The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Exhausted, Stone stared at the ceiling, waiting for his breathing to slow. She had collapsed on him after giving out that sharp cry he remembered from past times. Shifting her head on his arm so their eyes met, she whispered, “As good as ever, no?”

  “Oui, mon contessa.”

  Now giggling, she said, “Come back with me to France and we can do this all the time.”

  He reached over for the coffee mug. “Want some?”

  She sat up and shook her head. From her serious demeanor, Stone knew a heavy conversation was about to commence. Probably something about making their relationship permanent. He would have liked a little more time, at least to finish his coffee, before committing to a long-term relationship.

  He fought back a smile. How could she possibly expect him to pay attention, sitting there with her beautiful breasts displayed in their firmness—and yes, that mole was still there below the left nipple. A sculptor would love to spend time with her.

  “Are you paying attention to me?” she asked, nose uplifted.

  “Of course.”

  “I have something to ask you.”

  “Can’t wait to hear.” The coffee was perfect, dark, and strong, with a touch of nut.

  “Come live with me in Villefranche. Perhaps we could …” She slipped out of bed. “You think about it. Yes?”

  “Yes.” He’d think about it.

  During the following hour, while they showered together, dressed, and had breakfast that, to his surprise, she prepared, Hayden Stone carefully watched every word and gesture he made. Don’t do or say anything wrong.

  He let the realization of the two of them sharing their lives in the South of France slowly sink in. It was not an unpleasant notion, no matter how he had to adjust the view of his new future.

  Watching her place the dishes in the sink, he remembered he had to call Jacob. How life had just changed for him since he and Jacob had met in the museum. He searched for his cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?’

  “A colleague. I’m traveling with him to Cameroon.”

  “What is this job? Why is it so important to all of you?”

  He stopped dialing. “Patience didn’t tell you?” He watched her return to the kitchen table and sit, waiting for him to explain. He gave her a thumbnail version of the terrorist plot and how he screwed up in Namibia.

  “An atomic bomb! You must stop them!”

  Stone stood, went to the window, and watched raindrops form on the glass. The tall blue gum trees and pines swayed in the wind. “My superiors think the bad guys are headed north for the country of Chad. Jacob, my old Israeli friend, and I believe they’re heading for the seaport of Douala in Cameroon.”

  “Your other colleagues are recovering from their wounds. So you and Jacob must go alone.” Her gaze was fixed on him.

  “I would expect you to tell me not to go.”

  Lucinda rose and came up next to him. “Do you think I want you to go and possibly get killed?”

  “You think I should go?”

  “This is not the case of a … a petty matter.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “You had a failure, made a mistake. So, who does not from time to time? Do you still want Maurice Colmont’s telephone number? Perhaps, he can help you.”

  She took him by the hand, led him to the living room, and turned the gas on in the fireplace. “Sit,” she commanded and stood in front of him, arms crossed. “My family line is long and involved. On the Italian side, we go back to the Middle Ages, when the Moors attacked our villages and castles. We fought back. On my father’s side, we are Coptic Christians who have lived in Egypt for two thousand years, most of those years under persecution. My family does not bend. We are survivors, because we do not walk away.” She sat in front of him on a footstool. “If you don’t go, you will never forgive yourself. In time you will place all the blame on me.”

  Contessa Lucinda Avoscani arched her back and pronounced, “I will not have that.”

  A brief moment passed and Stone said, “You said you had Colmont’s number? I have to call him before I meet with Jacob.”

  She went to the bedroom and returned with the number. After he made the call to Colmont and got the name of a contact in Cameroon, he started to dial Jacob. She held her hand on the phone while leaning her head over to kiss him. She placed a gold object in his hand. “Take this with you for good luck. It is a family talisman.”

  He looked down at the small Coptic cross on a gold chain.

