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McReady nodded. “Karima is trying to establish the copper production. The deposits here are huge. Which is why he wants an alliance with U.S. mining companies. It would be good for us both. But the rebels are opposed.”
Bolan smiled. “They would be.”
“Not all Kirandi are with the rebels. There’s a big percentage who have crossed the line, put the past behind them so they can improve the country. There are Kirandi in government positions, business. Hell, even Simon Chakra, Tempala’s military commander is a Kirandi.”
McReady pointed to a building ahead as the car rounded a corner. The straight approach to the government building was impressive. A wide square fronted the building. It was thronged with people enjoying the landscaped lawns and flower beds. Trees swayed in the warm breeze. Government House was a modest affair compared to some seats of power Bolan had seen. It was only two stories high, white and gleaming in the bright day. The car rolled to a stop at the foot of stone steps. Bolan and McReady climbed out. The Executioner followed McReady up the steps to the entrance, where they were confronted by armed soldiers in immaculate uniforms. Before they could respond to the challenge of the soldiers, Bolan and McReady were interrupted by a smartly dressed black man who held out his hands in greeting.
“Mr. McReady, punctual as usual. And this must be Mr. Belasko? Please come inside. The president is waiting for you.”
“Raymond Nkoya, Karima’s vice-president,” McReady said quietly as the man walked ahead of them.
Bolan and McReady followed the man into the building. He led them to a stone staircase and up to the next floor. There they emerged onto a long corridor with offices leading off both sides. All the offices appeared to be occupied. Bolan noticed there were a number of armed soldiers stationed along the corridor.
At the end of the hallway double doors opened to allow them to step inside a spacious office. A desk made from smooth, pale wood occupied a place in front of a wide window that overlooked the square fronting the building. Behind it sat the man Bolan recognized as Joseph Karima. The jacket of his light-colored suit was draped over the back of his leather chair and his sleeves were rolled up. He was in his early forties, handsome man, tall when he stood to step around the desk to greet his guests.
“Phillip, good to see you.”
“Mr. President,” McReady acknowledged. “This is Mike Belasko.”
Karima took Bolan’s hand. His grip was firm. “Thank you for coming.”
“I hope I can help, sir.”
Karima turned to McReady and Nkoya.
“Would you give us some time to talk?”
McReady nodded. “Of course, Mr. President, as long as you need.”
Karima closed the doors behind then. He indicated a chair for Bolan and returned to his own. “I am in your hands, Mr. Belasko,” he said. “Tell me what you need. If it’s in my power you’ll have it.”
“Photographs of the children would be helpful. Everything you have on the time they went missing.”
Karima picked up a file and handed it to Bolan. “It’s all in there.”
“Did the rebels have help from inside?”
“They were well informed about the children’s movements on that day. While it wasn’t a state secret it wasn’t common knowledge.”
“How many of your people had access to that information?” Bolan asked.
From Karima’s reaction he realized the man had been taken aback by the question.
“Sir?”
“It never occurred to me that I might have a…”
“A traitor in your camp?”
“So who do I trust, Mr. Belasko? How do I not know that the next person to walk through that door is one of those who conspired to take my children? If I voice my suspicions or point a finger, I risk alerting someone involved. There could be reprisals. Bringing someone into the open could push them into doing something premature. And that would put my children in even greater danger. You understand my predicament, Mr. Belasko?”
Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, Bolan thought.
Bolan sympathized with Karima. The man might have been the commander-in-chief of Tempala, but that didn’t render him immune from treachery. Most likely it made him all the more vulnerable. Being in the seat of power placed the man at risk from enemies both inside and outside his sphere of influence.
“I can understand your position, sir.”
Karima inclined his head, eyes searching Bolan’s face. “Your words suggest you are speaking from experience of betrayal yourself, Mr. Belasko.”
“That’s another story, sir.” Bolan dismissed the subject. “I take it that because you felt exposed and unsure who to trust you decided to ask my President for help?”
“Yes. I traded on our friendship.”
“Nothing wrong with that, sir.”
“I had to go beyond my own people. A sad indictment of my trust but the way things are I had no other options. We have two tribes, Mr. Belasko, the Tempai and the Kirandi. Centuries of opposition between us. The difficulty is that not all the present-day Kirandi harbor this old tribal culture. They see the world through modern eyes. We have moved on. The Kirandi of today have pushed aside the old ways. Tempai and Kirandi have merged. We all want a new Tempala, free from superstition, looking to the future. If we don’t we will all pay the price.”
“But not everyone feels that way?”
“Not everyone,” he agreed. “Hence our rebel faction.”
Karima leaned back, his eyes wandering back and forth across the room. It took him a moment or two to regain his composure.
“Mr. Belasko, how did I fall into this situation?”
“I’d guess you have more than enough on your mind. A lot to handle. It makes you vulnerable. And that is exactly what these terrorists will use to their advantage.”
