by A. Sparrow
The found Kremer at his favorite table at the Café Tierra right at six o’clock, just like the notes in the briefcase said they would. His arm bandaged and tucked in a sling. Long, dirty blonde locks poured from a red bandanna.
Archie made a beeline for his table, with Melissa right behind him. Kremer gave them a startled glance. He shot to his feet and reached into a vest pocket. He held up a can of pepper spray.
“Whoa! It’s okay. We’re friendlies.”
“What’s that bulge under your shirt?”
“Bulge?” Archie patted the Glock in its shoulder holster.
“I tried to tell you, Arch,” said Melissa. “You should have worn something baggier.” She scrunched her nose at Kremer. “He never listens.”
“Listen, I brought this or our own protection. This has nothing to do with you.”
“You’re with those guys that’ve been tailing me, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Then, who? I’m not used to having armed strangers just walk up to me at my tables with a purpose in their eye.”
“Purpose? Did I look like I had a purpose?”
“You did, Archie,” said Melissa. “You kind of just stomped up to him like a big old grizzly bear. No tact at all, this one.”
Archie took a breath. “Listen. It’s a long story. Too long to tell. Let’s just say that there’s been a massive fuckup, and I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t need any help. Just go away.”
“You don’t understand. Your life’s at stake.”
“So what’s new? I’ve had a bounty on my head ever since I got involved with the mangroves. At this point, it’s been such a hassle, I might even welcome my death. It’d be a net plus for the cause. Get people to notice, finally.”
“What is your cause … exactly?” said Melissa. “Archie tried to explain but it kind of eluded me. Something about trees?”
“Mangroves. But not just mangroves. The entire ecosystem and the communities that depend on them for fishing, farming and the right to drink uncontaminated water, breathe uncontaminated air. It’s not just about mudskippers and angel fish.”
“Listen, this is all nice,” said Archie. “I mean, great cause and all. I’m all for protecting mangroves. But you need to make yourself scarce. These people, the ones who’ve following you….” He glanced around the patio and lowered his voice. “They think I’m their assassin. But … there’s been a mix-up. They think I’m some other guy, who’s dead. I get all his communications. They shuttle me around everywhere as if I were him.”
Kremer contorted his face. “But that’s absurd!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Archie, shrugging.
Kremer relaxed a bit. A grin took root and spread across his lips. “Have a seat. I want to hear more.”
Archie pulled up a chair. “There’s not much else to say, other than you need to make yourself scarce. Get your ass out of here. Disappear somewhere safe. I’m gonna give you some papers that will blow this wide open. Once you’re safe … I want you to release them to your friends.”
“My … friends?”
“Yeah, you know. The media.”
“The media’s not my friend,” said Kremer, exasperated. “I’m lucky to get a mention once every two years. I mean it was sheer luck to get that story in the Guardian about the LNG plant on Bonny Island. The bloke reporting it was coming through on holiday. Of all places to go—”
“Well, you’re better situated than we are. But you need to disappear fast. They’re not only watching you, they’re watching us. Once they realize we let you slip they’re gonna come after you with the B team.”
Kremer looked befuddled. “Who exactly are you people? How did you get involved in this?”
“I’m … nobody special.” Archie slumped back. “Just some wuss who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Speak for yourself.” Melissa leaned over. “Hi, I’m Melissa Wray. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Melissa, this is no time to flirt.”
“I’m not flirting, just being polite.”
Archie handed Kremer a manila envelope with the surveillance info they had gathered on him. He thumbed through it.
“How is this going to help? It’s just random stuff about me. Where and when I scratch my ass. None of it’s incriminating.”
“Oh yes it is. Some of it is. I mean, there are names and logos. I think they even use the word ‘elimination’ somewhere in here.”
“But most of it’s just … surveillance. Nothing illegal. I don’t see any instructions telling anyone to commit a crime. I hate to tell you, but I’m not the right person for this job. You are. If you’re privy to their communications, then you’re the one who needs to get this message out. They’d only consider me a wacko … one of those conspiracy nuts.”
