by Vince Milam
“Musa Kibir’s clan?”
“Indeed.”
“This is fantastic, Jules. Fantastic.”
I meant it. One of our great challenges lay in finding the SOB. Well, there he was. Somewhere among those stony walls and connected narrow walkways. Both good news and bad news from a tactical perspective, but such discussions would wait for the team’s input. The next several pages contained full-face photos.
“The first three, our man of the hour. Musa Kibir,” she said. “Subsequent photographs show his clan lieutenants. Three of them. I shall assist your mathematical endeavors. Four targets in total. Four Janjaweed leaders.”
“Any knowledge of the lieutenants’ whereabouts? Do they hang with Kibir?”
“Unknown. Perhaps, perhaps not. At a minimum, one would think they’d meet with regularity.”
I digested the photos. Four men on the other side of the world. Killers, rapists, torturers. Men who’d supported our bounty for far too long. Men who threatened my family. Dead men. They just didn’t know it yet.
“And it must be said that their murderous ways continue to this day,” Jules added. “Less prevalent than in the past, perhaps. But consistent. They still leave behind a charnel house after one of their raids.”
“This is excellent, Jules. Again, thank you.”
She wafted a dismissive hand. “Allow us to discuss logistics,” she said. “Get to Malta.”
“Malta?”
“A small island nation in the Mediterranean.”
“Yeah, I know. But I thought about hitching a ride to Goz Beïda with one of the NGO transports. The refugee camps around there are still crammed. The NGOs fly in food and medicine and personnel all the time. From Italy and Greece and Egypt.”
“I have explored such lines of transport. It is not feasible. For a variety of reasons.”
“Such as? I mean, otherwise we rely on one jackleg outfit after the next to get us there.”
She raised an eyebrow, and her voice insinuated offense.
“Beggars, choosers, Mr. Lee.”
“I’m not casting aspersions on your contacts. Not in any way. But four well-armed men getting to Goz Beïda without an NGO’s cover will be tough.”
“I believe you will find my logistical plan viable. Jackleg or not.”
She feigned hurt, something I’d seen often enough before. But we knew each other too well for me to buy it or for her to expect me to.
“I guess what I’m saying is why not try NGOs first? Maybe not the Red Cross or Oxfam’s flights in, but there are plenty of others.”
“I have done so. A thorough endeavor over a short time frame. The last ten hours, in fact. If you wish to take on such an endeavor yourself, Inspector Clouseau, be my guest.”
“Okay, okay. No offense meant. Mind telling me why it fails as a viable logistics route?”
“It is rather simple. Any NGO will lose its funding if found to support military activities. Period. And try as you might, you and your cohorts do not—in either appearance or attitude—pass for relief workers. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And if appearance and attitude weren’t a sufficient deterrent toward a ride-along, any whiff of weaponry among you aged desperados would be.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“In addition, did the four of you plan on stealing camels once on-site?”
“No.”
“So you will also require ground transport. How well have you thought this out, Marco Polo?”
“Not well. I suppose I hoped for Company help. So we wouldn’t have to go it alone.”
“You are not alone, dear. This wretched creature before you can be, when the occasion arises, quite formidable.”
I smiled. She was right as rain. Jules of the Clubhouse remained a potent ally. Beyond potent on occasion. And I appreciated it, big time, and told her so. But it didn’t dismiss my concerns over getting to Goz Beïda. It required a rugged transport aircraft. The runway was rough clay, not asphalt or concrete. I viewed her envelope’s next page.
“Okay. A contact in Malta,” I said.
“Indeed. The Maltese and Libyans have a long and storied relationship.”
I didn’t like where this was headed. Not one little bit.
“Okay. We land in Malta. What’s this fellow’s contribution?”
“The Maltese gentleman arranges regular cargo and personnel flights—via jet, I might add—to the six functioning airports still operational within Libya.”
“Libya.”
“Yes.”
“Umm, Jules, I’m not questioning you. But Libya is a mess. They have this little fandango called a civil war going on.”
“Which spells opportunity for the likes of us.”
