Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

“Duchess, this is Ian. Usman’s surrender along with three hostages being kept offsite indicates that Boko Haram will demand a three-for-three exchange, and when that happens, we both know the Nigerians are going to give it to them.”

Duchess nodded. “I think that’s exactly why the administration agreed to hand over Usman. They want the hostages back, and if they can do that without launching another costly and high-risk military operation, so much the better.”

David interjected, “If everyone’s expecting Usman to be released, then we should stay in the country to carry out our original mission. Maybe hit him before he disappears in Boko Haram territory for another six months or more.”

“We still don’t have any official statement from Boko Haram,” Duchess said. “Forget about Usman for a moment. The administration has ordered a military and intelligence free-for-all to find the three remaining hostages, and the priority is locating them before another decapitation video surfaces. They’re giving the green light to everyone who’s offering their services, which means I can keep you in play—but only until the clock runs out.”

“Which means what,” David asked, “we go back to some grid in the Sambisa?”

She felt a vague smile playing at her lips.

“We were lucky to have the lead we did, and there is no other verifiable intelligence that would justify another special reconnaissance mission. No, David, I’ve got something much more interesting in mind for your team, and a very finite span of time where I can act on it.”

Ian spoke again, preempting her revelation. “We’re going back to the reason you sent us to Nigeria in the first place: the money trail. You’re giving us the banker.”

Her smile abruptly turned to a frown.

“‘Giving’ him to you implies a targeted killing operation. That’s not what this is.”

David asked, “Then what is it?”

“The banker has been linked with transfers of terrorist-related funding, to include acting as a courier for paper money. I’ve gained approval for an intelligence-gathering operation, on the basis that any materials recovered can be traced toward Boko Haram and provide possible leads to the hostage location or locations.”

“And if we get any intel on this Erik Weisz figure in the process—”

“So much the better,” she replied. “But that’s not our official justification, nor can it be. The point remains that we may have lost Usman, but we can continue following the lead of something bigger—albeit only until the hostages are recovered. After that, the long leash I’ve been granted gets tightened, and you’re back on a plane to the US.”

“So if we can’t kill the banker, then what can we do?”

Duchess’s gaze flicked back to her screen, where the man’s face stared back in a snapshot from his employee identification badge. She said, “He travels to and from work with a laptop in addition to one or more cell phones. You are authorized to use only non-lethal—I say again, non-lethal—force to recover those devices, along with anything else on his person. As ever, there must be nothing to indicate that the US had a hand in it.”

David sounded ambivalent. “People get mugged every day in Abuja. Push us whatever you’ve got on this guy, and we’ll get surveillance up and running by this afternoon.”

“There’s no need for that. We’ve already obtained a pattern of life based on the historical picture from his cell phone GPS. I’m looking at his full target profile, home and work addresses, and real-time cellular tracking.”

The team leader’s voice became wary. “A few days ago it was a stretch to follow Usman’s cell phone, and you’d been monitoring him for months. Where are you suddenly getting all this real-time capability?”

Duchess didn’t want to say too much—the truth was, Jo Ann’s friend in the ISA, one Ben Bailey, had been more than eager to help. The man with the New York accent hadn’t simply delivered, he’d overdelivered, using his team’s resources in Abuja to obtain local data in record time.

She admitted cautiously, “We’ve received some assistance from a forward-deployed Activity team.” Then, lifting her mug of tea without taking a sip, she continued, “And that element is monitoring phone activity from the banker’s office at this time. However he reacts to a theft of possibly incriminating devices could be just as telling as whatever you take from him—who he reports the loss to, and what he says about the theft. None of that happens unless you move on this asap; with Boko Haram likely moving for a hostage exchange any day now, we have no time to spare. Because once those American citizens are recovered, there’s a very high likelihood that the administration will pull everyone out of Nigeria, your team included. I can’t do anything to stop it. This banker represents our one and only link to Erik Weisz, and if we lose that now, we won’t get it back.”





23





Worthy sat in the passenger seat, watching the twin iron gates of the Central Bank of Nigeria building from his vantage point in a parking lot across the street.

The gates were staffed by a quartet of uniformed security officers who serviced incoming vehicles, checking identification and running a mirror wand across the undercarriage before waving drivers through. Far more prevalent at this early evening hour, however, were cars leaving the compound rather than entering. They proceeded past an automatic exit gate before turning onto the side street and disappearing from view; and so far, none of them had been Olapido Keyamo, the corrupt Nigerian bank official Worthy’s team had been authorized to shake down for intel.

Tolu spoke from the driver’s seat. “Why you not just walk up in there, take what you need like a real bank robber.”

Worthy glanced at the building, a concrete leviathan contained by a solid perimeter fence boasting all the barbed wire and security cameras he’d expect from a major financial institution located in a country with a thriving terrorist population.

“Not sure that’d work out so well. You trying to get rid of me?”

“No, I dey miss you when you go. Just tired of sitting is all.”

Worthy, for his part, had no complaints. After a long recon mission of lying in the bug-and-snake-infested brush of Boko Haram country, doing his best to ration a dwindling water supply, this assignment was like a trip to the spa. He was fed, showered, and sitting in the relatively comfortable passenger seat of a climate-controlled vehicle. Even the rap music that Tolu kept humming through the speakers didn’t bother him, which was a big leap from what he could have said on their previous drive toward the Sambisa Forest.

David transmitted, “Heads up, looks like he’s on the move.”

Worthy checked his phone display, seeing that Keyamo’s tracking beacon had indeed shifted position outside the building.

“Copy,” Worthy replied, “will advise when I get visual on the target vehicle.”

Then, to Tolu, he said, “Looks like you’re getting your wish. Should be any minute now.”

Clapping his hands together three times, Tolu gripped the steering wheel and said, “I keep my eyes out for the Benny.”

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