Uncertainty

“So, when it all boils down,” Muhammad said, wheeling the high performance Cadillac north on Western Avenue, “you know your son was seeing the princess. You know who the princess was, in terms of her family. You know their relationship was serious, and you had extra security watching them both. But you know nothing else?”

From the passenger seat, Summers spread his hands and said, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Akbar grunted. Muhammad grinned.

“Is he always this politically correct?” Summers grinned as well.

“I’m the diplomat,” Muhammad explained. “Major Akbar is a soldier. In his line of work, knowing bullshit when you see it is, well, part of your work. Although, sir, I do agree. Something about your story seems…absent.”

“I have business associates, friendly and…otherwise,” Summers began. “This isn’t their type of move. They too would have done some research and figured who this young lady was. The child of a local, um, entrepreneur? Fair game for kidnapping. You have to understand, however, in my world? International incidents can be very bad for business. Do you have any idea what happens when a royal goes missing? Embassies, the Feds, folk such as yourselves. No,” Summers shook his head again. “Very bad for business. Whoever is involved in this, if there is a this, is not from my world. Profit above all else, and this will eventually interrupt profit.”

Muhammad turned right onto Vincennes Avenue and headed east.

“So what are we facing?”

Summers shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Akbar’s mobile rang. He grunted after answering it, and then snapped it shut. “Turn on the radio,” he ordered. Muhammad complied. “No,” Akbar said, shaking his head in disgust at the music that came through the speakers. Find me a news channel…”

Summers tuned the dial to an AM station, where they heard announced, “there are no further details regarding the coup, but stay tuned as we will update you on this swift change in government, and how economists feel it will affect the international value of copper, gypsum, uranium and oil.”

Summers looked blank.

Muhammad said, “Find the major,” and sped the vehicle in the direction of Summers’ home.

Akbar was already punching numbers, his jacket unbuttoned.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” Summers asked.

“The media usually gets it wrong, but we can’t take chances,” Muhammad replied tersely.

“Where is she?” Summers asked softly.

“In good hands,” Akbar retorted sarcastically. Muhammad was on his mobile, calmly instructing someone to alert the local police.

“Waste of time,” Akbar said when the other man rang off. “The way the State Department has been on us, they know. The embassy is probably already surrounded by federal police.”

Summers looked at both men. “Did you ever stop to think, this may have nothing to do with me? Or my boy? This may be about things on your side of the water.”

“Possible,” Muhammad said, braking in front of Summers’ home. “Your State Department has been privy to worse info and sat on it.”

“My State Department,” Summers answered wearily, “is no different than any other. We are all bad men in bad businesses, gentlemen. Try not to paint yours as any better because the people whom you do business for have their faces on currency in your homeland.” He alighted from the car, holding the front passenger door for Akbar to change places with him. Muhammad saw the hulking security man open the door for Summers, and then he roared off.

“Where are they?”

“Don’t know,” Akbar grunted. “They were going downtown to shop, but I haven’t had a check in for hours.”

“Shop?” Akbar asked cheekily. “Is that a euphemism for…”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Akbar said tightly. “This is our sovereign of whom you speak.”

One of Muhammad’s hands left the speeding car’s steering wheel. “The story is out there, Major. I am just asking if it is true.”

“If it is, it is none of our business,” was the reply the smaller man got.

“And if you know, you aren’t telling?”

“Muhammad,” Akbar began, “there are loyalties one must have. To their crown. To their duty. To their fellow officers, to their men. Soldiering is different from the diplomatic corps. They tell us whom to shoot, we shoot, and we keep going. We know whose side we re on, even if we are not sure of the cause which we have been ordered to fight. The rule is simple: WIN. To win, you have to be able to count on your chain of command, to inspire and believe in the ability of your men. It is that simple.”

“You keep each others’ secrets?”

“Two places in a man’s life inspire absolute loyalty: the battlefield, and the prison cell.”

“Major Makenju is quite familiar with both.”

“Let it go, Son,” Akbar pulled his weapon from under his shoulder and put it on the seat in front of him. “Some things are not germane to our mission.”

“Which is?”

“To secure Her Majesty as promptly as possible.”

The mobile stirred. Makenju awoke instantly.

“Yes?”

His feet swung over the bedside. He took care not to disturb the lump snoring gently next to him.

“I am not sure this line is secure. I will telephone you from a land line momentarily.”

He shrugged into his shirt and pulled on his pants, stopping only to grab the big automatic on the night table.

The covers stirred.

“What’s wrong, Ibrahim?”

“Majesty, I must leave you here, alone, momentarily. You must get dressed immediately. I will lock you in. Grab your things, leave the lights off, and dress in the bathroom. Stay in there until I return. Open the door for no one.”

“Ibrahim? What has happened?”

“Do as I ask, Ma’am. Your safety depends on it.”

Makenju opened the door cautiously, peered outside, and began to plod down the hall to the hotel office, praying Theo Morgan was still in for the day.

Muhammad caught pieces of Akbar’s conversation with Makenju, including the name of a city thirty mile south of Chicago.

“I know where it is,” he muttered, and swung the car onto Interstate 57 south, accelerating rapidly.

“What happened?”

“They ditched some State Department folk and came to some hotel out south.”

Muhammad kept his thoughts to himself.

“Hurry, Muhammad! The Major must not be thinking clearly. Although he used a land line, he still called my mobile. There is no way of knowing if that call was intercepted.”

“Shall I phone ahead for local law enforcement to secure this, ah, hotel?”

“Negative. I’ll call the embassy and have them contact the State authorities regarding our speed and urgency. This requires as little attention as possible, and small town folk love gawking where there are a lot of lights.”

“Yessir.”

“Look smart when we arrive, Muhammad. Safety off and round up the spout, ready to go.”

“Do you really think it’ll go there, Major Akbar?”

“I have learned it is better to be prepared than otherwise.” Akbar switched on the satellite radio and found the BBC. Moments later, there was a report on the coup in their homeland.

“Colonel Mbakwe? Is that who they said has claimed he now controls the government?”

Akbar shook his head. “I served under him. Good soldier. Good officer. Too bad he is an oath breaking sack of shit.”

“What will happen to him…”

“Once the forces topple him? The penalty for high treason is simple. Execution.”

“But Major Makenju is still alive…”

Akbar shook his head with emotion. “The Major never committed treason. His only crime was not knowing his place.”

Muhammad looked to press, but Akbar shook his head.

Akbar continued. “Mbakwe will have to fight off the loyalist forces. It doesn’t say which divisions are with him.”

“The Vice Admiral? Will he fight?”

“He is honor bound to, but his titles are ceremonial. He was a good enough sailor in his day, but something like this requires men who are used to bullets and issuing battlefield orders under fire. He has spent the last twenty one years, to his chagrin, being a hand holder at dignified functions. Know, in the interest of him being the spouse of a royal? They need to get him out of the country and let the real fighters fight. He would just be in the way and a morale killer if captured.”

“Will he run?”

Akbar shot Muhammad a sideways glance. “He is not a coward…but he is not an active military man. He is wise enough to follow the instructions of his security team and remove himself from harm’s way.”

The Cadillac took the exit at 75 miles an hour.

“There’s the place,” Akbar pointed. The sign was clearly visible from the expressway.

Muhammad nodded. He ran the red light, made a quick left, and pulled into the circular drive. Slamming the shifter into park, he pulled a heavy automatic from under his shoulder, pulled the slider, and nodded. Akbar’s huge 357 was in one hand, his other was on the door release.

“Let’s go. Look alive, soldier.”