by R G Ainslee
* * *
When I returned to the hotel about three o'clock in the afternoon, the clerk gave a quizzical look. He knew I spent the night elsewhere. I flashed a wide grin, sauntered over to the front desk, and offered a few explicit remarks about the fine ladies of Addis Ababa. Rasta Man had been right, the clerk bought my cover story, hook line, and sinker. His silence and disproving stare, all the proof I needed.
Back in my room: took a cold shower, dressed in a clean shirt, and reclined on the bed to reflect on the interrogation. A cassette tape lay beside me. The recording held what I hoped would be enough information to get a countermeasures project on track. The task wasn’t going to be easy, but I had confidence we could find a solution. Marsden revealed the Cochise Project data enabled the Soviets to perfect their equivalent design and eased their conversion of the SA-4 into a more effective system.
Marsden made some disturbing revelations. The Soviets had prior knowledge of the mission, but he claimed to have no idea of the source. In addition, the Cuban pilot was a plant: they fed him false information, pressured him, and placed him in a position to defect. He also revealed the Soviet planes in Egypt were there to intercept and track the flight.
The big news, saved to the last, and revealed only after a minor surgical procedure: the missiles in Ethiopia were a trap. Their immediate aim had been to prove the system by shooting down a high-flying SR-71. They tracked the Blackbird as it went down and responded. They wanted to capture someone to confirm their success and started the Kenya operation to grab the survivor. Marsden claimed he didn't know I was involved. After a spirited session of added persuasion, I almost believed him.
Nevertheless, I was unsure if we had the whole truth, so the Caribbean Connection planned to go ahead and fly Marsden out of the country. They didn't tell any details about the flight. Amadeo cited a need for operational security.
After the interrogation, Amadeo told me I should join up with John Smith full time. He thought I was a natural for this type of work and said I had an unusual touch. Told him thanks, but no thanks. Then it occurred to me, I brutalized a man, a man I had worked with, and it didn't bother me.
Amadeo said their days in Ethiopia were over. The grab almost worked to perfection, but complications had arisen. Their cover was blown, and they were on the run.
They had waited outside the Tafari Hotel for Marsden to appear. At about nine o'clock, Marsden came out the front door with his girlfriend. Both got into his chauffeured vehicle, a late model Italian Lancia Berlina, and left the hotel unescorted. Fortunately, he made the mistake of trying to be a gentleman and offered to take her home. They followed. The narrow street where she lived offered a perfect spot for an ambush. When the Lancia stopped to let her out, they made their move and trapped his vehicle.
The driver pulled out a pistol, but Rasta Man had the drop on him, and before he got off a round, drilled him with a head shot. Amadeo jumped Marsden, knocked him out, and pulled him into the backseat of the taxi. The girl dashed down the street, screaming bloody murder. They were about to leave when a backup Ethiopian security detail turned the corner and bore down from behind.
A brief and violent firefight ensued. Two Ethiopians went to the ground, Rasta Man wounded. When they escaped down the narrow street, the taxi rammed a police car responding to the scene. They spent the next hour moving from place to place, working their way back to the safe house. The whole escapade ended in a narrow escape, but they did it. We had Marsden.
Late in the afternoon, a chilling thought: Are the flights still cancelled? I hurried down to the lobby and asked the porter to call the airport and check on my flight. A few minutes later, he returned and informed me: scheduled service had resumed. Wanted to leave right away, but the smart thing to do was stay put.
"I will have a meal sent to your room?" he said.
"No thanks. Can you recommend a good restaurant?"
He peered straight into my eyes. "No sir, I recommend you have a meal in your room, it is not safe to go out."
"Room service will be fine."
After an unsuccessful attempt to nap, I turned on the TV and spent the rest of a dull afternoon watching military propaganda. Tanks and troops flashed by on the screen. A general in an elaborate uniform gave a two-hour-long speech.
The meal came at about six o'clock: a grilled meat dish called tibs served with vegetables, a salad, and two bottles of King George beer. The meat was spicy but okay and the beer helped wash it down.
