State of Emergency

CHAPTER 24


The spacious interior of the Gulfstream V gave Valentine Zamora room to stretch his legs as he reclined in one of two buttoned leather seats at the front of the cabin. Monagas sat in the other, and the gap-toothed twins lay in the settees along the cabin walls behind, each with her nose glued to a cell phone.

Zamora had a wet cloth over his eyes and his own phone pressed to his ear.

“I told you, we have nothing to worry about,” he said. Discussions like this made him want to strangle something helpless. “The move to Bolivia is a mere hiccup.”

“I understood our purchase included the use of your pipeline into the United States,” the voice on the other end said. It clicked with a thick Arab accent “The American border is a very long way from Bolivia.”

“I am aware of the geography.” Zamora clenched his teeth. “All that is left is for you to transfer the balance of what I am owed to my Cayman account. Things are already set in motion to move the product north. I have planned for all eventualities, Inshallah.” He threw out the Arabic as a statement of solidarity.

“Oh,” the voice said, unimpressed. “Make no mistake. This is most definitely God’s will. We are looking closely at the target you suggested. It seems worthy—”

Zamora rose up in his seat, ripping the wet cloth from his eyes. “Of course it is worthy!” He fought to keep from screaming. “What could possibly hurt the Americans more than this?” The call was scrambled, but he stopped short of actually naming the interfaith choir. One could never be certain of the American NSA.

“Is not the device ours once we purchase it?”

“Of course it is.” Zamora stood to pace up and down the aisle as he spoke. One of the gap-toothed twins reached out to give his leg an affectionate touch and got the back of his hand in return. “But things are already set in motion.”

“Relax,” the voice said. “We are merely exploring other avenues. My brother is looking at your route as well as your target.”

Zamora ran a hand through his hair, wracking his brain. “Do you not trust me, my friend?”

“Of course,” the voice said. “I trust—but tie my camels tightly. Before there can be a target, I need your assurance that you can actually move the device up from Bolivia.”

“You have my word,” Zamora said. “There is nothing to worry about.”

Zamora ended the call and turned to watch the clouds outside the G Five’s oval window. Of course there was nothing to worry about. Nothing but thousands of miles of jungle, poorly maintained aircraft, guerrilla armies, and the governments of most of the free world that wanted to see him killed—and that didn’t even take into account his father.

But before any of that mattered, Matthew Pollard had to make the damned thing work.