Karima took a deep breath.
“Mr. President, I make no apologies for calling them terrorists. Terrorists attempt to achieve their aims by using the tactics of coercion. Threats. Humiliation of their victims. They terrorize and hope to get what they want by those means.”
“My children are everything to me. Always precious but even more so after my wife died. Our children are the future, Mr. Belasko. Why else do we struggle to build a better world? But it angers me that these damned people use them to force me to make Tempala take a step into the past.
“Tempala is not a particularly sophisticated country, Mr. Belasko. We don’t yet have the high tech capability of the U.S.A. My security organization is basic. Even our armed forces operate on a simple level. Just men and weapons. Our mechanization runs to trucks, some artillery and a few light tanks. We have no air force to speak of. No satellite communications. In time we may improve but until then we will have to make do with what we can afford. This is why the copper mining is so vital. The contracts will bring in a great deal of revenue, which we need.”
Karima stared through the window, watching the people moving about in the square.
“Money will help to improve many things. Hospitals and education. We will be able to upgrade our utilities. More power stations to create electricity. They may seem like simple things to someone from America, but here they are necessities.
“There is a great deal to do, Mr. Belasko. Now it is all under threat from these reb—” Karima turned abruptly. “On second thought, I believe your description is more suitable. Terrorists. They are putting the future of the country at risk.”
“These people will use anything to have their demands met. Which is why we can’t let them get away with it.”
“I feel the same. I refuse to bend to their demands. But then I look at the other side of the coin. How can I risk the lives of my children? Which way do I go? Hold on to my promise to the nation at the risk of losing my children?”
“Not an enviable position to be in, sir, but we’re not going to allow it to happen, are we?”
“Are we not, Mr. Belasko?” Karima asked, more in hope than conviction. “God, how I want it to be so.”
“Then let’s see what we can do to put things right,” Bolan said.
“Tell me what you need to know.”
“First, who knows why I’m here apart from yourself, McReady and his superior?”
“To the rest of my staff you are simply here as an addition to Cartwright’s team. You are a security advisor. I have tried to keep the children’s disappearance as low key as possible. But I don’t know how long I can keep on doing that.”
“What about vice-president Nkoya? Your military commander, Colonel Chakra? Do they know the real reason I’m here? And are they aware of the kidnapping?”
“They know nothing more than that you are part of the ambassador’s team. In answer to the second part of your question, yes they know about the kidnapping. But they are both under strict orders not to act until I make a decision one way or the other.”
“Okay, so let’s go back to my earlier question. Who knew enough about your children’s movements to be able to furnish the rebels with information?”
Karima considered his answer. He was troubled. Finally he pulled up a pad and picked up a pen. He scribbled across the pad, tore off the sheet and slid it across the desk. Bolan picked it up along with the file Karima had prepared for him.
“If anyone else knew they didn’t get the information from me, Mr. Belasko.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll start from here.”
“If you need me, day or night, use the number I’ve written down. It’s my personal cell phone. I don’t give it out very often.”
Bolan stood, slipping the sheet of paper into his pocket. As he leaned forward his jacket fell open, exposing the holstered Beretta. Karima saw it, staring for a moment, then glanced at Bolan’s face.
“This really is your line of work, isn’t it, Mr. Belasko?” he asked.
Bolan closed his jacket. “We’re a long way from living in a peaceful world, Mr. President.”
“Meet the savage with his own image?”
Bolan smiled. “Something along those lines, sir.”
Reaching the door, Bolan turned the handle, then paused to look back over his shoulder. “One thing, sir. How did the terrorists contact you about your children?”
“I received a call on my—” Karima hesitated, the significance only then becoming a reality “—on my cell phone.”
2
Back in his hotel room Bolan tossed his jacket on a chair. He crossed to the small refrigerator and took a look inside. There were some bottles of water. He took one and opened it, taking a drink as he settled on the bed to read the file Karima had given him.
The information was scant, direct, and it only took a few minutes to digest. Karima’s children had been picked up from his home on the outskirts of the city to be driven to meet Karima. The drive should have taken no more than twenty minutes, but when an hour had gone by, the president received the phone call telling him that the children had been taken. He had ten days in which to carry out the terrorists’ demands. If he failed to do so the children would be killed and their bodies returned to him. The terrorists also demanded that news of the kidnap be kept from the media. As proof the kidnappers were serious, Karima was given instructions to check his garage at home. When he did he found his car had been returned, minus the children and with the driver’s body in the trunk. The man had been brutally knifed to death, his throat cut in a final gesture.
That had been two days ago. Enough time for the terrorists to travel a good distance from the scene of the kidnapping. Bolan considered the facts, and the more he thought about it the more he became convinced there was an inside connection. He opened the slip of paper Karima had given. There were only three names written on it. Karima had identified one of them as the driver of the car carrying the children. The second was Simon Chakra, whom Karima listed as his military commander. The last name, and Bolan had anticipated this, was Raymond Nkoya.
