Andrew Britton - The Exile

“Sir, may I speak to you for a moment?”

The South African president stopped in his tracks and turned to face him. He looked mildly surprised by the request, but he nodded once and walked a few steps away from the waiting vehicles. Kealey followed and quickly explained his concerns.

When he was done, Zuma nodded thoughtfully. He looked carefully at his head of security and wondered, not for the first time, what had brought him to this place. It could have just been the money, of course, and for most of the security contractors, he would have guessed that to be the primary motivation. In Kealey’s case, however, he did not feel comfortable making that assumption.

The American was of medium height, lean and tan, with long, lank black hair that stopped just short of being inappropriate for the job he was tasked with. As usual, he was dressed casually in a faded black polo shirt, pressed tan slacks, and a pair of rugged, expensive-looking hiking boots. It was a uniform common to every member of the security detail. Unlike his peers, though, Kealey did not carry an automatic weapon. Instead, he was armed only with a 9mm handgun, which was holstered in a cross-draw position on his left hip. The man was as inconspicuous as he was effective-Zuma had learned as much over the last two months, much to his unspoken relief. He had expected a more visible presence at the start and had been vaguely disappointed, not to mention uneasy, when Blackwater had sent him Kealey and company.

As it turned out, the eight quiet professionals had managed not only to keep him safe but also to keep a remarkably low profile in the process. In fact, they were so unobtrusive that the South African media had yet to pick up on the fact that he had outsourced his personal security to an American firm. He didn’t know how long that could last, but it was still a pleasant, if unexpected benefit to the whole situation.

At the same time the man standing before Zuma remained a mystery, and he continued to find that a little troubling. He didn’t understand what could have prompted Ryan Kealey to sign on with Blackwater Worldwide. The man was a veritable legend in the U.S. intelligence community, and despite the CIA’s best efforts, his government had been unable to completely conceal the full scope of his contribution to the nation’s security. Zuma had wondered on more than one occasion what could have prompted the young American to walk away from all of that, though he had yet to come up with any likely scenarios. He suspected it had something to do with the haunted look that was never far from the young man’s eyes, though he would never have presumed to ask. Simply put, it was none of his concern, and besides, it didn’t really matter. The man’s capabilities were all Zuma truly cared about, and they were undeniably intact.

The American was still awaiting an answer. Zuma sighed, shot a glance at his watch, and said, “What is your alternative, Mr. Kealey? Bearing in mind that I can’t stand around all day waiting for the police to do their job.”

“We have a helicopter providing sniper support for the run back to Pretoria. It holds only four, but we can squeeze in seven, and we’ll send the rest of the men in the cars later, once the police manage to get things in hand.”

“ If they do, Mr. Kealey. I know you’re aware of where I stand with many of them as a result of this trial.”

Kealey grunted. “I’ve checked out the Metro captain in charge. He’s no believer in Joubert, and I think we can trust him as much as anyone. He says they’ll have the area secured in forty minutes or less.”

“Is there room for my aide on the helicopter?”

Kealey glanced over at the chief of staff, who was already sliding into the backseat of the fourth armored vehicle, a white Toyota Land Cruiser. “He’ll have to stay here, sir. I’m sorry, but I can’t leave you with less than six security officers. Company policy.”

Zuma appraised the younger man with a slight frown. Something about the way he said “company policy” made the South African leader think that Kealey couldn’t care less about the company or its policies. Even the word sir was somehow impertinent coming from this man’s lips. At the same time, he was standing there giving his honest, unbiased opinion, and that warranted some degree of respect and consideration. Zuma was a practical man, and he prized his personal welfare far above the formalities of his office.

He thought about it carefully. Usually, he didn’t hesitate to follow the American’s suggestions regarding his personal security. But on this occasion he desperately needed some time to confer with his chief of staff. He was due in Cape Town in two days’ time, where he was scheduled to address the National Assembly regarding the budget he had submitted two months earlier. He needed every minute between now and then to pin down his position and clarify his arguments-and that, more than anything, made his decision for him.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Oliphant and I have a great deal of work to do, and it cannot wait. I realize there is some level of threat, but I’m sure your people can handle it. Now, are we ready to go?”

Kealey hesitated, but the other man’s words had made it clear that his decision was final. “Yes,” he said. “We’re ready to move.”

He followed his principal to the armored SUV. Steve Oliphant was already seated in back, and Zuma took the seat next to him. The driver, a former commando in the Honduran army, closed the door behind the South African president as Kealey moved around the front of the vehicle to the passenger-side door. On the way he made eye contact with Alex Whysall and pointed toward the fifth vehicle, another Land Cruiser. Whysall nodded and started to move, as did the rest of the team. As the doors slammed shut on every vehicle, the sound reverberating off the cold cement walls of the parking garage, Kealey climbed into the fourth truck and shut the door, the driver following suit a few seconds later.

Ramon Flores looked over and raised an eyebrow. Kealey held up a finger, indicating he needed a minute. He turned on the radio and performed a quick communications check. Once he was satisfied that everything was in working order, he ordered the first vehicle to move. Flores followed a few seconds later, and the five vehicles began the short run down to street level.

It had taken the teenager ten long minutes to fight his way through the dense, riotous crowd, during which time he had nearly lost the shopping bag twice. Scrabbling hands had caught at the thin plastic on several occasions, and one man had made a halfhearted attempt to tear it out of the teenager’s grasp, but the bodies around them had changed position at the last second. He had used the shift in momentum to pull away from his assailant, who was quickly swallowed by the surrounding sea of flailing limbs. Miraculously, the bag had stayed intact through the entire ordeal. Now, as he slipped unnoticed past one of the fallen barricades, the weight of its contents caused the plastic handles to cut into his hand, cutting off the circulation to his sweaty fingers. The pain was intense, but he did his best to set it aside, knowing that he could not afford the slightest distraction.

The entrance to the parking garage was less than ten meters away, and on the second level, through a narrow gap in the concrete decks, the teenager caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting off white paint. He couldn’t hear the engines over the deafening roar of the aggressive mob, but he sensed that the vehicles moving rapidly through the garage were the ones he was waiting for. Returning his gaze to ground level, he kept moving forward, aware that the police officers behind him were still fighting and failing to keep the crowd back. They hadn’t used the gas yet, but the teenager knew it was coming, just as he knew that the riot would eventually be contained. In his mind, the police were not to be blamed, despite the brute force they were using to put down the revolt. After all, his own brother-in-law was currently fighting to contain the violence, even though he privately supported the pro-Joubert factionalists. The two groups had no way of knowing that they wanted the same thing, but the teenager knew, and he was ready to act on behalf of them all.