Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  “Not coming?”

  “Think I’ll take a walk. See you in the morning.”

  “In the morning, then.”

  Garrett made the three-mile round-trip to the shopping district at a leisurely pace. He had never been in southern Africa, and he wanted to get the feel of it, even though Lusaka, in many ways, was just another big city. Yet each city had its own flavor—its own ripe blend of smells. For most, the odor was noxious; for Garrett it was simply a whiff of life. Zambia was a nation the size of Western Europe and, with eleven million people, the least densely populated nation in Africa. The population was concentrated in two areas—Lusaka and the Copper Belt, which ran across the northern part of the country along the Zambian-Congo border. That left large tracts of relatively uninhabited land in the central and southern plains. There were two main industries in Zambia: mining and tourism. Tourism centered around the game parks and Victoria Falls. From what Garrett had read, Zambia had done better than most in protecting its wildlife, which was the key to its tourist trade.

  Garrett also needed to walk off his frustrations. For the first time, either as a Navy SEAL or as an employee with IFOR, he was relegated to a support role. Usually he was at the forefront of the action. He fully understood the reason; he was a white man, and white men simply don’t move well in sub-Saharan Africa, where, outside South Africa, whites accounted for just over 1 percent of the population. There were only so many ways a white man could move about. Even with a good cover story, he would stand out due to the color of his skin. AKR was right; this was a job for Africans, at least in the initial stages of the operation.

  His job for now was to babysit Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt. The fact that Rosenblatt would more than likely be a key player in the operation did not make his assignment any easier. And the task would not be a simple one. He was to see that Rosenblatt and his equipment got where they were needed, when they were needed. Presumably, that would be when any of the fighting that took place would be over. Given what they might be dealing with, the dangerous part could be only beginning after the guns fell silent.

  Garrett got back to his room a little after 11:00 P.M. As in all modern hotels, his room was equipped with high-speed Internet access. He broke out his laptop and tapped in the privacy code to turn it on. Then he engaged the cryptographic circuitry. He logged onto the IFOR site and began to download message traffic from Janet and Steven. There was even a message for him from AKR.

  Akheem and Tomba had been in Johannesburg for almost two days. Johannesburg, or Joburg as the mercs called it, was the mercenary capital of the world, even though section 2 of the South African Foreign Military Assistance Act forbade the hiring of mercenaries in what amounted to a constitutional ban on mercenary recruitment. There were two reasons for this. The first was the availability of the right kind of talent. Most mercenary requirements arose in Africa or other equatorial areas, where black men could move easily and fight under the harsh conditions often found there. The transition from white to black rule in South Africa had also put a great many superbly trained black troops out of work. The second was that South Africa was one African nation where whites comprised a sizeable minority, and a white man could move about easily and conduct business. The private military companies that hired mercenaries were basically color-blind. They paid for experience and reliability, but most PMCs were themselves corporations based in Western nations with largely white management and recruiters. And, as with seasonal farm labor in the United States, it was often hard to get whites to do the work; former black South African regulars not only were willing to put their guns out for hire but did as they were told and asked few questions. Many white soldiers of fortune were outcasts or expatriates, and usually came with a lot of baggage.

  AKR and Tomba had taken a room in a nondescript motel a few miles from the airport. They entered South Africa from Nairobi with British passports and visas that said they were travel agents. An impressive pair in their pleated trousers, sport coats, and turtlenecks, they might have been taken for two professional athletes in the United States. Once through customs and checked into the motel room, Tomba set about to change their image. AKR had already shed his dreadlocks and the Rastafarian look that had served him so well in the Caribbean. Both of them changed into short-sleeved white shirts, dark trousers, and low-cut leather walking shoes. They were still two tall, handsome black men, but now they had the look of two off-duty security guards.

  “So now what’s next?” Akheem asked as they pulled out of the motel in their rental car.

  “Now, my brother, we seek employment.”

  Tomba drove them to a restaurant between Johannesburg and Pretoria called the Wildebeest, a large, busy establishment that specialized in beef and wild game. They slipped into the adjoining cocktail lounge and took a small table in the corner. The lounge was barely half full. Both ordered beer. Horned animal heads adorned the walls of the dimly lit interior, and the clientele seemed to be equally balanced between black and white. The room was heavy with cigarette smoke. They had barely waited fifteen minutes when a white man, dressed much as they were, approached.

  “G’day, gentlemen,” he said with an easy smile. “May I join you?”

  “There is always room at our table for one more,” Tomba replied.

  The man set his own beer on the table and slid into an empty chair. He had a ruddy complexion and unruly brown hair. AKR noticed that he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes, and that he had huge hands and forearms, with tattoos of dragons buried under the forearm hair. He reached one of his massive paws across the table.

  “Tomba, it is good to see you again. How long has it been, three—four years?” His accent was that of an Australian stockman. Tomba took the outstretched hand.

  “Perhaps four. And I would like you to meet Samuel. Samuel, this is Irish. I’m not sure if that is his real name, but it is what he is called. Perhaps it is his nom de guerre.”

  “Too right,” Irish said with a chuckle as he took AKR’s hand in a crushing grasp. “Happy t’ meet ya, Samuel. Are you Turkana as well?”

