41

Johan followed Andy through the iron portcullis, seeing Colonel Armstrong coming across the grass in the gloom of the sporadic lighting. Through the courtyard, on an ornate portico, he saw two more men.

They met just inside the gate, shook hands, walked a bit, then Armstrong stopped, saying, “Before we go inside, a few things. Andy, did everything check out?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. Everything we asked for is there. Ammo, explosives, grenades, rifles, it’s all there.”

“Communications?”

“Thales PRC-148 MBITR radios. Looks like US military surplus, but they function.”

“Parachutes?”

“Twenty MC-4 ram-air free-fall rigs. They’re used. Probably old US military stock as well, but they look good. We can get a rigger to check them out, right?”

“Probably. We’ll have to ask that man on the porch.”

Armstrong turned to Johan and said, “The man on the right is Tyler Malloy, the American providing our equipment and transport. The one you were concerned about.”

Johan nodded, saying, “So now I have to trust the American to certify a parachute he sold us? No, thanks.”

“No. That would be from the man on the left. Just call him Colonel Smith.”

“He’s South African military?”

“Yes.”

“From where? What’s his background?”

“Not your concern. In fact, don’t even broach it. He’s taking a considerable risk just meeting us. Look, you wanted to come feel out the American—Tyler—so I let you. Don’t say a word during the meeting besides the initial pleasantries. Let me handle everything else.”

Armstrong turned to Andy and said, “You’ll address any needs we have with the equipment, but it doesn’t sound like much.”

Andy nodded, and Armstrong looked to Johan one more time. “No Lily Boy stuff here, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

They approached the porch, and Johan sized up Tyler Malloy. He was not what Johan had expected. He had a hard look, like the men Johan hired, not like the suit-and-tie set who usually worked Tyler’s end of the street. Johan shook hands, and, as expected, Tyler’s grip overcompensated. Johan returned it with a smile.

Colonel “Smith” looked like every other high command he’d ever served. Civilian clothes that didn’t fit right and a little bit of a stick up his butt. He had a pinched face with a pencil mustache that was bordering on Hitler territory. He didn’t even bother to shake hands, apparently wanting to get out of the light before anyone noticed them standing together. They marched inside, then went upstairs, stopping in a room filled with paintings. A museum of some sort. In the center were a couch and three chairs circling an ornate coffee table.

Johan and Andy got the couch; the rest went to the chairs. Tyler said, “So, did you check out the equipment? Does it meet your requirements?”

Armstrong said, “We had a couple of questions, but, yes, it appears to. Andy?”

Andy leaned forward and said, “What’s the pedigree of the HALO rigs you got us?”

“From US Army Special Operations Command. Excess after they adopted the RA-1 system. Don’t worry, they aren’t junk. USASOC wouldn’t let them go out for garage sale if they posed a life-support risk. Any that were even close to posing a hazard due to wear and tear were destroyed.”

Johan spoke. “And we should just trust you on that? Last thing I want is to have my lines all snap with dry rot.”

Armstrong shot Johan a look, and Tyler said, “I don’t provide faulty equipment. I only provide what I would use myself.”

“So you know how to operate a free-fall parachute?”

He asked the question on purpose, wanting to gain some insight into Tyler’s background beyond his personal appearance. Tyler turned red, giving Johan a partial answer. Armstrong cut off the conversation before it grew more heated, saying, “Colonel Smith, would it be possible to get a certified rigger to give the parachutes the once-over? Out at our training facility?”

Smith nodded and said, “I can do that. But it’s going to cost you. I’m already hanging my ass out here.”

Armstrong said, “I can talk to my employer. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Smith said, “What’s your timeline? How soon?”

“We’re emptying the warehouse in the morning. We’ll take the equipment to the training site, zero our weapons, shake out the comms gear, do a practice jump with the rigs, and then be ready. We’re finishing up the final training package with the natives right now, so say within three days.”

Smith said, “I can make that happen.”

Tyler said, “So, sounds like we’re tracking. Let’s talk pay.”

Armstrong said, “Colonel Smith?”

He said, “I’ve got them. I can transfer them at any time.”

