by Dick Couch
“Well then,” AKR said with a sly grin, “this would seem to be a job for real Africans.”
“Yeah, right,” Garrett said, also grinning, “so now you’re an African.”
While Steven Fagan conferred with his key players, another staff meeting of sorts was taking place almost a half a world away. The setting could not have been more different from the IFOR compound and the Kona Coast of Hawaii.
The road between Harare and the town of Kariba stretches some 225 miles. Most of the land along the way is dusty high-veld African plain. Due east and north of Kariba the land rises gently to a series of mountain ranges with peaks approaching four thousand feet. The Mavuradonha Mountains look much like the foothills of the Rockies. Up one particularly scenic valley some sixty miles northeast of Kariba, the Japanese had built a small luxury hotel in the late 1970s. The Japanese consortium that built it called it Kubwa Msitu, thinking the name—“Big Forest” in Swahili—would draw Western tourists. While the upland forests are dense and beautiful, they lack the big game populations of the lower veld and the expansive vistas along Lake Kariba. Tourists come to southern Africa for the animals. They can find trees and mountains in much more convenient locations than this remote area of Zimbabwe. Shortly after the Japanese began losing money, they lost interest, and the hotel passed through a succession of British, German, and French resort chains until it was purchased by a wealthy Saudi prince. By then it had been renamed the Makondo Hotel. For a period under the prince’s steward-ship, the hotel was well stocked with luxuries prohibited in his country and by his religion. The prince and his entourage would fly into Harare on their private jet and transfer to stretch limousines for the trek into the veld. They would sometimes drive through Matusadona National Park for a chance glimpse of an elephant or a lion, but always anxious to reach the hotel for a few days of drinking and pornography, either on film or in the flesh—or both. However, the recent availability and convenience of the fleshpots in Bahrain eventually made the long trip to Zimbabwe unnecessary. The hotel had not seen the prince or a guest in well over two years, but a staff of Yemeni caretakers had kept up the grounds and were on hand to discourage looting.
Shortly after the Americans rolled into Baghdad, the prince was approached by an influential Wahabi cleric who asked about the hotel. The holy man seemed to know a great deal about the hotel and its history of who had visited there and what took place. After a short negotiation, it was agreed that the hotel would be an excellent choice for a retreat and school—a madrassa for the Muslims in northern Zimbabwe. The fact that only about 1 percent of Zimbabweans are Muslim did not seem to discourage the cleric. He was even able to get the prince to agree to pay for annual maintenance for as long as the school operated. Some months after the cleric and the prince concluded their agreement, the Yemeni staff was dismissed, and a new group of caretakers took possession of the hotel. One wing of the main building was converted into barracks, four men to a room. Men and equipment began to arrive, some from Harare and some smuggled across the border from Mozambique. Not all of the equipment was military. A number of Mercedes four-wheel-drive lorries and Land Rovers crossing the borders into Zimbabwe carried laboratory equipment and medical apparatus. Once everything was in place, a pair of limousines met a private jet at Harare Airport. Eight men in expensive Arab dress deplaned and filed into the limos. The plane had landed early in the day to allow time for a drive through the park before heading up-country. Only two of the passengers—the security men charged with the safety of the other six—were actually Arab. The other six were among the most talented and highest paid biochemists and microbiologists that money could buy—three Germans, two Frenchmen, and a Russian. None of them had ever been to Africa. As luck would have it, they were fortunate enough to sight a pride of lions and one of the park’s rare and endangered black rhinos on the way to the hotel.
The speaker was as different from Steven Fagan as Africa from Kona. A middle-aged man with a coldly efficient voice, he was seated at the desk of what had once been that of the office manager of the Makondo Hotel. His English betrayed only a hint of an accent. A trained ear could detect that his native language was German, but he spoke many languages. He dressed like many Europeans in Africa, or at least like they used to dress—tan linen slacks, white collared shirt, and woven leather loafers. The desk from which he spoke, like his person, was neat and orderly. His voice betrayed no emotion, but his question was deadly serious.
