by R G Ainslee
Wednesday, 29 October 1980, Kisangani, Zaire
I slept late, making up for the bout of sleeplessness. I rolled out of bed, examined the dirty shower, thought better, and dressed. After breakfast and a few mugs of hot coffee, I would return to Pete's place and inform him of my change in plans.
I locked the room door, trudged down the hall, past the dead elevator, and pivoted into the stairwell. The smell of stale urine hastened my descent, taking two steps at a time. On the second-floor landing, I edged to the wall to let someone pass. Out of the corner of my eye came a flash of recognition. I twisted and stumbled. The person halted three steps behind and glared down with cold intensity.
In an instant, everything changed: the man, in his early twenties, medium long straggly blond hair, dressed in dirty jeans and a blue work shirt — the German hippie — the one who followed us in Bangui, the one who had been there at the bombing. Before I could react, he charged down the steps and crashed into me. I grabbed hold and pulled him down in an uncontrolled descent. We rolled, hit the bottom of the landing, and lay motionless, out of breath. I tried to regain my feet but froze as a new threat appeared. The second hippie kneeled beside me with a knife at my throat.
They spoke in frantic German, too fast to understand. The one with the knife prodded and motioned for me to climb the stairs. I complied, too shocked to do anything else. My knee buckled on the first step. A pointed jab supplied all the motivation needed.
The first guy grabbed my arm. "What room you have? I hesitated and paid for it with another bloody prick to the ribs.
"303," I responded with a whimper. My life was about to end — all hopes and dreams unfulfilled — in a filthy two-bit hotel.
They hustled up to the third level, pushed me along the hall, unlocked the door, and shoved me to the floor in the center of the room. The first guy charged and administered a wicked kick to the solar plexus. I gasped for the breath of air that would not come, rolled once, and ended up beside the bed.
The guy with the knife kneeled and ran the blade under my eye, drawing blood from my upper cheek. "What you do here? Why you come Kisangani?" He stood, stepped back, and spat at me.
I sat up, panting, wiping blood from my face as I listened to them discuss, in German, what to do with me. I understood little, except they planned to kill me. The first guy stepped between us, his back to me, as they argued what to do.
The Germans had the numerical advantage, two to one. However, they made one mistake: they forgot to search me. Cold steel of the switchblade, bought at the market in Bangui, pressed against my thigh. Instinctive reactions drive the first seconds of danger: fight, flight, or fright. I didn't get past the first, in a split second, I chose to fight, not a conscious decision, but a reaction — the animal instinct for survival coupled with training kicked in. I had one chance — one chance only — and took it.
I yanked the knife from my pocket as I leapt to my feet, clicking open the blade on the way up. The man twisted left with a look of astonishment on his face. I thrust the cold sliver of steel into his ribcage, he relaxed, and I shoved his body to the floor.
The second guy hesitated as we stood head-on, knives drawn and ready. His eyes told it all, the unmistakable response of intense fear. Now, those summers of make-believe knife fights with Joe on my uncle's ranch came back without thinking, an instinct of self-survival bred into my being by hours of unrelenting discipline. I could tell by the way he held the weapon — he was no expert.
I feinted right with a swipe of my blade in an attempt to draw him into action. The German made his move and lurched at me with a desperate thrust. I stepped into his path and parried with my left hand. He rolled away, stumbled, tried to regain his balance, to no avail. I lashed out with a vicious stab and my knife passed straight into his heart. He fell to the floor mortally wounded with my switchblade stuck in his chest.
A noise from behind, I spun to see the first guy on his feet, covered in blood, the wooden chair in both hands swinging towards me. I extended up my arms to deflect the blow, but too late. The chair struck my head with full force.
* * *
Something wet and cool, a soothing feeling, swept over my face. A flicker of conciseness returned. My body racked with pain, a searing sensation in my head. A voice, I flinched, a familiar voice, I struggled to understand and faded…
* * *
I opened my eyes, groaned, took a deep breath, and closed them again.
