“Well that’s, like, your opinion, man.”
Ian checked his watch. “Any minute now, you’ll see that I’m right. What I can’t predict is what our marching orders will be.”
“Marching orders?” David said incredulously. “We continue the mission.”
Ian wasn’t sure how to respond to that—whether David was being naive or ignorant, the intelligence operative couldn’t say. It wasn’t that the mission itself was particularly sensitive; they were in a permissive area where a group of white men could roam more or less freely, which was a far cry from their last operation in China four months earlier.
But the previous night’s outcome was far from ideal, and the team was only one small cog in a very large and extremely politically sensitive machine. The US didn’t take targeted killings lightly, and his nation’s experience in that endeavor was a spotted and inflammatory history in contrast to Israel, for which such operations were more or less a way of life and had been since the country’s inception.
So Ian said nothing, instead waiting for the inevitable—and within ten seconds of muted silence, the desk phone rang.
David inhaled deeply, readying himself for whatever was about to occur. By the second ring, Ian said, “You going to pick that up?”
Instead, the team leader pressed a button to take the call on speakerphone.
“This is David. I’ve got you on speaker with Ian.”
Duchess was quiet for a moment, then said, “Fair enough. I’ve got you on speaker with the entire OPCEN staff. How are your men doing?”
“We’re good,” David replied. “No injuries, we’re refitted, and our local driver took the damaged vehicle to a friend who runs a chop shop in Abuja. It should be mission-ready within a few days, and my team has conducted refit and are prepared to flex as soon as our target surfaces. Since I haven’t heard from you prior to our scheduled call, I’m guessing that hasn’t occurred yet.”
She replied, “We notified the Nigerian government of Usman’s convoy—they claimed they’d set up some checkpoints to intercept him, but since he’s still at large, that clearly didn’t occur as planned. The only feedback thus far is their announcement that the Nigerian police killed four Boko Haram fighters on Highway A3 last night.”
David snickered. “We saw that in the news. At least someone got to take that gunfight for a victory lap.”
“Concur,” Duchess said wearily. “But that’s probably our last point of agreement on this call.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have orders to pull your team out of Nigeria. Your main body personnel will link transport all military hardware to the dock site at 2100 West Africa Standard Time tomorrow. Advance party will fly commercial out of Abuja the following morning—”
David slammed a fist on the desk. “We did everything you asked us to do. Following your PID requirements shouldn’t be grounds to boot us off the mission.”
Ian put a hand on David’s shoulder, an attempt to calm him that went unnoticed as Duchess calmly responded.
“And there’s little question that Usman is orchestrating a terrorist attack-in-progress. I’m not disagreeing with you, David. The decision wasn’t mine to make.”
“Then whose was it?”
“People above my pay grade.”
Ian leaned forward. “Duchess, I understand the concern. But an imminent attack is all the more reason we should remain in Nigeria. At a minimum, get us authorized for a 72-hour holding pattern. If Usman hasn’t surfaced by then, we’ll go.”
Her voice remained placid as she said, “It’s because of the probable attack that you need to go. We’ve had to provide the Nigerian government multiple warnings of Usman’s movements. If he’s suddenly found dead, it points the blame back on the Agency.”
“Behind closed doors, sure,” Ian replied. “But the news this morning is proof that the Nigerian government will gladly take credit for Usman’s death.”
“The Nigerian government has more leaks than a wicker canoe. When the media comes looking for facts—and they will—some official will sell them fact-based speculation. And the current administration is unwilling to risk that.”
David interceded, “We weren’t sent here by accident. After the July 4th attack, you followed the money trail to a banker in Abuja. Let us go after him, at the very least.”
“You are not authorized to take any action against that banker,” Duchess replied hotly, “and I won’t divulge his identity until that changes, which it won’t. Usman’s sudden movement into government-controlled territory wasn’t your fault. Neither was last night, so don’t turn this into grounds for disbandment. Start packing your bags, gentlemen: it’s time to come home.”
The team leader opened his mouth to respond, but it was too late—Duchess had ended the call.
Cancer spoke from the doorway behind them.
“Ian, you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Both men spun their chairs to face him. Ian shook his head and David searched Cancer’s face for insight as the sniper clarified, “Two words: Gateway Zuma.”
Rolling his eyes, Ian turned back to the desk.
David asked, “What the hell is that?”
“A restaurant,” Ian explained, lifting his coffee mug from the desk. “It’s in downtown Abuja. Before you guys got here, Tolu took me and Cancer.”
David shot back indignantly, “How can you think about eating right now?”
But Cancer was unrepentant.
“Because everyone’s tired after last night and we’re getting kicked out of Nigeria, for starters. But mainly,” he concluded, “because the food was amazing.”
Ian, nearly cringing in anticipation, knew what David’s response would be—the team leader was going to go off on some knee-jerk tangent objecting to Duchess’s order, then propose some harebrained scheme that Ian would have to temper with the cold facts of reality, hopefully aided by Cancer. If there was one thing David was remarkably consistent about, it was having a problem with authority; particularly, Ian thought, when it pertained to hampering his team’s operational leeway.
And David, for his part, didn’t disappoint.
“Forget the restaurant. That banker is the reason we scored the Nigeria mission in the first place. That gives us”—he checked his watch—“about 36 hours to do a little detective work and figure out who he is.”
Cancer responded before Ian could.
“Hundreds of bankers in Abuja, boss, if not a thousand or more. I don’t care if we have 36 hours or 36 days, it ain’t gonna happen. Let’s eat.”
7
Worthy entered Gateway Zuma to find the restaurant’s massive interior nearly filled by eleven a.m., a solid indicator that whatever they were about to eat, it was going to be good.