The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  The African Contract

  Arthur Kerns

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Arthur Kerns

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition May 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-293-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, companies, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Principal Characters

  Hayden Stone, former FBI agent, now CIA operative

  Sandra Harrington, CIA operative

  Dirk Lange, South African intelligence agent

  Colonel Gustave Frederick, CIA official

  Jacob, Israeli Mossad agent, an old friend of Hayden Stone

  Contessa Lucinda Avoscani, love interest of Hayden Stone

  Abdul Wahab, terrorist fugitive from France, married to Lady Beatrice

  Dawid van Wartt, Afrikaner, blames the West and US for the end of apartheid and his privileged position

  Nabeel Asuty, Egyptian terrorist in Freetown, works for Abdul Wahab

  Ambassador Marshall Bunting, US ambassador to South Africa, an avid birder

  Patience St. John Smythe, former love interest of Hayden Stone, now in a relationship with Marshall Bunting

  Dingane, Abdul Wahab’s major domo in Cape Town

  Jonathan Worthington, amputee victim of the blood diamond war

  Charles Fleming, CIA station chief in Pretoria, South Africa

  Luke Craig, CIA station chief in Freetown, Sierra Leone

  Farley Durrell, Sandra’s old boyfriend, a CIA deep cover officer.

  M. R. D. Houston, CIA base chief at Cape Town

  Bull Rhyton, friend of Van Wartt, former sergeant in South African Army

  Elizabeth Kerr, intelligence analyst in Northern Virginia

  Chapter One

  Bruin Karas, Namibia—August 2, 2002

  Corneliu lay prone on the hard red ground using a thorn bush both for shade and concealment. Almost an hour had passed since he’d seen two men in a small Japanese-made ATV come over the western ridge, maneuvering back and forth to avoid the acacia trees, and approach the abandoned boxcar sitting on the railroad siding. That morning he had been wandering the dry savanna scrubland looking for birds to photograph. Last month Uncle Bull Rhyton had given him an old Nikon F camera with a telescopic lens for his twelfth birthday. Corneliu wanted to send pictures to another uncle up in Windhoek who was compiling a book on birds of the desert.

  Now Corneliu used the telescopic lens to watch and photograph the two men. He had good close-ups of their faces. At first they walked around the boxcar and kneeled to inspect under the carriage. The shorter man climbed on top and tried to open the roof hatch. It wouldn’t open. Corneliu could have told him that. He and his friend Adam had tried numerous times.

  Lying motionless, the sun warmed the back of his bare legs. His father’s green commando sweater became uncomfortable, but he dare not make any unnecessary motion to remove it, for fear of being detected. Like a hunter in a stand waiting for his prey to pass by, Corneliu became aware of his surroundings. He watched ants marching in a line; two nervous meerkats made a brief appearance, and a lone antelope tiptoed by. All this while he watched the two men.

  From his left Corneliu detected more movement. A stone’s throw away a Cape cobra slid across the dirt and dry grass, heading in the direction of the boxcar. It stopped, licked the air with its tongue, and then he continued on. Corneliu pointed his camera and took a picture of the speckled, golden-brown snake. The face of a Cape cobra had freckles like his younger brother. A shadow passed overhead. He looked up and spotted a soaring snake eagle.

  From behind him, Corneliu felt a presence, then recognized a familiar scent. Without looking, he knew it was Adam, who seconds later crouched next to him. His dark skin glistened in the sun, brown eyes intent on the two men. “Who them?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” Corneliu answered. “I think they want to break in.”

  “Them take that thing from inside. Maybe?”

  Corneliu looked at his friend and nodded. “Where have you been? Haven’t seen you for a week.”

  The side door of the boxcar had three heavy padlocks, placed there by Uncle Bull a month ago. That was after he and Adam had broken in. Through the lens Corneliu watched one man, the taller one, go back to the vehicle and pull out a crowbar.

  Adam lay flat on the ground. “My mom said your father told her to keep me away from you,” Adam said.

  Corneliu raised the camera to see what was going on inside the boxcar. He couldn’t see anything and squinted his tired eyes. Now that he was older, his father didn’t want him to be friends with a Bushman. He’d tolerated it when they were children, but no longer. His father had funny old ways.

  “We’re friends anyway. Yes?”

  “Maybe.”

  Both men jumped out of the boxcar and moved back to the ATV. The taller man took a black instrument from the seat and held it out toward the open door of the boxcar. Corneliu aimed the camera and snapped the last frame of film. Both men looked at something on the instrument, then climbed into the four-wheeler and drove back toward the ridge from where they had come. The ATV stopped, and Corneliu thought he saw the driver talking into a heavy-looking phone. After a moment they continued on.

  As Corneliu and Adam stood and stretched, the snake eagle dropped from the sky, caught the cobra, and lifted it with a slow flapping of wings. The snake dangled and twisted from its talons.

