The Good That Men Do

By Thomas Trapani

A malignant tumor grows in the brain of a government official, in minutes the tumor is dissolved by a breakthrough procedure known only to three men. A terrorist has uncovered the secret to this process and will do anything to control it. Trapped in a web of conspiracy and death are two U.S. physicians who will race against the clock and across the globe to save the one man who can change history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Trapani
• Release date: Jun 1, 2010

Thomas Trapani

T. Trapani has had successful careers in fields as varied as computer engineering, music, commercial and medical photography, equity trading, graphic design and radiation technology. He is a business entrepreneur and has been writing bio-tech thrillers since 1999. He is presently in the process of bringing to film a screenplay which he has recently completed. A world traveler, Trapani lives with his wife and son on Staten Island.

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Prologue

OCTOBER 1952

She thought she heard a man’s voice somewhere off to her right—or was it the left? No, it was the right. It was the right—the left—or just somewhere in her imagination. If it was her imagination, it was playing a very cruel trick with her emerging consciousness.

Was she listening too hard? Concentrating too strongly? Surely she remembered what a voice sounded like, it had only been three weeks since her hearing had disappeared completely. She kept her eyes closed and forced herself to relax. Maybe I’m dead?

How’s her pulse and pressure?

There—wasn’t that another voice? It was different from the first. Wasn’t it?

The ringing in her ears had become unbearable, and when the silence finally came it was almost welcome. But then her world was totally silent, and all the sounds she had come to expect were no longer there. The unending cacophony of automobile horns that forced her to close her office windows in annoyance day after day was gone. The bickering and arguing of her assistants and deputy ministers, which invariably gave her a tension headache, was gone. Even the pleas and pleasures expressed by the continual flow of her country’s representatives in and out of her chambers, were gone. Within a day after the quiet began she found herself wishing the noises would return.

But of all the sounds that were now gone, she would miss most the trumpeting of the cranes in their courtship dance near her home in northern India, because that was the sound that brought back most if not all of her happiest memories.

Restoring her hearing however was not the sole reason for her agreeing to the risky and experimental procedure she was undergoing today. But what choice did she have? This course of action, which was her last hope, was an attempt to wither the thing still growing inside her head. The thing that was responsible for so many of her problems over the last few months. This uninvited thing that had stolen her sense of balance, much of her eyesight, and all of her hearing in such a short time. This horrible thing that now threatened her very existence.

She took a chance and slowly moved the fingers of her left hand.

Russell, come here! I think she’s waking. Do you think she can hear us?

Now that was definitely a voice. A third voice, different from the first two! And a name!

A name she recognized!

I see, the first voice said. Keep your eyes on the monitors and let’s get another x-ray—now!

There’s the second voice, again! Would I be able to recognize different voices if I were dead? My god I must still be among the living!

Initially, when the scientist and two doctors approached her with their story and their offer for a chance at life, she was tempted to simply send for her security guards and have them escorted from her office: the idea was too fantastic. All of the specialists she had seen to date had said there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for the inevitable end. The tumor was too large and too deeply embedded. There was nothing anyone could do.

How she ever agreed to the private conference with the three Americans was beyond her. But she knew that until both body and mind agree that there is truly no other way but death—there was always hope. She had listened to them, skeptically.

When first they came they did not immediately speak of her medical condition or prognosis. For some reason they spoke only about her work and political ideologies, her beliefs and their belief that she needed to continue her life mission at any cost. They spoke of her leadership and the many programs initiated to benefit the poor of her country—such a poor country. They spoke of the children living today due only to her determination to bring medical care to even the remotest of regions; of the farmers who received financial aid from other governments after monsoons had threatened to destroy their farms. And on and on they addressed her noble fight for her people: her noble causes.

The men also knew a great deal about the peace conferences she was currently involved in, and what they had said was true. She had been on the verge of a breakthrough in the talks. And yes, a few weeks longer as Prime Minister would have definitely solidified the agreement. She was most appreciative that these men felt she was the best hope for the future of her country, but her doctors had all said she would not live to see her dream come to fruition. They had all said she must be ready to pass the burden of the peace process to someone else.

