Savage (Jack Sigler / Chess Team) Read online

  “You are the Commander in Chief. You don’t need Congress—”

  “If I act unilaterally… Well, I might be out of a job a lot sooner than the next election.”

  “Go public with it. Tell the American people what you’ve told me. Tell them how we’ll be saving millions of lives.”

  The president shook his head sadly. “That’s a nice idea. I suggested it to Stewart. Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Mr. President, it’s Africa. No one cares about Africa.’”

  “The American people just might surprise you, sir. Let them decide.”

  “You might be right. God knows, I hope you are. But I can’t wait for that to happen. So, I ask you again, is there anything we can do about it? Do you have any assets we can send in, something off the books, just to hold things together long enough to give this a chance?”

  Boucher was impressed by Chambers’s sincerity. He had never really thought of the president in any terms except as Tom Duncan’s replacement, and Duncan was a hard act to follow. Even in defeat, Duncan was formidable and Chambers had none of Duncan’s real world experience or savvy. Now Boucher found himself wondering whether there was more to Chambers, something that most politicians sacrificed along their journey to the top: compassion.

  But the answer was still going to be ‘no.’

  No matter how much he wanted to help, the Agency simply didn’t have anything to offer. As the Chief of Staff had so aptly pointed out, no one cared about Africa, or at least not sub-Saharan Africa, far removed from the influence of Islamic extremists, who were the latest hot-button national security issue. Even if he had assets in place—and he didn’t—he would still have to answer to Congress about how the people were used and the money spent. Not even a pension and a gold watch would immunize him against that. There was, quite simply, nothing he could do.

  That was why it came as such a surprise when he heard himself say: “I’ll see what I can do.”

  6

  Kisangani, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  Monique Favreau was in love.

  It took every ounce of her self-control to keep her hands in her lap during the flight. She wanted so badly to touch…to fondle the object of her infatuation. If not for the presence of her traveling companions, she almost certainly would have done so. But she was their leader, and it wouldn’t do for her subordinates to see her behaving in such a way.

  Her men didn’t seem to share her fascination with the prize. Perhaps they were overawed by the presence of so much destructive power, terrified at being so close to instantaneous death. Favreau wasn’t the least bit fearful. The possibility of getting turned to ash was something to which they should have been accustomed. They routinely carried blocks of plastic explosives in their backpacks for use in breaching doors or for improvising claymore mines. An accidental explosion that might kill them, along with anyone else in a hundred yard radius, was not outside the realm of possibility, yet they didn’t seem to dwell on that outcome. This was no different. It was merely a question of scope. As Favreau saw it, the weapon she now possessed didn’t really kill faster or leave a person any deader than mishandling a block of C-4, so why be afraid of it? She didn’t fear it at all. So much power, and it was hers to use as she pleased.

  When the Gulfstream V private jet finally landed at the not quite charmingly rustic airport in Kisangani and slowed to a halt near the terminal building, she immediately hefted her new prize onto her back, and exited the short flight of stairs to the tarmac. The thing was tremendously heavy, and although she was in excellent physical shape, she felt the strain in her thighs and knees, and in the soles of her feet. But she did not for a moment consider asking someone else to carry it. The ordeal was, in its own way, as exhilarating as it was exhausting.

  With a bearing that was as erect and as confident as she could muster, she strode to the second of three waiting Russian-made VPK-3927 Volk armored infantry vehicles that were lined up at the edge of the runway. The vehicles would transport Favreau and her team to the nearby military camp, where Lieutenant General Patrice Velle had promoted himself from Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces of the Democratic Republic of the Congo—to President of the country.

  Although it was the third largest city in the country, boasting a population of nearly a million people, Kisangani occupied only about ten square miles on the northern bank of the Congo River. It was a short journey from the airport to the military camp, barely enough time for Favreau to make the necessary modifications to her prize, which mostly involved rigging a connection to the Volk’s electrical system. A constant supply of power was essential to her prize’s operation. Part of the prodigious weight of the device was its battery backup, which allowed it to be unplugged for transport, but like all batteries, it was only good for a few hours. She left the device in the Volk, with the engine running to ensure that the battery received a full charge, and she entered the headquarters building from which General Velle now presided over the eastern half of his country.

  In her fifteen years of working abroad, first as an agent for the DGSE—the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, France’s premiere foreign intelligence service—and subsequently in her current position, as the director of operations for the private security agency Executive Solutions International, she had dealt with more than her share of tin-pot military dictators. Velle was no exception to the norm. He was a big man, a natural alpha, but his outward appearance was so cliché it seemed like self-parody. He wore camouflage fatigues decorated like a dress uniform, with shoulder braids and a full rack of medals and ribbons, which were far more impressive than his actual military career. His command center looked more like a throne room, and he was surrounded by toadying sycophants he called his ‘advisors,’ but who only advised him to do whatever he pleased.

  When he saw her, a hungry, predatory smile split his fleshy face. “Miss Monique,” he said. “You’ve come back to us! We have so missed your delightful presence.”

