Then the man resumed his guidance, speaking casually but quickly.
“All she wants is the intel. She doesn’t need Malu alive and she most certainly doesn’t want any details about the event. And since everyone in her shop expects Weisz to kill Malu anyway, you can dump his body wherever you like. Just make sure nothing is attributable to the US—it needs to be a covert kill.”
The speaker box went silent, and Ian took a moment to appraise his team’s collective reaction.
Worthy was squinting at the speaker box like he was staring into the eyes of God, which was just as well—both the instructions and what the team chose to do with them had life-or-death consequences not just for their involvement in Nigeria, but potentially the entire future of Project Longwing. If, Ian thought, there was a future after this. An unsanctioned kill carried not just grievous moral implications, but would set a precedent that the team members were more or less free agents for Duchess to use as she saw fit. Absent any political or legal oversight, the team would be coming perilously close to the same tactics used by dictatorships and secret police the world over.
On the other hand, if Duchess was right about this, they could potentially save a tremendous number of innocent lives.
David was looking back at Ian, eyebrows raised as if he was trying to read the intelligence operative’s mind. The team leader would act on this, no question, provided Ian advised him to do so. Beside him, Cancer wore an unsettling half-grin, as if things were finally going to some sinister plan he’d been harboring all along.
Only Reilly appeared outright conflicted, his jaw set, massive arms folded and tense. For him, this breach of protocol was unwise at best and bordering on insanity at worst.
The New York accent was tempered with a casual flair, almost droll as the man continued, “Now I know you boys don’t want to answer me, and hell, if I was in your shoes I probably wouldn’t either. But I need to know you received the message before I can get on with my day, so do me a solid—key your mic once if you need me to repeat, and twice if you got it all.”
Ian set down his notepad and pen, picked up the radio mic, and pressed the transmit button twice in quick succession.
44
Cancer strolled down the sidewalk with his hands in the pockets of his unzipped windbreaker, wishing to heaven or hell that he could discard it amid the heat.
Maitama District was an affluent part of Abuja, and like most urban areas in Nigeria, it displayed a staggering wealth disparity. Ten minutes ago he’d passed through a neighborhood of humble one-story homes with stucco roofs, the trash-laden dirt walkways marked by shoddy fruit stands and crossed by as many loose chickens as people.
But a turn at Buhari Street took him into a whole new city, if not an entirely different universe.
To the left of the wide sidewalk, a pristinely manicured row of low bushes bristled with red flowers, forming a small divider next to a golf-course grade of turf punctuated by palm trees and ferns planted at perfect intervals. This lush median parted to a driveway that Cancer crossed at a casual gait, scanning its length to the enormous solid gate on his right—a black leviathan inlaid with dinner plate-sized medallions of elaborate gold filigree. The gate was flanked by towering stone posts marked by gas lanterns whose flames flickered despite the blinding sunshine, and he continued his walk along the towering stretch of wall topped by decoratively discreet iron fence spikes that would skewer all but the most determined invader.
The wall extended to the next driveway gate thirty meters away, the spacing a uniform division of one-acre lots as it had been since he entered the neighborhood. Despite its impressive height, the long stretches of fence did little to obscure his view of the mansions beyond; the second-story windows looked out over the street between ornate columns and large balconies, the sloping roofs rose to three-and four-story pinnacles whose heights formed sharp pyramids against the cobalt sky.
If he were a corrupt Nigerian politician, Cancer thought, this neighborhood was probably where he’d call home. Between, of course, excursions to his other properties in Dubai or Banana Island in Lagos. When you were able to tap the national bank at will, as Nigerian politicians were wont to do, no excess of spending was too excessive. There was little for such men to fear—after all, a corruption inquiry was unlikely to make headway in a country where everyone in power openly did the same.
Cancer crossed over another driveway before he heard the rumble of a large V8 engine approaching behind him. He slowed his pace somewhat, measuring his progress against the next gated entrance ahead. A sideways glance confirmed the Gradsek vehicle passing along the idyllic street to his left: a gleaming black Mercedes G-Class SUV cruising past him, armored panels causing it to ride low on run flat tires and arriving right on time.
He continued walking as it parked on the street to his front with the engine running, the passenger door aligned with the next gate in his direction of movement. The first two Gradsek men to exit took up positions on the sidewalk, a huge bodyguard facing him and the other looking the opposite direction—east and west side security, he saw at a glance, both of them in suits, sunglasses, and earpieces, ready to stop foot traffic.
The third and final man out of the SUV was identically attired, and looked both ways down the sidewalk before taking up a position between them, facing the gate with his hands folded. This was the shift leader, the man in charge of the security detail, and like the others must have been packing no more than a concealed pistol and some spare magazines. A promising development, Cancer thought—while they surely had submachine guns and assault rifles in the vehicle, the financial elite who employed such bodyguards were loath to see overtly displayed weapons.
Cancer approached to within three meters of the stationary detail before the east flank security man, a big lumbering bastard, held up a hand and called out with a Russian accent, “Sir, remain where you are.”
At that moment Cancer realized who this hulking man was—the Gradsek guard that he had confronted in the restaurant. They hadn’t considered that one or more of those Russians would be present today, and the sniper felt a rare moment of fear that he’d be recognized as well.
But the residential gate was already creaking open, and Cancer didn’t break stride.
“Sir,” the man repeated, more forcefully this time, one hand tucking back his suit jacket and reaching for a holstered pistol, “stop.”