The Geneva Decision (9 page)

Pia tried to hold back a big smile. She said, “Thank you. I have a company-wide video conference scheduled to introduce your new role. I’d like to change your title. You left the military at the rank of major. I’d like to call you the Major, to differentiate you from all the other agents. I hope that works for you. We’ll finish the conversation at my office.”

Pia drank another bottle of water as Jonelle walked away.

Major Jonelle Jackson stopped near the door. She asked, “When was Colonel Grant coming in?”

“Don’t know, haven’t scheduled him yet. Do you have his number?”

Chapter 13

Bethesda, Maryland

23-May, 9AM

P
ia opened the video conference to her employees.

“Life is not fair,” she said. “How I got this job wasn’t fair. We can always complain about how someone got a promotion, whether he stabbed people in the back or she slept her way to the top. What really matters is what that person does with the job, what actions she takes. What gains are made under her leadership. I ask you not to judge how I got here but how I execute my responsibilities to you and our customers. To ensure I do the best I can, with the best advice possible, I’ve promoted Agent Jonelle Jackson to be my primary advisor. From now on, everyone will refer to her as the Major.”

The two of them handled questions from the others about the company, Pia’s leadership, and the Major’s role until the questions ran dry. Pia wrapped it up with a personal commitment that echoed her Olympic commitment. The Major stepped in and closed the meeting. The video blinked off. The screen retracted into the ceiling.

For a while, the Major was silent.

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” Pia said. “It was a good speech. A good pre-game show, now it’s time to make something happen.”

The Major nodded.

“So the next thing is to pick who I need with me in Cameroon.”

“You don’t assign people to a mission,” the Major said. “Sabel Security doesn’t work that way. Your employees get a small salary, a little more than the Army, but they get to choose which mission they take. We post missions with a goal and a bonus structure, the agents get to determine the risk versus the reward then sign up for the ones they like. If no one wants to take the mission, we tell the customer he needs to put up a higher bonus or adjust his goals. Some do, some don’t. But it works. When rebels kidnapped geologists in Columbia, the mining company offered a big bonus. Our people rescued the hostages and split the money. To attract the top people on your mission, you need to post a bonus and a mission brief.”

“This is the part where being a spoiled rich kid helps—”

“For the bonus, maybe. But money is worthless if you get killed. Agents only join missions with a clear, achievable goal and a reasonable expectation of survival. That would be where the mission brief comes in.”

They worked on the brief for two hours before posting it. It listed a one-week goal and a large bonus, with details promised in a video conference to follow shortly. The Major sent a text to ten agents she thought appropriate for the job, asking them to consider it.

“Alphonse sent me an update on what they’ve learned,” Pia said while they waited for responses.

“Does le Capitaine know he’s talking to you?”

“Doubt it. I’ve just asked him a few things. As, um, friends.”

“Uh huh. Um-friends. She’s not too keen on you inserting yourself into her investigation and that could get him in trouble.”

“That’s what he said. Anyway. Al-Jabal is traveling under the name Badawi al-Jabal, a Syrian poet who died thirty years ago. The airport in Brussels identified him getting on a flight to Douala, Cameroon. Unfortunately, they were working from a cell-phone picture taken at the party. Didn’t get him identified until today. Everything is pointing to the Niger River Delta on the border between Nigeria and Cameroon.”

“Smart police work, Pia. What about the time line? Why are you in such a hurry?”

“All the ships on Marot’s agenda were commandeered and never seen again. The pirates strike every seventy-five to eighty-five days, like clockwork. It’s been seventy-nine days since the
Objet Trouvé
was taken. We have a week to find them or wait another three months.”

“And when you find them?”

“Find out who funded them. Dad says it’s about money laundering. Pirating ships is easy—getting cash out of them is hard. That’s what makes this operation much more dangerous than Somalia.”

“So this is probably a squabble between pirates and bankers. Was Clément Marot the one laundering money? Or did he expose a conspiracy at Banque Genève International?”

“Sara Campbell said Clément was researching the problem,” Pia said.

“First thing you have to learn about criminals is they never tell you the truth. She might have been honest, she might have been the one the pirates were really after. Until we can verify one way or the other, nothing she said is fact.”

