by Dick Couch
“Ah, Monsieur Drouet, I am happy to have found you in the office. We wanted to let you know that the sum of twenty million Swiss francs has been deposited to your account. We will send the printed confirmation in the manner that you have specified.”
“Very well. Thank you for the call.”
“You are most welcome, monsieur. Have a pleasant day.”
He sipped at his espresso, but he was not so pleasantly disposed as he had been before the call. It was not the deposit; it had been anticipated and expected. And the money would be there only a short time before most of it was wired elsewhere. Twenty million Swiss francs, nearly $16 million U.S., would, after making its way through a number of intermediaries, be deposited to a bank account in Riga. Sixteen million was a lot of money to pay for a small vial of pathogen, but the whole operation hinged on it. It was a lot of money for the man, a Russian, who would ultimately take ownership of this sum. He was not experienced in handling that kind of money. In all probability, he thought as he sipped the espresso, the man and the money would soon be parted, and it was highly likely that they would be violently parted. But he had met his obligation, and the money was his.
One reason he was not so pleasantly disposed was the business itself—the business in Africa. It was not something he felt very good about. He had always practiced his trade with some measure of ideology. Today it was sometimes a stretch to find something redeeming in his chosen field, but a man in his line of work did what he had to do. But he had not come to this point in time by his own hand. He had been stripped of his wealth, wealth he had carefully amassed by hard work and professional skill. One thing he was sure about; it was the Americans who had done this to him.
This business in Africa is not something I wanted to be a part of, he said to himself not for the first time, but what choice do I have? A man must have those things that his spirit demands. So I have no choice in the matter.
He took up another phone on his desk, a state-of-the-art system with embedded cryptology and frequency-hopping. Most corporations dealing in sensitive or proprietary information had this capability, and so did he. He dialed in a number from memory; he did not keep certain numbers in the speed dialer. His call was picked up on the second ring.
“Good morning, Dimitri,” he said, shifting to Russian. “This is Pavel. How are you this day?…That is good to hear. Dimitri, I am calling to ensure that the delivery has been made before I wire the funds…. No, no, Dimitri, no other assurances are required. I need nothing but your word that it has been done. If you say the merchandise is in place, then the funds, per your instructions, will be there by the close of business today…. Da, and thank you as well. Good day, Dimitri.”
He rang off and sat in silence before taking his second cup of espresso. There were few men whose word he would not question, and Dimitri Muschovia was one of them. In this business one needed intermediaries, and Dimitri was someone he could trust. But then, in the world in which he did business, was he not also a man others trusted? He smiled to himself. Trust was a commodity that was becoming increasingly hard to find. There were not many like Dimitri and himself, but then there were not many truly skilled former KGB operatives still working his side of the street.
He turned the project over in his mind again and once more concluded that while it might be an unseemly enterprise, it was a professionally challenging piece of work. And it would hurt the West and possibly cripple America. He noticed that the sun had finally lifted over the crest of the hill and now bathed his patio. So Pavel Zelinkow selected a robusto from his humidor, carefully prepared it, and let himself out onto the balcony to properly greet the morning.
Garrett and Judy had spent the evening drinking wine, making love, and talking late into the night. The following morning they slept late, then made love again. They had worked up an enormous appetite. When they finally crept down the stairs, they were treated to a generous farm breakfast. Garrett contacted the flight crew and informed them that his business would be keeping him in Washington an extra day. It was the off-season, and there was only one other guest at The Cedar Inn, an elderly couple who packed off midmorning. The temperature dropped, and there was the threat of snow, but the innkeeper had a rack of old coats so they were able to bundle against the weather and walk about the spacious grounds. The inn had a small library well stocked with the classics and a cheerful, inviting fire. Judy had hoped that they would be extending their stay and had planned for it. They settled in next to the warmth of the fireplace to enjoy the cozy ambience. There was a steady diet of cheese, bread, fruit, and wine throughout the day, and sitting down to a regular meal never crossed their minds. The second night at The Cedar Inn was much like the first. The following morning, Garrett was up early, on the floor doing his exercises. The room was quite chilly and must have seemed more so to Garrett, coming from the tropical warmth of Hawaii. Clad only in his undershorts and not seeming to mind the cold, he moved quietly from one exercise to the other.