"He's awake."
"Hey Ross, you okay?"
In a flash, I strained to sit up, faltered, and my head flopped back down on the pillow. Jack and Amadeo sat beside the bed, staring intently. I tried to speak, my lips parched, emitting only a whispered babble. I tried again, "Water ... water."
Amadeo disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with a glass. Jack helped me up and I downed the foul-tasting liquid.
"Where'd you guys come from?"
Amadeo sat on the bed. "We thought you might need some help, but by the looks of things you got things pretty well in hand."
A pair of bloody bodies lay on the floor by the wall.
"Two against one, you're lucky," said Jack.
Amadeo glanced at the bodies. "I think there was more than luck involved." He looked back at me. "I saw what you could do in Bayonne, these guys were overmatched, just amateurs."
I killed the hippies in cold blood but felt no guilt or regret. The fight happened so fast: pure reaction, no time to think — now my rage, burned out and replaced by empty hopelessness. Their deaths didn't bother me. It bothered me that I had no empathy or remorse. I wanted to change the subject. "You're supposed to be on the plane."
"We were, but then John asked where you were. We told him, and he hit the ceiling. He hobbled to the cockpit and convinced the pilot to land in N'Djamena Then, he ordered us to go back and find you. He said he never leaves a man behind. He was more angry with us than with you."
Amadeo continued, "Yeah, lucky we found your pal Serge at the airfield. He got us on a Transall flight to Brazzaville the same day. Took us the rest of the time to get here."
"How'd you find me, you talk to Pete?"
"Pete … don't know who Pete is. No, we started checking hotels soon as we arrived. This was the third place we looked. The desk clerk remembered you — a five-dollar bill helped his memory — and we came on up and found this. What happened?"
"We ran into each other on the stairs this morning. They got hold of me and planned to kill me. Things didn't quite work out the way they…" I took a deep breath, producing a sharp pain in my side. "They dropped their guard and I managed to stab both of them, but one whacked me with a chair … looks like he bled out."
Amadeo said, "Yeah, I can see that. What's this about some guy named Pete?"
"He's a Mossad agent — runs a local business. The man LeGrande put me in contact with in Bangui sent me to him."
"Your redheaded girlfriend, she's here too?"
"Nope, she left … was it yesterday? No, she's gone."
"Too bad." Amadeo motioned back to the bodies. "What happened?"
I spent the next half hour explaining Pete's involvement and the incident at the hotel. "…and that's about it. We need to figure out what to do with these guys?"
"Jack said, "Think the best thing to do is leave them here. You said this Pete gave you a Spanish passport?"
I nodded. "Yeah, should be here somewhere."
"Okay, we'll put it on one of them and arrange it, so it appears they had a fight and killed each other."
Amadeo examined the passport. "I dunno. The picture ain't even close."
"Don't worry," said Jack. "The police don't care and the desk clerk sure ain't gonna get involved. It'll work, has too, it's our only choice. We'll place Ross' room key and the passport on one of them and take his key."
"You're right," I said. "Let's toss their place and see what we can find."
The German's room was on the top floor, next to the one occupied by the SkB liaison. Jack and
Amadeo executed a quiet professional entry. The place was empty. A search revealed a stack of passports, some papers in German, and a Škorpion auto pistol with two magazines and several boxes of ammo.
Jack held up the pistol. "Look familiar?"
I managed a weak grin. "Yeah."
"Get out of that bloody shirt and go find your man Pete. We're going to need help getting out of Dodge."
* * *
Pete took the news calmer than I expected. Guess he was used to improvising in the field. That's one reason the Mossad is so successful, he didn't have to send a cable asking for permission to do the obvious.
We returned to the hotel, entered through the service entrance, and went straight to the top floor. Pete assessed the situation and suggested we take down our original target.
Jack knocked on the door. The man cracked it open. Amadeo burst through, and in a flash, the guy was pinned to the floor. He was like the rest, German except older, in his forties, looked like a failed college professor. He was no trained terrorist, a pitiful sight, stretched out whimpering and slobbering.
