Shadow of Betrayal (2 page)

“Hold on,” Nate said. “Lights.”

Quinn used a handheld joystick to pan a camera that was covering the road to the south a little to the right, centering a pair of distant headlights moving toward the church. For a moment, they disappeared as the road dipped between two hills. Quinn and Nate had measured the distance that morning. The vehicle was just under a kilometer away.

A moment later, the car reappeared, and less than thirty seconds later it began to slow.

“Approaching the turnout,” Nate said.

On the screen, the car slowed to almost a crawl, then pulled off into the wide spot in the road, and its lights were turned off.

Quinn leaned forward and pushed a button on a rectangular metal box mounted in the rack. Next to the button was a speaker, and just above that a microphone was mounted on a five-inch gooseneck extender.

“Peter, you getting this?” Quinn asked, then let go of the button.

“Yes. That’s got to be them.” Though Peter’s voice came through the speaker, the quality was so good it sounded like he was in the van with them.

Quinn glanced back at one of the monitors covering the inside of the church. Otero had found a large block of stone to sit on, while Ownby had taken up a less visible position in a nook near the north entrance. If either man was getting impatient, they didn’t show it.

Four minutes later, one of the microphones picked up the sound of footsteps approaching the church.

“Everything recording?” Quinn asked.

Nate glanced at a small LCD monitor mounted on a swivel arm next to the hard drives. He pressed one of the buttons on the touchscreen menu. The display changed to a set of green lights.

“All drives recording,” he said, then glanced over his shoulder toward the communication equipment. “Satellite link steady and strong.”

Quinn pushed the button that connected him with the Office. “Approaching the church now.”

“Good,” Peter said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Otero must have also heard the footsteps. He stood up, and put a cautious hand on the bulge in his jacket pocket before looking back at Ownby and pointing in the direction of the approaching sound. Ownby reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun, a Beretta 9mm. From his pocket he pulled out a long cylinder, a suppressor, and attached it to the end of the barrel.

The footsteps stopped just beyond the walls of the church. Then silence for almost a minute.

“I don’t see them,” Nate said.

“They’re there,” Quinn said.

“I know. But I don’t see them.”

There were a series of numbered buttons on the base of the joystick Quinn was holding. He punched number 8 and began panning a camera covering the outside of the church’s south end.

“There,” Nate said, pointing at the monitor for camera eight.

Quinn could see them now. There were two of them, crouched
low and half-hidden by the thick brush. As Quinn and Nate watched, one of the men sprinted forward, stopping only when he reached the outside of the church wall. He then moved down the wall until he came to what had once been a doorway, and peered inside.

“Are we going to play games, or are we going to meet?” It was Otero. He was still standing in the middle of the church, not concealing his presence. When there was no response, he said, “Two minutes and we’re leaving.”

The man who had been looking into the church from the doorway glanced back at his partner and waved for him to come over.

“Quinn,” Nate said.

“What?”

“I thought they were only allowed one companion.”

Quinn shot Nate a glance, then looked at a monitor Nate was pointing at. It was the one covering the north approach to the church, the way Otero and Ownby had come.

“I don’t see anything,” Quinn said.

“In the tree,” Nate said. He leaned forward and touched the screen.

For half a second, Quinn still didn’t see anything, then a slight movement revealed the form of a man lying prone on one of the branches, facing toward the church.

A quick glance at a monitor that gave a broader view of that side of the church confirmed Quinn’s suspicion that the man was high enough to see through the missing roof into the abandoned structure.

Quinn pushed the mic button again. “Peter, we have a problem.”

“What?”

“Check the feed to camera six. In the tree, near the top of the image.”

There was a pause.

“Do you see him?” Quinn asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he one of yours?”

“I played by the rules. Only two,” Peter said. “He must be one of theirs.”

Quinn wasn’t convinced of that, but there was no time to argue the point. On another monitor the two newcomers stepped through the doorway, entered the church, and walked a couple paces before stopping. They looked nervous, like this was the first time they had ever done anything like this.

“You need to abort right now,” Quinn said.

“We need that information,” Peter said.

“Peter,” Quinn said, “if you don’t abort, you might not get anything.”

At the church Otero said, “You guys are going to have to come a little closer.”

The taller of the two men shook his head. “We are fine here. I think you have something to show us.”

Otero smiled, then tossed a coin in the air so that it landed a foot in front of his counterparts.

“Your turn,” Otero said.

The tall man tossed his own coin toward Otero. This was the prearranged recognition signal. Otero had been carrying a fifty-yen Japanese coin, and the informant a 1998 Canadian half-dollar.

“Peter!” Quinn said.

“The meet’s already started,” Peter said. “They won’t answer their phones until they’re back in their car.”

“They might not even make it back to their car,” Quinn said, then let go of the button.

“We can start the van,” Nate suggested. “That should throw everyone into a panic. We could even fire off a shot.”

It was an excellent idea, Quinn thought. He relayed it to Peter.

There was a pause, then Peter said, “Do it.”

Quinn pulled his SIG Sauer P226 out of the holster under his left arm as Nate moved toward the back door to open it.

Several rapid flashes from one of the monitors caught Quinn’s eye. It was the one showing the close-up of the man in the tree. He glanced at the view of the church. Otero, Ownby, and the man who had been talking for the other party were all on the ground and not moving.

The final man had just exited the church and was making a run for
it. Then there was another flash. The man jerked to the left, his momentum dropping him into a bush at the side of the trail. Like the others, he didn’t get up.

“Stop,” Quinn said to Nate.

The door was already half opened.

“Close it. Quietly.”

Nate shut the door as Quinn sat back down.

Quinn pushed the button. “Your op is blown.”

“I can fucking see that,” Peter said. “Goddammit! You need to keep whoever that is from getting to the bodies. One of those guys is carrying something we need.”