When her sense of balance began to waver she took up a cane, when her eyesight dimmed she obtained stronger lenses for her glasses, but when her hearing disappeared she truly did have nothing to loose and anything to gain. With her most trusted aide she flew to America, incognito. She had decided to put her health, as well as her life, into the hands of these three men of science.

Be alert now doctors, the change will be sudden and we don’t know how the human body will react to the rapid deterioration of cellular matter.

There! There was that first voice again!

It seemed closer now and she believed she could even feel someone staring at her from very near. She grew excited when she realized that she was actually able to discern differences in the distances of the voices, in addition to tone and inflection. Now she was convinced it was not her imagination. She was sure she was hearing human voices. Without opening her eyes or shifting from her position on the bed, the corners of her mouth lifted into a tiny but cautious smile. The smile grew almost involuntarily when she realized that she was indeed, smiling.

A voice she recognized as the third voice said, Russell, Russell, come here—she’s waking, she’s smiling! I think she can hear us!

Slowly and softly, with her eyes still closed she said, Yes, I am waking doctor.

The same voice became suddenly even more excited. She can hear us! Russell, come here. It’s working, she can hear! There was a very short pause before it continued; now very distinct and for her, rather loud. Miss Guyumpata, you can hear me, a statement, How do you feel?

She opened her eyes slowly, allowing light to filter in gradually. When they were fully open she blinked three times, hard, realizing that her vision too was clearer than it had been in months. She shifted her eyes from side to side. Two men in white lab coats stood to her right, one to her left. Her smile had turned to a full, toothy grin.

In a most pleasant and matter of fact voice, she quietly said, Please, doctor, there is no need to shout. I am not deaf, you know.

*

JULY 2000

Mexico City

Crossing the lobby of the building that housed the Mexican Ministry of Trade, Heriberto Gomez made his way to the elevator that would take him to his car parked in the basement garage that was completed just one year ago. Like other houses of worship in Mexico that had been converted to government office buildings after 1921, his office had been established in just such a church.

Streaming through the small windows in the perimeter of the cupola set atop the building’s lofty rotunda, early morning sunlight threw rectangles of dusty light onto the antiquated lobby walls, revealing their frequent repair. The spaciousness of the lobby and the stillness of the air inside caused the area to retain a peculiar sense of reverence. So much so that when people met and conversed in this circular antechamber they always whispered, as if an unspoken rule had stated that voices were not to be raised here, and loud noises were not permitted out of respect for what the building once symbolized. Still, the heels of Gomez’s shoes echoed loudly in the emptiness as he walked.

Although Minister of Trade, Heriberto Gomez had personally worked through Friday night putting the finishing touches on his department’s new budget proposal. He was now very tired and eager to reach home before 7a.m. Gomez was not a man given to overnight work marathons and a one-hour drive, even at this hour, was not something he relished. At fifty-five years old, of slight build and in something less than good physical condition, he felt physically exhausted.

The hell he had been saved from, which in turn had enabled him to continue serving his country, still made its weight known with every breath. Like a missing limb, he still felt the phantom pain and found himself spending a good deal of time searching his body for any sign that his illness was returning.

The large satchel-like briefcase he carried also weighed heavily, as heavily on his shoulder as his decision to sever his connection with the Americans who had pressed him into his current role. He knew that the call he had made Friday morning carried the same weight, and possibly the same consequences, as refusing to complete payments to a loan shark, but he had chosen to take the chance. No longer could he continue to hoodwink the workers of Mexican docks and rail yards. His decision had been made, and for now he wanted only to stop thinking about departmental finances and personal tribulations until Monday morning.

Raising his hand in the direction of the night watchman’s desk he turned and saw the desk unmanned. His hand dropped back to his side.

The night guard must have just left his post to begin his hourly rounds.

He arrived at the elevator, poked at the down button, and waited. The lift arrived and the single door slid open. Head lowered, watching his step he entered, he stopped short. Surprised, he looked up to see the faces of two men dressed in suits already inside the elevator cab. One carried a briefcase.

