Deep Cover (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 2) Page 5

  Demby spoke in English with a thick African accent, splicing in a few words in Krio whenever he couldn’t find the word he wanted. He ordered a shot for all his cohorts and proposed a toast.

  “To the good life,” he roared.

  The men clinked their glasses together and downed the liquor. Demby motioned for the bartender to come over and deliver another round for everyone. After two more shots, he was ready to start talking.

  “Gentlemen, we have a serious problem,” he said as he leaned forward on the table, his arms crossed. “And I need your advice on what we should do about it.”

  One of his most trusted aides, Ibrahim, eyed his boss closely. “What kind of problem?”

  Demby stroked his thin beard. “Government interference is making it more difficult for us to get our diamonds to Al Hasib.”

  “We can’t transport them using airlines?” one of the other aides asked.

  Demby shook his head. “It’s getting too expensive. Someone else has taken over the customs department and has raised our price. Unfortunately, it’s a price we can’t afford to pay. So, we must seek an alternative.”

  “What about a run to Liberia?”

  Demby shrugged. “That’s a last resort. It’s still expensive to pay the border agents there, plus there’s the added expense of employing more people, which means less profit for everyone.”

  “We certainly don’t want that,” Ibrahim said.

  “Exactly. We must consider other alternatives.”

  Ibrahim stared out into the distance for a moment before responding. “What about your humanitarian agency?”

  Demby’s shrewd skills as a businessman extended far beyond swindling and lying to his former employer. When an opportunity arose, he sought an easy solution, choosing to grease palms rather than exchange punches. He also surmised that convincing locals that he had their best interest at heart through his investments was better than trying to plead with them. This epiphany led to the development of SLAM, Sierra Leone Aid & Medical Supply Company. He admitted it could’ve had a better name, but it was effective enough with the locals, especially when the clinics started cropping up all across the eastern region of the country.

  He hired an American doctor, Alissa Ackerman, to run SLAM and wasn’t disappointed. In just under two years, she’d managed to make the organization a household name with locals for all the services it provided. People living in the bush would walk three days through the jungle to a clinic if they got injured during a hunt. Women who normally would’ve lost their babies during pregnancy were now being monitored more closely, resulting in a much lower mortality rate for both mothers and babies. Ebola education spread rapidly throughout the eastern region of the country, resulting in the decline of Ebola deaths. And it was all due to her efforts.

  “Alissa wouldn’t let me risk SLAM’s reputation on an endeavor like this,” Demby said before he tossed back another shot.

  “Since when did you ever ask for permission?” Ibrahim asked.

  A smile spread across Demby’s face as he slapped Ibrahim on the back. “You’ve got a point.” He paused. “But she must never know. If she ever finds out, I’m blaming all of you.”

  “If I ever find out what?” came a woman’s voice from behind Demby.

  He looked over his shoulder, and his eyebrows shot upward as he realized Alissa had made it to the bar. “If you ever find out how much I care about you.”

  “You? Care about someone?” she scoffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Realizing he’d avoided revealing the true nature of their conversation, he smiled at her. “I do care about people,” Demby said. “I know it may be difficult for you to believe, but it’s true.”

  She sat down at the table across from Demby and ordered a drink. “The only thing that’s difficult for me to believe is that you have a heart.” She paused and slowly shook her head, never taking her gaze off Demby. “Even when I press my stethoscope against your chest, I still have a hard time believing that anything beats inside of there.”

  He stared at her. The feisty American brunette always managed to rile him up. He’d only made one advance on her and was summarily rejected. But he figured that she’d eventually succumb to his charm.

  Demby looked at Ibrahim, who stared at her, mouth agape.

  “She just insulted you,” Ibrahim said.

  Her jabs didn’t bother Demby. “She can insult me all she wants. I just want her.”

  “The one woman you can’t have,” Ibrahim quipped.

  “One day, my friend, one day.”

