Countdown_ The Liberators Part 10

Labaan gave one last look, a look half full of regret, at Lance as he stepped off the plane. Yes, perhaps for the betterment of mankind I should have shot him. But he did, at least, refrain from shouting "Kawabunga!" when he dove for the strip. And the landing was, for a dirt field, acceptable. Even so, I predict that Allah shall punish me in the hereafter for my failure to better the lot of mankind in this one case.

Looking around, Labaan saw exactly what he expected to see, a dusty van with a couple of men in it, waiting for him and his party. The driver's seat was empty.

"Warya, Labaan," the driver called out as he stepped around the van, b.u.t.toning his fly.

"Warya, Bahdoon," Labaan called back, walking forward to shake hands with his brother and slap him on the back. He did those things, then took Bahdoon's shoulder in his hand, gripped it, and shook it. "You, Brother, are the first thing that's gone right since leaving Nigeria."

"You must tell me about it on the way."

"I will, I promise. And Suakin, it is ready?"

"Haa. Very ready. We have the archeologist uncle is supporting, the permits from the government here, the arms, the video equipment, beds, food, cooking implements . . . everything you called for in your list."

"And all the men have been strip-searched for private means of communication?"

"That, and their money has been taken away. I purchased thirty women, right here, for cooking, cleaning, and s.e.x. I promised them, as you insisted, that they would be given their freedom in three years."

"It is well, brother. And now, if you will take us to Suakin . . . "

Bahdoon nodded and said, "Surely." Then, spying Adam, he said, "The captive doesn't look like much does he?"

"I think he has a good heart," Labaan said. "But his brain is contaminated with silly European and American notions."

D-146, Suakin, Sudan

The cut and dressed coral walls were covered by a sheet. This was necessary as, so far as Labaan knew, Suakin, the ancient port on the nearly circular island in the middle of a bay, was the only town in the world, or in the history of the world, to have been made of coral building blocks. If seen, those blocks were a dead giveaway.

In front of the sheet, on a cus.h.i.+on with his arms bound behind him, Adam sat facing a video camera. There were guards beside him, but they were standing with only their legs and the bayoneted, downturned muzzles of their Kalashnikovs showing. Labaan, the interviewer, was off screen entirely. Adam's chin was sunk onto his chest, resting on the one size fits all robe they'd given him to replace the filthy clothes-mere rags now-in which he'd been taken.

"Lift his head," Labaan ordered. "Let his father, Khalid, see who he is."

A Kalashnikov muzzle moved slightly as the guard holding it s.h.i.+fted to put his fingers through Adam's hair. The boy winced as his head was pulled back, showing his face to the camera.

"Tell your father, boy, are you being, and have you been, treated well?" Labaan asked.

Despite the pain it cost him, Adam twisted his head to free it of the grasping fingers. Even so, he had taken the hint and kept his eyes on the camera lens as he answered, "I have been kidnapped, drugged, endangered, chained like an animal, and threatened with torture, mutilation and death. But I am fed and watered, and reasonably healthy, Father."

Later, after the filming was over and the disc on its way, Labaan had taken a much ashamed Adam to the guards' quarters, a rather large coral-walled barrackslike room. Unveiled women, some older, some younger, were scrubbing floors on hands and knees. They got to their feet when they saw Labaan enter.

"You're going to be with us a long time, Adam," Labaan said. "I see no reason to make your captivity any worse than it must be." His arm swept around the room, taking in the women and girls. "Pick one," he said. "Pick one for yourself to care for you and to ease the burden of your sorrows."

"I can't," the boy said. "It's wrong to enslave people, even women . . . even Christian women, as I suspect these are."

"They are," Labaan confirmed. He mused for a minute, then said, "If you can't pick one for yourself, I'll pick one for you." His eyes roamed over the women until they came to rest upon one of the younger ones, an Ethiopian, tall and slender like most of her people. She was quite pretty, Labaan thought, pretty enough to keep the boy's mind occupied. "You, girl, what's your name?"

The girl lowered her eyes and answered, "Makeda, if it pleases you."

"Don't worry about pleasing me," Labaan said. He pointed at Adam and continued, "Please him. He's your new master."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

s.h.i.+p me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; -Kipling, "Mandalay"

D-116, Yangon International Airport

The last place Terry Welch and his team wanted to be at the airport was the Theravada Buddhist Temple lookalike VIP lounge.

