foraged and laid claim to the decomposition.
A wave of nausea boiled in Samson’s stomach. The black case felt like a goddamned armored tank in his hand.
“This can’t be right.” He checked Julian’s instructions again.
Augustine tapped his shoulder and pointed toward a glow of light in the east wing.
“Wait in the Jeep, umngane .”
“Wees versigtig,” said Augustine. Be careful .
Augustine returned the way they had come. Samson shuffled the case to his left hand, removed his Glock from his holster, and closed in on the lit window. He hadn’t traveled fifty feet when armed guards swarmed him.
“Hold it, hold it,” his words native and sharp. “Julian sent me.”
Without a further exchange of words, they led him at gunpoint through an east wing corridor. Lightning streaked the distant sky through the blown-out windows but did little to illuminate the dark hallway. What had once been an all-purpose room with glass near the ceiling and a small wooden stage at one end now housed a sophisticated bank of computers, tables lined with weapons and a cross-looking African in full flak who stopped pacing when Samson entered.
“You’re late.”
“Yeah, well, Julian should send a driver next time.”
“Papers?”
Samson reached inside his jacket. In a show of pure testosterone, the guards behind them performed an audible and totally unnecessary clip-loading of their semi-automatic weapons.
The African snapped something off in a dialect Samson didn’t quite catch. Something about idiots and worthless . The guards stared down their leader as if they wanted to shower him with a spray of bullets, but trickled away back into the dark hall.
Samson dropped the mustard-colored envelope Julian had given him on the center table. On takeoff, Samson had assessed the contents: closed-circuit security photographs that captured Julian and Samson in the same frame—presumably to prove alliance, copies of Samson’s passport and old military ID, Angela’s Podium Biotech credentials and lines of instruction written in code.
The African rifled through the contents. When he had satisfied every slip of paper in his mind, his gaze leveled Samson.
“I am Monde, your liaison to the team leaders at each site.” His accent was educated, westernized, not at all thick and gummy as most of the men in the region, similar to Nahyea’s after she had traveled on study visa to Europe for a term. Samson suspected Julian had given this accomplice the means to travel. Recruit, maybe.
“Why can’t I speak with them directly?”
“They don’t trust Americans,” said Monde. “ I don’t trust Americans. But it is not my job to think. I take orders. And my orders are to disclose each site, determine the area of greatest need in operations, and deploy you to ensure plans are executed according to Julian’s specifications.”
“Julian promised to release the doctor, Michael McAllister, in exchange for my help.”
“First, the serum.”
A pissing contest. Each wanted something the other had. Serum. Information. In a show of faith, Samson lifted the case onto the table and clicked open the latches. Monde summoned another militant over, who donned black gloves, extracted the vials, and left the room.
“We do not have the resources to retrieve him at this time. He will remain unharmed until such time as transport can be made available.”
Bullshit .
“I want guarantees.”
“There are few guarantees in warfare, Mr. Caine.”
“Your word?”
“You would take that, yet you do not know me? I suspect you do not trust me, as I do not trust you.”
“I’m guessing that judgment is beyond your classification. Shall we get on with it?”
“As you wish.”
Monde unrolled a crude topographical map indicating six sites already equipped to deploy the first line of weapons containing JNXN and a secondary back up of short-range missiles, targeted to the most populous and sensitive targets in the region—government offices, water
A wave of nausea boiled in Samson’s stomach. The black case felt like a goddamned armored tank in his hand.
“This can’t be right.” He checked Julian’s instructions again.
Augustine tapped his shoulder and pointed toward a glow of light in the east wing.
“Wait in the Jeep, umngane .”
“Wees versigtig,” said Augustine. Be careful .
Augustine returned the way they had come. Samson shuffled the case to his left hand, removed his Glock from his holster, and closed in on the lit window. He hadn’t traveled fifty feet when armed guards swarmed him.
“Hold it, hold it,” his words native and sharp. “Julian sent me.”
Without a further exchange of words, they led him at gunpoint through an east wing corridor. Lightning streaked the distant sky through the blown-out windows but did little to illuminate the dark hallway. What had once been an all-purpose room with glass near the ceiling and a small wooden stage at one end now housed a sophisticated bank of computers, tables lined with weapons and a cross-looking African in full flak who stopped pacing when Samson entered.
“You’re late.”
“Yeah, well, Julian should send a driver next time.”
“Papers?”
Samson reached inside his jacket. In a show of pure testosterone, the guards behind them performed an audible and totally unnecessary clip-loading of their semi-automatic weapons.
The African snapped something off in a dialect Samson didn’t quite catch. Something about idiots and worthless . The guards stared down their leader as if they wanted to shower him with a spray of bullets, but trickled away back into the dark hall.
Samson dropped the mustard-colored envelope Julian had given him on the center table. On takeoff, Samson had assessed the contents: closed-circuit security photographs that captured Julian and Samson in the same frame—presumably to prove alliance, copies of Samson’s passport and old military ID, Angela’s Podium Biotech credentials and lines of instruction written in code.
The African rifled through the contents. When he had satisfied every slip of paper in his mind, his gaze leveled Samson.
“I am Monde, your liaison to the team leaders at each site.” His accent was educated, westernized, not at all thick and gummy as most of the men in the region, similar to Nahyea’s after she had traveled on study visa to Europe for a term. Samson suspected Julian had given this accomplice the means to travel. Recruit, maybe.
“Why can’t I speak with them directly?”
“They don’t trust Americans,” said Monde. “ I don’t trust Americans. But it is not my job to think. I take orders. And my orders are to disclose each site, determine the area of greatest need in operations, and deploy you to ensure plans are executed according to Julian’s specifications.”
“Julian promised to release the doctor, Michael McAllister, in exchange for my help.”
“First, the serum.”
A pissing contest. Each wanted something the other had. Serum. Information. In a show of faith, Samson lifted the case onto the table and clicked open the latches. Monde summoned another militant over, who donned black gloves, extracted the vials, and left the room.
“We do not have the resources to retrieve him at this time. He will remain unharmed until such time as transport can be made available.”
Bullshit .
“I want guarantees.”
“There are few guarantees in warfare, Mr. Caine.”
“Your word?”
“You would take that, yet you do not know me? I suspect you do not trust me, as I do not trust you.”
“I’m guessing that judgment is beyond your classification. Shall we get on with it?”
“As you wish.”
Monde unrolled a crude topographical map indicating six sites already equipped to deploy the first line of weapons containing JNXN and a secondary back up of short-range missiles, targeted to the most populous and sensitive targets in the region—government offices, water
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