Although it was very early, and a Saturday, his trusting nature inclined him to believe there was no reason to be overly concerned with their presence. Their suits, bronzed skin, black hair and mustaches, told Gomez they were probably only fellow government employees. He didn’t know everyone that worked in this building, and just because it was Saturday didn’t mean the government shut down.

The Minster was accustomed to greeting fellow employees amicably as a show of goodwill and courtesy so he smiled at a spot between the men.

Buenos dias señores! Que dedicados son a su trabajo para encontrarlos aqui en un sabado! he said, praising their work ethic. There was no response from either man. He turned to face the closing elevator door.

Working on a Saturday? Such dedication.

Gomez had no reason to believe that these men posed any threat. Nor did he have any reason to suspect that they were in the building without security clearance. He also had no time to react when the man to his right stepped close and brushed against him roughly.

The man clamped a large right hand over Gomez’s mouth while his left arm wrapped itself around Gomez’s thin waist. He pulled Heriberto back against him and held tightly. Gomez’s arms were bound to his sides; his shoulder satchel now hung in front him. Unable to scream for help, Gomez felt more than saw the man to his left move up behind him and reach out. He felt a pinch on the left side of his neck, hardly more painful than a small bee, biting. But then it began.

In barely ten seconds since feeling the sting, Gomez became powerless to do anything but wheeze as his lungs began burning with an old, familiar pain that immediately rose to an agonizing struggle for air.

The pain became a hundred times worse than he ever remembered as the wheezing gave way to gasping, and the gasping to terror. The man holding him at the waist released his grip and Gomez’s knees buckled. He fell to the floor of the elevator, limp.

When the elevator door opened in the garage, Heriberto Gomez was face down on the elevator floor. The predators stepped quickly around and over him, disappearing into the dimly lit garage without looking back. Gomez was able to crawl, but only two feet before his terror gave way to acceptance. His strength and breath left him. He collapsed to his stomach. His lifeless body lay piled in the threshold of the elevator, preventing the door from closing.

ONE

The Hummer began its journey the moment the violent winds stopped and the skin-shredding sand settled back to earth. A mere two minutes after departure, the passenger turned to look out the back window. The flat rooftops of the village of Baris were far behind but the distance hardly mattered. Even if they had been only half a mile away, the town was so small it would have been indistinguishable from the rolling dunes surrounding it. From here, it was merely a memory.

The vehicle leapt over a small dune, propelled forward by its own momentum. Like a skier leaving a ramp, it hung briefly in the air, glided forward, and fell inevitably back to the sand. As the vehicle bounced on the desert floor its tires spun briefly in the loose sand. Hardly a hint of dust sprang up from the impact. The tire wells of the Hummer had been fitted with oversized guards that splayed out to the sides and rear of the vehicle in an effort to minimize the sand and dust thrown up by this desert transport. Gaining traction, the car surged ahead on its tortuous journey.

The dry, waterless plains and wadis surrounding Baris had been left far behind and the car was now speeding over scattered fields of tiny dunes as fast as the sand would allow. Like giant anthills, the swells kept the occupants of the car bouncing and shifting in their seats while the searing wind that whipped through the open windows heated the interior until it felt like a potters kiln. Closing the windows would have been madness. Even at this hour of the morning, the temperature had already risen to 85º Fahrenheit, and the vehicle’s air-conditioning system had been removed in the interest of fuel efficiency.

The endless contours of sand, coupled with the ceaseless movement of the dunes, made the trip seem almost un-navigable, but the driver knew exactly where he was going. He had made the trip many times before and knew not to count on the landscape as a guide. That would be akin to a sailor expecting to see the same wave twice and steering his ship by that mark. The driver need only keep the needle of his dash-mounted compass pointed to 215 degrees southwest south to reach his destination. If a new dune had been created in the last week or so he could go over it, or around it, and still find his way back to the appropriate heading.

The longer they drove, the larger and more forbidding the dunes became. After several hours the driver silently reached to the right and tapped his passenger on the arm. He pointed through the windshield, to the left. The passenger looked and nodded in understanding. In the distance, the car’s objective was becoming visible through the scintillating distortion of rising heat.

