by Harold Coyle
“So why’d this Harold dude and his guys start talking French?”
Somewhere far back in the recesses of his cranium, J. J. Johnson badly wanted to scream.
“Because they were frigging conquered, that’s why! Besides, like I said, Harold was KIA. So William turned England into a Norman kind of government. Over a few centuries a lot of French words became English.”
“Well that’s pretty gnarly.”
Jeremy Johnson had no response to that observation.
N’DJAMENA
To say that the home team won decisively would have been gross understatement. Chad: eleven. America: three.
The SSI clients had laid out a soccer field one hundred meters long by fifty meters wide, with markings scratched in the packed dirt. The Americans had trouble getting their brains around the game’s extreme flexibility, with teams composed anything from seven to eleven players. Since SSI could only field six willing warriors—they steadfastly refused to allow Martha Whitney on the team—the locals convinced two Foreign Legionnaires into an ad-hoc alliance. The Americans and “French,” actually an Algerian and a Spaniard, elected J. J. Johnson team captain on the basis of his previous Legion service.
Johnson had his linguistic hands full, shouting directions alternately in English and French. At one point, with the score at four-zip, he had to deliver an earnest lecture to Bosco who in frustration had picked up the ball and drop-kicked it into the Chadian net from inside the penalty line.
The Spaniard was drafted as SSI goalie, and Caporal Moratinos did tolerably well considering that four of the opposition goals were scored on free kicks or penalties.
That concluded the first forty-five-minute period. Since it was painfully obvious that the Western Allies were not going to narrow the gap, a near unanimous decision was reached: cancel the second half and get on with the barbecue.
Johnson shook hands with Sergeant Kawlabi, captain of the Specialty Battalion team. They were briefly joined by Sergeant Major Bawoyeu who had served as head referee aided by two Legionnaires. Any concern about his impartiality had dissipated within minutes of the starting whistle—clearly the Chadians required no such assistance in achieving a decisive victory.
Bawoyeu was all toothy bonhomie. “Your team did well, considering how little the men have played,” he offered graciously.
“Thank you, Adjutant,” Johnson replied. “But I doubt that many of them are ready for a rematch.”
Johnson turned toward the sidelines and saw Brezyinski sitting on the ground. Chris Nissen was tending a serious bruise on the paratrooper’s left knee. “What do you think, Doc? He gonna live?”
Nissen glanced up at Johnson. “Well, like we say at Bragg. I may not be the best doctor around, but I reckon I’m the best practicing without a license. It’s going to swell if I don’t pack some ice on it right away.”
“What happened, Breeze?”
Brezyinski waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, that big ape tripped me.” He indicated a husky six-foot soldier who glanced in their direction and failed utterly to conceal a smile.
“I’d think you Eighty-second guys would know all about falling down. What do you call it? The parachute landing roll?”
Breezy grunted. “Fall. But you ever try to do a PLF with six goons crowding all around you?”
“Well, consider the big picture. It’s in a good cause. After all, we’ve been lording it over these guys, basically showing them how little they know. It’s only fair that they get to show us something.”
Breezy gave an exaggerated grimace. “Easy for you to say, dude. Your picture—my knee!”
While Nissen helped the ambulatory casualty to the sidelines, Johnson was approached by his newfound Legion friends, all of whom understood the significance of the obscure date 27 April 1832. They found that they had heard of some of the same people, which was not surprising. Though La Legion contained troops from seventeen nations, with only eight thousand men, there was bound to be some overlap.
Standing nearby, Bosco observed the Legionnaires—current and past—bonding with one another. They recounted the training and the only way out: climbing the rock, ringing the bell to announce they had enough, but not before spending twenty-four hours in jail before release.
“Unwavering solidarity—leave no one behind!” chanted Caporal Moratinos.
Johnson seemed almost sentimental. “I remember what Caporal Chef Calmy said, ‘Les épreuves et les tribulations sont normaux dans la vie—la douleur est facultative. Pour éviter de souffrir, vous apprenez simplement à vous conformer.’”
