River.”

“Why? The man betrayed you—­almost got you all killed.”

“But in the end, he saved us. And I respect that last act.”

Naive or not, Tucker wanted to believe that maybe Anya was right. That Utkin had been forced against his will to betray them. But he would never know for sure. And maybe it was better that way.

“Sounds as though you liked him.” Harper's voice went unusually soft, as if sensing the depth of his regret.

“I suppose I did. It's hard to explain.”

Thankfully she let it go at that.

“Okay, I'll handle everything. But what about sending additional muscle your way, something beyond a few local assets?”

“I think small is better.”

Besides, Tucker had all the help he needed and trusted in the form of his four-­legged partner.

“You may be right,” Harper agreed. “South Africa's security agencies run a tight ship. You show up big and loud, and they'll be all over you.”

“I can't argue with that.”

“Now, I have to ask something difficult of you,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“If you get to that cave and things go sour, you make damned sure LUCA doesn't see the light of day. No matter the cost. Or casualties. Is that understood?”

Tucker inhaled deeply. “I'll get it done.”

3:34
P.M.

A soft knock on his door woke him out of a slight drowse. Kane lifted his head from Tucker's chest as the two lay sprawled on the bed, napping in the day's heat.

Tucker, still in his clothes, rolled to his feet and placed his face in his hands.

Who the hell . . .

Kane hopped down, sidled to the door, and sniffed along the bottom. His tail began to wag. Someone he knew.

“Tucker, are you awake?” a voice called through the door.

Anya.

He groaned, stepped over, and unlocked the door. He wiped his eyes blearily. “What's wrong?”

Something better be
wrong
.

Anya stood in the doorway, wearing a peach-­colored sundress. She smoothed it over her hips self-­consciously with her good hand. “One of the consulate wives gave it to me. I'm sorry, you were sleeping, weren't you?”

She began to step away.

“No. It's all right. Come in.”

“I should probably be sleeping, too. But every time I lie down . . .” She walked over to the side chair across from the bed and sat down. “I'm frightened, Tucker.”

“Of going to South Africa?”

“Of course, that. But mostly about what happens
after
all this. Once we're in America.”

“Anya, the government will give you a new identity, a new place to live. And with your background, you'll have no trouble finding work. You'll be fine.”

“I'll be
alone
. Everything I know will be gone. Even Bukolov. You heard him. He'll barely talk to me now.”

“Maybe he'll calm down and eventually understand.”

She picked slightly at her cast, her voice growing pained. “He won't. I know him.”

Tucker knew she was right. Bukolov was single-­minded and emotionally inflexible. Now that he had De Klerk's diary in hand, Anya was no longer indispensable to his work. And in addition she had proven herself untrustworthy. For Bukolov, both of these sins were unpardonable.

Anya was right. Once in America, she would be alone. Rudderless. She would need friends.

With a sigh, he reached across and squeezed her hand.

“You'll know at least
one
person in the States,” he reassured her.

Kane thumped his tail.

“Make that
two,
” he added.

28

March 19, 12:02
P.M.

Cape Town, South Africa

As Tucker set foot off the plane's stairway and onto the hot tarmac of Cape Town's International Airport, a shout rose ahead. They had landed at a private terminal, shuttled here by corporate jet—­a Gulfstream V—­arranged by Harper.

“Mr. Wayne, sir! Over here!”

He turned to see a tall, thin black man in his midtwenties trotting toward him. He wore charcoal slacks and a starched white shirt. He gave Tucker a broad smile and stuck out his hand.

“Mr. Tucker Wayne, I presume.”

He took the man's hand. “And you are?”

“Christopher Nkomo.”

Kane came trotting down behind him, sliding next to Tucker, sniffing at the stranger, sizing him up.

“My goodness,” the man said, “who is this fine animal?”

“That would be Kane.”

“He's magnificent!”

No argument there.

Bukolov and Anya came next, shielding their eyes, as they joined him. Introductions were made all around.

“What tribe are you?” Anya asked, then blurted out, “Oh, is that impolite to ask? I'm sorry.”

“Not at all, missus. I am of the Ndebele tribe.”

“And your language?”

“We speak Xhosa.” He waved and guided them across the tarmac toward a nest of parked Cessnas and other smaller aircraft. “But I went to university here, studying business administration and English.”

“It shows,” said Tucker.

“Very kind of you.” He finally stopped before a single-­engine plane, a Cessna Grand Caravan. It was already being ser­viced for flight. “With your patience, we will get all your baggage loaded quickly.”

Christopher was a man of his word. It was accomplished in a matter of minutes.

“Your pilot will be with you shortly,” he said, clambering up the short ladder and through the Cessna's side door. A moment later, he hopped back out, his head now adorned with a blue pilot's cap. “Welcome aboard. My name is Christopher Nkomo, and I will be your pilot today.”

Tucker matched his grin. “You'll be flying us?”

“Myself and my older brother, Matthew.”

A thin arm stuck out from the side window next to the copilot's seat.

