The Janson Command (27 page)
Kincaid saw a flash on the roof of the museum—sun on a scope, nine hundred meters.
“Roof!” Pointing to the sniper’s position, diving to the grass, she rolled toward Janson. They pulled Flannigan behind the brow of a low mound. The rifle fired, unheard. A slug thunked into the mound. Earth flew in their faces.
“How many?”
“One, so far.”
Less than five seconds had passed since Janson spotted the stiletto. The assassin was trying to mount her bicycle, but she was staggering from the impact of Kincaid’s elbow and in shock from her broken wrist. The bicycle got away from her and fell over. She tried to run. Suddenly the airholes of her helmet spewed blood as a rifle bullet dissolved her skull.
Janson and Kincaid traded looks. Stabbing Flannigan would have been the killers’ plan B, if they had not intervened. Plan A would have been the girl luring Flannigan into the sniper’s sights. And now, before abandoning weapons and melting into the museum crowd, the sniper had killed the injured backup assassin so she could not talk.
Janson dialed 000.
“Ambulance. Lake Burley Griffin. Garryowen Drive. Across the lake from the National Museum. Stab wound.”
“Tell ’em not to bother,” Flannigan whispered. His face was white, his lips blue
“You’ll be fine.”
“Don’t bullshit a surgeon—she got my celiac artery. I have about two minutes.
“Listen, you gotta know this—
Amber Dawn
was disguised as an OSV. They Rube Goldberged a secret exploration vessel. The people shot by the rebels weren’t roustabouts. They were petroleum explorers.”
“What did they find?”
“They threw their computers and transmitters overboard—like they were done uploading confirmation data and keeping it secret. Christ, I can’t believe this is happening to me.” He shook his head. “No way rebels accidentally did the oil company a favor, keeping the discovery secret by killing everybody. They were
sent
to kill ’em.”
So much, thought Janson, for Doug Case’s story about burnishing ASC’s image with pro bono exploration for downtrodden nations. ASC had been exploring solely for itself behind a scrim of independent contractors.
“That’s why I thought they’d sent you to kill me. They were afraid I knew about the discovery— Hey, little Annie?”
“Me? What, Terry?”
“Annie— What’s your name? Oh, right, Jesse. Honey, I’m gone. I wonder if I could hold your hand? No offense, Paul, but I’d rather go out with a girl.”
Jessica Kincaid took Terry Flannigan’s hand in one of hers and laid her other hand on his brow. “Take it easy, Terry. You’ll be okay. Hear the ambulance? They’re coming.”
“Good-bye, Annie.… ” His eyes closed. Sirens grew loud.
“Terry,” said Janson. “
Terry!
The guy who helped Iboga board the jump jet? You thought you recognized him.”
“He led the rebel unit that attacked the boat.”
How many sides was SR on?
“Take care of yourself, Jesse.”
Kincaid laid Flannigan’s hand across his chest, took the other, which had fallen to his side, and crossed it over the first. “Jesus H, Paul, did we fuck up.”
“If it was not a random attack, how did the rebels in a speedboat locate that one small OSV fifty miles from Isle de Foree on a foggy night?”
“This poor silly bastard was on to something. And we missed it. I missed it. I missed her goddamned knife.”
“Coincidence? The first blip on their radar led them to a victim that just happened to be
Amber Dawn
throwing computers overboard?”
“Terry told me at the hospital that he gave up regular practice because amputations really got him. He said he’d lie awake afterward, wondering should he have done it different.”
Janson barely heard her. “Radar alone could not guide them to precisely that one boat. Unless someone attached a tracking device before
Amber Dawn
sailed from Nigeria. What if they signaled
Amber Dawn
’s coordinates traced by the scientists’ encrypted satellite uploads?”
Kincaid rubbed her eyes. “You tell me, Mr. Machine.”
“Whoever received the uploads could have betrayed the scientists who transmitted them—an ice-blooded way to ensure that no one on the boat would reveal the discovery.”
“Doug Case lied to you about Terry Flannigan working for ASC.”
“Apparently so.”
“So how can you believe Case’s story that gunrunners told him Terry had been kidnapped?”
R
est assured, President Poe,” said Kingsman Helms. “American Synergy Corporation’s Petroleum Division doesn’t want a ‘BP’ in Isle de Foreen waters any more than you do.”
