Pestilence (Jack Randall #2) (10 page)

“If you have the means to do so, recover the agent. If not, it must be destroyed at all cost.”

The driver frowned at his boss’s choice of words. But he knew there was no arguing the point.

“Yes, sir.”

“Inform me when it’s done,” he answered. He closed his phone, ending the call just as the waitress approached.

“More iced tea, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

•      •      •

“It’ll have to be done on the way to the airport,” the Deliveryman said to himself.

He watched them load the truck through the binoculars. One of them had kept a constant watch on the structure and the progress of the crew as they worked throughout the night and into the next morning. The search for survivors had been called off at dusk last night, and the bulldozers and cranes were now digging into the pile with more urgency. The forensics team headed by the woman could be seen stepping into every newly cleared opening, their flashlights probing for pieces of the truck. They had finally pulled a bulldozer from the main embassy building long enough to clear a path to the warehouse for a newly arrived pair of Bobcats, both fitted with scoop shovels. They soon had enough room cleared for the forklift to be uprighted and put back into service. Crates and pallets of supplies had been seen being loaded into the trucks. The trucks had then been followed to the airport three times. The driver estimated they had until later tonight before the forklift got to the agent. They had to have a plan ready by then. He put down the binoculars and picked up his cell phone.

•      •      •

The next truck should be back in about twenty minutes, Larry thought to himself. He consulted his clipboard and tried to determine what he could fit on the next one. Over the last twelve hours he had been slowly clearing the warehouse of material and moving it to the secure hangar. Larry had almost pointed out to Jack that his assignment had nothing to do with the investigation, but then had thought better of it. He was not a forensics expert, a bomb expert, or a computer expert. His skills would come into play once the evidence started being gathered. Until then he could contribute little, and it was hard to not consider the loss of all these supplies after the few hours they had spent in the hospital. So Larry would change hats and become a logistics expert for a day or two.

Trying to organize the pile of crates and pallets had been his first job. Some of the crates still had the packing slips attached; some had been damaged in the collapse of the wall. Many had to be pried open to determine their contents. Larry had found everything, from boxes of shoes from some guy named Tom, to crates of mosquito nets from Bill and Melinda Gates. Four crates containing manual water pumps had baffled him until Heather had explained that there were people who came to the country just to drill wells for drinking water. She said these pumps were from a guy named Doc Hendley.

“The guy from the Eagles?” he asked.

“No, Hendley, not Henley, and he’s a bartender, not a musician,” she had answered.

“A bartender?” he muttered to himself. He just shook his head and made another notation on the clipboard as the pumps were loaded onto the truck.

One of the Marines approached him with a large box in his arms. It was full of the vials of medication that had been strewn across the floor. They had picked up every one they could and saved them. He looked into the box and estimated at least a few hundred of both red and yellow capped vials.

“They both have the same number on ’em, sir. Should we separate them?” the soldier asked.

Larry looked the vials over. They looked identical in every way except for the colored caps. No name for the medication. If the numbers matched they must be the same, he decided.

“No, just ship ’em together with the rest of the red ones. We saved the yellow ones from the other end of the building so they can all go together. Let’s try to keep all the meds in one area and under a tight watch. I’m told the black market is pretty bad here for this kinda stuff,” Larry answered.

“Yes, sir,” the kid replied before hoisting the box to his shoulder and walking away toward the stack of meds awaiting the forklift.

Larry’s attention was pulled away from the clipboard again as he was addressed from behind.

“Any problems, Larry?”

Larry turned to see Dennis Murphy mopping sweat from his face with a T-shirt he had sacrificed and turned into rags. He had been helping in the warehouse all day.

“No, we seem to be making progress. Nice job with the trucks by the way. Do I want to know what it’s cost Uncle Sam to have ’em?”

Larry and Jack had listened in while Dennis had made several phone calls, speaking to many people before finally reaching the person he wanted. The conversation had taken place in many languages, but when finished, the spook had simply smiled and asked to talk to Jack for a few minutes. Jack had nodded after the brief whispered conversation and soon provided Murphy with several envelopes that he immediately tucked into his pants under his shirt. Murphy had then disappeared into the crowd of people surrounding the embassy, only to return two hours later with three US Army surplus 2-1/2 ton trucks, complete with drivers. A heated discussion had then occurred between the lead driver and Murphy. More envelopes had been offered, and now the three men sat in the passenger seats while Marines drove the trucks. Their smiles gave away their opinions on the arrangement.

“The
baksheesh
you mean? It’s the way things get done here in Africa. Goes with the territory,” he replied.

“
Baksheesh?
” Larry questioned.

“It’s an Arab word, actually. It means bribe or payoff.”

“Spoken the world over,” was Larry’s only comment.

“True. So what’s next for us here?”

“Well, I figure we can get this last load off before Jack sends us to the hotel. It’ll be dark by then, but we want the valuable stuff at the hangar as soon as possible. The rest of this stuff was for the embassy. Toilet paper, Post-its, and what have you. It can wait. I’m told we should have enough pieces of the truck by tomorrow that we can start doing some real investigating.”

“Not liking your present job?” Heather asked as she joined them.

“Not my reason for being here, but I see why it needed to be done,” Larry neutrally replied.

“I’ve been making some calls. A lot of the medications were bound for Nairobi, and from there on to Darfur. They’re looking at alternate ways of shipping them out,” Heather informed them.

“Good. Let’s just get them to the hangar, then it’s somebody else’s gig from there,” Larry replied.

“Trucks are here,” Murphy pointed.