  Chapter Thirty

  Douala, Cameroon—August 22, 2002

  The Douala International Airport was how Hayden Stone remembered it fours years before. Courtesy of the French, it was an impressive complex for West Africa, but had had little routine preventive maintenance from the day it opened. It smelled rank and looked shabby. Few people walked the high-ceilinged terminal. If arriving passengers were lucky enough to find their luggage after paying a bribe, they had to pass through a gauntlet of a screaming, pushing mob outside the door, wanting to carry your bags, sell you a flashlight, take you to their taxi, or just demand money.

  Jacob cursed and shoved his way through the crowd with Stone following in his wake, holding his backpack with one hand, the other on his money belt beneath his shirt. Beyond the throng, two tall men with short haircuts waved to them.

  “They’re our contacts,” Jacob shouted. “They have a car waiting for us.”

  The two pushed their way through the crowd and reached the SUV. As Stone closed the door, he discovered that somewhere between the airport and the SUV someone had managed to slip his cheap watch off his wrist. They were practiced in their art.

  With all four men inside the vehicle, the driver inched away from the curb while remnants of the besiegers attempted one last effort to extract money from those whom they considered well-heeled foreigners.

  “Now that’s what I call a welcome reception,” Stone said, removing his jacket and wiping the sweat from his face. He hoped his departure from Douala would be soon and a bit easier. When he flew out, he’d remember to have a fistful of local CFA francs to grease the palms at the airport.

  Jacob spoke at length in rapid Hebrew with the two Mossad men in the front seat. Jacob’s organization definitely had a presence here in Cameroon, which he had neglected to tell Stone. Jacob sat back, deep in thought, and then turned to Stone.

  “Here’s the rundown. My boys here are in contact with the CIA station at your embassy in Yaoundé. Colonel Frederick and his people are having trouble getting visas, but should be here tomorrow.”

  “That leaves only us to find the bomb.”

  “No. A man and a CIA woman will arrive from Cape Town later today. I assume Sandra Harrington and Dirk Lange. I have four more men at the safe house.”

  “Sandra and Dirk either had quick physical recoveries or can’t bear being out of the action,” Stone said. “Any leads on Nabeel Asuty and his men?”

  “Six hours ago your satellite found that C-119 at an abandoned French airfield ten miles outside the city. No further word on the terrorists or the bomb. My embassy and your people in Yaoundé are in contact and will keep us updated.”

  Stone asked if the man in front would turn up the air conditioning. The additional cool air blowing in from the vent brought some relief from the humid air. He turned to Jacob. “I have the name and telephone number of a contact that Maurice Colmont, my friend in Paris, gave me. Do we have a clean cell phone?”

  The man in the passenger seat passed back a cell phone to Stone. Stone held up the phone to Jacob, who waved a “go ahead and call.”

  The male voice on the other end of the line identified himself in French as being a member of the Cameroon police. In French, Stone asked for Reynard Abdulyale. When he came on the line, Stone gave him the parole Colmont had provided to identify him to Abdulyale as a trusted agent.

  Abdulyale paused, then asked when they could get together.

  “Today. Lu
nch in two hours?”

  A name and address of a restaurant was given to Stone, who repeated out loud to Jacob. The driver motioned he knew where it was.

  When Stone hung up, Jacob suggested only the two of them meet with Abdulyale. “My boys will stay outside and cover our meeting with this fellow.”

  “Where is the restaurant?” Stone asked the driver.

  In English with a Brooklyn accent, he told him it was near the port area. “In the Lebanese district. Rough area. We have pistols for you.”

  At that, the man in the passenger seat turned and handed them 9mm Glocks along with two magazines each, first to Jacob, then Stone. Not Stone’s favorite caliber.

  They drove toward the city using back roads, alert for surveillance, but as the driver informed them, the intelligence service was underpaid and ill supplied with resources. “They are only interested in Nigerians and the opposing political party.”

  Stone looked out the window at the usual parade of women in tie-dyed kaftans with baskets balanced on their heads, children walking holding each others hands, and men on bicycles. As they entered the edge of town, open sewers flowed on either side of the road.

