by R G Ainslee
Kisangani was almost a modern city at one time, before the troubles. Now stores, business, and homes all sported heavy black window bars. The place resembled a vast prison. Wide streets and a few western style high-rise buildings hid the fact it was the scene of unspeakable horrors in the not too distant past. I had heard stories of massacres of the educated class by the Simba rebels. Regrettably, for the people of Kisangani, educated meant anyone who could read.
* * *
The woman drove the panel truck to a compound behind a decaying two-story concrete block building. The guy unloaded the large package and we followed him through the back door. A short, about five-foot four, swarthy man with thinning grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses met us in the front room. He introduced himself as Petros Askaryan.
"Please take a seat. Would you care for some refreshment?"
"Sure." My throat was parched. "How 'bout a beer."
"I'm afraid all we have is Primus, the local brew, one of the few successful industries left in Kisangani."
"Fine with me."
Askaryan snapped his fingers and yelled something in the local lingo and within seconds, a man appeared with two bottles of beer. I imbibed a hefty swig and almost gagged.
He noticed my displeasure and grinned. "I forgot to warn you, Primus is brewed and on the market in same day. Sometimes it is not yet ripe." He took a sip. "Pardon, today is one of those days."
"I guess I got spoiled by Mocaf in Bangui."
"Ah, yes. I import a few cases a week, but alas they sell off fast."
"You in the same business as Antón?"
"Yes. We are associated."
"So, you pose as a Greek business man?"
"I do not pose, I am a merchant, and I am not Greek. I am Armenian."
"Armenian? Why do they call you—"
"Before the troubles, many Greeks lived in Stanleyville. The African's assumed I was Greek too." He shrugged. "So, I went along. There was once a large community of Greeks, mostly traders, with some in agriculture and other trades. Now, only a handful of outsiders remain in Kisangani, diamond traders, aid workers, and a few naive missionaries."
"You were born in Israel?"
He smiled. "No in Alexandria … in Egypt."
"Your accent sounds American."
"I spent seven years of my youth in Chicago, after leaving Cairo."
"How'd you end up here?"
He folded his hands together. "Fate, destiny, opportunity, take your choice."
I took a wild guess. "You're a Mossadnik?"
A cold penetrating stare devoid of emotion answered the question. "Drink the beer Mr. Brannan, we—"
"I'd like to know who I'm working with. You can appreciate that, can't you?"
"Tell me, what is the purpose of your visit to Kisangani?"
"Hey, I'm tired and don't care to beat around the bush. Let's put our cards on the table and see if we can do a deal. I'm here because of the Škorpion Brigade."
"I understand you are operating outside of—"
"Yeah, I'm on my own. This is personal. They killed some of our people in Bangui and one in Rome."
"What are you planning to do?"
"Whatever it takes."
He guffawed. "How American. The Lone Ranger riding into the sunset to face down the desperados."
"Something like that."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed the side of his nose, amusement in his eyes. "And what am I expected to do?"
"All you gotta do is supply me with a weapon and point me in the right direction."
He let out a deep sigh. "And why should I do that? You are familiar with the concept of blowback, aren't you? I live and work here. I can't give you a gun and send you on your way."
"Okay, I understand. What do you suggest?"
The man sat, his eyes boring in on me. After a long uncomfortable interval, he spoke, shaking a finger at me, "First, you must agree, without conditions: you will do nothing without my permission, no inquiries, no searching, no contact, no killing, nothing. Do you understand?"
"Okay, agreed."
"Second, we plan this together and I have the final say as to its execution. Third, it must be done in a way that will not raise suspicions or lead back to me. I believe we have certain common interests that can be exploited to our mutual advantage."
"Fine with me. Where are they?"
"Their encampment is located north of Kisangani on the Ituri River. Regrettably, the site is inaccessible due to its remoteness. An attempt to approach the camp by road or waterway will be detected early on and it is not practical to go through the forest. There are about a dozen of them, too many for one man to take on."
"What do you have in mind?"
"A member of the group resides in Kisangani. He acts as a contact to the outside and coordinates supplies."
"I'm not interested in low level types."
He smiled, a wry smile, he knew something. "He has a guest, perhaps a person of interest, and newly arrived … a woman."
"A redhead?" Has to be, has to be.
"You are familiar with her?"
"Olga Bremmer, one of their top operators. She carried the bomb in Bangui and tried to kill me. I'll be satisfied with her, just tell me where."
"I am familiar with the name." He nodded and smiled. "Perhaps we can arrange something to our mutual advantage."
"Yeah, I'll bet that would make Mossad very happy."
He grimaced, started to speak, but didn't say anything.
I leaned forward. "Let's be honest, if we're to get this done, we need to trust each other."
He sat, in thought, eyes focused on me, and after a long pause, said, "Very well. This morning I received a message authorizing me to assist you in your activities. I may employ all means available to secure the elimination of the leaders of this group."
"So, you are… what?"
"I operate in an unofficial capacity, what is popularly referred to as a sayan."
"This place is just a cover?"
