Rogue President. D.K. Wilde
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“I haven’t been cold for so long I’d forgotten how bad it was,” chattered Crystal. She pulled her woolen coat tighter, around herself, and wrapped her arm through Wade’s.
Smiling Wade asked where they were heading. He heard Dunstall instruct the driver to take them home. The luxury vehicle was superbly heated and the power of position in society was evident as they approached the customs officer. The driver lowered the window, handed across the four passports, ensuring the MI6 diplomatic one sat on top. A female officer quickly scanned Dunstall’s passport and handed them all back without opening the others. Exiting the private jet charter area, they headed north then west onto the M4 until they met the London Orbital Motorway, M25. Afternoon traffic was horrendous. Vehicles were at a virtual standstill as they crawled through the Buckinghamshire countryside.
Passing the seventeenth century Newland Park Manor, a large well appointed mansion popular amongst the rich set for weddings, they approached the four metre high stone walled fence and fully enclosed steel gates. Two suit wearing guards parted the gates and the ten metre wide crushed white stone driveway, bordered on both sides by immaculately manicured lawns and rose gardens; sprawled out ahead. Wade was awestruck at the sheer size of the mansion that sat three hundred metres down the drive. The white three storey limestone building comprising twenty two bedrooms, two commercial size kitchens, tennis court, indoor swimming pool, gymnasium, dining room to seat forty four, helipad and an indoor soundproofed shooting range.
The limousine stopped under the portico directly in front of the huge double oak doors that served as the front entrance. An attendant opened the car door. Fiercely cold wind cut through the heated interior like an arrow. Snowflakes, caught up in the wind, altered the surroundings to a surreal mystical quality as everything started to turn white. Crystal climbed out and was confronted by three hulking males. Suddenly realizing she screamed in delight. She lunged at Sammy and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Sammy, the man mountain, black South African ex-Recces who had helped save Crystal’s life, was thrilled to see her again. Releasing her grip, she kissed him and repeated with Franco, the Spanish ex-French Foreign Legionnaire and Bud, the American ex-Navy Seal.
Exiting the vehicle Wade was stopped in mid flight. It hit him, like a hammer, how much he had missed his friends. The emotion swelled. Tingles ran down his back. Sammy stepped forward and grabbed him in his typical bear hug. “Hey buddy. We’ve missed you.”
Wade was lost for words.
“Come on, say something. Surely you haven’t lost the ability to talk,” he chuckled releasing his grip.
After many backslaps, embraces and words of welcome, Dunstall ushered them inside. Bringing up the rear Wade had already seen the sniper hidden on the roof. The gardener pretending to work the roses and the third man attending to vehicles in the open door garage.
The foyer appeared even larger than the front façade. Dozens of rooms leading off multiple hallways. A marble floor led to a large oak staircase that was four metres wide and halfway up, split toward the two wings of the building. A three metre chandelier hung perfectly between the split staircases. Walls were covered in pictures, artifacts, symbols and heirlooms that appeared hundreds of years old. Everywhere Wade looked something was either hanging, mounted or atop a stand. The presentation was picture perfect.
Wade pondered the impressive show of wealth and success. The butler dressed in tails. Two maids polishing crystal and gold antiquities. Two dark suited body guards. It suddenly struck him what had him at odds. He thought back to those outside and looked across to the suit wearing butler. They were all ex-SAS. The body language and demeanor was unmistakable.
Dunstall headed up the stairs as the butler led them to an informal meeting room. Closing the doors behind himself he mentioned dinner would be at 1900 hours.
The room was covered on three walls with floor to ceiling of books, all perfectly presented. Opposite the entrance was a centered fireplace either side of French doors.
“It’s great to see you guys but what are you doing here?” asked Wade looking towards his friends.
Sammy raised his eyes. Bud shrugged his shoulders. The laconic Franco opened his mouth to speak but was cut short.
“This is probably going to be difficult to get a grip on. So take a seat and I’ll explain what we know and what we believe,” said Plant.
The four men sunk down into the luxurious eighteenth century club lounges and Crystal sat on Wade’s knee. Plant dimmed the lights and two images appeared on the wall above the fireplace.
“The one on the left is Marcus Riol. The photo is four years old. He is a Sierra Leone national who completed a PHD in molecular chemistry at MIT. After topping his class and gaining employment with one of the top US research institutes; fourteen months later he disappears. We have unconfirmed sightings but we believe he is now the leader of the largest rebel gang in Sierra Leone.” Paused. “Apparently all his family, except for one nephew, were killed when US backed Sierra Leone government troops stormed a market place. This tripped him over the edge and he is believed to be responsible for some of the most terrible atrocities in the country.”
“And he looks like such a nice caring person,” said Crystal, sarcastically, staring at the immaculately dressed and groomed, late twenties, smiling male in his graduation gown.
“Don’t be fooled. Word on the ground is that he has shaved his head and has a mismatched red lightning bolt tattoo down the left side of his neck. He never lets his razor sharp machete leave his hands and is known to always be carrying a sharpened knuckle duster,” replied Plant. “Not much else is known about him because he has a massive network that keeps him hidden. The locals call him ‘The Vulture’ because of his propensity to hack and rip bodies after killing them.”
“What about the other guy?” asked Sammy deciding he’d had enough of hearing about Riol.
“His name is Dwight Alexander Cobart III. He attended MIT with Riol and they became friends. He never completed his studies and went back to work for his father’s company ‘Fundco Inc.’ His father, Senator Cobart, heads up the Senate Repatriation Committee. It appears his position as a senator has given him access, and a high level of carte blanche, to most of the major military contracts. He has made a fortune out of the funding and supplying of equipment to wars throughout the world. More importantly Fundco has recently acquired a prototype weapon.”
“What sort of weapon?” asked Franco who had always shown an interest in new weapon technology.
“A pistol that has a triggering mechanism and an explosive component activated by a chemical reaction. This idea has been tried many times in the past but it seems the Fundco prototype has ironed out the bugs. We now know this technology could be altered and implemented on a mass scale … on top of that, five days ago, Cobart junior and the prototype disappeared.”
Looking around the room at the four highly trained individuals, Plant waited for a response. The crackling of the wood in the open fireplace and the rain pelting against the turn of the century French balcony doors was the only sound. The men scratched their heads, moved in their seats and stared at each other. Crystal stood and walked to stand in front of the fire.
“So what is it with these two guys?” asked Wade.
“Riol is somebody you will need to be aware of while down there and you might want to limit how much you mention his name. Some love him. Some hate him. Most are just scared. Cobart, on the other hand, we believe is the lynchpin that links Riol to outside forces.”
“Outside?” asked Sammy.
“As in neighbouring countries, international gangs, weapons suppliers … Don’t be fooled we might not know much about these guys but we do know whoever is controlling the rebels has an extremely large force, albeit not that well trained, but still large and a large cache of weapons and these weapons need to be supplied.’
“And you think Fundco are it?” asked Wade.
“Correct.”
“How