Vice-president or military commander?
It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that either of them might be involved. Given the restless nature of African politics, Bolan was aware of the way matters could evolve. There were still undercurrents of tribal loyalties endemic to the African makeup. Civil wars, the struggles between filial groups and the eternal fight against an often harsh land, these were large issues facing the continent. Some countries had weathered the transitions and were growing into stable, forward-looking regimes. Others were still making their way through the troubled times, and in some instances solid regimes crumbled under attacks from within that weakened their power base, sometimes toppling the elected government and allowing an opposition party to gain control.
Joseph Karima looked to be slipping into that kind of maelstrom. It was far from his own making, but he would have little choice if the rebel threat wasn’t reversed. They could continue to chip away at his hold on the country, destabilizing everything he was trying to create. Attacks on the infrastructure, the terrorizing of the populace, the slow wearing down of confidence and security, these were the tools of the terrorist. Karima on his own might have weathered all of these things—but now there was an added element. His children. They were being used to coerce him into meeting the rebel demands.
Bolan set aside the file. He found his bag and reached inside for the tri-band cell phone Aaron Kurtzman had furnished him with. Bolan switched it on and waited until it had located the satellite receiver. He tapped the key that speed-dialed the Stony Man number that would connect him directly with Kurtzman’s cyber complex.
Kurtzman’s gruff tones came through loud and clear.
“Bear, I need you to check out two people for me,” Bolan said. “Simon Chakra. He’s the military commander here. Then vice-president Raymond Nkoya. Everything you can find out about them. Political leanings. Family backgrounds. As far back as you can go.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
Bolan quoted Karima’s cell phone number.
“The names I gave you are the only people who should have access to that number. Gives them a direct connection through to Karima. There was a third name. The driver of Karima’s car. He was delivered back to Karima’s house in the kidnapped car. But he was dead.”
“And Karima was told about the kidnapping over this phone?”
“You got it. We may be way off but it’s all we have at the moment.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Bolan picked up the room phone and rang the number McReady had given him. “I may need transport,” Bolan told him when the man answered.
“City use, or something to take you farther?”
“Better make it the latter. I might need to go outside the city limits.”
“Nice way of putting it. Leave it to me. I’ll have something delivered to your hotel soon as I have it ready.”
“That’s fine.”
Bolan replaced the receiver. As he did he felt the room shake. The floor vibrated then the main window blew in, showering the room with glass. He felt something catch his left cheek, a sharp sensation. When he touched his hand to it his fingers came away bloody. All this happened in a micro-second, and following in the next heartbeat came the sound of the explosion. Hot air gusted in through the shattered window. The room shook for long seconds. Bolan could hear rumbling continuing outside.
As Bolan moved to the window, the rumble of the blast fading away, he picked up the rattle of debris banging against the outside wall. More windows had been shattered. People began to shout and scream. Some of shock, others spoke of pain, and Bolan knew there would be casualties. He pulled a leather jacket from his bag and zipped it over his holstered gun as he reached the window. Across the street he saw a dust cloud settling around the remains of a building. The street was littered with debris—and people. Even from his position Bolan could see the mark of bright blood against exposed skin and clothing. He turned from the window and made his way downstairs and out of the hotel.
The building, from his brief moments passing it on the approach to the hotel, had been a shop of some kind. A couple of stories high, with wide display windows showing merchandise. Those windows were gone now, as was most of the frontage. The upper floors were exposed. The street was covered with chunks of concrete, and glass lay everywhere. Cars that had been parked outside the store were half buried under fallen masonry. One was burning, throwing dark smoke into the sky. More smoke was rising from the wrecked store.
No one seemed to be in any state to help. There were a lot of walking wounded. People moving around in a daze, bloody and with clothing in tatters. The concussion had caused many of them to bleed from the ears and nose. They were wandering aimlessly.
Bolan saw his first casualty. A young man struggling to stand, unaware that his right leg was dragging behind him, reduced to bloody tatters. Splintered bone protruded through the lacerated tissue. Blood was pulsing from a severed artery. Bolan knelt beside him, his strong hands settling the man.
“Try to stay still. We’ll get help as soon as possible.”
Bolan searched for a pressure point, pressed firmly over the spot and managed to reduce a degree of blood loss.
The man stared up at Bolan, his eyes wide with shock. His face was streaked with blood from numerous cuts and gashes. “Why has this happened?”
“Right now we don’t know.”
The sound of a police vehicle reached Bolan’s ears. He looked around and saw a blue-and-white Ford 4×4 rolling to a stop. Armed police officers leapt out, staring around the site of the explosion.
“Over here,” Bolan shouted.
