When the Gulfstream V private jet finally landed at the not quite charmingly rustic airport in Kisangani and slowed to a halt near the terminal building, she immediately hefted her new prize onto her back, and exited the short flight of stairs to the tarmac. The thing was tremendously heavy, and although she was in excellent physical shape, she felt the strain in her thighs and knees, and in the soles of her feet. But she did not for a moment consider asking someone else to carry it. The ordeal was, in its own way, as exhilarating as it was exhausting.
With a bearing that was as erect and as confident as she could muster, she strode to the second of three waiting Russian-made VPK-3927 Volk armored infantry vehicles that were lined up at the edge of the runway. The vehicles would transport Favreau and her team to the nearby military camp, where Lieutenant General Patrice Velle had promoted himself from Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces of the Democratic Republic of the Congo — to President of the country.
Although it was the third largest city in the country, boasting a population of nearly a million people, Kisangani occupied only about ten square miles on the northern bank of the Congo River. It was a short journey from the airport to the military camp, barely enough time for Favreau to make the necessary modifications to her prize, which mostly involved rigging a connection to the Volk’s electrical system. A constant supply of power was essential to her prize’s operation. Part of the prodigious weight of the device was its battery backup, which allowed it to be unplugged for transport, but like all batteries, it was only good for a few hours. She left the device in the Volk, with the engine running to ensure that the battery received a full charge, and she entered the headquarters building from which General Velle now presided over the eastern half of his country.
In her fifteen years of working abroad, first as an agent for the DGSE — the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, France’s premiere foreign intelligence service — and subsequently in her current position, as the director of operations for the private security agency Executive Solutions International, she had dealt with more than her share of tin-pot military dictators. Velle was no exception to the norm. He was a big man, a natural alpha, but his outward appearance was so cliché it seemed like self-parody. He wore camouflage fatigues decorated like a dress uniform, with shoulder braids and a full rack of medals and ribbons, which were far more impressive than his actual military career. His command center looked more like a throne room, and he was surrounded by toadying sycophants he called his ‘advisors,’ but who only advised him to do whatever he pleased.
When he saw her, a hungry, predatory smile split his fleshy face. “Miss Monique,” he said. “You’ve come back to us! We have so missed your delightful presence.”
Velle made no effort to mask the sarcasm in his voice, and Favreau was not naïve enough to think that he was merely being flirtatious. Even in her combat uniform, she was stunningly beautiful, at least by Western standards. She was tall and lithe, with long straight black hair and full lips, but that counted for little with Velle. Like many powerful men, he was instinctively wary of women, especially attractive women, whom he feared might use their sexuality to bewitch and enslave him. Favreau however, did not need to rely on her feminine wiles to control Velle.
“General Velle. It has been brought to my attention that you have not yet dealt with the situation in the northern Kivu region. We had an agreement. The scientific expedition is trying to find a way to recover the natural gas deposits at the bottom of Lake Kivu. If they do that, then the people of the Democratic Republic of the Congo will have no use for the services my client so generously offers them. Nor will they have much use for you as their leader. You must deal with them, immediately.”
Velle made a dismissive gesture. “Killing a few scientists in Nord-Kivu won’t put me in Kinshasa.”
Favreau fixed him with a Medusa stare. “Ignoring the requests of the people who are making your little coup possible, will most certainly not put you in Kinshasa.”
“What have you done for me that I could not have done myself?” he scoffed.
“I assume you mean aside from removing Joseph Mulamba from power?”
Velle snorted. “So you claim, but how do I know for sure? I have only your word. The news reports say that he has been abducted. He’s not even dead. Bring me his head, and then we will talk about Kivu.”
“As the democratically elected leader of your country, he is far too valuable alive.” She kept her gaze focused on him so that there would be no confusion about what she meant. “Especially if other arrangements do not work out as planned.”
“Your employers—” He stressed the word as if to remind her that she was merely a lackey, running errands. “—put me in charge for a reason. They need me to run this place, so don’t waste your breath on empty threats.”
Velle did not look as though he felt very threatened. A firmer hand was called for. Favreau shrugged. “A monkey could run this place, and probably better than you.”
The room went utterly silent.
Favreau’s carefully chosen slur had the desired effect. Velle abruptly changed from arrogant, strutting peacock, to an enraged bull.
Now she had his attention.
“Shoot this bitch!” Velle shouted. “No, give me a gun. I will shoot her.”
Before anyone could show the slightest inclination to comply, Favreau held up a hand, displaying a small black plastic object that looked a little like a mobile phone or the remote control for a television set.
Velle froze but his rage did not abate. “What is that? A bomb? You bring a bomb into my headquarters? You are dead already.”
“No General, I didn’t bring the bomb in. It’s waiting for me out in my car. But it is a very large bomb — a one kiloton yield tactical nuclear device, if it matters.” She waggled the plastic device. “And in case you haven’t figured it out already, this is a remote trigger with a dead-man switch. You do know how that works, right? Shoot me, I let go, and this entire camp gets vaporized.
“I’m going to leave now,” she continued. “But I won’t go far. See that you take care of the situation in the Kivu, and then we’ll talk about how to get you to Kinshasa.”
7
Asya Machtchenko stepped out onto the porch of the Pinckney General Store and cracked the seal on the can of Java Monster Mean Bean she’d just purchased. She was still adjusting to her new life in the United States, and the list of things she disliked about it was nearly as long as those she liked, but Mean Bean was one guilty pleasure that heavily weighted the balance on the positive side.
Pinckney wasn’t so bad. It reminded her of Peredelkino, the dacha village southwest of Moscow, where she had spent several summers during her childhood. The locals, who depended on the variable tourist economy, seemed to harbor no suspicions about this mysterious woman with the exotic accent, who had taken up residence in their midst. Yet, despite its quaint charms, sometimes Pinckney seemed as remote as a Siberian gulag.