A man made structure, appearing to be no more than a smaller dune set next to a much larger rise of sand, grew more distinct through the flat dust covered front glass of the Hummer. As close as the vehicle was, however, it was still not easy to distinguish that this structure was not a mountain of sand at all. Instead, it was more than one hundred huge, perfectly dyed, and expertly joined canvasses covering the entirety of an ancient oasis in this southwest corner of the Egyptian desert. The canvasses were supported by long steel poles sunk deep into the sand and placed in the shape of a long, lazy ‘S’, imitating a dune that might have been swept by one of the Sahara’s four winds.

Smaller poles of decreasing size were placed out to the sides, away from the larger center posts. The canopy’s edges were kept fastened to the earth by long metal tent pegs hammered deep into the ground. Heavy weights had been placed on the fringe of the canvas in areas where required to keep flapping to a minimum.

Even the palm trees clustered around the pool of water at the core of this lush area were covered. With all in place, a perfect illusion was created. Like some gargantuan circus big top, the site covered more than a quarter square mile of desert.

The journey to this corner of Egypt took almost six hours and was timed to begin and end during a satellite blackout period; a time frame in which few satellites, if any, would be focused on this region of the world. But even from above, it would take more than the finest modeling or geophysical satellite to discern the difference between this covert installation and any other aged dune.

The fact that it was Saturday was also no coincidence. Only skeleton crews manned most satellite monitoring stations on weekends, and this reduced even more the possibility of the Hummer’s detection as it sped across the endless wasteland.

Traveling at close to fifty miles per hour, within forty feet of one tapered end of the false dune, the driver spun the steering wheel to the left and turned the ignition key to the off position. The wheel locked and the Hummer slid sideways on the sand pushing up a wave of powder. It came to a gliding stop between two aluminum poles supporting a large awning that jutted out from one small area of the canvassed enclosure.

The two men exited stiffly from their four-wheeled oven, their heads and faces covered by a headdress similar to that of the desert Tuaregs; a long, black, material wound atop the head and worn low on the forehead, in turban-like fashion with one end tucked under the headpiece at the back of the neck. The longer length of cloth was pulled from the back over one shoulder and across the face to cover the nose, mouth, chin and cheeks; what remained was thrown over the opposite shoulder; only the eyes were then visible. As the men emerged, rivulets of sand slid from their uniforms to mingle with the dust at their feet.

A voice called out from behind a flap in the canvas that was used as an entrance to the covered compound.

Mansur! Hussam! I am here. The darkness of the interior prevented the speaker from being seen. Only his arm holding the flap aloft was visible.

General, said Mansur as he and Hussam bin Hamad shuffled toward the voice.

As the brothers approached they touched the fingertips of their right hands to their chests and bowed their heads slightly. Aswad lifted the canvas flap higher.

Sa la mou a le kom, said the two men in unison.

Peace be with you too, replied Nabeel Aswad in English. He nodded slightly and returned the gesture with his damaged right hand; four fingers of the hand missing the most distal and middle portions, only the thumb remained completely intact—the result of a foolish accident long ago involving an automobile and a fan belt.

You made good time, said Aswad as he motioned for the two men to enter the shelter of the compound. His perfectly pressed uniform always made him appear as if he were ready to attend some high-ranking military conference. His raven black hair and pencil thin mustache were also neatly trimmed, as if in constant expectation of visitors of some import.

General, we could only do the best we could. There was a storm in the north and we missed our scheduled departure hour. Mansur sounded apologetic.

No matter, you still made good time, said Aswad waving away their excuse. To business before you rest. Everything is in place for our guests arrival, yes? The question expected only a positive response.

Hussam spoke confidently, Our surveillance and monitoring equipment was installed without detection and we have established the daily routines of the targets. They have been watched constantly for the last month and can go nowhere without our knowing of it.

Aswad nodded, folded his arms across his chest, and leveled his gaze at Mansur. His eyes narrowed. And you, Mansur. You are convinced that your assignment will be accomplished effectively?

Mansur lowered his head and smiled wryly from one corner of his mouth. He looked at his general with a sly, sideward stare. I have been practicing for many weeks my general. I am ready.