Helmut Klan had been born in Argentina and raised in an expatriate German community in Buenos Aires. His father told young Helmut of the horrors of his own childhood and the final days of the Third Reich. His maternal grandfather, a ranking officer in the Waffen SS and a member of Himmler’s personal staff, told him of the glorious rebirth of Germany after the humiliation of World War I. Helmut was sent to the University of Lorraine, taking a degree with honors in civil engineering. From there he went to America and in one year had acquired two master’s degrees from MIT, one in engineering and a second in business, again with honors. He left Boston in 1985 and journeyed south, where he spent five years with DuPont in Wilmington, Delaware. Klan’s duties included managing and selling off unprofitable units within DuPont’s extensive holdings. This often meant he had to deal with the restoration and adjudication of the unpleasant environmental aspects of DuPont’s business. From there, he returned to Germany to take a position with Internationale Gesellschaft Farbenindustrie A.G., or I.G. Farben for short. The company had supplied the Nazis with fuel and war materials, and concentration camps with Zyklon-B gas. I.G. Farben had gone into receivership in 1952, yet the company and its vast holdings continued to generate revenue for another fifty years, funding its creditors and providing a rallying cause for generations of protestors. To Klan, Farben was like a noble, aging stag plunging through the forest, gradually being stripped of its strength and reserve by a pack of wolves. Helmut Klan stayed until the end, when Farben was finally dissolved in 2003.
DuPont, Klan often reflected, was never the company that I.G. Farben had been. Had they been competitors on a level playing field, Farben would have easily put DuPont out of business. But DuPont was on the winning side in World War II, and that had made all the difference. It never ceased to amaze Klan how America, and companies like DuPont, could have defeated Germany and the might that was I.G. Farben. Had a man like Hermann Schmitz, the brilliant founder of I.G. Farben, led Germany instead of the maniacal Hitler, the outcome would have been much different. But it was on the abilities and personalities of such leaders that the destinies of nations and corporations rested. Helmut Klan was contemplating such thoughts over lunch at an upscale restaurant in Berlin when he received a call from a Mr. Maurice Baudo from Rome. The caller said that he was due to arrive in Berlin that very evening and wished to meet with Helmut. Mr. Baudo conveyed to him that he had a project for which he was seeking a manager with Klan’s qualifications. They met the following day. The discussion lasted several hours, and shortly thereafter, Klan found himself in Zimbabwe.
“So tell me again about the death of this doctor at the clinic near Karoi, and why it was so necessary to kill him.”
The man to whom Helmut Klan now directed his question could not have been more different from himself. Klan had known the project would need security and perhaps even a bit of thuggery, albeit thuggery with some local knowledge. He had to admit that Claude Renaud was well suited to this unsavory task. Yet the man was unlike anyone he had ever had to deal with in his corporate universe. Renaud shrugged his massive shoulders in response to Klan’s challenging question.
“Ah, the doctor, that was unfortunate business. We went there only to smash his clinic and frighten away those who sought treatment there—make it look like the work of vandals. We did not expect him to come back there so late at night. When he walked in, there was nothing to do but to make quick work of him. At first, we thought only to hurt him—put a good scare in him—but the boys got carried away. Once he was dead, I thought it best to
make it look like a tribal bush killing.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Now the word will get out. These Western doctors can’t come here unless they have help from the locals, and now they’ll have a devil of a time finding drivers and clinic workers. In the long run it’ll be good for us.”
“But this doctor was an Indian—a Hindu.”
“No matter. In Africa, those who are not African are Western, like you and me. Don’t worry, doctors are often killed in the bush. In a week it will be forgotten. Trust me, in the long run this will work for us, not against us.”
Klan was not so sure. Close to 40 percent of adults in Zimbabwe had the AIDS virus. That had attracted a lot of attention and money from the West. The Gates Foundation alone had spent millions in the country on clinics, medicine, and education. That kind of money was usually accompanied by foundation workers and administrators who asked questions. They did not need people asking questions. Klan cared little about easing the suffering of Zimbabweans and even less about the AIDs epidemic in Africa. He only wanted to get on with the work, deliver the product, and get out of this godforsaken place. Much of what he did not like about Zimbabwe and Africa was embodied in Claude Renaud.
