Not to mention any gold, silver, copper, or whatever else might lay under the completely unexploited ground here. The problem was, the country had never had enough money in the till to do any serious digging, and not enough trust from the big international corporations for them to take the risks.
You didn’t want to spend a couple hundred million dollars to set up an operation in a place like this if you were worried about the locals putting your managers to the spear and taking over.
But with Hughes owning the rights, it would be different.
He was an educated American, somebody that the big oil and mine companies could deal with. He had plenty of experience in high-level negotiations, courtesy of his work for White.
He’d tell his potential partners he had resigned to come here and make his fortune. Hell, even if they knew he’d ripped off the banks, it wouldn’t matter. If a man thought you were going to make him billions on a business deal, he’d likely be willing to overlook a few shady things in your past. There were folks wanted for crimes in the States who had gone on to lucrative careers in other countries. Who was that movie director who had run off to France or somewhere and stayed there because the locals admired his work and refused to extradite him?
Money was money. And in the billion-dollar range, ethics got real rubbery caret … Hughes had scanned legal electronic copies of the freshly signed hardcopy agreement already stored where there was no chance of them getting lost.
He also had half-a-dozen major corporations falling all over themselves ready to drop planeloads of money on him for exploration leases.
Of course, Domingos would get a piece of that too, to go along with the “advance” he’d just collected.
But when you were talking about billions, there was enough to go around.
Besides, Domingos would probably have a heart attack or a stroke in the not-too-distant future, given his excesses. And if not naturally, some thing could be… arranged.
If ever a man had been in the driver’s seat and in control of the bus, it was Thomas Hughes. Things were almost perfect.
When Platt showed up, he’d be getting a little surprise too.
Domingos would be happy to furnish a well-trained shooter who would just as soon blast Platt as look at him. And even if Domingos hadn’t been eager to help, as poor as most of the people in this country were, you could hire a small army of locals who’d be willing to put a knife into somebody–and for less than the cost of dinner for two in a good Washington restaurant.
Platt was going to become past tense within hours of his arrival. He was expecting to come and collect twenty million dollars, then vanish.
He was half right anyway.
Hughes straightened, and turned to head back into his room.
Monique would be arriving soon for a little afternoon delight.
It was good to be the king, but being the man behind the king was almost as good–and certainly it was a lot safer.
Sunday, January 16th, 3p.m.
In the air over the North Atlantic Ocean Platt had the 767 to himself, save for the flight crew. Wasn’t any stewardess to offer him drinks or membership in the Mile High Club, but he could stretch out in a nice hammock somebody had rigged in the empty cargo bay, and that was a plus.
He was on his way to Merrie Olde England, and practically home free.
Even if the feds happened across the kid in the freight office and questioned him, the kid had a thousand bucks he’d lose if he gave Platt up, plus some explaining as to why he had forged a date on a rental agreement.
Platt had hit a cash machine just outside the office, so he had money left, plenty enough to catch a flight to Senegal, rent a car, and buy himself a few toys. He didn’t want to be landing at the Bissau airport–no, not hardly. That would get back to the Presidente pretty quick, and from the Presidente’s lips into Hughes’s ear, and that wouldn’t do at all. Hughes expected him to be in the federal pokey by now; Platt wanted his appearance to be a real surprise.
Course, it might be tricky sneaking into the guarded compound, but even jigs couldn’t see in the dark. Platt had learned how to move in the woods when he’d been a kid, and some African forest couldn’t be much worse than the swamps back home.
Once he was over the wall, the rest of it would be a walk.
It would be real tempting to break Hughes into itty-bitty pieces once he got to him, but all he really wanted was his twenty million.
Well, okay, maybe a little extra for his aggravation and all, that would be fair. If Hughes didn’t want to pay him, why, then he’d have to convince him, but that was the last resort.
Push came to shove, he could kill the bastard and walk, but that wouldn’t be good, he’d be broke and the law looking for him. Any way you looked at it, laying low in Hawaii running his own gym was a lot better than being on the run.
Yep, that was how he planned it. Get some gear, sneak across the border, have a little chat with Mr.
Hughes, finish this whole biz in the green.
Course, he might have to find himself a can of shoe polish to blend in with the locals.
That was funny. Him, disguising himself as a darky.
He smiled. The more he thought about that, the better it got.
Wouldn’t that let the air out of Hughes’s tires, he looked up and saw a giant Spook who looked just like Platt coming in through the window?
Platt laughed aloud. Oh, yeah, it would.
Sunday, January 16th, 3:35 p.m.
In the air over Virginia Still flying home on the Air Force transport, Howard opened a shielded comm with Julio Fernandez at Net Force HQ.
“I can’t go off and leave you alone even for a couple of days, can I, Sergeant?” “No, sir, Colonel. Cat’s away, the mice’ll have a field day.” “Let’s hear it on all this African stuff, Julio. Is this serious?” “Far as I can tell, yes, sir. About time too. It’s been pretty dull around here lately.” “Talk to me.” The sergeant rattled off a bunch of background about the country, the language, the people, the geography. A minute into it, Howard said, “Look, just upload all that into my mailbox and I’ll scan it later.
Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.
What are we going to run into if we drop in unannounced on the Republic of Guinea-Bissau?” “Sir. The country is defended by some thing called the People’s Revolutionary Armed Force, called the FARP locally.
They have a small Army, about nine boats worth of Navy, and an Air Force consisting of a few prop planes and surplus helicopters–if you don’t count the President’s unarmed Learjet.
They’ve got a paramilitary militia, and while they supposedly have maybe a couple hundred thousand able-bodied men who could be drafted, the standing army is a twentieth of that, poorly armed and uneducated.
Probably half of them could figure out how to tie their shoes–if they had shoes.” “I see. What else?” “They got zip railroads, under three thousand kilometers of paved road in the entire country, and thirty-five airports, two of which have enough runway to allow anything bigger than a crop duster to land.
We’d have to put our transport down in Senegal, to the north, and go in either via copter, or overland– or maybe with an airdrop and parachutes.
” “There are fewer than four thousand telephones in the country, maybe three for every thousand persons, and half those don’t work.” “The phones don’t work. Sergeant? Or the people.” “Both, sir. Average income is a couple hundred dollar per year.” “I see.” “They’ve got three FM radio stations, four AM stations-they like rock and country and western, and a lot of trash talk.
There are two TV stations, one of which doesn’t sign on until dark.
That’s because there are maybe as many TV’S as there are telephones. And probably half that many personal computers total, of which maybe a third have web access.” “Sounds like a place to do my next survival trip.” ” “If we cruise in over “em anymore than a hundred feet up, we’ll be safe, ’cause none of the locals can throw their spears that high. Me and a company of our second-teamers could parachute in after dark one night and be running the country by morning without breaking a sweat.” “Lack of confidence has never been one of your failings, Julio.” “No, sir.” “You sound awfully happy for a man stuck on a dull base recovering from a shot-up leg. I recognize that tone. Who is she?” “I’m sure I don’t have any idea what the colonel is talking about.” “You’ll go to Hell for lying like that. Sergeant.” “Yes, sir, and I’ll have your landing site secured when you arrive.” Howard laughed.