"No, this business is real, must be to remain credible, and it is my source of income. We are able to blend in with little effort and the opposition tends to look in other directions. Kisangani is an important river port with the advantage of being isolated from the eyes of the world. I am sure you understand."
"What about the local police?"
"There will be no problem. I have developed a relationship with the authorities. The police think all muzungu, their name for whites, are potential spies. However, they leave me alone because I am useful to them. They give me room to operate and I supply them with certain information in their efforts to monitor opposition forces."
"Do you work with the local intelligence agency."
"We work with anyone who will work with us." He grinned. "Even you."
"You keep an eye on the camp?"
"Yes, we keep a close eye on their activities. Up until now, we observe and do nothing. My assistant, the woman, is expert in monitoring their communications. We intercept and decode all their messages in and out of the city. Recent intercepts raised our level of concern. We believe they may be ready to — how would you Americans say — up the ante."
"In what way?"
"I suspect they are building an airstrip in preparation for the next stage in their plan. In the sixties, the Cuban Che attempted to exploit the chaos of post-independence. Now, Africa is again in danger of falling into the hands of leftist revolutionaries. The Soviets and their Cuban allies intervened in Somalia, Ethiopia, and Angola. Now they are trying again, not that they ever ceased. Mark my words, this group is much more dangerous, they have the potential to provide the Arabs a supply of uranium for nuclear weapons. We cannot let that happen."
"I can appreciate that. I've been to Israel and know firsthand how small it is."
"Oh, when were you in Israel?"
"Last month. I visited some of your colleagues at—"
He raised a palm. "Please, no names."
"Sorry, I understand. What a
bout the SkB people here in Kisangani, do they have much in the way of security?"
"Their security measures are not efficient. They seem to believe they are safe here. We are patient and develop insights into the activities of such groups, but fortunately, for us, they are their own worst enemy. I am confident they have no knowledge of our presence."
"How would you take them out?"
"Our preferred method is for one of the team to meet a person of interest and gain their confidence in an attempt to lure them away from their protection. However, that will not be possible because she is familiar with you. You must take direct action."
"Methods … ah, what do you have in mind?"
"Our standard practice is to inject the subject with an incapacitating drug. We prefer to eliminate the threat in a way that leaves no path back to us or our government."
"Yeah, like Eichmann in Argentina."
"We do what must be done."
"If am reading you right, I'll do your dirty work for you."
"It would be advantageous for us not to appear to be involved. You complete your job and leave. We must stay and must not embarrass our hosts. Do you understand?"
"Sure, I'm just a hired gun, or as we say back in Arizona, a pistolero."
He smiled. "Americans always have a colorful way of expressing yourselves. But yes, you are essentially correct. We would characterize the operation as sending our adversaries to a better world. By the way, we do not kill people unless they have blood on their hands."
"Better world? If you mean send 'em to hell, I agree. What kind of weapons do you use?"
"We do not habitually carry firearms in the field. They cause serious problems if we are arrested. In cases like this, a .22-caliber Beretta Jaguar — you smile — is sufficient if you employ the weapon correctly."
"I'm smiling because I've dispatched a lot of rattlesnakes from the saddle with a twenty-two when I was a kid."
"Even so, the secret with the small caliber is to fire as many rounds into the target as possible. When he, or in your case she, goes down, one shot to the temple — seals the deal — as you Americans would say."
"What kind of ammo do you use?" I wondered if they used some special sniper round, or perhaps, an exploding bullet.
"Expandable rounds, flat tipped or hollow point to maximize the damage. Of course, some would argue this adversely affects penetration, but we emphasize getting close to the target."
"Sounds like the voice of experience."
He shrugged. "As always, practice makes perfect."
I recalled the women killed by stray bullets at the hotel. "I guess the twenty-two also reduces collateral damage to innocent bystanders."
"In our business, there are no innocent bystanders. — Hah, I see you don't agree. — Remember this, a bystander will witness one of two things, your death, or the target's death. Which would you rather he see?"
"Yeah, like I was taught in hand to hand combat — kill or be killed."
"Correct, in such a situation, there is no such thing as fairness. Your first duty is to survive. Regrettably, some person — as you call them, an innocent bystander — may end up as collateral damage."
"I understand, but I witnessed the collateral damage caused by these guys the other day. They don't seem to care."
"The difference between them and us is we care, but in the end, you do what you must to survive. That is an unfortunate fact in our world."
* * *
Pete, as Petros liked to be called, insisted I go with him on an orientation tour of the city. He drove, and I sat on a box behind the front seats trying to conceal myself from casual view. He slowed as he passed a multi-story building.
"This is the hotel where the target is staying. The liaison man occupies a corner room on the top floor, most likely for security purposes. Access is by stairwell only. The elevator ceased operating years ago. A restaurant bar is located on the ground floor. I supply import beer and have a working relationship with the manager. A service entrance in the rear remains locked, except when in use."
"Any problem getting in?"
"Check in and get a room."
"But she knows what I look like."
"Then you must exercise extreme caution. The action must be taken in the hotel, not on the street, perhaps in the stairwell or in her room."