"I thought Burma was socialist, Terry," Rob "Rattus" Hampson said, looking out the bluish windows at the gold trim visible outside. A college boy, one who'd enlisted into special forces straight out of school under the old "X-Ray" program, Rattus made a considerable effort to keep abreast of things in the world. He could have made, indeed, had been making, quite a fine living as a physician's a.s.sistant on the outside. But when Terry had called, saying, "Free beer," the old code for "Alert," he'd looked inside himself, discovered that, deep down, he loathed civilian life, and come a runnin'.

"The original socialist dictator here," Terry answered, "was clever in many ways. One way was that instead of suppressing religion he enslaved it to the cause. Mind you, since he made any number of key decisions based on numerology, I'd suggest he was probably sincere about Buddhism, too. h.e.l.l, for that matter, adherence to Marxism requires a faith that's almost religious."

Little Joe Venegas looked around, trying very hard to keep from his face the disdain he felt. "Place gives me the creeps, and it seems so f.u.c.king obvious."

Venegas, like Hampson, had found gainful employment in the civilian world, after retiring, following the dust up in Afghanistan. In his case, though, it was in IT, since before striking for warrant he'd been a communications sergeant. Like Hampson, he hadn't really cared for civilian life. Perhaps the thing he'd loathed most was the big, bl.u.s.tering b.a.s.t.a.r.d who ran his shop. So when Buckwheat Fulton had called, pa.s.sing on Terry's message, Little Joe had walked into his boss's office and said simply, "I quit." He'd then made reservations for a flight at night, a couple of nights hence, terminated his lease, and ordered his furniture picked up and stored. Then he'd waited for his former boss to leave work, beaten the living bejesus out of him, never saying a word as he did so, and left.

"Never heard of "The Purloined Letter," Little Joe?" asked Rattus.

Joe didn't answer immediately but instead looked around at the various businessmen, jet setters, and do-gooders flying to or from the latest conference at some luxury resort. "Well, we're mostly the right age to fit in, and the suits help, but old as we are, Rattus, not a one of us has a gut to match most of these f.u.c.kers. And most of them have cell phones glued to their ears."

"Point," Hampson conceded. Then he pointed with his chin at a well dressed blonde with prominent b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "But then again, she has neither a gut nor a phone."

"Point. You figure they're natural?"

Hampson, though a former "delta," or Special Forces medic, shook his head. "Out of my league, training-wise. But probably not. There is no such perfection in nature."

"Terry," Little Joe said, nodding his head in the direction of a short and prosperous looking businessman, approaching with one underling in tow and a newspaper tucked under one of the businessman's arms. He had thin lips, long earlobes, a flat, wide nose, and the somewhat subdued epicanthic fold often found among the Burmese.

"I see our Mr. Nyein, Joe," Terry answered. "Split up, per plan."

Little Joe and Rattus Hampson cut right without another word, except to each other, heading to the lounge's bar. The other members of the team were already waiting, scattered about in ones and twos. Nyein's flunky headed towards the bar to link up with Little Joe and Rattus, and lead them to their hotel. When the other team members saw the flunky shake hands and then leave with Hampson and Venegas, they began to follow in a loose gaggle, Buckwheat taking up the rear. The flunky dialed a number on a cell phone, said nothing, then put the cell phone away.

Terry, meanwhile, took the nearest seat. Mr. Nyein sat down next to him.

Nyein opened his paper and began to read, or to seem to. His cell phone rang. He put down his newspaper, answered the call and began to speak. "Our friend Pugnacio," he said, referring to Boxer, "asked me to lend you a hand."

Terry took out his own cell and pretended to make a call. "And we appreciate this," he answered.

"The problem is, however, that the entire situation is much more complex than Pugnacio led me to believe."

"This doesn't surprise me, somehow," Terry said.

Still seeming to speak into the phone, Nyein said, "I will get up and leave. Wait two minutes and follow me but no further than the pickup ramp. I will swing by to get you in a blue BMW 328. After that . . . "

Nyein made the introductions. "Captain Welch, Major Konstantin, Mr. Naing. Captain Welch, Mr. Naing is Mr. Inning's attorney here. Major Konstantin is a . . . "

"I am a business a.s.sociate of Victor's, Captain Welch," said the major in almost accent free English.

Terry took one look at Konstantin, heard his spoken English, and said, "You're Spetznaz."