Good, good, Nabeel said. And the controllers of the project?

Mansur and Hussam glanced at each other. Mansur nodded, giving consent for Hussam to answer. Hussam took a deep breath and arrogantly lifted his chin.

They do not really concern us, my general. Once the doctor is convinced of our intent, they will have no control over his actions. Any move on their part will assure their exposure. When they finally understand the situation, they will probably look to flee their country. If our contact’s information is timely, Mansur should be able to carry out his assignment before that happens. He bowed his head indicating his statement was done.

Mansur and Hussam bin Hamad were only one year apart in age but looked nothing alike. Mansur’s black tightly curled hair, dark skin, and bushy moustache made it almost impossible to mistake his cultural roots. Hussam, on the other hand, had a much lighter complexion and at some point decided that a long thin moustache and completely shaven head would serve him better should authorities somewhere be profiling suspected terrorists. The look made Hussam appear more like an emperor from the Ming Dynasty than a mid-eastern male.

Years before, the brothers were taken under Aswad’s wing after their escape from a Kuwaiti prison arranged by Nabeel. Together, they had destroyed a small American military outpost left over from the war in the Gulf near Al BaOrah, but were caught soon after. Neither brother was connected to any organized terrorist group but rather simply used the crisis in Kuwait as an excuse for havoc. Any excuse would have done. Mansur and Hussam were as close to criminally insane as one could be and were perfect for Nabeel Aswad’s purpose. Loyal sociopaths.

Aswad stroked his chin thoughtfully and looked down at the ground. For a few moments he silently reviewed his plans for the coming operation. Then, looking up at the brothers he said, I am sure San Francisco is beautiful in July. I am also sure our guests will miss their city. Aswad then sneered, apparently satisfied with his preparations.

He began walking a circle around the two men who stood at a casual attention. Shifting his eyes between the two men, he regarded the brothers as he continued to circle. Mansur and Hussam could no sooner be soldiers than Aswad could be a priest, but as long as they believed in him, they would make every effort to follow his orders to the letter.

He stood in front of them now looking back and forth between them, digesting their information for the last time before sending them on their way. His deeply set black eyes could hide a deception as easily as he could hide a knife in a man’s back, but now his eyes smiled, satisfied with what he heard and saw in the two men standing before him.

As a teenager, this son of a wealthy shipping family in Port Said, Egypt, had been sent to live with relatives in the United States. There, he was treated to the finest education that Stanford and the University of Southern California could offer though the ‘60s brought with them flames of unrest and protest.

Willingly, Aswad became a member of several radical organizations and he reveled in the under-culture activities of these groups. The passive resistance organizations he associated himself with were more than overtly connected to more violent groups such as the Symbionese Liberation Army. His money and cunning helped him rise quickly through the ranks of his adopted causes and he soon found himself basking in the pseudo-power his position eventually offered.

His young mind had turned quickly militant against western culture. Unlike the other members of these groups, who ignorantly believed their drug-induced reasons for anarchy were legitimate, Aswad had begun to see opportunity for real power. By 1971 his political assessment of the avenues required to gain power had begun to congeal. He had concluded that the fight he had been fighting was useless. Not so much in manner, but in purpose.

His thoughts turned: Why seek to destroy an ideology when in doing so one would only end up as an overlord to anarchy? Why not gain true power, afforded by the accumulation of greater wealth?

Being away from the influence of his immediate family, he saw what he believed to be an easier route to greater riches than inheriting the family business. To him, operating a shipping company was still too much like work. He became convinced that the road to power lay in the rape of capitalist ideologies through the extortion of those who currently held sway over the masses.

Returning to Egypt Aswad actively pursued seed money from his family in order to establish a following. Through deception, lies and false promises geared to the promotion of the principles and religious tenets of their ancestors, Aswad gained the trust of his father and uncles. His family could not know that he cared less for his ancestry and religion than he did for the ideologies he fought to gain control over. With massive amounts of money to back him he began assembling his network. Over the years, Aswad had found and employed some of the finest military, technological and scientific mercenary minds in the world.

