Don Pendleton: Insurrection

But for now, everything went as smoothly as Brognola had promised it would.

The customs agent guided Bolan through both customs and immigration and updated his passport. Their last stop was at a currency exchange.

Fifteen minutes after the Learjet had touched down, Bolan said goodbye to Azizi, loaded his luggage into the trunk of a battered taxicab and settled into the backseat.

“The Isaac Center,” he told the driver, who nodded, threw the transmission of his twenty-year-old Chevy into Drive and pulled away from the airport.

The man tried several times to start up a conversation, mentioning the unseasonably cool weather, suggesting a few tourist spots that Bolan should see and finally offering to get him the most beautiful prostitute in Nigeria at a fair price.

“Beware,” the cabbie went on, as he moved the steering wheel back and forth. “Other taxi drivers and men will tell you they will get you the best women cheap . I do not promise cheap—that means ugly and diseased. You get what you pay for.” Bolan saw him look up into the rearview mirror, waiting for a response.

When he didn’t get one, the driver finally shrugged, gave up and fell into silence. Bolan stared through the open windows as the taxi passed block after block of mud-and-plaster dwellings with shiny tin roofs. Ibadan, he knew, was the home of close to a million Nigerians, and the capital of the Western Region. One of the largest cities in Africa between Johannesburg and Cairo, it boasted a top-notch hospital and medical school, as well as the country’s premier university.

They drove through three market areas crowded with pedestrians buying fresh vegetables, yams and spices, as well as clucking chickens. They passed huge piles of cotton cloth, much of it the blue color favored by Yoruba tribesmen. Twice the cabdriver was forced to stop as wedding processions of dancing and singing men and women streamed by.

Bolan took in the sights, sounds and smells around the cab as they passed more pedestrians on the crowded streets and sidewalks. It was a colorful and vibrant city.

The taxi began climbing a steep upgrade, and at the top Bolan saw the destination he had given the driver. The center had been named after Isaac, the son of Abraham, whose faith and devotion to God had been demonstrated by his willingness to sacrifice his only son. Not only was the story of Abraham and Isaac a prelude to the sacrifice of God’s own son, it symbolized the orphans who lived at the center. Isaac had been spared at the last second by the hand of an angel. But Boko Haram had shown no such mercy. In their own twisted version of the Old Testament story, the terrorists had sacrificed the parents instead of the children in their ongoing war against Christians in Nigeria.

The Isaac Center now provided a home to over three hundred Nigerian orphans. The main entrance to the relatively modern building was centered on a circular drive. Behind what appeared to be a one-story reception and office area stood a three-story section that could hold dorm rooms. To the right, new construction was going on, with framers raising skeletal two-by-four walls on top of a concrete slab. From the general layout, it looked to Bolan as if more dorms were in progress, which could mean only one thing.

The Isaac Center was expecting even more orphans.

The sharp hiss of electrical-powered nail guns sounded as the cabbie pulled up to the front door and killed the engine. Bolan got out of the backseat. Together, they lugged his bags through the front doors and into the lobby.

“This is far enough,” Bolan said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out several naira bills, pushed them into the hand of the driver, then turned back toward the building’s interior.

Under the watchful eye of an elderly black woman, roughly a dozen little boys and girls were playing on wooden rocking horses and other handmade toys to the right side of the lobby. Their laughter made it obvious that they had been too young to know how much they had lost. At least they had been spared the bloody memories that would haunt the Isaac Center’s older residents for life. The Executioner vowed that the terrorists responsible would pay.

The big American stepped up to the front counter as the cabbie exited the building. English had been the official language of Nigeria since British colonial days, so he had no trouble when he said, “My name is Matt Cooper and I’m looking for Layla Galab.”

“One moment, please,” the receptionist answered pleasantly.

Bolan studied the woman as she reached for the telephone. Around thirty years old, she had well-defined but still feminine arm muscles revealed by her sleeveless blouse. She worked out at a gym—a fairly unusual luxury in such a country as Nigeria. And while Bolan was hardly a fashion expert, what he could see of her skirt looked to be more expensive than the clothing on most of the other women he’d seen since landing. Two gold rings, one featuring a large diamond, the other an opal, flashed on her hand as she lifted the receiver to her ear.

As was the case in many developing countries, the rich got richer as the poor became poorer, and Bolan guessed this woman had come from a wealthy family. Perhaps her conscience had gotten to her and she had taken this job to help those less fortunate than herself. In any case, he doubted the rings or clothing had been purchased with money from her Isaac Center salary.

A moment later, the woman placed a call and spoke into the receiver. “Miss Layla, there’s a Mr. Cooper here to see you.” A short pause ensued and then she said, “Okay,” and hung up. Rising, she took the time to bend and smooth her short skirt over her thighs. “If you will follow me, please, Mr. Cooper.” She strode around the end of the counter, then stopped and looked down at his baggage. “Your luggage should be perfectly safe right where it is,” she said.

Bolan thought of what the bags contained, then glanced in the direction of the children. “I think I’d better take it with me, just to be careful,” he replied.

The receptionist frowned. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “You must have many thousands of dollars’ worth of photographic equipment inside, and even the most well-behaved children become curious. I would hate for them to break any of it.”

The soldier reached down and grabbed the handles and straps of the bags. He wasn’t worried about the “equipment” inside the bags getting broken. He was worried that some of it might harm any curious children who got their hands on it. All the firearms inside were loaded, cocked and locked. It wouldn’t take much for a kid to accidentally blow one or more of his friends away. And Bolan didn’t intend to take the chance of that happening.

The receptionist started down the hall, her hips swaying in what the Executioner suspected was a slight exaggeration for his benefit. He followed, his rubber lug-soled hiking boots making soft thuds in time with the woman’s clattering high heels as they crossed the tile.

A moment later, she stopped at a door on the right side of the hall, twisted the knob and pushed it open. Then she stepped back from the opening.

“If you would, Mr. Cooper,” she said, smiling up at him.

Bolan had to turn sideways to get the equipment bags strapped over his shoulders through the doorway. But as soon as he had, the door closed behind him, and he found himself alone in a small office with a strikingly beautiful woman.

She had risen from behind her desk, but held a cell phone to her ear as Bolan entered. “Yes, Mother,” she said, looking up and smiling. “No, Mother. Leave the laundry for me. I will do it as soon as my duties permit. Yes, Mother. I love you, too. Goodbye.” She lowered the phone from her ear and clicked it off.