Free State of Emergency by Marc Cameron Page B

hangar was stifling. The smell of jet fuel and burned engine oil hung heavy on the humid air. Monagas stood back a few steps beside a rusted single-engine Piper Cherokee that, amazingly enough, had flown in a few minutes before with General Alberto Kabbah and his aide, both of the Bissau-Guinean military. The men wore freshly pressed olive-green uniforms and sat on metal chairs behind a long folding table in the center of the hangar, as if holding court. The general wore a dress hat complete with gold scrambled eggs on the brim to befit his high rank and status. His chest held more varied medals than Idi Amin.
    â€œNegotiations are a fluid thing,” General Kabbah said, taking a drink from a bottle of Aquafina. He had an annoying way of smacking his lips that made Zamora want to cut them off.
    â€œYes, they are indeed,” Zamora said, working to keep his voice low and even. “But need I remind you, General, that I have been doing business with your military for almost a decade? Your predecessor grew quite rich from our dealings before his . . . untimely death.”
    Kabbah smiled, showing what looked like more than his fair share of teeth. Everyone in the country knew he had murdered his former boss to take the post of general for himself.
    â€œOur arrangement is a win-win for you,” Zamora continued. “You are paid handsomely to look the other way when drug shipments arrive from South America. Then we pay you to look the other way a few moments longer while we put my merchandise on the same plane for the return flight. You are, in effect, getting paid double for an extra two hours of doing nothing.”
    The drug flights coming to West Africa were from Venezuela and organized by Zamora’s father. The elder Zamora knew nothing of the return loads of illicit weapons or the extra risk involved, but the general did not need to be bothered with such trivial details.
    General Kabbah replaced the lid on his Aquafina bottle, gave the annoying pop of his lips, then set the water on the table in a show of finality. He leaned back to fold his hands across a round belly. “Still—” He smacked his lips, giving a long sigh. “The risks are greater than they used to be. The World Customs Organization and Interpol snoop around more and more each year. I would hope that larger risk would bring a more substantial reward.”
    â€œHow much more substantial?” Zamora rubbed his chin, expecting this.
    â€œDouble,” the general said. “But you would have my personal guarantee the price would not go up during my lifetime.”
    â€œI see,” Zamora said.
    Kabbah nodded his jowly head. “And I would need certain assurances that I won’t end up in prison.”
    â€œYou may rest assured,” Zamora said. “I won’t let that happen.”
    â€œVery well,” General Kabbah said. “If we are in agreement. You may resume shipments on return flights as soon as the first payment arrives in my account.” He gestured to his aide. “Major Bundu will see to the particulars.”
    â€œ After the money arrives in your account?” Zamora ground his teeth. He gave the slightest flick of his wrist.
    Monagas stepped forward with an aluminum briefcase. Instead of setting it on the table, he made a motion of giving it to the general, then smashed it edgewise into the man’s face. Before Kabbah could react, Monagas drew a pistol from behind his back and shot him twice in the forehead. He pitched forward, slamming against the table, arms dangling at his sides.
    A plume of blue smoke curled from the muzzle of Monagas’s pistol.
    Major Bundu sat with his mouth agape, mesmerized at the pool of blood that blossomed from under the bill of the general’s fancy green hat on the white Formica tabletop.
    â€œNow, Major . . . pardon me, General Bundu,” Zamora said. “You see how I keep my promises? Kabbah will never end up in