The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(6)

“Give me a sec to finish this e-mail. The CFO of Beltrain Communications just called. One of his guys in the Sudan was grabbed. I put Freddy on the job.” Hakan’s jacket bore his trademark elbow patches, giving him a mildly professorial air. Still, she’d trust him to watch her six any day.

“Family?” She always asked for the details, even if she wasn’t the one assigned to the case.

“Poor bastard has five kids and two ex-wives.”

That could make for a complicated case. She glanced at the clocks positioned evenly along the wall, each displaying a different time zone. Whatever time zone—or zones—this guy’s relatives were in, their world was about to change forever.

“Hey, when we get a moment, I want you to look at my latest weather-mapping patterns. They show some pretty interesting data when you correlate them to kidnap frequency and location.”

The boss was an analytics geek, deeply engrossed in the statistical side of the business. His revolutionary approaches to crunching data had helped them on more than one case.

Thea glanced over her shoulder at the whoosh of the situation-room door opening. Rif. It had been a few weeks since the Nigerian operation, but she still smoldered at the memory of his rebellious behavior.

“Ah, the prodigal son returns.” Hakan stood up and squeezed Rif’s shoulder in welcome.

“More like Rambo,” Thea said.

“You’re still pissed,” Rif observed.

“Insubordination can cost lives.”

“There wasn’t time for a chat over tea and crumpets. I took the calculated risk for you and the team,” he replied.

She turned to her boss. “Not much has changed since we were kids and he toted that toy M60 everywhere he went.” This time, his audacity had saved the hostage’s life, but more often than not that kind of breakdown in discipline could end in disaster.

Rif stepped closer to Thea. “How’s the arm?”

“Good as new.” The bullet had only grazed her triceps. She’d been very, very lucky. “And John Sampson returned to work yesterday stateside. Certainly a better result than the guy from Equipe Oil.” That man had been found nailed to a pipeline, rats chewing his face. He’d still been alive when he was picked up but barely.

Rif’s left eyebrow rose a fraction. “TIA—you know the deal.”

This Is Africa. It was a cliché, but, like all clichés, it coiled around a painful truth. Rif had become jaded after his time in the military, and his fondness for reductive comments demonstrated another cliché—there really was no “mercy” in “mercenary.”

She was grateful John Sampson had rallied, returning to his normal routine. Still, he would carry emotional scars from his ordeal that would last a lifetime. She knew from experience that, however it turned out, kidnapping transformed you. Permanently.

“I called you out of the session because Rif has critical information about Nigeria.” Hakan adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses.

Concern shadowed Rif’s eyes. “As you know, Brown hit the munitions hut we had identified, but when I was poking around looking for Sampson, I stumbled on two other huts full of explosives and weapons. I’ve since traced the source of those munitions. China.”

The hairs at the nape of Thea’s neck stood at attention. While Chinese AK-47s were ubiquitous, Chinese explosives and detonators were rarely discovered outside of state arsenals. If the Chinese were somehow involved in supplying John Sampson’s kidnappers, it could signal a significant change of players in Africa. And it could explain the skyrocketing number of successful abductions in that region.

“Brief our people on the ground in Kenya, Zimbabwe, and Somalia. We need to determine if the Chinese are playing Lord of War across the whole continent,” Hakan said before dismissing both of them.

Assessing the unsettling news, Thea turned and headed back to the conference room, where the physicians waited.





Chapter Three


Colombia

December 25

4:00 p.m.


Deep inside the FARC camp in the Colombian jungle, the international arms dealer known as Ares studied the dark-stubbled, concave face, shadowed eyes, and grease-slicked hair of the man sitting opposite him at the battered teak table. Ares had been dealing with Carlos Antiguez for seven years—seven years of wasted breath, of endless negotiations. Guerrillas weren’t what they used to be.

“Coffee?” Carlos offered.

They were long past such niceties. Ares ignored the offer. Never once looking down, he let his deft fingers repeatedly disassemble and reassemble the small music box he always carried, the poignant notes of the song it played—“Tie a Yellow Ribbon”—echoing in the back of his mind.

Carlos droned on. Ares half listened as he considered the latest text he’d received. It said that Gabrielle Farrah, a Fed who’d been futilely chasing the mythically named arms dealer known for kidnappings and arming underdog militias, was about to make a breakthrough. Ares was satisfied—that was all part of his plan.

Carlos’s mouth kept moving, but nothing inspiring came out. The bottom line? FARC wanted to expand its territory, and it was on a spending spree. But if the guerrillas really desired success, they’d need more than money.

“Four million for the Kalashnikovs, the RPGs, and the M24s.” Ares brushed away a fly hovering over his lapel. He might be wearing Armani, but he felt just as comfortable in the jungle as Carlos.