*

When do you leave? Aswad asked.

We expect to be in New York by Thursday night, from there we will separate, Hussam said.

And the computer files? Aswad asked.

The collected files are ready to be returned to their original composers. Mansur assured his general.

This part of Aswad’s plan was his own way of creating a sentiment of fear and suspicion in his intended victims. It was never enough for him to just do away with his prey, or to simply dangle a sword of intimidation over a head. He needed his quarry to suspect that they had been targeted or discovered before he revealed his intentions. He found a strange satisfaction in leading his victims to believe that time was running out on their lives as they knew them, and that the past had finally caught up with the present—that they were about to pay for past transgressions.

Aswad allowed a deliberate silence to deepen. When he finally spoke he was very grave. He looked down and spoke slowly to the sand.

I needn’t remind either of you that your missions are critical to the success of this plan. If either of you fail in your assignments, we will have tipped our hands to the group involved with the project and I am sure they will not rest until we are all destroyed. He raised his eyes toward the brothers. Make no mistake, if the Americans do not kill me, then with the help of Allah, I will find both of you. And if you are not already dead, I will kill you myself and you will spend eternity buried in pigskin. He raised his head to look directly at each brother separately, his eyes now two pools of tar in which lay the sincerity of his threat. Do you understand?

Mansur and Hussam nodded solemnly.

There was a deadly silence as Aswad allowed the brothers to imagine the tortures that awaited them if they failed.

Solely for the brother’s benefit, Aswad’s reference to a supreme being and the abomination associated with being buried in pigskin was deliberate. Aswad believed in no god or deity, no political superior or monarch. He followed no cause but his own. He was, for all intent and purpose, merely a common criminal, technically not even a terrorist. But since his followers and personal guard believed that he was working in the name of their god and prophet, he not only let them believe this, but also helped them believe whenever he could. With this misguidance, Aswad’s orders became divine as well as powerful among his subordinates.

Aswad suddenly smiled and spread his arms wide in a complete reversal of his previous dark mood.

Well then, my road weary friends, he said loudly, let us move into my tent so that you may bathe, refresh yourselves and cool your heated bodies before returning to Baris.

TWO

California

Mr. Prime Minister. Wake up Prime Minister, the voice was soft but firm. Mr. Mantuuba, can you hear me?

It was slightly past 10a.m. and the morning’s light promised the beginning of another cloud-free workweek as the sun slowly gained strength, rising toward its apex. In the room, a single, large window with smaller side panes that opened faced west over the vast expanse of ocean. Although direct sunlight did not push through the partially opened vertical blinds, there was still the feeling of newness in the gentle radiance.

Now and then, a soft breeze would flow through the opened side windows causing the blinds to vibrate gently. The breeze carried with it the salty moist smell of the ocean mixed with a distant hint of musk brush creating the semi sweet smell of wildflowers in a forest.

Except for the hospital bed, with its adjustable frame and side rails, the room was more like a guest room in an expensive hotel than a patient’s room in a clinic.

The man in the bed was awake but kept his eyes closed as he took cautious, shallow breaths. He was a massive man, his girth less than his height, but his height close to six feet nine inches. In a poor light, his deep black skin and mammoth size could easily cause someone to believe they were in the presence of a bear.

The nurse continued her gentle but incessant prodding. She needed only be certain that the man in bed was awake before she could stop her prompting.

Wake up, Prime Minister Mantuuba! she now demanded as she pressed lightly on his shoulder.

Hector Mantuuba’s eyes opened slightly. He shifted his gaze to the right and looked at her through groggy, narrow slits. He forced a weak grin. I am awake Miss Falco, I am awake. His voice was as deep and mellow as his body was large.

The nurse stopped her nudging and smiled back. Mr. Prime Minister, the procedure is over. Your aide is here to see you. Her voice was much less demanding now. Since her patient’s consciousness had been established, she returned to a more demure persona.

Through dry lips, the Prime Minister whispered, Yes, very good. I will see Mr. Tangopa now.