  “I think I’ll contact a guy I know. If he’s still here,” Stone said. “Don’t know his telephone number, but do know the name of his business and the street where he’s located.”

  Jacob had him give the information to the man sitting in the passenger seat. The man called the safe house and had another agent find the firm’s telephone number in the Douala city directory.

  Carl Cardinale answered Stone’s call and happily agreed to meet him. A half hour later, Stone stood in front of a two-story complex in a mixed residential and commercial area, which looked clean and safe. Before exiting, Jacob told him he would run a trace on Abdulyale. Like all Douala, Stone knew that because of its relative wealth this neighborhood had to experience high crime. He remained alert.

  Carl buzzed him in the entrance door, and he climbed to the second floor to another locked door, this one identified it as the Regional Transportation Office. Carl quickly opened the door and welcomed him into his one-man cluttered office. The RTO handled all the shipping and logistics for the American diplomatic establishments throughout central Africa.

  He was genuinely happy to see Stone, not because they were good friends, but being one of the few Americans in town, his social life was nil. There was little entertainment in Douala to speak of except for a few sorry restaurants and nightclubs offering cheap liquor and expensive women.

  “May I ask what happened?” He pointed to the bruises on Stone’s face.

  “Bad fall.”

  “What brings you to this hellhole? Or shouldn’t I ask?

  “Looking for bad guys. Know any in this town?”

  “You got it ass-backwards. Ask me if I know any good guys.”

  Carl was on contract with the US State Department. His two-year tour had been extended one year, which he confided was a double-edged sword. “I miss my family, but the pay is great. You may want to take over for me when I leave. I’ll give you a recommendation.”

  Stone thanked him, but said that he planned to retire. “I have an appointment in an hour, and a friend is picking me up. I know you have good contacts on the waterfront and with shipping companies.”

  “Yeah. I do.” Carl looked disappointed that Stone’s visit would be short.

  “Right now, I don’t exactly know what I want to ask you. I should know later in the day. Maybe we can get together for dinner?”

  At the suggestion for dinner, Carl perked up. “Sure. What else can you tell me?”

  “The people I’m looking for are from the Middle East. They’re in possession of some bad-shit contraband. This is a seaport, and it’s logical to assume they’re going to ship it out of here. That’s it so far.”

  Carl thought a moment. “Most of the non-Africans here are French and Lebanese. Both groups are tight and wary of outsiders.”

  “Some of the people I’m looking for are Egyptian. The leader’s name is Nabeel Asuty, and he has at least five people with him. Maybe more now. They landed here today with their goods at the old French airbase a couple of miles out of town. We have no idea where they’re headed.”

  “They’re terrorists. Correct?” Carl asked, and when Stone nodded, said, “So, we’re not talking drugs?” When Stone shook his head, he said, “I’ll make some discreet inquiries.”

  Stone waited outside under the roof to the doorway, and when the SUV stopped at the curb, he jumped in and was greeted with Jacob’s sour look.

  “This contact of yours, Reynard Abdulyale, is a relatively honest man who lives very well. He must receive a big stipend from your French friends to afford his lifestyle. He’s from the north of Cameroon, a Fulani and Moslem. We have to be careful what we say.”

  Obviously, Jacob wasn’t impressed with Stone’s selection of a source. Stone put on his sunglasses. “Any news?” he asked.

  “Dirk and Sandra arrived with two other CIA people,” Jacob said. “Our safe house is getting crowded.”

  “Hope our stay won’t be long. Any word from Colonel Frederick?”

  “He wants to talk with you after the meeting with Abdulyale.” Jacob asked the driver how soon they would arrive at the restaurant and was told five minutes. “Your satellites have seen no recent activity at the airfield.” Jacob leaned closer. “How good are these satellites?”

