The Ethiopian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller (The Secret Cold War Book 2)

by R G Ainslee

  The consulate was only a few blocks away. The taxi turned the corner and I noticed a Peugeot station wagon parked about a block from a building flying an American flag.

  Couldn’t take any chances, it might only be a waiting taxi or… "Changed my mind — don’t stop — go on." I leaned back and slumped down, trying to minimize my profile.

  We passed the Peugeot: the shorter Spanish speaking man with slick hair sat in the driver’s seat, relaxed, with a big cigar. He didn't pay attention to the taxi.

  He seemed to be alone and I carefully scanned the vicinity. Perhaps he’s unaware of his partner's death. What now?

  The driver continued past the consulate to the next intersection. The young man, a slim Kenyan of Arab heritage, glanced back at me in the rearview mirror. "Where do you wish to go?"

  It wouldn’t be safe to return to the hotel. Soon as they found the dead guy, they would know I was in Mombasa. These guys always seemed to be on my heels. How many of them are there? One thing for sure: I’m outnumbered. Gotta to get out of Dodge and fast.

  "Take me to the train station."

  The taxi driver paused for oncoming traffic. I shifted in the seat and glanced back. The Peugeot was still parked against the curb. The occupant puffed away on the cigar. He hadn't noticed me.

  On the sidewalk, a tall Kenyan with dark sunglasses and wearing a safari jacket hurried by. His presence triggered a nod from the man in the car and a hint of recognition from me.

  The cabbie popped the clutch, squealed rubber, and pulled out into traffic at the next opening. A green Peugeot taxi tried to cut us off. The driver honked frantically, swerved left, and joined the mad rush.

  At the next intersection, I glanced at the driver’s rear-view mirror. Several blue Peugeots sat in traffic behind us. A flicker of concern crept in. I refocused and resolved to stay calm.

  The taxi crawled through the midday madness on Haile Selassie Road. There was little time to decide on a course of action. It was a lucky break to have taken the cab. I would have walked into a trap at the consulate. Mombasa was too dangerous, Nairobi the only alternative.

  Must communicate with Santana, Santini, or whoever. They’ll be watching the embassy, gotta chance it anyway.

  Three choices were available: the train, a bus, or an intercity Peugeot taxi. A bus or taxi had the edge in speed, but I wouldn't blend in with the other passengers. The best option, the train, appropriately referred to in the past as The Lunatic Express.

  The cab approached the station at the end of Haile Selassie Road. A quick scan around the area revealed no obvious threats, but someone might be following or even waiting at the station. I wanted to approach carefully and decided to get out several blocks from the entrance.

  "Stop here."

  "It is there, not far!"

  "I have time, want to shop for souvenirs."

  "Aaaaaa! I take you to my brother's shop." The driver’s eyes, wide with anticipation, focused on me in the rearview mirror. "The shop of Mohamed Ali have very good prices, the most prominent selection, the finest quality. Haya, twende! I guarantee you best price in Mombasa."

  "No, thanks, just let me out here." I needed to buy time, not a bunch of tourist junk.

  The driver drove away moderately satisfied with a generous tip. Several blue Peugeots passed by. I tarried at a store window and pretended to shop. The presence of the man parked near the consulate had delivered a shock. I felt vulnerable. No place seemed safe.

  Haile Selassie Road was too busy for comfort, so I ventured down a side street. After wandering around for a quarter hour, I carefully checked my back and returned to the main road two blocks from the station.

  A small souvenir stand sat on the far corner of the first block. I walked up the street towards to the station entrance and halted at the booth. The old man held out a giraffe carving and quoted a price, one hundred shillings.

  I pretended to examine the piece and glanced up the street. A group of young backpackers strolled out the main doorway. A girl pointed towards the arch resembling giant elephant tusks. They cinched up their backpacks and headed off. No one appeared to be watching the entrance.

  I turned to pick up a wooden mask and looked back. Everything seemed normal, only a few people, locals, nobody suspicious. Satisfied no one was following; I rejected the disappointed vendor’s best price and continued up the street.