“Acting President,” Ferdinand Poe corrected him.
He was one tough old bird, Helms thought, considering that he had been tortured nearly to death only a month earlier. Helms had expected to call on a trembling old man in his hospital suite. Instead, Poe had received him in his working office adjacent to the ceremonial “throne room” in the Isle de Foree’s Presidential Palace, where President for Life Iboga used to accept ASC bribes.
“I’ve asked repeatedly,” said Poe, “for detailed contingency plans in the event of blowouts, pipeline breaks, tanker collisions, and groundings. I have received from ASC standard boilerplate responses riddled with gobbledygook pseudo-science that would embarrass even BP. In fact, one of my bright young aides informs me that parts of it appear plagiarized from discredited BP safety filings.”
Helms ran a powerful athlete’s hand through his wavy blond hair. Whoever back in Houston had prepared the latest report on Poe’s condition could consider himself fired. A perfunctory courtesy call by the president of the Petroleum Division on the president of this pissant island—a ceremonial state visit as it were—was devolving into a goddamned Spanish Inquisition.
“Mr. President—”
“Acting President!”
“Sir. You have my word that our latest, updated disaster contingency plans will be emailed to your petroleum minister by tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you. Now let’s get down to business.”
“I beg you pardon, Mr.— Sir. What business?”
“At the moment, we have an oil lease agreement—Isle de Foree and American Synergy Corporation.”
“At the moment?” Helms countered.
“The terms of our current agreement are excessively generous to American Synergy.”
“We have an agreement that gives ASC exclusive exploration rights for five years,” Kingsman Helms replied coldly. It was time to take off the gloves. If Poe wanted an Inquisition he would get one that would make the Spanish Inquisition seem benign.
“We have a further agreement that ASC retains development rights of all reserves that ASC discovers in these five years. Remember that we are not drilling for ‘easy oil’ in Isle de Foree’s ultradeep waters. Our up-front investment is huge. We are taking geological risks, engineering risks, and capital risks. If we are so fortunate as to drill down to a ‘commercial discovery,’ we will have earned our additional agreements that give ASC the exclusive right to develop a petroleum accessing and processing infrastructure on Isle de Foree and in her waters. In other words, Mr. Acting President, if we find it, we own it, and you get royalties.”
“It is the royalties that are troublesome,” Poe shot back. “Our percentage is too low and the means of auditing payments are opaque. In other words, Mr. President of ASC Petroleum Division, the agreement is not fair.”
“Surely you would not prefer to do business with extractors that have the scruples of China or Russia?”
Poe refused to rise to that bait. He said, “The Free Foree Movement accepted your terms at a time of desperate weakness. We appreciate the help you gave us at the time. But the situation has changed. We are no longer hiding in the jungle.”
“Are you threatening to renege?”
“Nations don’t renege. They renegotiate.”
Helms smiled. “I am glad to hear you speak of nations, as there are more than one involved.”
“What other nations are involved?”
“Nigeria is the strongest that comes to mind. When Isle de Foree broke away from Equatorial Guinea and became an independent nation, weren’t you backed by Nigeria?”
“That was many years ago. Nigeria imposed onerous oil-sharing deals on Isle de Foree in exchange for support—and Nigeria supported Iboga to protect those deals.” Poe glared angrily.
Helms interrupted before Poe could accuse ASC of playing both ends against the middle by supporting Iboga until they were sure the dictator had lost the war. “Nonetheless. You developed your existing fields in partnership with Nigeria.”
“Inshore!” Poe protested. “Inshore. Nowhere near the deepwater blocks that ASC is exploring for us.”
“Nigeria could easily claim that the fields that ASC is investing in so heavily to explore are on the toe thrust of the Porto Clarence fields. Nigerians are a grabby bunch. I wouldn’t be surprised if they argue that the Porto Clarence fields are a structural trend connected to the Niger Delta itself.”
“Nonsense. Our new fields would be hundreds of miles from the Niger Delta.”
“Seabed disputes are as much about geology as distance. But the sense or nonsense of the argument would be worked out in treaty negotiations. Failing that, the issue would move to the Chamber for Maritime Delimitation Disputes of the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea and then the Seabed Disputes Chamber—or is it the other way around? Seabed Disputes first. I can never remember. The lawyers can work it out.”
