by Dick Couch
“So,” Garrett replied, “and I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but there are some situations, particularly in Africa, that simply defy outside help. They’re not candidates for intervention on any scale. When the European powers left, they took with them what they brought, the notion of a nation-state. In their absence, the tribal entities take over. The former colonies became sewers of corruption and lawlessness. There’s really no way to bring relief to the suffering without military occupation. And we are not in the business of occupying African nations, especially after our misadventure in Somalia. Even the French have pretty much given up on massive military intervention.”
“How about the UN?” she replied. “You’d think they could do something there.”
“Right, send in the powder-blue berets. There are more than a few African nations who are willing to offer their troops for UN duty. You know why? The UN pays their salaries, and the troops get to do a little quiet looting in the nations where they’re sent to keep the peace. When they’re not looting outright, they set up protection rackets on the side, extorting the people they were sent to protect. Even worse, they spread AIDS. And if there is a serious confrontation with the rebels, they break and run.”
Judy Burks was silent a moment before she spoke. “So what’s the solution?”
“Mercenaries.”
“Mercenaries?”
“Yep. It’s a brutal solution to a nasty problem, but whenever mercenaries have been sent in, peace and order are quickly restored.”
“But what do they do that the UN or American troops don’t do?”
“Three things, or three things in Africa,” Garrett replied. “Mercenaries will take sides, take casualties, and fire preemptively.”
“Fire preemptively?”
“That means that they will shoot first. Mercenaries will move into an area and say, for example, that there can be no one on the streets from sundown to sunrise. Anyone violating this curfew will be shot. Then when someone appears out after dark, they shoot him or her—no verbal challenge, no get your hands up, no nothing. Bang, dead. Any local who has a weapon is shot. Anyone who opposes them or interferes with their patrols or house searches is shot. The first few days, they shoot a few people. Then everything gets quiet. Any rebels in the area leave for the bush, and rebels don’t do too well in the bush; they need communities to terrorize. In the long run mercenary intervention saves lives and restores order. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective. In Africa, it’s the only proven solution.”
Garrett watched as she took on a familiar semi-pout, something she did often when she questioned him and he gave her information she did not like.
“Well, then, why don’t we just do what the mercenaries do; why don’t we take sides and shoot first?”
He gave her a patient smile. “For the same reason the police don’t go out into the hood and shoot guys they know are up to no good. It’s not how we do business. Y’see, Judy,” he said turning serious, “in the past we have ridden down the Plains Indians and massacred their villages, we have lynched Negroes, and we have put Japanese Americans in concentration camps. These are shameful incidents in our history; as a white-dominated culture, we have to carry a lot of guilt about those events. In some parts of Africa, brutality still rules. Tribalism is just another form of racism. This nation has had its share of that. We can’t deal with it, and since we can’t, we have no business going there. The kind of counter-brutality required to restore order in some of these places is simply beyond our reach. And the last thing I want is for some of our soldiers, even our special operations troops, to be put in that kind of a situation. It’s bad enough in Afghanistan and Iraq. We have no national interest in Africa, and really no effective way to project force in that environment.” He tilted his head, watching her closely. “Say, what’s this all about, anyway?”
“You about done with that bagel?” Judy said as she rose from the table.
So it’s going to be like this, he thought. He blotted his mouth with a napkin and tossed it on the table. “Lead on, madam liaison officer.”
They drove into the District in diplomatic silence. Garrett had long ago learned not to try to pry information from Judy when she wasn’t ready to volunteer it. And she probably hadn’t been told all that much. A few things he did know for certain. As a liaison officer she would have some information, but not the whole picture, and certainly nothing of strategic or tactical value, at least not at this stage of the game. In all probability, only the wily Director of Central Intelligence, Armand Grummell, had a complete grasp of the situation, or at least as much as there was to know at the time. And Garrett knew he would not have been summoned to Washington if it were a matter that the Central Intelligence Agency or the U.S. military could handle. That most likely meant a difficult situation and one that had the potential to become critical. Since 9/11, the Special Activities Division at CIA had grown in capability and reach. They and the American special operations forces were able to handle a broad range of contingencies. So why have I been brought into this? Is IFOR being considered for a tasking in Africa? Armand Grummell does not scare easily, and the Agency would not reach out to IFOR unless they were very worried. Garrett concluded that there was little to be gained by speculation. In due course, all would be revealed to him, or as with Judy Burks, as much as he needed to know. As they drove across the Key Bridge and into the congestion of Georgetown, he settled back to enjoy the sights. Again, he was reminded of what a wonderful city this was to visit, and what a terrible place it must be to have to live and work.