  Inside the railway station, I strode purposefully in search of the ticket office. After pausing at the newsstand, I glanced back towards the entrance, and waited for the only other customer to leave.

  At the ticket booth, I told the clerk, "One first-class on the next train to Nairobi."

  The obviously bored ticket agent checked the board and peered over the glass with raised eyebrows. "No first-class seats on the afternoon train. Only available seats are second-class."

  Got no choice. Gonna appear strange for the Great White Hunter to be traveling second class, but gotta get out of Mombasa fast.

  "How much for a second-class ticket?"

  "Fifty shillings."

  "I'll take it."

  The clock showed two hours until scheduled departure. The station’s confines left me dangerously exposed. Walking around would only serve to draw attention. I exited the waiting room and found a seat outside. The train stood empty on the track.

  Most people on the platform were locals along with a few tourists and young travelers. A medium sized Kenyan wearing a safari jacket and sporting dark sunglasses seemed vaguely familiar. He might have been one of the men at Lamu. I didn't care to take any chances and wandered back into the station.

  At the newsstand, I stole a quick glance towards the door. The man hadn’t followed me into the lobby. Picked up a newspaper and read the headlines for news on the shifta attack. The big story was about a lion killing a horse in a Nairobi suburb.

  With a copy of the Daily Nation under my arm, I headed for the small restaurant. The place was one-third full, mostly local travelers, and tourists. Sat down at a table next to three Germans and ordered a sandwich and a Tusker.

  A quick scan of the front page revealed nothing interesting. A story on the third page about the Lamu-Malindi bus killings covered no details, although it did note the shifta attack was under investigation. I was all set to turn to the sports section when a headline on an interior page caught my attention: a report on the latest Ethiopian offensive in the Ogaden.

  The headline seemed to have some importance, the context unclear: The Ogaden… Ethiopia, stationed in Ethiopia in the army. Maybe that's it. — No, there's something else. — Have I been in Ethiopia? Can't remember.

  The article offered a brief and uninformative account of a battle. One sentence stood out: Ethiopian forces backed by Cuban volunteers advance on Marda Pass.

  A lightning bolt blasted my brain: Cubans — the men are Cubans.

  I sensed a presence and looked up. The man with dark glasses stood in the door. His eyes concealed behind dark lenses, but I sensed a penetrating and inquisitive gaze. — He’s gotta be with them. — I tried to appear casual and turned to the sports pages. A moment later, a glance out of the corner of my eye — he was gone.

  Cuban volunteers… Yeah right, they're mercenaries for the Soviets. Now I remember. The Russians use Cubans to do their dirty work in Africa.

  A recollection of aircraft buzzing the dhow: They were Soviet, twin jet engines, a Blinder Tu-22, a recon bomber, the other one, four turboprops like a Neptune — no a Soviet IL-38 — the markings, the insignia, Ethiopian … the men, white, not Ethiopian.

  My mind ran a gamut of emotions. They’re Cubans and the Soviets are involved. Why are they after me? Still, I couldn't recall why I had been on the dhow, or how I got there.

  A small group of safari-clad tourists arrived, closely followed by a party of young backpackers. The place started to fill. Relieved, safety in numbers, I ordered another Tusker.

  The guy made a final appearance with twenty minutes to go. He sauntered around and checke
d each table occupied by tourists. On his way out, he studied my face one last time. A quartet of older English travelers paid for their meal and drifted out to the train. I tagged along.

  Half way up the platform, I broke away from the group and boarded my assigned carriage. Inside the door, I looked back, unable to spot the guy with dark sunglasses. My seat was down the narrow corridor in the next to the last section. Five young Kenyans occupied the eight-person compartment.

  I continued to the carriage door and peered back. The man stood near the entrance to the station. Four white tourists hurried through the door, crossed the platform, and entered a first-class carriage. He followed, peeked inside, and returned to his post. He didn't appear to be waiting to board the train. I moved up the corridor to find out if anyone suspicious had boarded.

