Insurrection
Brognola knew exactly what he meant. “I pulled a few strings through a CIA friend of mine. You’ll be met by a customs agent named Sean Azizi. He’ll walk you through customs and immigration and stamp your passport himself. No search of your bags or person.”
“Sounds a little too good to be true.”
“My friend just happened to have an informant in the right place at the right time,” Brognola said. “You know how that goes. A guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, the last guy being Azizi. Anyway, unless Azizi or one of the other guys can’t keep from flapping their gums—and they’re all getting paid big bucks to keep it a secret—no one else in Nigeria should be aware that Matt Cooper is anything other than the photojournalist he says he is. And even Azizi won’t know who you really are or why you’re there.”
Bolan cleared his throat. “It won’t matter,” he said. “Everyone in Nigeria will know about the chapel bomb and the machete attack. If my cover ID gets burned, it won’t take a genius to guess why I’m there.”
“True,” Brognola said. “Their first thought’ll be that you’re CIA.”
“It always is. Okay. I’ll play it by ear, Hal. Who’s my initial contact?”
“A woman named Layla Galab,” Brognola said. “You’ll find her at the Isaac Center. Any cabdriver should be able to take you there.”
“Affirmative.”
“Good luck, big guy.”
Bolan paused before answering. He and Brognola both knew that luck rarely entered the picture. For the most part, a warrior made his own luck. So finally, he said, “Thanks,” as the Learjet’s wheels quit rolling on the tarmac of Ibadan Airport in the state of Oyo, Nigeria.
* * *
BISHOP JOSHUA ADEWALE’S unconsciousness couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, he realized, as he opened his eyes again. He could still hear the screams and shrieks he had heard right before being knocked out by whatever had hit him in the back of the head. And as he rose to a sitting position on top of the bodies of several other bishops who had been cut down by the machetes, he saw the massacre still going on outside the chapel.
The pain in the back of his head was bad but tolerable as he stood. A strange feeling of remoteness seemed to come over him. He could see the angry, cursing men with the wicked blades, cutting and slashing and severing heads and limbs from the bodies of men who were dressed similarly to him. The sight made him sick to his stomach. But he knew, somehow, that he was invulnerable to their attack.
Adewale began to walk forward. He had no idea where he was going and only the vaguest memory of where he was and even who he was. His body ached from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, as if someone had punched him repeatedly in the face, then the sides of his head, then his chest and every other square inch of his body. Each step he took brought on new pain. It hurt to walk, but when he stopped briefly between two of the blood-crazed attackers, he realized it hurt just as much to stand still. Turning a full 360 degrees in an attempt to get his bearings and remember where and who he was, he saw the remnants of what looked to have once been a chapel.
Only one wall still stood, and the bishop did his best to focus his fuzzy eyes on a stained-glass window that had miraculously been spared. Spared from what? he wondered for a moment. Then he recalled a loud noise. As his vision began to clear, he continued to look at the stained glass. It featured Jesus Christ on the cross, his forehead bleeding from the crown of thorns that had been placed on his brow. The sight brought back another piece of Adewale’s past, and he remembered that he was a priest—no, a bishop.
He turned away from the ruins and saw the men on both sides of him. One swung his machete at Adewale’s neck. Miraculously, the assault fell short, but the ugly black steel came close enough that he felt the air move against his throat.
The compulsion to walk came over him again, and he moved on, passing between the two attackers and wondering why he had no desire to run. But the same remoteness, a feeling that even though he was in the presence of evil, he was invulnerable to the blades, continued to coax him on.
Still wondering why he felt no fear, the bishop left the screams and cries behind him and walked on. He did his best to take stock of the situation, focusing his brain on what he could remember as he continued to walk down an asphalt street.
He was a bishop; he remembered that now. A bishop in New York City. But he was not in New York at the moment. Was he back in his home country of Nigeria? He thought so.
Adewale pushed himself on, one wobbling step after another. Something had happened in the chapel, where he’d been speaking to a group of fellow bishops. A bomb? Yes. A bomb set by terrorists. Thugs who were now chopping the survivors to pieces with their machetes. He had been spared. Why, he didn’t know, but he knew that they might still find him and kill him.
