'A' for Argonaut Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Michael J. Stedman
exposed and the Ninjas smashed by Angolan President Bombe’s Army. By deflecting the blame onto PFLEC, however, Bombe would continue to get the financial support from Washington, enough for him to mount a crushing assault on PFLEC. But Vangaler’s plan added another wrinkle to the deception. One more close to home. Once PFLEC was removed, he planned to simply kill Boyko. The entire empire would be his for the taking.
Now?
Al-Amriki stood, head bowed. He tugged at his ear, which looked like half of a large walnut shell. He waited for Vangaler’s tirade to end. They glared at one another.
“We had it all set up. Look like PFLEC slaughtered the village. The trap would have triggered the end of dos Sampas and his PFLECs. Would have been perfect,” Vangaler snapped. “You fucked it up. Had to take hostages. Bring in the U.S. Army. You know what we got? A fuckin’ Special Forces assault team!”
“We lost control,” al-Amriki said. “We didn’t count on just how crazy those Ninja kids would get. At first they wanted to take all the blondes, then they decided to take all the American women. They murdered the rest.”
The room overlooked a garden that decorated a brick patio. Unlike the office, it was immaculate. Tuscan porcelain garden tables threw a profusion of Italianate colors into the mosaic of bougainvillea. Vangaler stepped to the window, cleared his throat, and hocked into the flowers.
“The Brotherhood believes in this mission. Our pillars of faith will propel us to prevail. Allah is our objective; the Quran is our law; Jihad is our way; dying in the name of Allah is our highest hope,” al-Ebrahyim said.
The stumpy terrorist turned back from the window to al-Ebrahyim, nodded and said, “Allahu akhbar!” He could go along; he was pragmatic, focused.
“But now they know too much. Dos Sampas gets off the hook and Boyko still gets his support from the Americans.”
“CIA,” al-Ebrahyim frowned.
“No. Boyko may be an asshole, but he’s not stupid. He gets it right from the source. Still needs ready cash to operate; diamonds are even better, compressed wealth. He moves them around with a bundle of series certificates of origin from his customs buddies in Libya. Gives him diplomatic immunity, a walking diplomatic pouch. He can pass that on to anyone he wants.”
“Why should you take orders from a white man anyway?”
“He has the power—for now,” Vangaler said. “The whites still control the money, and the power.”
As a white man, Boyko had no chance to exert long-term control over the black cast-offs from Africa’s civil wars without black African help. Vangaler was the proxy he needed to run the Ninjas for Security Solutions. Inc.
“Boyko’s cute. Speaks six languages, owns four different airlines. Got every corrupt dictator in West Africa in his pocket,” Vangaler said.
“Boyko is Georgian,” al-Ebrahyim interjected.
“So what? Came here years ago, Russian GRU then Mafia, Vory v Zakone , ‘Thieves in Law.’ They say, carry-over from the days when you’d never do it to a peasant—‘OK then steal from the czar.’ He’s got their starburst tattoo on his shoulder. Before that he was in East Germany, posted with STASI,” Vangaler snorted.
“When he first came,” he continued. “Way back, the CIA was using deep cover, secretly backing dos Sampas and his fucking PFLECs against Moscow’s and Castro’s Communists. He came back again with VVZ when the Soviet spies turned Mafia. He worked against the Americans, Chinese, and Europeans for contracts to supply President Bombe with everything Russian, from fine wine to ultimate weapons. It was a fucking cluster fuck. It still is and it always will be.”
“Bombe got rich,” al-Ebrahyim observed.
“With my sacred diamonds. He lined his private bank accounts as soon as he took over. He went to Boyko for American weapons when Washington reneged on their promise for arms.
“But Boyko’s running out of rope.
Now?
Al-Amriki stood, head bowed. He tugged at his ear, which looked like half of a large walnut shell. He waited for Vangaler’s tirade to end. They glared at one another.
“We had it all set up. Look like PFLEC slaughtered the village. The trap would have triggered the end of dos Sampas and his PFLECs. Would have been perfect,” Vangaler snapped. “You fucked it up. Had to take hostages. Bring in the U.S. Army. You know what we got? A fuckin’ Special Forces assault team!”
“We lost control,” al-Amriki said. “We didn’t count on just how crazy those Ninja kids would get. At first they wanted to take all the blondes, then they decided to take all the American women. They murdered the rest.”
The room overlooked a garden that decorated a brick patio. Unlike the office, it was immaculate. Tuscan porcelain garden tables threw a profusion of Italianate colors into the mosaic of bougainvillea. Vangaler stepped to the window, cleared his throat, and hocked into the flowers.
“The Brotherhood believes in this mission. Our pillars of faith will propel us to prevail. Allah is our objective; the Quran is our law; Jihad is our way; dying in the name of Allah is our highest hope,” al-Ebrahyim said.
The stumpy terrorist turned back from the window to al-Ebrahyim, nodded and said, “Allahu akhbar!” He could go along; he was pragmatic, focused.
“But now they know too much. Dos Sampas gets off the hook and Boyko still gets his support from the Americans.”
“CIA,” al-Ebrahyim frowned.
“No. Boyko may be an asshole, but he’s not stupid. He gets it right from the source. Still needs ready cash to operate; diamonds are even better, compressed wealth. He moves them around with a bundle of series certificates of origin from his customs buddies in Libya. Gives him diplomatic immunity, a walking diplomatic pouch. He can pass that on to anyone he wants.”
“Why should you take orders from a white man anyway?”
“He has the power—for now,” Vangaler said. “The whites still control the money, and the power.”
As a white man, Boyko had no chance to exert long-term control over the black cast-offs from Africa’s civil wars without black African help. Vangaler was the proxy he needed to run the Ninjas for Security Solutions. Inc.
“Boyko’s cute. Speaks six languages, owns four different airlines. Got every corrupt dictator in West Africa in his pocket,” Vangaler said.
“Boyko is Georgian,” al-Ebrahyim interjected.
“So what? Came here years ago, Russian GRU then Mafia, Vory v Zakone , ‘Thieves in Law.’ They say, carry-over from the days when you’d never do it to a peasant—‘OK then steal from the czar.’ He’s got their starburst tattoo on his shoulder. Before that he was in East Germany, posted with STASI,” Vangaler snorted.
“When he first came,” he continued. “Way back, the CIA was using deep cover, secretly backing dos Sampas and his fucking PFLECs against Moscow’s and Castro’s Communists. He came back again with VVZ when the Soviet spies turned Mafia. He worked against the Americans, Chinese, and Europeans for contracts to supply President Bombe with everything Russian, from fine wine to ultimate weapons. It was a fucking cluster fuck. It still is and it always will be.”
“Bombe got rich,” al-Ebrahyim observed.
“With my sacred diamonds. He lined his private bank accounts as soon as he took over. He went to Boyko for American weapons when Washington reneged on their promise for arms.
“But Boyko’s running out of rope.