  She threw back another shot and stared at Demby. “I know you’re lying.” She took a deep breath. “What were you really talking about?”

  “The weather,” Demby said. “We were talking about the weather.”

  In the background, some reggae beats pumped from the jukebox.

  She laughed. “You’re a terrible liar. How you ever gained so much power in this city is a mystery to me.”

  Demby paused and decided to tell her the truth—in a light-hearted way. He was betting that she wouldn’t believe him. “If you must know, I told them that we were going to smuggle diamonds out of the country to terrorists using SLAM.” He froze and watched for her reaction.

  She broke into laughter. “You really are insane. Maybe next time I’ll inspect your brain.”

  “It’s all there,” he said. “Skull and all.”

  “It’s not the skull that I’m worried about. It’s what’s inside the skull that frightens me; there’s a distinct possibility that there isn’t much left inside there,” she quipped as she pointed at his head.

  “I promise you, there’s more there than you can handle.”

  She flashed a wry grin. “If you insist.”

  “Oh, I do,” Demby said. “In fact, I’ll prove it to you.”

  She winked at him. “What? By killing a few brain cells?”

  One of Demby’s assistants dropped a glass bottle of rum on the table. “Let the brain cell killing begin.”

  Demby snatched the bottle up and filled both his glass and Alissa’s. “I hope you like the taste of defeat.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “I hope you like the taste of rum,” she said, raising her glass. “That is, if you think you can keep up with me.”

  They both tossed back their shots and slammed their glasses on the table.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be a rough day for you, Doctor Ackerman,” Demby said as he poured the pair another drink. “That much I can promise you.”

  “Bring it on,” she said.

  Ibrahim nudged his boss and spoke softly, “Much more of this and she won’t remember her name, let alone what you might be slipping into her trucks.”

  Demby winked at Ibrahim and raised his glass in the air, smiling as he stared across the table at her. “Ibrahim, have I told you lately that you’re smarter than you look?”

  Ibrahim beamed as he shook his head.

  “Well, you are,” Demby said as he tossed back another drink. He leaned in close to Ibrahim. “You’re in charge of sneaking the product out using the SLAM aid trucks.” He grabbed the front of Ibrahim’s shirt. “Don’t disappoint me. I’d hate to have to hurt her.”

  Ibrahim nodded knowingly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  CHAPTER 11

  WHEN IT CAME TO MANAGING FIRESTORM, Blunt preferred to simplify the operations. Hawk served as primary problem solver for most missions, while two other operatives worked on ancillary projects—Hal Beckham and Bo Lowman. Collectively, Blunt called the trio, “The Killer B’s”, his own tip of the cap to the nickname given to a handful of long-since retired sluggers from the Houston Astros. However, he assigned them code names, aside from Hawk, who he decided giving a code name to would be a shame when his given name was sufficient. Beckham went by Thor, and Lowman went by Zeus. Hawk’s seldomly used code name was Ares. Blunt conceded that the names weren’t creative, but he was aiming for practicality, not originality. Two
Greek gods and a Norse one—all mythological names for an agency that he preferred to remain a myth in spy circles.

  Blunt used Hawk on every mission when he was available. If a new mission came in and it could wait, Blunt would wait until Hawk returned. But this time, it couldn’t. Hawk’s assignment in Sierra Leone was of utmost importance, both to putting a major dent in Al Hasib’s operations as well as for recovering the stolen Colton Industries weapons. And pulling him out suddenly might risk tipping off Musa Demby that someone was on to him. Blunt resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to use his second best option: Thor.

  Thor was forced out of MI6 after going rogue on several missions, a fact that didn’t bother Blunt. When assessing whether an operative was the right fit, Blunt only looked at the results—and Thor’s results sparkled. Working under deep cover, Thor once goaded two weapons dealers into a showdown. The result was the largest recovery of black market weapons in the history of MI6. And while Thor didn’t have to fire a single shot, he was chastised for kidnapping the Prince of Monaco to incite the conflict. Repercussions aside, Thor more than impressed Blunt.