  Northern Virginia—same day

  “Ms. Kerr.” Elizabeth Kerr’s group chief in the National Imagery and Mapping Agency, who for a change wore a coat and tie, rapped on the open door. Next to him stood a tall, thin Asian-American. “The gentleman from the inspector general’s office is here for the interview.”

  Kerr left her computer station, shook the man’s soft hand, and offered him a chair. Her group chief left, closing the door behind him. She had learned about the inquiry yesterday afternoon. In her way of thinking, this interview was three months too late. Nevertheless, here it was.

  The thin man began the interview by giving his name and showing her a set of credentials. He gave her a condensed version of why he was there. Another US agency that conducted intelligence had registered a complaint against her working group. Vital information in the hands of her agency was not promptly passed over to them. This is where he paused to take a breath.

  “The information in question was … that is, you are the primary source of that information.”

  “If you’re talking about the blip I picked up from Africa three months ago, and that I told my immediate superior about, and that he deemed irrelevant due to other higher priority targets, then yes.”

  This was almost the last straw for her. Putting up daily with stupid, venal bureaucrats. She had two masters degrees, ten years of experience, and no respect. Worse, she had to commute in Washington, DC, traffic every day, including standing with other workers in the “slug line” in Springfield to hop a ride with a single driver who needed more passengers to get on the HOV lane into the city.

  “Did you make your discovery a matter of record?”

  “Yes.” Damn right and you know it.


  “We’re referring to the memorandum of May 2002 that you filed?”

  “And the two subsequent memoranda?”

  The man nodded. His demeanor changed. The politeness less visible. “Recount for me what you saw or discovered,” he said. “Quite frankly, I’m not all familiar with what you do, or better, how you do it. I don’t need to know the details of your job, just what you discovered.”

  “To put it simply, I saw a blip on the screen. The blip in this instance was an ever-so-slight trace of thermal nuclear energy. A glow. Checking with other measurements and another department, this ‘glow’ could only be fissionable material.” She paused. “I told my boss and he wasn’t interested. We had too many things going on with the World Trade Center incident.”

  “What then?”

  “I went on with my other tasks but kept on checking the screen for this blip.”

  “How often?”

  “Daily.”

  “Did this thing on the screen move at all?”

  “No, it didn’t, but when the energy measurement increased, I informed my boss and followed up with the second memorandum. Two weeks later.”

  His eyes widened, and she knew that he had something to chew on. The next question would be why she had waited two weeks to make a written report. She preempted the strike. “Will the other agency, which I presume is the CIA, want to talk with me about this?”

  He nodded.

  Good. Maybe I can get a job with them.

  The man closed his folder. He looked down at the floor. “Your boss tried to lay the blame on you.”

  “Figures.”

  “No need to worry.” He motioned to get up, and settled down again. “Have you seen this blip lately?”

  “This morning. The signal is growing stronger.”

  “Where is it, may I ask?”

  “In the middle of the Kalahari Desert.”

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia—same day

  Colonel Gustave Frederick walked into his seventh-floor office suite and stopped at his assistant’s desk. “Phone John Matterhorn and tell him I’m available anytime this morning.”

  He shut the door of his private office, poured himself a cup of coffee, and loosened his tie. Standing at the window, he looked out on Langley Forest. This time of year the leaves blocked the view of the Potomac River. The summer haze hung over the trees, signaling another muggy August day in the Washington area.

  This morning, the director’s briefing had gone well until the subject of Iraq came up. Iraq and Saddam Hussein were in the White House’s crosshairs, and the preparation for action was building throughout the Washington establishment. The camp that believed the wise course in the elimination of al Qaeda rested in a protracted campaign in Afghanistan—a policy that Frederick supported—was losing.

  This morning Frederick jumped ship. At the meeting the director asked him if he would use his military contacts to assure the agency played a major role in any attack on Iraq. Of course, he agreed with enthusiasm to impress the other senior staff members, but more importantly, it placed him in the eyes of the director as a “team player” and someone who could be relied upon.

  He was now in the “inner circle,” someone asked by the director to stay around for a few minutes after a meeting. Today, privately, the director asked him to speak with John Matterhorn about a matter in Africa.

  Colonel Frederick graduated Harvard and received his draft notice before his acceptance to law school arrived in the mail. During the Vietnam War, he received his first Bronze Star as a private first class, the second as a lieutenant, and the Silver Star after he had made captain. He had met John in Laos during the war while serving in the special forces.

  As a CIA officer John Matterhorn lived in the jungles of Laos and Cambodia running intelligence operations and rescuing downed American flyers. He was good at his work, and Frederick always told John that as a case officer he couldn’t help recruiting everyone he met. He recruited Frederick into the CIA.

  A half hour later, Matterhorn arrived, and Frederick went to the door to greet him. The man had never attained high rank, but in the agency doors were open to him and opened for him. Short in stature, he looked neat: gray tweed jacket, checkered shirt, and a wool tie. He and his wife were old Directorate of Operations case officers. They had six children: four were in the CIA, one was a general, and the other a Jesuit in Rome assigned to the Curia. A daughter-in-law was a senate staffer, another an FBI agent.

