Bargain With the Devil: A Historical Espionage Thriller Read online

  BARGAIN WITH THE DEVIL

  WILLIAM CHRISTIE

  Bargain with the Devil

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2022 (As Revised) William Christie

  Rough Edges Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  5130 S. Fort Apache Rd. 215-380

  Las Vegas, NV 89148

  roughedgespress.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-68549-114-7

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-68549-115-4

  Contents

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  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A Look at: Darkness Under Heaven

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  About the Author

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  For all my friends

  Acknowledgments

  My profound thanks to all those in Africa who helped me out. The responsibility for what is written here is mine, not theirs.

  As always, to my agent, Richard Curtis of Richard Curtis Associates. The best in the business.

  UNDERSHAFT: [with a touch of brutality] The government of your country! I am the government of your country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus? No, my friend: you will do what pays us. You will make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it doesn’t. You will find out that trade requires certain measures when we have decided on those measures. When I want anything to keep my dividends up, you will discover that my want is a national need. When other people want something to keep my dividends down, you will call out the police and military. And in return you shall have the support and applause of my newspapers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great statesman. Government of your country! Be off with you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading articles and historic parties and great leaders and burning questions and the rest of your toys. I am going back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the tune.

  George Bernard Shaw. Major Barbara. 1907.

  BARGAIN WITH THE DEVIL

  Chapter One

  The offices of the Nigerian Energy Ministry were not as opulent as, say, their Arab counterparts in the Persian Gulf Emirates. Though no longer number one on the list of the most corrupt nations on earth, Nigeria definitely hadn’t fallen off the charts. And that put them in a no-win position. Too sumptuous and everyone would be shaking their heads knowingly. Too Spartan and they’d be wondering whose Swiss bank account the ministry decorating budget got siphoned into. Unlike other colonial subjects the Nigerians couldn’t even blame it on the British, since they’d built their capital, Abuja, out of the empty savannah beginning in the 1970’s.

  Abuja had supposedly been situated in the center of the country as a symbol of religious and ethnic neutrality between the Muslim north and Christian south, but most thought there were two real reasons. From the Roman aqueducts to the American interstate highway system, there was no surer source of graft than big public works projects. Build a capital city from scratch and the opportunities to skim were endless. Coupled to that was the popular Nigerian belief that their politicians had up and decided to build themselves a whole new city because the old capital of Lagos had become just too squalid and dangerous for them.

  All that oil wealth still had to be displayed, however, so there were the tropical hardwoods and traditional artwork contrasting with the usual worshipful representations of that source of all good things: oil derricks and offshore platforms. Just like the Persian Gulf, there was that same nagging element of insecurity, as if the Nigerians felt they had to show the people they did business with that they weren’t just a bunch of spear-carrying natives.

  And they might not be wrong, Peter Avakian thought. At least based on the way his own client talked about them. He was about to return to the paperback on his lap when one of the Nigerian members of his detail caught his eye.

  In the security business most of your day was spent waiting around for the principal you were protecting to do his or her business. Some people took to this better than others.

  Avakian was consulting with Safoil, the South African Energy Corporation, on ways to streamline their security procedures for executive travel outside the country. One of their vice presidents was negotiating far-offshore drilling leases with the Nigerians, and Avakian had taken this trip to get a ground-floor view of what was required. It was a long time since he’d been on an actual detail, but it hadn’t taken long to recall why he’d never liked doing them. It wasn’t only traveling with a snotty South African who didn’t like Americans.

  Because most countries frowned upon armed foreigners running around on their soil, it was customary in these cases to hire local security licensed to carry firearms. Avakian had a pair with him there on the 4th floor of the Federal Secretariat Complex, and another two driving the brace of armored SUVs outside.

  And Sani had been looking nervous all morning. Avakian had a near-religious belief in taking heed of your instincts. And his were telling him not to return to his book just yet.

  Sani continued to fidget, and finally bounded up from his chair. “Coffee, Pete?”

  Avakian always had his guys call him by his first name. He’d just as soon not get involved in boss or sir between white and black in Africa, and he had no trouble being friendly without inviting the intimacy that would undermine his authority. If everyone knew you were in charge, you didn’t have to make an issue of it. “Sure, Sani.”

  Sani’s partner Edmund, a man of less than few words, merely shook his head.

  After Sani left the ante-room, Avakian stood up himself.

