The Sahara Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "Wait a minute, what do—"

  "This matter involves delicate international sensibilities. A follow through decision will be made at the policy level and does not concern you."

  "What do you mean, it don't concern me. These SOB's have been trying to kill me and my team, and now they killed members of my team, not to mention, two of your people."

  He took a deep breath of air and expelled an indignant blast. "I have been over that with these gentlemen. You are ordered home and we are authorized to compel you to comply." His voice oozed with the smug tone of finality.

  Then it hit me: Politics, it's all about politics. The election is just a few days away. The Iranian hostage crisis: they have their hands full and can't have another inconvenient foreign incident muddy the waters. Oh hell, politics trumps everything: common sense, reason, and basic human decency. Stuff like truth, honor, and loyalty don't mean a thing to them. They don't really care about national security, it's all politics, to hell with the little guy, they got to cover their butts, and to do it they'll distort the facts, tell outright lies. — Oh hell, the SOB's don't give a flip about anybody but themselves.

  I closed my eyes and focused. My body relaxed as a newfound clarity emerged. I realized what I had to do. "I don't care. I've been authorized leave-time and plan to head for Kenya ASAP. My wife is there." At least I think she is.

  He paused, processing the new information. State department bureaucratic types are typically smart guys, but sometimes deficient when it comes to dealing with situations outside the box.

  I didn't care, don't like being inside the box, and didn't give him a chance to respond, "I'm not going. I plan to be on the next flight to Brazzaville and fly on to Nairobi from there."

  His brow furrowed. "That would not be wise."

  "I don't care, that's what I intend to do." I tried to sound emphatic, like it was a done deal, hoping he would take the path of least resistance.

  "Phil," Bobby spoke up, "I think you better listen to him. He's got a mind of his own and it'll be a hell of a lot easier for you to let him go his own way."

  Phil gave me another look, grimaced, and took a deep breath. "I thought I recognized you. You're the yahoo that cased us all that trouble in Nairobi a couple years ago."

  He had me. I gave him a weak smile but kept quiet. Sometimes your past can catch up with you at the most inconvenient times. Looks like my chances are going down the drain.

  "The ambassador had me beating the bushes for a week looking for you. Searched all over Nairobi, checked all the cheap hotels, even…" A faint smile emerged. "How the hell did you get out of the country? We never figured that one out."

  I sat up straight, squinted my eyes. "If I told you I'd—"

  "Have to kill you. Yeah, I know the drill. You guys are all alike."

  I heard a snicker from Amadeo. Bobby held his tongue and the embassy man pressed his lips trying to suppress a smile.

  "Hey, what can I say, it is what it is."

  The smile broke through, "No hard feelings, it got me out of the embassy while everything was hitting the fan. — By the way, I am sorry about your man. We lost a couple of good people too. The last medical report gives your colonel a fifty-fifty chance. We can just hope for the best."

  "So, no problem?"

  "No problem. You're leaving on the plane with the rest of them."

  It took a moment to sink in. The ball was back in my court. What else could they do to me? My career was over, down the drain, finished, with no immediate prospects. What would I do back home? I had no family to go back to. If I wanted to see Lisette and the kid, I'd have to stay. Then there was unfinished business, Marsden was still out there somewhere. — I didn't even give it any thought.

  Bobby nodded and turned back to the embassy man. "I guess we need to go make sure we got our things together. — See you later."

  "Be back in a couple of hours and don't stray off the reservation."

  "Don't worry."

  We left, and I steered the guys into an empty room down the hall.

  Bobby spoke first, "Man I can't believe you talked to him like that. What, you independently wealthy or something? Your butt's as good as gone when they get finished with you."

  "Whatever." I didn't want to discuss the matter and turned my eyes to Amadeo. "Looks like you're going home."

  He shook his head. "Yeah, we got no choice— wait a minute, what'd you mean you're?

  "I mean you're going home, I'm staying."

  "Like hell—"

  "No, I mean it. Bobby was right. We can't have too many guys running around. This has got to be low profile, a one-man job."