“Isle de Foree does not have time for a protracted legal battle with Nigeria. Whoever we permit to explore for us will continue to.”
“If you violate the international court orders to cease drilling and exploring until the dispute is resolved, I guarantee you that Nigeria will invade first and answer the world’s questions later.”
Ferdinand Poe rubbed his mouth, as if to prevent a doubt from passing his lips.
“And I wouldn’t be surprised if Gabon piled on to see what they could grab,” Kingsman Helms said, rising to his full height. “Mr. Acting President, we have a deal. ASC stands by its deals. We hope you do, because if you don’t, Isle de Foree will be the partner that ends up alone.”
Ferdinand Poe stood painfully from his chair. “Our nation—this island—has the minutest window open for the shortest instant. In this moment, we can speed the clock ahead of the past. We can erase the final memories of colonialism. We can blot out the memory of terror that Iboga visited on our people. We can use this gift found under the sea to build a homeland that welcomes prosperity, decency, and peace. In other words, Mr. Helms, I will resist your schemes with every breath in my body. This ruinous, larcenous contract will stand on my dead body. We will renegotiate it. Or break it.”
Kingsman Helms turned on his heel and walked out of Poe’s office. Margarido, Poe’s chief of staff, was standing in the hall and looked at him inquiringly. “I trust you had a good meeting, Mr. Helms?”
“An excellent meeting. Always a pleasure doing business in Isle de Foree—Excuse me; I have a call.”
He took out his satellite phone.
Mario Margarido went into Poe’s office. “Well?”
Poe was slumped behind his desk, his mouth working. He looked up wearily. “When I agreed to oil lease terms with American Synergy in exchange for their support in our war against Iboga, I truly believed that liberating our country from that monster would make Isle de Foree a better home for our people. I had a dream that I could be like another Nelson Mandela—free our nation and then step back and let the young build her anew. You warned me at the time that I was making a deal with the Devil.”
The chief of staff smiled, hoping to calm Poe, and said, “It was my job to be your Devil’s Advocate.”
“I explained how desperately we needed the help and you agreed. But it never occurred to me how determined the Devil is to remain the Devil.”
“What happened?”
“I asked for fairer terms.”
“And?”
“He told me to go to hell.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to.”
“He made it very clear he would embroil us with the Nigerians.”
“Yes, I wondered about that— So what do we do?”
“Same thing we did with Iboga. Resist.”
“Do you really want to wage war, again? So soon?”
Ferdinand Poe stood up and limped to a window that overlooked the seawall. He collected his thoughts. Then he repeated to his old comrade the essence of what he had told the oilman from Texas.
“Yes, I am ready to resist, again, if I must.” Poe turned around and faced Margarido. “And you, my friend?”
Mario Margarido bowed his head. “I would be a liar to say I was anxious to. But surely you don’t have to ask.”
* * *
KINGMAN HELMS TOOK
his telephone outside. His Sikorsky VIP S-76C++ was waiting on the windswept terrace that served as the palace helipad. He twirled his hand in the air, gesturing impatiently for the pilots to crank her up, and bounded up the boarding steps.
“Out of here. Now.”
“Where to, Mr. Helms?”
“Vulcan Queen.”
The ultraluxury helicopter lifted off immediately. Its so-called Silencer cabin and QUIETZONE gearbox made it quiet enough to talk on the phone, but when Helms saw that it was Doug Case calling from an airplane he did not bother to answer. Fuck him.
The helicopter swept seaward, thundering low over the Black Sand Prison. Last time Helms had been in Porto Clarence, the prison had been full of Ferdinand Poe’s allies. Now the rebels were dancing in the streets and President for Life Iboga’s officer corps were festering inside. There, thought Helms, was Poe’s Achilles’ heel. If Poe had a brain in his head he would shoot the whole bunch. Like most fools, Poe picked the wrong fights. Instead of killing the army officers who truly meant him harm, he wanted to slug it out with American Synergy over some misguided issue of principle.
Twenty minutes later, fifty miles to the south, when Helms could see the
Vulcan Queen
’s immense double drill tower his phone rang again. The Buddha. The CEO and chairman of the board of American Synergy calling from Houston. Helms answered hastily. “Yes, sir. How are you today?”