  “My roots are Masai, but I have not been back to Kenya for a while.”

  Irish studied AKR a moment, as if trying to catalog him, and turned his attention back to Tomba.

  “I was delighted t’ get yer call, and t’ hear that you might be looking for work,” he said carefully. “I was given to understand that you had found work with an American security firm. Is that no longer the case?”

  “It was a contract to train some people for executive protection duty in African cities. The Americans are deeply engaged in security considerations right now, as you can imagine. It was a short contract, and work there is completed.” Tomba’s explanation had a final tone. Now he leaned forward to address the Aussie. “And I am given to understand, Irish, that you are no longer with Sandline but represent a new organization. Can you tell me about it?”

  Irish glanced at AKR, and Akheem sensed that the man would have been more comfortable discussing this one-on-one with Tomba. Tomba was known and respected by those who hire professional soldiers, and in the closed fraternity of mercenaries, he had the respect of others who hired themselves out as professional soldiers. Reputation was everything in the mercenary trade.

  Sensing his reluctance, Tomba continued. “You may speak freely in front of my brother Samuel. I can vouch for his discretion as well as his ability as a fighter.”

  Irish again forced a smile. “Very well, then. I’m now working for Northbridge Services Group out of the UK, and we have ongoing requirements for experienced men. We do a number of things—demilitarization of warring factions, mine clearance, and counterterror operations—standard fare. It’s a good firm. We pay the going PMC wage and, for supervisory personnel like yourself, a generous bonus.” He chuckled again, and this time it seemed genuine. “And for the most part, our operations have the blessing of the Pommy foreign secretary.”

  “Forgive me for questioning you,” Tomba said pleasantly, �
��but that didn’t seem to be the case in Ivory Coast.”

  Irish took on a deeper shade of red. “True, but I think his lordship, Mr. Jackie Straw, was forced t’ say what he did for political reasons. Our firm was on solid ground going into Ivory Coast, and those buggers at Whitehall knew that.”

  “I understand,” Tomba said neutrally, but he had put Irish on notice that he knew of Northbridge and their activities. In fact, few PMCs did things without government approval, both from the host nation where the work was done and from the resident nation of the PMC. Great Britain was one of the more lenient western nations regarding mercenary activity. After all, had they not used Gurkhas for close to two hundred years?

  “Samuel and I may be looking for work,” Tomba continued, “but we would prefer to stay out of West Africa. Are there other areas where our services might be needed?”

  They talked for another half hour. Tomba indicated that they might be available later in the spring, and Irish replied that there were a number of contract negotiations in the works that could result in a hire. Irish’s job, as Tomba well knew, was to stay close to the mercenary community and to know who was available. Experienced, reliable retainers were the key to a successful private military contract. Tomba gave Irish a piece of paper with an international cell phone number, and Irish gave him a card with phone, telex, fax, and e-mail contacts. Soon the talk drifted to past wars and some of the colorful, dysfunctional expatriates who called themselves soldiers of fortune. As they were about to leave, Tomba paused and, almost as an afterthought, turned to Irish.

  “I was told something a few weeks back by a friend from the 32nd Battalion. It made little sense to me, but perhaps you may know something of it. It seems that someone was recruiting for a force to return to Zimbabwe. Is someone thinking about mounting an insurgency against Mugabe?”

  Irish smiled ruefully as he leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “If they are, they couldn’t have chosen a worse bugger to lead it. From what I hear, Claude Renaud hired between fifty and sixty men for some job in Zimbabwe or Mozambique. A good many of them were from the 32nd along with a handful of white expats.”

  AKR felt Tomba stiffen at the mention of Claude Renaud, but he quickly recovered. “Renaud?” Tomba managed. “But who would hire a man of his reputation?”

  “Who indeed,” Irish replied. “Certainly no legitimate government or mining consortium, and most of the white farmers have quit the country. Perhaps it was Mugabe himself. Then he can claim the colonial powers are still picking on him. What a bloody cockup he’s made of that country. The Pommies should never have let him make himself president-for-life in that poor nation. It’s their fault, mind you. As I recall, you served in the Rhodesian Army, didn’t you, Tomba?”

  “I did,” Tomba said, regaining his composure, “but that was a long time ago, and I was a very young and foolish man.” He rose and offered Irish his hand. “Thank you for speaking with us. Please keep us in mind if there is work you can send our way.”

  The lounge was now almost full. They left Irish at the table and threaded their way through the tables to the door.

  “This Renaud is our man, is he not?” AKR said as soon as they were in the parking lot. He spoke carefully, as there was a murderous look on Tomba’s normally tranquil features.

  “He is,” Tomba replied. “How soon can we be on a flight to Lusaka?”

  Pavel Zelinkow had been out late the previous evening to the theater, but up very early that morning. There was a great deal to do. The previous afternoon he had taken a call from Helmut Klan in Zimbabwe. The development and testing of the product were nearly complete, and they were now about to enter the production phase. As Zelinkow understood it, growing the smallpox virus they needed was a relatively simple task compared with what they had done in the genetic modification and testing process. They were now only days from having the final test results. Those results would validate the pathogen they were already starting to produce. When they had their disease, they could begin to close down the Makondo project. And then he would be free to complete his final task: shipping the product to the location specified by the people who hired him—and to the man who would use the pathogen. Now that the African end of the project was in its last few days, it meant another trip to Tehran. His only consolation was that it would be his last, at least for a while.

