He awoke just before first light. Her lips were grazing his forehead in a silent thanks. Then she slipped from the bedroom, softly closing the door. When next he saw her, eating breakfast with Atiku Bara, the only sign that their night was not a dream was the faintest smile in her deep brown eyes.
A
T TEN O’CLOCK,
Dave Rubin appeared at the gate of the compound in a black Mercedes-Benz. Parked across the street were the omnipresent men
from state security. Pierce climbed into the Mercedes. Inclining his head toward their minders, Rubin said, “I thought it would be better to have this conversation in person.”
Pierce nodded. “You safe here?”
“Think so. FREE knows who to kidnap; their spies at PGL give them descriptions of executives who’ll fetch the highest price.” Rubin shifted into drive. “You’ve developed an interest in helicopters. Ever fly in one?”
“Never wanted to.”
“Too bad,” Rubin answered. “For privacy, you can’t beat it.”
T
HE STATE SECURITY
men followed them to the airstrip, a patch of cement near the harbor. Waiting was a gray helicopter marked only by numbers. “Thought I’d show you Petrol Island,” Rubin explained.
This was better than a tunnel or a prison cell, Pierce consoled himself. He clambered up into the passenger seat. Rubin pushed some buttons; above them the blades rotated with a thud that caused the helicopter to vibrate. Both men put on headphones, enabling them to communicate above the deafening noise. Then, as though lifted by a hydraulic force, the helicopter jumped straight up. After a vertiginous dip that made Pierce queasy, the chopper stabilized, rising high above the harbor. Pierce looked down at the dirty water, the rusted hulls, the fleets of oil freighters. “Tell me about Ugwo Ajukwa,” he said.
Rubin adjusted his sunglasses. “He met Van Daan through the agency, when both were on our payroll. Ajukwa had a piece of the diamond-smuggling business in Angola and needed someone lacking scruples to help him on the ground. Hence Van Daan.
“Later, we think, Van Daan may have helped Ajukwa move bunkered oil to a refining facility in Angola—”
“That’s a funny qualification for becoming PGL’s security guy.”
“Not really. Van Daan surely understands the problem.” Rubin adjusted the controls. “Put it this way: Ajukwa knows Van Daan’s abilities, and Van Daan has enough leverage with Ajukwa to use him as a reference. The question becomes whose interests Van Daan serves—Ajukwa’s or PGL’s. Or both.”
Pierce gazed out at the blue horizon. “Can’t be both. If Ajukwa’s involved with FREE in moving oil bunkered from PGL, then Van Daan may be. Does Gladstone know?”
“He suspects. As you may have observed, doing business in Luandia requires a degree of willful blindness.”
“And Okimbo?”
“Has historic ties to Karama, of course. More recently, to Ajukwa. So it’s possible to imagine an Ajukwa-Van Daan-Okimbo axis.” Rubin grinned. “But that’s the problem with Luandia, isn’t it? You can imagine so many things that your chances of being wrong are almost perfect.”
“Still,” Pierce said, “it’s logical to wonder why Karama, as paranoid as he is, makes a man with ties as complex as Ajukwa’s his national security adviser.”
“Because
of those ties, in part. We’ll get to that in a moment.” Rubin pointed out the windshield toward Petrol Island. “Take a look.”
The island was flat and grassy. Down its center a well-paved four-lane road ran from one end to the other, connecting a refining facility that featured enormous storage cylinders with a residential compound that, from Pierce’s vantage point, looked like a gated community in Houston or Miami bordered by an airstrip, two soccer fields, and a golf course. At the water’s edge was an oil platform, resembling a squat stationary ship with steel railings, along with, Rubin explained, a storage tank for volatile liquid gas. In a curvature on the opposite shore nestled a harbor that housed speedboats, the principal transport to the mainland for residents and workers. The one unexpected feature seemed lifted from Port George: a shantytown near the harbor.
Rubin slowed the chopper, causing it to glide downward so that it hovered closer to the ground. “Let me give you a brief review on General Freedom,” he said. “His true name’s Soboma Henry. You already know he’s a Muslim convert who received military training in Libya through the largesse of Colonel Qaddafi. Beyond the fact that Freedom acquired a certain tactical ability, State, Defense, and the CIA are still debating about precisely what that means. Politically, the general advocates a program drawn from Bobby Okari’s, but in the service of a criminal enterprise he justifies as his only financial recourse. Some believe that he’s at least marginally sincere. For sure, he’s clever and articulate. So is Jomo: as I told you, one theory is that they’re the same guy.”
