Rathbun felt the vicious worm of panic twisting in his gut, gnawing his vitals. It would break him if he faced the others, registered the sudden terror on their faces.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he said.
“Step into line. We have orders and a schedule.”
“Just think it through,” Rathbun pleaded. “If Mr. Gaborone is worried about bad publicity, what does he think this will accomplish? You’ll have troops, police, God knows who else, if we don’t get to Brazzaville on time.”
The escort shrugged. “We’re ready for the day of judgment. It will come in its own time.”
It was a sob that broke the last thin shell of Rathbun’s personal composure. Ellen Friedman weeping like a child. Rathbun hardly knew what he was doing when he shouted, “Run!” and drove his right fist hard into their escort’s startled face.
He missed the bastard’s nose but felt the lips mash flat beneath his knuckles, twenty years or more since he had swung a punch that way, at some forgotten enemy from John Wayne Junior High. It staggered his opponent, gave him time to turn and flee.
Too late.
A voice behind him shouted something Rathbun couldn’t understand. He heard the first gunshots when he was still some thirty paces from the trees. Rathbun was the last American to die.
“MY CHILDREN! Harken unto me!”
Ahmadou Gaborone occupied his favorite chair, a throne of woven cane planted atop a dais in the central plaza of Obike. Nearly all of his disciples were assembled on the open ground in front of him, summoned by the clanging of a triangle to hear their lord and master’s words. His bodyguards were shooing stragglers in from here and there, to join the tense, expectant throng.
“My children,” Gaborone repeated, “we have reached a perilous, decisive moment in our history. For three days, enemies have dwelt among us. They conspired with enemies outside to fill the air with lies about Obike and myself. Unchecked, they would have turned the governments of Brazzaville and Washington against us.”
Murmurs from the audience. Quick glances here and there from nervous eyes, as if his people thought the enemies might suddenly appear beside them.
“I have acted as a leader must, to spare his people,” Gaborone continued. “On my order to the guardsmen of Obike, the intruders have been neutralized. They are no more.”
That sent a ripple of surprise through the assembled crowd. Some of his followers were clearly frightened now. The master raised his hands, then stood when the familiar gesture failed to silence them.
“My children! Hear me!” he commanded. “Have no fear of those outside. You know that Judgment Day must come upon us in its own good time. Nothing we do can hasten or delay the hour of atonement. We shall someday face the test against our enemies. Whether tomorrow or ten years from now, I cannot say until the word is given from on high.”
“Master, preserve us!” someone cried out from the audience.
“I shall,” the prophet replied. “Fear no outside force or government. No man can harm us unless God permits it, and He never leaves His faithful children to be slain unless they first fail in their duties owed to Him.”
“What shall we do, Master?” another voice called from his right.
“Stand fast with me,” he answered. “Do God’s bidding as it is revealed to you, through me. With faith in Him, we cannot fail. His grace and power shield us from our worldly enemies and all their schemes. While we are faithful, those who threaten us are vulnerable to God’s holy cleansing fire.”
“Amen!” a handful of his children shouted, others taking up the chant until it seemed to echo from a single giant throat.
“Amen!” he thundered back at them. “Amen!”
Nico Mbarga stood beside the dais, waiting for Gaborone to step down and retreat from his throne. The chanting of “Amen!” continued even after he had left the audience, continued until he was well inside his quarters with Mbarga, just the two of them alone.
“Tell me again, Nico,” he said, “why you are certain that the bodies won’t be found.”
“We burned them, Master, and their ashes have been scattered in the jungle.”
“What of their effects? The camera? The other things?”
“Buried,” Nico assured him. “Buried deep.”
“There will be questions.”
Nico shrugged. “We saw them board the plane and fly away.”
“What of the pilot?”
“He has sisters in Obike. He will land in Brazzaville on schedule. How can he explain the disappearance of his passengers, once they departed from his care?”
“It’s not much of a story, Nico.” Gaborone sometimes enjoyed being the devil’s advocate.
“It is enough, Master,” the bodyguard replied. “We pay the Brazzaville police enough to close their eyes.”
“But what of Washington? Their President wields power, even here. Their dollars buy compliance.”
“You believe they’ll crack the pilot?” Mbarga asked.
“Given time and the incentive, certainly.”
“I’ll see to it myself,” Mbarga said.
“Soon, Nico. Soon.”
“I’ll leave tonight, Master.”
“How many sisters of the pilot share our faith?”
“Three, master.”
“Take one of them with you to the city.”
“Sir?”
“If he should simply die, more questions will be raised. A scandal in the family, however, raises issues the police can swiftly put to rest.”
“A scandal in the family.” Mbarga seemed to understand it now.
“Sadly, not everyone shares our view of morality.”
“No, sir. The woman—”
“Tell her she’s been chosen for a mission in the city. Flatter her, if necessary. Has she any special skills.”
Mbarga shrugged. “I don’t know, Master.”
“Think of something. Use your powers of persuasion, Nico. I’m convinced that you can do it.”
Meaning that he didn’t want the woman dragged aboard a Jeep, kicking and screaming. He didn’t want her spreading stories to her sisters or to anybody else during the short time left before her one-way trip to Brazzaville.
“It shall be done, Master.”
“I never doubted you. And, Nico?”
“Master?”
“Make me proud.”
CHAPTER ONE
Airborne: 14° 2’East, 4°8’South
The aircraft was a Cessna Conquest II, boasting a forty-nine-foot wingspan and twin turboprops with a maximum cruising speed of 290 miles per hour. It had been modified for jumping by removal of the port-side door, which let wind howl throughout the cabin as it cruised around eleven thousand feet.
The air was thin up there, but the aircraft was still below the level where Mack Bolan would’ve needed bottled oxygen to keep from blacking out. His pilot, Jack Grimaldi, didn’t seem to feel the atmospheric change, although he’d worn a leather jacket to deflect the chill.
Twenty minutes out of Brazzaville