The bishop realized he had entered a low-income housing area. Every block he passed exhibited a little more poverty than the last. Soon the rough asphalt ran out and was replaced with dirt streets.
Finally, the bishop came to a corner and halted abruptly. Why he’d stopped was as big a mystery as why he’d felt compelled to walk. He found himself next to a wood-frame house, and his eyes were drawn to the backyard, where a clothesline had been stretched from the building to a rough wooden pole in the ground. Most of the clothes hanging on the line looked like women’s, but right in the center, waving gently in the breeze, were a pair of khaki pants and a matching work shirt.
The bishop glanced down at his cassock. It had been black, but was now covered in so much dust it was gray. It would still identify him as a Christian bishop if the terrorists who had bombed the chapel came looking for him.
Adewale knew he needed to change clothes. He would take the pants and a shirt from the line. He started that way, then halted again.
Thou shalt not steal ran through the bishop’s mind. Taking these pants and the shirt would be wrong. He didn’t want to steal. He particularly didn’t want to steal from anyone so poor they had to live in this crumbling shack.
But what if he took the pants and shirt and left the cassock? That would be a trade rather than a theft. Wouldn’t that be all right with God?
The bishop’s mind was finally losing the fuzziness he’d been experiencing since the explosion. He looked back at the line, then reached into a pocket of his cassock and felt his money clip. Then he looked at the house, and now that the haze that had hampered his thinking was gone, he realized that the people who lived here would probably be eager to sell him the shirt and pants. Particularly since he would pay them far more than the clothes were worth.
That was the answer, the bishop thought. He would buy the clothes from them.
Bishop Joshua Adewale’s legs still felt a little unsteady as he left the road and walked across the ragged grass toward the front door. The three steps leading up to the porch were made of wood that had rotted long ago. As he mounted the second one, he heard a loud crack, and his left foot broke through the plank to the ground.
That confused him again, and for several seconds he simply stood where he was and looked down at his trapped leg. Finally, he reached down with both hands and, pulling with all his strength, managed to get his foot free of the shattered stair.
The effort left him exhausted.
The bishop realized that while some of his thinking had returned to normal, other aspects of his mind were still numb with shock. Such as the leg he had just skinned. He knew there was pain along his shin, but it was almost as if someone else was hurting.
He moved onto the porch without further incident and stopped in front of the door. The wood in the lower half was as rotten as the steps. The top half featured a large cracked pane of glass, behind which hung a blanket.
As he had done when he’d broken through the step, Adewale stood still, just staring for a moment, wondering what to do next.
Knock. It was almost as if he heard an actual voice in his head, and he realized he was not entirely over the shock he had experienced. His rational brain faded in, then out, then in again and...
The man in the dust-covered cassock slapped himself across the face. Suddenly, the world came back into focus. At least for the moment. He reached out and rapped three times on the flimsy wooden door. He waited, frowning, again trying to remember why he was here.
To change clothes, said the voice in his head. He could hear it more clearly now. You are going to offer to buy clothes from these poor people, and you are going to pay them much more than the clothing is worth because they need it.
But why did he need different clothes? Oh yes. The terrorists. Boko Haram.
Finally, the blanket behind the glass moved slightly at the lower left-hand corner.
Through the tiny opening, Adewale saw a dark brown eye.
Then the door opened slightly and he looked down to see a little girl holding the doorknob. She stared out through the crack, gazing up into the bishop’s face. She wore a tiny red T-shirt and blue shorts that looked as if they had originated in America or Europe. Her hair was a mass of braided pigtails that shot out from her head and had rags securing them at the ends.
“Who is it?” called a voice from somewhere behind the child.
The tiny brown figure on the other side of the door didn’t speak. She just kept staring up at Adewale.
Footsteps tapped on the wood floor. A moment later, a woman with caramel-colored skin opened the door wider and looked out at him. Her brown eyes opened wide and her mouth opened in a silent “Oh.”
