Sahara Dawn

by David F. Berens

  “It was my idea to get down here right away,” Tsu replied, her head turning to assess the vibrant activity along Ipanema Beach. The long stretch of sand in this iconic part of the city was filled with beautiful people 24/7, most of them wearing next to nothing. “A drink by the beach was impossible to resist.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  Chris also took in the buzzing scene in front of him.

  “Anyway, you need those shades to help you check out these stunning women more easily,” Tsu suggested.

  “Oh, did some women walk by? I hadn’t noticed. I was trying to keep score in that beach volleyball game over there.”

  Tsu smiled and nodded her head knowingly.

  “But you’re happy to check out these spectacular men without even trying to hide it?” Chris asked.

  “I barely noticed any men.”

  At that point, an unfeasibly ripped and handsome guy in tiny trunks strolled on by. He looked like a superhero on vacation.

  “Okay, maybe one or two.”

  Chris smiled and shook his head.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” Tsu said after a moment of silence.

  “Ah, I just hurried things along a little.”

  Her deep eyes suddenly met his, and he felt a surge of passion. He was sure he could see the same desire in her eyes.

  A waiter came and placed two fresh Caipirinhas on the table. The timing would have been perfect if ensuring that customers never had empty glasses was the only concern. As it was, his timing was way off.

  “And thanks in advance for buying all these drinks,” Tsu said, smirking slightly as she turned her head back towards the beach.

  “So, you like an old-world kind of arrangement; the guy buys the drinks and the woman just sits there looking effortlessly beautiful?”

  “I like the: if you just got out of the slammer, someone buys you a few drinks kind of arrangement.”

  “Sounds fair. But just so you know, the two women I went on dates with while you were locked up—I bought drinks for them too.”

  Chris was sure Tsu would know he was joking. Even though they were not officially together, it was his way of saying that seeing anyone else would be out of the question.

  “Yes, I noticed those bite marks on your face. Maybe I should have some of what they were drinking.”

  Chris touched his cheek.

  “Oh, yeah. That was some guy in Mexico.”

  “Wow, you have been busy.”

  “Yep. Whenever I get back on the dating scene, I go all in.”

  A few Caipirinhas later, Chris and Tsu found themselves in Lapa, the central district known for popping bars, samba, and live music clubs. When they exited the taxi, their eyes fell on the long rows of arches of the 18th-century aqueduct that lines the district. The forty-two arches seemed greater in number now that double vision was starting to kick in. Both Chris and Tsu were trained in staying alert after drinking heavily, but right now they had no assets to impress or manipulate.

  They walked briskly past colonial-era buildings whose grandeur seemed to be slowly crumbling away, and made their way through crowds of people dancing and drinking on the street. The bars all seemed to bleed into one, becoming different areas of the same big party along with the cobbled streets.

  Chris and Tsu found themselves in a bar which seemed to have been an ornate mansion that was now half hollowed out, with sections of brick walls ending abruptly in the middle of the room and parts of the ceiling having made way for the sky. Drinkers on balconies looked down over a dance floor where bodies gyrated in front of a samba band.

  More Caipirinhas were briskly ordered, and they found themselves pushed close together between packed bodies.

  “Are you going to dance with me?” Tsu said, raising her voice over the music as she leaned in towards Chris’s ear.

  “I don’t do dancing!”

  “I’ve seen your fighting skills; spinning and twisting while you take on three attackers at once. You’re like a ballet dancer. A ballet dancer who gets really pissed off when people keep trying to kill him!”

  Chris raised one eyebrow but couldn’t help smiling fondly at his companion. There was no one else he would rather be next to. He then noticed a strong, hairy arm slide its way around Tsu’s waist.

  “Hey, beautiful! Let’s dance!” said a huge guy with round shoulders and a tight-fitting black T-shirt that revealed full tattooed sleeves on his arms. Chris stepped through bodies and grabbed the guy under the armpit, lifting him away from Tsu.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “If you want to dance with her, try asking her instead of telling her.”

