Conflict Zone. Don Pendleton

dictators, had let bin Laden slip away despite repeated vows to punish those responsible for 9/11 and had alienated most of its long-time allies in the process. The CIA, while given carte blanche to abduct and abuse suspected terrorists in the guise of “extraordinary rendition,” was kept on an increasingly short leash in other spheres.

      “Remember Cuba?” Eltsin asked, then snorted. “No, of course you don’t. You weren’t born yet, for God’s sake!”

      “I’m familiar with the history,” Sidorov replied.

      “I was going to say that Langley couldn’t manage a new Bay of Pigs nowadays, but forget it. Who do you suspect?”

      “No one yet. Without more information, I’d only be guessing.”

      “So guess,” Eltsin urged. “We’re all friends here, supposedly. Let your hair down for a change.”

      That was funny, considering Sidorov’s buzz cut that left his scalp shining through stubble, but Eltsin refrained from laughing at his own bon mot.

      “All right, if you insist. One of the private firms, most likely. There were nineteen in America, at last count, half a dozen in the U.K., and at least one each from Australia, Japan, Norway and South Africa. Take your pick from Raytheon, Gray Talon, Omega or any of the rest.”

      “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Eltsin chided.

      “How can I? If the individuals responsible could be identified…”

      “It would accomplish nothing, I suppose, to ask our Ijaw comrades?”

      “I’m told the girl was rescued by a white man,” Sidorov replied. “The Ijaw would not hire one, even if they could afford the going rate for such an operation. And why would they wish to help K-Tech Petroleum?”

      “To vex the Itsekiri, I should think,” Eltsin replied.

      Sidorov frowned, considered it and shook his head.

      “No. They might raid the camp themselves and steal the girl, then ask for ransom on their own behalf. But as it is, they hate white foreigners as much as Afolabi’s people do.”

      “They don’t hate us,” Eltsin reminded him.

      “You think not? Dam the flow of money to their war chest, and find out how loyal they are to Mother Russia.”

      “You’re a cynic, Valentin.”

      “A realistic judge of human nature,” Sidorov said, correcting him.

      “You think they’re human, then? I’m not so sure,” Eltsin said.

      “They’ll surprise you, one day, when you least expect it,” Sidorov replied. “It won’t be pretty.”

      “Perhaps, when we have pumped their country dry,” Eltsin returned. “Not as long as they’re in love with money and have something left to sell.”

      “I’ll reach out to Ajani and Jumoke,” Sidorov told Eltsin. “There’s a chance that we can stir the pot a bit, after this incident.”

      “And see what floats up to the top,” Eltsin replied. “Vodka, before you go?”

      “WHY AREN’T YOU coming with me?” Mandy Ross demanded, staring down her father with a measure of intensity he’d thought impossible for one so pampered.

      “Hon,” he said, “we’ve been all over this. You know the answer. This is where I work. I have to be here.”

      “No, you don’t!” Mandy insisted. “Let somebody else come in and man the shooting gallery. Somebody—”

      “Younger?” he anticipated her, half smiling.

      “Older,” she replied. “Someone who’s finished living anyway, and doesn’t have a family. Someone who won’t mind being shot or blown to pieces by a pack of murderers.”

      “I can’t just cut and run,” Ross said.

      “Oh, wait—I know this one. Because it isn’t manly, right? I’ve got a news flash for you, Dad. Even Dirty Harry knew when to quit. A man should know his limitations.”

      That made him bristle. “Are you saying I’ve reached mine?”

      “That’s right!” she said. “For this place, here and now, I am. There’s nothing in this country worth your life. The money doesn’t matter.”

      “You say that because you’ve always had it,” he replied.

      “I’ve always had you, too. Ask me which one I’d rather do without.”

      “Mandy, this trouble should be settled soon.”

      “Oh, sure. And it’s been going on how long, now? Since the sixties? We learn history at Vassar, Dad. I’ve learned that nothing ever changes for the better here.”

      “It may surprise you.”

      “With your funeral?”

      Ross felt his irritation slipping over into anger.

      “That’s enough!” he snapped. “You’re on the jet in one hour and out of here, even if Clint has to hog-tie you. Got it?”

      “Right, then.” He couldn’t tell if her eyes were glassy with anger or brimming with tears. “Will you at least send Cooper with me?”

      “Who?”

      “Matt Cooper. Jesus, Dad! The man who saved my life? Does any of this ring a bell?”

      “Sorry,” he said. “We weren’t exactly introduced.”

      “Whatever. Can he drive me to the airport?”

      “Sorry, no. He’s gone already,” Ross told her, fudging it, unsure if that was literally true or not. “His job’s not done, apparently.”

      “Apparently? As if you didn’t know.”

      “He doesn’t work for me, Princess.”

      “I see. He does a good deed every day, and this time he just happened to select Nigeria. Makes perfect sense.”

      “He was referred to us, all right? By whom, I couldn’t say. That kind of thing is need-to-know, and it appears I don’t.”

      “I swear, Dad, sometimes—”

      “If you plan on packing anything, you need to start right now,” he warned. “One hour till your flight. Tick, tock.”

      She turned and fairly stormed out of the office, which was bad, in terms of parent-child relations, but a bonus if it got her moving without any further argument. When she was gone, he buzzed Clint Hamer in.

      “All ready, boss?” asked K-Tech’s top security consultant in Nigeria.

      “We’re getting there. You know the drill, right?”

      “Absolutely. Straight out to the airport, wait until she’s airborne, then straight back.”

      “And anyone who tries to stop you on the way—”

      “Will wish he hadn’t, while he’s bleeding out,” Hamer replied.

      “Sounds fair to me,” Jared Ross said.

      BOLAN HAD half expected that the loaner car would be a classic from Detroit, but K-Tech had surprised him. He supposed it stood to reason, after all. When they were pumping oil from five continents, why would the corporate brass care whose engine burned the fuel and spewed its waste into the atmosphere?

      So, he was looking at a reasonably new and clean Toyota Yaris, four doors and a hatchback, in some kind of silver-gray shade that he thought should be unobtrusive in traffic. It wouldn’t be the fastest car on the road, or much good for ramming, but Bolan wasn’t planning to enter a NASCAR event.

      He needed wheels