Predator Page 10

  “I’m tempted to put another vowel between the ‘F’ and the ‘C’ there.”

  Franklin laughed, a deliciously feminine giggle that delighted Cross. Gotcha! he thought triumphantly.

  The State Department analyst swiftly recovered her professional poise. “The rebels have offices in Paris and in Pointe-Noire, which is in the Republic of Congo—”

  “Which is not the same as the Democratic Republic of Congo,” Cross interrupted.

  “Exactly. The Republic is much smaller and used to be ruled by the French. The Democratic Republic is massive and used to be ruled by the Belgians. Cabinda’s squeezed in-between the two of them. But here’s the thing: almost half of all Angola’s oil is situated in what would be the territorial waters of Cabinda if it were ever an independent state. And the entire population of Cabinda is less than four hundred thousand people. So it could, potentially, be a very, very rich little territory.”

  “Sounds like a place worth fighting over,” said Cross.

  “You got it. Now, how closely have you been involved in the Bannock Oil operations in Angola?”

  “Not at all closely. My wife, Hazel Bannock Cross, was murdered last year. She died giving birth to our daughter. As you can imagine, I’ve had other issues to deal with.”

  “I quite understand. I’m very sorry for your loss,” Franklin said, sounding as though she meant it.

  “Thank you. So, you were going to talk about Bannock’s Angolan operations?”

  “Indeed. You see, the Magna Grande field where your colleagues have just struck oil is actually located in Cabindan waters, and it will add more than ten percent to Cabinda’s daily production of oil. As it is, all that money goes to Angola. But if Cabinda were independent, fields like Magna Grande would be making this hypothetical small nation even richer. Our concern at the State Department is this: sooner or later someone is going to figure that backing the rebels in Cabinda in exchange for a share of future oil revenues could be a very smart investment. Cabinda is vulnerable because it’s really small. You could fit it into the state of Texas ninety times over. To put it in British terms, it’s about the size of your county of North Yorkshire.”

  “So unlike Iraq or Afghanistan, it’s not a large area for an army to seize or to hold.”

  “Exactly. And because it’s separated from the rest of Angola, the only way that the Angolans can get men and supplies into Cabinda is to fly them in, through Congolese airspace, or to ship them up the coast. Which would make it hard for President dos Santos to respond to a take-over bid. The National Air Force of Angola has a maximum of five Russian-built Ilyushin-76 Candid transport jets, though we doubt that more than two or three of them are currently airworthy.”

  “I know the Candid,” said Cross. “The Soviets used them as their main transports in Afghanistan. Typical Russian kit: simple but tough. Easy to hit with missiles and guns but damn hard to bring down.”

  “But if you’re a Cabindan rebel leader, you only have to bring down a handful of planes and the Angolans are screwed,” Franklin pointed out. “And if you’ve got powerful backing, who’s to say you won’t have better missiles than the ones we gave the Taliban, back in the day?”

  “You make it sound like the U.S. is getting back in the business of funding insurgency operations.”

  “No we’re not, and certainly not this one. But other people soon might be because FLEC-FAC has just got itself a hotshot new leader called Mateus da Cunha. He is of Portuguese extraction but was born in Paris, France, on the twenty-eighth of March 1987. His father, Paulo da Cunha, went into exile there, along with other Cabindan rebel leaders. His mother, Cécile Duchêne da Cunha, is French. Her family are all wealthy left-wing intellectuals. Très chic, but très communiste, if you know what I mean.”

  “Typical bloody Frogs!” huffed Cross.

  “Typical Brit to say so,” Franklin parried.

  “Typical Kenyan, if you don’t mind.”

  Franklin’s brows knitted in puzzlement. “You know, it’s a little weird for me, an African-American, to be talking to you, a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant male, and find myself wondering: Is he more African than I am?”

  “I may well be,” Cross replied. “And we may both be more African than Monsieur Mateus da Cunha. Tell me about him.”

