by Vince Milam
The Nika-Hoebeek relationship would have high value. Overlay a 30 percent probability the United States was funding the revolution, and you had a big, murky mess. Welcome to the world of global spy craft and political chess games.
Hines weighed the options and decided to reveal equipment intel.
“Satellite images show the unloading of military vehicles in Niew Nickerie. At night. Tarp covered. By daylight, they’re jungle covered. Source of the material, unknown.”
The small town of Niew Nickerie sat on the banks of the Courantyne River. The large rain-forest-fed river formed the border with Guyana. Niew Nickerie had a small set of docks, barely large enough for a tramp freighter, but it would do for discreet unloading of military equipment. Military equipment purchased from anyone. Golf balls pointed toward China.
But the supplier and the sponsor might be two different players. A different supplier would help the sponsor cover its tracks. What a freaking mess. The gnomes of Zurich expected answers—correct answers. Hines would seek the same, unless the United States had funded this little soirée. If so, what the hell was a Russian spy doing in the mix? I’d have to head west, into rebel turf, and seek answers. Son of a bitch.
“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the dime. The Russian—a stunning woman—paid Hoebeek a visit after I left him. It wasn’t an accident. He called her about my arrival at his office.”
“You visited Hoebeek?” he asked.
“Courtesy call. Sniffing.”
“Then the Russian visited him?”
“Eyeball confirmed.”
Hines would simmer that stew for a while. You could damn near see the wheels turn as he contemplated the ramifications. Another cat rubbed against my leg, the dishes were removed from the table, and I ordered two more beers. The drizzle had stopped, and shafts of blistering tropical sunlight broke through the clouds. The steam bath cranked up.
So far, this had gone about as expected. Little of a definitive nature, all fog and avoidance. Still, thin and opaque ties formed among the players—each nebulous. Welcome to Spookville.
The rebel force sponsor, military equipment, and trading company conversation had run its course. Hines itched to get back across the street, unleash assets, and find answers. I wanted a few more insights.
“Tell me about the minister of economic development, His Excellency Ravindu Tjon,” I said.
Hines still chewed on the Nika-Hoebeek connection and stared into the big empty. He addressed me as an afterthought. “Attends embassy functions,” Hines said, uninterested. “Eats a lot. Drinks a lot.”
Neither a ringing endorsement nor an indication Tjon held much sway over events. A bit player, in his eyes. Now, one other individual required addressing.
“Chopper jock. Bishop?” I asked. The mercenary helicopter pilot, as per Jules, in country.
“The three Indian-manufactured helicopters His Excellency purchased have fallen into disrepair. He requires aerial transportation other than fixed-wing,” Hines said. “Why ask, Lee? Other than birds of a feather and all that.”
The statement grated, big-time. Hines’s assertion lumped me with the likes of Bishop. Whatever you said about my current employment, I didn’t take gigs that fostered mayhem and death. Or trade in chaos and suffering. Hines may have mentally acknowledged such a distinction, but the “birds of a feather” comment bit deep.
“I play in a different class.”
“Yeah. Right.”
No point presenting my case for a higher life, so I didn’t dwell on the subject and asked how to find Bishop. And worked on lowering my blood pressure.
“Whorehouse,” Hines replied. “Every night. He lives there. Thanks for lunch.”
He stood and left me with the bill as a small dig. “Next time, try the special.” He chuckled.
“I’m crossing the Coppename River.”
That stopped him.
“Again, I’d strongly advise against it. But I know you. Your kind. Delta Force. Cowboys. Shoot-’em-up. If you make it back, fill me in. You owe me that.”
“I don’t owe you shit, Mr. Agricultural Liaison.”
“Maybe not. But for God and country.” He leaned from the waist, curry thick on his breath. “You’re still an American, aren’t you?”
“Don’t wave the flag at me, asshole. Don’t even try. I’ve been the hammer for the likes of you for years. Delta took out your garbage.”
He straightened up. I let it rip.
“And unless you’ve held a fellow soldier while he bled out in some godforsaken shithole while doing our country’s bidding, don’t try and play the patriot card, you son of a bitch. Ever.”