The bishop and woman looked at each other for a good ten seconds before she finally found her voice. “We heard an explosion,” she said in a half whisper, as if she was afraid the neighbors might hear her. “We did not know where it came from. Was it the Boko Haram monsters?”
Adewale shrugged. “That would be my guess,” he said. “But I do not know for sure.”
“It was Boko Haram,” she stated, nodding vigorously. “They started out in the north, but now they have come south. And no one will ever be safe again.”
“May I come in?” the bishop asked. A low buzzing sound had been in his ears ever since he’d awakened after the explosion, while the pain throughout his body had been so severe that he had barely acknowledged it. Now, as he continued to regain his senses, the sound seemed to grow louder.
“Most certainly,” the woman replied, and opened the door the rest of the way. As soon as he was inside, she stuck her head out, looked nervously both ways, then hurriedly closed the door again.
Turning to the bishop, she said, “How did you escape?”
“I don’t know. I just walked away.”
“God was with you,” the woman declared. “But the Bokos will still be looking for you,”
“I know. I would like to buy some clothing from you...” As he reached into his pocket for his money clip, the hum in his ears grew to a roar and he collapsed to the floor.
CHAPTER TWO
Mack Bolan couldn’t resist a slight jab at his old friend Jack Grimaldi as the plane taxied off the runway and onto the asphalt access road. “May I assume you brought a good book to keep you occupied while you await my return, Jack?” he asked.
“Of course.” Grimaldi smiled. He tapped the front of his worn leather bomber jacket. “The best book I own.” Reaching inside, he pulled out a weathered address book. “Fact is,” he went on, “there are a couple of ladies in Ibadan who would like to have a good time with an American pilot.”
The Executioner laughed softly. There were few airports in the world that weren’t within quick access of some attractive female acquainted with Jack Grimaldi. Not that the pilot ever let a woman interfere with his work. As Bolan reached over the seat for his bags, he thought of all the times he and Grimaldi had taken off one step ahead of pursuing criminals, terrorists, enemy military or police. Too numerous to count.
A Nigerian customs official carrying a clipboard walked toward Bolan as he lugged his bags away from the private plane. As the man drew closer, Bolan noted the broad smile on his face. The two of them stopped, facing each other, and Bolan saw that the nameplate on his chest read Sean Azizi.
Bolan set a bag down and extended his right hand in greeting.
“Matt Cooper,” the customs agent said, before he could utter a word. “You are a photojournalist. If you please, Mr. Matt Cooper, just call me Sean. I was advised that you were coming.” His speech had the sharply clipped accent that came from an African heritage combined with a British higher education.
Yes, Bolan thought as he shook the man’s hand. You were advised, all right. And smile or no smile, you were paid off royally as well, no doubt.
For a second the men stared into each other’s eyes, both sizing the other up. The soldier reminded himself that most officials who were willing to break their own laws for money played both sides of the fence for all they were worth. Most were also willing to go back on their original agreements if an offer of additional bribery presented itself.
The Executioner made a mental note not to forget about Sean Azizi and the potential threat he represented. The customs agent might not know exactly who “Matt Cooper” was or what he was doing in Nigeria, but he knew he was American, and that he was there under false pretenses and using false identification. So somewhere down the line the man might just find another market where he could sell such information. And if he did, Bolan definitely got the feeling that the man would take advantage of it.
But for now, everything went as smoothly as Brognola had promised it would.
The customs agent guided Bolan through both customs and immigration and updated his passport. Their last stop was at a currency exchange.
Fifteen minutes after the Learjet had touched down, Bolan said goodbye to Azizi, loaded his luggage into the trunk of a battered taxicab and settled into the backseat.
“The Isaac Center,” he told the driver, who nodded, threw the transmission of his twenty-year-old Chevy into Drive and pulled away from the airport.
The man tried several times to start up a conversation, mentioning the unseasonably cool weather, suggesting a few tourist spots that Bolan should see and finally offering to get him the most beautiful prostitute in Nigeria at a fair price.
