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

by R G Ainslee

  "Non!" Her face steeled in a mask of determination. "I come with you."

  "Please." Must be the language barrier. "They might be watching. Do you understand?"

  She shook her head. "Ne me quitte pas … do not leave me … Ne me quitte pas."

  "You'll be safer here. Please."

  She sat, eyes downcast, and after a few moments whispered, "You come back?"

  "Sure, but, if for some reason, I don't, go to the French embassy." I grasped her hand. "Do you understand? ¿Comprende?

  Her eyebrows lifted, and an amused smile emerged. "Oui, je comprends."

  The waiter brought our sandwiches and we ate in silence as I planned my next move. First the embassy and hopefully some extra cash for a room. Whoa, wait a minute. How's this nun business gonna affect… A glance at Lisette, our eyes met. She said I was her amando, or whatever. Her delicate smile triggered a moment of anticipation. Guess I'll have to cross that bridge when I come to it. And then… didn't have a then.

  We made small talk, not venturing to speak of the future. At least Lisette seemed to accept the idea of waiting in the bar and gently kissed me on the cheek before I left.

  * * *

  The sidewalk teemed with afternoon pedestrian traffic. The American embassy was an easy stroll down City Hall Way. My senses on high alert, ready for anything even remotely suspicious. At each corner, I surveyed the situation. Aside from a few street vendors, everyone hurried along, going about their business.

  Just to be cautious, I strolled down Wabera Street across from the embassy to the next intersection, crossed over, and made my way back. Four safari-clad tourists strode by. I fell in behind and followed as they passed through the entrance.

  The reception area was half-full: Americans, Kenyans, and one Japanese man. A local Kenyan woman sat at the front desk.

  "May we help you?"

  "Need to speak to Mr. Santini."

  She examined her directory and politely intoned, "Sorry, he is not listed."

  "Could I speak to someone else?"

  "Yes, you may meet with a consular officer."

  She instructed me to take a seat. I chose a chair near the far corner. Safe at last, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief, the ordeal behind me.

  The two men’s deaths hung over me. I had never killed a man before, not even in the war, never fired a shot in anger. True, they had murdered those men and might have killed me, but it bothered me nevertheless.

  The problem of what to do about Lisette confounded me. She seemed to have developed an attachment. Had to be careful, make sure she's safe, and return her to her uncle. Didn’t want her hanging on but didn’t want to say or do anything to hurt her.

  The receptionist called and sent me down a hall to the office of an assistant consular officer. The door was open, and I knocked.

  A young man reading a newspaper, The International Herald Tribune, sat at a grey metal desk. He wore metal-rimmed glasses and a blue blazer. A gold-plated nameplate read Palmer Bradbury III. The name sounded familiar, but I didn't recognize the face.

  Without looking up from his newspaper, he asked with a tone dripping of cool irritation, "Yes, what is it?"

  "Need to speak with a Mr. Santini."

  His eyes snapped up with renewed interest to examine my safari outfit, big hat, and all. "And who is Mr. Santini?"

  "Someone I need to talk to."

  He lowered the open newspaper to the uncluttered desk. "Military staff members are not available — except on official business." He spoke curtly with an inflection of finality.

  Military staff? A vague image of a burly man began to form. I was on the right track. "This is official business. Need to speak to him, its important."

  "Afraid we didn't get your name." With a sarcastic smile, he held out his hand. "Your passport."

  "Don’t have my passport with me." He arched his eyebrows. I shrugged and lied, "In the hotel safe."

  He started to act smug and leaned back in his chair. "And what is the nature of this official business?"

  "My business is private and confidential." I struggled to maintain self-control. "Please, I need to speak to him?"

  He picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Connect me with Major Santini."

  Major Santini … Military staff … An air attaché, that's it, but how do I know him?

  He listened for a few moments, glanced at me, and hung up. "We are afraid Major Santini is not available."

  "When will he be available?"

  "We cannot divulge such information. If you have official business with the embassy, you may start with me."

  Conversation’s going nowhere. Don’t need to lose my temper. Gotta leave and try later. "Please leave a message. Tell him, Ross Brannan needs to speak to him."