“But … you’re somebody with a presence. I’m … nobody. What am I supposed to do, go and broadcast this on Voice of America?”
“Maybe,” said Kremer. “If that’s what it takes. Listen. I’m going to have my dinner here. You’re welcome to join me. If what you say is true, then we’re all screwed. They’re probably watching us now, and if you don’t shoot me, they’re going to realize something is wrong. But I’m going to have myself some barracuda filet so if you’ll kindly hold off the assassination until I have my … possibly … last meal.”
Archie huffed. “But I’m not … I wasn’t going to assassinate you.”
Kremer rolled his eyes. “I realize that. Listen. I intend to take your advice. Head up to Cameroon for a while. It’s a nice time to be up in the hill country around Mount Fako. I could use some fresh, cool air for a change. I might suggest you do the same.”
“Go with you to Cameroon?” said Melissa, her eyes widening.
“No. I meant … you should lay low as well. Somewhere else, preferably. Keep away from the bad guys. Again, if what you say is true, you’re in big trouble. These people don’t fool around.”
“How about … you pretend you’re dead?” said Melissa. “Stay completely out of sight. Totally out of contact with anyone. Just for a while. Make it look like we did our job?”
Kremer shrugged. “Hmm.” He took a sip of his water. “That could be arranged.” He sipped again. “You know … that’s not a bad idea, actually. A little bit of disappearing would do me some good. Heal up. Clear my mind. Get the goonies off my back. Funny. I thought that’s what I thought I was accomplishing by coming down here to Bata.”
A waiter brought a steaming platter of whole barracuda, with piles of pepper and cabbage and shredded carrot. He took up a forkful. “But don’t expect me to be able to get your message out. That’s something you’re going to have to do yourself.”
“What do you think, Archie?” said Melissa.
Archie frowned. “Yeah. Makes sense, I suppose. Maybe it’s the best we can do for now, but the question is … what next?”
Melissa stared at a platter shared by a couple at another table. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to try some of that shrimp.”
Chapter 19: Houston
Gus usually ate lunch in his basement office, but it was such a balmy spring day. He felt a need to connect with the world in a way that didn’t involve satellites and hyper-secure servers.
The consortium sponsored a nice mess with a salad bar and a Starbucks—all complimentary, but he never liked to mingle with the general staff during a sensitive op. All those prying eyes and ears forced their conversations to become awkwardly oblique.
He went out into the courtyard and found a bench under a cherry tree. He unwrapped his capicola and provolone on ciabatta, popped open a can of aranciata and was about to enjoy his lunch in peace when Harry came bursting out of the atrium.
“Oh! There you are. I thought I might find you out here.”
“Hello Harry,” he drawled listlessly, snatching a mouthful, before Harry got him going.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t bother you here normally. I know
how precious your quiet time is.”
“So why did you?”
“Well, the high mucky-mucks want to know what’s up with Black.”
“What’s to know? He’s on track.”
“Is he making his checkpoints?”
“He don’t need no stinking checkpoints … apparently. I think he’s given them up for Lent.”
“But he’s on track? You’re sure?”
“Sure seems that way. The mangrove kid seems to have vanished.”
“Really?”
Gus swallowed what he had in his mouth and took a sip of his soda.
“Yep, and it’s all correlated with Black. Our observers spotted him having dinner with the kid last night.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Sounds like they had a nice, calm little chat, once the kid put his pepper spray away.”
“Interesting. You got sound on that?”
“Negative. He was on to our wires. He kept switching tables.”
“You should have wired up Black.”
“Yeah right. As if….”
“Too bad. I would have liked to have heard what they chatted about. I presume he kept in character?”
“That’s the whole idea. To everyone but us, he’s Archie Parsons now. We’ve been suppressing the obits. Word of mouth is the only way anyone over there would know he was dead, and this Parsons fellow was a bit of a hermit in his latter days.”
