The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  After repeated knocks—the doorbell didn’t work—a slight Sierra Leonese woman appeared at the door and asked his business. Stone told her he wanted to speak with Lange, at which she shook her head but opened the door wider and led him toward a stairway. The interior of the building smelled fresh from a new coat of paint, and sections of the wood staircase had been replaced.

  He followed her up the stairs where a middle-aged man waited. “Sir. Pity you have missed Mr. Lange,” he said. “Presently he travels in the Kono District. He should return from Koidu tomorrow.” The temperature inside the building was stifling, and the man dabbed his shiny black face with a handkerchief.

  “Made sense,” Stone thought. Koidu’s was where the diamond fields were located. He continued up the stairs. “May I leave a card for Mr. Lange?” Stone asked with an Irish brogue.

  The man nodded and invited Stone into the clean, almost sterile office. The outer space contained four desks at which women worked vintage computers. Their eyes darted up to Stone and returned to their monitors. Three closed two-door safes were positioned in separate corners of the room. Through an open door Stone looked into what looked like Lange’s office. An up-to-date desktop computer sat on a credenza behind the desk alongside a satellite phone dock. Maps of Sierra Leone and greater Africa hung throughout the office.

  Stone pulled out his Irish passport and looked inside. “Seems I’ve left my cards behind. May I give you my name and contact number, Mr. …?”

  “I am Amadu. The office manager.”

  As Amadu searched for a notepad, Stone tried to read the computer screen on the desk next to him. He glimpsed rows of numbers under a heading of what seemed to be a Dutch firm, name not recognized. The office was, as they say in the intelligence trade, clean. Not much could be learned on first sight, but the lack of telltale signs sometimes told more than intended.

  Amadu returned with paper and pencil, and Stone said, “My name is Finbarr Costanza.” He gave him a telephone number to the cell phone Craig had provided. “I’ll drop by again tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I suggest you call beforehand, sir. If the telephone is working.” Amadu frowned. “May I tell Mr. Lange the nature of your business?”

  “I’m a travel writer.”

  “Really?” The slight lift of Amadu’s eyebrow revealed amusement.

  “Searching for ideas and possibilities.”

  Leaving York Export, Stone took the route planned by Craig and his team. They instructed him to walk to the town center and after a few blocks turn east until he came to an eating establishment by the name of Goldie’s. The café stood in sight of the once-famous two-story City Hotel that now reportedly served as a base for prostitutes.

  Along the way, Stone picked up the countersurveillance. The three Africans and two Americans that Craig had placed on him. Their operational techniques impressed Stone. He had gone three blocks when he heard people singing a hymn. The music came from behind a dilapidated storefront, its front window displaying a taped-on cardboard white cross. He walked in out of curiosity and to puzzle the men following him.

  Stone surmised the church was either Catholic or Anglican as the priest wore a white collar and around his neck a clerical stole, a long, narrow piece of purple cloth. At the far end of the dimly lighted room, a gold chalice draped with a white cloth sat in the middle of a table. The congregation consisted of fewer than a dozen people and was, like their minister, black. Heads were bowed and eyes closed in prayer. Feeling like an intruder, Stone turned to leave but saw the stand holding a few lighted votive candles. He walked over and looked for a fresh candle.

  “We must hide them,” came a low voice from behind. The priest opened a drawer and withdrew a white candle. “Some of our parishioners take them home for nighttime. They have no electricity.”

  The priest looked ageless, face scarred, his right eye socket sewn shut. An apparent victim of the war.

  “Here, Father. For your candle and the parish.” Stone emptied his wallet of all but a ten-dollar bill.

  Without counting the currency, the priest tilted his head and returned to his flock, now singing a new hymn. Following a ritual when on a mission, Stone lit the candle for his family and ancestors.

  Inside Goldie’s café, which matched the hotel across the street for shabbiness, he found Craig leaning against the counter chatting with a wizened woman. He handed Stone a cold Coke bottle that looked twenty years old and had been refilled as many times.

  “That was fast,” Craig said.

  “My client’s out of town. Maybe tomorrow I’ll see him.”

  Craig looked disappointed. Was it because Stone wouldn’t be leaving as soon as he had hoped?

  “Well then,” Craig said. “I suppose you’ll have time to see the sights. By the way, the team reported you’re clean. No one followed you.”

  “I’m going to look up an old friend,” Stone said, debating if he trusted what was in the drink and if indeed it was what the label claimed, or some exotic refill from a backroom vat. “Jonathan Worthington. He worked for the embassy when I was here last.”

  Stone returned to the embassy. At the entrance, he observed the driver, Mitchell, pulling up to the curb. He approached and inquired about Sandra.

  “She was happy to get back to her lodging, Mr. Hayden. Do you wish me to take you back to the compound also?”

  “Not quite yet. Let’s sit in the van.”

  Mitchell looked ahead and only responded in short, clipped sentences to Stone’s questions about Freetown and the troubles the city had experienced. Stone asked the question that he sensed Mitchell wanted to avoid: Where was Jonathan, and did he no longer work at the embassy.

  “This is most painful to talk about, sir.” He placed his hands on the wheel.

