by Arthur Kerns
“So what happened last night can’t come as a big surprise.” Sandra leaned toward him. “Back in Marseilles, you had some good meals, didn’t you? And there was the contessa.”
“I still don’t think I’m welcomed back there anytime soon.”
“Well, you’re always welcome in Paris.” Sandra’s smile had returned.
“Thanks. I may take you up on that.” He thought about how she performed during the gunfight. Amazing. Cool and professional … and the best-looking partner he ever had.
The terminal became energized. Upon hearing a loud scream from jet engines, people rushed toward the doors. The African puddle jumper discharged its passengers, and a uniformed employee directed Stone and Sandra outside onto the tarmac toward the movable stairway set next to the plane’s door. The air felt less oppressive outside the terminal.
“What make of aircraft is this?” Stone asked.
“A Yak forty.”
He studied the three-engine jet. “Looks like a shrunken Boeing 727.”
“Probably a stolen design. A Russian-made Yakovlev forty. Been around since the sixties.”
Inside the cabin the air conditioner blew full blast. With all the passengers seated, two men in coveralls slid boxes and crates up the center aisle and stacked them. They worked their way to the rear door, placing cargo as they went, making the aisle impassable. Finished, they yelled something in Russian to the two pilots on the flight deck. One of the pilots slammed the compartment door shut, and the plane lurched forward.
An hour into the flight, the door to the flight deck swung open. The two pilots in white shirts with blue epaulettes were involved in an animated discussion. Balanced upright between their seats was a liquor bottle containing a clear liquid. The pilot on the left picked it up and took a swig.
“Sandra, is that what I think it is?”
“Yep. Good old vodka.”
The pilot on the right saw the open door, reached back, and closed it.
Stone shouted in Sandra’s ear over the noise of the plane. “This is what I love about Africa. You’re always putting up with snakes, disease, gunmen, and drunken pilots.”
Freetown, Sierra Leone
After passing through Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire, the plane arrived at the Freetown International Airport a little after five in the afternoon. From the plane’s window, Stone watched black thunderheads building along the coast. The CIA station had advised that someone would be at the airport to escort them to town. Anyone arriving at the airport and wanting to continue on to Freetown had to cross a wide estuary to reach the city. Only one ferry operated, usually overloaded, and it took someone who knew the ropes to get across with minimum problems.
Descending from the plane, Sandra said, “There’s the station chief, Luke Craig.”
Standing on the runway, arms folded over his safari shirt, a tall, weary-looking African-American in his late twenties stood wide-legged. At his side an embassy employee with touches of gray in his hair and with access badges suspended on a lanyard around his neck held two blue embassy welcome folders.
Craig introduced himself and then they walked to the terminal. While the local employee took Stone and Sandra’s passports and hurried off to passport control to expedite their arrival, Craig removed his sunglasses and directed his attention to Sandra.
As they talked, Sandra’s concentration switched to someone across the room in the boarding section of the terminal. Craig was in mid-sentence when she excused herself, saying she had to talk with someone. Both men watched her push through the same door they had entered. Back on the tarmac next to the plane, she intercepted a bearded white man.
It was easy for Stone to interpret her body language—arms akimbo, finger pointing and jabbing the man’s chest—and know that her words were rough. The man kept backing away in the direction of the aircraft. Finished, Sandra turned and headed back to the terminal, turning once and presenting her middle finger to the man who rushed up the boarding stairs.
Sandra returned, and before she said anything, Craig moved off to the baggage area.
“What was that all about?” Stone asked.
“That was Farley Durrell. An old partner, business that is—well—a little personal as well.” She paused. “The bastard double-crossed me.” She glared at Stone. “I don’t forgive nor forget.”
Stone nodded. I’ll keep that in mind.
On arrival at the dock, they found the ferry packed with vehicles, but Craig managed to secure one of the last parking slots. The embassy employee guarded the SUV while Craig led the way to the stairs to the upper deck lounge. Finding it jammed with drunken patrons, Craig suggested a spot he knew forward on a covered platform over the bow.