“Which means?” Bosco spoke nothing but English.
“Trials and tribulations are normal in life—suffering is optional. To avoid suffering, you merely learn to conform.”
“It’s still the same,” the Spaniard offered. “Hours and hours of absurd detail: cleaning and ironing; pleats within a millimeter of specifications.”
Once they had satisfied one another with arcane gestures and slogans, the men fell into an easy comradeship cemented by off-key rendering of the patient, almost ponderous marching song:
Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin
Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorrains,
Pour les Belges, y en a plus …
“What’s that?” Bosco asked.
Johnson interrupted the songfest just long enough to explain. “It’s the Legion’s most famous song, “Le Boudin.” It means ‘blood sausage’ and says something about almost everybody: Alsatians, Swiss, Lorraines, even Belgians.” He thought a moment. “Especially Belgians. Not very complimentary, actually.”
Bosco munched a sandwich that he assumed was pork, never considering that he was the guest of a passel of Muslims. Johnson reckoned it was lamb or goat, but decided not to educate his benighted friend. “Sounds way too slow for a march,” Bosco declared.
“Well, in the Legion we take our time with those things.”
Bosco espied Martha Whitney approaching and decided to make himself scarce. His departure allowed him to resume his Pro Patria discussion.
Corporal Moratinos regarded the other Americans. “You probably do not have the kind of morale like La Legion,” he ventured. “That is, the sense of unity.”
“Oh, we have good morale,” Johnson replied. “Our company’s president is a really fine man, a retired admiral. He really takes care of his people.”
The Spaniard absorbed that sentiment, then asked, “What do you make of the French firm? It has several ex-Legionnaires.”
Johnson cocked his head. “What firm is that?”
Moratinos seemed surprised. “You have not heard of Groupe FGN? It’s probably the biggest security contractor in the country.”
“No, not a word. What do they do?”
The Legionnaire rolled his eyes in exaggeration. “What don’t they do?” He looked left and right, as if confirming the need for secrecy. “Come let’s take a short walk, mon ami. You should know about a man named Marcel Hurtubise.”
28
SSI COMPOUND
Steve Lee turned from his IBM ThinkPad and greeted his visitors. “Hi, guys. C’mon in.”
Dan Foyte, Jeremy Johnson, and Martha Whitney shoe-horned themselves into the small office that the Chadians had provided for SSI’s administrative use. Johnson gallantly offered the vacant chair to Whitney, who steadfastly refused the gesture. “No thanks, J. J. honey. I may be fat but I can still stand up.” She gave him a nudge in the ribs.
Lee exchanged male-bonding glances with Johnson and Foyte, then got down to business. “After J. J. mentioned the Foreign Legion’s information on Groupe FGN, I checked back with headquarters in Arlington. We had a heads-up that a couple of French outfits were working here but we didn’t know what they were doing. Well, it appears that this Hurtubise character got rid of the competition by one means or another. Marsh Wilmont and Frank Leopold think we should regard him as hostile.”
“How’s he a threat to us?” asked Foyte.
“I mean, he’s not competing for our contract.”
“No, but there’s some interesting background info on him. I e-mailed David Dare and his spooks to look into him and they found some interesting stuff. He’s a pro, all right. National service 1982–84, Foreign Legion 1986–91, freelance for a while, then joined FGN. Evidently he was going to be excommunicated at one point but he beat the wrap. That puts him in pretty exclusive company because the research guys only found about fifteen people who were dumped by the Catholic Church in the twentieth century, including Castro and Juan Péron.”
Whitney gasped aloud. “My God, what’d he do?”
“It’s not clear, but apparently he took some hostages in a church or monastery in Burundi when he was freelancing several years ago. Some of them, including monks or nuns, were killed in the fighting and he was held responsible. My guess is that he wasn’t declared anathema because nobody could prove that he gave the order.”
“All right,” Foyte replied. “He’s a gold-plated bastard. But like I said, what’s our interest in him?”