  Edmund’s eyes followed him.

  “Better visit the restroom before I start drinking coffee,” Avakian told him. “Be back in a minute.”

  Edmund nodded. It was why you always had more than one on a detail. Someone could run an errand, someone could visit the bathroom, and someone was still on duty.

  Avakian went out the door and down the hall of the corner suite past closed office doors and then the reception area. Ducking a head inside the secretaries’ coffee mess. No Sani. He smiled at the secretaries, but he didn’t ask any of them. Inevitably, one would say to Sani, “Oh, your boss was looking for you.”

  Leaving the office sui
te and into the main 4th floor hallway. No Sani. This was getting interesting. Imagining what a short stocky white guy with a shaven head looked like walking down a hallway exclusively populated by much taller black Nigerians put a smile on Avakian’s face. As was his habit, he greeted everyone he passed, eliciting surprised but warm replies. Something along the lines of: a white businessman actually said hello to me. He peeked into open office doorways, but no Sani.

  At the end of the hall Avakian paused before the entrance to the stairwell, putting his ear to the fireproof door. Sani’s voice, carrying on a conversation. But only pauses—no reply from another party. So he was on his cell phone.

  Avakian always banned cell phone use on security details. Otherwise everyone would be yakking and texting all day long. And bodyguards focused on their phones didn’t see what was going on around them, and didn’t hear what was going on around them.

  But his guys could certainly use their phones during breaks, so there was no reason for Sani to be hiding out in the stairwell. Avakian pressed his ear tighter against the door, but he couldn’t make out what Sani was saying.

  The bad vibes were just coming in waves now. Avakian headed back. Passing through the office suite on the way to the ante-room, he stopped at the reception desk. Everyone treated secretaries like furniture, but they knew everything that went on in an office the same way nurses knew everything about hospitals. Always make friends with the secretaries. “Sarah, can I ask you for a favor?”

  She was in her late twenties, big and bubbly. “You can ask, Peter.”

  Avakian thought Nigerians had the most mellifluous speaking voices of anyone on earth. “In about fifteen minutes, would you come in and whisper in my ear, as if you’re telling me something. I want to play a little joke on the guys.” Sensing resistance, he added, “I’m buying lunch.”

  “But are you taking me to lunch,” she asked.

  “Darlin’, I’d love to. But you know I’ve got to work. Why don’t you treat your girlfriends,” he said, involving them all in the conspiracy. He pulled his hand from his pocket and pressed a wad of bills into her palm as he took her hand, then gently turned it over and kissed it.

  The other secretaries began tittering. “What should I say?” she asked.

  “Anything you like,” Avakian replied. He held a finger up to his lips. “Just don’t tell the guys.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” she said.

  “Fifteen minutes,” said Avakian.

  When Sani returned with the two coffees Avakian stood up to take his, moving around so Edmund was in his sight line. “Where were you?”

  Sani jumped a little. “Getting coffee.”

  “I had to step out for a second,” Avakian said evenly. “You weren’t at the coffee mess.”

  The truth always slid right out, but a lie took a moment. “I had to make a call…my mom is bad sick, and I had to check on her.”

  A lie always contained too much information. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Avakian. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Ah, she’s poorly, but the doctors don’t know what it is yet.”

  Avakian took a step closer and looked up. He was barely 5’ 7”, a half foot shorter, but Sani was the one who was intimidated. Sani’s pupils were also dilated, giving him those “beady eyes,” as the apt expression went. Involuntarily touching his mouth to hold the lie in. Unless you worked hard to master your body, it was hard to avoid giving away those non-verbal cues.

  “Do you want to go to her?” Avakian asked, blowing on his coffee to cool it. “I can spare you.”

  At that Edmund, whom Avakian wouldn’t have expected to care less, started looking very concerned.

  “No, no,” Sani exclaimed. “I don’t want to leave you short-handed. She be fine.”

  “You sure?” said Avakian, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Sure, sure,” said Sani.

  “Okay. If you change your mind, let me know,” said Avakian, sitting back down. Not good. Not good at all.

  A few minutes later Sarah came in, bent over, and whispered in Avakian’s ear. “Is this what you wanted?”

  Avakian nodded. “Perfect,” he whispered back.

  “What do we talk about?” she whispered.

  “Anything you like.”