Stone took in the view of Freetown harbor. Using his monocular, he scanned the port across the bay. It hadn’t changed over the past five years. Rusty shipwrecks, including a derelict ferry, dotted the water, but the green hills touched by white clouds still provided a pleasant backdrop. Grass and tall trees still reached down to the water’s edge. Palm trees here and there broke the monotony. The only harbor traffic consisted of one- or two-man fishing boats, long, thin craft skimming across the water. As his eyes swept the harbor, black thunderheads still engulfed the sky, and he watched rain walk in from the ocean.
Craig went to the bar and returned carrying three bottles of Star beer dripping condensation. “What a bar. I had trouble finding someone to take my money. Drink up. We’ll get more.”
The beer was cold and wet. Stone thought he had never tasted a better beer to cut through the heat. Fifteen minutes later, when the ferry pushed off from the dock, soot from the two smokestacks rained down on the passengers on the open deck. Where Stone and his companions stood, they were protected from ash as well as from the heavy rain that had begun to fall.
Halfway across the wide bay, Sandra and Craig moved off and spoke in low tones. Stone saw Craig look repeatedly in his direction. Sandra shook her head a number of times. Craig straightened and, with Sandra following, returned. Stone leaned on the wet railing, watching the city grow larger as the ferry steamed ahead.
“We had a short talk,” Craig said.
“The beer’s very good.”
Craig threw a glance at Sandra. “We were talking about you and your reputation for attracting trouble.”
“That’s why the agency loves me,” Stone said.
“Yeah.” Craig seemed to regroup. “Game plan is you talk with this South African fellow. Station provides coverage. You make your report, and off you go.”
Stone frowned and took the last swig of beer from the bottle. “And you’ll take care of the bodies, right?” He studied the label on the beer bottle.
“That’s not funny.”
“Hayden. Behave,” Sandra said. “I just spent ten minutes convincing this guy that you’re trustworthy.”
Craig fidgeted. “Sierra Leone is not easy duty, Mr. Stone. It’s not the South of France.”
“I’ve been here. I know Sierra Leone.”
“This morning I read about what happened in Monrovia.”
“Gotcha.”
Stone looked out at the city. Soft yellow twinkling lights came from the numerous gas and oil lamps. Evidently, electricity still had not returned on a regular basis to Freetown. The South African they were to meet lived somewhere out there in the darkness. What was so important that this man had to tell them?
Chapter Six
Freetown, Sierra Leone—August 9, 2002
Hayden Stone caught the coffee mug before it shattered in the kitchen sink. He looked across the room toward Sandra’s closed bedroom door. The noise had woken her, which he didn’t want. The previous night, he heard her make repeated trips from her bedroom to the bathroom. Obviously, she had caught a West African intestinal bug, part of the travel experience in this part of the world. His turn would come if he stayed too long in Freetown.
The embassy had provided them a well-furnished apa
rtment, quite a step above the Spartan quarters in Monrovia. The fenced, well-maintained, guarded compound accommodated the staff and dependents assigned to the embassy. Back in Monrovia, aside from the skeleton staff, only people on TDY, or temporary duty, visited, and they departed as soon as possible.
In the refrigerator, Stone found milk, yogurt, and local fruit, the makings of a quick breakfast. Opening a blueberry yogurt, he went out onto the second floor balcony to inspect the grounds in the daylight. The morning air coming up from the bay felt fresh. This was the season when one could expect rain almost every day, yet clouds shielded the sun, keeping the temperature down. Only when the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky did the heat drive a person into the shade.
The country had gone through a horrendous civil war since Stone had last visited, and he wondered what he would find when they left the treed suburbs and headed downtown. Here in the bubble provided for the Americans, the world felt safe, with gentle smells, brightly colored flowers, and noisy birds.
From inside, Stone heard something drop on the kitchen table and knew Sandra was up and about. Back inside, she sat at the table, face buried in her hands.