  Closing down the Makondo operation would be a big relief. It had not been difficult to bribe those in Harare to cooperate, but that kind of money only bought so much time. The sooner the product was out of Africa, the better. An undertaking such as this meant opening doors to get things done. To conclude the operation, he would have to close those same doors, carefully wiping his fingerprints off each handle and latch. He had just booked his flight from Rome to Tehran through Cairo when one of his lines rang. He checked the caller ID, but it registered a blank.

  “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “Good morning, Pavel Zelinkow. I hope I am not disturbing you at this early hour.”

  “Not at all, Boris Zhirinonovich,” Zelinkow replied warmly, relieved and gladdened to hear the old man’s thick Russian. “I can think of no better way to start my day than to hear your voice.”

  “You are much too kind to an old apparatchik. Pavel, how secure is the connection at your end?”

  “As secure as that where you are,” he replied. He did not want to offend his former mentor by saying that his communication suite was far more state-of-the-art than anything in Moscow. Technology and high-speed encryption had made secure communications commonplace in corporate practice. There were no longer the delays and voice distortions of the past.

  “Very good, but nonetheless, I will be brief. There is, it seems, a covert organization in America that was responsible for the recovery of the two stolen Pakistani nuclear weapons. This is a deduction our people have made, since it appears that no one in or associated with U.S. military or Western intelligence services seems to have been involved. Yet we have it on authority from a number of sources that it did happen with American knowledge and limited American military support. It appears that this organization is not sponsored or funded by the U.S. government, or we would have more information on it. Our sources close to American intelligence confirm that this is neither a military special operations unit nor a part of the CIA Special Activities Division. It would seem that it is some kind of corporate security element that operates with very limited official contact, and probably with complete denial of the U.S. government.” Zelinkow heard the older man chuckle. “Perhaps this is what makes them so dangerous; there is no collateral political damage to fear from their actions or overzealousness.

  “At any rate, we understand that they may be active and again have operatives in the field. I wish I had more for you, but that is all we know. One would think that they are able to move assets and people in ways we used to do in the heyday of the Ninth Directorate. If I learn any more, I will contact you…. Are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes, I am here. I was just absorbing all that you have told me. Boris Zhirinonovich, may I ask you for a favor?”

  “Certainly, Pavel, you may ask.” Again the chuckle. “And I will do what I can for you.”

  “Could you ask our residents in sub-Saharan Africa to let you know if they have any unusual activity in their capitals, something out of the ordinary in the way of nonmilitary activity that could be used to support a military operation?”

  “Our reporting assets in that region are not what they once were, but we have a few options. And there are men not unlike yourself who occasionally make inquiries for us. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you be careful, Pavel.”

  “Da, I will be careful, and thank you for your assistance.”

  Zelinkow rang off and sat looking at the dawn that was just beginning to reach out over the Mediterranean. He felt a sudden chill and, without thinking, reached out and cradled the cup of espresso for warmth. The instincts that he had refined to almost a sixth sense in
KGB’s Ninth Directorate under Zhirinon now screamed at him. Something was not right. Zelinkow did not know who or what, but some force or entity was out there, and somehow he knew it was stalking him. They had surprised him in Iran and Afghanistan, and he was resolved not to let that happen again. He turned the matter over in his mind for five minutes while finishing his espresso. Time, always his enemy, was now becoming very dangerous. Then he made two calls. The first was to Helmut Klan. Zelinkow instructed his project director to conclude the project with all haste and to put his security detachment on full alert. With no further need to range out into the countryside to procure test subjects, they could be pulled in for added security around the hotel complex. His second call was to move up the date and time of his flight from Rome to Tehran.

  8

  Boots on

  the Ground

  The bored customs officer took the man’s passport with a surly gesture. “Purpose of your visit?” he droned impatiently.

  “I am with Siemens, AG and here to work with CAPC, the Central African Power Corporation, to assist with your electric power supply. I believe my papers to be in order, are they not?” The German electrical giant worked throughout Africa and was, in fact, also contracted to repair and expand the telephone system in Iraq.

  The customs officer’s whole demeanor immediately changed. “Of course, Mr. Schultz. Welcome to Zambia.”

  Steven Fagan, who had arrived on the morning flight from Nairobi, proceeded to clear customs and recovered his single piece of luggage with no further delays. Bill Owens had him well documented as a consultant with the German firm under contract to provide engineering services for CAPC. Dodds LeMaster had managed to hack into the Siemens HR database and list a Herman Schultz as one of their field engineers. Steven had a working knowledge of engineering and German, but few spoke German in Zambia, the former British colony of Northern Rhodesia. The closest former German colony was Tanzania. Zambia and Tanzania shared a section of border where the black surrogates of Germany and Britain had fought a bloody conflict during World War I.