  With Hawk gone on assignment, Blunt needed to move quickly to get Thor engaged. Blunt followed contact protocol by placing an ad in The New York Times, an archaic way of communicating in the 21st Century but still effective when it came to spy craft. Two days later, Blunt was standing in front of a painting in the Byzantine collection inside the National Gallery of Art at precisely 11:00 a.m. when Thor approached. Blunt stood about six feet away and stared at the piece of art before uttering a word.

  “This is a fine painting,” Thor said.

  “Yes, it is,” Blunt replied. “Almost as fine as the art in the second stall of the men’s bathroom.”

  And with that, Blunt’s work was finished. All the details of Thor’s assignment had been burned onto a flash drive from a laptop computer that had never been connected to the Internet. Leery of digital signatures, Blunt exercised the utmost caution when working on such sensitive missions.

  The instructions for Thor were simple: a date, a location, a time, and a target. The method was also strongly suggested: Make it look like an accident.

  Blunt could only imagine what Thor would think when he saw the name of the man he was to eliminate: Liam Jepsen, the prime minister of Denmark.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FAINT OUTLINE of the sunbaked letters on the Jourbert Safaris wooden sign saved Hawk from spending the night in his Forerunner. As he pulled through the gate and surveyed the property, he wondered if the untended grounds were a result of the operation recently re-opening for business after a long hiatus or the general inattention to upkeep that seemed germane to the entire continent. Were it not for the light emanating from a window at the corner of a building, he would’ve assumed the place was abandoned.

  After he parked, Hawk grabbed his gear and marched toward the entrance, one that was demarcated with a hand-drawn sign on a piece of paper. A screen door was shut, but the main door was wide open. Hawk eased into the lobby area, which was illuminated only by a faint amount of light coming from the bottom of a door behind the counter.

  “Hello?” he called in his Kiwi accent. “Anybody here?”

  Hawk scanned the room. It was tight, furnished with two folding chairs and a coffee table covered in hunting magazines. A clock hung on the wall behind the counter and ticked with the passing of each second.

  “Hello?”

  After a few moments, the door behind the counter swung open and a small Asian man shuffled out into the lobby and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.

  “Oh, the damn power is out again,” muttered the man. “Welcome to Sierra Leone.”

  Hawk chuckled. “Sierra Leone doesn’t have the corner on the market for power outages in Africa. It’s an epidemic.”

  “More prevalent than Ebola?” the man shot back.

  Hawk couldn’t tell if he was joking or not but concluded nervous laughter was better than no laughter at all.

  “It’s a joke,” the man said as he squinted at the paper. “Be right back.” Less than a half minute later, he returned carrying a candle, the one that had been providing the light in his office. “Now, let’s see here. You must be Oliver Martin.”

  Hawk nodded.

  “And you’re from New Zealand?”

  “Yes, the mystical land of adventure and hobbits.”

  The man stopped and looked up from his paperwork. “Hobbits?”

  “Never mind. It’s from a movie.”

  “Ah, movies,” the man said. “We don’t get to watch many of those—or at least finish them. Never know when you’re suddenly going to be sitting in the dark.”

  Hawk smiled. “That’s a good metaphor for life.”

  The man eyed Hawk closely. “You obviously haven’t been to Sierra Leone before. No one who lived here would say that.”

  “What would someone from Sierra Leone say about life?”

  “They’d say, ‘You’re alive. Good. Now just try not to die today.’”

  “An even better metaphor for life—well, at least the people around me.”

  The man scribbled on the paper and asked Hawk for his signature. “My name is Joon Yun, and I manage the lodging here. If you have any questions, you can knock on this door at any time, and I’ll be happy to help you.”

  “What time does my hunting party leave in the morning?” Hawk asked.