"Well, I dunno—"
"Are you having reservations? If so, now is the time, not when you are inside."
"Is there any other—" My mind halted in mid-sentence as a woman exited the hotel and slid into the backseat of a waiting vehicle — a redhead — Olga Bremmer.
"Is she the one?"
"Yeah, I never forget a pretty face."
"She could be attractive if she chose to."
"She's made her choice. They won't care what she looks like in the basement of hell." The vehicle drove off. "Where you think she's going?"
"We will follow at a discrete distance…"
It didn't take long to figure out her destination. The car led us straight to the new airport. Pete parked the Ford and followed her into the terminal. I stayed behind.
What's she doing at the airport, she going somewhere, meeting someone, picking up something? I had a bad feeling, sixth sense again: This ain't gonna work out, this trip is for nothing, what's left of my career is down the drain with nothing to show for it.
Pete returned shaking his head. He got in the truck and turned back to me. "I am afraid we are out of luck, she passed through the boarding procedures and is awaiting the next flight to Bujumbura."
"Bujumbura? … That's in—"
"Burundi. Perhaps her destination is Dar Es Salam or Nairobi for a connection to Europe or the Middle East."
My worst fears confirmed. "Now what?"
"We return to the shop and regroup."
"Regroup … Regroup and do what?
"The liaison remains a viable target. Eliminating him will disrupt their operation and perhaps lure some of the others away from the camp. When they do not hear from the man, they should respond like moths to a flame."
"And we're the flame."
"That's the idea."
36 ~ Complications
Tuesday, 28 October 1980, Kisangani, Zaire
I fired a shot. The tin-can skipped along the ground. Five more quick hits continued the momentum. The can halted, well ventilated, at the base of a large tree. I twisted back to Pete and grinned.
"Very good, you are a cowboy, or what did you say, pisto— I don't remember."
"Pistolero, Mexican for a hired gun."
We were in the jungle, down a trail, outside of town. I wanted to familiarize myself with the Beretta Model-70 semi-auto pistol. No problem, it handled almost like my little Walther PPK, except with less recoil. I popped in another magazine, racked the slide, punched the Beretta toward the tree, and opened fire, my first two shots on the way up. The result was the same, a 4-inch group at five meters.
"I see you mastered our technique — very good." The Israeli method was to carry the pistol with a loaded magazine and an empty chamber.
"I like it, nice and compact."
"Yes, reliable and accurate, as you have proven."
"I guess I'm good to go."
As we walked back to the panel truck, I asked, "What's the deal with the lady … ah, your assistant?
"Cecile is an intelligent woman, albeit, one with a tragic past." We strolled along the trail and halted within sight of the road. "She was kidnapped by the Simba rebels as a young girl and used in unspeakable ways. Somehow — I have never been able to find out how — she escaped and was taken in by missionaries. She will not speak of her past and please do not inquire. I have employed her for five years and she is a fast learner. I could not ask for a better assistant under the current circumstances. And no, we are not lovers. Her heart is too hard for her to ever love a man again."
* * *
The hotel had at one time been a modern establishment, not unlike those found at home. Post revolution, the
place exuded a harsh, austere air, devoid of all but the most basic amenities. The idea was for me to establish myself as a resident and attempt to contact the SkB man. Once I confirmed his identity and was comfortable with the layout, Pete and I would plan his downfall. Time was not of the essence, we had plenty of time. He wanted to do it right.
I registered, went to my room, waited a while, and returned down to the restaurant. The hotel offered a simple bill of fare: plat du jour, in other words, take it, or leave it. The baked fish served with cooked plantains wasn't bad. I asked the waiter what was on the menu for tomorrow and he curtly informed me: "La viande de chèvre avec du riz et des légumes verts." — Goat meat with rice and veggies.
After the meal, I lingered over a beer, another not ready for prime-time bottle of Primus and checked out the crowd. The clientele consisted of locals and a half dozen or so white faces. None looked suspicious or fit my preconception of what the guy should look like. A quarter hour later, I returned up the stairs to my third-floor room, one below the top level.
The streets emptied after the sun went down with a sudden blanket of darkness typical of the tropics. An unnerving silence crept through the night. I sat in the room lit only by the dim glow of a kerosene lamp. The electricity was out again.
I woke about an hour later, uncomfortable as the meal began to churn and doubts emerged. Thoughts of revenge and retribution consumed my life for the past few weeks. However, the object of my wrath, Helga Bremmer was gone and out of reach. The rage that fueled my passion diminished by one last failure and replaced by a dismal feeling of despair.
The thought of killing a total stranger, one I never met, someone with no direct connection with the bombing, bothered me. I was game at first, now I didn't know. Nausea began to build, from the food and from the prospect of becoming a cold-blooded killer. I had killed before, but this was just plain murder.
What kind of person am I? Can I ever go back to a normal life again? The thoughts played over and over in my mind, producing a numb empty sensation, both physically and mentally. No, I can't go through with it. I'll tell Pete in the morning; the deal is off. I resolved to take the next plane to Nairobi and try to pick up the pieces of my broken life. A sense of calm enveloped me, and I was soon asleep.