East London, South Africa
November 12, 9:30 A.M.
One of Claude Foster’s greatest assets was that he listened. Regardless of whether he was interested in what was being said, in his office or at a bar, in a steam room or at a sporting event, he let it in.
That was how he had found Katinka. She and fellow graduates had been up all night and getting coffee at a shop when he went there for breakfast. He heard her say she was going to start looking for a job that very day.
“There’s no time to waste,” she had said. “This is when the diamond concerns are scouting.”
Unlike Dumisa, who encouraged his gun runners to report on what their fellows said and did, Foster had never wanted to create an environment of paranoia. That was what made people stop talking.
Foster had heard Katinka ask for an advance years before, to build her boat shed. That was why he had opted to make her home their first stop. He had to hide the van but not abandon it. He needed to communicate with Dumisa or Mila Merch. Dumisa would help him sell the core samples—for a large percentage, but still paying more than extortion. With her human trafficking network, Mila was best equipped to get someone out of the country. Foster needed to regroup and resume his negotiations.
Katinka was limp, staring at nothing in the passenger’s seat as they pulled into the driveway. Foster had removed his mask but he had left Katinka’s on. Her strong, stonecutter’s hand was holding the breathing apparatus. He did not want to tinker with whatever made her quiet, secure.
Foster was not even sure what he would do with her. He wanted to bring her to keep her from prosecution. But he could not afford inert baggage—which she appeared on the verge of becoming.
He stopped at the shed, pulled up the door. Katinka’s scooter was parked in the rear and he moved it through the back door to make room. Then he tried to turn the van around to back in—just in case he needed to hit a full-on exit. There wasn’t enough room. But the shed was close to the street and he could slam out if need be. The shadows inside were deep and he left the shed door open.
Leaving Katinka, he lifted the rear floor panel and selected a handgun and a submachine gun. If they were found, he would use the core samples only as a final measure.
Feeling momentarily safe in the semi-darkness, Foster sat on the edge of the van, listening to the sounds of occasional traffic—both on the road and increasingly in the air as the government no doubt issued an all-safe alert.
Either they have more hazmat gear than I suspected or they must know something about this thing that I do not, he thought.
It was time to take this in a new direction, and he finished placing the call that had been interrupted at the office.
“You asked who we were,” Williams said to the helicopter pilot. “I’m going to tell you.”
Still waiting outside the helicopter, the Op-Center director had just received the map from Berry. Removing the scanners from clusters of police vehicles, Williams was left with three blips. One was overlaid with the East London bureau of the South Africa Post & Telegram newspaper. Another matched the address of a home for senior citizens—more likely than not, a retired police officer. The third was on a residential street not far from Nahoon Beach.
“What’s your name?” Williams asked.
“Vic Illing.”
“Vic, I’m Chase, and we are working with the government to stop these attacks,” Williams said.
“I figured.”
“Oh?”
“A general’s office booked me. And … you got a lot of clanky gear.”
Williams showed the man the map on the tablet. He pointed to the spot near the shore. “We believe the perpetrator is here.” He dragged his finger to the beach. “I want to go here.”
“I can do that, as soon as the authorities say I can.”
“Well, that’s it—you can. I wouldn’t ask you to fly any place that isn’t safe.”
Breen came jogging back just then.
“I think I’ve narrowed the geography,” the major said. “They’ve got traffic cameras at the major intersections but nothing along the tourist and recreational routes.”
“So, the beach,” Williams said.
“Right. If we follow the shore—”
“No need.” Williams showed him the tablet. “Confirms what I just received.” He handed Breen the tablet then looked back at the pilot. “What do you say, Vic? This toxin rises and it flows with the wind. Only has a life span of about an hour. We’ll be going in the opposite direction.” He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. “Yours if you’ll do it. Just take us to the beach and stay there until the all clear.”
Illing looked at the money and then at Williams. “I don’t need that. Just stop this loon—that’s enough for me.”
“Thank you.”
The men boarded, the chopper rose to one hundred feet, and just five minutes later they were settling onto the beach.
“Made it, like you said,” Illing said with open relief as he killed the engine. “God bless ya.”
The passengers selected a mask and a handgun each from their gear. Before getting out, Illing handed Breen his card while Williams texted Berry:
En route to Plymouth Rd site to try and buy.
“I’ll wait for you, if it’s all the same!” Illing said as the men ran down the beach. “Come back safe!”
