Logan threw out, “We should take her on the next operation to see if we can trust her.”
Titus clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Okay, good call. We need something that won’t make her think we’re onto her though. We need a good reason to take a French spy with us. Let me think. Let me think.” He rapped the tabletop when a thought hit him. “I got it. There’s a warlord I’ve been trying to take out for years. He moves around but his base is in Benin.”
“West Africa?” Sydney asked.
Titus responded, “Yep. The official language is French. Pack your bags. I’ll get the Frenchie.”
Sydney frowned. “You can just snap your fingers and get her out of Air Force lockup?”
Titus finished his coffee and stood up. “Easier than snapping my fingers and getting an Air Force fighter jet.”
Logan’s thoughts strayed to Park Dae Lun. She was a mission asset, and he worked her like an asset to get out of North Korea. However, her feelings for him seemed to be pretty genuine. There was no other real incentive to turn defector. He didn’t know how he felt. Could he untangle his mission approach from his true feelings? Logan the spy needed to be romantically interested in Park, but what did Logan the actual person need? He would maybe figure it out on the way.
“We should take the North Korean plane,” Logan suggested. “The transponder is completely unknown. We can move freely through Benin airspace.”
“Good call,” Titus responded.
Logan said, “I need a copilot. The only person who knows how to fly it is the North Korean woman. I want her.”
Titus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I bet you do. Do you trust her?”
“I trust her enough,” Logan responded. It was the second time he was asked, and this answer felt more true. She could help them fly to West Africa and back. He trusted her to do that.
Titus shrugged. “Fine. I’ll get the North Korean, too.”
From the first moment Logan met Titus, he was that way. He was sure of himself and full of swagger but he did everything he could for Logan. Bringing him into the Agency, training him, and sending him on his first mission was utilitarian. Logan was a good agent. But they were also acts of friendship.
Titus stopped and walked back over to Logan and Sydney. “Hey, look on the bright side, they say that agents who almost die on their first mission are the ones who are able to cheat death. I’d be worried if it was too easy.” With that, he disappeared.
* * *
Eighteen hours later, they were in the sky over the Pacific Ocean. Benin was almost 10,000 miles away from Guam. They were going to cut south of Asia, span the Indian Ocean, and then cross the bulk of Africa. Titus used a couple of contacts in stable African countries that would allow them to land and refuel.
Logan flew the massive North Korean cargo plane, and Park co-piloted. Sydney and Juliette read briefing books as the plane thundered across the ocean.
They touched down in Sri Lanka, having made only one stop for fuel, landing on an abandoned airstrip. It was mostly just a dirt road through an empty field. A Sri Lankan man met them with a truck full of aviation fuel. He filled the plane and said that Titus paid him already. With that, they took off again.
The second stop was a gravel runway in the Central African Republic. Instead of a single man with a truck, they were met by a loose militia carrying Russian made AK-47s. They were dressed in different hodgepodge bits of tactical gear but they all bore blue ribbons tied around their gun stocks to signify they were all in the same militia. They filled the plane just like in Sri Lanka, the leader of the group said Titus already paid for it.
The experimental North Korean cargo plane climbed into the sky one last time, spraying a stream of gravel as it took off.
After eighteen hours of flying and stops in two desolate airstrips, Logan put the plane down in Benin. The brakes engaged, the plane whined and groaned as it slowed down. The airstrip in Benin looked a lot like the others. It was a sandy, dirt road cut through the middle of a clearing in the woods. Bushy trees and scrubby grass filled the area around the clearing.
The plane finally rolled to a complete stop. Logan did the post-flight checks and went out of the cockpit door. Sydney and Juliette Verlay were wearing tactical pants, tan shirts, tactical vests, and wide-brimmed hats.
Sydney slung an AK-47 onto her shoulder. Juliette reached out for Sydney to hand her another one. Sydney picked it up and as she was handing it over, she hesitated for only a second. It was barely even perceptible but Juliette saw it; the French woman’s eyes narrowed a little. Then, both Sydney and Juliette acted as if it didn’t happen.