  “Gus. Something is going on in Africa.”

  “Tell me.

  “Abdul Wahab, the man we believe responsible for the deaths of two young case officers, is in South Africa.”

  “So I heard.” Three months before, Frederick’s team had allowed Wahab to escape from the French Riviera. Since then, he’d been keeping tabs on this terrorist’s movements.

  “My unit learned that members of a branch of al Qaeda have traveled to Sierra Leone, in western Africa.”

  “I see.”

  Matterhorn rubbed his hands together. “We’ve been getting a lot of chatter on the ether. Something big is going on in the African theatre. We’ve been so distracted with the Middle East. Our resources and talent are directed there and away from other areas of the world.”

  “I agree.”

  “Al Qaeda knows that. The anniversary of the World Trade Center disaster is coming up. These people are fixated on dates and spectacles. Something is in the wind in Africa.”

  “John. Get to the point?”

  “There’s a rumor that another agency with satellites picked up a disturbing blip in southern Africa.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “A signal that can only come from a form of nuclear device.”

  Colonel Frederick got up and went to the window. Matterhorn had gone to the director about this intelligence. Had John suggested that he handle the matter? No matter, this information required immediate action. He turned and faced Matterhorn.

  “We need to form a task force with office space, personnel, a budget, and so forth. You know the routine. You know the ropes.”

  Matterhorn stood.

  “Come to me with any problems, any issues,” Frederick said. “If the agency tracking this nuclear emission isn’t cooperative with sharing intelligence, let me know. I’ll pull strings. Meantime, I’ll send someone to Africa to do a little snooping.”

  “Let me guess who.”

  “Who else? Hayden Stone.”

  Chapter Two

  Monrovia, Liberia—August 6, 2002

  The American Embassy’s security floodlights cut through the blackness and illuminated the low waves rolling in from the Atlantic Ocean. A muggy wind blew drizzle from the west. Hayden Stone sat with the embassy’s security chief, Al Goodman, on the covered deck of the guesthouse after a mediocre dinner at one of the two restaurants still open in Monrovia. The mildew-spotted seat of his chair felt clammy, and he brushed rust off his arm from the metal armrest. Everything in the city appeared damp, old, and murky, like the hulking black rock on which the embassy sat.

  From his left, beyond the embassy compound, came a long cry that resembled a wounded animal. The wail accompanied a rhythmic banging on a skin drum that began only minutes after they settled down with cold gin and tonics.

  “They’re lighting candles on the beach over there,” Goodman said. “Mende people praying to a spirit of some kind.” He leaned forward, listening hard. “Kélèn drums.”

  Stone took in the sounds of the rain and the beat of the drums. “The sounds of West Africa,” he said. “At night in Ghana, I’ve been to large gatherings on the beach outside Accra. Drums, bonfires, dances.”

  “The locals here say it’s a way to talk with restless souls. Understandable with all the human carnage this place has seen recently.” Goodman sipped his drink. “That beach over there is where former president Doe and his clique were executed by the incoming government.”

  T
hey were silent for some minutes.

  “How long have you been in Liberia?” Stone asked.

  Goodman, the embassy’s RSO, regional security officer, tilted back in his chair and jiggled the ice in his glass. His eyeglasses sat on his forehead, touching his thin black hair. “Been here for over a year, but this is my third tour. First time I came here, the place was alive. American Firestone Rubber Company had a huge presence outside the city. Voice of America was here. Missionaries traveled back and forth from the interior.” He sipped his drink. “Of course, many of you agency folks were about.”

  “Quite a change.”

  Goodman chuckled. “Embassy people would drive to Payneville to see the Omega communication tower. Fourteen hundred feet high. Badge of honor if you climbed it.”

  “Did you?”

  “You bet I did.”

  “See any hope for a rebound here?”

  “The country’s still in shock from the civil war. The leader of the new government is …” Goodman looked around as if someone might hear him, and gave a dismissive hand gesture.

  They stayed quiet for a time, listening to the wails. Two or more drums joined in. The waves pounded as they grew higher, and the lights now brought out traces of transparent green in the gray water. Stone took in the smells of Africa he had forgotten since his last visit—the scent of vegetation breathing at night, smoke from the cooking oils throughout the city, the heavy warmth. He always found it difficult to relax on this continent, but at the same time, it exerted a strong fascination.

  Goodman rose from his chair. “Time to go to the airport. Have to meet and greet a visitor on the evening flight in from Paris. It’s always a challenge driving here at night. No city electricity. No traffic lights.” He tossed the rest of his drink out onto the rocky ground. “Tomorrow, let’s try to get in a game of tennis.”

  “Maybe in the afternoon, when I get back from my appointment.”