  "And you are staying where?" He sounded like some Ivy-League prick that slept through the courtesy seminar. No. Why would the State Department have such a thing? They got you by the ying-yang and they know it.

  "Be back tomorrow, just relay my message." He started to speak, but I spun around and left before he had a chance.

  Outside the front door, I halted on the curb and tried to think what to do next: Go back to the Hilton, collect Lisette, then what? Go back in the embassy, tell the SOB the whole story, and hope for the best? No way. Find some cheap hotel. How’s that gonna work?

  Just when I thought, it couldn't get worse — it got worse.

  Across the street, someone stood out from the crowd. One of the tough guys from Voi, a thin black man wearing sunglasses and sporting a cheap blue suit, leaned against the building, smoking a cigarette. He hadn't been there before. Dark lenses hid his eyes. I couldn't tell if he spotted me. It made sense to stake out the embassy.

  The last thing I wanted was to lead him back to the Hilton. I casually strolled down Wabera Street, away from the hotel. At the next corner, crossed over and chanced a glance towards the embassy. The man ambled along in my direction and appeared to be on my tail.

  I headed down the street and tried to act like an innocent tourist. A resolute calm came over me. It's strange how quickly survival mode can rise from the depths of one's fears.

  Every so often, I halted to gaze into shop windows or paused to view the wares of street vendors. Each time, I stole a glance back down the sidewalk. He was always near, but at a discreet distance. Unable to lose him, I stood out, too obvious, one of the few white men on the crowded street. The big safari hat didn't help either.

  I crossed over at the next corner and strolled into to the Safari Bookshop. The clerk, a young Asian man, offered a dry artificial greeting. I drifted to the back shelves, paused in the travel section, randomly picked out a book, cursorily examined the contents, and did my best to hide behind a tall bookshelf.

  The man halted outside, lingered a few minutes, peered through the window, and then entered the store. The clerk barely acknowledged his presence. The man acted nervous and pretended to examine a tourist map. He spotted me and headed towards the rear of the shop.

  I stepped behind a shelf on the next aisle and picked up a large book. He inched along on the opposite side. I waited — hardcover in the ready position. As he rounded the corner, I hammered him with a Hammond's Atlas. He fell to the floor, motionless. A pistol with a silencer lay at his side. I snatched up the weapon and shoved it into a pocket. Without hesitation, I rushed past the now attentive clerk and told him a man in the back had passed out drunk.

  Outside, I hurried fast as I dared, not sure, if he had backup. Hadn’t seen anyone else and didn't want to take a chance. After two blocks, came to a halt, looked in all directions — seemed to be clear. Crossed the street and walked away from the Hilton.

  A few blocks later, I paused at a vendor’s cart; bought a lemon-flavor bottled drink, sat on a nearby ledge, and slowly sipped the soda. This gave me an opportunity to find out if anyone followed. The pistol in my pocket gave me renewed confidence. I decided they wouldn’t grab me on the street without a fight. At
least, now the odds were more even.

  Satisfied no one was following, I made my way back to the Hilton by a different route. Just to make sure, I waited across the street. The traffic: taxis, cars, and safari vans returning people to the hotel, offered suitable cover. Satisfied, I fell in with a group of tourists and entered through the front door.

  We breezed past reception. Right before the elevators, I broke away and headed towards the bar.

  A familiar voice echoed from behind. "Ross, is it you?"

  I wheeled around, speechless as Kara bounced across the lobby.

  "Where have you been?" She inspected my outfit with a devilish smile. "Have you been on safari?" She stood there, right in front of me in her tight-fitting shorts and tee shirt that didn't hide, in any way, her almost perfect athletic figure.

  Everyone stared at us. Numb with surprise, I didn't know what to say.

  Kara embraced me with unrestrained enthusiasm, "I so much wanted to be with you." She peered deep into my eyes. "Fate has brought us together."

  I mumbled something incomprehensible as my mind sped through the full range of possibilities.

  Her eyes brightened with expectation. "Are you staying here? Oh, what luck — we can share a room."

  My pulse raced in anticipation as a testosterone tsunami consumed my body. I made a calculation of how much blood money I had left. Lighting does strike twice.