“Guess the honeymoon’s over.”
“What was that?” he said, finishing off another set of stomach crunches.
“Oh, nothing,” she replied. The smell of coffee filled the room, and she realized that he had already brewed a fresh pot. The room was equipped with coffee service—and not just some prepackaged motel setup, but a canister of fresh-ground dark roast. Unable to resist the aroma, Judy leapt from the warmth of the down comforter, raced the chill across the room to fill her cup of the hot, dark liquid, and then, just as quickly, returned to the coziness of the bed. There, she nursed the steaming cup, content to watch Garrett complete his morning routine.
Judy Burks entertained fantasies of what it would be like if they were married, if she were Mrs. Garrett Walker. There was no one else in her life, and she was reasonably sure there was no one else in his. But they led very different, busy lives with a great deal of distance between them. Judy guessed that he would not soon leave GSI, nor had she any plans to leave the Bureau. Both of them traveled a great deal away from whatever place each might call their home. She also knew herself well enough to realize that spending weeks, possibly months, waiting while her husband was away on one of his adventures would be very difficult. She was equally sure that he wouldn’t relish the idea of stoking the home fires while she was away on some case or at a stakeout. So once again she concluded that this was it, passing ships when their schedules would permit. It was the best they could hope for, at least for now.
Garrett was a passionate man, but not usually a morning lover. However, once again he slipped out of his shorts and was back under the covers, taking a sip from her mug and putting it on the nightstand. As his powerful arms enveloped her, maybe someday was her passing thought. For now, this was a slice of paradise sandwiched into their busy and sometimes violent lives. A town car arrived promptly for them at 8:30 A.M.
3
The Africans
Garrett’s trip back to the Big Island of Hawaii was not unlike the one to Washington except that they were chasing the sun. The Gulfstream lifted off from Andrews shortly after eleven in the morning and let down at the Kona airport just before 4:00 P.M. local time. For part of the trip Garrett was busy at the aircraft’s computer console, which was equipped with high-speed Internet access. His meeting with Jim Watson had brought up a number of issues he wanted to research. After five hours at the keyboard, he stretched and asked Cindy to bring him a scotch and the cribbage board. They cut for the deal and embarked on a rematch, but this time she beat him soundly. He could console himself that he could only play the cards dealt him to best advantage, but that didn’t, at least for Garrett Walker, make losing any more palatable.
AKR was waiting for Garrett when he made his way through the private aviation terminal. Kelly-Rogers was dressed in shorts, shower shoes, a collarless shirt with the top three buttons unfastened, and wraparound sunglasses. His hair was approaching dreadlock length, and he wore a pooka-bead necklace. They shook hands warmly. AKR took Garrett’s bag from hi
m, and they headed for the car that AKR had left in the redlined fire lane along the curb of the terminal.
“You know, brother,” Garrett said, “every day you look more and more like a drug dealer and less like one of the good guys.”
“What do the good guys look like these days? Hey, you never know, man,” AKR said with a chuckle, “when you’re gonna want me to go into the ville and score you some Kona gold.”
“That’ll be the day,” Garrett replied. “You buying weed and me smoking it. Steven at the camp?”
“In his office and waiting for you. He just received an intelligence report forwarded from State in Harare. It seems that one of Outreach Africa’s doctors got himself whacked in Zimbabwe yesterday. It’s been confirmed by the French. And I understand it wasn’t very pretty.”
“An American doc?”
“No, Indian.” AKR crossed Highway 19, which ran along the coast and headed east toward Mona Kea. Soon they began to climb into the foothills. “As I understand it, the guy got himself hacked to death by a machete. According to the reports we obtained from Doctors Without Borders, it was a pretty gruesome scene. All the NGOs have ordered their medical personnel out of the area. Langley tells us that bookings out of Harare International are way up.”
