State of Emergency by Marc Cameron

prison.”
    Bundu gulped but said nothing.
    â€œWhere I come from we have a saying.” Zamora stepped forward to push the aluminum case across the table. He gestured for the newly promoted general to open it. “ Plata o plomo. It does not translate quite so poetically into Portuguese.” His eyes narrowed. “But I believe you understand the message. Silver or lead, the choice is yours.”
    Bundu patted the unopened case with a trembling hand. “I am satisfied that whatever arrangement you had with General Kabbah’s predecessor will be quite acceptable to me.”
    â€œSo.” Zamora clapped his hands together and brought them to his face, top teeth against his knuckle. “I may assume you and your men will resume their noninterference immediately when it comes to my shipments.”
    â€œYou may indeed,” Bundu said.
    â€œVery well.” Zamora smiled. “I’ll send a man in a few days’ time to see to the next load of merchandise— and I must warn you, I have a strict time line that must be observed.”
    â€œI und . . . erstand . . . perfec . . . tly.” Bundu appeared to be having a difficult time swallowing.
    â€œVery well,” Zamora said. “You will most certainly find something extra for you if things go well.” He watched as Monagas dug around on the dead general’s uniform until he found a medal he liked for his collection.
    Bundu looked on in morbid fascination. He forced his mouth into a tight smile. “I can assure you, the price will never go up during my lifetime.”
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    Zamora had no sooner stepped from the stuffy confines of the metal hangar than his cell phone began to ring. All the joy from standing in the wind immediately bled from him when he heard the voice on the other end.
    â€œWhy have you not returned my calls?” The voice spoke in English but with the clipped intonation of the Yemeni Yazid Nazif.
    â€œI have been extremely busy,” Zamora said. If not for the fact that Nazif held the key to his plan, not to mention the purse strings to three hundred and fifty million dollars, Zamora would have ended the call on the spot. Instead, he worked to gently explain. “There is still some work to be done on our prize to make it functional. But I have things well in hand. Did not the first step work out as I suggested?”
    â€œIt did,” the voice said. “Why did you not tell us of the Chechens?”
    â€œI merely allowed them to take the credit.” Zamora shrugged. “It was the only way to get the timing correct.”
    â€œDid you not consider the fact that they themselves would want the device?”
    Zamora ran a hand through his hair. “Of course I did,” he said. He neglected to mention the fact that the Chechens had paid him handsomely to choose the target for the St. Petersburg bomb action. Now they were, in fact, clamoring for more of the same. If they knew about Baba Yaga, they would stop at nothing to get their hands on her.
    Nazif’s voice was breathy, snakelike. “Need I remind you of our timetable?”
    â€œNo, you do not,” Zamora said, rolling his eyes at Monagas as he stepped out the door, wiping blood off his hands. “If you will recall, it was I who suggested such a ripe venue in the first place.”
    â€œWe have paid a great sum of money for this thing,” Nazif said. “And with such a large sum come certain expectations. Do you understand?”
    â€œOf course,” Zamora said. “But things happen—”
    â€œWe have no interest in excuses,” Nazif said, and ended the call.
    Bundu stepped out of the hangar just in time to see Zamora fling his phone into the weeds, cursing vehemently in Spanish. The Venezuelan stood there for a full minute, panting and glaring toward the sea. At length his breathing slowed and he looked at the newly promoted general.
    â€œWell, don’t just stand there,”