  “As good as the people who interpret the data. Technology can’t replace us here on the ground. And we on the ground have to get to that field pronto.”

  “Are you suggesting we conduct an assault?” Jacob asked. “Before Colonel Frederick and his team arrive?”

  “Let’s discuss it at the safe house after lunch.”

  Outside the restaurant Stone and Jacob spotted two parked Peugeot sedans. Men wearing glares and dark glasses slouched inside.

  “I don’t like this,” was Jacob’s only comment as they entered the establishment.

  Stone felt the same but trusted Maurice Colmont. His friend in Paris would not lead him into a lion’s den; however, the presence of the Glock in his waistband was more of a reassurance. Reynard Abdulyale wore a tailored brown suit, white monogrammed shirt, and a silk tie. His skin was light tan and his short-cut hair had traces of gray throughout. Tribal scars marked his cheeks. He sat with his back to the wall. The restaurant was empty, and the staff stood erect at a respectable distance waiting to be beckoned.

  The big man rose and extended his hand to Stone. “I was only expecting you, Mr. Hayden Stone. You’ve brought along an associate?”

  How had he recognized Stone? Had Colmont sent him a photograph? On the other hand, Abdulyale’s men might have taken photographs of him at the airport.

  “It is wise to travel in strange lands with friends,” Stone said.

  “Sounds like a phrase in Arabic.” Abdulyale smiled broadly, revealing a gold tooth. “I assure you this is not that strange a land.” He motioned for them to take a place at his table. He clapped his hand and in French ordered that another place be set for Jacob.

  Seated, Abdulyale directed his attention to Jacob with eyes that lacked warmth. “I didn’t catch your name.” He looked back at Stone and laughed. “An American phrase that our mutual friend in Paris taught me the last time I visited Nice.”

  “It’s Bjorn Anderson,” said Jacob, using the alias Stone knew was on his passport. “Norwegian.”

  “And your business, sir?”

  “Oil and fishing.”

  Abdulyale showed his gold tooth again, but the eyes remained unfriendly. Christ, Stone thought. I should have come alone. He cursed himself for not thinking this meeting out. He might as well get to the point, hope to get some information, and leave.

  “Mr. Abdulyale. Pardon, do people use your rank when addressing you?”

  “Mister will do, Mr. Stone. And before we start our talk, would you care for refreshments?” Abdulyale cal
led the waiters over and ordered light food and non-alcoholic drinks. “Now. What can I do for you?”

  Stone saw the irony of the question. Here was a man whose usual mind-set was: What could one do for him? The waiter brought the drinks, giving him time to respond. “The US is still recovering from the 9/11 attack. We and the French government are interested in any information we can gather about terrorists in this region who might be planning another attack.”

  “It seems to me that your government has located the culprits far from here. In Afghanistan. Are you saying they are also here in my country?”

  “We suspect some are in the region. It would be appreciated if you had any information to help us.”

  Abdulyale waited as the waiters set down the plates of grilled meats and yogurts. The silence had approached awkwardness when he finally said, “If anything of a terrorist nature comes to my attention and I believe it threatens your country or France, your governments will be informed.”

  “Thank you, sir. Sorry for taking up your time.” Stone reached for his wallet. “May I?”

  “I can’t allow that. You are my guest.” Abdulyale stood, and when he shook Stone’s hand, he palmed a business card. He merely smiled at Jacob.

  In the SUV, Jacob immediately told his men they had to switch cars before they went to the safe house. He turned to Stone. “That character knew about us. Knows we’re on to something big.”

  “It didn’t go as well as I expected,” Stone said. “I should have gone alone.”

  “I should have insisted you did. He got more out of that meet than we did.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Stone said, fingering the business card in his pocket. “He was expecting us. He covered us at the airport, which, by the way, we didn’t pick up. He probably thinks we’re here on an ‘extraordinary rendition.’ Snatching a high-level terrorist to take to another country for interrogation. He wants to be part of the action.”