"Not precisely," the Russian corrected. "Once upon a time I was in a somewhat similar group. Now I work for Victor. It pays the bills."

"And you are here to get him out?"

Naing, as typically Burmese looking as Nyein, answered, "Everyone wants Victor freed, Captain Welch. Since Myanmar is an outcast state, the government needs him out there feeding us arms. Major Konstantin has not the connections to keep the business going . . . "

"Victor is very cagey and clever that way," Konstantin said, stone faced.

"You need what?" Nyein asked. "Arms? Transportation somewhere?" The Burmese shrugged. "No matter. While Russia itself doesn't seem to care about Mr. Inning, certain interests within Russia want him back to doing the work he does so very well. And I need to be paid."

"Which you will not be," Konstantin said, "until my princ.i.p.al is free." The Russian turned toward Terry, asking, "What is it you need with Victor?"

"I don't have the full list," Welch answered, though that was only true insofar as he didn't have the full requisition on his person. "In general terms, from him we need arms and ammunition for a small battalion, plus some special equipment, radios, night vision, and some light armored vehicles. Perhaps some few other things in his purview."

"I don't even know where he stockpiles the ammunition," Konstantin said. "I only know that he does and that he's got at least several regiments' worth of arms, to include eight hundred Abakan rifles, stashed away."

"They any good?" Terry asked. "I've never fired one."

"The Abakans? Yes, Captain, they're quite good in terms of accuracy and reliability though the ergonomics are suboptimal. My team has them here along with our version of those nonlethal electronic pistols your people seem to like. As for the Abakans, mechanical training is . . . difficult. And the sharp edges on the metal? Ouch! Not to mention the peep-"

Mr. Naing ahemed. "I hate to interrupt your professional discussion, gentlemen, but we do have a problem to solve."

"Well my people had a solution," Konstantin said, "until our helicopter broke down. Fortunately, we were not in the air at the time." The major sighed at the depravity of man. "Time after time I've told Victor, 'You must maintain the aircraft.' But would he listen? No. And we were ready to launch in three days. My men have been spending the last two weeks rehearsing, to include driving in this miserable excuse for a city."

"You have a solution provided you have a helicopter?" Terry asked.

"With Mr. Naing here, along with a certain amount of interested indifference on the part of the government, yes, we do. Why?"

Terry smiled, "Well as it so happens . . . "

What a sadness, Mr. Naing thought, that though we were a part of the British Empire, and to a considerable extent inherited the English legal system, we did not, however, opt to keep up British integrity.

On the other hand, he added, with a mental shrug, at least we can say we have honest judges who, when bought, stay bought.

Naing stood and bowed, reaching across the judge's desk to shake hands. The leather satchel he'd brought with him to the judge's office remained on the floor, even when the barrister turned to leave.

The judge could count the money in the satchel later.

D-113, Insein Jail, Yangon, Myanmar

The money had been for nothing more than to get the judge to agree to a hearing on a particular day. The money being adequate to something not outside of bounds anyway, the judge had agreed. Of course to get to the court, Victor would have to be taken from the jail where he was being held, pending trial.

Located, for the most part, within a sixteen sided, walled complex, perhaps three hundred meters in diameter, the jail was about six hundred meters from the Irrawaddy River. Insein tended toward the primitive, with most waste functions being handled by pot and bucket rather than via plumbing. It stank far, far more than the surrounding rice paddies. Insein-p.r.o.nounced "insane"-was also notorious for torturing, holding, dumping, and on occasion hanging political prisoners.

There were, however, better and worse conditions. At least one Burmese prodemocracy dissident had had a complex specially built to house her under approximately civilized conditions. Victor Inning, as someone considered by the government to be a past and potentially a future a.s.set, had also been given rather better than normal treatment.

He was unsurprised when Mr. Naing showed up at his cell door, accompanied by two guards. "Court appearance today, Victor," the Burmese lawyer said. "I've moved the judge to hear your habeas pet.i.tion ahead of schedule."

Inning nodded, stood, and began to walk to his cell door. His eyes searched Naing's face for any clue that rescue might be imminent, but the lawyer's face was set in concrete.

Seeing one of the guards holding up a pair of handcuffs, Victor turned about and placed his hands behind his back. The guard cuffed the right wrist and then the left. He tightened the cuffs, causing them to make a slight clicking sound, but no more than was required for security's sake. Inning's circulation was, in any case, not impinged upon.