  “Do you like girls who wear garter belts?”

  “Men always appreciate the extra effort,” Avakian whispered, after a pause to work through the most appropriate responses—and not the first one he’d thought of.

  “Some day I show you mine.”

  “My girlfriend would kill you. And then she’d kill me.”

  “I’m worth it,” Sarah whispered, pulling away and sashaying across the room. All the bodyguards’ eyes followed her.

  Avakian had started shaving his head after losing the battle with male pattern baldness. His Armenian ancestors had bequeathed him a powerfully prominent nose, and the gravitational forces of age fifty-two accented the cragginess of his features. Like most members of the non-beautiful people set he was perfectly aware of the limits of his own attractiveness, and didn’t doubt that being a well-to-do American had everything to do with the flirtation.

  “Change in plans,” he announced. “They’re going to be in there longer than expected, and they’re having lunch brought in. So you guys can go to lunch. Tell them downstairs, and take both cars. If there’s another change I’ll give you a call. Otherwise be back here at two o’clock.”

  “You don’t want one of us to stay?” said Edmund.

  “No need,” said Avakian. “First rule in this business. If you get a decent chance to eat, take it. Because the last thing the principal cares about is your mealtimes.”

  “We bring you back something,” said Sani.

  “The secretaries are going to take care of me,” Avakian said with a wink.

  Forced chuckles from the other two.

  Avakian would have expected a stampede out the door, but Sani didn’t move until Edmund cocked his head at him. “Two o’clock,” said Avakian, holding up two fingers. “No later.”

  “Two o’clock,” they echoed.

  As soon as the door shut behind them, the smile fell off Avakian’s face. He pulled out a cell phone, a local pre-paid one, and dialed. “Avakian,” he said, once the connection was established. “I’m going to need you. Outside the Federal Secretariat, back gate. Within the hour. Yeah, I need that, too. Call me when you get there.”

  Avakian snapped the phone shut and thought for a minute. Then he returned to his paperback.

  At eleven thirty the opposite door opened and the negotiating group filed out. Avakian’s client the sole white face among a group of Nigerians. Avakian had a bet with himself that the jerk wouldn’t even notice that his detail was gone. He’d already had to explain to the guy that bodyguards were there to protect his life, not be his personal valet service.

  Admittedly painting with a broad brush, there were two main varieties of South African whites. Those who spoke Afrikaans, the Dutch dialect of the original settlers, as their primary language. And those who spoke English, the language of the British imperialists. Most spoke both, but Afrikaner and Englishman was how they tended to categorize themselves.

  And Anthony Spencer was certainly an Englishman. A Brit once told Avakian that no one put on upper-class snob better than a colonial who’d gone to Oxford. That was definitely the case here, from the Saville Row pinstripes, school tie, and pocket square to the signet ring to the Piaget watch that cost as much as the typical family car. Another warning Avakian had issued, that had fallen on deaf ears. It was the kind of watch someone would follow you across town and chop your hand off to get ahold of. The personal package was nondescript: sandy hair, watery eyes, and a nose like a pistol sight for looking down on people. Avakian hadn’t been called “my good man” yet, but that was only because Spencer didn’t believe in speaking to the help any more than necessary. All of which, Avakian had no doubt, were going to combine to make what he had to do next even harde
r.

  Soon the handshakes were completed, and Avakian led the way out the door. Going through the outer office all the secretaries trilled, “Goodbye, Peter.” Avakian gave them a wave.

  When the elevator door opened up on the ground floor, Avakian took Spencer’s arm and made an unexpected turn. “We’re going out the back door.”

  Predictably, the first sentence was a complaint. “Why, isn’t the car out front?”

  “We’re not taking the car,” said Avakian.

  Halfway through the door. “Look, I don’t know what…”

  That statement was halted when Avakian grabbed him just above the elbow. “I’m going to need you to listen to me. Are you listening?”

  “Release my arm…”

  Instead, Avakian tightened his grip to hard enough to leave fingerprints on human skin. “You’re still not listening. Are you listening now?”

  In pain, it came out, “Yes, yes.”

  “Good. We’re leaving the country right now.”

  “But I am supposed to leave tomorrow…,” cut off when his bicep was squeezed hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “My arm.”

  “You really need to give me your complete attention. You’re leaving the country now because I’m pretty sure someone is planning on kidnapping you today.”