Logan strapped on his vest and his AK-47. He tossed a rifle to Park. It was almost as big as she was.
They headed for the door of the plane.
“Get me up to speed,” Logan said to Sydney.
She rattled off the highlights. “Benin. Major exports are cotton and palm oil. The official language is French. Major religions are Christianity, vodun, and a syncretized Christianity.”
“Vodun?” Logan asked. “Like voodoo?”
“Similar,” she said.
“What’s our cover?” He asked.
Juliette chuckled. “Did you read the briefing books at all?”
He did. Of course, he did. But he needed Juliette Verlay to think he was completely uninformed. If she thought she was cornering a lazy, misinformed spy out of his depth, she might get a little sloppy. He only needed her to make one mistake.
Logan sneered at her. “Pardon me. I was busy flying the plane 10,000 miles.”
Sydney rolled her eyes and adjusted her AK-47. “We’re doing this one close to legitimate. Logan and I are Americans working for the African Union, investigating organized crime in Benin. Verlay is our French language interpreter.”
Juliette shook her head as they walked across the desolate landing strip. “I just wish we could have brought my two agents.”
Logan replied, “The two from North Korea who got us captured? No, thank you.”
A group that big would have attracted attention, but more importantly, they ruled out the two agents. They couldn’t have been in deep enough on the scheme to be able to betray Logan and Sydney. It had to be Juliette.
The September sun beat down on them as they walked. The temperature in September usually stayed in the 90s during the day. The rainy season would be coming soon. That would bring the temperature down, but they’d be doing this march in the mud. Logan wasn’t even sure if he could get the heavy plane off the ground if the rain washed out the runway. To be safe, they needed to find this warlord as quickly as possible.
Eventually, an olive drab jeep came bumping along a dirt road that was mostly just a thinning of the scrubby, green fields. Another one came bouncing along behind it. They skidded to a halt and a woman climbed out of each one.
They wore Benin Army camouflage and carried automatic weapons.
One of them waved but kept her hand on her rifle. In French, she said, “Are you the Americans?”
“Titus sent us,” Sydney responded.
They finally got close enough to read the names on their uniforms. One of them had a name patch that said “De Souza.” The other’s said “Boni.” De Souza shook hands with Sydney.
She introduced herself as Staff Sergeant De Souza. The other woman was Master Corporal Boni. In French, De Souza said, “The jeep is full of gas. Second gear grinds. I’d suggest just skipping it.”
De Souza walked back towards the other jeep.
Juliette said, “We get the one with the bad gear?”
De Souza chuckled. “The gear was grinding when we bought it from the Belgians who bought it from the French. So, we thought we’d give it back to you.”
The two of them climbed in the jeep with the five functioning gears and pulled away.
Logan asked, “Does anybody else want to drive?”
Juliette shook her head. Sydney shook her head.
“I’ll drive,” Park said. She hadn’t spoken
a word since they were on the airplane. Logan didn’t know what to make of her. In fact, he was pretty sure he hadn’t heard her put together more than a few sentences at a time. She chose her words the way a spy chose their clothes and their weapons. Each one had to have a specific purpose.
She didn’t drive that way, though. She pushed the gear shift into first gear, revved the engine, and dropped the clutch. The engine raced, and the back tires spun in the dirt, spraying dust and gravel behind the jeep. The jeep slid sideways a quarter-turn before the tires found traction. The jeep lurched forward just in time for Park to shift into third gear. She smoothly skipped second, and the jeep barely jumped at all.
Logan asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”
Park pointed and said, “Forward.”
Sydney leaned forward from the back seat, shouting over the whipping wind. “The safehouse is about twenty miles from here.”
Juliette scoffed. “Use kilometers, like a sophisticated spy.”
Logan shrugged. “We’re not sophisticated. We’re American.” They all laughed at this, then he said, “About 32 klicks.”
Juliette responded, “Thank you,” and sat back in her seat.