I devoted most of the evening to re-reading a three-month-old Time Magazine. The cover story was about The Defiant White Tribe in South Africa. Read it all, including the story about good versus bad cholesterol. Even read the ads. With nothing else to read, I watched reruns of the day’s parades and political speeches. Finally, I switched off the TV and fell asleep under the slow-moving ceiling fan.
Less than an hour later, stirred from slumber by a rifle shot in the distance, I lay awake and wondered how to deal with Lisette. Her attachment to me was unsettling. Women are mysterious creatures. Either you know what women want, or you don’t. If, like me, you don’t, forget about trying to understand. All we had in common was our mutual tragedies. Nothing else fit, at least in my mind. We didn’t even speak the same language.
My only hope was her uncle. Maybe he would have taken her back to Lamu by the time I returned.
Chapter 22 ~ Return
Monday, 20 February: In Flight to Nairobi
The Ethiopian Airlines Boeing 720 crossed into Kenya. The stark moonlike landscape surrounding Lake Rudolph slipped by below. Ice-covered peaks of Mount Kenya loomed ahead. Safe and home free. I relaxed.
The night in Addis Ababa passed slowly, an interminable ordeal spent in anticipation of a knock on the door, or worse. Finally, I drifted off into a shallow nervous sleep, interrupted by sporadic gunfire.
Six-fifteen, a rude wake-up call, a light machine gun clattered in the distance. Left the curtains drawn, not wanting to draw attention, or provide an easy target, and stepped into the dark bathroom to shave. A single rifle shot outside the hotel echoed off nearby buildings. I flinched and nicked my chin.
Time to leave: I fetched the carry-on bag and hurried down stairs to the lobby, the elevator still out of order. No shots had sounded since my shaving wound, but ominous military convoys rumbled by at irregular intervals.
The hotel porter greeted me at the front desk and collected my bag. At check out, the clerk tried to stall and mumbled a string of incomprehensible evasions while he fiddled with a stack of papers. A dollar bill refocused his attention. I was glad to leave. The joint was just a notch better than some hot-sheet motel back home.
Out on the street a cab was waiting. The porter said, "Here is your taxi sir, the driver is reliable and will take you direct to the airport. Pay him now and present a generous tip later."
"Thank you for all your help." I palmed a twenty-dollar tip into his hand. He started to object but nodded and pocketed the bill with stealth. I wondered if he would be safe after his handlers left for good.
Security was even tighter, police on every corner, truckloads of soldiers patrolled the streets, an obvious difference in attitude prevailed. The nervous taxi driver demanded an extra five bucks. I shelled out a fiver without argument.
Half way to the airport a military roadblock halted traffic. A young army lieutenant strode up to the cab and delivered a series of questions with a menacing tone. The frightened driver responded in a deferential manner. Two curious soldiers peered through the side windows.
The officer tapped on the glass and demanded my passport. Remembered that much Ethiopian and passed it to him. He flipped the pages and examined each entry with meticulous care. He asked for something else, but I couldn't understand, so I produced my airline ticket and itinerary. Satisfied, he snatched the documents, marched over to a jeep, and made a call on a mobile radio.
A rifle shot cracked in the distance. The driver peered in the rear-view mirror, fidgeted with the steering
wheel, and glanced at the soldiers. I began to worry he might try to make a run for it. If he did, we would most likely die in a hail of bullets. The officer continued to speak into the mike and twice turned his head in my direction. I tried to stay calm or at least give an impression of calmness. The driver grabbed the gearshift. I placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He winced and relaxed his grip on the shifter.
At last, the officer hung up the radiotelephone and handed the passport and ticket to a soldier who hurried over to the taxi and passed the documents through the window. The tall young man enunciated, "Thank you, good-by," as if reciting an English lesson.
I offered a weak smile and repeated, "Thank you, good-by." He snapped to attention and ordered the taxi driver to go.
The anxious driver shifted into gear and stalled the motor. Attempts to restart the engine failed. The officer shouted a command. Four soldiers jogged over and pushed the cab. About twenty yards down the road, the motor fired and revved up to speed.