“So we land in Libya. Where they’re shooting at each other. With military-grade weapons.”
“Precisely your comfort zone. And your comrades’. You will arrange a flight with the Maltese gentleman. Malta to the town of Ghadames. It lies deep within Libya, far from the major coastal cities of Tripoli or Benghazi. An ancient oasis town. Quite lovely, I would imagine.”
“Yeah. Lovely.”
“Ghadames is your staging destination. Next page, dear.”
I could charter a jet, a top-of-the-line Gulfstream, and fly us from the US to Malta. No problem. And I could buy into the concept of a charter jet from Malta to a godforsaken Libyan village. No legit charter service would go there, but if this cat in Malta could do it, fine. It was the issue of standing around in the middle of nowhere, Libya, as a staging area. It wasn’t the language barrier—I spoke Arabic—but the isolation, the sore thumb aspect of four gringos exposed while civil war raged around us. Jules contended it spelled opportunity. It spelled, among other things, one helluva sales job to Marcus, Bo, and Catch. Well, maybe not Catch. Or Bo. But Marcus, for sure.
The next page displayed the contact information and a photograph of an Ahmed Maziq. Our fixer. A staging area held many possibilities. Among them, transport and armament and supplies. So, as per Jules’s plan, everything hinged on this cat Maziq in an ancient oasis town deep in war-torn Libya. Great. Just freakin’ great.
“Are you positive about those NGOs unable to provide us a lift?”
“Let us not revisit the more than unlikely. I have recommended Mr. Maziq’s services more than once. The results have been positive.”
“So we’re clear, he’ll arrange a cargo flight to Goz Beïda. Land on a clay runway. Prior to the flight, he’ll supply us with weapons. Modern weapons. And a vehicle. A vehicle that will be stowed inside the cargo aircraft. Have I got this right?”
“He prefers Euros, although US dollars will also work. Your retainer fee will be transferred into his designated account. Once there, additional payment in cash, of course. I would suggest you begin arrangements immediately.”
“So this spot in Libya. Ghadames. Is it some type of crossroads? I mean, how does he operate?”
“One may call it an area in flux. A quite contentious area. The combative players are the Libyan forces and independent Tuareg troops. The Tuaregs are indigenous Berbers. And as an area highly contended, it offers ample opportunity.”
“For high-quality weapons. And a vehicle. And a cargo aircraft to fly us and our kit to Goz Beïda.”
“Don’t be pedantic. Again, I have recommended Mr. Maziq’s services to others, with positive feedback.”
Her voice held irritation at having to repeat her earlier contention that Maziq offered viable services. I moved on.
“From Ghadames, we fly to Goz Beïda,” I said.
“Indeed. At such a point, I am of little assistance. But you and your fellow travelers are more than capable of managing things from there.”
Oh, man. I prepared to beg, not ask, Marilyn Townsend for help. The Company could supply us and deliver us to Goz Beïda. They’d proven able to in the past. A straight shot from Italy or Greece. US weapons and solid vehicles. The alternative—fraught with risk. Big time. I could visualize our asses stranded in Libya’s back
country. A long, long way from anywhere. Oh, man.
An exit strategy was less of a concern, and one Jules saw little point addressing. If we were killed during our assault on Musa Kibir’s Janjaweed stronghold, exit strategies became moot. If successful, our goal was simple: get our butts back to Goz Beïda. From there we could ditch the weapons and hitch a ride out with an NGO, even if it entailed putting a pistol against the head of an NGO cargo pilot. So exiting Chad sat near the bottom of my concerns. It was the convoluted approach to getting there, as represented through the stack of papers I held, that sat closer to the top. Man, I hoped Townsend would prove amenable to lending a hand.
I slid the documents back into the envelope. At least we had Kibir’s stronghold identified. And his three prime lieutenants. The Clubhouse had come through with those, big time. The rest, the logistics, hinged on too many variables. But if Townsend told me to piss up a rope, well, again—beggars, choosers. I thanked Jules for the information with full sincerity. Kibir’s location alone had been worth the Clubhouse visit.