“Beware,” the cabbie went on, as he moved the steering wheel back and forth. “Other taxi drivers and men will tell you they will get you the best women cheap. I do not promise cheap—that means ugly and diseased. You get what you pay for.” Bolan saw him look up into the rearview mirror, waiting for a response.
When he didn’t get one, the driver finally shrugged, gave up and fell into silence. Bolan stared through the open windows as the taxi passed block after block of mud-and-plaster dwellings with shiny tin roofs. Ibadan, he knew, was the home of close to a million Nigerians, and the capital of the Western Region. One of the largest cities in Africa between Johannesburg and Cairo, it boasted a top-notch hospital and medical school, as well as the country’s premier university.
They drove through three market areas crowded with pedestrians buying fresh vegetables, yams and spices, as well as clucking chickens. They passed huge piles of cotton cloth, much of it the blue color favored by Yoruba tribesmen. Twice the cabdriver was forced to stop as wedding processions of dancing and singing men and women streamed by.
Bolan took in the sights, sounds and smells around the cab as they passed more pedestrians on the crowded streets and sidewalks. It was a colorful and vibrant city.
The taxi began climbing a steep upgrade, and at the top Bolan saw the destination he had given the driver. The center had been named after Isaac, the son of Abraham, whose faith and devotion to God had been demonstrated by his willingness to sacrifice his only son. Not only was the story of Abraham and Isaac a prelude to the sacrifice of God’s own son, it symbolized the orphans who lived at the center. Isaac had been spared at the last second by the hand of an angel. But Boko Haram had shown no such mercy. In their own twisted version of the Old Testament story, the terrorists had sacrificed the parents instead of the children in their ongoing war against Christians in Nigeria.
The Isaac Center now provided a home to over three hundred Nigerian orphans. The main entrance to the relatively modern building was centered on a circular drive. Behind what appeared to be a one-story reception and office area stood a three-story section that could hold dorm rooms. To the right, new construction was going on, with framers raising skeletal two-by-four walls on top of a concrete slab. From the general layout, it looked to Bolan as if more dorms were in progress, which could mean only one thing.
The Isaac Center was expecting even more orphans.
The sharp hiss of electrical-powered nail guns sounded as the cabbie pulled up to the front door and killed the engine. Bolan got out of the backseat. Together, they lugged his bags through the front doors and into the lobby.
“This is far enough,” Bolan said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out several naira bills, pushed them into the hand of the driver, then turned back toward the building’s interior.
Under the watchful eye of an elderly black woman, roughly a dozen little boys and girls were playing on wooden rocking horses and other handmade toys to the right side of the lobby. Their laughter made it obvious that they had been too young to know how much they had lost. At least they had been spared the bloody memories that would haunt the Isaac Center’s older residents for life. The Executioner vowed that the terrorists responsible would pay.
The big American stepped up to the front counter as the cabbie exited the building. English had been the official language of Nigeria since British colonial days, so he had no trouble when he said, “My name is Matt Cooper and I’m looking for Layla Galab.”
“One moment, please,” the receptionist answered pleasantly.
Bolan studied the woman as she reached for the telephone. Around thirty years old, she had well-defined but still feminine arm muscles revealed by her sleeveless blouse. She worked out at a gym—a fairly unusual luxury in such a country as Nigeria. And while Bolan was hardly a fashion expert, what he could see of her skirt looked to be more expensive than the clothing on most of the other women he’d seen since landing. Two gold rings, one featuring a large diamond, the other an opal, flashed on her hand as she lifted the receiver to her ear.
As was the case in many developing countries, the rich got richer as the poor became poorer, and Bolan guessed this woman had come from a wealthy family. Perhaps her conscience had gotten to her and she had taken this job to help those less fortunate than herself. In any case, he doubted the rings or clothing had been purchased with money from her Isaac Center salary.
A moment later, the woman placed a call and spoke into the receiver. “Miss Layla, there’s a Mr. Cooper here to see you.” A short pause ensued and then she said, “Okay,” and hung up. Rising, she took the time to bend and smooth her short skirt over her thighs. “If you will follow me, please, Mr. Cooper.” She strode around the end of the counter, then stopped and looked down at his baggage. “Your luggage should be perfectly safe right where it is,” she said.
