Displeased with the government’s acquiescence, Arif al-Ashar and a small group of his fellow conservatives had at that juncture committed to secretly hunting for a more palatable alternative. Arif al-Ashar himself had contacted a one-stop provider of black market arms, technology, and mission personnel with whom he’d had a long-standing affiliation-and the upshot was the message that had just appeared, then dissolved, on his computer display.
Now the question for al-Ashar remained: Which shining path to take?
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Without official government approval, funds for his
venture would have to be secured through clandestine
: means, and there were limitations to what could be fun-
I neled from existing budgetary appropriations before the
drain became noticeable. The wealthier members of al- Ashar’s parliamentary cabal were certain to pledge ad: ditional monies, but the product’s high price tag was still ft restrictive, and hard choices needed to be made.
He clucked his tongue against his front teeth, watch;ing the file attachment devour itself on his screen. A single disease trigger capable of leveling the Dinka and ; Nuer without causing a pandemic that would affect all sthe peoples of sub-Saharan Africa had to be keyed to a igene or gene string unique to those tribes, did it not? I Yet even assuming an exchange of such genetic markers J~had occurred through racial ancestry and generations of living in close proximity to one another, intermarriage between tribal members was traditionally discouraged, and the number of individuals who shared a unique hereditary trait-and were likely to be susceptible- would be fewer than al-Ashar wished. A minimum of ptwo triggers, obtained at a cost of a hundred million ^dollars, would therefore be necessary to ensure satisfac-
* tory results.
f But what if only one of the tribes-say, the Dinka- i were targeted? Arif al-Ashar’s brow creased in thought. kTTiat could prove to the best advantage. The infection | would still be sweeping in scale, decimating their pop- halation, while claiming significant casualties among I Nuer of mingled bloodlines. In the short term, this would I Mitigate the impact of a brokered treaty granting the SSouth full or partial independence, leaving the survivors fctoo ravaged by their losses to pose a foreseeable threat
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Tom Clancy’s Power Plays
to the north. At the same time, Khartoum would have presented a moderate face to the world by having shown a willingness to reach a negotiated solution to the civil conflict. And as long as the triggers were available, dealing separately with the Nuer remained an option.
The third path al-Ashar saw before him seemed less appealing initially, but he would not dismiss it out of hand. Were the outbreak to occur among the Nubians, the Sudanese north would be purged of ethnic and cultural impurity to a highly acceptable degree. Foreign aid to the stricken mountain dwellers might be allowed to demonstrate the government’s new charitability and to blunt criticisms of its supposed indifference to human rights. As talks with the south commenced, international mediators would be tacitly made to understand that a hard-line prosouthern stance could once again lead to a cutoff of access to relief providers. The humanitarian issue that the Westerners had been using as a political lever against Khartoum would become a mallet poised to swing down from above them.
His brow creased in thought under the white wrappings of his emma, al-Ashar reached for the cup of spiced tea called shai-saada that had been steeping beside his computer. Eyes closed, he inhaled the steam curling up from it before taking his first sip, savoring the feel of its moist warmth on his cheeks, the aroma of cloves and mint, the pleasurable tingle it left in his sinuses.
Safety was in caution, regret in haste, he mused. Time remained for him to confer with his brothers in the ministry and arrive at a decision.
For the moment, al-Ashar would relish his sense of wide-open possibility, of roads that glowed with their
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own bright silvery light stretching out to even brighter f| crossings yet unglimpsed.
Wherever it led him, the journey was going to be I memorable.
127
NINE
NATION CODE NAME: CAPE GREEN NOVEMBER 6, 2001
HE HAD CHECKED INTO THE HOTEL FIVE DAYS AGO
and would need to stay perhaps another two before the diamonds-for-weapons deal was concluded. In this part of the world, haggling was a recreational activity, and ordinarily simple arrangements took on needless and infinite complications. But there was a wealth of precious stones to be derived, and he always fulfilled an assignment to which he’d committed.
And he could not claim that he hadn’t known what to expect.
Antoine Obeng was a thug, a rebel warlord who had secured an official government post through guileful manipulation after the fractures of civil war were weakly repaired. Now he was chief of police in the nation’s capital, a title that validated his ego and legitimized the power he relished above all else. But he continued his behind-the-scenes leadership of the outlaw militias that roamed the city at will and held the inestimably productive mines in the countryside by force of arms.
BIO-STRIKE
Much could be said for his endurance in a nation where political control changed hands often and violently, and death by assassination was the fate of most ; competing warlords.
Nonetheless, it was only the convenient location of
the top-end hotel and its exceptional services catering to
diplomatic and business travelers from abroad that had
curbed the visitor’s annoyance over the inexhaustible
: convolutions of the bargaining.
A man of rigorous discipline, he preferred sticking to a tight routine. Every morning since his arrival he had taken a swim in the indoor pool at six o’clock, a time when few others were outside their rooms and he stood the best chance of having it to himself. It was also the one time each day he felt at ease moving about without his personal guard, wanting an interval of solitude.
After taking the elevator up from his room to the twelfth-floor recreational area, he would put on his bathing trunks in the locker room between the gym and solarium, rinse off in the shower, then walk through the short connecting corridor to the glass-enclosed pool and do his laps for precisely an hour.
On the first day, a garrulous Dutch banker had intruded on his privacy and asked whether he cared to have breakfast in the hotel restaurant after finishing his “dip.” Shunning interaction with strangers, he had tersely declined and ignored the man until he’d backed off.
In the three days since, he had found the pool empty and gone about his laps without disturbance.
Then, today, he had reached the locker room and again encountered undesired company.
Habitually alert, he whisked his eyes over the men inside. Both were fit and in their midthirties. One had
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Tom Clancy’s Power Plays
blond hair, the other brown. They were wearing workout clothes and speaking American English to each other with the easy familiarity of close friends or associates. The blond-haired man had a somewhat tousled appearance and a light growth of beard. He was neatly hanging his street apparel in a locker. His companion sat removing items from his gym bag. A folded towel and sports bottle were on the bench next to him.
Superficially, they seemed of a type. Professionals on an overseas junket. Of no particular interest to him besides being trespassers upon what he had come to regard as his proprietary domain.
But he trusted the unconscious perception of environmental cues we call instinct. And something in the air told him to be careful.
As he stood inside the entryway, the men gave him mannerly nods. He noted them without response and went to the nearest free locker to the door, an ear attuned to their conversation.
“The taxis around here, Jesus, that ride from the airport gave me bruises where I sit. Plus he must have just missed getting us crunched at least twice,” said the man with the twenty-four-hour stubble. He yawned. “Thought I’d never make it to the conference.”
The one on the bench looked amused. “You should’ve listened to my advice, taken a metered cab. Their drivers have to be licensed. And they carry identity cards.”
“Like that’s going to do you any good. Or you really think the insurance companies pay off around here? Assuming they have insurance companies.”
“Maybe not, but you’d know who to curse out for putting you in a body cast.”
The bristle-cheeked man grinned and reached inside
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m.
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the locker to adjust his trousers on the hook. The other’s hand was returning to his bag.
Without letting another instant pass, the morning swimmer abruptly abandoned his locker and strode back out the door.
The pair in the room exchanged glances.
His hand coming out of the gym bag with a .22 N.A.A. Black Widow, the man on the bench sprang to his feet and slipped the five-shot minirevolver into the belly band under his sweatshirt.