  A troop of British soldiers in civilian clothes on their way to a base in northern Kenya, occupied the next carriage. A young man with a thick Yorkshire accent spotted my outfit and asked, "Bagged any elephants?" Everyone thought it was hilarious.

  After a phony grin, I said, "The big one got away." They responded with another round of laughter. I don't blend in well as I thought. The next carriage was first-class. The attendant asked for my ticket and refused entry.

  Rebuffed, I returned through the carriage and endured more comments about my hunting prowess. Oh well, maybe I can count on their help if there's trouble.

  Chapter 13 ~ The Train

  Monday, 13 February: Mombasa – Nairobi Train

  The train began to move several minutes after two. I walked along the corridor and checked the other side away from the station — no one except railway workers. Another look along the platform revealed no one suspicious, the man with dark sunglasses nowhere in sight. I made my way to the compartment.

  "Jambo." The Kenyans glanced up with mild surprise and returned the greeting. I sat down, and we uttered a few polite words.

  The Lunatic Express pulled by a diesel locomotive sped along as we left the built-up area. Simple houses put together from sheet metal and lumber scraps gave way to the open countryside. Traffic flashed by on the adjacent Mombasa–Nairobi highway: cars, busses, trucks, and the occasional blue Peugeot.

  My companions spoke quietly among themselves, oblivious to the sights along the way. They occasionally stole a glance in my direction. The tall man sitting next to me looked up from his book. "If I may ask, what country are you from?"

  "America."

  "You are American. What state?"

  "Live in Arizona." At least I remember where I’m from.

  "Arizona — Are you a cowboy?"

  "You might say that, I worked on my uncle's ranch during the summers when I was in school." This caused a murmur and seemed to impress them.

  "Do you know Clint Eastwood?"

  "No, I was a real cowboy. He just plays one in the movies."

  "Do you carry a gun?"

  "No, not any more. I only carried a gun for killing rattlers." I received five questioning looks. "Rattlers are snakes, very poisonous."

  The young man across from me leaned forward. "My brother is a student at Arizona State University. Are you familiar with the track and field team? He is a scholar and the 800-meter champion of Kenya. Do you know of him?"

  "No, I live in a different part of the state."

  "He is famous. His name is Adid Amin. You have not heard of him?"

  "Sorry, my sport is volleyball."

  He exclaimed, "Volleyball." with surprise and spoke to the other men in Swahili. They didn't seem impressed and we continued on our way in silence.

  * * *

  The man across from me lowered his book. "Are you familiar with the history of this railway?"

  "Not too much." I recalled reading about the railroad before my last trip to Kenya from Asmara. I was interested in railroads because, before he died, my father worked for the Southern Pacific at Alamogordo. "Please tell me more."

  He laid his book aside and began to recite the story of the railway. "The English called this railroad the Lunatic Line. Our people named it the Iron Snake. They saw the tracks as evil and refused to work for the English, so the English brought many workers from India. Then…" He smiled. "Something happened to the Asians. They started to disappear. Do you know why?"

  "Seem to remember they had a problem with lions."

  "Exactly, but they were not lions, they were people who became lions."

  "People — how did they become lions?"

  The short thin man dressed in a work uniform said, "Strong magic, very strong magic."

  "Yes," replied the storyteller, "they became lions to stop the English from building the railway. They would come to the camps and drag workers from the tents. More than one hundred workers died. Work stopped. Our people turned into lions, freedom fighters against imperialism."

  I lacked a good reply. His story was too fantastic. It was bizarre the obviously educated young men believed something so strange and far-fetched. In any case, I didn't feel like debating the point, had bigger problems to deal with.

  The miles rolled by, the African plains unfolded before my eyes, and the image of lions attacking the train played through my mind. I was worried. It was a long way to Nairobi, and we had stops along the way. The Cubans might be waiting at any one. A frightful thought — trapped on the train.

  Faint memories surfaced: growing up, the army, and working at Huachuca. Telling the doctor about my tragedy opened the door to the past, but just a little. Recent events remained elusive. The Cubans were after me, that was clear, but I still didn’t know why. I had been on a dhow. Was it a vacation trip, or was there another reason? And the Russian aircraft… were they looking for me too? It didn’t make sense.