Experience taught me such encounters are unpredictable. More often than not, they just fish for a bribe, but this time they were serious, that's why I didn't make an offer. I considered myself lucky. The situation could have easily deteriorated into a debacle of epic proportions.
I breathed an audible sigh of relief when we arrived at the airport. The driver also seemed to relax. A five-dollar tip relaxed him even more. Could afford to be generous, I was on Wilson's dime.
A courteous Army captain checked my passport and ticket before allowing me to enter the terminal building. Soldiers stood guard inside and several tanks sat in a line parked next to the tarmac. Security was at an elevated level and it didn't take much imagination to understand why.
My greatest vulnerability was the cassette, containing Marsden's interrogation session, packed in the carry-on bag and disguised as a local music tape with real music on one side. Customs officials sometimes searched bags before boarding. Ethiopia had a problem with people smuggling ancient artifacts out of the country.
They decided to search all baggage. The officer opened the bag and shuffled through the contents. He examined my business folder with casual interest and picked up the cassette.
"What is this?" He appeared to be offended.
"A gift for a friend." My stomach churned. "She’s a folk music collector." A vision of an Ethiopian dungeon flashed through my mind.
"You have poor taste, she will be disappointed," he spoke almost perfect English, "these people sing like goats." He sniffed and murmured with contempt, "They are from the coast."
The officer pitched the cassette into the bag without further comment. He was right in one respect. On the tape, Marsden sounded like a neutered goat passing a kidney stone, the result of a few well-placed motivational prompts.
* * *
Didn’t expect to meet anyone at the Nairobi airport and was surprised to find Jim Barker waiting, dressed in casual civilian clothes: a safari jacket, bush shirt, and khaki pants.
We greeted, and he asked, "How’d it go?"
"All's well that ends well. A few bumps along the way, but think we got what we need. Just glad it’s over." I sensed something was wrong by the expression on his face. "What’s the matter, we got a problem?"
"Let's wait till we get to the car, got some news for you."
The tone of his voice concerned me. The walk through the terminal and parking lot seemed like an interminable trek. Couldn’t imagine what the news might be. Was the mission over? The Cubans? Or, a flicker of hope, did Lisette’s uncle come to pick her up?
Inside the car, I asked, "Okay, what’s happened?"
"It's Lisette."
I knew it. Problem solved, she’s gone home.
"She’s sick."
"Sick — she was alright when I left." The only thing that came to mind was food poisoning, had to be the goat meat.
"Sarah thinks she may have malaria. She drove her to the doctor this morning. We'll know more when we get back to the embassy."
I had seen the effects in Southeast Asia: chills, fever, more chills, and more fever. Poor Lisette. "Let's go to the house, need to check on her."
"No, they won't be back from the doc yet. Sarah will call when they get back. You can see her this evening."
"Okay, let's stop at the doctor—"
"My orders are to get you back to the embassy ASAP. Cool it, Lisette's in good hands. Sarah knows what to do. Let her handle it. Okay?"
It wasn't okay, but he was right. My feelings were confused. Trapped between a sense of responsibility and a desire to see her safely back to her uncle in Lamu.
"Call Sarah when we get to the embassy. I want to—"
"Calm down, she'll contact me when she finds out."
The drive seemed longer than usual, longer than the flight from Addis Ababa. I had put Lisette through the wringer, and now… At least this whole affair is over. We've got the tape and Marsden is on the way. To hell with it all, Mack can analyze the new data. I’ll take Lisette back to Lamu, make sure she’s safe and well, and then… didn't have a then.
* * *
Barker halted at Karen's desk. "My wife called?"
"No sir, I'll inform you soon as she does. Major Santini and the others are down in the conference room."
We hurried downstairs and passed a surprised Palmer Bradbury in the hallway. He opened his mouth and was about to pop-off when I greeted him with a universal hand gesture that said it all.
"See you've met our resident pain in the butt," said Jim as we continued down the hall.
