Don Pendleton: Final Coup

“Gentlemen,” Bolan said as soon as the prime minister was seated. “A few of you I know, others I don’t. But during this time of peril for Cameroon, we’re all going to get to know each other as we go.” He leaned forward and pressed the palms of his hands on the top of the table. “As I see it, we’ve got two missions here. To keep the candidates alive, and to find former president Robert Menye and either deliver him to the International Criminal Court or kill him.”

“But what about the candidates?” the young soldier who had spoken earlier blurted out. “They are no better than Menye. Maybe worse. Why should we waste our time protecting them when either one would begin a genocide against the other’s followers as soon as he took office?”

“Because with our presence in your country,” Bolan said as he swept his hand along the line of chairs where the Secret Service men and Lareby sat, “the world will blame the United States for the assassination of either or both candidates. As to how to handle things once one of them is elected,” he went on, “I can’t answer that yet. Maybe NATO will send in peacekeeping troops until things stabilize. Maybe the International Criminal Court will sanction America to handle it. In any case, I can’t afford to worry about that yet. We’ve got to take things one step at a time, and that means making sure both candidates stay alive.”

“Pardon me, sir,” an older black man in a gray suit said, “but it is unclear to me exactly who you are.” He waited for an answer.

When he didn’t get one, he said, “Perhaps I was the one who was unclear. We would be in your debt if you would tell us what American law-enforcement agencies or espionage bureaus you represent.”

Bolan nodded. “The men in the dark suits are U.S. Secret Service agents. Every one of them has protected our own President at one time or another, and they’ll be split into teams to help cover the candidates.” He cast a quick glance at Lareby whose head moved slightly side to side. This was not the kind of situation where the CIA would want to be outed. So he left it at that, hoping the Cameroonians would believe Lareby was also a Secret Service agent.

“And you?” the same elderly man asked the soldier.

Bolan reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a badge case. “United States Department of Justice,” he said, holding up the phony credentials that identified him as Special Agent Matt Cooper. “My field of specialization is counterterrorism.”

That seemed to satisfy the men around the table.

All except for the same elderly black man.

“Thank you,” the man said. “But all but one of the men you have introduced are dressed in suits. Are we to believe that the gentleman in the khaki vest seated here is also Secret Service?” He paused a second, then added, “It is not just his clothing. There is something different about him. Something I cannot ‘put my finger on’ as you Americans sometimes say.”

Before Bolan could speak, Dr. John Lareby began patting his vest down like an underage kid looking for a fake driver’s license to buy beer. “Damn,” he finally said, “I know I had my credentials when we took off from Washington.” A sudden look of revelation combined with embarrassment fell over his face. “I must have left them in my carry-on on the plane.”

“Then the ID card is in cinders and the badge has melted,” one of the Secret Service men with a well-trimmed mustache said. Bolan could tell by his face that the man sensed Lareby was CIA, and was adding his own two cents to help cover the fact.

“I’m Secret Service, too,” Lareby finally said. “I’m just not as fancy a dresser as the rest of these guys.”

His remark brought another round of chuckles from around the table.

“Then we shall have to take your word for who you are,” the gray-haired Cameroonian said. Bolan read his face just like he had Lareby’s, and the thin smile told him that this man knew Lareby had to be with the Central Intelligence Agency. “I am sure when you are resupplied for the items you lost in the plane, a new badge and credentials will be included.”

Lareby nodded. “I’ll make sure of it,” he said with a straight face.

Bolan found himself impressed with both men’s performances. When working in any type of undercover capacity, it was the little things that counted. And although most of the Cameroonians obviously sensed that the Justice Department story for Bolan and Lareby’s association with the Secret Service were lies, their faces still looked sincere as a tacit agreement to keep playing this game fell into place.

Sometimes, it was more important not to know something than it was to know it.

“I’ll vouch for him until we can get duplicate credentials sent over,” Bolan said. “He’ll be working directly with me rather than being part of either of the candidate-protection details.”

“Doing what, exactly, then?” the older man asked.

Bolan looked the man directly in the eye. “While the rest of the Secret Service looks after your candidates’ protection, Dr. Lareby and I are going hunting.”

“Hunting?” another young soldier almost screamed from farther down the table. “At a time like this, when all of Cameroon depends on what happens in the election, you two are planning on taking an African safari?”

He was interrupted by the older, gray-haired man. “They are not planning to shoot wildebeest and lions, my young friend,” he said. “I believe what he meant was that they are going hunting for our former president.”

Bolan’s nod was slight, but everyone at the table caught it.

And understood what it meant.

The prime minister’s staff had arranged for three suites to house the Americans. They were located on the third floor of the Hilton downtown, and would be used as a meeting place for the entire team; a location where both interviews and interrogations could be conducted, and a site for the Secret Service agents to “crash” when they weren’t on duty.

Each of the two Cameroonian presidential candidates would have a pair of Secret Service agents by his side at all times. They would also be in charge of the Cameroon military protection agents who worked for Colonel Essam, and deal with the private bodyguards from within the two political parties.

As for Essam and his men, Bolan had assigned them to create an “outer circle” around the block on which the Hilton stood. They would be the first line of defense against perceived threats and, with luck, be able to end the problems before they got any closer to the men in the hotel.

Essam had not liked being so far away from the nucleus of the action, but Bolan had encountered his type before. It had taken only a few words to convince the colonel just how important the outer ring was before he puffed out his chest and agreed to the assignment.

As he shoved the key card into the door of suite 307, the Executioner wondered just how well it was all going to work. The colonel had left their brief encounter after the meeting with a smile. But the Executioner thought that smile had looked forced. It was clear that the colonel was more accustomed to giving orders than taking them, and Bolan wondered just how long it would be before his resentment overcame the thin flattery.

The light atop the lock turned green and Bolan twisted the doorknob open. His plan was a somewhat unconventional setup in regard to bodyguarding, or VIP protection, as it was commonly referred to these days. The U.S. Secret Service would be with the two presidential candidates in the suites and anywhere else they moved them, while Colonel Essam and his men ran a “roving guard” throughout the hotel’s halls and lobby, as well as circling the Hilton in unmarked street vehicles.