“Don’t know if you noticed,” Quinn said, “but your men are probably dead. That guy in the tree’s got a silenced rifle, and I’m not really interested in walking into his range.”

“Do what you were going to do before! Scare him off. He’s not going to want to get caught.”

Quinn took a deep breath, then nodded at Nate to open the door again. He checked monitor six. The assassin was holding his position, waiting to see if anyone else was going to show up.

Quinn pulled one of the remote communication sets from a bag near the recorders. He slipped the receiver over his ear, then climbed out of the van.

“Talk me in,” he said to Nate.

“You’re going to try to take him out?” Nate asked, surprised.

Quinn shook his head. “I’m just going to convince him to go someplace else.”

“You want your suppressor?” Nate asked.

Quinn paused for a second. If things went as planned, he’d need the noise of the shot to scare the guy off. But if things got off track?

“Toss it to me,” he said.

Nate disappeared for a second, then stepped back into the doorway and threw a dark cylinder to Quinn.

Quinn stuffed it in the front pocket of his jacket as best he could. Once it was secure, he nodded back at the van. “Talk me in. You’re my eyes, so try not to get me killed.”

THE SOUND OF THE DISTANT GUNFIRE HARDLY
registered on Marion Dupuis. It was at least two kilometers away, and intermittent at best.

Just another night.

No doubt morning would bring a report on the government-run radio station about another successful raid against a rebel cell. The same report, if it stayed true to form, would also note that the government troops would have suffered no fatalities. Just like all the other times, President Pokou’s forces would appear victorious.

Only, if Pokou’s army was winning, why did the violence seem to be increasing?

Marion knew the answer. She had seen the reports, the
real
reports, and she’d heard other members of the UN observer force discuss the unrest. The way she understood it, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that within the next couple of months Côte d’Ivoire would be plunged into another full-out civil war.

And once again, no one outside the tiny West African nation would care.

More gunfire. A short burst.

Marion didn’t even flinch.

The action seemed to be containing itself to the east, away from where she was, and where she needed to be. She would be willing to bet most of Pokou’s troops would be moving in that direction, too. In a way, she thought, it was sort of a blessing.

As long as she didn’t think about the lives that were being lost.

She checked the street ahead of her. Dark, quiet, no movement. She took a deep breath, then pushed herself off the building she’d been leaning against and crossed to the other side of the street. She paused, making sure she was still unnoticed, then headed down the street.

Driving would have been faster, but she felt safer on foot. With the 8 p.m. curfew in effect, a car’s engine would have drawn unnecessary attention on the otherwise quiet roads. So she stuck to the shadows and moved silently from building to building.

Most of the homes and businesses she passed were dark. It was after midnight, so even without the curfew, much of the city would already be asleep.

Five minutes later, she reached a large avenue that went east and west through the city. She started to cross, then stopped abruptly and pulled back into the doorway of a darkened building.

She’d seen headlights coming from the east, and heard the unmistakable sounds of several army vehicles. She peeked around the edge of the wall to get another look. There were at least five vehicles: three jeeps and a couple of trucks with loud diesel engines and transmissions that ground in protest of their unskilled drivers.

She estimated they would pass by her position in less than a minute. Though she knew any delay could be crucial, crossing now would be suicide. They’d spot her the second she stepped onto the street. She had no choice but to wait until they passed.

But her current position was only slightly better than standing still in the middle of the road. If one of the soldiers decided to aim a light in her direction, she would be discovered. So she slipped out of the doorway and stayed tight to the building as she looked for someplace better. She found it half a block down, an alley no more than four meters
wide between a store and what looked like an abandoned restaurant.

Signs on the outside walls of the store advertised sodas and cigarettes. Like all the other buildings, it was closed up tight, but as she turned down the alley, she noticed light seeping out of one of the back windows. Marion guessed the shop provided not only a means of income for the owner, but also a place to sleep.

About a dozen meters down the alley was a pile of rotting wooden crates. She slipped behind them, crouching down so she was hidden from anyone passing by on the road. She was able to move one of the boxes a couple centimeters to the right, creating a peephole through which she could keep an eye on the army caravan as it drove by.

The rumbling of the trucks got louder and louder until the street in front of the shop grew bright from the vehicles’ headlights. She watched first as two jeeps passed, then the trucks, and finally the last jeep. Each had been full of young soldiers dressed in dark fatigues and berets.

Even with Marion’s limited vision, it looked to her like all the men were armed with rifles. She had yet to be able to figure out what distinguished one type of rifle from another. To her, they all produced the same result.

As the rumble of the convoy receded, Marion stood up and started back toward the street, intent on making up for lost time.

“Qui étes-vous? Que voulez-vous?”

Marion froze. The voice had come from behind her. It was male, deep and urgent.

“Répondez-moi. Que faites-vous ici?”

She raised her hands. “Please,” she said. “I’m just trying to get home.” Though French was her native tongue, she answered in English. In the unlit alley, her olive-colored skin might look darker than it really was, so she wanted to emphasize the fact that she was a foreigner.

She heard the man take a step closer to her. “Are you American?” he asked, his English slow and deliberate.

“Canadian,” she said.

“Turn. Slow.”

She did what he asked.

When she saw him, she realized he was older than she’d thought. His hair was gray, his body thin and stooped. He held a pistol, and was pointing it at her, though the tremor in his hands moved the barrel a half an inch in either direction every few seconds.

He wasn’t alone, either. Behind him, peeking around his hip, was a young girl. She looked more curious than scared.

“Why do you hide behind my shop?” The man seemed to think hard before saying each word, as if he was reaching back to knowledge he hadn’t used in decades.

“The soldiers,” she said. “I didn’t want them to find me out after curfew.”