  At this point Stone wondered if Jonathan was alive, a prisoner, or worse. “Please tell me. You know Jonathan and I were friends.”

  “Three years ago, Jonathan and his family suffered greatly when the rebels, the RUF, entered the city.” His eyes watered. “Everyone suffered, but he especially.”

  Stone rubbed his eyes and looked out at the people in the street. On Christmas Eve 1998, the American ambassador had ordered a post evacuation. The RUF, or Revolutionary United Front, used civilians as shields to launch their attack against the Nigerian troops supporting the Sierra Leone government. The undisciplined Nigerians fell back. The citizenry was brutalized.

  “Is he alive?”

  After a pause, Mitchell said, “He is at a camp for the rehabilitation of peoples.” He tapped the wheel. “I don’t believe he would want to see you. Best I give him a message from you.”

  Stone took a moment to consider whether to respect Mitchell’s judgment or push on and insist on seeing his old friend. “I need to see Jonathan. Please take me there today?”

  Chapter Seven

  Lakka Beach, Sierra Leone

  Next to the sea, Doctors Without Borders had established a small rehabilitation camp for war victims. Before departing the embassy, Mitchell had traded the van for a four-wheel vehicle. Over an hour they inched their way on roads that hadn’t been repaired since Stone last visited Sierra Leone. As they approached the encampment, Stone became apprehensive. What would he find? Mitchell wouldn’t say any more about Jonathan than he had back in Freetown.

  “Best I find Jonathan and bring him to you, Mr. Hayden.” Mitchell parked the SUV next to a large open-sided tent where people lay on cots. He slipped out and disappeared into the campground.

  Hayden Stone got out, stretched his legs, and approached the edge of the campsite. Smoke from cooking fires filled the air, and in the distance a rooster crowed. A hush lay across the camp. Men, women, and children limped by on crutches. A boy, speaking kindly, pushed a legless old woman in a wheelbarrow. An occasional doctor appeared among the amputees.

  “My friend Mitchell said you insisted on coming to see me.” A voice came from behind Stone. With a sense of foreboding,
Stone slowly turned.

  “Hello, my good friend,” Stone’s voice broke. Jonathan Worthington, a black man of immense pride and talent, stood before him, both arms missing above the elbow.

  They sat on the beach in armchairs that somehow after the war had found their way from a looted home to the seaside. The man who helped Jonathan to light his cigarettes and attended his private needs sat close. Jonathan faced Stone. The two talked about easy things.

  “Perhaps you would care to speak privately, Hayden?” Jonathan finally said, and without a word Mitchell and the other man rose and moved a short distance away. “What brings you back to my country?”

  “I am to meet and talk with a man in Freetown.”

  “You are in the same business as you were before?”

  “Yes.” Stone hesitated. “May I ask what happened?”

  Jonathan shook his head and gazed at the sea, which crashed one line of high waves at a time. Typical when the ocean bottom drops off dramatically past the waterline.

  “I am no longer in any business.” Jonathan’s face dropped. “As you can see, I cannot carry my load.”

  “Where is your family?”

  “The embassy can no longer employ me. You know that my father worked for the British embassy during the Second World War. I hoped someday my dear son would work for the Americans, like me. Or perhaps become a doctor like these kind people.” He tilted his head in the direction of a woman wearing a doctor’s smock.

  In a soft voice, Stone asked, “Where is your son?”

  Jonathan’s eyes went blank, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “Do I know the man whom you are meeting?”

  “Perhaps. His name is Dirk Lange. A South African.”

  A smile came to Jonathan’s face, something unexpected. Yet Stone knew it wasn’t a smile of happiness. “I hope your people are not still angry with Mr. Lange. He is a nice chap. You know.”

  Stone held a water bottle up for his friend to take a drink. The station in Freetown had issues with Lange. Interesting.

  “From your face, it seems you are not fully aware of the circumstances. You will find out.”

  “May I ask again about your family?”

  “A long story.” Jonathan now shut his eyes. “They are not here with me.”

  Sensing Jonathan’s reluctance to explain, he decided to return to the matter of Dirk Lange. “What about Lange? What should I know?”

  “Another long story.” Jonathan’s voice had changed. It lacked the authority Stone remembered.

  “I see.” Stone might just as well sit there and let this tired old man say what he wanted. He studied Jonathan’s face. It hung weary, ravaged. Before him sat a victim of those hophead rebels who had savaged the villagers and townspeople for so many years. All for diamonds.

  “Dirk Lange arrived shortly after you departed. He had connections with Executive Outcomes, although he himself was no mercenary.” Jonathan looked hard at him. “Already you disapprove of Mr. Lange.” He frowned. “Ah, the West’s disapproval of the South Africans. During their presence we enjoyed the only peace we had for years. The enlightened Europeans forced them to leave. We had elections, and the RUF went on to …”

  “Executive Outcomes was here as I left. I recall their helicopters flying overhead. I didn’t altogether disapprove of them.”

  “The RUF captured my son and made him into a soldier.” Jonathan spoke the words in a whisper. His lifeless eyes met Stone’s.

