Rare Earth (4 page)

H
alf an hour later, the women dispersed. One of the chief's wives had emerged and spoke softly with those gathered. Afterward the women simply drifted away, one by one, until only a few children and a homeless pie dog remained.

Marc soon noticed a distinct change to the compound's atmosphere. People were not especially friendly. This was, after all, a refugee camp in a time of severe crisis. But the central area and its personnel seemed to accept him as one of their own. The medical staff no longer took their cues from Kitra and froze him out. When he approached the empty godown where the soldiers had established their guard station, they made room for him with easy familiarity.

Soon after, the elders sent Marc the gift of a live chicken. The soldiers laughed so loud and hard they drew stares from the medical tent. The chicken was a scrawny beast with mangy gray feathers and fierce red eyes. The cook accepted it with a cheery offer to stew it all day and all night. The soldiers assured Marc it would remain tough and tasteless as boiled boot.

A nurse and a medical technician joined Marc for lunch. They fumbled through a discussion of the food and the camp in broken English. The nurse translated a sign over the access slot where food was served:
Eat! Drink! You need 2,000 calories and 3 liters of liquid each day to do your job!
Marc understood the sign's purpose. He also felt the guilt of being seated beneath rotating fans, eating hot food, drinking clean water while around him people faced the daily terror of starvation.

As the medical team left the dining hall, the technician called back through the screen wall and noise erupted from his mates. The nurse translated, “A UN chopper arrives.”

“When?”

“Soon. Perhaps this evening, but more likely tomorrow. There are many camps to visit. They are excited because it brings mail and perhaps a new doctor.” She gave a coquettish smile. “You will not be leaving us, I hope.”

Marc thanked her and rose with the others. He headed for the one individual not looking his way. He would have liked to give Kitra more time to see him for what he was, not the company he represented. But he had no idea what change the inbound chopper might bring. This connection was suddenly urgent.

Kitra blanched at his approach. “Go away.”

“We need to talk.”

“You are the
enemy
.”

A departing nurse called over a question in French.

Marc leaned in closer, ignoring how Kitra recoiled from him. “I'm here because of you. Your five emails and the phone messages about your missing brother. They got through.”

Her loathing turned to fearful confusion. “What are you saying?”

“Your brother was not kidnapped by Lodestone. People have checked. From the inside. I'm here because we think his disappearance is tied to something much larger.”

“Words,” Kitra said. But the heat was gone from her eyes and her voice. “I have been lied to by so many. Better than you.”

The nurse spoke again in French. Kitra glanced over, uncertain now, and waved the nurse away. Marc went on, “Think about what you have seen. I brought food. I helped get it to the people in need. I showed the elders and Charles respect. I have—”

“Serge was taken eight days ago. Why are you so long in coming?”

“Because we had to see if there was a link.”

“So in truth you are not here for my brother.” Her tone was hard. “You do not worry over him at all.”

Marc slid into the seat opposite her. “Think about it. I have been inserted into a critical situation. After an investigation that has stretched across three continents. No matter how much you love your brother, even you have to accept that more is at stake than one man's disappearance.”

“I am still thinking you are the enemy.” But the words held a dullness, as though she was repeating a mental litany that had lost all meaning. “A wolf trying to bleat like a lamb.”

Marc waited.

She stared out beyond the screen entry, then said, “We will go and sit where the others can see. And you will tell me why I should trust you, even a little.”

The wind picked up as they rounded the dining hall, blowing straight from the north. They sat by the baobab tree that dominated the compound's rear area. Giant roots protruded from the earth, forming an irregular circle of benches. Kitra made a process of selecting her place. Marc stood where he could be clearly seen by everyone inside the medical facility.

“What do you intend to do with the prisoners?”

“I am open to suggestions.”

“You must move them into the shade. Give them food and water.”

Marc turned and walked to the empty godown. Charles was away somewhere inside the camp. But Kamal caught the meaning of Marc's gestures and ordered his men into action. The attackers, reduced to limp submission, were resettled inside the godown's shade and offered canteens. Marc returned to the tree.

Kitra greeted him with, “Why you?”

Marc took that as an invitation, and settled himself on a root facing the woman. “Recently I helped rescue other kidnap victims.”

“Here in Kenya?”

“No. They were taken in Baghdad. We recovered them in Iran.”

She somehow managed to shrink further inside herself, a dark-haired woman enclosed in a fist of grief and loss. “Is this a joke?”

“I'm not suggesting your brother's disappearance is the same. I'm just trying to say that I'm good at my job.”

“I'm afraid to trust you.” Her words were softer than the wind rushing through the leaves overhead. “I'm afraid to hope.”

Kitra's expressive features and thick hair lent her a distinctly Mediterranean flair. Her eyes were rounded by tragedy so great she looked perpetually ready to weep, if only she could find more tears.

Marc hesitated, then quoted, “‘What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them?'”

Kitra looked at him. Really looked.

He went on, “You and your brother are here living your faith through deeds. So am I. Sooner or later you are going to have to accept the fact that I'm not your foe. There is too much evidence to the contrary.”

“But you work for Lodestone.”