The CIA station chief exited the roti shop without another word.
Chapter 15
Hines performed his pissed-off CIA operator walk back across the street and entered the embassy compound. I drained my beer. Pissed or not, he wouldn’t screw with me. He’d categorize me as a soft asset, unreliable perhaps, but of potential use. He was enough of a pro to accept the opportunity I presented.
I calmed down and strolled to a rent-a-car establishment. Hines had gotten under my skin. The initial pricks and jabs, expected, hadn’t busted my cool. But he’d lumped my endeavors with those of a common mercenary and violated a personal demarcation—a division Hines had been aware of and casually ignored.
I had a legit Swiss client. Gigs with them had an element of danger, but no fireworks, no hits. I didn’t hang in whorehouses. The heavy-handed lean on patriotism broke the dam. Hines could shove it.
Time to check the countryside, cool off. A beat-up Toyota Land Cruiser fit the bill. The rental-car clerk tried an upsell, but the job required off-road capabilities. I wouldn’t cross the Coppename River until tomorrow or the next day, but a drive to the river crossing would provide a feel, a sense of the other side. A view of rebel-held territory. And an opportunity to pull it back together.
A quick stop at the hotel provisioned the afternoon trip. A lanyard with a laminated John Bolen, Reporter, Rolling Press International hung around my neck. Rolling Press International didn’t exist, but it looked official. A version of the official press pass, also laminated, was tossed on the dashboard. An old camera as added cover. The rain jacket would remain folded on the car seat, the .45 handy.
Before leaving, I went online and rescheduled my flight out for tomorrow. A variety of clandestine services—American, Russian, Chinese—would have backdoor access to the passenger lists. I wouldn’t make the flight, but it added a layer of misdirection and safety. Nika, Hines, Hoebeek—I occupied a large blip on their radar.
The drive to the bridge over the Coppename River showed more violence than I’d been led to believe. Burned-out troop carriers and cars, some still smoldering. Evidence of firefights, violent, at night. The burned husks littered the fifty-mile coastal stretch of two-lane potholed road—the country’s sole highway. The Atlantic Ocean was on the right as I traveled west, thick, uninhabited jungle on the left. Jungle extending a thousand miles, deep into the Amazon drainage.
I slowed for three checkpoints manned by His Excellency’s soldiers. The press pass, camera, and a brief explanation sufficed for semi-safe passage. The soldiers were armed with Uzis—Israeli submachine guns. Marksmanship wasn’t the order of the day. Just pull the trigger and spray lead in the general direction of the enemy. They kept their helmets on in the heat—a bad sign. Few developing country soldiers tolerated the added weight and heat of a head bucket. Unless they thought it would save them from an imminent headshot. The wall of jungle, dark and deep, began fifty yards from the highway.
The final checkpoint stood at the tiny village of Jenny on the Coppename River. The soldiers had established a battle line at the edge of the river bridge. Sandbags and machine-gun placements marked the end of government-held turf. I waved the press pass, parked under a tree off the road, and took photos. Acquiring “news.” I suppose I was. The soldiers wore newish uniforms, tan. The officers strutted with maroon berets. They weren’t
about to give up the cool factor of the berets for a little added safety. But they’d damn sure be the first to dive behind the sandbags when bullets flew.
The captain in charge of the bridge crossing asked pointed questions. “Why are you here?” His English, tinged with an amalgamation of accents, came across as chopped, accusatory.
“I’m a reporter. Rolling Press International.” I lifted the lanyard press pass and waved it in his direction.
“Why?”
“To report. The world is interested in your excellent efforts.”
He glanced down the bridge, chewed on his options. It was time to grease the ego.
“Can I interview you? Take your picture?” I lifted the camera, waggled it, and continued to smile.
The opportunity for his fifteen minutes of fame won out. He gestured to a nearby shack. I conducted a bogus interview, scribbled in a notebook, and clicked the camera a few times. He admitted to nighttime attacks—at the bridge and along the road to Paramaribo. We walked back to the sandbagged machine-gun position. To his credit, the guy was a decent soldier.
