State Of Evil. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
bodyguards turning away, suddenly anxious to avert his eyes.
It wasn’t paranoia, then.
The goons were watching him.
Lee Rathbun wished he’d never made this trip, but it was too late now for backing out. He was the youngest congressman in California, midway through his second two-year term in Washington and looking for a chance to prove himself. The Congo trip had fit his need, humanitarian and daring all at once, solving a problem, maybe bringing justice to a charlatan while overcoming certain hardships in the process.
Naturally he’d brought a camera crew along to put the show on tape. Why not?
The problem was that he’d been misinformed, somewhere along the line. Ahmadou Gaborone had that Jim Jones/David Koresh air about him, smiling serenely while chaos churned behind his eyes. He spoke sometimes in riddles, other times in parables that could mean anything or nothing. Typically, his voice was soft, almost hypnotic, but when raised to make a point during one of his marathon sermons, it shook the very primal forest that surrounded Obike, the retreat.
Lee Rathbun’s mission was twofold. First, he had promised to inspect Obike and report his findings to constituents whose loved ones had deserted sunny California for the jungle compound where Gaborone was constructing his tentative Eden on Earth. Second, he was supposed to interview the absent kin of those who had besieged his hometown office, seeking help. He would seek out the converts, take a private reading on their health and state of mind, and share his findings with their families.
Simple.
Aside from nailing down some grateful votes, the junket would earn him a page, maybe two, of fresh ink in the Congressional Record, when he filed his report with Congress.
Now he was almost done and it was nearly time to leave, but Rathbun couldn’t shake that creepy feeling that suggested hostile eyes tracking his every move.
One of the guards was moving toward him now, a sullen six-footer whose plaid short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, revealing an ebony six-pack that shone as if oiled. His AK-47, Gaborone had explained, was one the group used to protect them against Gaborone’s enemies, those who would harm him for spreading God’s message.
“Say goodbye now,” the guard told Rathbun. “Time to go.”
Rathbun smiled as if trying to win the man’s vote. Behind him, he heard one of the cameramen mutter, “It’s about damned time.”
“Smiles, people, smiles,” Rathbun said to his team. “Remember where we are, and that our host has been extremely generous.”
It was true, to a point. Gaborone had granted them a tour of Obike that revealed austere but functional facilities, the living quarters well tended and almost compulsively tidy. Rathbun’s interviews had also gone without a hitch, at least superficially. Those he sought were all accounted for and pleased to answer questions on their life within the sect.
As for the answers, rehearsed to the point that they all came out nearly verbatim, Rathbun didn’t choose to raise that issue in Obike. Not under the guns of Gaborone’s security force.
Relieved to put the place behind him after three long days and nights, Rathbun rose from his canvas chair and led his people toward the waiting bus.
NICO MBARGA WAITED with the vehicle. His scouts had left an hour earlier, to guard the airstrip and prepare the send-off Master Gaborone had ordered for the visitors. Mbarga wore the smile he deemed appropriate for partings.
The politician approached him, flicking glances at the old converted school bus that would take his people to the airstrip. Parked close behind the bus, a Jeep sat idling with four of Mbarga’s men waiting stoically for his order to roll. They watched Mbarga, not the visitors, because they knew who was their master, once removed.
“Will Mr. Gaborone be joining us?” the politician asked.
“Alas, no,” Mbarga replied. “He has other pressing business, but he wishes you a safe and pleasant journey home. He hopes your visit to Obike was rewarding and your fears are laid to rest.”
The politician frowned. “What fears?”
Mbarga shrugged. “Perhaps that kinfolk of your countrymen have been mistreated here or held against their will.”
The politician blinked. “I saw nothing to indicate that might be true,” he said.
“Good, good. You’re happy to be going home, then. Please take seats aboard the bus, and we shall go to meet your flight.”
Mbarga watched the visitors file past him, all except the politician bearing haversacks and camera equipment. When the last of them had gone aboard, Mbarga followed, nodding to the driver. He sat behind the driver’s seat, sliding his pistol belt around so that the holster with its heavy pistol wouldn’t dig into his hip or thigh.
Mbarga glanced around the bus as it began to move. The visitors—a woman and three men besides the politician—all wore queasy looks, as if their breakfast of plantains and porridge sat uneasily within their stomachs. Mbarga wondered whether any of them had the gift of precognition.
No, he finally decided, smiling to himself.
If that were true, they wouldn’t be aboard the bus.
Whatever they were thinking, it was now irrelevant.
“SO, WHERE’S THE PLANE?” asked Ellen Friedman, Rathbun’s personal assistant, as she stepped down from the bus.
“Good question.” Rathbun turned to the commander of the escorts and inquired, “Shouldn’t the plane be here by now?”
“Sometimes it’s late,” the bodyguard replied.
“Sometimes?”
“Most times,” the bodyguard amended with a careless shrug.
“We have a flight to catch in Brazzaville,” Rathbun informed him, fudging in an effort to communicate a sense of urgency.
“No problem, sir.”
Turning to scan the airstrip, Rathbun noted that a Jeep had reached the scene ahead of them, bearing four gunmen to the site. With those in the following Jeep and their escort, that left his small party outnumbered.
“Are you expecting trouble here, today?” he asked.
“Always expecting trouble, sir,” the bodyguard replied. “Prophets have many enemies.”
“I see.” Rathbun glanced pointedly at his wristwatch, then saw the gunmen stepping from their vehicles. They didn’t wear their rifles shoulder-slung this time, but carried them as if prepared to fire.
“This stinks,” said Andy Trask, the cameraman. “I don’t like this at all.”
“Relax, will you?” the congressman replied, but he was having trouble suiting words to action. There was something in the way the gunmen watched him now….
“Put down your bags,” their escort said, no longer sounding affable. When Rathbun turned to face him, he discovered that the man had drawn his pistol from its holster.
“What?”
“Put down all bags,” the bodyguard repeated. “Leave them where you stand and line up there.” His final word was punctuated with a gesture from the pistol, indicating open grass beyond the blunt nose of the bus.
“Now wait a minute,” Rathbun said. “What’s going on?”
“I only follow orders,” said the bodyguard.
“And what, exactly, might those orders be?”
“I must protect the master and Obike at all cost.”
“You still aren’t making sense.” Rathbun was striving for a tone of indignation, trying not to whimper. Even here, it was important to save face.
“All threats must be eliminated.”
“Threats?