“Did you hear me make all those trips to the john last night?” She looked up with red eyes. “I caught a bug.”
“Intestinal parasite. Could have caught it anywhere. Maybe you should stay here today.”
“No way. Got to keep you and Craig on friendly terms; besides, I’ll see the post doctor. Hope he’s not on a road trip.” She looked around the room. “Any crackers here? I can’t have coffee or anything that will make me feel worse.” She settled on dry cereal.
Stone left her alone to gather herself and went to shower and shave. He assured her he would spend minimal time in the bathroom.
As they waited for the shuttle to take them to the embassy, Stone went over the day’s schedule. They would meet with Craig, see what he knew about Dirk Lange, and find out what he had planned as support for his meeting with the South African. “Whatever information Lange has, we’ll pass on to Craig and cable it back to CIAHQ.” Stone rose from the bench as the van arrived. “That will be that and off we go. Short and sweet. Unless we run into more trouble.”
“I’m getting curious what this fellow Lange has for us.”
“So am I.”
When they boarded the van, Stone recognized the driver from his last visit to Freetown. They exchanged nods, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Seated, he continued his conversation with Sandra. “It’s apparent that there are people, obviously jihadists, who don’t want us to meet Mr. Lange. Or maybe someone just doesn’t like me.”
“You have a tendency to piss people off. Like the terrorists back in France.”
From the American compound to the embassy, sections of the route, especially the crossroads, looked familiar. Here and there, homes and buildings lay in ruin, but the people treading along the sides of the road had more confidence in their stride than he’d witnessed in Liberia. Bicyclists accompanied the pedestrians; still, their clothing looked worn and drab. On his last visit, Stone had seen young African children in school uniforms like those worn in England. Not today.
The road winding through the suburbs, wide enough to allow parked cars on either side, narrowed as the van entered the city. Three-story buildings, their facades stained with mold and dirt, lined the streets. Along the curbs, vendors displayed their wares of fruit, breads, and recycled appliances and tools. The driver constantly held down the horn, urging pedestrians to move off the street.
“Ah. There it is,” Stone said. “The Cotton Tree.”
Ahead, standing in what Freetowners considered the center of town, stood a tree matching in height the nearby eight-story Electricity House, the headquarters for Freetown’s spotty electrical supply. It commanded the central square.
“And the significance?” Sandra asked. Her face had regained some color.
“The people here sort of revere it. I was hoping it didn’t get chopped down or destroyed during the rebel siege.” Stone studied the thick limbs and green leaves extending out umbrella fashion. “I guess superstitions work for the good sometimes.”
“How’s that?”
“People believe spirits live on the top of the tree. Some claim they see the spirits dancing.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Not that I’ll admit.”
Luke Craig looked in a better mood than he had the night before on the ferry. He sat erect behind the desk in clean khaki slacks and appeared confident in his role as station chief. Peering over his reading glasses, he zeroed in on Stone. Craig informed him he had just reviewed the morning cables from headquarters. “It appears that the executive council takes your visit here seriously. Specifically, Gustav Frederick, who is pretty close to the director, is urging we move swiftly.”
“I’d like to interview this Dirk Lange today and get the report out by close of business,” Stone said.
Craig looked over to Sandra. “I assume you two will be talking to him.”
“Luke, I’m under the weather,” Sandra said. “We were told the medical officer is heading off on his road trip today. I’d like to visit him before he departs.”
Craig took an exaggerated breath and continued, “The station has very little on what’s happening here with your visit. I assume it’s important. Care to fill me in?”
Stone related the details of the meeting with Jacob in Monrovia. “Aside from the headquarters briefing back in Washington and what Jacob told me about this fellow Lange, that’s all I know.” It was time to find out what Craig knew. “So what information does the station have on Lange?”
Craig steepled his hands together. “Headquarters just said to provide support, and, by the way, our personnel resources are a tad thin. We can lend only limited countersurveillance when you conduct your meeting.”