  Bobby made a furtive glance back towards the open door. "What did you find out?"

  I thought it over for a few moments. "It would be best if you didn't know. That way you won't have to lie. Or tell them what I'm up to."

  "Hey man, I won't rat you out," he pleaded.

  "I know. — You guys go do what you need to do. I'll go tell Jack."

  * * *

  Wilson's condition was unchanged, not a good sign. The doctor said he had hoped for some improvement, but perhaps it was too soon. I still had doubts about his treatment.

  Jack and I huddled in a corner of the room as I explained the situation in low tones. "…and that's about it, I'm going on alone."

  "Yeah, you'll be on your own alright, no cover, no back-up, no place to bug out to, maybe even no weapon. Ain't gonna be easy. Sure you're up to it?"

  I shrugged. "No choice."

  "Bull squeeze. You always have a choice. And this guy you talked to, you don't even know his name or who he works for."

  LeGrande—"

  "You trust the French? You trust LeGrande? You trust the count or whatever his name is? Just how far has that got you the last few weeks? This could be a set up or worse."

  "Okay, you got a suggestion?"

  "I'm going with you."

  "No. If I go missing, it'll cause less of a ruckus than two or three of us. It appears, I have a track record with this guy Phil, he says he was in Nairobi when I was there. Anyway, it's not like I've never done something like this before."

  "What you gonna do if you find them?"

  "Not if, it's when I find 'em. — Don't know, I'll see what happens. In any case, they'll pay."

  "I don't like it."

  "You don't gotta like it. Just do what I tell you."

  Jack turned away and stared out the window. "You think this is the end for Raven-One?"

  "Yeah, that'd be my guess. Even if Wilson survives, who knows what'll happen. And you got the election to consider, no telling what a new bunch will do."

  "Most likely, more of the same. Isn't it always like that?"

  "You need to go with the colonel. You and Amadeo still have careers, a place to go back to. The CIA always can use guys like you."

  "How 'bout you."

  "I'm SOL. Lost my family to the job, now I've lost the job. Only thing left to do is finish what I started out to do. At least I can have the satisfaction of that. There's nothing else left to do."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "No. This is something I'm going to do on my own. Too many people have died so far, I don't want to take anyone else down with me."

  "You sound resigned to your fate."

  "No. I just know what I gotta do. You look after Wilson and John. Make sure they get back safe. I'll handle the rest."

  "You make sure you get back safe, hang in there."

  "Hey, I always do. Don't worry. It's gonna to be a piece of cake."

  Sunday Afternoon, 26 October 1980, Bangui, CAR

  The air-evac left at midnight without me. LeGrande offered the sanctuary of a room at Camp Béal and seemed to enjoy the wild goose chase the embassy put on trying to find me. After a leisurely Sunday lunch and a couple of beers by the piscine, I made my way down to the waterfront.

  LeGrande gave only oblique answers to my inquiries as to the identity of the man at the warehouse, he knew, but wouldn't
tell. My only clue had been the slight movement of an eyebrow when I mentioned the Israelis.

  The warehouse was closed when I arrived. A knock on the door produced no answer. He hadn't specified a time and all I could do was hang around until he showed up. I walked across the road over to a tree and took a seat on a crude bench.

  Time goes by slow when you're waiting. My mind began to wander: I was still in shock, feeling guilty, I could have been there, and it could have been me. The girl from the embassy reminded me of one of the girls I went to school with. Then there were the others, four people were dead, locals I didn't know. Once again, I was going down that long lonesome highway, unsure of my destination.

  A man on a motorbike stopped and asked in French if I wanted to buy some ganja. I almost said yes. A group of young men walked by, looked me over, and kept on going. The wind died, leaving me at the mercy of the afternoon sun reflecting off the river.

  I closed my eyes, leaned back on the tree trunk, and tried to relax. I focused on the big picture and tried to drive out negative thoughts. The prospect of revenge for the death of Joe and the others produced a state of enhanced consciousness. I seemed to be drawing on an inner strength. The only thing I could do was, pray for the best, prepare for the worst.