“You are quite welcome. A challenging adventure, to be sure, although it contains tremendous upside potential. Now, tell me what else has happened in your world.”
A gear change, expected, as tidbits and rumors and activities—fodder for the Clubhouse—were revealed. Standard operating procedure during a visit with Jules.
“A Chinese spook approached me in Hawaii.”
“Ah. Related to your endeavors with Mr. Krupp, I assume?”
“Yeah. He knew about me. I didn’t travel under an assumed name, so my arrival dinged a few bells in their espionage system.”
Jules dropped her spent cigar into an under-the-desk wastebasket and produced another from a desk drawer. She spun the sealed end against the desktop-embedded knife as she talked.
“And what, pray tell, was the gist of the conversation?”
“He had concerns. The Chicoms view me as a disruptive force.”
“How might one reach such a conclusion?” She chuckled and lit the fresh cigar. “It boggles the mind.”
“Yeah, well, he informed me they had invested a great deal in Krupp’s endeavors. They’re partners for China’s social credit system.”
Old news for Jules, but worth repeating. She’d keep an eagle eye on any Chinese activities regarding yours truly.
“Did the gentleman happen to leave you his contact information?”
“Not this time.”
“A pity. Now, referencing the peculiar world you and I occupy, it should be noted the Chinese are also invested in Sudan. They do operate that sad place’s oil industry.”
“Yeah. And turned a blind eye toward the Janjaweed’s slaughter of entire villages. Hell, they may have supported the efforts.”
“Hmm.”
She puffed, blew a few more smoke rings. Jules knew a lot more than she’d reveal at the moment, including the inner workings of Chinese and Russian involvement in Sudan. Clubhouse proprietary intel.
“What else, dear?”
“I met a woman in Hawaii. Really like her. Jess Rossi, a PI from Charlotte.”
I spilled those beans under the rubric of full disclosure. Ensured the bond of trust between Jules and I remained solid. She’d gather background on Jess and store it in the Case Lee mental file. Not as leverage—at least I hoped not—but rather as another data point related to her assistance toward my endeavors, my life. I truly believed Jules had a soft spot for me. And I toward her.
“Hawaii?”
“Yeah, she’s old college buddies with Krupp’s estranged wife, Joanna. Flew out there to, well, hold Joanna’s hand during the process.”
“Ah.”
More Clubhouse data points, more grist for the connections mill.
“Is Ms. Rossi an amour?”
“Not hardly. She brushed against those two hitters in Hawaii. She has inferred my subsequent actions with them.”
“A poor mating ritual.”
“To say the least. Anyway, when I get back, I’ll make an attempt at rekindling whatever weak flame we had working. Long odds at this point.”
“Again, a pity. I have often wished you would find a solid mate. Particularly at your age.”
She smiled.
“You’re not going to let the over-the-hill bit go, are you?”
She feigned surprise and wafted a dismissive hand.
“There is one last thing,” I continued. “A favor.”
“Of course.”
“If I don’t make it, let Mom know.”
Her entire countenance changed. She leaned forward, forearms on the desk. The cigar hand draped over the resting shotgun. Her face filled with pure empathy and reflected a personal connection we hadn’t shared before.
“Is there no one else?”
“Only if Marcus, Bo, or Catch make it and I don’t. They’ll handle it then. But I’m talking about if none of us make it. So I’ll ask for the entire team.”
She stared unblinking for a moment, followed with a slow and sincere nod. I gave her contact information for Catch’s partner, Willa. And JJ, Bo’s FBI girlfriend, although she would have already had JJ’s info stored away. And Marcus’s on and off again girlfriend’s contact information in Montana.
“I can’t thank you enough for this, Jules. It means a lot. More than you’ll ever know. It’ll be a relief knowing someone has us covered. Just in case.”
“An endeavor I pray will never be performed. But you have lived on the razor’s edge, dear boy, far too long. Never more so than this current effort. So I have a reciprocal favor to ask.”
“Anything.”