Williams raised an arm to thank him but did not look back. The two men ran slowly from the beach onto the asphalt that followed the coast.
Beach Road was devoid of pedestrians. An occasional ambulance passed, the EMTs wearing masks.
“They must have wanted everyone mobile,” Breen said.
“Smart—quick quarantine,” Williams said.
It was warm going on hot as the sun baked the big, open shoreline. Following the GPS on Breen’s phone, the men turned into the residential area.
“How do we approach him?” the major asked.
“Hands up, mask and gun visible. Tell him we want to bargain.”
“You think he’ll believe us?”
“Why not?” Williams said. “He’ll know from our voices that we’re not South African.”
Breen nodded. He also didn’t think the man would shoot first. Foster might be ruthless, but he seemed too cool an operator for that. Breen also did not think there was any threat from his accomplice. He briefed Williams as they ran. According to the research he had done on the short flight over, the house belonged to a gemologist named Katinka Kettle, twenty-five. She worked for MEASE and had no criminal sheet.
The men slowed as they neared the house. There was a walk to the front door and a driveway.
Williams was not breathing as hard as his companion but the old Op-Center had left him softer than he should be. Then he felt the weight of the gun in his hands.
That was not true in every way, he thought. He had, without hesitation, put a bullet in the forehead of a terrorist in Yemen. He wondered if he would do that again to be sure of saving lives … or let a negotiation play out. There was a line a person crossed where it was not just the rule of law but his moral compass that was at risk.
“I think you should talk for us, Counselor,” Williams said quietly. “Starting curbside? I’ll be watching the surroundings while you watch him.”
Breen nodded. When they reached the house they stood at the curb, facing the walk unmoving, arms raised.
“Mr. Foster!” Breen said. “We’re here about that item you have for sale.”
The only thing they heard for what seemed dangerously too long was the wind from the beach. It carried a misleadingly pleasant smell of salt water and rose gardens.
“Americans?” a firm male voice finally replied.
“That’s right.”
Another hesitation. Then, finally, an answer.
“Come down the walk, slowly, hands up, single file.”
“Understood,” Breen said.
Breen shouldered in front of his companion and crossed the sidewalk to the flower-lined slate walk. He saw the shed to the right, set back a little from the house and hidden from the neighbor by a high hedge. That was where the driveway led. The door of the structure was open but all was shadow inside.
“Stop there,” the man said when they had reached the part of the walk that turned from the house to the shed. “You came prepared, I see.”
Breen looked from the man to the mask then back. “In every way.”
“Ah,” Foster said. “Good. Both of you toss the guns and masks and you come here—the other man stay where you are. In case of gunfire, you’re a target.”
“No one knows you’re here but us.”
“How is that, if you don’t mind?” Foster asked.
“Our people tracked your police scanner,” Breen said as he flung the handgun and mask toward the hedge. Breen tossed his onto the small front lawn.
“Damn. Clever,” Foster said. He half turned. “Katinka, turn it off. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” a voice replied faintly. It sounded beaten.
Foster turned back to the men. “You may approach … slowly.”
Breen said, “Before we continue, may we confirm that you have what we want?”
Foster hesitated, then said, “Come.”
“Thank you,” Breen said.
Foster nodded amiably and Breen moved ahead, his eyes on the van. Foster had not been holding whatever the bacteria was in but it had to be near. As he neared he saw weapons and a backpack in the rear of the vehicle. A pair of cylindrical outlines was visible. He’d had the same feeling when he first set eyes on a tactical nuclear weapon at El Toro Air Base before it was shut down. Such a small package but with the power to destroy an entire population.
Strangely, he did not feel ashamed about any of it. No soldier should. His job was to protect the homeland and, in the end—as with the shot he put in the brain of Ahmed Salehi—he was prepared to do that.
Foster returned to the back of the van. “Thank you for the advisory, gentlemen.”
“Anything to protect the transaction I hope to make,” Breen told him.
The major was wondering if that was true, if he was serious about this. Paying off terrorists was anathema to him and to American policy. They had recently risked their lives to hunt one down.
If we don’t buy it, some reckless nation might, he told himself.
Foster motioned him forward and Breen was about to enter the shed when Williams shouted.
“Hat up!” the commander cried.
Foster was alert and confused but Breen got the move-out message. He spun to look out at the street. When he saw what Williams was talking about, Breen’s pale eyes died a little.
South Africa had finally, unfortunately, taken matters into their own hands.