Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  Rosenblatt wondered just who this agreeable, soft-spoken man was, but he was content to wait until he got settled in and received a proper briefing. Fagan put Judy Burks and Rosenblatt in the back of the sedan and climbed in the front with the driver for the short stint to the hotel. He tipped the bellman and told him to have Dr. Rosenblatt’s bags sent up to his room. The room turned out to be a four-room luxury apartment with a small kitchen, a generous sitting room, and two bedroom-bath suites bracketing the sitting room. Steven held the door for Judy and Rosenblatt, and followed them in. Inside the main sitting room, a tall man in blue jeans and a bright aloha shirt was mixing himself a drink at the bar.

  “You must be the good Dr. Rosenblatt,” he said, crossing the room to offer his hand. “I’m Garrett Walker. I was just fixing myself a scotch. Can I build one for you?”

  Rosenblatt took in the room, the bar, and the Magnum P.I. look-alike with a drink in his hand. “Only if it’s a single malt,” he replied, taking Garrett’s hand.

  “Is there any other kind?” Garrett said, turning back to the bar. “Judy? Steven?”

  Judy Burks opted for a rum and tonic, while Steven deferred. Garrett handed out the drinks and dropped into one of the easy chairs that, along with a long high-backed divan, surrounded an ornate mahogany cocktail table. He hung a leg over the arm of the chair and waited for Steven to begin.

  Fagan suddenly rose and retrieved a Perrier water, then took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa from Rosenblatt. He twisted off the bottle cap and poured a measure into a short crystal glass. Just what to tell Rosenblatt and what to withhold had been on Steven’s mind, but he wanted to meet the man before he came to a decision. There was a great deal the doctor didn’t need to know, but there was risk in withholding information from a key player in the operation, someone who might well be risking his life in the venture. Which secrets to share and which to withhold fell within his discretion and his expertise.

  “Doctor,” he began, “I think the best way to do this is to tell you a little about the organization that Garrett and I work for. We are a privately funded organization that is sometimes called in to deal with problems that our government cannot address, or where the presence of the U.S. government would either be counterproductive or inappropriate. When I said we are privately funded, I meant just that; we are not a government contractor, nor do we function with any kind of a retainer. Miss Burks is not formally part of our organization. She serves as liaison officer to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the intelligence community, and the executive branch as needed. I should also like to point out that only select, key people in the government even know of us and what we do. The President of the United States is one of those people. Neither the Surgeon General nor the head of the CDC are cleared to know about what we do, or that we even exist, for that matter.” Steven went on to outline IFOR’s ability to project limited force and their semi-official, deniable relationship with the U.S. government.

  “So,” Rosenblatt interrupted, “you might say that you are kind of the opposite of the Peace Corps. Instead of sending in people to do good things, you send in people to do difficult and bad things—Mission Impossible stuff.”

  Steven’s reaction was one of thoughtful consideration. “I never really looked at it quite like that, but perhaps your assessment is not entirely inaccurate. Maybe the current example will help to clear things up a bit. We believe, from a variety of sources, that a group or organization is developing and testing biological agents in a remote part of Zimbabwe. The facility where this is taking place, a small resort hotel, seems to be guarded by a mercenary force that exerts control in the immediate area and has been terrorizing the local population.” He watched Rosenblatt carefully as he spoke. “We even suspect they are doing human testing.” Steven paused to refill his glass. “We have trained a team of Africans who we plan to put into the area to observe the facility and, if needed, to neutralize it.”

  “Let me guess,” Rosenblatt said, “these are also mercenary soldiers, only they are our mercenary soldiers, right?”

  “I can see that you’re grasping the concept,” Steven said mildly. “Tell me, Doctor, have you heard of a man by the name of François Meno?”

  “François Meno! You don’t mean the French microbiologist!”

  “The very one, I’m afraid,” Steven replied. “He, along with the two scientists Miss Burks spoke about with you a few days ago, is nowhere to be found. As I am sure you know, he was dismissed from the Pasteur Institute several months ago over a dispute with Institute policy. Due to the controls now in place to monitor certain airports, we know that Professor Meno flew from Paris to Kuwait City and then on to Djibouti. From there he must have left under a different identity, but a number of flights connect from Djibouti to central and southern Africa. We don’t know where he is, but it seems he may be headed toward our mysterious hotel.” As he spoke, Steven watched Rosenblatt carefully. “Dr. Rosenblatt,” he continued, “I’d be preaching to the choir if I were to tell you the level of havoc these men could create if they are working in concert in the same rogue laboratory. Modern genetic research has put some frightening capabilities in the hands of those who know how to modify and manipulate genetic material. Of course, they could simply be off working on cures for diseases using nonstandard methods and human testing. But we don’t think so. We must know what is going on at that facility, and we need to do it quickly. You know better than anyone what these people are capable of.” Again, Steven paused to measure his man. “If there is even a small chance that these people are trying to bring about the unthinkable, we simply have to do something about it.”

  Steven Fagan was very skilled in dealing with others. He knew when to speak as well as when to be silent. Now he held Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt in an open, patient gaze. On the other side of the table, Garrett watched all this play out. He had seen Steven Fagan perform this velvet rope-a-dope with others; he exuded warmth, trust, and sincerity with great skill.