In a measured tone, Johan interrupted, saying, “No offense, but not all of us are tracking. My big question is the aircraft. We have our hands on the equipment, but it’s useless without the infiltration platform. I’m going to need pilots who know something about a parachute drop, and Mr. Malloy’s not giving me a lot of confidence in that area.”

Colonel Armstrong frowned, his expression showing the displeasure boiling underneath his words. He said, “Johan, let me worry about that.”

Tyler leaned in and said, “You have a problem with me, Johan?”

Johan returned his stare, his cold blue eyes not flinching. He said, “Yes, a little bit.”

Tyler said, “Have I let you down yet? Did you have any trouble smuggling the Israeli? Or interrogating him?”

Johan saw the anger build and was a smidge amused. Tyler stabbed a finger in his face and said, “That was my safe house. I took the risk. It’s my warehouse on the waterfront. More risk. So far, I’m the only one who has stake in this game, so back the fuck off.”

Armstrong glared at Johan, his message clear. Johan retreated, but he didn’t want to. Tyler aggravated him with his attitude, with his fake-ass operator beard, and by pretending to be some personal badass while he did nothing but sell weapons to anyone who would purchase them. Johan leaned back but left his eyes on Tyler. Tyler looked away first.

Focusing on Colonel Armstrong, Tyler said, “Enough with the questions. My work is done. All that remains is my pay. And you haven’t given me any indication that you can produce.”

Armstrong said, “Mr. Smith was involved with Project Circle. He has the access, and he can deliver.”

Smith looked shocked at the admission. He stammered, “I . . . I wasn’t involved . . . but I’m now in charge of the repository of the project . . . I don’t think we should talk about such things here.”

Tyler glared at him and said, “I want my payment now.”

Armstrong raised a finger, a civilized gesture that got the attention of all involved. He said, “No, no. Your work isn’t done until you land that plane back on South African soil, and we’re on it.”

Incensed, Tyler said, “That wasn’t the agreement with Cohen. That was not the agreement. If this thing fails it is not my fault. I get paid either way.”

“I agree with that, with one caveat: If it fails, me and my men are still flying out. I won’t hold you accountable for what happens on the ground, but I can’t possibly throw away my security by paying you now. What’s to stop you from just flying your ass somewhere else? Even if it’s successful? We cannot be on the ground while they consolidate power. We dismantle, and they clean up. We were never there.”

“That was not the agreement.”

“It’s the agreement now. You want those triggers, you follow through. If I make it back to South African soil, you get them. It’s that simple.”

Aggravation bleeding through, Tyler said, “Okay, okay. So you’re satisfied with the merchandise?”

Armstrong glanced at Andy. He nodded, and Armstrong said, “Yes. I am.”

Tyler stood up hard enough to knock his chair over. Clearly displeased, he said, “This is not how I do business. I make an agreement, and I get paid.”

He looked at Colonel Armstrong and said, “Believe me, you don’t want to mess with my business. I have friends you don’t want to meet.”

Hearing the words, Johan stood as well, giving Tyler the heat of his stare. He said, “Don’t give me a threat. Give me a promise.”

Tyler’s eyes went back and forth between the men, confused. Johan cleared it up for him. “If you’re not on that airfield, I’ll gut you alive. And that’s a promise. Bring your friends if you want. I’ll gut them too.”

Tyler glared at Armstrong, then at Johan. He stormed out of the room without a word.

Nobody said anything for a moment; then Colonel Smith rubbed his face, clearly distressed at how the conversation had deteriorated and how he was now involved. He tried to bring it back to his world. The military one.

He said, “Lloyd, speaking of failure, if you don’t secure that place quickly—if anyone else becomes involved—you know I can’t stop what’s coming. South Africa won’t sit on the sidelines if America or some other country is stopping a bloodbath.”

Armstrong said, “I know. I know. Don’t worry about that. You’ll be protected.”

A SANDF member in uniform entered the room, startling Colonel Smith. The sentry said, “Sir, you told me to alert you about any activity.”

Colonel Smith said, “Yes?”

“Well, it’s nothing big, but we have some suspected trespassers outside the gate. American tourists, apparently. I didn’t want to disturb your meeting, but you said to tell you if we heard anything . . .”

Johan thought one thing: Americans. Again.