State of Emergency

CHAPTER 7


5:15 PM GMT

Guinea-Bissau, West Africa





Valentine Zamora blotted his lips with a folded handkerchief and smiled sweetly.

“I’m sure we can reach some form of agreement that is . . . mutually beneficial,” he said.

His Portuguese was better than his Russian, which was the main reason he liked to do business in this particular backwater republic. Beyond the language, the added benefit of working in one of the poorest countries in the world was that officials were more easily bought. Mafia states, they called them. U.S. pundits ranked Zamora’s own Venezuela among such mafia states where the criminal enterprises were not only condoned, but intermingled with the business of government. From what he knew of his father’s drug empire, Valentine could hardly disagree.

Outside, a pleasant ocean breeze rustled feathery albizia trees, carrying their faintly sweet odor of tobacco, but the interior of the metal airplane hangar was stifling. The smell of jet fuel and burned engine oil hung heavy on the humid air. Monagas stood back a few steps beside a rusted single-engine Piper Cherokee that, amazingly enough, had flown in a few minutes before with General Alberto Kabbah and his aide, both of the Bissau-Guinean military. The men wore freshly pressed olive-green uniforms and sat on metal chairs behind a long folding table in the center of the hangar, as if holding court. The general wore a dress hat complete with gold scrambled eggs on the brim to befit his high rank and status. His chest held more varied medals than Idi Amin.

“Negotiations are a fluid thing,” General Kabbah said, taking a drink from a bottle of Aquafina. He had an annoying way of smacking his lips that made Zamora want to cut them off.

“Yes, they are indeed,” Zamora said, working to keep his voice low and even. “But need I remind you, General, that I have been doing business with your military for almost a decade? Your predecessor grew quite rich from our dealings before his . . . untimely death.”

Kabbah smiled, showing what looked like more than his fair share of teeth. Everyone in the country knew he had murdered his former boss to take the post of general for himself.

“Our arrangement is a win-win for you,” Zamora continued. “You are paid handsomely to look the other way when drug shipments arrive from South America. Then we pay you to look the other way a few moments longer while we put my merchandise on the same plane for the return flight. You are, in effect, getting paid double for an extra two hours of doing nothing.”

The drug flights coming to West Africa were from Venezuela and organized by Zamora’s father. The elder Zamora knew nothing of the return loads of illicit weapons or the extra risk involved, but the general did not need to be bothered with such trivial details.

General Kabbah replaced the lid on his Aquafina bottle, gave the annoying pop of his lips, then set the water on the table in a show of finality. He leaned back to fold his hands across a round belly. “Still—” He smacked his lips, giving a long sigh. “The risks are greater than they used to be. The World Customs Organization and Interpol snoop around more and more each year. I would hope that larger risk would bring a more substantial reward.”

“How much more substantial?” Zamora rubbed his chin, expecting this.

“Double,” the general said. “But you would have my personal guarantee the price would not go up during my lifetime.”

“I see,” Zamora said.

Kabbah nodded his jowly head. “And I would need certain assurances that I won’t end up in prison.”

“You may rest assured,” Zamora said. “I won’t let that happen.”

“Very well,” General Kabbah said. “If we are in agreement. You may resume shipments on return flights as soon as the first payment arrives in my account.” He gestured to his aide. “Major Bundu will see to the particulars.”

“After the money arrives in your account?” Zamora ground his teeth. He gave the slightest flick of his wrist.

Monagas stepped forward with an aluminum briefcase. Instead of setting it on the table, he made a motion of giving it to the general, then smashed it edgewise into the man’s face. Before Kabbah could react, Monagas drew a pistol from behind his back and shot him twice in the forehead. He pitched forward, slamming against the table, arms dangling at his sides.

A plume of blue smoke curled from the muzzle of Monagas’s pistol.

Major Bundu sat with his mouth agape, mesmerized at the pool of blood that blossomed from under the bill of the general’s fancy green hat on the white Formica tabletop.

“Now, Major . . . pardon me, General Bundu,” Zamora said. “You see how I keep my promises? Kabbah will never end up in prison.”

Bundu gulped but said nothing.

“Where I come from we have a saying.” Zamora stepped forward to push the aluminum case across the table. He gestured for the newly promoted general to open it. “Plata o plomo. It does not translate quite so poetically into Portuguese.” His eyes narrowed. “But I believe you understand the message. Silver or lead, the choice is yours.”

Bundu patted the unopened case with a trembling hand. “I am satisfied that whatever arrangement you had with General Kabbah’s predecessor will be quite acceptable to me.”

“So.” Zamora clapped his hands together and brought them to his face, top teeth against his knuckle. “I may assume you and your men will resume their noninterference immediately when it comes to my shipments.”

“You may indeed,” Bundu said.

“Very well.” Zamora smiled. “I’ll send a man in a few days’ time to see to the next load of merchandise— and I must warn you, I have a strict time line that must be observed.”

“I und . . . erstand . . . perfec . . . tly.” Bundu appeared to be having a difficult time swallowing.

“Very well,” Zamora said. “You will most certainly find something extra for you if things go well.” He watched as Monagas dug around on the dead general’s uniform until he found a medal he liked for his collection.

Bundu looked on in morbid fascination. He forced his mouth into a tight smile. “I can assure you, the price will never go up during my lifetime.”





Zamora had no sooner stepped from the stuffy confines of the metal hangar than his cell phone began to ring. All the joy from standing in the wind immediately bled from him when he heard the voice on the other end.

“Why have you not returned my calls?” The voice spoke in English but with the clipped intonation of the Yemeni Yazid Nazif.

“I have been extremely busy,” Zamora said. If not for the fact that Nazif held the key to his plan, not to mention the purse strings to three hundred and fifty million dollars, Zamora would have ended the call on the spot. Instead, he worked to gently explain. “There is still some work to be done on our prize to make it functional. But I have things well in hand. Did not the first step work out as I suggested?”

“It did,” the voice said. “Why did you not tell us of the Chechens?”

“I merely allowed them to take the credit.” Zamora shrugged. “It was the only way to get the timing correct.”

“Did you not consider the fact that they themselves would want the device?”

Zamora ran a hand through his hair. “Of course I did,” he said. He neglected to mention the fact that the Chechens had paid him handsomely to choose the target for the St. Petersburg bomb action. Now they were, in fact, clamoring for more of the same. If they knew about Baba Yaga, they would stop at nothing to get their hands on her.

Nazif’s voice was breathy, snakelike. “Need I remind you of our timetable?”

“No, you do not,” Zamora said, rolling his eyes at Monagas as he stepped out the door, wiping blood off his hands. “If you will recall, it was I who suggested such a ripe venue in the first place.”

“We have paid a great sum of money for this thing,” Nazif said. “And with such a large sum come certain expectations. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Zamora said. “But things happen—”

“We have no interest in excuses,” Nazif said, and ended the call.

Bundu stepped out of the hangar just in time to see Zamora fling his phone into the weeds, cursing vehemently in Spanish. The Venezuelan stood there for a full minute, panting and glaring toward the sea. At length his breathing slowed and he looked at the newly promoted general.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he said. “Go bring back my phone.”