“You never quite said what
you
think.”
Rubin lowered the chopper still farther, his sharp features in profile as he gazed keenly at the harbor. “I rather like the idea that Jomo is an
arms merchant or a shady financier with ties to an international criminal cartel. But in Luandia, he could even be someone like Ajukwa.”
Surprised, Pierce turned to him. “Are you serious?”
“Semi. But I could never work out all the implications.” Rubin nodded toward the windshield. “Look down at the harbor. Notice anything?”
“No traffic?”
“Exactly. Those who live here almost never leave now. Petrol Island is safer, they believe, and it has all the comforts of home—a health club, a movie theater, and plenty of security fences.”
“Do you think it’s safe?”
“No. Neither does someone like Van Daan, I imagine. Though raiding Petrol Island would be more brazen than seems reasonable. The militias have easier pickings on the mainland.”
Pierce gazed out at the refinery. “How critical are the facilities?”
“They’re significant. One plant processes crude oil into petroleum; another takes raw gas—the stuff PGL flares elsewhere—and processes, cools, and liquefies it, then ships it off to Europe for use in power stations. Gladstone’s idea is that Petrol Island provides an alternative to gas flaring with benefits for all, if only because acid rainfall won’t be eating through the tin roofs of the impoverished.” Caught in a downdraft, the chopper dipped sharply, taking Pierce’s stomach with it until Rubin reasserted his control. “That shantytown you see is the island’s greatest amenity, Hooker Village.”
Inhaling deeply, Pierce gazed down at the floating slum. “Named for its residents, I assume.”
“Yup. They’re an essential part of the ecology, conveniently located. See the side road from the highway to the shacks?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The common practice is for a man to leave work, stop at Hooker Village like he’s picking up a video, and take a woman to the compound for the night.” Rubin glanced at Pierce. “At the gate to the compound, George or Buster checks her in at the security gate, taking responsibility for her actions until he drops her off again. Very corporate. PGL even keeps a registry of names.”
Beneath them, Pierce saw a thin woman in a bandanna hang a dress on the sill of a broken window. Then Rubin accelerated the chopper sharply upward, veering back toward Port George. “There’s one subject
you haven’t raised,” he told Pierce. “Ever think about the market in oil futures?”
“Not since Bryce Martel mentioned that at dinner. I thought it was a throwaway line.”
“Maybe not. You know how oil futures work?”
“Sure,” Pierce answered. “Today the world price of oil is a hundred bucks a barrel. For a fraction of the cost, I can buy the right to purchase a million barrels at a hundred and five in two weeks’ time. If it’s over a hundred and five on the date I’ve got to exercise my option—say, a hundred and ten—I make five dollars for each barrel I sell. That’s a five-million-dollar profit.”
“Exactly. And if the world price rises, say, thirty dollars instead of ten, the profits are that much bigger. So let me ask you this: what’s the futures play on Okari’s execution?”
Pierce was startled. “If you’re asking about the effect on the world price of oil, I’d guess that if Bobby dies, it goes up.”
“Way
up, given the fear of further instability in the delta. Which brings me back to Ugwo Ajukwa.
“You asked why Karama trusts him. Karama trusts no one. But Ajukwa has ties to America—power brokers, moneymen,
and
the CIA—that makes him useful to Karama. A prudent autocrat would want to keep a man like Ajukwa close enough to watch.”
“Why the ties to Washington?”
“One of the reasons Ajukwa signed up with the CIA for a while was to help him amass political power—which, in Luandia, also means financial power. That’s why he was in diamonds; that’s why—or so we believe—he’s involved with FREE in bunkering oil. Some within the Agency also believe that Ajukwa is now connected to a Swiss arms dealer, Alois Shue, who’s begun supplying FREE with advanced weapons, like surface-to-air missiles, paid for by the Russian government.”
Astonished, Pierce asked, “What’s the point of that?”
“Power. For example, if FREE can shoot down any helicopters—for instance, those used by PGL to repair facilities—that could affect oil supply. Which, in turn, makes Russia more important in the world oil market. Problem is that Shue is also helping the CIA supply anti-Taliban forces in Afghanistan, so no one wants to push this theory too hard. It all gets pretty diabolical.” Throttling down, Rubin lowered the chopper to
scan Port George Harbor. “For your purposes, the most interesting rumor is that Ajukwa’s partners may also include financial types with ties to the current American administration, whose political influence, in turn, helps them make more money. One of these men, Henry Karlin, is unusually successful at trading in oil futures.”