“For the past two weeks.”

A single tear emerged and trickled down her cheek. He had not noticed how her skin bore a faint sheen of ash until the tear washed a channel clean. “And before that?”

Marc stretched out his legs. “It's a long story.”

A
fter Baghdad, Marc's life never went back to normal. In fact, Marc decided the best way to handle his situation was to stop trying to define what normal was.

For eight months after returning from Iraq, Marc lived in a state of limbo. He was officially on interim leave from the Baltimore accounting group. But only because Ambassador Walton had ordered it. Marc thought he would return to State Department Intel, where he had been before his wife's illness. Before Walton had fired him for taking unpaid leave. Before Marc had nursed his wife and then buried her. Before he'd meandered through days devoid of hope and purpose and passion. Before he'd woken up and rediscovered life again. In Baghdad.

As far as the other members of his accounting firm were concerned, Marc remained buried deep in some faceless Washington building, handling a chore so toxic that the full-time GAO accountants refused to touch it. The story planted by Walton's minions was so effective, Marc's Baltimore co-workers waited expectantly for his ultimate failure.

Marc had indeed been kept busy. Upon arriving back from Baghdad, Walton had dragged him to debriefings in the Pentagon, the OEOB, Langley, even one in the White House basement. None of the attendees had ever been named. Marc had remained sequestered in one hallway after another, then brought in and questioned and dismissed. The one time he had asked Walton who they were, the ambassador had simply replied, “Deniability, son. It's all important in this day and age.”

When his debriefings were completed, Marc had been sent out for refresher courses at Fort Benning's FLETSE training grounds—covert intelligence practices, surveillance, black ops, armed and unarmed combat, latest intel technology. After that, he had spent three months in the State Department warren known as the Iraq Desk. Then had come an unexpected, and unexplained, surprise; Marc spent ten weeks with the East Africa analysts at Langley. Every week or so, Walton checked in by phone, never for more than a minute. Just letting Marc know he was not forgotten.

Five weeks earlier, in the hour before dawn, all this had changed.

That morning, Marc had been contemplating a possible leap from the grid, Intel-speak for going rogue. Marc was increasingly tempted by the idea of leaving the safety of official duty and working for an independent contractor. He was tired of playing a cog in someone else's machine, waiting for the unseen hand to reach out and wind him up. He had been telling himself for weeks that it was time to take the jump. If only he could convince himself it was true.

The cellphone's buzz had cut short his internal debate. When Marc answered, Walton said, “I need you.”

“When?”

“The car is downstairs.” Walton cut the connection. Ever the conversationalist.

Marc took his time. He stretched and showered and shaved. He made coffee and drank a cup. He left the house just as his cellphone buzzed again. He did not bother answering.

The driver waited for Marc to slip in beside him, passed over a manila folder, and pulled from the curb. The only words he spoke were, “You have eighty minutes to memorize the file.”

When they entered predawn Washington and turned onto Sixteenth Street, Marc wondered if they were headed for the White House. But they pulled up to the Hay Adams Hotel, where another dark-suited agent, a female this time, spoke into her wrist mike before telling Marc, “Suite six-nineteen.”

The hotel was quiet. Two weary custodians pushed vacuum cleaners. The concierge glanced his way, noted the agent dogging Marc's steps, and returned to his computer screen. This close to the center of power, the arrival of another hard-faced staffer was not interesting.

The suite was a lovely rendition of the hotel's earliest days, when presidents slipped away from the new White House to smoke cigars and talk power off-the-record. The elm wainscoting glowed warmly; the parquet floors creaked a comfortable welcome. The high ceiling was domed and frescoed and crowned by a crystal chandelier.

A third agent ushered Marc into the parlor and slipped from the room.

Only when the door shut behind the departing agent did Walton say, “This meeting is not taking place.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Have a seat.” Ambassador Walton had grown stouter in the months since Marc had last seen him. The age spots on his bald pate were larger. The skin folded over his starched collar, and the voice was reedy. Only his gaze was the same, gray and fierce and laser-sharp. “Coffee and such at your elbow.”

“I'm good, sir.”

“This gentleman has a problem.” Walton's cuff link flashed as he motioned to the stranger and said, “It's your show.”

“I'm head of UN Internal Security, based in New York, with a second office in Geneva,” the man began. “My team has been placed in an impossible situation. The ambassador thinks you may be able to help.”

The man's accent was subtle, his English excellent. Marc's first impression was German; then he decided that was wrong. Dutch, perhaps, or Danish. His fluency suggested a combination of early years in this country and a natural gift with other tongues.

“I direct a component of the United Nations security. On paper, we have a large remit and almost unlimited authority. In reality we have become caged by protocol and a lack of funds.”

Only when the man rose and began pacing did Marc realize how tall he was. Marc guessed his height at somewhere around seven feet. He favored his left leg, but at the same time paid it no mind, which suggested a well-healed wound that had simply become a part of who he was.

“Recently we have become aware of a possible internal problem. Corruption, bribery, collusion.”

“All the things which, if revealed, would add ammunition to those who want America to withdraw from participating in the UN at all,” Walton interjected.