I opted to tell him I’d return the next day and cross the bridge. Visit rebel-held territory. He lowered his sunglasses, stared, and shook his head with a “you’re crazy” expression. He had that half right.
My intentions revealed, Hines or a government functionary could hear about it and attempt to stop me. Ugliness of the serious kind would ensue. And my ruse of a departure on the morning flight was now compromised.
The upside—a big upside—it would trigger word of my travel to filter across the river. Alert the rebels. A lot of these guys standing around with submachine guns would play both sides and wait for a winner. Passing word of my trip would curry favoritism with the rebels if that side won. A reporter, crossing the Coppename tomorrow. Only a reporter. With Rolling Press International. No surprises. Everyone stay calm.
I took a few more photos, flipped open the small spiral notebook, and pretended to take more notes while I asked a few questions, smiling and nodding. The muddy Coppename pushed past; the occasional tree and other jungle detritus bobbed by. A fisherman cast his net from a dugout canoe, upriver. He drifted by and ignored the battle-ready environment on the bridge.
The whomp-whomp of an approaching helicopter sent me back to the tin-roofed shack. I ducked inside. Beer, soda, and sundries. The ubiquitous river-crossing depot. Shelves filled with rice, beans, and tins of fish. An old lift-lid refrigerator held Parbo beer and Pepsi. Several machetes were for sale, as well as three hoe blades. Folks in undeveloped countries don’t pay money for a handle they can make from jungle wood. Two tubes of antibiotic cream and one ACE bandage rounded out the pharmacy portion of the establishment.
I bought a bottled water and fried plantain chips at the small counter and wandered onto the covered porch. A Hughes 500 light chopper dropped, twisted, and pulled a sports-car landing on the highway, near the bridge. The whine of the engine shut down. The infamous Bishop, helicopter mercenary, had made an appearance. As the noise died and the five-blade rotor slowed, Fletcher Hines climbed out. Bishop, wearing a baseball cap and large aeronautical headphones, stayed put.
The CIA station chief met with the captain, listened, and nodded as the military man spoke. Toward the end of the conversation, the captain pointed at my Toyota. Hines scanned the area, dark Ray-Bans on full display, and observed me taking a sip of water. I smiled his way. He shot me the finger; I returned the gesture. Bosom buddies. Hines turned and delivered instructions to the captain. Five minutes later, the helicopter fired up, and Hines departed.
Well. Hines shouldn’t object to my crossing into rebel-held turf if I brought back valid intel and shared with him. A big if, but he was professional enough—emotions and feelings aside—to appreciate my reconnaissance skills and take advantage of them. But if the military at this bridge stopped me tomorrow, it sent a clear signal Hines had been less than honest about whom the United States backed.
I wandered back on the bridge, snapped more photos, and addressed the captain again. Time to find out what Hines had told him.
“Thank you, Captain. I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. To cross the river. You okay with that?”
“I agree with the other American.” He meant Hines.
“Agree to what, Captain?”
“That you are foolish. Reporters will not be greeted well by the traitors across the river.”
“You’re probably right, Captain. But it’s news. That’s my job.” I lifted the laminated fake press pass again and smiled. The captain shook his head and turned away, barking orders at his men.
I started the Land Cruiser. An hour or so until dusk, and—given the fire-gutted military vehicles littering the side of the road—it was clear things tended to get lively at night.
Friendly waves and “I’ll see you folks soon” preceded my departure from the bridge over the Coppename. I kept an eye to the right during the hour-long drive. Toward the ever-present wall of tall tropical jungle lining the road. There be dragons in there.
The hotel café stood empty. Sufficient time for a meal prior to nighttime calls on Tjon and Bishop. A personal break to collect my thoughts on the Suriname puzzle. I caught a glimpse of the chef, Javanese, so I ordered a rijsttafel—a Dutch-influenced Indonesian array of small bowls and plates, tidbits of food, with a variety of textures and spices. When in Rome. Or Suriname.
A Niew Nickerie trip loomed. Rebel turf. Damn, Sam. But at this point, collected information painted a hazy picture, nothing clear. Shadows and fog. Players moving, lies, hidden secrets. The possibility of definitive answers lay a hundred miles away through revolution-torn property. But this was why Global Resolutions continued to hire me. To find answers. Go the extra mile. Cross the damn Coppename River.
