Warren Murphy: A Pound of Prevention

"I accept your apology," Albondigas said tightly as he strode back to the table. "And I wish you dead, as well. In the healthiest, business-metaphor sense, of course."

As the others laughed, Albondigas resumed his place at the conference table.

When Sham Tokumo glanced at Copefeld, the Cali lawyer was mopping sweat from his tan face. Tokumo frowned at the man's strange behavior even as he felt relief that they could now resume the more mundane business before them.

At the head of the table, Mandobar had been a surprisingly silent observer. Not a word had passed the broad lips. Even now, that famous face remained unreadable. As though it could have been carved from a chunk of gleaming coal. But as Tokumo and the others returned to their papers and briefcases, a happy chuckle rose from the far end of the great table. When those gathered glanced up, they found that the stern mouth had melted into a broad grin.

Mandobar laughed a deep, rolling belly laugh. The black eyes sparkled, and the familiar laugh lines returned. It was the same face they'd all seen on newspapers and television screens since the nation of East Africa had been so abruptly thrust into the world spotlight some fifteen years before.

"Do you not see?" Mandobar happily asked the puzzled faces. "This was the first real test of our new union, and the crisis has been resolved peacefully. With words, not violence. Gentlemen, we have already succeeded. It is as I have promised. There will be no conflict here. The Republic of East Africa will be ally to all of you." Mandobar looked to Albondigas and Copefeld in turn, eyes beaming. Far, far down the enormous table, the Tadzhikistan representative began to applaud. Near him, the agent for the Sons of Belial started clapping, as well. What began as a polite ripple quickly grew. Tokumo, Copefeld-even Jamon Albondigas joined in. Like thunder rumbling in across the vast Serengeti, the cheers grew and grew, echoing across the great hall.

And in the place of honor at the head of the table, Mandobar reveled in the accolades from this collection of the world's greatest purveyors of misery and dependence.

THE MEETING DISBANDED late in the evening. The cheers were long dead by the time Russell Copefeld crept alone through the shadowy compound near the darkened meeting hall.

The night was warm. Distant animals until now familiar only from PBS documentaries howled sad, desperate shrieks at the bejeweled African sky.

A line of neat bungalows to his right housed some of the delegates from around the world. Many others had been helicoptered back to Bachsburg after the meeting.

It was now long past midnight, and all of the tidy little houses were bathed in blackness. The only light Copefeld could see came from the cottage of the French delegate. A local brothel had been supplying prostitutes for the delegates since first they arrived at the secret VIP village. No doubt the French agent was at it again.

Copefeld didn't care about the Frenchman or his whores. Right now, all he was interested in was getting paid.

This cloak and dagger was ridiculous. Stealing around like common thieves in the dead of night. He'd be sure to let Mandobar know when they met.

There was nothing wrong with bank transactions. Hell, wasn't that what all of this was about? Untraceable cash, banks willing to look the other way at huge deposits and, most importantly, no tax man breathing down anyone's neck.

Copefeld was a great proponent of electronic cash. It was part of why he had convinced his Cali bosses to look seriously into this East African deal. A haven for crime that didn't care where the money came from? A fixed rate of graft with the local government locked in more securely than a United States government treasury note? Approval for the entire enterprise at the highest levels of government?

It was a sweetheart deal. East Africa was going to be a nation like none the world had ever seen. Every country or state or city had its lawless suburbs. Many countries looked the other way at certain types of crimes. But the promise of East Africa was everything under one roof. You could wire transfer your wealthy wife's cash to one of Bachsburg's banks, hire someone to kill her from the classified section of a local newspaper and be out on the links at the famous Sin City resort all in less than one hour.

Of course, that sort of thing was for the truly wealthy. Russell Copefeld was just a struggling New York attorney, someone who could use a couple of extra bucks now and then. That was why, when Mandobar had offered him fifty thousand U.S. dollars to start that little fight with Albondigas that afternoon ...well, a fool and his money.

Copefeld didn't know for certain why Mandobar was so insistent that he disrupt today's meeting. However, he had an inkling. Doubtless it was to prove to the other crime lords that things could be worked out easily here. There were no wars here in the new East Africa. This was the demilitarized zone of crime.

As he skulked through the brush, Copefeld thought of how resistant his bosses had been to this scheme. They'd been burned on something similar once before. But that was way back in the 1970s. The world was older, wiser and far more sophisticated now. It was an idea worthy of resurrection.

Copefeld's sleeve suddenly snagged on a thorny branch. When he tugged, he heard the material tear. "Dammit," he whispered to the empty black air. Eyes squinting, he held up the cuff to his nose. As he rubbed the expensive silk between his fingertips in search of a hole, Copefeld heard a sound behind him.

A cracking branch.

Fearing an animal attack, he whirled. But it was no animal.

Strong hands grabbed his arms, pinning them painfully behind his back, yanking them up until they threatened to tear from the sockets.

As Copefeld tried frantically to pull away, a figure moved in front of him. The black face was filled with menace.

"What are you doing!" Copefeld gasped.

In response, a balled fist slashed across his face. The man's ring tore an angry gash in Copefeld's cheek.

Unseen men fought with his wrists, tightening something around them.

Rope twisted and knotted. Copefeld's legs were growing weak. Wriggling, panicked, he caught a glimpse of their sweating, gleeful faces.

A smell now. Strong. Something sloshing in a tin can.

"God, please, no," Copefeld begged into the pitiless African night.

One of the men, whom he now recognized as an assistant to Mandobar, carried forward a familiar large doughnut shape. The harmless object-recognizable to even the most rural villages around the world-had a special meaning in East Africa.

A tire. The Goodyear logo was visible along the smooth black side.

Something sloshed within the hollow basin interior of the wheelless ring of rubber. Gasoline. Copefeld wanted to vomit, but paralyzing fear locked food and bile in his knotted chest.

A necklacing. That's what they called it. Mandobar had even gone to trial for it before East Africa's laws had been subverted in favor of criminals. As the others held him, Mandobar's man dropped the grimy tire around Copefeld's neck.

"Please," Copefeld wept. "Please, no."

As the lawyer cried hot tears, an oily rag was stuffed in his mouth. They pushed it in so hard, it triggered his gag reflex. Copefeld vomited his dinner of veal scampi and red wine. Some of it spewed from his nose, burning and mixed with bile. The rag blocked the rest. When he swallowed, the thick acid tasted of motor oil.

As his stomach clenched, gasoline from a can was splattered on his clothes. The men were shouting jubilantly.

Some of the bungalow lights came on. Sleepy delegates had come out onto porches in their nightclothes to investigate the commotion.

Floodlights flared to life, bathing the square in a sick yellow haze.