The nurse went to the door and opened it. A tall, slim man wearing a deep brown dashiki and matching kufi on his head entered. Marcus Tangopa walked slowly behind the nurse as she returned to the bed. She pressed a button on the control hanging from the headboard and the top half of the bed rose reluctantly under the patient’s weight.

Prime Minister Mantuuba shifted slightly as the bed neared a near upright position and asked for some water. He took the cup offered by the nurse and raised it to his lips. Pausing, he looked sideways at the nurse. May I drink all of this? he asked.

Oh yes, she said. "You can have almost anything you like. The procedure is over and there will be no side effects. There will be some restrictions to your diet for a while though. She took the liberty of patting the Prime Minister’s large belly and smiling. The doctor will cover all that with you in a few minutes." She fluffed the pillow under his head, nodded to both men, and left the room.

Mantuuba drank then put the cup on the night table to his right.

Tangopa, he said, extending both his arms toward the tall man. His aide came to the bed and took the Prime Minister’s hands in his own. Thank you for being here with me, Mantuuba said. I expect we will be going home soon.

Tangopa looked into his Prime Minister’s eyes. Where else would I be Prime Minister? And yes, I think that is true. We will be leaving tomorrow.

Marcus Tangopa had been at Mantuuba’s side since the birth of their nation. No man would have given his life more readily than he in defense of the Prime Minister and his ideals.

Their hands parted. Tangopa moved to the window and pulled the cord to fully open the vertical blinds. He stared out the window at the seascape and sighed. He hoped his mentor and leader would be well now. He wanted nothing more than to have Hector Mantuuba rule Butanga for many years to come. Turning his back to the ocean he looked back to the bed and smiled, broadly.

With obvious sarcasm he said, Although, Prime Minister, with a room and grounds such as these, do you not think we should extend our stay? Perhaps a few more days rest is required? He gestured out the window and then around the room. The ocean, Monet, Van Gogh, carpets from Kashmir, Javanese mirrors, swimming pools, tennis courts. Prime Minister, are we in a museum, a resort, or a medical facility?

Mantuuba smiled, amused. Yes, it is quite impressive. But four days away from Butanga is already too long. I have the utmost confidence in our military, but I still feel the need to be on my own soil.

*

Hector Mantuuba was the first Prime Minister of an infant nation known as Butanga: a small separatist country at the northern tip of the Central African Republic. The new nation occupied essentially all of the area that was once the province of Vakaga.

Originally, the governing body of the Central Republic had no desire to allow the citizens of Vakaga to secede. But in late 1990s the tribespeople inhabiting the province began to shirk their responsibility to the general welfare of The Republic and began following a loosely organized policy of civil disobedience. The central government began viewing the area as more of a thorn than an asset. When Hector Mantuuba offered to take responsibility of the area as Prime Minister in return for the central government’s political support of the new nation he would create, the government fairly jumped at the chance to be rid of the annoyance. In April 1994, Butanga raised its flag. But by March 1995 the nation of Butanga was on the brink of decimation and absorption by its northwestern neighbor, Chad.

Violent incursions by the warlords and soldiers of Chad who attempted to take control of the northernmost portion of Butanga, were extracting a heavy toll on the new country. The catalyst behind the attacks was neither political nor territorial. They were driven by greed.

It was January of 1995 when a geophysical expedition dispatched by the U.N. had visited the newly recognized and sovereign nation of Butanga. Its mission was to complete a mineral study that would bring up to date the nation’s mineral deposit maps. Studies of this type were ongoing and done worldwide, where allowed. The survey would be important to Butanga in the event that outside investors might see some value in the country’s raw materials and wish to do business there. The Butangan government was eager to comply.

To everyone’s surprise, especially that of Hector Mantuuba, the expedition uncovered what appeared to be the largest diamond deposit the world had ever known. The entire northern tip of the new nation was sitting atop hundreds of square miles of the heretofore-undiscovered mineral. This cache of accessible diamonds was much larger than any found in the mineral rich areas of South Africa, and although Hector Mantuuba was already committed to his nation’s proliferation, his resolve to protect his country’s assets understandably tripled.