Staring at Rubin, Pierce processed this. “Which brings us back to Luandia.”
“Sure. Consider what crises might affect the world price of oil. The most obvious are Iran going nuclear and a total meltdown in Iraq. But our oil strategists have placed a huge bet on Luandia, which magnifies the price effect of any event that signals volatility. When PGL shut down in Asariland, the world price per barrel shot up six dollars in a day. All you needed to know was exactly when someone would hang those workers.”
Pierce shook his head. “Hard to imagine that as a futures play.”
“Is it?” Rubin turned to Pierce, his expression as serious as his tone. “In the last year, three acts of sabotage by FREE drove the price of oil sharply higher. Suppose FREE blows up a couple of facilities, or seizes an offshore oil platform and kills whoever’s there. Or maybe Jomo announces that all oil workers must leave or die, or some act of sabotage creates a massive oil spill in the Gulf of Luandia. If you were speculating in oil futures, wouldn’t you like to know about events like these before they happened?”
Pierce rubbed his eyes; the constant pounding of the chopper blades had caused a throbbing in his temples. At length, he said, “Including the fact and timing of Bobby’s execution.”
Rubin nodded. “At some point, Karama will decide whether and when Bobby Okari will die. The word I have is that Ajukwa is pressing for his execution on the grounds that Bobby is a secessionist threat. In addition to the patriotic virtue of putting a bullet through Okari’s brain, there just might be some money in it.”
Pierce watched his face. Though Rubin had come to him through Martel, Pierce’s paid consultant, that did not preclude one or both from having other interests. But what those might be, Pierce did not know and could not ask. Finally, he said, “What are you telling me, Dave?”
Rubin seemed to weigh his answer. “Just to think about the futures market. It may be part of what, in the end, helps you make sense of the senseless. Like Okari says, oil kills.”
Abruptly, Rubin dropped the helicopter toward the airstrip. When they landed, the men from the state security services were parked near Rubin’s Mercedes.
R
EACHING THE OKARIS’
compound, Pierce went upstairs to check his e-mail.
A message from Rachel Rahv was marked “urgent”: “PGL is finally giving up Trevor Hill tomorrow. Will you depose him, or should I?”
Without responding, Pierce checked the next e-mail. “Good,” Jomo had answered. “Your friend will help lead you to my friend.”
Gazing at the screen, Pierce felt Atiku Bara behind him. Slowly turning, he said, “Are
you
my friend, Bara?”
The lawyer was expressionless. “I’m known to them,” he answered. “You recall the man I spoke with in the Rhino Bar, the night FREE killed that soldier?”
“Of course.”
“We’re on different sides, but he knows I won’t betray him. That’s why Jomo contacted me, I’m sure. I’ve become your character reference.”
Pierce turned back to the screen. When Bara had gone, he replied to Rachel Rahv: “Hill is yours. For now, I’m staying in the delta.”
J
OMO’S REPLY INSTRUCTED
P
IERCE TO MEET A STRANGER IN
P
ORT
George.
Sitting on the patio, he repeated this to Marissa and Bara. Marissa shook her head. “To meet openly in a city? Why is FREE so confident you both won’t be arrested?”
Pierce glanced at Bara. Leaning forward, Marissa gazed at Pierce with new intensity. “Suppose FREE and their friends in government are looking to get rid of you. You agree to go, and then vanish in the swamps. It’s perfect for them: there’d be no one’s fingerprints on your disappearance, no lawyers to take your place. I don’t like the way this feels.”
Her words struck Pierce hard; by stating his own fears so concisely, Marissa deepened them. Bara still watched Marissa. “Why murder Damon?” he asked her.
“Because they can.” Her voice was raw with anger. “Because Damon has brought his law firm’s resources to bear. Because he’s trouble. Why would whoever lynched those oil workers stop there?”
“Perhaps they wouldn’t,” Bara answered calmly. “But we don’t even know who ‘they’ are. That’s what Damon’s hoping to find out.” He turned to Pierce. “The man you’re meeting is the one I encountered in Port George. He wouldn’t knowingly betray me.”