“No worries,” Christopher said. “I am a very good pilot and I know this land and its history like the palm of my hand. I hear you all are Boer historians, and that I am to assist you however I can.”

From the tone of the man's voice, he knew they weren't historians. Harper clearly must have debriefed Christopher about the goal of their mission here.

“I am especially familiar with Springbok. My cousin has a home there. So if we are all ready, let us get aboard.”

Bukolov and Anya needed no coaxing to climb out of the sun and into the dark, air-­conditioned interior. Bukolov took the seat farthest from Anya. The doctor was not happy to have her along, but back in Istanbul, Tucker had left him no choice.

Tucker hung back with Christopher. “The supplies I asked for?”

“Come see.”

Christopher lifted a hatch to reveal a storage space neatly packed with supplies. He pulled out a clipboard and handed it to Tucker. It listed the contents: potable water, dehydrated meals, first-­aid kits, maps and compasses, knives, hatchets, a small but well-­stocked toolbox.

“As for weapons and ammunition,” the man said, “I was not able to provide all the exact models you requested. I took the liberty of using my own judgment.”

He pulled that list out of a back pocket and passed it over.

Tucker scanned it and nodded. “Nicely done. Hopefully we won't need any of it.”

“God willing,” Christopher replied.

1:38
P.M.

Tucker stared at the passing landscape as the Cessna droned toward their destination. Buckled opposite Tucker, Kane matched his pose, his nose pressed to the window.

The scenery north of Cape Town was hypnotically beautiful: a dry moonscape of reddish-­brown earth and savannah, broken up by saw-­toothed hills. Tiny settlements dotted the countryside, surrounded by brighter patches of green scrub.

At last, Christopher swung the Cessna into a gentle bank that took them over Springbok. The town of nine thousand lay nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling granite peaks, called the
Klein Koperberge,
or Small Copper Mountains.

The plane leveled out of its banking turn and descended toward Springbok's airstrip. As they landed, the tires kissed the dirt tarmac without the slightest bounce. They rolled to the end of the runway and turned right toward the terminal, administrative offices, and maintenance hangars.

Christopher drew the Cessna to a smooth stop alongside a powder-­blue Toyota SUV. A man bearing a striking resemblance to Christopher and his brother waved from the driver's seat.

Tucker called toward the cockpit, “Another brother, Christopher?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wayne. That is Paul, my youngest brother. He flew up here last night to arrange things and make inquiries.”

When the engines had come to a complete stop, Christopher walked back, opened the side door, and helped them out.

A palpable blast of heat struck Tucker in the face.

Anya gasped at it.

Bukolov grumbled his displeasure. “What is this fresh hell you have brought us to, Tucker?”

Christopher laughed. “Do not worry. You will get used to the heat.” He stepped away, embraced his brother Paul, and motioned them into the SUV. “My brother has arranged accommodations at a guesthouse not far from here.”

“Why?” Bukolov said. “How long will we be staying here?”

“At least the night. Matthew will remain here and guard your supplies. If you'll climb aboard, please.”

Soon they were heading north on a highway marked R355. Barren foothills flanked both sides, their eroded reddish-­orange flanks revealing black granite domes.

“This place looks like Mars,” Bukolov said. “I've seen no water at all in this godforsaken land. How are we supposed to find a
well
out here?”

“Patience, Doc,” Tucker said.

They finally reached the outskirts of Springbok. It could have passed for a small town in Arizona, with narrow, winding streets bordered by modest ranch homes.

Paul turned into a crescent-­shaped driveway lined by thick green hedges. A hand-­painted placard atop a post read K
LEINPLASIE
G
UESTHOUSE
. The SUV stopped beneath a timbered awning. A set of stone steps led up to French doors bracketed by a pair of potted palms.

After speaking to a bellman in white shorts and a crisp polo shirt, Christopher led his charges, including Kane, into the lobby.

“Oh, this is glorious,” Anya said, referring more to the air-­conditioning than the accommodations—­though they were handsome, too.

The lobby consisted of leather armchairs, animal-­hide rugs, sisal runners, and framed drawings of famous African explorers. Above them, huge rattan-­bladed ceiling fans hung from exposed beams and churned the already-­cool air.

Christopher checked them in, then led them to a private meeting space down the hall. They gathered around a mahogany table. Sunlight streamed through the tilt of plantation shutters. Sparkling pitchers of water, floating with sliced lemons, awaited them.

Paul eventually stepped inside and crossed to the head of the table. “Mr. Wayne,” he said. “Christopher informed me of your interest in a local feature. Grietje's Well. I've been making discreet inquiries, but no such place seems to exist, I'm afraid.”

“It must,” Bukolov snapped, still out of sorts from the travel and heat.

“Mmm,” Paul said, too gracious to argue. “However, the relationship between Springbok and water is a long and bloody one. Water was quite treasured here and fought over, as you can well imagine with the heat. So natural sources were often hidden. In fact, the town's original Afrikaans name is
Springbokfontein
.”