  A car pulled up to the warehouse and parked by the front door. The man got out, motioned to me, and I followed him in to the office. A chart pieced together from Michelin maps covered the wall above a small bookcase. He lit up another cigarette and sat on the corner of the cluttered desk.

  "I see your people left safely. Do you regret not going with them?"

  "No, I'm here, I don't regret nothing." Actually, I did. But wasn't going to tell him.

  "Very well. We—"

  "You still haven't told me who—"

  "I am a businessman and as such provide services to a variety of clients who treasure their anonymity."

  "Like the Israelis."

  He ignored my comment, didn't even blink, or show any sign of conformation. "All I can say is that I have been given instructions to offer you my full cooperation."

  The guy was good. It would be useless to continue the line of questioning. I needed his help, or I was a dead duck. "Okay, what do you have for me?"

  "I arranged a flight for you in the morning, direct to Kisangani."

  "I thought there were no direct flights."

  "There is no direct connection, you are correct. Considering your status, it would be difficult for you to travel by conventional means. You will go with one of my shipments on a cargo flight. Not an unusual occurrence and will save a considerable amount of time."

  "Okay, how much is this going to cost me?" Up until then, I hadn't even thought about the expense. I only had the fifteen hundred dollars advanced by the embassy. They neglected to ask for its return.

  The man smiled. "My instructions are to offer you my services without cost. I will be reimbursed by your friends."

  "My friends?"

  "Yes. You will stay in the warehouse tonight. I keep a room for such use and I will collect you at 0700. A boy will bring food later. — Oh, by the way, a set of fresh clothes is on the bed, you will travel as a courier and need to appear as a businessman. You may wash-up and change, but do not shave. Your stubble adds to the disguise. — Questions?"

  "What about the authorities?"

  "They will be paid and there are no formalities at either end."

  "Weapons?"

  "Inquire in Kisangani, someone will meet you at the airport and take you to your destination."

  "You say this is a cargo flight, a regularly scheduled—"

  "No, an unscheduled departure."

  "What airline?"

  "Phoenician Air Services International, they are quite reliable."

  "Wait a minute, I may be desperate, but I ain't stupid."

  He studied me with amusement. "Yes, I understand your concern. Do not worry. I use their services often and know the pilot. There will be no problem. Besides, they have no reason to suspect you and your presence will not be noted as anything unusual."

  "Guess I don't have a choice."

  "Yes, you have a choice. You may decline my services."

  "Like I said, I don't have a choice."

  35 ~ Kisangani

  Monday, 27 October 1980, In flight over Zaire

  The Flying Boxcar is an apt and well-deserved nickname for the C-119. The Korean War era transport aircraft's service life extended well into the sixties and used by Air America in the conflicts in Southeast Asia. Now near the end of the line and on its last legs, I prayed this one had one more landing left.

  Alone in the cargo area of the unscheduled and undocumented flight, I sat among malodorous barrels of diesel and crates of who knows what. The powerful Pratt and Whitney radial engines produced a monotonous mind-numbing roar. Even worse, they vibrated every ounce of their combined 7,000 horsepower to the seat where I fidgeted, hot, uncomfortable, and queasy, regretting the greasy meal of the previous evening.

  The early morning takeoff from Bangui was routine and uneventful, due to the pre-arranged and pre-paid absence of two legged predators. The pilot stayed low as we crossed the fog shrouded Ubangi River into Zaire. The 538-mile flight would take two and a half hours. Navigation was easy: fly southeast until you sight the giant river and follow it on in to Kisangani. The Congo, now called the Zaire River, snaked through the landscape, a wide copper-hued muddy stream like a long lake, flanked by impenetrable swamps.

  Below stretched a hostile sea of dense triple canopy jungle, an expanse of green stretching horizon to horizon, the world's second largest tropical rainforest, second only to the Amazon. The landscape so unchanging, the aircraft appeared to stand still.