  “Well, he had about the most elite education any French citizen can receive. He got his bachelor’s degree at the Paris Institute of Political Studies, then mastered at the National School of Administration in Strasbourg.”

  “Makes a change from all the revolutionaries who were educated at the London School of Economics.”

  “Yes, and the result is that this kid is connected. He’s part of the French and European Union establishment. He knows how to carry himself in the smartest salons of Paris. And he is actively looking for people to invest in Cabinda. He’s very slick, very persuasive. He never even suggests that what his investors are really paying for is the means to help him win a war. He simply describes the untapped potential of this pocket-sized piece of Africa. His favorite line is that Cabinda could be Africa’s Dubai: a tax-free playground, funded by oil, fringed with beaches and basking in the tropical sun.”

  “You sound like one of his sales team.”

  “Anything but! My point is, Mateus da Cunha’s determined to do what his father never could and create an independent Cabinda.”

  “With him as President-for-Life.”

  “You got it.”

  “And a large chunk of the oil revenues siphoned into his bank account.”

  “There you go.”

  “But before he can do that,” said Cross, seeing where this was all heading, “he has to start some kind of uprising. And the best way to let the world know that he’s serious would be to blow the hell out of some fancy new oil rig, way out there in the Atlantic.”

  “That’s right, but it’s a delicate balance. He wouldn’t want to wreck too many of them, because oil is the source of his money, long-term, and he doesn’t want to scare people away. One way it might play out is an attack takes place and da Cunha blames it on rogue elements within the independence movement. He tells everyone not to worry, he can deal with these hotheads, but it would sure help if he could tell them that the world is listening to them and respecting their need for freedom and independence.”

  “This sounds like an old-fashioned protection racket.”

  “Exactly. Then, da Cunha hopes, the world gets the message and tells Angola to let Cabinda go.”

  “At this point huge amounts of money appear in a bunch of Swiss bank accounts, held by senior Angolan politicians and military commanders, just to make sure they sign on the dotted line.”

  “That’s a possibility. And then Mateus da Cunha’s got himself his own private African kingdom.”

  “Which can be done,” Cross said. “I’ve seen it. So are you telling me that there’s a clear and present danger of this happening any time soon?”

  Franklin gave a shake of her head. “No, I wouldn’t go that far. But there’s a real possibility of unrest that might affect oil installations off the Angolan coast. So I’m advising you, as the Bannock Oil director with responsibility for security, that it would be sensible to take precautions.”

  “Anything specific you have in mind?”

  “Well, any threat you face is going to come in by sea or by air. I’m not aware of any terrorist attack anywhere involving helos. But there are many, many instances of pirate and terrorist attacks made by boat—from the attack on the USS Cole off the coast of Yemen in October 2000, to all the Somali pirates who are still operating to this day.”

  “I’ve seen that, too.” Cross was tempted to add: I’ve led a raid on the coast of Somalia that wiped out a nest of pirates, destroyed their base and freed two billion dollars’ worth of captured shipping, but thought better of it. Instead he said, “I think I’ve got a rough idea of what we’re going to need, in terms of personnel, equipment and training. Thanks for giving me the heads-up on what we ca
n expect out there, Ms. Franklin.”

  “Please,” she said sweetly, “call me . . .” She paused teasingly and then said, “Dr. Franklin. I have a PhD, after all.”

  Cross laughed. “It’s been a pleasure, Doctor Franklin. And, if you don’t mind, you can call me Major Cross. Until we meet in less formal circumstances, that is.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” she said, and then the screen went blank.

  Hector Cross leaned back in his office chair. “Well,” he said to himself, “that was more interesting than I’d expected.” He looked at the monitor, and even though the lovely Dr. Franklin could no longer see or hear him he added, “And I’ll look forward to meeting you very much, too.”

  It was something Weiss said,” Malinga told Connie Hernandez when they were going over the interviews, back at Company A headquarters. “I asked him if he’d ever previously represented Johnny Congo, prior to now, and he thought awhile then said . . .” Malinga looked at his notes to get the phrasing absolutely correct, “OK, here it is. He said this was ‘the first time in my life that I represented a man called Johnny Congo.’ Doesn’t it strike you as odd, the way he said that?”