"What we going to do with him?" I was relived I didn't have to kill him. Shooting him would have been a difficult decision, one I would've regretted.
"Take him with us. He should supply us with some additional information," said Pete.
"You gonna kill him?" I asked. The guy let out another pitiful cry.
"Depends on his level of cooperation, we take everything, radio, weapons, papers, clothes. Leave the room bare. When they come, they will think he deserted."
* * *
The hotel staff discovered the bodies in room 303 the next day, after a burglar fled the scene leaving the door wide open. A one-hour police investigation determined unequivocally that the two muzungu killed each other in an argument over the woman who had left the day before.
The liaison man named Dieter, who was in fact some sort of academic turned would-be terrorist, cooperated and — after some not too subtle motivational prompts — spilled the beans on the whole operation. Much to our surprise, Pete spared his life. Two days later, on Friday, he took the man down to the dock and put him on the weekly steamer to Kinshasa.
River steamers are a primary form of long-distance transportation in Zaire. The large boats, sometimes with a barge lashed in tow, are floating masses of humanity, livestock, and poultry. Hundreds of passengers crammed together in a seething horde.
I asked, "Aren't you worried he'll give your operation away?"
"No. I made a big deal of giving him a wad of bills on the dock." He discerned my questioning look. "Lots of people onboard took notice with rapacious interest. Life on those boats is pure Darwin." With a mordant grin, he intoned, "The horror! The horror!"
Dieter disappeared the first night out of Kisangani. The captain made no official report, no one investigated, and no one cared. Moral ambiguity, the heart of darkness, claimed another victim.
Three days later, on Saturday, a team of four arrived from the terrorist camp and went up to the hotel room. While they were busy upstairs, Pete took the opportunity to attach a block of Semtex explosive with a timer to the frame of their Land Rover. After a clash with the clerk and a futile search of the room, they left in a huff. We later learned of a tragic accident on the jungle road north of the city.
Sunday, 2 November 1980, Kisangani, Zaire
The blow to the head proved to be a problem. After returning from the hotel with our prisoner, I passed out. Over the next few days, I experienced headaches and had problems sleeping. The knife fight played out repeatedly in my mind. Long suppressed memories of killing the Cuban Raul Gurrero returned. Saturday night, Cecile provided a local concoction that worked. Sunday morning dawned a new day. I awoke fresh and rested.
We spent Sunday afternoon drinking beer and listening to the BBC. There's not much else to do in Kisangani on a Sunday afternoon — or on any other afternoon for that matter. A case of Mocaf, newly arrived by air from Bangui, saved the day. The news was more of the same: the hostage crisis remained unresolved, the Iraqis captured the Iranian city of Khorramshar, the Russians completed a second offensive in the Panjshir Valley in northern Afghanistan, and the American presidential election was to be over in a couple of days.
About three o'clock local time, Cecile summoned Pete to his office. Moments later, he returned with a sheet of paper in his hand.
"A coded communication from … ah, my superiors, is addressed to you. He handed the hand printed page to me.
I read the short message and flicked the sheet to Amadeo.
I said to Jack, "It's from Mack Gibson. He wants us to leave ASAP and be at the Nairobi airport on Tuesday."
Amadeo passed the message to Jack. "He doesn't say why or what for."
I shrugged. "Got me."
Jack asked, "Can we make it?"
Pete turned to Cecile and told her something in the local lingo. She nodded in the affirmative. "Sure, no problem. She'll make the arrangements."
37 ~ Nairobi
Tuesday, 4 November 1980, In Flight Over East Africa
The sight of Kilimanjaro off to the right evoked melancholy memories of Kenya. Questions flowed through my mind and an endless stream of doubt and despair mixed with a faint glow of hope.