Renaud fashioned himself as a mercenary soldier and white hunter of a bygone era. His father was French and his mother Dutch; he himself claimed Belgian citizenship but held several European and African passports. He was a big man, six-two and close to two-fifty, with a full dark beard that began high on his cheekbones. It gave him a wild look, which he cultivated. Renaud had unruly black hair that he tied in a loose ponytail and a brow that was wide and brooding. His Shonas called him Nyati, “the Buffalo,” which he did not discourage. Invariably, he was dressed in a bush jacket with no sleeves, cargo shorts, and an old felt snap-brim hat. One of the lab techs referred to him as the Bwana Wannabe. As a young man in his late teens, Renaud had in fact served with the Selous Scouts for a while at the end of their short time in the field. From what Klan knew of this fabled Rhodesian Army scouting group, he had a hard time imagining Renaud surviving their brutal training. But he could well image that the atrocities of the colonial wars were certainly within his capability. For all his baggage and bravado, Renaud was just the man the project needed to guard the facility and to spread the required fear within the province. Now, it seemed, the killing of the Outreach Africa physician might have taken things too far.
“Perhaps in the long run,” Klan acknowledged, “but in the short run, you may have brought us more attention than we want. People in Harare are not about to fuss over a few missing locals, especially if they are Ndbele or one of the other lesser tribes, but the killing of a white man is another matter.”
Renaud gave him a tobacco-stained grin. “I thought you had those kaffirs in Harare in your pocket. And why should they care what goes on out here, anyway?”
“It’s not the government I’m worried about, it’s the international community. They can bring a lot of pressure to bear. We may need a month or more to conclude our business here, and I don’t have the time to fend off a lot of inquiries. So for the next few weeks, I want you to keep a low profile. Keep your men out at night so the locals know you’re there, but let’s avoid any more killings.”
“How about the snatches? You need more bodies?”
Klan considered this. They might have enough subjects, but given the incubation periods, he didn’t want to run short of host material.
“Don’t make a point of it,” he told Renaud, “but if an opportunity presents itself, singly or in pairs, go ahead and bring them in. But be absolutely sure to make it appear to be a random disappearance.” Rural Africans, Klan knew, were superstitious. When someone vanished into the night, it could be for any number of reasons besides kidnapping.
Renaud nodded and heaved himself from the chair. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it into the corner of his mouth as he headed for the door.
“Claude,” Klan called after him. The big man paused and turned in the doorway.
“We are getting close, so let’s not screw this up. We both have a bonus due us, but only if the project succeeds. And I intend to collect that bonus.”
“Understood, Herr Doktor,” Renaud grunted as he lumbered through the door.
Klan didn’t miss for a moment Renaud’s attempt at needling him. Klan wasn’t a doctor, but he oversaw a medical staff that needed human guinea pigs for their tests. Claude Renaud, he had to confess, was necessary for the project, but that made him no more palatable. They were both being well paid, and the bonus offered for a successful completion was substantial. Yet Klan sensed that Renaud was enjoying all this far too much. Bonus or not, Renaud was not so anxious to see this business come to an end. As an experienced and capable project manager, Klan couldn’t help wonder what Claude Renaud would do once their work was done.
Klan’s thoughts were broken by a knock on the door. He glanced at his watch, remembering that he had a meeting with the head of his medical team, and brightened as he rose and went to the door. “Come in, come in, Hans,” he said, shifting to German. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Garrett Walker did not enjoy this role. No doubt it was necessary, and someone had to do it, but it didn’t go down easy. Furthermore, he knew that AKR took a perverse joy in assigning him this duty. But he also knew that realistic training required good role players.
“You seem a little anxious this evening, my friend. Your spirit seems restless.”
Garrett gave a resigned shrug. “I guess I’ve always preferred being the hunter to being hunted.”
“I understand, my friend,” Bijay replied. “But it is a chance to learn. You know your role well as the hunter. Knowing the difficulties and misgivings of the quarry can also be valuable.”