  Stone looked away, trying to figure how old Jonathan’s son had been at the time. Twelve years old at the most.

  “Mr. Lange did administrative work for the mercenaries. When the group regained control of the diamond mines, he went there to work. After a while, when he returned to Freetown, he’d bring back some of the kidnapped.” Jonathan touched the pack of cigarettes with the stub of his right arm, asking for a smoke. Stone complied, and after allowing him to take a long drag, Jonathan continued, “I have asked him to look for my son … and my daughter when he is out there in the bush.”

  “Why did the station have problems with Lange? Was he working for the bad guys?”

  “No. No, a young lady named Marsha worked at the embassy. Those two were very, very close. Your people did not approve. She was sent away.”

  Holy shit! Lange was poking an agency case officer. “I see why they wouldn’t approve.” Possible penetration of the station. The COS under the gun from Langley for management laxness. Secrets revealed inadvertently during pillow talk.

  “You did not know about all this?” Jonathan asked in the way years ago he would warn Stone that he was about to fall into a trap. “I suppose you can’t tell me the details of your being here.”

  Stone held the lighted cigarette to Jonathan’s lips and let him draw until the tip burned bright. The realization that a cloud hung over this interview with Lange came not so much from his brain than from his gut. In the past, when that happened things got melancholy.

  “No, Jonathan. I shouldn’t talk about it.” He paused. “People in Washington are concerned about something they wouldn’t reveal to me. They sent me to Liberia to speak with an acquaintance from years past, a diamond merchant named Jacob. I believe he’s in my line of business, but for another country.” Stone held the cigarette for him again. “Jacob sent me here to talk with Lange, saying he had something very important to tell me.”

  Jonathan closed his eyes. “When I first saw you, my heart leaped. I hoped you had come with news of my son and daughter.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend. I wish I had.”

  The old man had grown tired, and Stone was about to wave the attendant over when Jonathan went on.

  “You know we lived in the district of Kissy. The RUF took away my son to be a soldier. They took away my daughter to do what they do with young ten-year-old girls. Then the RUF violated my beloved wife, and when they were finished with her, put her and my mother and my sisters into our home locked the doors and set it afire. They made me stand there and watch them burn. Already they had, as they said, dropped my arms with a dull axe—it took many chops.”

  Stone feared he might say the wrong thing. He placed his right hand on his heart and offered to obtain prosthetics for him.

  Jonathan shook his head. “If you do that, they will send me away from here. And to where? A burned-out home and no family? I will wander the streets and someone will steal my new arms.” He waved a stub. “The embassy sends me a stipend. I’m safe here for the time being.”

  Stone motioned the attendant to come over. “I must go now. If you want anything, let me know through the embassy. I will help.”

  “It is you who needs help, Hayden. I see Mr. Lange once a week, and he is very distraught. A good man like him should not live in fear.”

  “Thank you, Jonathan.” Stone rose, realizing that with this warning his friend just may have saved his life.

  Stone put his cooking skills to work. Sandra Harrington emerged from her bedroom, not because she felt better, but because she wanted company. She agreed to Stone’s suggestion that she eat something. He cooked white rice and boiled chicken breasts, which didn’t smell appetizing, but he knew she needed bland food.

  “So Mr. Lange isn’t in town. When’s he coming back?”

  “Tomorrow.” Stone took the chair across the table from her. “Ever hear of a Marsha who worked at the embassy?”

  “Sounds vaguely familiar. How were Craig’s people with the countersurveillance?”

  “Very professional. I guess he’s good at being a COS.”

  Sandra picked at her meal. She asked if he had anything else, and he handed her a slice of white bread.

  “Thanks. How about some chocolate?”

  “Just what your stomach needs.” Stone poured himself a short Irish whiskey. “Don’t think you should have this.”

  “So, this Marsha. Is she an old squeeze of yours?”

  “Not mine.” Stone told her about his meeting with Jona
than. He provided the details on Marsha and Dirk Lange.

  “The CIA Office of Security probably had a heyday with that.”

  “Guess that’s why Mr. Craig has been such a prick. I don’t see how Lange’s dalliance with a case officer is going to affect getting the information we need.”

  “Never know. Christ! Hope Craig doesn’t have this place bugged.” Sandra pushed her plate away. “How about a taste of that stuff you’re drinking.”

  Stone poured a bit of whiskey into her water glass. As they both drank, he gave her a once-over: unwashed blonde hair, red puffy eyes, sweaty wrinkled robe, and blotchy skin. She wouldn’t be well enough to travel for days. No way would he leave her behind.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “One gorgeous creature.”

  “You’re full of shit. I’m going to bed. Sorry to hear about your friend Jonathan. That upset you a lot, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It hasn’t all sunk in yet.”

  Sandra shuffled to her bedroom. Before closing the door, she called back, “Keep in mind what Jonathan told you about Lange. That South African might have something up his sleeve. Wish I could come with you tomorrow.”

  Stone finished off his drink and turned out the lights. He decided to retire early. In his room, he opened the hidden compartment in his suitcase, removed his Colt .45, and wiped it down lightly with gun oil.

  Chapter Eight

  Cape Town, Republic of South Africa—August 9, 2002