“Well, that’s good. We wouldn’t want his cover blown before he goes after the big fish. He’s still going after the big fish, isn’t he?”
“That’s the plan,” said Gus. “He hasn’t indicated otherwise. He’s got his pre-briefing. Got a pickup planned for tomorrow.”
“Great. The fellows upstairs will be pleased. They really wanted this to be a three-fer to make the risk worthwhile. Really some of them only really cared about the big fish. Fernando is really the biggest monkey wrench in their machinery. This will give them good value. This Black fellow is really going out with a bang, isn’t he? Tahiti, they’re sending him after this. Can you imagine retiring in Tahiti?”
Gus took advantage of Harry’s soliloquy to enjoy some more of his capicola. Harry just stood there and watched him eat. Such a tight ass, this Harry with his crisp, starched shirt, perfect buzz cut and perfectly knotted tie, so tight on his neck it had to impair the supply of oxygen to his brain. Maybe that explained that vacant gaze of his.
“So you think Black did Mr. Mangrove in?” said Harry.
Gus shrugged. “Seems that way. He didn’t leave his weapons at home this time. This time he was packing iron.”
“Any proof?”
“What do you want? A scalp? An ear? That’s not how the man operates. He’s all about clean. That’s why the mucky mucks like him and why they pay him so well. Bottom line is … no more Kremer. The kid went home after dinner. Got a bag. Had a taxi drop him off at some shanty town. And that was that. Our observers never saw him come out. And in the morning, one of his girlfriends files a missing person report. A good sign. The other girlfriend shows up at the Bata jail looking for him, then after, goes to the first girlfriend’s apartment and—”
“Cat fight?” said Harry.
“No. They commiserated. An even better sign.”
“So … just like that? No more Kremer?”
“No more Kremer,” said Gus, reaching for his soda.
“Huh. Imagine that. Then I guess you’re right. That guy is pretty slick.”
“He’s Mr. Clean. No body. No blood.”
“Unlike the beast from the east,” said Harry.
“Heh! You mean Agent White? The basket case?”
“Yeah, I know. He’s a fucking butcher. I can’t believe they’re sending him to check up on Black.”
Gus nearly inhaled his aranciata. “What? You’ve got to be kidding me.” He gasped. A trickle dribbled down his chin.
“Nope. The folks upstairs are worried about the checkpoint issue. They don’t like being left out of the loop, having to depend on me … and you … for status reports.”
“How’s White gonna help with that? He’s just gonna muck things up.”
“Well, he’s … backup. In case Black can’t deliver the big fish. President de Marazul is the one the really want. These others are just … gravy.”
“Well if you want my two cents, they should keep White the fuck in Ethiopia. Black’s got things under control.”
“White’s already got orders cut,” said Harry, folding his arms as if that was that.
“Are they fucking nuts?”
Harry inhaled through his teeth. “All I know is, he’s on his way to STP.”
“Jesus!”
“It’s okay. They’re just going to have him lay low. Sit on a beach. Enjoy some R&R. But he’ll be in place in case we need some assistance.”
Gus sighed deeply. “Well, they’d better send a cleanup crew … if White’s gonna be involved in this.”
“We’ll have damage control on site, not to mention this Hodges guy. But I can’t believe White’s as bad as you make him out to be.”
“He’s worse,” said Gus. “I’ve been on ops with him. This man is cruel … and sloppy. A bad combination. He’s all about overkill. Collateral damage means nothing to him.”
“Well, the way Black’s been going, maybe there’s nothing to worry about. We can let him do his thing and White can have himself a nice little beach vacation. I’m sure he’ll enjoy it. I hear Addis is chilly this time of year.”
“Addis is chilly every time of the year,” said Gus, who had somehow managed to finish his sandwich. “Especially when White’s in town.”