  Slowly, Rosenblatt nodded his assent. “So what can I do to help?”

  Fagan did not miss a beat. “Doctor, as I mentioned, we are planning to put a small force into the area to find out what is going on. It would seem that we have a military problem as well as a potential biological problem. We need your advice in planning an assault on a biological complex and what precautions our men need to take. And should we be able to secure this facility, we will need someone with your experience and training to evaluate the situation.”

  Rosenblatt nodded again. He had suspected it would be something like this; in fact, he had long known it was only a matter of time before the proliferation of genetic research took an evil turn. When Agent Burks called and the head of the CDC told him his services had been requested by “senior government officials,” he knew this might indeed be what many at the CDC feared most—a genetically engineered biological weapon in the making. Rosenblatt knew, as few people did, the difference between a bioterror weapon and a biological weapon. A terror weapon was designed to terrorize. These were things like anthrax or ricin. Biological weapons, ones that were now possible through genetic engineering, were designed to cause mass depopulation. But under this sober analysis, the prospect still excited him. They were after bugs, perhaps some new and rare bug he had never seen before.

  “It seems my services are needed, and I’ll help in any way that I can.”

  Before he could continue, Steven held out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor, thank you.” Rosenblatt hesitated, then took his hand. “Speaking for all of us, I can say that we all feel an element of relief with your particular expertise aboard.”

  “Well, thank you for your confidence; I’ll do my best.” He paused, feeling a little flustered at this kind of attention. “I do have a few questions, however.”

  “Of course,” Steven replied. “Please go ahead.”

  “If it is as you describe, there could be a catastrophic stew being brewed at the place. And given that this facility is well guarded, it would se
em more appropriate that a battalion of Army Rangers should be storming the place rather than some private army. Why you? Why us?”

  Steven smiled. “This is a remote facility in very rough country. Rangers, good as they are, are still light infantry, and their presence would signal an American invasion of a black African nation. It would be difficult for Rangers, or Special Forces or SEALs for that matter, to achieve the needed surprise. We believe that surprise may be essential in safely attacking this facility so that we can investigate what is actually going on there.”

  “What makes your army better than Army Rangers or Special Forces?” Rosenblatt asked.

  “Our group is not like any in the U.S. military. They are all African bush fighters—seasoned professionals who won’t stand out in the way an American military unit would. That’s why we will be looking into this, not the U.S. Army.”

  Rosenblatt considered this. “Even so, breaking into any laboratory that is experimenting with biological material is a hazardous business, let alone one in some remote location. I’m not a military guy, but I can help with the evaluation. I gave Judy a list of equipment needed if I have to do a field analysis as well as necessary protective clothing. There would be little that I can do without them.”

  “We have a rather efficient procurement organization. The items you requested are on pallets at a transshipment facility at the airport, ready to be airlifted to Africa.”

  “All of them?” Rosenblatt questioned in disbelief. Had he submitted that kind of a requisition at the CDC, it would have taken the better part of a year for the paperwork to be processed, bids let, and the order filled. He had asked for the best and the smallest, most portable test equipment available, which meant the most expensive. He didn’t expect to get even half his list.

  “Doctor,” Steven replied, “we provide our small force with the best weapons, communications, and combat support equipment in the world. Your work is no less important, so we certainly would do no less for you. It’s been a long day, but first thing tomorrow morning, we’d like you to inspect and inventory the equipment and make sure it is satisfactory. And should you determine that more is needed, you only need to ask.”

  “That’s—that’s great. I can’t wait to see it. So then what?”

  “Along with the rest of our people, we will need to get you into the area as quickly and as quietly as possible. Garrett, maybe you should explain what we have in mind.”

  Garrett lifted a shiny aluminum case from the side of the sofa, laid it on the table, and lifted the lid for Rosenblatt’s inspection. “Tell me, Elvis, do you like animals—lions, tigers, rhinos—that sort of thing?”

  Rosenblatt grinned. “Are there any other kind?”

  “Wonderful,” Garrett replied, taking out a Nikon camera body and snapping a 400mm telephoto lens into place. “You and I are going on safari.”

  Later that evening, Janet Brisco was at her desk, deep into a recent set of satellite images. There were two mugs on her desk, one tea and one coffee, and an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Now that most of the logistic flow for the deployment of her small force was in place, she was free to begin to build a target package and think about the tactical problems that they might face. There was a soft rap on her door.

  “Come—Oh, hello, Tomba. Please come in.”

  He crossed the room with several noiseless strides. “I will be leaving in a few hours. As you know, Nkosi Akheem will be going with me. There will be a private jet to take us to Nairobi, where we are booked on a commercial flight to Johannesburg.”

  At first Janet had questioned the necessity of having AKR accompany Tomba, but she had to admit that he could move in African cities as well as Tomba, and should there be a need for contact or assistance from the U.S. embassy in Pretoria, then his presence would be useful. It had been Steven’s call, and on reflection, she realized it was a good one.

