Andrew Britton - The Exile

Kealey locked eyes with her. “To Mirghani?”

“Yes.”

And through him to Nusairi, Kealey thought. He stared at Abby some more, blew a long stream of air out his mouth. “Saduq…He set up his own customers to be hijacked.”

“Again, it is what we believe.”

“And when is the meet set to happen?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Here in the capital?”

She shook her head. “In Limbe, if our intelligence is correct.”

Kealey drew an imaginary map. The coastal city was about 90 klicks-or 50 miles and change-to the southwest.

“This intel,” he said. “How about sharing how you got it with me?”

Abby started to reply, glanced over to her right, closed her mouth. A tall, heavyset man with skin the color of roasted almonds, Gaston was approaching their table from the doors to the indoor cafe.

“Abby, mon amie, please excuse the interruption,” he said, flashing Kealey a courteous smile. He tilted his head back toward the glass doors. “It is likely a coincidence-they occasionally stop here as they make their neighborhood rounds-but two uniformed agents of the city council have stopped in and requested an outdoor table of my barista.”

She nodded her appreciation. “ Merci, ” she said. “We will be on our way in a moment.”

Kealey glanced through the doors as Gaston withdrew, saw the uniformed men standing at the counter.

“They different from the gendarmes?” he asked.

“Council agents are civil functionaries… You might consider them the equivalent of housing inspectors. In Yaounde they mainly chase off unlicensed street vendors. Their latest big campaign was to clear the streets of call-box owners-people who run phone lines from indoor connections to the street and charge a small sum to customers who need to make emergency calls. Many in the city cannot afford mobile phones and depend on them.”

“And how’re they a problem?”

“They aren’t…but they make easy marks for shakedowns.” Abby shrugged. “Officials here line their pockets any way they can, which is why I trust none of them.”

“What if it’s one who’s got his hand out to you?”

“I just assume he’ll be holding his other hand out to somebody else.”

Kealey grinned but said nothing.

“I will tell you more when we have time,” she said. “Right now we’d best make our plans.”

“When do we leave for Limbe?”

“Tonight,” she said. “The drive is only a bit over an hour.”

“The two of us going alone?”

She shook her head. “I have some associates who can be trusted. A couple with RB Yaounde-the regional Interpol bureau. And another few that are dependable.”

He nodded, waiting for the rest.

“We’ll pick you up at nine o’clock,” she said. “Walk two blocks from your hotel, turn the corner, wait halfway down the street. You’ll be between the Avenue Foch and Rue de Narvik.”

Kealey looked at her. “More cloak and dagger?”

Abby Liu shrugged, collected her purse from where she had hung it over her chair.

“Don’t push me, Kealey,” she said, her eyes flashing again. “It’s enough I haven’t insisted you eat more of your African fool.”

Closed up for the night, the cluster of variety shops had gaudy window signs that advertised everything from used DVDs and children’s clothing to cigarettes, aphrodisiacs, and condoms. Kealey was standing outside them in the night when the vehicle pulled up against the sidewalk-a gray BMW SUV X5.

Its darkly tinted passenger-side window rolled partway down, Abby Liu looking out at him. Then the rear door swung open.

“Better get in,” she said.

Kealey leaned forward to glance inside, saw two men in the rear, behind Abby and the driver, then rapped the door with his knuckle as he slid into the backseat with them. As he’d expected, it had the solid thump of 3/16-inch armor plate.

The car swung from the curb, glided off along the lightless street.

“Etienne Brun, Leonard Martin…Ryan Kealey,” Abby said, shifting around to face him over her backrest.

Kealey looked across the backseat at his fellow passengers. Sitting farthest from him, against the opposite door, the one named Brun had extended his arm as Abby made their introductions. He was a wiry, light-skinned black man with a shaved head.

Kealey gripped his hand, looked at the man between them, shook his as well. Martin was white and broad-shouldered, his longish blond hair combed straight back from a high forehead.

Kealey settled back, met the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Dirk Steiner,” the man said in German-inflected English. The soft bluish glow of a dashboard GPS unit revealed his sharply angular features. “I have heard much to recommend you, Mr. Kealey.”

Kealey grunted. “I hope it outweighs whatever else you’ve heard about me.”

The man laughed a little but said nothing, his eyes on the winding road ahead of him.

“Etienne and Leo are both Interpol colleagues-we’ve been working together for a while,” Abby said. “They’re specialized officers for maritime crime. Dirk’s our liaison with the EU’s antipiracy task force.”

Kealey thought for a while, then shrugged.

“I suppose it leaves me the odd man out,” he said. “Since I don’t know a single goddamned thing about pirates, boats, or water.”

A faint smile crinkled Abby’s features. “Somehow I doubt you’re being altogether truthful,” she said. “Be that as it may, I’ve been advised that you do have other knowledge and abilities that ought to be valuable to us.”

“Namely?” Kealey asked.

She turned around in her seat and then reached under the glove box. When her hand reappeared a moment later, it was holding something low between the two front seats.

Identifying it at once, Kealey reached forward and took the weapon from her grip. It was a Brugger amp; Thomet MP9 tactical machine pistol with a high-capacity magazine and sound suppressor attached to its bore.

Abby returned to watching him over her backrest as he examined the carbine on his lap. “Does your skill set include using that particular item?” she asked.

He looked at her in the dimness of the SUV’s interior, their eyes meeting, then holding steadily. “What exactly are we getting into here?”

“I told you about Hassan al-Saduq’s meet tonight, yes?”

He nodded.

“Well, Saduq owns a pleasure boat…a small yacht,” she said. “We have learned it is currently anchored in a Limbe marina.”

Kealey’s eyes remained locked on hers. “Is that where you intend to take him?”

“There or in the bay, however circumstances dictate,” she said. “Ultimately, it will be your call.”

“Why the hell is that?”

Abby did not so much as hesitate for an instant.

“It should be apparent, Kealey,” she said. “We’re counting on you to lead us.”

LIMBE, CAMEROON

“Nicolas, you will please excuse my tardiness?” said Hassan al-Saduq. He sat at the table. “I trust your wait has been agreeable.”

Chewing his tomate cravettes, Nicolas Barre looked across the hotel dining room, where a sultry blond singer in a black strapless gown was accompanying her own smooth French vocals on the keys. “My men have had enough to occupy them,” he said. “Hopefully not too much for their own good.”

Saduq grinned. “I’m told boredom is a killer.”

“Perhaps,” Barre said. His eyes were on the blonde. “But I’ve no fear of losing any of them to it here at this fine establishment.”

Saduq sat at the table, his smile growing broader. Even through the melancholy piano music, his attentive ear could detect the clatter of roulette wheels in the casino across the lobby of the Hotel Bonny Bight.