Bijay Garung was Nepalese, and one of more than two dozen Gurkhas that IFOR retained as a component of the intervention force. Bijay was a Gurkha leader of some stature and reputation. It was through him that this small band of warriors had been recruited and trained. The Gurkha element had been part of IFOR for a little more than eighteen months and operational for half that time. Garrett and Bijay had already taken them in harm’s way, into Southwest Asia on an important mission, and they had performed magnificently. The reputation of the Gurkhas as tough, durable, loyal, competent soldiers was legendary. Garrett had found them to be all that and more. In Bijay he had found a brother in arms, as well as a man of immense talent and spiritual reserve. He often thought of him as a warrior monk, yet Bijay practiced no formal religion.
He and Garrett were stationed outside a small thatched hut on one of their training ranges. They walked their posts in and out of the shadows, bathed in lantern light that escaped through the windows. Inside two of the technicians sat at desks with portable radios. Garrett and Bijay were posted as guards at the “enemy” communications outpost. Night training evolutions like this were necessary to build the men into a functioning combat team. Usually this training was directed by a command and control element that would monitor and direct the evolution, as they would do on a real mission. Tonight’s drill was a purely tactical exercise; there would be no C2—command and control—element directing the exercise play. Bijay and his Gurkhas had worked many of these training evolutions before they had gone on a real mission. They still did.
“What do you think of the new men?” Garrett asked.
In response to Garrett’s question, Bijay picked up his rifle and began to pace. He was tall for a Gurkha, who were generally small in stature, and he carried himself with great ease and dignity.
“The Africans, they are not like us,” Bijay said, carefully framing his words. “You and I are much alike, although we come from very different worlds. But we have been in uniform for most of our adult life—proper uniforms. As our British mentors would say, we have been in garrison. The formalities and patterns of Western military life are ingrained in us. This is not the case with our black brothers. They come from clans, tribes, and families. They have been conditioned to f
ight for their tribal group, not for their nation or for a cause.” He was silent for a long moment before he continued. “They appear to be uncomplicated men, more like children than warriors, but this is not the case. I think it is because their souls—the essence of their being—are so closely linked with the earth and their native land. Our black brothers are spiritual and very connected to their environment. I know you wish they could shoot like my Gurkhas. I wish my Gurkhas could move in the bush like Tomba’s Africans. But I sense that, like my men, they are loyal to their brother warriors, and that when called upon, they will be very brave—brave even to the death.”
Garrett was about to answer when he saw Bijay’s knees buckle and his body pitch forward. A fraction of a second later he too was on his stomach, his face in the dirt. There was a forearm levered into the back of his neck and a hand that felt like a baseball glove over his mouth. He could breathe, but all other movement was impossible. There seemed to be two of them, but Garrett could not be sure. He could hear muffled commotion from inside the hut, then silence. Suddenly he was jerked to his feet, but kept facing away from Bijay and the hut. The hand was removed from his mouth, only to be immediately replaced by a length of duct tape. Another strip sealed his eyes and wound around his head to block much of his hearing. He next felt nylon snap-ties as they encircled his ankles. Strong arms pulled him from behind, and he felt the bark of an ohi’a tree at his back. His hands were quickly bound behind the tree. Then all was quiet. It had taken less than two minutes. He would have felt foolish at being taken so quickly and easily, but his mind was instead drawn to the nylon snap-ties cutting into his wrists and ankles.
He did manage to reflect on the swift and professional action that had taken place. Neither had heard their attackers coming, and Bijay Garung was a man who was not easily surprised. He may have heard, but refrained from a reaction to stay in character, but Garrett didn’t think so. There was no verbal communication, nor did they make much noise when they entered and secured those in the hut. They must have had their duct tape strips precut; there were no tearing sounds from the roll. And they seemed to have worked as a team, which was most important to Garrett. Teamwork sometimes did not come easy to cultures that championed the exploits of the individual warrior. They had left the area without a sound, taking their prisoners with them. The exercise called for them to neutralize the guards and capture the technicians. Impressive, Garrett thought, very impressive. Through the tape that bound his ears, he heard the approaching strains of “A Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square,” very proficiently whistled. Then there was a soft snipping as jawed pliers bit into the nylon straps. He rubbed his wrists while his rescuer cut the duct tape. Garrett worked the tape from his mouth and head while AKR went over to free Bijay.