Pia nodded.

The Major paced. “What if Sara Campbell was working the pirates, alerted them to Marot’s snooping? He’d already told Bachmann, so they went down the chain until they killed them all.”

“Why Sara, then?” Pia said. “Wouldn’t they still need her?”

“Pissed them off, maybe. She was supposed to keep it under control. Hard to say. Criminal conspiracies aren’t rational organizations with a clear hierarchy. They’re a loose confederation of guys who don’t trust each other. One thing goes wrong and criminal gang turns into a cauldron of trigger-happy paranoia.”

“Why did they want to kill me?”

“They think you know something. Do you?”

Pia shook her head. “Only that I can recognize al-Jabal.”

“Who’s Capitaine Villeneuve questioning? Who are the suspects?”

“Alphonse didn’t say, but I’ll ask.”

They turned their attention to the mission team and sorted through the agents applying to join the mission. They trimmed the list to six and set up a video link.

Pia dropped the LED screen from the ceiling and positioned the camera.

“Most women who leave the Army want to fall in love with a guy, pump out some babies, vacation in France, have lunch at Spago,” the Major said before they started. “Normal women aren’t looking to take a gun into the jungle in Cameroon. And yet you have one woman here, highly qualified, who’s volunteered to do just that. She’s good, but not exactly normal.”

Pia smiled. “My kind of girl.”

The Major shook her head.

Pia shrugged and started the video meeting. With everyone online, she briefed them on events from the shooting of Marot to al-Jabal’s escape in Lyon. Putting a map on screen, she noted that Cameroon was on the Gulf of Guinea, had about the same land mass and population as California, with one hundredth the economy. The average Californian made sixty thousand dollars a year, the average Cameroonian six hundred. The team would fly into Limbe, in the English-speaking Southwest Region. The rest of Cameroon spoke French. Pia had engaged an investigator from Douala to gather intelligence in remote villages. She hoped for some good leads when they arrived. She took a role call for volunteers.

“Agent Marty,” she said, “are you interested?”

“You know it.” He smiled. “No one tries to kill my boss and walks away.”

“Agent Jacob?” She addressed the bald fireplug of a man on her screen. “You in?”

“Heck yeah, I’m in. First thing they taught me in basic training—never pass up a chance to brown-nose the brass. Besides, I never shot anyone on that side of Africa.”

Pia glanced at Jonelle who shrugged then moved on to Agent Eric.

“No way. I’m surprised at Jacob, he knows better,” Eric said. “Pardon me for saying so, Ms. Sabel, but you’re way out of your league here. You’re going into a territory so hostile your brain will freeze up. Your body reacts to danger by shifting all the body’s oxygen to the brain. Your coordination, your muscles, suffer from the lack of oxygen. That’s why you fumble things when you’re scared. Soldiers train under live fire specifically to deal with that problem. Civilians don’t. You’ve never had live fire training. You’ve never dealt with that much adrenaline—”

“You’ve never driven your way through Sweden’s defensive line.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, it’s not funny. The Swedes might be tough, but they weren’t trying to kill you. You’re going to get killed. And worse, you’re going to get our teammates killed. I’m out.”

Pia drew a deep breath. “Yeah. Well. If you’re right, I’m leaving instructions to have you promoted for your keen insights.” Her voice slowed and lowered. “But if you’re wrong and any of us come back—shrink when you see us in the halls.”

The others stifled laughter and leered at Eric in the video windows. Someone repeated the word
shrink
with a snarl. Agent Eric shrugged and shook his head.

Pia moved to Agent Miguel, buzz cut, short, square, average-looking. He said, “In.”

She waited a couple beats, decided he had spoken, and moved on to Agent Tania. Of mixed race, she formed an exotic mystery with angry eyes. Her enigmatic face hinted Asian, Native American, African, or maybe all three. But her glower was uniquely hers.

“I grew up on the edge of Brooklyn, the wrong edge,” Tania said. “I’ve seen plenty of rich bitches like you. But Jacob pulled my ass out of a burning Humvee after an IED blew it twenty meters. He’s worth dying for. Anywhere he goes, I go. But Eric’s right, you’re untrained and that makes you dangerous. I wouldn’t cross the street to save a snotty punk like you. Not one step. Just so you know where I’m coming from.”