As best he could, Mantuuba mustered the defenses of Butanga while contacting the defense agencies of many global powers. He called on the world’s leading industrialists for advice and guidance in building the infrastructure of his country. The potential of his country’s resources had given him a leverage seldom seen in startup nations such as his.

By May of 1995 Mantuuba had amassed an imposing force of local tribespeople willing to enter a military life and an equally imposing armory of weapons. The men who volunteered left their farms and tiny home industries to be trained and armed by foreign governments as soldiers. Mantuuba’s altruistic speeches and promises of regular pay persuaded fully half of the fighting-age men in the country to join the newly established army.

As it turned out this was not too difficult a task. Up to this point, Butanga’s economy was based largely on either farming or raising livestock; both were only intermittently successful endeavors at best. Now, new recruits would receive regular payment for the time spent in service to their country and the Prime Minister had left nothing to chance; he paid his military personnel handsomely.

After a mere three months of skirmishes, and through the use of well-executed guerrilla techniques, the invading warlord forces were soundly frustrated. Even the most feared thug from Butanga’s most hostile neighbor was forced to end attempts at capturing that nation’s prize.

When the fighting stopped, the borders of Butanga became strictly defined and defended. The city of Bisao became the capitol and with the help of foreign investors the country began mining its resources. Money was borrowed from industrial interests and outside governments and the modernization of Butanga was underway. The tribespeople of the country realized the fruits of their labors and sacrifices almost immediately. In addition to being Prime Minister, Hector Mantuuba had become a national hero.

A powerfully equipped and well-trained army had been created; hospitals and schools were established and staffed; power forwarding plants were constructed and energy was purchased from the Central African Republic. Roads were laid, and, after clearing a large portion of land near the capitol, an airport was completed. This was of paramount importance, as it would offer ease of access to potential visitors who might wish to take a position in Butanga’s future.

Five years later, Hector Mantuuba became irreversibly ill.

The clinic in which Mantuuba now rested was not a large building by any means. It was more of a sprawling, multilevel ranch overlooking the Pacific with spacious grounds separating it from its main entrance. In fact, one could hardly see through the flattened tops of the windswept trees to where the main gate actually stood.

The building contained only one examination room, a room for storing lab results and other paperwork, a meeting room, two offices, and two rooms for patients and/or their accompanying companions. The largest area of the building was the treatment room, which adequately contained both a CT Scanner and MRI.

Tangopa leveled his gaze at the Prime Minister and allowed his smile to ease. Mr. Prime Minister, he said softly, and with great concern, the pain, what about your pain?

Mantuuba straightened a bit in his bed. He tilted his head a little as if listening for something that only he could hear. His brow furrowed. He concentrated on his breathing and the sound of it. He took a deep breath, fearfully waiting for the pain he’d come to expect when he breathed even a little too hard. The pain that had grown so bad in the last week that even morphine could not dull its fire.

But the pain did not come.

His eyes narrowed questioningly and he thought he might have only fooled himself into believing. He steeled himself and breathed deeper. This time clenching his teeth, preparing for what he was sure would come next. He squeezed his eyes tightly and took another long, slow, deep breath in through his nose. He pulled and pulled, forcing the air to fill his lungs. He pulled the air in until there was no room left for even one additional centimeter. With his breath still held, his eyes suddenly sprang open.

His mouth opened, but no moan or wail came forth. No cry for morphine crawled piteously forth. Instead, a deep bellowing sound began at the bottom of his chest and rose to the top of his throat bursting from his mouth; a long, lion-like roar that filled the room and beyond, through the rest of the clinic. As the powerful cry subsided, a great open mouth smile came over Mantuuba’s face.

TANGOPA! he cried. There is no pain! His eyes filled with tears. Still in the bed, he held his arms out to his sides. There is no pain, Tangopa! The pain is gone! It is wonderful! Look. Look at how I breathe!

Mantuuba pulled the covers back and fairly leapt from the bed, his huge feet crashing to the floor. He stood up straight and began jumping up and down. The mirrors and paintings on the walls trembled. Tangopa jolted around the bed and made a vain attempt to hug Mantuuba, more in an effort to calm the large man than to share his joy. Tangopa’s arms barely managed to reach around the huge body.