Chapter 20: White
Agent White loped through Siddist Kilo, passing knots of nervous and excited students who were beginning to gather to protest the flaky results of yesterday’s national elections. Every neutral poll had affirmed that there was no way in hell the ruling party could have won in a fair contest, yet here they were declaring victory yet again.
Ridiculous, the idea of these corrupt bastards garnering majority support in any constituency. For months now, the underground newspapers had been ablaze with news of their latest corruption and incompetence, not the least among them, giving away mineral rights for peanuts to the Chinese. Everyone on the street was onto them by now, not that the opposition leaders would prove any better.
White could sense Ethiopia about to ignite, and it tickled him. Chaos was the fuel of change and possibility. Bedlam created promise and opportunity, not to mention prime entertainment.
Even though he had no dog in this fight, he remained very much an interested spectator. When it came to pastimes, this revolution stuff beat English Premier League hands down.
He stopped for some ‘spris’—spiced tea layered over coffee—at his favorite café near the museum harboring the remains of Lucy, the three million year old Ethiopian mother of all humanity. Soldiers piled out of trucks. Policemen put on battered riot gear. Across the street, he could see some students with cardboard shields stoop to gather rocks. Idiots. Did they think the cops and soldiers would bother with rubber bullets?
He called the waiter over and ordered a papaya, mango and avocado smoothie, which came layered and thick in a tall glass. This was his liquid lunch. He had gained a bit of weight during his recuperation and now it was time to get trim again.
His employers had given him time to heal, or so they said, farming projects to others while promising to include him in future operations. He hated the feeling of being tucked aside on a shelf, watching the world go on without him. The intricacies of the East African theatre were too great to expect second tier contractors to handle them properly. The clock was ticking. Every day that passed without a job was another day for his employers to forget him.
Disabling headaches still struck him down almost daily, but what could he expect from such a severe concussion? And it didn’t thrill him to have that flashy new scar along his jaw line. A distinguishing feature like that interfer
ed with his ability to disappear into a crowd, which had been one of his more useful traits as an assassin.
Apart from his strong and distinctive brow, he had an ideal visage for someone whose success depended on not being noticed. His bland Cushite features made him an everyman in any East African city. His skin, not too dark, not too light, allowed him to pass for a Kenyan as much as a Zambian, Somali or Sudanese.
That he had grown up in London posed no handicaps whatsoever. His Brixton neighborhood had hosted immigrants from every corner of the continent—Sudanese lost boys, Congolese refugees, Francophones, Anglophones, Swahili. He knew every culture and quite a few of their tribal tongues. He had talent for tongues, absorbing languages and dialects the way cotton gauze wicked blood.
A chant sprung up. Signs in Amharic and English appeared among the coagulating protest crowd. The road between Arat Kilo and Siddist Kilo was to be the front line. With Addis Ababa University to his back, he had a front row seat to the festivities. He checked his pocket for the custom ceramic and polymer two-shot zip gun he carried to beat the metal detectors.
He could have gotten away with carrying a regular pistol. The doormen at the Sheraton knew him (and his tips) so well they waved him through security. But he never knew when he might visit a place where he might be wanded with a metal detector. So for now, his primary firepower remained tucked away in his safe at the Sheraton.
Of late, anyway, he had been trying to wean himself away from ballistic weapons. Bullets had this nasty habit of carrying on their merry way after missing their targets and plowing into people he never intended to assassinate.
It had been three months since his last botched gig in Lusaka and he sensed that his employers had lost confidence in him. He had accidentally killed two innocent bystanders in that op, and had to bash in the face of a police officer who tried to apprehend him.
Nobody warned him what tough sons of bitches those Zambian copper miners could be. His target had not gone down easily and he himself had taken a shovel blade to the chin that had sent him stumbling and staggering down a riverbank in retreat.
He had gotten no help whatsoever from the worthless extraction team they had sent in support. The B team, they called themselves. B for bad, botched job, bloody incompetent. They had been late to the scene and the bastards couldn’t even find him when he had passed out bleeding under a hedge.