They bumped along through fields and forests. The dirt road eventually turned to a paved road. Sydney checked her phone. She pointed Park off to the right. The North Korean spy flung the jeep sideways, squealing the tires against the pavement.
Traffic was pretty light in this corner of Benin. The largest cities were near the coasts or in the heart of the country. They were bumping along dirt roads and craggy, fragmented pavement in the northern corner of the country. The safe house was a tall, Colonial house old but maintained. The front porch wrapped around to the side of the house. Pointed eaves rested on Venetian columns. The entire front of the house dripped with what looked like lace embroidery frozen in wood.
The road faded out on approach to the house. It went from pavement to gravel to dirt and then finally, it turned into a cotton field. The bolls just started to open. Row after row of brown cotton swayed in the wind, like tiny puffs of dust.
Park Dae Lun parked the jeep off to the side of the cotton field in a clearing of trees, so that it was out of sight of the road and they didn’t disturb the cotton.
Sydney got out and stretched.
Juliette said, “I thought cotton was white.”
Park responded, “Brown cotton has shorter fibers. That means it is softer and more valuable. Also, it is easier to hide in.”
They walked through the cotton field, doing their best not to disturb the bolls of cotton. Logan watched the sky but he didn’t see any planes, drones, or helicopters. They were deep into Benin. There wasn’t as much as a village since they’d been in-country.
Sydney caught up with him and said, “You ready to hunt?”
He glanced at Juliette. Did Sydney mean the warlord or Juliette Verlay? Maybe both.
* * *
Menelaus finished his drink, whiskey with no ice, and set the glass on the table next to him. He rose to his feet, his knees and hips popping and cracking. He waited for the whiskey to work its wonders on him and ease the pain in his knees and lower back. Sixty was looking to be an unkind age for Menelaus.
He ambled over to the window of his house and looked out on his fields. Night was still descending on northern Benin. The setting sun painted his poppy fields orange-red. In the morning, kids and women would come flocking into his field to cut the poppy bulbs before they opened and collect the opium leaking out.
Now, the only people moving were his guards. He saw two of them standing watch in the poppy fields, automatic rifles slung across their chests and resting their wrists on the butts of their rifles. Spartans, he called them, and he was Menelaus, King of Sparta.
Someone knocked on the door. His wife was already asleep, though.
“Come in,” he said, saying it in his native Dendi language.
The door opened, and Helen of Sparta walked in. She was a woman with blonde hair and skin so pale her veins looked blue on her forehead. Her real name was Ellen Montgomery, and she was from Kentucky. But everyone in Menelaus’s drug kingdom must fit in. So, Ellen of Louisville became Helen of Sparta. She hadn’t yet abandoned him for the Trojans. She stayed dressed for work—combat boots, cargo pants with the hems stuffed in the boots, tan shirt, and a tactical vest. Her efficient clothes obscured her thick thighs and the slight softness around her middle but not so much that Menelaus couldn’t see the way her hips moved. She was about 50 years old, and if what she said was in any way trustworthy, her kids were all grown or in college.
She must be my next conquest, Menelaus thought to himself. However, he didn’t completely trust the American woman. She claimed to be an American working for an off-the-books covert agency. She claimed they were running an operation to control the drug trade in western Africa. The drug trade cannot be eliminated, she confided, but it could be concentrated. That meant fewer turf wars, fewer gang wars, fewer shootings, and less chaos overall. They chose Menelaus to control the drug trade in western Africa. He was going to be richer than royalty.
Helen sauntered over to Menelaus’s liquor cabinet. He liked how sure of herself she was when she moved. She poured whiskey into a glass. She picked up one ice cube with manicured fingers. The thick lacquer of red on her fingernails was expertly applied, and recently. She must have paid someone to paint her nails. They contrasted sharply with her tactical dress. Menelaus needed to remember that this woman was a spy, and spies are deceitful and dangerous.
