“What the hell, Essa? Two hours ago you nearly started a fight with George because you insisted you were going back.”
“Oh, I’m going,” she said. “But not as me.”
Munroe stopped writing and turned the paper around so Beyard could follow. “There’s one group of foreigners who can come and go as they please. They have the president’s blessing, nobody hassles them, nobody looks, nobody wants to know: Israeli military.” She tapped the pen onto the paper and continued to diagram. “So under the cover of an envoy out of Cameroon, we enter from the northeastern gateway and beeline south to Mongomo.”
Beyard stared at the paper, his lips drawn tight, and shook his head slightly. “I’m not sure if you’re completely mad or a fucking genius.”
“I guess we’ll soon find out,” she said, and returned to the paper once again. “Since this is the dry season and the roads are passable, best-case scenario we can be in and out in two days. Worst-case …” Munroe paused and sighed. “There are a few critical unknowns making it difficult to define worst-case. It should be a clean in and out, there and gone before anyone is even aware of our presence. Should be …” And her voice trailed off.
“Mongomo will be our point of greatest vulnerability. It’s what concerns me most,” she continued. “There are any number of reasons that looping back the way we enter might not be possible, and the way I see it—and you have more experience in this than I do—we have two alternative return routes out of the country. Potentially fastest and most problematic is east into Gabon—a roughly five-kilometer run to the border. Second is working the tracks through the center of the country to the coast—more dangerous because of time spent inside the country and the variables that could turn up along the way, but once we get to the coast a much cleaner getaway.”
“Both are viable,” Beyard said. “If we have trouble in Mongomo, we have to rule out Bata as a gateway—we’ll be expected there. Mbini would work. It’s slightly farther south, off the beaten path, and I have contacts there.” He leaned back and after a moment said, “Last word has it the Israeli presence is extremely small and limited to specific areas. There are no female forces in the country, and should we encounter genuine troops, our cover will be blown.”
“All true,” she said. “Which is why two days from now I will be heading to the training base outside of Yaoundé to get a feel for what the Israeli operations are like in Cameroon, get onto the base if I can—make a dry run of it. I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks.”
“It sounds like an unnecessary risk,” he said. “Cameroon may not be Equatorial Guinea, but it’s not far from it. You get caught and you’ve not only blown your original objective, you’ll lose the next ten or fifteen years of your life rotting in some hole of a prison.”
“I know,” she said. “But I also know what I’m doing. I won’t get caught.”
“Considering the way things have gone so far, you sound extremely confident.”
Munroe stopped and stared at him and then without further explanation said, “Gathering information is what I do for a living. I won’t get caught.” She returned to the paper. “Your job: We’ll need transportation with plates and papers for Cameroon, Equatorial Guinea, and Gabon. If we locate Emily and she wants to come with us, we need to be prepared to extract her and as many as three children. The two of us will also need Israeli military passports.”
“Two vehicles?”
Munroe nodded.
“It’s all doable,” he said. “And I’m certain Boniface can handle the vehicle papers and plates, even the papers for Emily and a few kids. I’m not so sure about the military passports. He’ll have to go through Nigeria for those, and even still, Israeli military passports are pretty rare—especially if we need two of them. Imitations would work. The border guards certainly have not seen enough of them to know one from the other.”
“Imitations are fine,” she said, and she continued to sketch, “although it’s not the border guards I’m concerned about. The vehicles will have to be fitted to smuggle weapons and equipment.”
“None of this should be a problem,” he said. “But we’re looking at a serious amount of cash, and it’s my understanding you haven’t got much money with you.”
“Once we get into Douala, I can front you sixty thousand dollars. The rest will take a few days—I’ll need to have it wired over. We’re going to need weaponry,” she said.
“Except for the MP5s we keep onboard, I’m limited to Russian or East European, sometimes Chinese.”
“We need to keep it as authentic as possible.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Ammunition?”
“Have plenty.”
“Lupo was using a Vintorez when he was playing sniper on the pilothouse roof. What are the chances I can have it?”
“Everything is negotiable,” he said. “If the price is right, I’m sure we can arrange something.”
By the time Munroe got Logan on the phone, he’d already started work on the supply list. “Some of these items are going to be hard to come by,” he said. “Might take a couple of weeks to track them down.”
“Two to three weeks should work, but there’s a catch this time—I need you to deliver most of it to me in person.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I kid you not. There are a few things I need sent ahead to the FedEx office in Douala: the pilot uniforms and the Hebrew-English learning system. For everything else get yourself a visa and prepare to fly to Douala. Funding goes standard through Kate. Having you courier this stuff in is the only way I can guarantee that it gets into the country. I figure you’ll know how to pack it to avoid hassles going through airline security, but if not, let me know and I’ll walk you through it. Can you clear your schedule?”
Logan’s response was a barely audible grunt, and she could hear the keyboard clacking in the background.
“E-mail me your flight itinerary as soon as you have it. You’re looking for the earliest return possible, preferably in and out on the same day, even if it means different airlines.”