  The guy’s fist was clenched and his other hand was still around Tsu’s waist, moving closer to her chest. Chris was surprised she wasn’t defending herself. She seemed frozen.

  Chris looked into the man’s eyes and stared deep. He knew he was a coward. The look was enough. The man turned and walked away.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I had a strange moment there. Reminded me of an incident in prison, I think the smell of tobacco on his breath just brought back a bad memory.”

  “What happened?”

  “I tell you another time. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chris realized that to get out, they would have to walk right past the guy and his buddies. So be it. He took Tsu by the hand and carved a route out of the bar. He didn’t make eye contact with the big man, but on the way through the door he glanced back to make sure the group wasn’t following. The guy was flat out on the ground, his friends standing over him with confused expressions on their faces.

  Chris looked at Tsu, knowing only she could have laid the guy out so quickly and discreetly.

  “I seem to be fine now,” she told him, the slightest hint of a smile on her face.

  “I still can’t believe you booked this place,” Tsu said as she looked out at lights twinkling around Rio’s bays and mountainsides. Chris had booked a penthouse suite on the top floor of the Belmond Copacabana Palace, a five-star hotel housed in a stately art deco building dating from 1923. He poured two Scotches from the glittering drinks cabinet and handed one to Tsu.

  “I thought you deserved it.”

  Gently running her hand along the fabric of a plush sofa, Tsu couldn’t help but agree. It was a world away from the hell hole she had just departed. They walked through the airy living room, with its touches of Jazz Age elegance, and out onto the balcony to be greeted by the great expanse of the ocean.

  They clinked glasses and smiled, holding each other’s gaze.

  “So,” Tsu said. “What’s our situation? What’s the state of play?”

  The vague question could have been about either the “state of play” with regards to their new security agency, or to Chris and Tsu’s relationship. Both had to be discussed at some point. Chris guessed that Tsu’s slightly businesslike phrasing meant she was talking about the agency, but he also suspected she might have made it deliberately ambiguous.

  “Our first assignment is coming up next week. Providing a detail for D.J. Cyclonz.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “D.J. Cyclonz. Never heard of him?”

  “No, but he obviously has good sense when it comes to choosing a security agency.”

  “Hip hop star out of Atlanta. Simultaneously one of the most popular and unpopular rappers around.”

  “Let me guess: popular with young music fans; not so popular with the people he’s crossed in the past?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I’m sure we can handle it. And I get to meet a celebrity. Haven’t met one of those since, well...you!”

  “Ha, yeah...right!”

  Chris took a long sip of Scotch. As the sweet and sultry flavors ran through him, it occurred to him that being so openly flirty was very unlike Tsu. He liked it.

  “You don’t need to be involved in this one,” he told her, ostensibly getting back to business. “In fact, I assumed you wouldn’t be.�
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  “Put me in, coach,” Tsu said as she moved closer and nestled her shoulder against Chris’s.

  “Hey, if you want in, you're in. This business is a democracy. You, I, and Ned are all equals. I just hope there’s one thing we all agree on.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That we never get involved in CIA business again. No international conspiracies. Just watching out for celebs and millionaires who think they’re more high profile than they are.”

  “That works for me, and so does the democractic leadership. I don’t like to be dominated...usually.”

  The ocean air suddenly seemed warmer. The two people fell into each other’s arms, done with resisting. They were locked together, breathless as they kissed. Tsu put her hand on Chris’s chest then slid around to the side of his torso, gripping the firm muscles around his ribs. She pulled herself in closer, and he could feel the contours of her body through her light clothes. As he slowed down and softened the kiss, he savored the feeling of her hands moving around his body and through his hair.

  Without speaking, they moved into the suite and through to the bedroom. In this room illuminated by soft lamps, Chris noticed that Tsu’s eyes seemed wonderfully deep and filled with passion. She lowered herself onto the bed and pulled him on top of her. Next to the bed, Chris’s phone buzzed. He ignored it. But he noted that Tsu had briefly glanced at it.