  Yun laughed. “Party? You mean you and your guide?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Breakfast is served at five-thirty down the hall, and you will leave at six for the hunt.” He slid a key and an information sheet across the counter to Hawk. “Your room is the first one on the left down the hall. Enjoy your stay.”

  Hawk started down the hallway before he stopped and turned around. “You know where I can get a cold drink and some food around here at this time of night?”

  Yun glanced at the clock on the wall behind. “There’s a bar about a mile down the road on the left. They will have something for you.”

  Hawk found his room, threw his equipment inside, and locked the door. He couldn’t ignore his stomach’s rumblings any longer.

  Five minutes later, he strode into The Errant Apostrophe’s and sat down at a table in a vacant corner of the room. His intent was to drink a beer, eat some meat, and retire for the evening. But a poker game broke out.

  Minutes after he ordered his food, a trio of men sat down at the table next to him. One of the men Hawk thought looked like an illegal arms dealer from South Africa from a photo he’d seen once in a CIA report. Hawk couldn’t be sure. But whoever the man was, Hawk sensed trouble.

  The man cut his eyes over at Hawk and pulled out a deck of cards. “You play poker?”

  Hawk glanced at him and pointed at his own chest. “Me?”

  “Well, I ain’t talking about the oke sitting behind you,” the man said in a thick South African accent.

  Hawk shrugged. “I play from time to time.”

  “Pull up a chair. I’ll deal you in. It’ll be a jol.”

  Hawk joined the men. “Oliver Martin.”

  “What are you? A fashion designer?” the man groused. His companions both chuckled.

  “I’m in taxidermy. Here on a hunting expedition.”

  “Well, Oliver Martin, with a name like that, I think you chose the wrong profession.”

  Hawk pounced on the opportunity to plant a seed that might come to fruition sooner rather than later. “Only if you don’t need to get your kills out of the country. I have quite the export license.”

  “Expecting to kill something you’re going to need to export?”

  Hawk nodded.

  He looked Hawk up and down before smiling. “I doubt you’ll need any such license for your trip here this time, mate.” The man winked. “My name is Keanu Visser, and these two okes are forgettable, so you don’t need to worry with their names.”

  One of the other men lit a cigar and blew a ring of smoke. He then glared at Visser.
“I’m Soto—and you’ll remember me because I’m the one who’s going to take all your money.”

  “We’ll see about that,” chimed in the remaining nameless man. “I’m Perryman, and both of these blokes are full of it, mate. I’m the one who’s going to take all your money.”

  An hour later, Hawk raked the remaining pot in front of him and declared himself the winner.

  “You need to come back tomorrow and give me a chance to win my money back,” Visser said before chugging the rest of his beer.

  Hawk stood up. “No promises. I’ve got a hunt in the morning, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  ***

  THE NEXT MORNING came early for Hawk. He groaned as he rolled out of bed and quickly dressed himself. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal and a banana. When he finished, his guide met him on the front steps of the outfitter’s main building.

  “Ethan Jacobs,” said the guide. “Are you ready for a fun day of hunting with this motley crew?” He gestured toward his Range Rover.

  Hawk noticed several familiar faces packed into the vehicle. All three of the men he played poker with waved at him.

  “Let’s go, Martin,” Visser said. “I hate losing, and I need to win my money back.”

  Hawk sauntered over to the Range Rover. “What makes you think you’re going to win it back?”

  “What makes you think I won’t?” Visser snapped. “How about double or nothing on our hunt today? Whoever kills an animal with the farthest shot wins.”

  Hawk put on a concerned look and hesitated.

  Visser goaded him on. “What’s the matter, mate? You scared you might lose?”

  After another moment of silence, Hawk finally responded to the request. “Since you insist—”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, shall we be on our way?” Jacobs said as he climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.

  Hawk opened the door to the backseat and gestured for Perryman to move to the center so he could sit on the side.

  Perryman’s eyes narrowed. “You can sit in the middle.”