The finger bowls and plates began to arrive. Pork belly with soy sauce. Spring rolls. Several flavors of fried rice. Banana fritters. Shrimp crackers. Stewed duck. Skewers of satay. And a wide variety of dipping sauces—peanut, chili, and coconut. Pick and choose, mix and match. It was delicious.
Start with the knowns, consider broad assumptions, identify the unknowns. Hezbollah had attempted the establishment of a South American beachhead. A known.
The United States had reacted and reinforced its Suriname presence. Odds were a verbal bitch slap of His Excellency ensued, with threats of economic disaster and worse. An assumption. Whether the United States saw a more stable partner in Joseph Hoff, the rebel leader, was an unknown.
The rebel army had funding. A known. By whom—an unknown.
Russia sent a pro here. A known. Whether to buttress the current regime or oversee an investment in the rebel cause—an unknown. The Russian—hotter than a firecracker. Definitely a known.
Luuk Hoebeek, Mr. Trading Company, had a Russian connection, evidenced by Nika’s visit after our meeting. Known. And he’d been to IDEX. A known.
The minister of economic development, Mr. Ravindu Tjon, had refused a meeting with John Bolen, a nice American businessman. He was dirty. Known, but murky.
I ordered espresso and mused over the possibilities while the dishes were taken away. Drizzling rain had started, the night dark and dank. Time for an unannounced call on Ravindu Tjon. And ample time lay ahead to also visit Bishop at the whorehouse. Part of the job, sure. But still . . . and the blues crept in. I needed a trading company.
Chapter 16
A tall wrought-iron fence surrounded Ravindu Tjon’s two-acre estate. Landscaped grounds—unlit islands of tall plants and wandering paths—offered excellent approach cover. The three stories of wraparound verandas shone as welcome mats for silent entry and search. I waited to ascertain if a dog or two roamed the premises. No dogs. I dropped into Tjon’s backyard. The ground yielded, soaked. The tropical drizzle had stopped, the air thick and still. I left the rain jacket, folded, at the fence. The .45 was tucked into a front pocket, the grip exposed. Insects sounded from the pockets of bamboo, bougainvillea, bromeliads, and ferns.
Tjon was hosting a party. Screened windows allowed sounds of gaiety to float across the backyard. My movements were swift but not rushed, using my friends—night, darkness, shadow. I paused at one of the back corners of the house at the edge of the ground-floor veranda. A heavy chain, in lieu of a gutter downspout, hung two feet away from the series of veranda-supporting columns. It was anchored at the roofline. More welcome mat.
Through the large ground-floor windows, servants scuttled about setting out plates of hors d’oeuvres and delivering drinks to a crowd of several dozen guests. Men in suits and women dressed to the nines moved about, chatted. One of the young women stopped at a low table, squatted, and inhaled a line of white powder from a mirror placed for that purpose. Neat rows of the drug, prearranged, offered guests immediate gratification. A large corner bar, manned by another busy servant with a dark suit and bow tie, stood nearby.
I performed a hand-over-hand ascent of the thick chain, aiming for the top floor. The stout wooden columns supporting the tier of verandas offered more shadow, more darkness, and protection from the light cast by the large windows. Standard Delta stuff; I operated in confidence. A recognizable voice moved across the first-floor veranda and stopped my ascent at the second floor.
“Positioning, Ravindu. Never forget that. Remain neutral by all appearances. I have a great deal of experience in such things.”
Luuk Hoebeek. I rested a foot on the second-floor railing and pushed out to view the conversational participants below. Hoebeek addressed an impeccably dressed Creole. Ravindu Tjon, minister of economic development—rotund, imperious, and more than a little dismissive of Hoebeek.
Ravindu waved an irritated hand. “I do not need to be reminded, Luuk. Enough. By the way, an American businessman came by my office today.”
“His name?” Hoebeek asked, leaning in.
“Bolen. A Mr. John Bolen, according to my receptionist. American.”
“And?”
“I declined to see him. Simply too much going on to see people now.”