AKR merged onto the Mamalahoa Highway, which took them in a northeasterly direction toward Wiamea. It was almost fifteen degrees cooler in the foothills than along the coast.
“Akheem, you’re an African, what do—”
“Correction, sahib, I am an Englishman,” he abruptly cut in, adding just a little more nasal tone to his public-school accent, “an Englishman who was born in Africa.”
“How could I forget,” Garrett replied. He sometimes found AKR’s Bonnie Prince Charles act a little tiresome. “What do you know about the Selous Scouts?”
Kelly-Rogers gave him a sidelong glance before answering. “Steven asked me the same thing, and I’ll tell you what I told him. They were the last and baddest of the Rhodesian Light Infantry. We left Rhodesia in 1970. Things were none too good then, but they really got ugly after that. My dad used to speak of them. The Selous Scouts were formed to counter the terror tactics of Mugabe and his Marxist movement. Originally they were trackers, and their mission was to track the terrorists after one of their raids back to their base camp. That often meant they would follow them across the border into Zambia or Mozambique. Then they called in the Rhodesian Air Force or the main elements of the Rhodesian Army. Sometimes they were known to slip into a terrorist camp to slit a few throats. There was butchery and atrocity enough to go around, although I think Mugabe and the Marxist-backed ZANLA rebels were probably the worst. Both sides were pointing fingers. For a while Dad thought that if the Rhodesian white farmers hadn’t been so keen on groups like the Selous Scouts, maybe they could have cut a deal with the new government.” AKR swerved to miss an oncoming car that was passing on a double yellow line. Garrett flinched, but Akheem kept up the narration. “But when Mugabe and his thugs took over, things changed. There were hard times for whites, and a lot of blacks for that matter—black Africans who were proud to be Rhodesians. Bottom line, you can’t out-atrocity a Communist-backed insurgency. They were brutal beyond comprehension. Say, what is all this with the Selous Scouts? They’re history, right?”
“Possibly. How’s training going with the new men?”
AKR flashed him a broad smile. “Hey, you wouldn’t believe how good these guys are. They get better by the day—by the hour. They’ve made a lot of progress since you saw them last, and best of all, they’re starting to function as a team. That’s something that doesn’t come easy to these guys, but Tomba has them working as an integrated unit. And they’re getting much better on their radio procedure, much more disciplined.”
“How about their shooting?”
AKR shrugged. “Better, though I don’t think they’ll ever shoot like Brits or Americans. But I’d put them up against any of our special operations guys with a grenade launcher. They’ve taken to the M-203s splendidly.” The M-203 is a 40mm grenade launcher slung under an M-4 rifle, the standard weapon of the IFOR fighters. “They’re tough, and they’re proud. Give me another two weeks, and I’ll take them into the bush against anyone, even up against your Gurkhas.” Garrett gave him a questioning look. “Seriously. These guys move in the bush like no one you’ve ever seen. Just wait until you go out with them. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the camp. Garrett dumped his bag in his quarters, a spartan single-room studio apartment in the staff quarters. When he was not in the field or on overseas deployment, he had lived much of his life in places like this—bed, kitchenette, private shower and washstand, a bookshelf, a small desk, and plenty of locker storage for operational gear. The operations building was a short walk—nothing in the central area of the camp was far away. Garrett slipped into Steven’s office and waited by the door for Steven to acknowledge him. Behind the desk, Steven hurriedly tapped out the reply to a secure e-mail and swung away from the computer screen. He rose and offered Garrett his hand.
“Welcome back. We expected you late yesterday, but I understand you got held over.”
“Well, to tell the truth, I decided to hold myself over. Did some liaison work with our FBI liaison officer.”
On the way back, Garrett had done a mental calculation on the one-day cost of a Gulfstream G550 and a flight crew. It was a serious five-figure number.