  “My men are ready to travel in all respects; just give them the word when the time comes. I am here for two reasons. One is to thank you for all you are doing as we prepare for this mission. The other is to ask if you will join my men and myself for a few minutes. It is customary for African warriors to share a drink before we depart our base camp for an operation. I know you are very busy, but it would mean a great deal to my men—and to me.”

  She was on her feet without thinking. “I would be honored, Tomba.”

  They were seated around a small fire, dressed in T-shirts, long trousers, and sandals. All rose as she and Tomba approached.

  “Nkosi Janet has come to join us for a drink. Please make her welcome at our fire.” There was a murmur of agreement among the men around the circle. Suddenly, AKR was at her side, handing her a wooden cup. He inclined his head in a show of respect, and he smiled warmly.

  “I see you, Nkosi Janet,” he said as he solemnly raised his own cup and took a drink.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do now?” she said under her breath.

  “Enjoy the moment,” he replied quietly. “This is an honor seldom given to one outside their number.”

  He gently guided her through an opening in the circle and paused in front of one of the men.

  “I see you, miss,” he said, raising his cup to drink.

  “And I see you,” she replied and drank. The brew was strong, bitter, and not altogether unpleasant.

  With AKR’s guidance they made their way around the circle and back to Tomba.

  “I see you, Nkosi Janet.”

  “I see you, Tomba.” She paused to swallow before continuing. “I, uh, thank you for this honor, Tomba. This is, well, it is very special.”

  He simply smiled and motioned for her to take a seat on one of the benches. They talked for the better part of an hour and passed around a wooden pitcher of the rich African brew. Then Tomba and AKR rose and quietly withdrew. Akheem gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as he passed behind her. After what seemed to be another hour, she listened as the Africans talked quietly about wars past and the upcoming mission in Zimbabwe. Occasionally they spoke in a dialect she did not understand, but for the most part they conversed in English. Finally she rose, a little unsteady on her feet, and thanked them for including her. Mohammed Senagal seemed to materialize at her side. He escorted her from the circle and thanked her for taking time to be with them. On her way back to the operations building she passed close to Bijay, who was watching from the shadows.

  “Good evening, Miss Brisco, or should I say Nkosi Janet?”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “A while,” he replied, looking back at the men by the fire. “They are truly fine men, Miss Brisco, and they have done you a great honor. Take good care of them.”

  “I will, Bijay. Good night.”

  “Good night, miss.”

  Back in her office, she found her way to her desk. Dodds LeMaster looked up from his computer to watch her cross the room.

  “You all right?” Bill Owens stopped sorting documents to also look up.

  She nodded. “Did I ever thank you for helping with the training of Tomba and his men?”

  LeMaster cast a curious glance at Owens.

  “As a matter of fact, Janet, you didn’t.”

  “Well, I am now. Thank you both.” She took a deep breath. “And now Dodds, I would be in your debt if you would get me a strong cup of coffee and three aspirins. And then I want to go over these latest satellite images with you.”

  7

  Forces in Place

  Benjamin Sata moved along the back streets of Lusaka with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets and his head down. He had arrived that morning on a flight from Maputo, and it was now midafternoon. His soiled white shirt and scuffed shoes said that he was probably a laborer or an out-of-work miner. There were a great many of those in Lusaka. In his small knapsack he had a Mozambique passport and a work visa that identified him as Tilyenji Nkhoma, as well as some toilet articles, a change of clothes, and, stitched into the lining of the bag, a large sum of U.S. dol
lars and Zambian kwachas. As he made his way into the housing project, no one gave him a second look, but he was very aware of his surroundings. Unnoticed, he made his way through the suburb of Burma Road along Nzunga Avenue. He cut down a side street and stepped into an alley. Finally, he arrived at the back gate of a modest one-story home. Glancing around to make sure he was still unobserved, he slipped through the gate and stepped onto the back porch. The low growl of a small dog greeted him through the screen door.

  “Hey, Kimba, it’s me, Benjamin,” he said quietly. “Don’t you remember me, girl?”

  The dog sniffed him cautiously but conceded nothing.

  “Who’s there? May I help you?” A shriveled, wizened black woman in a print smock approached the door. There was the patient, quiet dignity about her that was common to those few who reach advanced age in Africa. She was well into her eighties, but even she did not know exactly how old she was. Like the dog, she was alert and cautious.

  “You may indeed, Grandmother,” Benjamin replied in Bemba, the language of his tribe. “May a weary traveler find shelter and a place by your fire?”

  “Benjamin? Good Lord, is that you?”

  “Yes, Grandmother. May I come in?”

  She lifted the lock, and he quickly slipped inside. He stepped away from the door and stood looking back into the alley to make sure his arrival was unobserved. After a moment, he turned from the door to formally greet his grandmother, in the Bemba fashion. He was the youngest of her grandsons, but there were still proper greetings to be exchanged. This was not the first of his infrequent visits home, and as on the others, he would have to balance courtesy with vigilance. It was known that he had served in the South African Army, and that he had been an employee of Sandline and deployed with the mercenary force that Sandline sent to Papua New Guinea. While not technically a criminal, he was unwelcome in Zambia to the local authorities and especially the national army police. The Zambian army distrusted anyone who had served in the South African Army or a mercenary force.