"Yeah, he’s the reason the French embassy had to get involved."
"He’s the one … okay," he chuckled. "Now I understand."
"If I’d been able to contact your office, Lara Dumont would never have become involved, and Lisette… Well you know what I mean." I wheeled around and glared at the supercilious twit as he strutted down the hall. "I'd really like to work the SOB over but guess I don't need no more trouble."
"You can say that again. I'll have a word with Santini, but it won't do any good. The little jerk's father is a Senator."
Palmer Bradbury. "You mean the moron on the Senate Intelligence Committee?"
"The one and only."
I remembered seeing the pompous windbag on TV. Wait a minute, he's the one mixed up with Simion Georgescu. My mind reeled as I tried to put the pieces together. Senator Bradbury was Georgescu's pet stooge in Congress. They had pushed the Cochise Project. Marsden was connected to these creeps. My blood ran cold. What if he still is? All I could say to Jim was, "Guess it runs in the family. How do they live with themselves?"
Colonel Wilson, Michaels, Smith, and to my surprise Mack Gibson sat in the conference room. Wilson interrupted Santini.
"Glad you gentlemen found time to join us." Wilson checked his watch. "Take a seat."
We sat down and offered no excuses.
"Thank you, Major Santini. We’ll get back to your report shortly. Brannan, I’m anxious to hear your account. Bring us up-to-date on the state of affairs in Addis Ababa."
I related the events of the past three days and the general situation in Addis Ababa. Didn’t go into any technical details or elaborate on the interrogation, wanted to discuss them with Mack personally. Wilson seemed troubled when I told him Marsden revealed the Soviets knew about the flight and the Cuban pilot was a plant. The tension level increased when I related Marsden’s assertions: the MiG-25 in Egypt was there to track the flight and the presence of missiles in Ethiopia was a trap.
I asked, "Any news about Marsden and the CIA team."
Santini said, "No news so far. Like I was telling the colonel, the contact at Pibor Post reports they are overdue."
"But they left yesterday."
John Smith said, "As of forty-five minutes ago, they still haven’t arrived in Pibor. Are you sure they actually arrived at the airfield?"
"Not sure. Ama… the team leader didn't give me any details. You know … operational security. We all left the compound at the same
time. Don't think they delayed on purpose, they were anxious to leave." I was worried.
Wilson spoke with a sense of detachment, "Brannan, go over the tape you brought from Addis Ababa with Colonel Gibson. Maybe we won't need Marsden."
John Smith, his neck cords taut with frustration, barked at Wilson, "Don't forget my men colonel. I'm not leaving them behind."
An apologetic Wilson responded, "Sorry. I'm just focused on the technical details. I have not forgotten your… our men."
Everyone left the room except Mack Gibson, Michaels, and me. Mack asked, "Did your little chat with Marsden help your memory?"
"Yeah, grilling Marsden was an intense experience for both of us. When he began to sing, it all started to come back. By the way, Marsden claimed they were testing an upgrade to the Krug air defense system. That fits in with my recollection—"
"The SA-4, are you sure. How did—"
"I remember missiles, three of them, they shot past us, and the last one exploded in front. That's when we lost power."
Michaels responded with a skeptical expression.
Mack asked, "You able to identify the missiles?"
"Didn’t get a good look, but I've racked my brain, ramjets, think they were powered by ramjets."
Michaels said, "Your description fits the SA-4. The missile is ramjet-propelled, launched by four solid fuel booster rockets. However, their maximum altitude is about 80,000 feet. You should have been about a mile higher. Perhaps they enhanced the rocket booster system to increase the operational ceiling."
"Maybe they just got lucky?"
"The Krug missile can reach speeds approaching Mach-4. An enhanced system might be able to reach the SR-71 with a lucky shot. But three missiles in a row, that's no lucky shot."
Mack nodded, "I tend to agree, something else is going on."
Michaels asked, "Did you detect any of the SA-4's associated radar systems during the flight? You should have picked up signals from a Long Track and a Thin Skin in the E-band, and a Pat Hand guidance system in the H-band."