“What does that mean?” Anya asked.

“
Springbok
is a local antelope. If you keep a sharp eye, you will see them hopping about. And
fontein
means fountain. But a fountain here simply refers to a natural spring or a watering hole.”

“Or perhaps a well,” Tucker added.

“Exactly so. But
man-­made
wells are relatively modern features here in Springbok. Before the middle of the twentieth century, locals relied upon
fonteins
. Natural springs. That is why my brother and I believe what you are actually seeking is not a
well
but a
spring
.”

“But how does this fact help us?” Tucker asked.

“Perhaps much, or perhaps not at all,” Christopher replied. “But there is a man who might know that answer. Reverend Manfred Cloete.”

The name struck Tucker as familiar—­then he remembered a detail from the briefing back in Istanbul.

“
Cloete
,” Tucker said. “That's the name of the family that once owned
Melkboschkuil
farm. The one Springbok was founded upon.”

Christopher nodded. “That's correct. Manfred is indeed a descendant from that distinguished lineage, making the man not only Springbok's reverend, but the keeper of its unwritten history as well.”

Paul checked his watch. “And he's waiting for us now.”

2:15
P.M.

Crossing through the historic center of Springbok, Christopher turned into a paved parking lot surrounded by a low stucco wall and shaded by lush green acacia trees. Nestled within those same walls stood a sturdy stone church, with a single square steeple and a large rosette window in front. It resembled a miniature Norman castle.

“Springbok's
Klipkerk,
” Christopher declared. “The Dutch Reformed Church. Now a museum.”

He waved his three passengers out.

Tucker and Kane clambered from the backseat. Anya slid out the front passenger door. They had left Bukolov back at the guesthouse. The travel and the sudden heat had proved too much for the Russian's reserves. As a precaution, Paul had been left behind to watch over the doctor.

Anya waited for Tucker to join her before following Christopher toward the church. She smiled at him, slightly cradling her casted arm. She must still be in some pain, but she hadn't made a single complaint. Perhaps she feared her injury might be used as an excuse to leave her behind. Either that, or she was a real trouper.

Christopher led them along a path that took them to the rear of the church and across a broad, well-­manicured lawn.

To one side, a barrel-­chested man with wild white hair and a bushy beard knelt beside a bed of blooming desert flowers. He wore Bermuda shorts and nothing else. His torso was deeply tanned and covered in curly white hair.

“Manfred!” Christopher called.

The fellow looked over his shoulder, saw Christopher, and smiled. He stood up and wiped his soiled palms on a towel dangling from the waistband of his shorts. As he joined them, Christopher made the introductions.

“Ah, a pair of fellow historians,” Manfred Cloete said, shaking their hands. His light blue eyes twinkled. “Welcome to
Springbokfontein
.”

His accent was pure South African, a blend that sounded both British and Australian with a bit of something mysterious thrown in.

“I appreciate you seeing us, Reverend,” Tucker replied.

“Manfred, please. My goodness, is that your hound?”

Kane came bounding past, doing a fast circuit of the yard.

“He is indeed. Name's Kane.”

“Might tell him to be careful. Got some snakes about. Can't seem to get rid of them.”

Tucker whistled, and Kane sprinted over and sat down.

“Follow me, all of you,” Manfred said. “I've got some lemonade over in the shade.”

He led them to a nearby picnic table, and everyone sat down.

As Manfred tinkled ice and lemonade into Anya's glass, he asked, “So, Ms. Averin—­”

“Anya, please.”

“Of course, always happy to accommodate a lady's request. Especially one with a wounded wing.” He nodded to her cast. “What is this interest in the Boer Wars?”

She glanced to Tucker, letting him take the lead.

He cleared his throat. “It's my interest actually. A personal one. I recently discovered one of my ancestors fought during the Second Boer War. He was a doctor. I know very little else about him except that he served most of his time during the fighting at a fort somewhere around here.”

“If he was a
doctor,
that would most likely put him at the Klipkoppie fort. That's where the local medical unit was stationed. It was under the command of General Manie Roosa. Tough old bird and a bit crazy, if you ask me. The British hated fighting him. You'll find the ruins of the fort just outside of town.”

Tucker frowned. On the flight down here, he had already studied the locations of various old forts, hoping for a clue. “Outside of town?” he asked. “But according to my research, the ruins of Klipkoppie are in the
center
of town.”

“Pah! That dung heap beside the shopping center? That was only a forward outpost, nothing more. The ruins of the
real
Klipkoppie are two miles to the northwest. Christopher knows where.”

“Then why—­?”

“Easier to suck tourists into the gift shops and restaurants if it's in the center of town. Besides, the real Klipkoppie isn't much to look at, and it's hard to get to. Can't have tourists getting themselves killed.” He clapped his palms against his thighs. “Right. So tell me the name of this ancestor of yours.”

“De Klerk. Paulos de Klerk.”

Manfred leaned back, clearly recognizing the name, staring at Tucker with new eyes. “The famous botanist?”