Bolan thought of what the bags contained, then glanced in the direction of the children. “I think I’d better take it with me, just to be careful,” he replied.
The receptionist frowned. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “You must have many thousands of dollars’ worth of photographic equipment inside, and even the most well-behaved children become curious. I would hate for them to break any of it.”
The soldier reached down and grabbed the handles and straps of the bags. He wasn’t worried about the “equipment” inside the bags getting broken. He was worried that some of it might harm any curious children who got their hands on it. All the firearms inside were loaded, cocked and locked. It wouldn’t take much for a kid to accidentally blow one or more of his friends away. And Bolan didn’t intend to take the chance of that happening.
The receptionist started down the hall, her hips swaying in what the Executioner suspected was a slight exaggeration for his benefit. He followed, his rubber lug-soled hiking boots making soft thuds in time with the woman’s clattering high heels as they crossed the tile.
A moment later, she stopped at a door on the right side of the hall, twisted the knob and pushed it open. Then she stepped back from the opening.
“If you would, Mr. Cooper,” she said, smiling up at him.
Bolan had to turn sideways to get the equipment bags strapped over his shoulders through the doorway. But as soon as he had, the door closed behind him, and he found himself alone in a small office with a strikingly beautiful woman.
She had risen from behind her desk, but held a cell phone to her ear as Bolan entered. “Yes, Mother,” she said, looking up and smiling. “No, Mother. Leave the laundry for me. I will do it as soon as my duties permit. Yes, Mother. I love you, too. Goodbye.” She lowered the phone from her ear and clicked it off.
Layla Galab smiled as she extended her hand across the desk. “Mr. Cooper,” she said. “You will excuse me, please. My mother’s mind is failing and I must check on her several times a day.”
Bolan nodded in understanding as he set his bags on the floor. Her smile appeared genuine, but he noted that her lips stayed pressed together as they curled up at the corners.
The Executioner took her small hand in his, noticing that while it was delicate, her fingers and palm were covered by calluses. This woman was not just a sit-behind-the-desk paper pusher. She got out and worked for the welfare of the children who lived at the Isaac Center, perhaps even helping with the ongoing construction next door.
“Miss Galab.”
“You will excuse me, also, I hope,” she said, turning her hands palm up and glancing down at them. “But as you no doubt saw when you arrived, we are constructing new housing, and I often go out to help. I am afraid it has taken away the femininity from my hands.”
“No,” he said. “It just emphasizes your other feminine qualities.” The Executioner stared down into the woman’s chocolate-brown eyes. She was indeed beautiful, and he could feel the electricity passing back and forth between them.
Breaking eye contact, Galab pointed to a chair in front of her desk and said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Cooper?”
“Thanks.” He sat, then looked back across the desktop and said, “But call me Matt.”
“Thank you. Please call me Layla.”
She resumed her seat and said, “Now, Mr. Photojournalist Matt Cooper, can you tell me the real reason you are here? I do not think it is to take pictures for National Geographic.”
Bolan crossed one leg over the other. “I understand you’ve helped Americans before,” he said.
Galab gave the room a 180-degree glance, as if it might be bugged, before nodding. Then, in a low voice, she said, “And I will help you in any way I can.” A second round-the-room glance seemed to take some of the stress from her face. “I will do anything to keep the terrorists from murdering more mothers and fathers and creating more orphans.” She leaned down and pulled open a drawer in her desk. A moment later, a bottle of antacid appeared in her hand. “You will excuse me if I—” she began.
Bolan interrupted her. “Of course.”
“I’m afraid I have developed an ulcer from all of this,” the woman said, as she twisted off the cap.
A faint odor of chalk floated across the room as she took a long drink. Bolan chuckled to himself. The woman was self-conscious about the calluses on her hands, but didn’t seem to mind looking like a wino who’d just found a bottle of Mogen David 20/20 when it came to her ulcer.