“We have no direct evidence,” the tall UN security chief went on. “But it appears that someone with very real power is directing lucrative supply contracts to a corporate ally in return for kickbacks.”

Marc named the group in the manila file he had left with the limo driver. “Lodestone Associates.”

“Lodestone is a major provider of armed security services. They have an excellent reputation for training police forces. Another division has been involved for over a decade in supplementing UN security details when we become overstretched. Three years ago they acquired a third group. Medevac helicopters, field hospitals, personnel. Last year they added a fourth.”

“Emergency relief supplies,” Marc said, mostly to let the man know he was on the same page.

“This is a logical move. They have the connections. Their forces are often first on the ground. They know the players, the people who would issue the contracts.”

“But you suspect something.”

“Their growth rate is astounding. In the ten months since Lodestone acquired the supply group, they have increased turnover almost tenfold.”

When the man went silent, Walton said, “Tell him the rest.”

The man slipped back into his chair. He picked up the injured leg and dropped it over his other knee. The chandelier took the sharp angles of his face and created deep caverns. Marc liked the man's strength, his disregard for his own discomfort. He said, “Now we are moving from what we know to what we fear.”

“I understand.”

“We have received some very troubling rumors from our allies in the field. Lodestone may not be satisfied with merely winning new contracts. They may be attempting something far worse.”

“Such as?”

“We have no idea.”

Walton said, “One division helping another to gain new business is standard tactics.”

“Not if their business is built upon graft and corruption,” the man barked. “Not on my watch.”

Walton offered Marc a tight smile. Marc nodded agreement. This man was one of their own.

“We suspect that Lodestone has become involved in other, more nefarious operations. Netting them hundreds of millions of dollars.”

He stumbled slightly on that word,
nefarious
. Marc decided the man was definitely Dutch. “I don't get it,” Marc said. “If they're involved in such huge ventures, it doesn't make sense that they'd worry about medical supplies.”

“Explain,” Walton demanded.

“The risk of discovery is the same. But if they're caught at this smaller game, they give you a reason to question their larger enterprises.”

“I happen to agree with you,” the man said to Marc. “And I wonder if perhaps more than medical supplies are involved in this new operation.”

“They could use the legitimate operations to hide something dirty,” Marc said. “What evidence do you have?”

“None. We do not know for certain what Lodestone is after.”

The man rubbed a spot on his wounded leg, six inches above the knee. The trouser leg indented deeply. Marc decided it was a bullet wound. The man had taken a hit to his thigh, and come back. Marc said, “But you suspect.”

“We prefer not to discuss what could be total speculation,” the man replied. “We would prefer an outsider to go in with no preconceived notions.”

Marc gave voice to what the man was probably thinking. “To maintain a major illegal operation over time, they will need protection from within the procurement system. Someone high up inside the UN may be shielding their activities from view. If they are indeed involved in illegal activities.”

The security chief studied Marc intently. “What would you suggest we do?”

“Plant someone inside Lodestone. If a number of divisions are involved in an illegal operation, there's bound to be a trail.”

The man lifted his gaze and spoke directly to Walton for the first time. “I concur with your assessment of this gentleman. He is precisely what we are after.”

“Told you he was good,” Walton muttered.

The man said to Marc, “You will be fitted into Lodestone's new humanitarian-supply division as an accountant. One of their principal subcontractors will suggest you as a field officer of merit. This division has outstripped Lodestone's current field staff. They are actively recruiting.”

“Where am I going?”

“We have recently received word of an abduction. The missing man, Serge Korban, is an Israeli medical technician assigned to a French-run refugee camp in western Kenya. So far as we have been able to determine, Serge Korban has no direct connection to Lodestone. But his sister has repeatedly insisted that Lodestone is behind his disappearance.”

“There's more,” Walton said.

“There has to be,” Marc agreed. “For the White House to have an interest, we've got to be talking about more than another case of bureaucratic corruption, no matter how big.”

The unnamed security chief said, “We are hearing rumors of an international smuggling operation.”

“One that could have serious implications for U.S. interests,” Walton added. “At the highest level.”

“Our problem,” the security chief went on, “is that at present we have no hard evidence. None whatsoever.”

Walton said, “We think it would be best for you to go in with an open mind. Check into this situation without bias.”

“See if your findings tally with what we are hearing,” the security chief added. “We simply want you to see if there is any evidence of wrongdoing, and what possible connection Lodestone might have to this Israeli's disappearance.”

“Why aren't the Israelis involved?”

“Officially, they are,” Walton replied. “A complaint has been lodged, both by their embassy in Nairobi and from the government in Tel Aviv. But nothing more.”

“Which is understandable,” the security chief said. “The only indication we have of wrongdoing comes from his sister. Kitra Korban serves as a nurse in the same camp from which Serge was abducted. We have also received a rather vague confirmation from our field agent.”

“Can I make contact with your source?”

“Most certainly,” the man replied, going grimmer still. “If only we could locate him. But he has been missing now for a week, and we fear the worst. I urge you to take great caution, Mr. Royce. Whatever it is Lodestone hides, they value it far more than the odd human life.”