“Good.” Larry waved and got the attention of the closest Marine. The forklift was manned and the three of them watched as the medications were loaded onto the last truck of the day.

•      •      •

Jack was once again standing next to the crater. He had been dividing his time between ground zero, the evidence van, the warehouse and the hangar. So far he was happy with the progress they were showing. The truck was over sixty percent recovered, and he was told the rest would be small parts with little forensic value. The truck had carried the charge on its back, and that had resulted in the majority of the debris being driven into the ground by the explosion. They were at the sifting stage now, and the backhoes were working hard under Sydney’s watchful eye. He had made rest a mandatory item and the HRT shooters had been escorting the Marines and crew back and forth to the hotel for sleep, food and clean clothes. He had even taken Eric’s laptop away from him at one point. He knew the kid wouldn’t sleep unless he did.

On his last visit to the hangar he had been joined by Major Arusha, who immediately decided the security at the hangar was not enough and had strengthened it without asking. He now stood next to Jack and watched the crew at work.

“Your man Bradford, he understands explosives. Where can I get my people trained in such matters?” he asked Jack.

“I wouldn’t know. I have just my military experience to draw on. That mostly involved how to blow stuff up, not figure out how someone did it.”

“Are they not the same thing?”

“Not really. But feel free to ask him.”

“Thank you, I will,” the major replied.

“Your accent, Major, it’s not South African. You’ve spent time in England?”

“Yes, during my school years, then again with the British Army. I attended many of their excellent training facilities before returning to serve my country. I return on occasion to learn new things,” he explained.

Jack knew all of this already, but it never hurt to hear it from the source himself. Corruption was rampant across the entire continent, and Tanzania was no different. The British had spoken highly of the man, and so far the major had been as advertised. Still, Jack would be careful what he said around him.

“You speak very well. I’d like to thank you for the help you have provided. It’s proven invaluable.”

“These terrorist are the scourge of the world. While it was your embassy that was bombed, it was in my country, and that angers me. Men like you and I will be the ones who defeat them, Mr. Randall. I fought hard to keep my country intact when threatened by tribal war. I will not see it torn apart by terrorists. Tanzania will not become Somalia. If your president asks for my help, then he shall have it.”

Jack absorbed the statement while he watched the crew under the fading daylight. He wanted to believe the man. He just didn’t know him well enough yet.

“I can’t speak for my president, Major, but I for one will thank you for the assistance, and maybe I can get some help from the Bureau on the explosives thing,” Jack replied. “I’m going to the hangar with the last truck. Care to join me?

“Very good,” the major replied. He shifted his sidearm around his belt and followed Jack into the warehouse. The truck was almost ready. The major pointed at the native passenger and gestured that he leave. The man saw the uniform, and taking it into account along with the size of the man wearing it, beat a hasty exit.

“Okay.” Jack shot a look at Larry as the major climbed into the cab next to a bewildered Marine. “Let’s go.”

KENYA: Massive crop failure in “grain basket.”
August 20, 2009—IRIN
 

—SEVEN—

T
he three trucks left the warehouse with one Jeep escort. The setting sun was in Larry’s eyes as they pulled away. His truck sat in the second position behind Jack’s with the major’s bringing up the rear. The trip had become routine for the men in the Jeep and the gunner no longer stood behind the mounted machine gun but instead sat in the seat, smoking a cigarette. Traffic still parted for the convoy and they moved with considerable speed over the potholed road. They came to the decision point of which route to take and the Jeep turned to the right to lead them down a street lined by warehouses. Traffic was much lighter here and the speed on the convoy increased.

Jack found himself getting edgy. The lack of streetlights and the thick cloud cover helped the darkness descend quickly. It was over ten miles to the hangar, and that meant plenty of opportunities for trouble.

“What’s your name?” he asked the driver.

“Sullivan, sir.”

“Jack. You’ve gone this way before, Sullivan?” he asked the Marine.

“Yes, sir, three or four times now. No problems so far.”

Jack eyeballed the M-4 rifle lying on the seat between them. He picked it up and slid back the bolt far enough to see gleaming brass in the chamber. The rifle, the Marine’s sidearm, and Jack’s own 9mm pistol were all they had inside the truck.

“Grenades?” he inquired.

“In my gear.” Sullivan pointed to the floor between the seats.

Jack picked up the LBE and found two fragmentation grenades and an HC-White smoke grenade attached to the webbing. He straightened out the spoons so they could be separated from the gear quicker.

“Didn’t want to lose one,” the Marine explained.

“I understand. But if you need it in a hurry, you’re screwed. Better to be ready,” Jack lectured.

“Yes, sir.”

Sullivan double-clutched and downshifted, holding the deuce-and-a-half tight into a left hand curve that led to a slight incline. The road then turned to dirt and flattened out. He double-clutched again and slipped into a higher gear in an effort to stay tight on the Jeep.

•      •      •

Five blocks up the road, the Driver was counting down the distance from a second story window. One of his fellow deliverymen sat with three local hired guns waiting to participate in what they thought was an ambush of U.N. supplies. Something they had done many times. The third sat at the wheel of a truck very similar to the ones being driven toward him by the unsuspecting Marines.

“The prize is in the third truck,” he spoke into the radio. He received clicks of the mics keying in reply.

The driver of the waiting truck tightened the straps holding him into the seat one more time. He didn’t like the plan, but they were short of manpower, and had no choice but to keep it that way. He wiped the sweat from his hands before gripping the wheel tightly, and watched for the signal from the building across the street. The idling truck hid the shaking of his hands.