  She peered over my shoulder, a questioning look on her face. I twisted my head, glanced back — Lisette, not ten feet away, with a woman about my age at her side. The perplexed expression on Lisette's face required a quick and credible explanation on my part.

  Mouth suddenly dry, I struggled to speak, "Lu … Li … Lisette, this is Kara … We met on the bus from Lamu."

  Lisette stared at me, eyes wide-open, mouth agape, again at Kara. Her bottom lip began to quiver. She inhaled a deep breath.

  "Kara left the bus at Garsen. She traveled on to Garissa. I went to Mombasa." Turned back to Kara, my voice trembled in desperation, "Kara, this is Lisette, we were together at Lamu."

  The disappointment in Kara's eyes revealed she understood. "Oh yes, so happy to see you Lisette." She canted her head back to me. "Lisette and I met in Lamu." She looked at Lisette. "It is as he says. We shared a few hours on the bus, nothing more."

  Lisette's brow furrowed, silently pleading for an answer. A tear streamed down her right cheek.

  "We only talked," Kara persisted in a serious tone, "I asked him to come with me." She glanced reproachfully in my direction. "He said no." She turned back to Lisette and continued. "Now I know why." Her voice started to break, "Lisette, you are lucky to have such a loyal man."

  Lisette peered deep into my eyes. Her forehead wrinkled, lips slightly open, a mask of doubt and confusion. The lady at her side whispered to Lisette in French. Lisette placed a hand over her mouth and gasped.

  She reached out, hugged me, and babbled away in French. I glanced over Lisette to the woman.

  "She says she is sorry to have doubted you. Please forgive her." She spoke with a slight French accent. "You see, everyone in Lamu knows Kara."

  I tuned back to Kara. She was gone.

  Chapter 16 ~ The Embassy

  Wednesday, 15 February: Amboseli House, Nairobi

  "Where do you find fresh baguettes in Nairobi?"

  "A diplomatic secret," replied Lara, her English perfect. After a pause, she smiled. "The chef de cuisine at the embassy provides us with the necessities. The bread in Nairobi is…" she glanced at Lisette, "how would you describe it … so English?"

  "D’accord … is so."

  We sat eating breakfast in the kitchen of Lara Dumont, a French embassy employee. She had stayed at the Shelia Beach Hotel in December and made friends with Lisette. She was also acquainted with Kara, at least by reputation. When I told Lisette whom to call in case of trouble, she knew exactly what to do.

  Lara's apartment, decorated in a distinctive and tasteful manner, elegant with a Parisian flair. That also described Lara, an attractive lady in her mid-thirties, mid length raven black hair, my height, and obviously physically fit. Lara had the looks of a classy lady. In other words, she was my type of woman.

  * * *

  When we left the Hilton, Lara drove us to her apartment on the third floor of Amboseli House, a multi-story building on the edge of downtown. Options seemed limited, so I outlined the basics of my dilemma: entered the country illegally without a passport and needed to speak to the air attaché at the U.S. embassy. She appeared reluctant at first, but after a long conversation with Lisette, agreed to help.

  Later in the evening, Lara and Lisette prepared dinner made with local ingredients. Lisette, fascinated with Kenyan food, marveled at Lara's comprehensive spice collection. Their efforts paid off, we enjoyed an exceptional meal.

  Afterwards, Lara regaled us, over a bottle of red Bordeaux, about her travels in Kenya and East Africa. She was an intelligent, interesting, and self-confident woman, the kind I always longed to meet.

  After a remarkably animated conversation between the two ladies, the question that burned in my mind was laid to rest. Lara tersely informed me, I was to sleep on the sofa.

  * * *

  As we savored our morning coffee, an aromatic Kenyan mountain blend, I inquired about contacting Lisette' uncle. Figured he might be distraught. Lara promised to contact the Kenyan authorities in a discrete manner. They would inform him of Lisette’s situation. It later occurred to me; she said nothing about Lisette returning to Lamu.

  During the night, a plan took shape. Contact Mack Gibson. Somehow, his home phone number came to mind.

  I asked Lara, "Is it possible for me to call the United States from your apartment?"

  She hesitated before answering. "Overseas calls are not easy and often take some time."

  "I’ll pay for the charges."