“Mission accomplished?” Garrett nodded, which brought a grin to Steven’s face. “Then it was time well spent.” Fagan leaned across the desk on his elbows. “I understand you spent some time with Jim Watson. Tell me about it.”
Garrett recounted their meeting while Steven concentrated on him with his soft, patient gaze. Steven Fagan could listen like no one Garrett had ever met. He had the bedside manner of an elderly priest and the mind of a chess master. On top of that, he was perhaps the most experienced and knowledgeable covert action specialist in the world, at least in the free world. Fagan was a man of rare ability and intelligence, but what Garrett valued most in this quiet, unassuming man was his character. Garrett Walker had met few men he liked more than Steven Fagan, and none with more personal integrity. Issues of character were sometimes overlooked in their work, but for Garrett it was a crucial matter. When dealing in life-and-death issues, Garrett found comfort in the fact that others beside himself considered the moral implications of what they did. When Garrett finished, Steven leaned back, carefully digesting what he had just heard.
“Jim Watson is a good man, one of the best at Langley,” he said, thinking aloud. “Watson is personally involved in this because Armand Grummell is concerned, and that means the concern goes straight to the White House. I think their worries are justified. If this were happening anywhere else in the world, we would be all over it diplomatically, either in bilateral discussions with that nation or through the United Nations. Or we would put a special operations team into the area to investigate. Africa, as we all know, is very touchy.
“And there is the particular case of Zimbabwe,” Steven continued. “It’s been kicked out of the International Monetary Fund, and it resigned from the Commonwealth of Nations before that body could kick it out. With the current government, it’s just a step from reverting to tribalism. We have an official presence in the capital, but no real ability to move about the country to find out what’s going on.”
“What about CIA assets?” Garrett asked. “The Special Activities Division has some pretty impressive capabilities.”
“They do, but they’re also heavily committed in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan. They haven’t really developed the personnel or assets to operate in Africa. No,” Steven said, thoughtfully stroking his chin, “if I wanted to hide from satellite coverage and diplomatic scrutiny, and where white men can’t easily move about, then that part of Africa would be a good choice. You see, we don’t care much about Africa; nobody does. Undoubtedly, if there is
an organization behind all this, and evidence suggests there is, then they know we have almost no intelligence and military capability in this area, and that our close allies are just as limited. Our focus is the Middle East and Southwest Asia right now. In the current war on terror, we put more time and money in Iraq in one day than we put in all of Africa in one year. Our country is stretched pretty thin right now, and Africa is well off the scope.” He paused a moment, then continued in a measured voice. “Armand Grummell seems to be worried about this, and the DCI doesn’t rattle easily. We need to put something together, and quickly. I’ve already asked Janet to work up some preliminaries on the situation. I’d like you and Akheem to be back here in an hour for a quick planning session.”
Garrett wandered out into the compound. An hour would give him time for a light workout and a quick shower. On the way to his quarters, he saw AKR squatting on his heels in conversation with a man whose skin was so black it almost had a blue cast to it. He was dressed in sandals, loose cammie trousers, and a green T-shirt. His head was shaved, and as he addressed AKR, he spoke with gestures as much as with words. AKR rose when Garrett approached. His companion seemed to uncoil effortlessly as he also brought himself upright. He was handsome and serene, but his mild features did not altogether mask an underlying fierceness.
“I see you, my brother,” the man said in his native Turkana dialect. He spoke very good English, but was aware that Garrett had a fascination and an ear for languages.
“And I see you, my brother,” Garrett replied, unconsciously copying the manner and gestures of the Turkan. Garrett had a near-photographic memory for sounds, so he had quickly mastered the formal greetings that are so important in the Turkana culture. “Will my brother excuse this interruption?” When the tall warrior nodded, only then did Garrett turn to AKR and speak in English.
“Steven wants us in his office in an hour. Looks as if there’s a growing interest in Africa.”