She turned her head to look over her shoulder without actually turning around, just craning her neck to see Menelaus. He stared hungrily at her round backside. He’d never seen her outside of the baggy combat uniform but even in the cargo pants, she was striking. She pressed the ice cube between her lips, sucking slowly on the slippery cube.
“Hot today,” she said.
She giggled and dropped the ice cube into the whiskey. It wasn’t even seduction so much as it was torture. She knew Menelaus wanted her. She knew from the moment he named her Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world. The face that launched a thousand ships. She told him then that she was a professional on a professional mission. He never looked at her that way though.
Menelaus gulped and regained his composure. “Why have you come to my castle tonight? I fear you’re bringing me bad news.”
Helen swirled the whiskey in her glass. “Just the opposite actually. I just got word from my source on the inside. Logan Connor and his team have landed in country. They’re at a farmhouse near Goungoun.”
Perfect. This was perfect. He tried to take out Logan Connor and the others in North Korea but even North Korea was beyond his reach. He’d sold them out to the North Korean government but somehow, they got away. He just needed to kill Logan Connor, so that whoever Helen worked for would allow him to move his drugs on cargo ships without interference. He didn’t know why they wanted Logan Connor dead so badly, and he didn’t care. He killed CIA agents for free. He’d not hesitate to kill this rookie agent for control of all of the drugs in west Africa.
Helen still leaned against his liquor cabinet. He approached her like a lion approaches a gazelle. She didn’t move, just stared him down. His eyes went to her lips and then back up to her eyes. She, however, never broke eye contact. He got close and leaned towards her, presumably to reach behind her and pick up the whiskey decanter. She didn’t budge.
“Professionally,” she said, emphasizing the word, “I think this bodes well for you.”
He pulled back with the whiskey decanter in hand, poured himself a glass, and walked over to the window with glass and decanter in hand. “Why does your boss want to kill this man so badly?”
Helen just shrugged. “That’s above my pay grade.”
Menelaus sipped whiskey and sighed. “Do you know why my mother named me Menelaus?”
“She didn’t,” Helen responded. His real name had been Patrice Soglo, small-time drug dealer and cartel
enforcer. He’d worked his way up the ladder and eventually took over the cartel. That’s when he’d become Menelaus.
He said, “When the colonizers came to Benin, they saw the fierceness of our warriors and our dedication. We were like Spartans, the colonizers thought. They called this land Black Sparta. So, I am Menelaus, the king of Sparta. You are Helen. Tomorrow, I will launch a thousand ships against this man Logan Connor.”
Helen finished her whiskey. “Helen leaves Sparta.”
Menelaus looked over his shoulder. “What’s that you say?”
“In the myth,” Helen said, “Helen leaves Menelaus for Paris, the prince of Troy.”
Menelaus shook his head. “No one escapes Menelaus.”
* * *
They took turns keeping watch. In movies, the hero always valiantly offers to take the first watch. Logan laughed whenever he saw that. After training with Titus for months, he knew a simple truth: first watch is the easiest. You get uninterrupted sleep after. The last watch is almost as easy because you get a similar period of uninterrupted sleep. The second to last watch was the worst. You needed to be awoken in the middle of the night and then also try to get back to sleep after.
That was the shift Logan took. Park took the first shift. Sydney the second shift. Juliette Verlay was given the last shift, the one that blended into morning. Logan stayed awake after his shift. He probably wouldn’t have gotten back to sleep anyway, but someone needed to watch Verlay. It didn’t make much sense to let a double agent stand watch by herself.
She sat in a chair by the front window of the farmhouse. It was a good view, too. She could see out of the window but she was mostly obscured by a bookcase. Anyone looking in, or any sniper watching a scope, would probably miss her. Logan had to give her credit—she was well-trained. She tapped away on her phone when she wasn’t watching the window. Periodically, she would get up and walk to the back windows to watch those. Logan crouched at the top of a staircase, watching her. She never went anywhere without her phone. Operation security? Maybe. But, which operation?
Clean Cut Kid (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 1) Page 10