  With a hint of irritation, she snapped, "Yes — if you wish to call, you may do so from my office."

  * * *

  At the French embassy, I couldn't remember the time difference between Kenya and Arizona. In any case, on a weeknight, Mack Gibson should be at home.

  "Hello…" Mack sounded like he just woke up.

  "Mack, its Ross. Did I wake you up?"

  "Ross. Is that really you? We thought you were dead. What happened? Where the hell are you?"

  "Got big problems. I'm calling from the French embassy in Nairobi."

  "French embassy? — Nairobi? — What kind of problems?"

  "Don’t know what happened. Can't remember any recent events, or the way I got here."

  "Can’t remember — are you okay?"

  "Yeah, but I need help, it’s complicated."

  "Go to our embassy—"

  "Tried that and had problems at the front desk. Is there somebody named Santini?"

  "Yes, a defense attaché. Sure you’re all right?"

  "I'm alive, had a head injury, and can't remember a lot of things. Can you contact him and get me into the embassy? Need to speak with him. Got big security problems. Understand?"

  "No, what's the problem?"

  "Some guys, think they’re Cubans, are tracking me." Glanced over at Lara and Lisette, unsure what I could say without causing undue attention. "They tried to kill me, and I don't know why."

  "Okay, think I understand. Don't say anymore— Wait, Santini is in Frankfurt. Give me your phone number. I'll call him right away. Ring me back when you get to the embassy. Thank goodness you're safe, we thought you were dead."

  "Hold on here's the number." Lara took the phone and told Mack the best way to contact us. She hung up and gave me a pensive gaze but didn't say anything.

  We waited in Lara's office, thirty long minutes. They spoke in French and eyed me at frequent intervals. At one point, Lisette laughed nervously, and Lara smiled at me. It's uncomfortable to be the object of a conversation you can't understand.

  At last, the phone rang. Lara answered and passed the receiver. "For you," her eyebrows arched, "f
rom Germany."

  "Ross, Santini here, glad you're all right. Listen, wait out front, someone will come by to pick you up. We will continue this conversation after you arrive at the embassy. Tell Karen, my secretary, to contact me right away. Got that?"

  "Yes, thanks. I'll—"

  "Don't say any more." The line clicked and went dead.

  I told Lara someone from my embassy was coming for me. Lisette started to rise, and I asked her to stay with Lara. Surprised, she protested with a flurry of French. Lara interceded, and they exchanged sharp words. Lisette reluctantly agreed.

  Lara wrote down her office and home phone numbers and asked me to call when I finished. Relieved things were finally falling in place, I told Lisette I would be back as soon as possible. As I was about to leave, I remembered the pistol in my pocket and handed it to Lisette.

  "Take this, you might need some protection."

  An incredulous Lara exclaimed, "Mon Dieu! A Russian Makarov PB-6P9 and with a silencer too." She asked sarcastically, "Are you KGB?" Obviously, Lara was more than just a clerk.

  "No, picked it up locally … in a bookstore." From the expression on her face, she didn't believe me. "This guy—"

  Lisette, wide-eyed, pointed at the Makarov. "What is?"

  "A pistol." Then it dawned on me, she had been a nun. "You ever fired a weapon before?"

  "My father has the chase. I do not—"

  "The chase?"

  "She means he was a hunter." Lara questioned Lisette in French. "She has fired rifles and shotguns, but never a pistol."

  "Same principle. Aim and pull the trigger." I demonstrated with a hand gesture, unsure if a nun, or ex-nun in her case, would shoot someone. Thou shall not kill… Maybe she can shoot him in the leg.

  Lisette glanced at Lara and received an affirmative nod.

  "Do not worry. I will explain the operation to her." Lara snatched the pistol, ejected the magazine, and cleared the chamber. She shot a disapproving look in my direction. "We do not allow loaded weapons in the embassy."

  Before she could ask any inconvenient questions, I bid good-bye and left Lisette with a doleful expression on her face.

  Outside the main door, a black Chevrolet Suburban pulled up, obviously, a U. S. embassy vehicle, and parked illegally in the street. A man dressed in khaki pants and a green safari shirt approached the front steps. He eyed me warily.