  Velle made no effort to mask the sarcasm in his voice, and Favreau was not naïve enough to think that he was merely being flirtatious. Even in her combat uniform, she was stunningly beautiful, at least by Western standards. She was tall and lithe, with long straight black hair and full lips, but that counted for little with Velle. Like many powerful men, he was instinctively wary of women, especially attractive women, whom he feared might use their sexuality to bewitch and enslave him. Favreau however, did not need to rely on her feminine wiles to control Velle.

  “General Velle. It has been brought to my attention that you have not yet dealt with the situation in the northern Kivu region. We had an agreement. The scientific expedition is trying to find a way to recover the natural gas deposits at the bottom of Lake Kivu. If they do that, then the people of the Democratic Republic of the Congo will have no use for the services my client so generously offers them. Nor will they have much use for you as their leader. You must deal with them, immediately.”

  Velle made a dismissive gesture. “Killing a few scientists in Nord-Kivu won’t put me in Kinshasa.”

  Favreau fixed him with a Medusa stare. “Ignoring the requests of the people who are making your little coup possible, will most certainly not put you in Kinshasa.”

  “What have you done for me that I could not have done myself?” he scoffed.

  “I assume you mean aside from removing Joseph Mulamba from power?”

  Velle snorted. “So you claim, but how do I know for sure? I have only your word. The news reports say that he has been abducted. He’s not even dead. Bring me his head, and then we will talk about Kivu.”

  “As the democratically elected leader of your country, he is far too valuable alive.” She kept her gaze focused on him so that there would be no confusion about what she meant. “Especially if other arrangements do not work out as planned.”

  “Your employers—” He stressed the word as if to remind her that she was merely a lackey, running errands. “—put me in charge for a reason. T
hey need me to run this place, so don’t waste your breath on empty threats.”

  Velle did not look as though he felt very threatened. A firmer hand was called for. Favreau shrugged. “A monkey could run this place, and probably better than you.”

  The room went utterly silent.

  Favreau’s carefully chosen slur had the desired effect. Velle abruptly changed from arrogant, strutting peacock, to an enraged bull.

  Now she had his attention.

  “Shoot this bitch!” Velle shouted. “No, give me a gun. I will shoot her.”

  Before anyone could show the slightest inclination to comply, Favreau held up a hand, displaying a small black plastic object that looked a little like a mobile phone or the remote control for a television set.

  Velle froze but his rage did not abate. “What is that? A bomb? You bring a bomb into my headquarters? You are dead already.”

  “No General, I didn’t bring the bomb in. It’s waiting for me out in my car. But it is a very large bomb—a one kiloton yield tactical nuclear device, if it matters.” She waggled the plastic device. “And in case you haven’t figured it out already, this is a remote trigger with a dead-man switch. You do know how that works, right? Shoot me, I let go, and this entire camp gets vaporized.

  “I’m going to leave now,” she continued. “But I won’t go far. See that you take care of the situation in the Kivu, and then we’ll talk about how to get you to Kinshasa.”

  7

  Pinckney, New Hampshire

  Asya Machtchenko stepped out onto the porch of the Pinckney General Store and cracked the seal on the can of Java Monster Mean Bean she’d just purchased. She was still adjusting to her new life in the United States, and the list of things she disliked about it was nearly as long as those she liked, but Mean Bean was one guilty pleasure that heavily weighted the balance on the positive side.

  Pinckney wasn’t so bad. It reminded her of Peredelkino, the dacha village southwest of Moscow, where she had spent several summers during her childhood. The locals, who depended on the variable tourist economy, seemed to harbor no suspicions about this mysterious woman with the exotic accent, who had taken up residence in their midst. Yet, despite its quaint charms, sometimes Pinckney seemed as remote as a Siberian gulag.

  Her eyes were drawn to a black Lexus crunching into the gravel parking lot. Her gaze lingered on the Virginia license plates as the vehicle eased up against the curb, just beyond the porch rail. The driver, a late middle-aged man with short, steel gray hair and a face that was still handsome despite a deeply-etched map of worry lines, lowered his window without turning off the engine.

  “Pardon me,” he said, “but I think I might be lost.”

  “If you think you are lost,” Asya replied with a smile, “then it’s probably true. Where are you wanting to be?”

  “I’m supposed to meet a friend at the Bible Campground.”

  “Ah, you are true believer. You are not as lost as you think. Is close. I happen to be going that way.”

  The weary face cracked with a grin. “My lucky day. Hop in.”

  She descended the steps and found the passenger door of the Lexus open and waiting. She climbed in and slipped the Monster can into the center console cup holder before closing the door. “I think I am supposed to say something about not accepting rides from strange men,” she said.

  “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but never ‘strange.’” He gazed at her sidelong. “You look just like him.”

  She knew exactly to whom the man was referring; with her dark hair and lean features, Asya bore more than a passing resemblance to her brother—her much older brother—Jack Sigler. “Thomas thought you would say that. Is why he sent me to meet you.”