“Come back alive. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
Chapter 24
The coffeehouse occupied an out-of-the-way spot along a tree-lined McLean neighborhood. CIA headquarters were a short distance away. The shop was not crowded. People fought traffic during their commute home, with coffee far down the priority list. The decor was neighborhood coffee shop—small wooden tables and chairs, retro Marilyn Monroe and James Dean posters, local watercolors of casual figures and pastoral scenes. And a sprinkle of already arrived spooks.
I showed up early and scoped the customer base. Two young people, boy and girl, occupied one table. Their laptops open as social objects, diversions, while they chatted. Near them, a woman held a Kindle with a steaming coffee cup at her elbow. Her jacket hid, no doubt, a submachine gun. Long hair hid the coiled wire that led to her earpiece. Her smile my way was meant as a friendly hello from a random fellow customer. I responded with a grim chin lift, not buying it for a second. Ruse exposed, she dropped the smile and the Kindle, and focused on my every move.
Another corner held a spook with no artifice in his intentions—to protect the world’s leading spy. His suit jacket displayed a submachine gun’s telltale bulge, and his no-nonsense stare my way was unblinking and borderline hostile. A third spook, behind the counter with the barista, wore an apron covering another weapon’s outline. It looked ridiculous, earpiece and coiled wire on full display. He futzed with a few coffee cups while casting glances toward me.
“Medium roast, no cream, no sweetener,” I said to the barista. “And I’d like you to make it, please. I’ll watch.”
The young lady shrugged, the request a strange notion from another strange customer. As she made the coffee, I directed a comment at apron guy.
“Helluva disguise, bud. Had me fooled.”
He shot me a casual middle finger. Townsend’s personal protection force would have been appraised of my past refusals to disarm prior to meeting the director. My jacket hid the Glock tucked inside the waistband of my jeans. It broke every rule in their book. Hostility and resentment were to be expected. No point dancing around it with fake smiles. Coffee in hand, I chose a small table and sat with my back against the wall. The two young people continued chatting, oblivious to their immediate surroundings. The coffee and interior warmth were welcoming, and I halfway relaxed.
The free-swinging doorbe
ll tinkled, and another spook entered. Followed by Marilyn Townsend. Another spook followed her. She’d aged since we’d last met, not all that long ago. It had been a terse discussion regarding events related to my Caribbean job.
Gray hair close-cropped, stress lines around her eyes and mouth. She still walked with a cane, a life addition ever since she caught a bullet during a field ops years ago. Townsend placed her coffee order with one of her bodyguards and turned toward me. I stood as she approached.
“Director.”
“Mr. Lee.”
We didn’t shake hands. She rested her cane against the table and sat. High odds the cane was weaponized. She loosened her coat and stared. I sipped coffee. Our little greeting ritual completed, I started the conversation, as always.
“Musa Kibir.”
“Why?”
She understood full well my terminal intent regarding Kibir, gleaned from our earlier brief conversation. No explanation or elaboration required. Whether or not she had prior knowledge of him as the bounty master was unknown. And would remain so.
“The bounty.”
“The four of you are engaged in this endeavor?”
“Yes.”
Her face softened.
“How are Misters Johnson, Dickerson, and Hernandez? It has been a while.”
A brief but mutual mental musing ensued. Snippets of past multiple Delta Force missions we’d undertaken with the Company. With Marilyn Townsend.
“They’re fine. And each sends you his regards.”
“Please reciprocate for me.”
“Of course.”
Her coffee arrived courtesy of the spook in the apron. She took her time stirring in cream and sugar. A raised hand indicated apron guy should leave us alone. He did.
“Is it asking too much for you to share your funding source discovery?” she asked.
In a more typical setting, I’d share damn little. The Company, and Townsend, had shown a potent predilection toward leveraging whatever information I provided. Leveraged often in a manner that caused nothing but trouble for Case Lee Inc. But the convoluted and, contrary to Jules’s protests, jackleg venture regarding our arrival in Chad prompted a more open kimono than normal. Company assistance was paramount at the moment.