  “Chris, wait.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Ned. I saw his name.”

  It was very late at night. Ned might have simply been calling for a drunken chat, but they couldn’t ignore it. Their moment had already been lost anyway.

  Chris snatched up the phone and answered.

  “I’m gonna burn them all!” Chris heard his friend say in a trembling voice, like he was grappling with tears and anger at the same time. “I’m gonna cut their throats one by one!”

  “Ned, what is it?”

  “Those motherf—”

  “Buddy, take a breath. Everything is better dealt with calmly, no matter how bad it is. Now, tell me what happened.”

  “My sister. They took my sister.”

  Chris didn’t have to ask who “they” was. Ned had told him that Haley had traveled to Okapi against all advice and turned down protection from Chris’s own agency. Fear and anger cut through the alcohol-induced haze and he felt entirely sober. But he knew that fear and anger were no use to him.

  “Okay,” he told Ned, taking on a professional tone. He hoped it would calm his friend. “These people have a clear agenda. Haley is insurance. A family member of someone who recently completed years of service in the CIA gives them bargaining power. They have no intention of harming her.

  “They might have no intention of killing her. Yet. But that doesn’t mean they won’t hurt her. We need to do something. Now.”

  Chris paused.

  “That’s not the right course of action. The CIA and the military will handle it.”

  “Why didn’t we let them handle Landsdowne then? Shanghai? Morocco?”

  “There are different people at the top now. Good people.”

  “It’s probably insurance against you too, you know. They know your history with Landsdowne. They’re trying to stop you from getting involved. Or maybe they’re trying to lure you in. Either way, you can forget your peaceful retirement. You’re at the forefront of The Butcher’s mind.”

  “Fine. It’s not like I’m heading down to the pool to find a sunlounger and forget about all this. You know I’m going to do everything I can to help you. But going in there all guns blazing is not going to help. There are hundreds of thousands of lives at stake.”

  Ned ended the call without another word.

  12 Islands In The Stream

  Anakar Island, South Pacific, 1996

  The tracer lines of a thousand bullets zinged through the air above Chris. His back was pressed hard into the upturned chassis of the burned out truck that had brought him and Frank to the now smoldering embassy building. Shots pinged and sparked off the tan metal and the smell of fuel permeated the air around them. He wondered how long it would be before the gas would ignite and they would be forced from their cover.

  He glanced over at Frank to see the man trying to peel a rifle off a dead soldier that had caught a ride with them from the far side of the island. He looked down at his twin M1911s. If his count was correct, the gun in his right hand was empty and he had three shots remaining in the gun in his left. Of all the missions he had been in and all the hotspots he’d escaped from, he was going to die on a babysitting mission, ferrying the Vice President over to see how things were developing with the Anakar uprising.

  Under his feet, the soil began to darken with the leaking fuel. He moved fast and scooted toward Frank.

  “You gotta be freakin’ kidding me,'' McDougal growled as he freed the rifle from the dead soldier’s shoulder. “Made it through the Gulf War, danced my way through Cuba, hell, I even did a few days in a prison that doesn’t formally exist down in Kandahar. And I’m gonna die on the front steps of our own embassy?”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Chris replied, keeping his head low in the ear-splitting barrage of gunfire. “Any idea who these guys are?”

  Frank shook his head. “Last communique said there were a few insurgents who resisted the idea of foreign occupation by evil Americans and were planning to protest the VP’s visit, but this is way beyond the posters and air horns we thought we’d see.”

  Chris was able to peek around the front end of the truck and saw that there were at least seven men in black flak gear of some kind, emptying their rifles at the pale yellow embassy building. A white shutter let loose and crashed to the ground a few feet away.

  “They’ve probably barred and barricaded the door. I’d say our best bet is a window,” Chris said, pointing the barrel in his left hand at a first story window that had been shattered. “Maybe through there.”