Another grunt.
“If for any reason funding is going to hold things up, use my retainer; it should cover everything. And, Logan, last thing: I’ve got two days,” she said. “After that I can’t guarantee when or how often I can call, so does that give us enough time to confirm everything for the time frame we’re working?”
“It should.”
“Then I’ll be back with you in two days. And, Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
TWO DAYS. NOT because it was what she wanted, but because it was necessary. Remaining on the ship would put space between the phases; the downtime was critical in allowing the bits and pieces of information accumulated over the past weeks to filter to the bottom of the mental pool, to shift from one game plan into the next. Downtime was typically difficult to deal with; in the stillness, internal pressure would steadily build, urging toward action and the rush of adrenaline—but, regardless, the stillness was critical.
The silence this time was different. When supplies had been packed, the weapons disassembled, meticulously cleaned and put back together, and there was nothing more to do to kill time, the hours passed over the chessboard and in philosophical discussion with Francisco, a throwback to another time, the world forgotten, and Munroe was at peace.
Two days later she stood against the railing and watched the trawler’s deck crane lower one of the cigarette boats to the water. It was dawn, and the ocean was calm and the air empty except for the noise made by the machinery. Munroe turned from the railing and reentered the pilothouse. She’d been trying since five to reach Logan and would continue to call at fifteen-minute intervals until he picked up. She checked the clock. It was late evening in Dallas; she should already have been able to reach him. On the sixth attempt, he answered. “I’ve been trying to get you for over an hour,” she said.
“Battery died. I’ve been hunting down t
he supply list, haven’t had time to recharge.”
“How are we?”
“We’ll have what you need within the next ten days,” he said. “The FedEx package is already on its way. They said three days, but we all know that means at least a week. The uniforms were the hardest to come by, but I’ve got a guy working on those, and I’ve been guaranteed delivery within a week. I dipped into the retainer. There’s been some kind of delay with the funding, and I’ve been too busy to figure it out.”
“Don’t bother with it,” Munroe said. “I need to call Kate anyway, and I’ll make sure it’s settled. Do you have your itinerary?”
“That’s the other thing. Apparently Miles Bradford is heading your way, and Kate suggested he bring the items, save me the hassle. And truthfully, Michael, if he can, I would appreciate it, because I’ve got a shitload of work stacked up for me.”
Munroe was silent for a moment and then said, “If you don’t hear anything else from me on it by tomorrow, then arrange to get the items to Miles. Ten days, right?”
“Yeah, ten days.”
The news about the supplies was good. Miles Bradford was a problem.
“We don’t have a lot of choice,” Breeden explained in answer to Munroe’s query. “Between your insistence on continuing the assignment and Miles’s determination to return to Africa, Richard Burbank changed his mind about rescinding. He wants Miles with you, and since you’re under contract, there’s not much we can do about it. The good news, though, is that since the contract is still open, Richard covers expenses, and considering the bill that Logan just sent me, that’s not a small thing.”
“That’s only a third of it,” Munroe said. “I need you to wire over twice that in cash. I’ll e-mail you the bank information.”
“I’ll get it to you as soon as I can. The accounting department at Titan is giving me the runaround—they want itemization before releasing for expenses, and I’ve been trying to get in touch with Richard to get it sorted out. Apparently he’s out of town.”
“You know how it goes,” Munroe said. “We won’t know what the money is for until it’s already spent. And half the time it’s for greasing palms and oiling the machinery of bureaucracy. If you can’t get ahold of Burbank by tomorrow, just do what we’ve done before. Put whatever label you want on it, whatever it takes to be sure I get the money and that Logan gets the funding he needs. He had to dip into the retainer.”
“I’ll take care of it today.”
Munroe replaced the phone, stood still for a moment, and then, with clenched teeth, slammed the palm of her hand into the wall and kicked the chair closest to her. Beyard, who’d been standing on the other side of the room, said, “Whatever the problem, surely it is not the wall and the chair that are to blame.”
“Better the furniture than a person.” She sighed and sat in the chair, looking up at Beyard. “We have a problem,” she said. “Or a wrinkle, or whatever the fuck we want to call him.”
“Him?”
“Miles Bradford, my partner from Malabo. I’m sure you know who I’m talking about. He’s flying to Douala in about two weeks’ time, and either I kill him as a matter of prevention or he’s coming with us to Mongomo.”
Beyard sat in the chair opposite and after a moment of silence said, “Essa, there’s something you’re not telling me. This man who was your partner, he is already familiar with the scenario, and if my sources were accurate, you have worked well together. Logically, he would be an asset to this assignment.”
“There are two things, Francisco.” She drew herself up so that she looked him directly in the face. “First, I don’t know if I can trust him. That he was left while I was hauled off to be murdered and dumped overboard doesn’t sit easy with me, but I can work with it. What angers me most can’t be explained by logic.” She paused. “I simply don’t want him here.” She motioned toward the navigational controls. “I don’t want to share this with him, don’t want to share you with him. This … this is a part of me that is sacred, my own. I don’t want it tarnished by an intruder who already knows everything else about me that there is to know. This is mine.”