  “You know lawyers,” Hernandez replied. “Always trying to twist words.”

  “Yeah, they do. But only when there’s a reason for not giving the straight answer. He didn’t say he’d never represented Johnny Congo. It was ‘a man called Johnny Congo.’ Not even ‘the man called Johnny Congo.’ It was ‘a man.’”

  “A man, the man, what’s the diff?”

  “Because ‘a man’ could be called something else. Don’t you get it? He didn’t represent a man called Johnny Congo. But he did represent a guy with another name . . .”

  “Who was actually Johnny Congo.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But how would he not know that the two people were the same guy? He was his lawyer.”

  “What if he never actually met the first guy? What if it was all done by phone calls and emails? Think about it. Congo was out of the country, in Africa or wherever. He couldn’t come back, couldn’t even use his real name. But he hires Weiss, Mendoza and Burnett to work for him, using an alias.”

  “OK,” said Hernandez, starting to become a little more convinced. “So we go back to Weiss, ask him what the deal was.”

  Mendoza shook his head. “No. I don’t want to alert him. But here’s what you can do for me. Call the Marshals. See if you can speak to anyone who was on the crew that brought Congo back from Abu Zara. Find out anything they know about where he’d been before that, any aliases he might have used. See, if Congo used another name to deal with Weiss, he might have used it to get out of the country, too. And if we know how he got out, we might just be able to figure out where he’s gone. And then maybe we’ll catch the son of a bitch.”

  Hernandez had once dated a guy who’d been on the U.S. Marshals Gulf Coast Offender and Violent Fugitive Task Force. It hadn’t ended well. If she’d never said another word to him in her life she wouldn’t have complained. But needs must, so she gave him a call.

  Her old date wasn’t any happier to hear from Connie Hernandez than she was to speak to him. He couldn’t help her directly, but just to get out of the conversation he put her on to someone else who might, and three more degrees of law enforcement separation later she found herself talking to one of the men who’d lifted Congo out of Abu Zara.

  “This is off the record, right?” the Marshal insisted.

  “Sure, whatever, I’m just looking for a lead. Where I get it isn’t an issue.”

  “OK, so this whole Abu Zara thing was just weird. I mean, there was no formal extradition. We just get the call that an escaped murderer who’s been wanted, like, forever is sitting in a cell somewhere no one has ever heard of. But the Sultan who runs the place is happy to let us have the killer as a favor to his good buddy, some Limey dude who caught him.”

  “Caught him where?”

  “We weren’t told. Africa somewhere was all we heard.”

  “How about the Limey? Did they tell you anything about him?”

  “The man could throw a punch, I can tell you that much. Knocked Congo out cold with one shot, and that evil bastard was a beast.”

  “What? A civilian hit a prisoner in your custody and you just let him?”

  “Wasn’t that simple. We flew into Abu Zara and were told to go to the Sultan’s private hangar. Man, it was vast. The guy basically has his own personal airline. Anyway, we get there and the Limey has this team with him, guarding Congo—all high-end mercenary Joes, ex-Special Forces. So they hand Congo over and suddenly Congo goes apeshit, starts trash-talking the Limey, cussing him out, real filthy language, and we’re trying to restrain him but it’s like trying to tie down Godzilla. Then Congo says he killed the Limey’s wife, says she was a whore and the next thing we know—bam!—Congo’s out, I mean stone cold out, right there on the hangar floor. Unbe-frickin-lievable.”

  The Marshal started laughing at the memory. Hernandez was just about to butt in, but before she could he suddenly said, “Wait! I just remembered something. While Congo was screaming, he said the guy’s name, the Limey.”

  “Which was . . . ?”

  “Wait, it’s just coming to me. Began with ‘C.’ Like, ah . . .” The Marshal tried to bring the name back to his mind: “C-C-C . . .”