  Africa was a region little known and even less understood by the powerbrokers in Washington. The Cold War brought about a Soviet attempt to gain influence and dominate strategic areas of the continent. Prior to independence, Washington relied on the British, French, and other colonial powers for on the ground intelligence in most of Africa. The Congo crisis of 1960 changed that. Africa emerged as a new front in the Cold War.

  The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. The one's paying the price were the little guys, nothing new about that. They just happened to live in a place that held scarce and valuable strategic resources. In a world consumed by the survival of the fittest, they were the least fit. Exploited by the greed of capitalists, or enslaved by the dream of a socialist utopia, they're screwed either way.

  A sense of dread and foreboding consumed my thoughts. Time spent in the Congo inspired writer Joseph Conrad's famous book, Heart of Darkness. Now I was about to plunge right into the darkness, embarked on a mission with little or no planning, and worse, no clear purpose, only a hope the SkB gang would be there.

  * * *

  Kisangani, thirty miles north of the equator, a feeble reminder of what it once was: Stanleyville, a cosmopolitan island of European civilization set in the heart of Africa. The main town sits below the falls, the point where river navigation ends. From the air, it is unremarkable, now just another backwater African city.

  The pilot lined the aircraft up over the river to make his approach to the original airfield beside the stream. A new airport built east of the city was more modern with better facilities, but the old field offered less in the way of formalities — according to my contact in Bangui.

  The man in Bangui revealed his name, Antón D'Silva born in India of Portuguese heritage, a ten-year resident of various countries in central Africa. He claimed to have made a living importing whatever scarce commodity was in demand, along with buying and selling locally produced diamonds. It sounded like a good story, but I still believed he worked for the Israelis.

  The pilot, who I never spoke to, seemed accustomed to nameless passengers, made a bumpy landing, and taxied over to a couple of waiting vehicles. There were no officials and no formalities when we landed — we were traveling on an all-inclusive prepaid baksheesh plan.
/>   The rear of the plane split open on hinges, the morose loadmaster sauntered down the ramp, and I walked out into the stifling midmorning heat. The air felt heavy and humid, permeated with a strong pungent smell.

  A faded red Ford panel truck pulled up behind the Flying Boxcar. A rangy looking guy in dirty purple pants and a red shirt exited and slumped against the front fender. A woman with dark ebony skin approached, peered into the aircraft, and then back to me.

  "Monsieur Brannan?"

  "Yeah, that's me."

  "Vous venir avec moi."

  "Why should I go with you?" She appeared surprised at my question. "Who sent you?"

  "Greco."

  D'Silva told me the man I was supposed to meet was known as the Greek. He failed to give a name and I didn't ask. "We go in that?" I nodded to the old, early fifties, panel truck.

  "Oui." She said something to the guy in the local lingo and he shuffled up the ramp into the aircraft.

  "Parlez-vous anglais?"

  She ignored me and yelled to the man. He shouted back and returned a minute later with a large box, loaded it into the truck, crawled in, and took a seat on the floor.

  The woman closed the door and motioned for me to get in the front seat. She started the Ford, shifted into gear, and drove towards the gate. I decided she didn't want to talk and kept quiet.

  At the gate, a couple of soldiers ordered us to halt. The tall soldier, sullen and hostile, inspected the rear of the panel truck, looking for what, God only knows. The other guy, wild eyed, babbling like a maniac, smoked a long-twisted joint of local ganja. The woman spoke in a sharp tone, the only word I understood was Greco. The soldier snapped to attention and passed us through.

  The woman drove into town, without speaking. Stanleyville was, during colonial times, a sleepy town with a European flavor. The Belgians built an infrastructure of wide avenues, parks, and public facilities. The glory days were long gone. Stanleyville is no more, Kisangani, a city of poverty and decay, a dying city, a shadow of its former self. It all started in the sixties, a city racked by dystopian violence and societal collapse — Mad Max in Africa.

  Steam rose from the waterlogged riverbank as the equatorial sun beat down. Simple hovels with corrugated tin roofs, thatched walls, and dirt floors lined the road amid lush vegetation covered by a layer of dust. It was the dry season. Further into town the city appeared: dirty and dilapidated, street maintenance a distant memory.