“That’s your problem, not mine. The minute it interferes with the mission, you’re fired.”

Agent Tania sneered and turned a shoulder.

Agent Benjamin was already shaking his head when she called his name.

“I’m with Eric on this one,” he said. “Live fire is no place for on-the-job training. You go to boot camp, do a tour of duty in the Korengal Valley, then call me.”

“You heard what I told Eric,” Pia said.

Last up was Agent Ezra. Obviously the oldest, he had a gray crew cut, deep-set eyes, a square grizzled face. He could have played a bad guy in any gangster movie.

“I’ve half a mind to side with Eric and Ben on this, but I’ve got two problems,” he said. The first is, I just have to know if you can really do it. The second is, I have no intention of
shrinking
if you do. Count me in.”

Pia thanked them and set a wheels-up time for next morning. A planning and review session would take place onboard. She clicked off the video conference. The Major stared at the map of Cameroon, biting her thumbnail.

“Worried?” Pia asked.

The Major took a deep breath, turned to Pia and tightened her lips.

Pia said, “I only play to w—”

“Yeah, I’ve heard the sports talk. The rah-rah. It’s good stuff.” Her cold hard look felt like a slap. “But Eric’s right. There’s a huge difference between taking a corner kick and dodging a bullet. You wanted a success under your belt, so you blew the starting whistle. Your next play could end someone’s life. So let me ask you—worried?”

Chapter 14

Limbe, Cameroon

25-May, 3PM

T
he choir sat down and a layperson began reading from the Bible. Pia leaned toward the old man next to her. “Bishop Mimboe, what is your position on ordaining women for the priesthood?”

He smiled at her, mischief in his face, then answered with resonant vowels and hard consonants. “My dear Ms. Sabel, Africa and America face different challenges. Very different. Let me give you one example. The other day, an important man came to me and inquired about converting to Christianity and joining the Anglican Church. He asked me how many wives would he have to let go if he joined?”

Pia sighed and sat back in her chair. Her eyes wandered back to the church service in progress. A full mass, ordered by the bishop to consecrate her generosity, was underway. When the police in both Geneva and Lyon panned her visa application to Cameroon, she’d reapplied to visit the Anglican school funded by her charitable foundation. Because this was only her second visit to the country, the diocese had turned out in droves, despite the short notice. The congregation was ecstatic and treated her like royalty. Most ecstatic was the diminutive, bishop sitting next to her. His hair streaked with gray, his black skin aged and weathered, he had the smile of a cherub and movie-star charm.

She relaxed and joined in the rhythmic singing and chanting. After all, it would only be an hour or so.

When they finally came to the sermon, the bishop kept it swift and funny.

“My beloved people,” he said as he wrapped up, “we must change. We must change our troubled souls. Somehow, we must find forgiveness in our hearts for the horrendous foul Pia Sabel committed against our beloved Adisa Ngandy in the Olympics.” He looked at her and winked. “I know Ms. Sabel’s aggressive play challenged the faith of many parishioners. How could a loving God allow such an injustice? Yet the Bible teaches us: God’s love falls like the rain, equally on the good and…” he looked a Pia and shrugged, “the others.”

He called her to the pulpit and introduced her. She wore the latest mid-thigh dress from Ghanaian designer Aish Obdubi, featuring African geometric circles in green and turquoise and cut in a western style. She made brief remarks about investing in hope but made no mention of the foul. When she finished, another priest came forward and continued the service.

Back in their seats, the bishop leaned toward her.

“Ms. Sabel, I understand you were violently baptized in Geneva a few days ago. Praise be to God you emerged. When we emerge from the waters of death, we are changed. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Tell me. Do you still harbor anger toward those who persecute you?”

Pia stared at the altar without answering.

“Is there something in Cameroon that troubles you?” he asked.

Pia glanced at him sideways, saw a new intensity in his eyes. “Troubles me?”

“Your mind is working on something outside this place. Your heart is not with us now.”

Pia bit the inside of her lip. She wondered if perception was something he’d learned on the job or with age. She said, “I’m here seeking justice.”