Lee nodded to Johnson, who took the hint. “The Legionnaires I talked to all said pretty much the same thing. Hurtubise is all about results. He just doesn’t care who gets trampled as long as he gets what he wants. It can’t be proven, but it’s the next thing to certain that he or his people got rid of the other French PMC guys.” Johnson paused for emphasis. “If this FGN outfit starts to regard us as competition in any way, it could mean big trouble.”
“What’s FGN doing here, anyway?” Whitney asked.
Lee shot her a grin. “Bingo—the sixty-four-franc question. As Gunny says, we’re not doing the same thing—at least it looks as if Hurtubise and company aren’t involved in training. The most we can find out right now is some sort of security work. Not just here in the capital but up along the border as well.”
Foyte asked, “Where are they based?”
“They have an address near the French embassy but apparently that’s just a room with a phone and a mail drop. Near as I can tell so far, they move around a lot, in and out of the city. I’ve asked Roosevelt to see what he can find, but he’s pretty high-profile, being an attaché.” Lee turned back to Whitney. “Martha, I’d like you to snoop around, ask some discreet questions and see what you can learn. Don’t risk drawing attention to yourself, but maybe develop some contacts in our embassy and theirs.”
“Will do, Maje. I done already got a cover as a stenographer.”
Johnson looked at her. “I didn’t know you can take dictation.”
She waved a bejeweled hand at him. “Honey, I can’t write a word in that chicken-scratchy text. But I remember conversations for quite a while afterward. I can write ’em down or use a recorder.” She winked broadly. “Mind like a platinum trap.”
“Uh, I think that’s steel trap,” Johnson replied.
“Well, sweet cheeks, some folks got steel minds and some of us got platinum.”
She waved bye-bye and strode out of the room, humming “Hello, Dolly!”
29
AOZOU STRIP
The metallic cacophony was grating to refined ears. Grinding gears, scraping noises, and diesel engines were not the ambience either of the observers ordinarily preferred. But they both acknowledged that occasionally one had to endure unpleasant surroundings in order to reap the potential benefit.
Overlooking the open pit, Felix Moungar and Marcel Hurtubise took in the machinery and surveyed the surroundings. Other than the dilapidated huts that once housed the workforce, they were satisfied with what they saw.
“There has been much progress since our last inspection,” the government man offered. “I trust that your team will be able to maintain security for the time required.”
Hurtubise nodded. “My men are already moving in. Some of them may grumble about living in tents, but they understand the need for secrecy.” His meaning was easily grasped: the less attention drawn to the once abandoned mine, the better. Construction of even temporary quarters would tell any observers that something beyond routine maintenance was under way.
Moungar shrugged in indifference. The discomfort of a dozen foreign mercenaries was of little concern to him as long as they maintained order and secrecy for the duration of the renewed mining. Still, conditions in the Sahara were strenuous at the best of times: sand that found its way into every orifice, beastly heat, and furious winds.
But Hurtubise had greater concerns. He suspected that one or two people at the embassy in N’Djamena might have grown leery of his true allegiance—an entity that had little to do with the current crop of Paris politicians—but if he acted fast enough, his goal would be achieved and he could finally retire. Somewhere suitable both to Gabrielle and himself. Switzerland was nice …
Hurtubise forced his attention back to the job at hand. He asked, “What of the yellow cake processing?”
Moungar unzipped a wry grin. “It goes slowly but steadily, my friend. We should have enough for a shipment in a week or so. After that, as much as your … customers … can manage.”
“Well, as you know, they do not require a great deal. Just as long as the shipments get sent by the deadline, we will both be wealthy.”
The African grinned again. “Mon ami, I am already wealthy by my country’s standards. I intend to be wealthy by your standards.”
As they walked around the periphery of the mine, the unlikely partners exchanged concerns. Since Groupe FGN was hired to provide security, Hurtubise looked inward as well as outward. “Felix, tell me again about the workers you have hired. How reliable are they? Some of them are bound to talk about their time here.”