  “Good deal,” Frank said. “You go first.”

  Chris smiled. Even though Frank McDougal wasn’t an old man at the time, he was a tough guy in the mold of George S. Patton or Douglas MacArthur. He often said his personal hero was a man by the name of Curtis LeMay who had argued that the best way to win a war with the fewest casualties was to bomb the holy hell out of an enemy for a quick surrender. It also didn’t hurt Frank’s image that he was a mountain of a man who could’ve easily chosen a career in professional football or wrestling.

  “I was thinking about creating a distraction,” Chris said as he pointed down at the ever-expanding puddle of fuel.

  “I knew it. I told ‘em back at HQ that you were crazy,” Frank said, raising his voice over the sound of more gunfire. “Besides, ain’t it diesel?”

  “Nope. It’s just a civilian model,” Chris said. “It ought to catch nicely. If only we had a lighter.”

  Chris knew that Frank MacDougal was a cigar aficionado and would never be caught without his trusty zippo.

  “Ah, shit,” Frank said, stabbing his hand into his pocket. “This is my favorite one.”

  “All for a good cause.”

  The big man tossed the lighter to Chris. It was heavy and felt expensive. The side was engraved with an exquisite carving of bald eagle and the words: LIBERTY OR DEATH.

  “Wow, that is a nice one,” Chris flipped the lid open and flicked the flint wheel.

  The movement was smooth and silky, and instantly an inch high flame appeared from the lighter. He looked at Frank and held up three fingers, then pointed toward the broken window. Frank nodded. Chris started the countdown: three … two … one.

  He tossed the lighter into the gasoline and it caught immediately. The flame raced toward the truck’s fuel tank. He had gambled that there would be enough fumes in the tank to give them a big enough bang to use for cover. What he hadn’t realized was that the truck’s previous owner had stowed a mini-propane tank behind the back seat.

  When the fire started, Chris yelled, “Go!”

>   Frank jumped up, pointed his rifle over the wheel and pulled the trigger. Though he was considered an average shot, he hit none of the insurgents. Chris did not know that at the time and ran behind Frank’s cover fire. He jumped over a hedge and flung himself into the window. He turned and took aim. With three quick shots, he downed three of the enemy combatants. Three shots, three kills. The gunfire lulled for a few seconds as the insurgents realized three of their number had gone down.

  Frank lumbered around the truck, his huge shoulders chugging away toward the embassy. Behind him, the heated propane tank blew. The blast was enormous, but thankfully, the truck directed the explosion away from Frank. Later, he would confirm that this was when he soiled himself. But he didn’t let that small mishap slow him down. The flying debris from the propane tank gave him the time he needed to get across the road to the embassy.

  He stuck a heavy foot down into the same hedge Chris had jumped over, but his size fourteen boot wedged itself tight into the tangle of branches. He jerked at it, but it wouldn’t budge. Chris grabbed the man’s forearms and heaved, but Frank’s bulk, plus a stuck boot meant nothing was giving.

  Frank howled as a shot struck him in the backside. Chris looked up to see that the remaining men in black were advancing slowly but surely.

  “RIfle!” Chris said.

  Frank heaved the gun up and Chris grabbed it. Turning it on the men in black, he fired multiple shots. The enemy scattered to hide behind cars on the side of the road. The familiar click of an empty magazine sounded as one of the men rounded a vehicle and raised his AK-47. Chris flung the gun down and heaved on Frank’s arms. Frank had the presence of mind to kick his foot out of the loosely tied boot and with a little help, Chris pulled him through the window. They crashed down onto the hard tile floor and crawled toward the back of the office.

  Frank’s blood streaked across the yellowed marble floor, but he gave no indication of how badly he was hurt. Chris jerked open a gun cabinet in the corner and found two older-looking M14s. He checked the magazines and was highly relieved to see they were loaded. He tossed one to Frank. His face was covered with sweat and he looked like he may be about to pass out, but he said nothing.