“Which gets us to Lange,” Stone said.
Sandra jerked forward in obvious pain from a cramp.
“Better get to the doctor before he leaves,” Craig urged.
“Sorry, you two. Will be back.” Sandra hastened out of the office.
“Occupational hazard in these parts.” Craig paused as if he didn’t quite know how to handle Stone one-on-one. He started on what sounded like a rundown appearing on a baseball player’s stat sheet. “Dirk Lange. Age thirty-two, South African national, white Afrikaner.” He moved some papers on his desk. “Let’s see, he’s been here in Sierra Leone for two years, oh no, more than that now. May have been working somehow with a South African mercenary group. Now works for an export company that handles minerals—”
“Diamonds, I assume.”
Craig looked him in the eye. “That’s the lucrative commodity hereabouts, yes.” He went back to his sheet of paper. “Lange seems to be involved with a humanitarian organization here. Spends a great deal of his free time in the bush finding the victims of the last carnage and bringing them back for rehabilitation.” He pushed the sheet away and steepled his hands again.
Stone waited.
“This Lange fellow is typical of your white Africans. Comfortable with his surroundings here on the continent.”
Stone nodded.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks,” Stone said.
“Lange is rather educated. Engineer. Did postgraduate work at the University of Cape Town in the classics, can you believe?” Craig became evasive. “Went to a religious school in what we call high school. Dominican-run place. Suppose that’s where he got his charitable instincts.”
That did it. Stone now knew the station had an extensive file on Dirk Lange. A mere cursory trace would have resulted in name, date of birth, and any criminal background. The agency had gone back into his early schooling. Lange was now or had been a person of interest.
“You have an address for him?”
“His office is only a few blocks away. As you probably know from your previous visit here, most businesses are c
lustered downtown.”
“Close to the Cotton Tree.” Stone pulled out a three-by-five index card and a pen. “I’ll need a business and residence address.”
Craig smiled ever so slightly. “Don’t know where he lives. Here, give me that card and I’ll write down the number and street where he works. I suppose you’ll contact him this morning?”
“Yes, but first I’ll check on Sandra.”
In the embassy’s medical unit, Stone found Sandra looking piqued. Asking how she felt, she shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m wasted, damn it. Can’t possibly help with the meeting.” The driver of the van came to the door. “I’m asking this gentleman to take me back to the apartment.”
Stone now remembered the driver’s name. Mitchell. Five years before, the man had worked for the RSO, or more accurately Jonathan Worthington, the chief investigator for the embassy’s security office. He was a local employee known by the State Department as a foreign service national, or FSN.
“I apologize, Mr. Mitchell. On the bus, your name was on the tip of my tongue, but …”
Mitchell placed his right hand on his heart. “No sir, I should have said something, Mr. Hayden.”
“How do I get in touch with my friend Jonathan Worthington?”
Mitchell’s face clouded. His eyes filled with tears. Ignoring Stone’s question, he looked away and addressed Sandra. “The van is ready, madame.”
She rose. “See you later. If I live.”
Stone patted her on the back. “I’ll be back early afternoon. Can I bring you anything?”
Sandra shook her head and headed for the door. Mitchell closed the door behind them, avoiding eye contact with Stone. The door reopened and Craig stuck his head in, motioning with his index finger for Stone to follow. The countersurveillance team was ready to support Stone for his meet with Dirk Lange.
Two blocks from the central square, Hayden Stone found York Export Ltd. in the shadow of Electricity House. The city roadway in this section of town looked reasonably maintained; however, the sidewalks were cracked and broken. Stone carefully negotiated a deep hole. A twisted ankle was the last thing he needed. The two-story building where he found Dirk Lange’s office had recently been painted bright white, which contrasted starkly with the surrounding area of pockmarked structures plastered with faded, tattered posters. A sign hung to the right of the door and in Gothic font stated YORK EXPORT was on the second floor. Stone found the front door locked.