The African waved a dismissive hand. “Naturally, my associates and I would prefer that none of them discuss their work. But we are going to keep them busy with minor chores after the shipment. Nobody will be permitted to leave until I know that the yellow cake has reached its trans-shipment point.”
The Frenchman regarded his colleague with renewed confidence. In his experience, most Africans were so nearsighted that they seldom thought beyond the next paycheck, or even the next meal. But knowing who was funding the project made a difference as well. Deep pockets combined with astute planning formed a powerful inducement. “What do you propose if some workers get too eager to spend their pay and want to leave prematurely?”
Moungar gave the ghost of a smile. “Why, I propose to let your men handle that problem.”
Marcel Hurtubise’s own smile came to life, far more than a ghost. “C’est bien, mon ami.”
N’DJAMENA
Paul Deladier nudged his partner. “There she is.”
Gabrielle ran a quick assessment of her target. A black American woman, mid to late forties, on the heavy side. But she seemed aware of her surroundings. Gabrielle’s brain defaulted to her years on the street before Marcel found her. This woman would not be an easy mark: alert, large, and probably strong. An experienced mugger or strong-arm bandit would look elsewhere.
Gabrielle Tixier was not looking for a snatch and grab purse theft. She was after something more difficult—information.
It had been a long wait outside the American compound, but not entirely unpleasant. Gabrielle and Paul had played the role of flirtatious young Europeans visiting an exotic land, and despite his absence of deodorant on occasion, Gabrielle found the well-built Gascon a tolerable companion. She knew that Marcel would understand the tactical reason for her arms around Deladier’s neck.
She hoped he would understand.
Gabrielle gave Deladier a not so quick kiss on the cheek and waved as he turned to go. In truth, he would duck into a vendor’s stall about twenty meters away.
After all, the American might have a partner, too.
Feigning interest in some fruit, Deladier watched the young woman walk toward her intercept point. Not quite thirty, Gabrielle always looked good from behind, especially wearing tight jeans. He suspected that her saucy walk was more calculated than natural, but the effect was pleasing to ma
les on at least two continents.
Deladier purchased some dates and leaned back to enjoy them without looking directly at Martha Whitney. She was approaching him on the opposite side of the street, making her way through pedestrian traffic, but he did not want to be recognized as the young man who had bummed a cigarette a few days before.
Gabrielle suddenly turned right, sprinted in front of an ancient Citroën taxi, and feigned frustration at the seeming near miss. The driver laid on the horn, prompting a Gallic snit expressed in blunt Parisian French unsuited for a well brought up young lady.
Stepping to the sidewalk, purposefully looking behind her, Gabrielle Tixier collided with Martha Whitney.
From his stall, Deladier admired the tradecraft. Even to his experienced eyes, the incident appeared accidental, and he could almost read the young woman’s lips, profusely apologizing to the older lady.
In less than four minutes by his imitation Rolex, Deladier catalogued Tixier’s progress: from collision to apology to discussion to an interval in a tea shop.
She’s quite good, Deladier acknowledged.
He waited long enough to confirm there was no tail for the American, then began the long walk to the apartment.
Most of the way back he visualized Gabrielle’s derriere just beyond arm’s reach.
30
SSI COMPOUND
“So who are they working for?” Lee asked.
Roosevelt consulted his notes. “Well, part of their operation is legit. At least it looks that way. They have several people doing extracurricular security work for the French embassy and some other agencies. VIP escort, that sort of thing.”
“Okay,” Lee replied. “That makes sense. Genuine work to cover the covert stuff.”
“You got it. Thing is, though, from what our people can tell, FGN’s other clients are not related to the French embassy or even the French government. They seem to have business connections all over the Middle East.”
“Like who?”
The attaché flipped through his pad. “Like this guy, for instance. Mohammed al Fasari. Big import-export guy with outlets from here to there: Rome, Cyprus, Cairo, Beirut, Damascus, Baghdad. Even Tehran.”