  * * *

  The Lunatic Express rolled on across the miles, upcountry towards Nairobi. The East African landscape reminiscent of my native New Mexico: brushy plains interspersed with dry arroyos. Instead of pronghorn antelope, the occasional Thompson's Gazelle raced in the distance. The rustic scene produced a strange sensation of peace and a false sense of security.

  The train slowed as we approached a town. A band of children ran beside the carriage. One larger boy almost caught up, but faltered, not able to jump aboard. After we rolled to a stop, I walked to the end of the car. Several people waited on the platform, mostly locals, and a white couple with tan safari outfits and big hats, nothing unusual.

  Vendors paced up and down, hawking local food items: fruit, sandwiches, and the like. New passengers boarded the train. Workers loaded burlap sacks into the baggage car. No one else approached the train. The conductor walked by, checked his watch, paused a moment, and sounded a shrill note on his whistle. The engineer responded with a blast on the diesel horn.

  The locomotive started to move, the carriages jolted as couplers took up the slack. I relaxed, thinking I was in the clear. At the last moment, a thin tough looking black man sprinted from the station. He wore dark sunglasses, a cheap blue suit, and safari boots. Didn’t recognize him, but did recognize the type, a typical third world secret police goon.

  The man caught up with the train, made a running jump to the steps of the last carriage, and disappeared from view. It wouldn't take long to work his way up to my carriage near the middle of the train. There was no place to hide. Might hide in the toilet, but that would be too obvious if he tried to check it. My best bet was to sit tight and rely on the crowded train for protection.

  Five minutes later, he entered our carriage. From my seat, I watched him inch down the corridor and hesitate at each section. Outside my compartment, the man paused and stared straight at me without a glance at the others. Despite his small size, he gave the impression of being able to handle himself in an altercation, a scar on his cheek attested to his experience.

  I asked, "Do you know what the next station is?" This surprised him, and his only response was to shake his head. He glanced at my companions and back at me. I was unable to see his eyes through the dark lenses. Nevertheless, so
mething evil penetrated the glass. He turned and continued his search.

  "Bad man," exclaimed the tall young man.

  "Why?"

  "He is from the north, they are not good people."

  I said, "A shifta, no doubt." The men all agreed.

  The carriage door closed with a bang. I rose to my feet and followed. The man passed through the next car holding the soldiers and disappeared unimpeded into first class.

  I returned to my seat and pondered the new development. He was obviously looking for someone. My worst fears confirmed. The train had become a trap.

  A half-hour later, the man came back, paused, and gave me another quick once over. I ignored him, and he went back to the far carriage. From the expression on his face, it was obvious I was on his list of suspects.

  Long way to Nairobi, gonna have to stay awake. Maybe these guys will help if — no, can’t involve anyone else. Wait a minute, what if he gets off and telegraphs up the line? What if… there’s just too many what if’s. Gotta stay calm.

  * * *

  The past hour had been stressful as I waited for the thin man’s return or for something to happen. He hadn’t re-appeared, and I began to wonder if I was too paranoid. I was tempted to search for him but decided it would only serve to raise his suspicions, if indeed he was searching for me.

  Worried that he would leave the train and call the Cubans, I asked, "What’s the next stop?"

  Without hesitation, two of the men answered simultaneously, "Voi."

  The man wearing glasses said, "Yes, Voi is the main entrance to the Tsavo National Park, one of the world's largest wildlife sanctuaries."

  Soon giraffes and an occasional elephant became visible in the thorn tree scrub. I pointed out to my companions, "Don't see any lions."

  No one responded, and we continued in silence. One of the men produced a deck of cards.

  The tall young man asked, "Do you follow football?"

  "Sure, I'm a Denver Bronco fan."

  "I mean real football, the English First Division."

  I smiled. "We call it soccer. Yes, I've been to one match, several years ago, in Germany, Eintracht Frankfurt versus FC Kaiserslautern. I forget the score."