The message read, 'be at the airport', with no specific time given, no indication as to whom we were to meet, or for what reason. I tried to be optimistic: the meeting might actually have a purpose and time would be available to fly to Lamu. Deep down, I feared, it wouldn't go well. I pictured Hansen standing at the arrivals gate, orders in hand, a stupid smirk on his face. I would have a choice to make — cold-cock him with my fists or kick the tar out of him. I resolved to go out in a blaze of glory, chuck it all in, head to Lamu, and flame the consequences.
"You're awful quiet," said Amadeo, sitting in the center seat in the economy section on the Kenya Airways flight.
"Just thinking."
Jack, sitting by the aisle, leaned forward and whispered, "You're not planning to do a runner, are you?"
"Why would you think something like that?" It was exactly what I was thinking, working out the details in my head. If a flight to Lamu was available, leaving within the hour — Good-bye.
Jack huffed. "I've worked with you long enough to know how you operate."
Amadeo chuckled in agreement.
I turned my gaze back to the window. "Just don't get in my way."
I had other concerns too. Traveling on my own passport, under my own name: would the Kenyan authorities make a connection with me from my last trip? I left Nairobi, a couple of years ago as a wanted man, mistaken for Carlos the Jackal. I wasn't sure if they ever learned my real identity. Didn't matter. I escaped once and could do it again.
We left Kisangani without a hitch. Cecile booked a flight with only a brief stopover in Bujumbura. Pete assured us we would encounter no problems, and so far, he was right.
"Please extinguish all smokes and buckle your seatbelts," announced the stewardess, "we are about to land."
* * *
It's hard to imagine the shock I felt as we emerged from the arrival gate after passing through customs and immigration. I was ready for just about anything except… There stood Jim Barker, dressed in his best Kenyan safari outfit, gesturing for us to come on over. I barely took notice though, as I became aware of the woman standing at his side — she held a baby on her hips, waving with her free arm — Lisette and little Duval.
My knees started to buckle as I rushed towards her. — Can this be real? — I embraced Lisette and the kid in one grand hug. The baby began to cry.
The next few minutes passed in a blur as we hugged and kissed, as I tried to express regret and ask for forgiveness. She lapsed into a babble of French, but I didn't care — we were back together again.
As best I could tell, her uncle Louis had talked her into reconciliation. A former member of the French resistance, he was aware of the dangers of a life on the hard side. He reminded her she knew what was in
store when she married me and that she accepted it without reservation. Eventually Lisette was convinced of her duty to return and make the best of it. When Jim Barker contacted her French bodyguards, she was ready to go home.
Barker and the others left us to ourselves and huddled in an isolated corner of the terminal. Several minutes later, they returned. I was too happy to notice Jack's distress.
"Ross, we need to talk."
We need to talk — four words that seldom bode well — a euphemism for: you ain't gonna like this. Lisette's face contorted in pain.
"What is it?"
"Bad news … Colonel Wilson … he's dead."
At first the news didn't register, couldn't penetrate the joy of the moment. Then the morose expression on Jack's face, Amadeo's too, registered with a shock — Wilson's dead.
"He died two hours after they landed in Germany. They couldn't save him," said Barker.
I turned back to Lisette, tears streamed across her cheeks. My body went numb, I didn't know what to say or do. The human mind can take only so much, going from intense joy to complete despair in an instant. I mumbled, "Gotta sit down."
The enormity of the situation was beyond comprehension. I respected the colonel, he stood up for me, he wasn't like other officers, and he cared more about the mission than his own career. Without Wilson, SSRP was finished, Raven-One too. An all-encompassing veil of dread and despair descended.
Two tall black men with distinct military bearing, dressed in khaki shorts and shirts, lingered in the background. One approached and spoke to Lisette in French. She answered and spoke to me, "Egmont and Patrice are Para and keep me safe in Lamu."
I looked up and tried to smile. "Thank you." I hugged Lisette. "Thank you — Merci ... Merci." My opinion of the count and his operation upgraded in a second. Egmont nodded in acknowledgement, eyed the crowd in the terminal, and continued his vigil.