  “Christ . . .” sighed Hernandez frustratedly.

  “That’s it!” the Marshal exclaimed. “Cross, his name was Cross! Guess that word-association thing really does work, huh?”

  “Thank you,” said Hernandez, with a whole new tone of genuine gratitude. “You’ve been a very, very great help.”

  “Well, I guess I’m glad to have been of service,” the Marshal said, sounding a little surprised by the sudden change in her attitude.

  Hernandez hung up. It sounded like the Marshal hadn’t followed the story of the murder of Hazel Bannock Cross. Well, that wasn’t surprising. Plenty of cops didn’t have time to worry about other people’s cases and Bannock Oil’s PR people had done everything they could to minimize coverage of the tragedy. But even if Hernandez was hardly the girly type, she still needed to go to the hairdresser, just like any other woman. And one time she’d sat waiting for her stylist to start work, reading a trashy glossy weekly that happened to have a story headlined: “Tragic Death of Hazel Bannock . . . and Miracle Birth of Her Billionaire Baby.” So she knew exactly who Cross was. Now she just had to find him.

  Cross was in his office, just getting ready for his afternoon meeting with Dave Imbiss and the O’Quinns, when the phone rang. “I’ve got a Tom Nocerino from Bannock Oil Corporate Communications, in Houston, holding for you,” Agatha informed him. “He says he needs a quote from you about your role in the Angolan project. He said it was for the investors’ newsletter.”

  “I’ve not heard of that before.”

  “It’s new apparently. Would you like to speak to him, or shall I ask him to call back?”

  “Might as well get it over and done with. Put him through.”

  “Thank you so much, sir, for sparing me your time,” Nocerino began in a voice sticky with sycophancy.

  “So this is just for a newsletter, right? I’m not going to see it on my newsfeed one morning because someone’s stuck it in a press release and the whole world’s been treated to my opinions?”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Cross. I can assure you, sir, this is purely private and in-house. It’s a way of keeping valued investors in the loop, making them feel they’ve got a relationship with Bannock Oil that’s more than just financial.”

  “I’ve not heard of this before.”

  “No, sir, it’s a very new concept. In fact, this will be the first edition. But the idea came right from the top.”

  “From John Bigelow?” Cross asked, thinking to himself how typical it was of the veteran politician to be more concerned with the appearance of things than the practicalities of them.

  “Yes, sir,” Nocerino replied. “Senator
Bigelow believes very strongly in the importance of reaching out to the people and institutions that have put their faith and their trust in Bannock Oil.”

  “And their money . . .”

  “Yes, sir. That too.”

  “OK then, what do you need?”

  “Just a few words about your role as Director of Security, in relation to the Magna Grande field. We don’t need anything too specific, just something about how excited you are by the potential of Bannock’s Angolan operations and how you’re determined to ensure that our employees and our corporate assets are kept completely secure. If you’d rather, I can draft a statement for your approval.”

  “No, if I’m going to have words against my name, I’d rather say them myself. So, can I start talking?”

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  Cross took a second to collect his thoughts, then began dictating: “‘The development of the Magna Grande field offers Bannock Oil a fantastic’ . . . no, ‘a unique opportunity to, ah, establish our presence in the increasingly significant West African oil industry. As Director of Security it’s my responsibility to ensure that all our installations and, most importantly, all our employees and contractors are properly protected from any possible threats against them. As I speak, I’m about to go into a meeting with my most senior staff to discuss the various challenges we’re likely to face, and how best to prepare for every eventuality. We’ve had many years of experience working on Bannock’s operations in Abu Zara . . .’” Cross paused. “Hang on, make that ‘working together on Bannock’s operations,’ et cetera. OK, new sentence: ‘With the full support of the Abu Zaran authorities, we’ve maintained a security cordon that has kept people safe and oil flowing at all times. Now we’re moving into an offshore environment, so it’s going to be tough. It’s going to be very hard work. But our commitment to doing the best job to the highest standards will be just as great as ever.’”