Beyard nodded and then stood. “In your words: ‘You of all people should know better than to make tactical decisions based on emotion.’ I don’t want an intruder any more than you do,” he said. “But the plan comes first. If he’s a risk to the enterprise, we can remove him, but I think we would want to be very cautious in that regard.” He held his hand to her. She reached for it, and he pulled her to her feet.
They took the cig north to Douala, docking at the southernmost edge of the port. The docks were crowded with people and with metal containers stacked three or four high, each filled with items that waited to clear a customs procedure fraught with requests for bribes and dubious processing fees. Muscular bodies glistening with sweat unloaded goods while trucks long ago retired from work in the Northern Hemisphere stood nearby with engines idling, belching smoke. The smell of burned diesel fuel mingled with the odor of decay and the aroma of salt and fish coming off the ocean.
Beyard’s driver met them, and they unloaded the boat. Money had changed hands, papers had been signed, and there would be no questions asked as they drove into the city with a small arsenal behind the backseat. The first destination was the Société Générale de Banques au Cameroun, and when the money had been withdrawn and transferred to other accounts, they navigated the streets to a modern two-bedroom flat that stood in the heart of the city.
The apartment was one of four on the ground, with three walk-up levels above, and the building stood next to two others that were identical, all in a quiet compound surrounded by a high cement wall that had been whitewashed and glass-topped and gleamed bright under the sun. It was there that they would rendezvous once all the pieces had been put into place.
AT FIVE-THIRTY THE next morning, Beyard dropped Munroe off at the bus station. She had originally planned to leave alone, to disappear into the dark of the early morning, but Beyard wouldn’t hear of it. He’d insisted on taking her to the bus station, and if he’d had his way, he would have waited until she’d boarded the five forty-five bus for Yaoundé. Munroe knew it wasn’t so much a protective gesture as that he didn’t want to let her go. She kissed him, then pulled away. “If I’m not back in ten days, it’s because something’s happened,” she said. “I’m not leaving you.” And then, when the red of his vehicle’s taillights had finally pulled out of the depot and vanished down the street, Munroe caught a cab and returned to the city center.
Alone.
After nearly four weeks of continual companionship, solitude brought with it the feeling of nakedness soon replaced by the exhilaration of freedom. On Avenue de Gaulle she located a reputable barber and waited on the doorstep until the place opened for business. It was time to revert. And then time to shop and, after that, a four-hour trip to the capital.
chapter 16
Yaoundé, Cameroon
It was shortly after five that afternoon when the bus pulled into the city’s depot. The area was hard-packed dirt surrounded by low-lying buildings, and teeming with passengers and their boxes and bags, vendors with their wares, and pickpockets and thieves.
Munroe stepped from the bus and slung a heavy backpack over her shoulder. She wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt, untucked, faded jeans, and heavy, flat-soled boots, which hadn’t been easy to find. Her hair was military short. A wide elastic bandage wrapped her meager chest, the same improvisation utilized the night she’d boarded the Santo Domingo, and she wore strong masculine cologne. But for these she’d made no extra effort. The clothes and hair were subtle cues, enough to distract the eye and make a first impression, and while the subconscious effect of cologne was never to be underestimated, unless she needed to age past nineteen it had always been attitude and behavior that truly confused the mind.
She took a cab to the Hilton Yaoundé, the best the city had to offer. The hotel was eleven stories of white concrete, and like a giant monolith it
dwarfed most of the buildings that lined the streets in either direction. Yaoundé, although the capital, was smaller and less developed than its sister on the coast. But it was where the country’s president lived and thus where the elite guard was stationed, and so it was there that she would find the Israeli forces that trained them. She wanted to be in their presence, learn their language and their manner of behavior, and if possible observe how they interacted with the men they trained.
Perhaps, if she’d been desperate, she would have taken the route of sneaking around, smuggling herself onto the compound, and acting like a spy, as Francisco no doubt expected she was doing. But there was no need for that. There were better ways, faster and with less personal risk.
Munroe showered and slept for a few hours and then, as the evening deepened, transferred to the hotel’s bar and casino. There were only three types of venues where she expected to find what she was looking for: foreign cultural centers and embassies, international schools, and what little nightlife the city had to offer. The Hilton was as good a place as any to begin looking.
It took two days of cultivating potential information sources before the first genuine lead materialized. After nights that lasted until nearly dawn and mornings that began shortly after, it was at La Biniou, taking a meal far too late for lunch and still too early for dinner, that segments of language, recognizable but without meaning, filtered across the dining area. The voices belonged to three teenagers, and it was evident that within the small group there were a sister and brother, and if body language was any indicator, the third was friend to one and surreptitious lover to the other.
The Informationist: A Thriller Page 23