  The man, Domenick Boucher, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. “So how is your brother?”

  “I don’t really know him as well as I…” She realized how ridiculous the statement was and didn’t finish. “Older and wiser, I think you would say. Turn right and follow this road.”

  Boucher drove in silence, clearly preoccupied with whatever matter had brought him so far from the nation’s capital, and Asya was content to let him do so. They drove into the wooded outskirts of the small town and through the open gate of the Pinckney Bible Conference Grounds. Although a fully functional campground for religious retreats, its funding anonymously came from the headquarters of a very secret security organization known as Endgame, which was partially located under the grounds. Although the campground gate was never closed, it was by no means unsecure. Asya knew that their every move was being followed, and that at the first hint of danger, an armed security force would materialize out of one of the rustic cabins they were driving past, and descend on them like the proverbial ton of bricks. The park was technically open, but mid-week the place was deserted of campers.

  The Lexus cruised past the small welcome center, turned right and passed the ‘Snack Shack.’ The road became dirt as they drove into the woods, past the campground’s trailer park and onto a narrow path that wended into the forested foothills of an imposing block of granite called Fletcher Mountain. The trail ended at an overgrown trailhead parking area. Asya directed Boucher to stop there. They got out, and she led him to a small wooden outhouse near the trail signpost.

  Boucher wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Actually, I don’t really have to go that bad.”

  Asya grinned. The smell was overpowering, but the knowledge that it was just a mix of tert-butyl mercaptan and other odor-causing chemicals, and not actually raw sewage stewing in the New England sun, made it a little more tolerable. “This way, Mr. CIA.”

  The door to the outhouse was barricaded with two-by-fours and a sign proclaiming ‘Closed,’ but like the aroma, the look was merely for cosmetic effect. The door swung open revealing a spotless room, tastefully decorated in muted hues of green, and sans all plumbing fixtures, primitive or otherwise. A strong smell, like coffee mixed with cinnamon, filled the space, overpowering the offensive odor outside. When Boucher stood beside her, Asya pulled the door shut. There was a hiss and then a feeling of lightness as the floor began to descend.

  “Ah, the old secret elevator in the outhouse trick,” Boucher said. “It’s like something from a James Bond movie.”

  “Who is James Bond?” Asya said, in her thickest possible Slavic accent. She laughed as he struggled to come up with an answer. “Relax, Mr. CIA, everyone in Russia knows who James Bond is. When I was young, he was symbol of Western decadence. When I was older…come to think of it, he is still symbol of Western decadence.”

  A faint tremor marked the end of the descent, and another door slid open to reveal a luxurious room that might have been the lobby of a high-rent office building or a four-star hotel. There was only one person in the room, a fit man who looked to be in his late forties, with extremely short salt and pepper hair. It was starting to recede from a forehead that was, like Boucher’s, creased with the deep wrinkles that come with years and experience. He was the man Asya had called ‘Thomas’ but her brother and his friends always referred to him as ‘Deep Blue.’

  Boucher had a different name for him.

  “Mr. President,” he said. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

  “You had better start calling me ‘Tom.’”

  “Tom and Dom. Sounds like a bad comedy routine, but your house, your rules.”

  Deep Blue turned to Asya. “He give you any trouble?”

  She grinned mischievously. “No. I am a little disappointed.”

  “I’m glad you could come, Dom,” Deep Blue said. “I’d love to give you the nickel tour, but we’re kind of on a crisis footing at the moment, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to do business before pleasure.”

  “Ah…sure. Fire away.”

  “We’ve got a loose ball on the field.” Deep Blue briefly related the details of Chess Team’s failed mission in Suez.

  When he finished, Bou
cher’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “I wish you’d read me in on this, Tom.”

  “There were reasons why I couldn’t do that.” Deep Blue glanced at Asya, but he didn’t explain. “I couldn’t come to you until we had positive independent verification that there really was a bomb in play. We were thirty seconds from securing it when that chopper showed up. We did verify the radiation signature at least.”

  “So who was it?”

  “We don’t have a clue. My source in Moscow assures me that it wasn’t a Russian Spetsnaz unit. Honestly, I was hoping that it might be your people.”

  “You were right to turn this over to me. I’ll make sure word gets to the right people.”

  Asya got the impression that Boucher wasn’t nearly concerned enough about a missing tactical nuclear device in the hands of an unknown rogue element. Evidently, Deep Blue felt the same way. “Dom, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Boucher looked away, nervous or possibly embarrassed. “Tom, is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “We’re in a top secret, underground facility that less than a hundred people in the world know about. I’d say you can talk anywhere you like.”

  Boucher’s gaze flicked to Asya. Sensing his apprehension, she cleared her throat. “I will let you two catch up.”

  Surprisingly, it was Boucher that forestalled her. “No. Wait. Actually this is probably going to involve you as well.”

  “Me?”