Don Pendleton - Conflict Zone

“You may explain,” Chan said.

As CNP’s top man in Nigeria, Chan had no need to browbeat his subordinates. They recognized, to the last man and woman, his authority within the firm, and in the country. No Chinese except Beijing’s ambassador in Lagos had authority to countermand Chan’s orders. Anyone who tried was likely to be slated for a quick flight home and some “reeducation” on the precedence of duty to the state.

“Apparently the kidnapping of Jared Ross’s daughter has been unexpectedly resolved,” Teoh replied.

“How so?”

Chan had received his own report of the event, but he desired both confirmation from his chief lieutenant and more detailed explanation of the incident.

“Our friends at MEND report a raid against the camp where she was held. Some of their personnel were killed, the woman was extracted and pursuit proved fruitless. They are furious and crave retaliation, but confusion handicaps them at the moment.”

“There is more?” Chan asked.

“Yes, sir. A helicopter bearing unknown passengers landed at K-Tech Petroleum’s compound a few hours after the raid. It wasn’t a corporate aircraft, yet it remains.”

“And you find that significant?”

“The timing is…suggestive, sir. Of course, we don’t know who the helicopter brought to visit Ross.”

“You’ve run the registration number?”

The International Civil Aviation Organization, an agency of the United Nations, issued alphanumeric code numbers to aircraft for use in flight plans and maintained the standards for aircraft registration—“tail numbers” in common parlance—including the code numbers that identify an airplane or helicopter’s country of registration. The ICAO’s nearest regional office, serving West and Central Africa, was a short phone call away, in Dakar, Senegal.

“I have, sir,” Teoh confirmed. “The ‘J5’ prefix indicates official registration in Guinea Bissau.”

“What brings it here, then?” Chan wondered out loud.

“I’m afraid we don’t know, sir.”

“But can we find out? That’s the question, eh, Lao?”

“As you say, sir.”

Subservience had its limits. Although he enjoyed wielding power, beyond any question, Chan sometimes wished for aides who displayed more initiative than simple fawning obeisance.

“We once had eyes inside K-Tech Petroleum,” Chan said.

“She was dismissed, as you recall, sir. Their security discovered her communications with our private operative.”

“Yes, a nasty business.”

“Thankfully resolved,” Teoh added, “by her suicide.”

If such it was. Chan had been raised from infancy to trust the state and to deny religion in all forms, but he wasn’t inclined to question a convenient miracle. And if someone in his employ had helped the burned spy to decide that her life was intolerable, how was Chan to know?

“Make every effort to identify the latest visitors,” he ordered. “Maintain tight surveillance on the K-Tech grounds and staff. Inform me instantly of any new and unfamiliar faces on the scene.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And while you see to that,” Chan said, “I will attempt to pacify our Itsekiri friends.”

THE WARRI headquarters for Uroil—with its home office in Yekaterinburg, on the eastern slope of the Ural Mountains—stood a mere two thousand yards from the office building owned by China National Petroleum. Its drab gray walls and modest logo gave nothing away to passersby.

“Bad news for the Chinese today, I take it,” Arkady Eltsin said. “And their underlings, too.”

“Unfortunately, not so bad for the Americans,” Valentin Sidorov replied.

As an agent of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service—known as the SVR—Sidorov answered first to Moscow, but his present orders placed him at Uroil’s and Arkady Eltsin’s disposal. Eltsin understood that his command of Sidorov had limits, and he hadn’t tested them.

Not yet.

“The Ross girl,” Eltsin said, nodding. “Who was it, do you think? The CIA?”

“I doubt it,” Sidorov replied. “The quality of personnel available to them is scandalous, these days. So much of what they used to do is handled now by private military companies, it’s doubtful they could manage any kind of paramilitary operation. Or that they would risk it, in the present climate.”

Eltsin knew what that meant, as would anyone who’d watched the great United States in recent years. After declaring “war on terror,” Washington had botched the liberation of two nations from Islamic dictators, had let bin Laden slip away despite repeated vows to punish those responsible for 9/11 and had alienated most of its long-time allies in the process. The CIA, while given carte blanche to abduct and abuse suspected terrorists in the guise of “extraordinary rendition,” was kept on an increasingly short leash in other spheres.

“Remember Cuba?” Eltsin asked, then snorted. “No, of course you don’t. You weren’t born yet, for God’s sake!”

“I’m familiar with the history,” Sidorov replied.

“I was going to say that Langley couldn’t manage a new Bay of Pigs nowadays, but forget it. Who do you suspect?”

“No one yet. Without more information, I’d only be guessing.”

“So guess,” Eltsin urged. “We’re all friends here, supposedly. Let your hair down for a change.”

That was funny, considering Sidorov’s buzz cut that left his scalp shining through stubble, but Eltsin refrained from laughing at his own bon mot.

“All right, if you insist. One of the private firms, most likely. There were nineteen in America, at last count, half a dozen in the U.K., and at least one each from Australia, Japan, Norway and South Africa. Take your pick from Raytheon, Gray Talon, Omega or any of the rest.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Eltsin chided.

“How can I? If the individuals responsible could be identified…”

“It would accomplish nothing, I suppose, to ask our Ijaw comrades?”

“I’m told the girl was rescued by a white man,” Sidorov replied. “The Ijaw would not hire one, even if they could afford the going rate for such an operation. And why would they wish to help K-Tech Petroleum?”

“To vex the Itsekiri, I should think,” Eltsin replied.

Sidorov frowned, considered it and shook his head.

“No. They might raid the camp themselves and steal the girl, then ask for ransom on their own behalf. But as it is, they hate white foreigners as much as Afolabi’s people do.”

“They don’t hate us,” Eltsin reminded him.

“You think not? Dam the flow of money to their war chest, and find out how loyal they are to Mother Russia.”

“You’re a cynic, Valentin.”

“A realistic judge of human nature,” Sidorov said, correcting him.

“You think they’re human, then? I’m not so sure,” Eltsin said.

“They’ll surprise you, one day, when you least expect it,” Sidorov replied. “It won’t be pretty.”

“Perhaps, when we have pumped their country dry,” Eltsin returned. “Not as long as they’re in love with money and have something left to sell.”

“I’ll reach out to Ajani and Jumoke,” Sidorov told Eltsin. “There’s a chance that we can stir the pot a bit, after this incident.”

“And see what floats up to the top,” Eltsin replied. “Vodka, before you go?”

“WHY AREN’T YOU coming with me?” Mandy Ross demanded, staring down her father with a measure of intensity he’d thought impossible for one so pampered.

“Hon,” he said, “we’ve been all over this. You know the answer. This is where I work. I have to be here.”

“No, you don’t!” Mandy insisted. “Let somebody else come in and man the shooting gallery. Somebody—”