The brownstone row house was a few blocks off Dupont Circle in a fashionable neighborhood of upscale residences and discreet businesses. They piled out of the town car, and Judy sent the driver off to hover; parking was out of the question. The brass plate to the right of the door read “Outreach Africa.” Judy led them up the stone steps and gave the door buzzer a long, insistent ring.
“This is a do-gooder organization,” Garrett said impatiently. “What the hell am I doing here?”
“Behave yourself,” she said as she again stabbed the buzzer.
“Yes, can I help you,” a haughty, clipped voice asked over the intercom.
“You certainly can. Judy Burks here to see Graham Burkett.”
“One moment, please, and I’ll see if he’s available.”
Garrett watched as Judy made a conscious effort to calm herself. He knew that if they were made to wait more than a couple of minutes, she’d have her shield out and attempt to kick in the door. Garrett was warming to the prospect when the heavy paneled door swung open. “Please come in,” the same intercom voice commanded. The foyer was dated, intricate, and very well manicured. The woodwork was exquisite. You could reach a lot of Africans, Garrett mused, for what it cost for this renovation.
“If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Burkett will be with you in a moment.” She was fifty-something, styleless, and carried herself with a cool, aloof condescension. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to return to my duties.”
“Thanks,” Judy remarked to the woman’s retreating back as she disappeared into another room, “but we just had coffee.”
Garrett grinned. “How does she know I’m not some well-heeled donor?”
“She knows. She can smell wealth, and you flunked the test.”
They were admiring the soft colors of an African landscape when a side door opened.
“Oh, hullo. You must be Agent Burks and Mr. Walker. Thank you so much for stopping by. Won’t you come in?”
Graham Burkett was probably in his late thirties, but racing headlong into his fifties. He had drab thinning hair, a sparse mustache, sloping shoulders, and the soft pear-shaped contour of someone who had gone sedentary many years ago. He wore a red knit tie loosely cinched around a button-down collar he had neglected to button down. The shirt bloused over his belt, meeting up with a pair of dark green corduroys. But the carelessness seemed to end with his physical appearance. After greeting Judy courteously, he gri
pped Garrett’s hand firmly and held his gaze with sharp, intelligent brown eyes. He might have the appearance of a sloppy academic, Garrett inferred, but there was something more to this guy than met the eye. Burkett led them into a richly appointed office and motioned them to two leather wingbacks.
“Coffee? Tea?”
“None for me, thanks,” Judy replied. Garrett smiled and shook his head.
Burkett pulled a brocaded armchair from along the wall and joined them around a low coffee table that was made of a crude hammered metal, obviously African. He was clearly a man who didn’t like to talk to people from behind a desk.
“Zulu,” he commented noticing their interest, “late nineteenth century. Oh, and my apologies for any rudeness you may have experienced by way of our Florence.” He lowered his voice. “She’s the spinster sister of one of our wealthy donors and came with a rather substantial endowment. We call her the gift that keeps on giving—kind of our own personal mother superior.”
“But can she type?” Garrett offered.
“She can’t do a damn thing,” Burkett said, “but then the gift really was quite substantial. You’re probably wondering why you were asked to come here, am I right?” Both Garrett and Judy nodded. “Well, to be quite honest, it has to do with my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“That’s right, Miss Burks, my dear mom. You see, she is a senior analyst at the CIA and, from what I gather, is quite well thought of in the Operations Directorate. A week ago last Sunday I was at her home in Chevy Chase for dinner. It’s a second-Sunday-of-the-month thing. It used to be Saturday, but it seems that she’s working most Saturdays these days. These are busy times at CIA, and she’s very dedicated to her work. But since she can’t talk about her work, we usually end up talking about mine—that, and why I’m still single. To get past the issue of my inability to find a wife, I told her about a recent concern we have about a region in Africa. This area seems to be experiencing some unusual travel restrictions that affect our work there, and we’ve encountered some puzzling medical problems. She questioned me pretty thoroughly, as only a mother and a CIA analyst can. A few days later she said this may be of concern to others as well, and then told me to expect the two of you.” He smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Given my mother’s employer, I’ll not ask who you are or why you need to know about this.
“Briefly, Outreach Africa is a nongovernmental organization that focuses on disease and the prevention of disease in Africa. We support and staff fifteen regional hospitals, and have one of the leading education and vaccination programs on the continent. So we’re not in the intelligence-gathering business, but we do get very close to these people; their problems are our problems. It’s a very challenging business, but we’ve had our share of success, and to be candid, not a few failures. We do what we can with the resources we have.” He moved his hands in a helpless gesture. “What can I say? It’s Africa. We’re used to dealing with adversity, but we’ve had a little more than our share lately. You might even say, quite a bit more, and all of that is in northern Zimbabwe. Some strange things are happening there. We used to have two hospitals in the region. Actually, they’re more like what we in this country would call clinics, but both of them were burned to the ground. Africa can be a brutal place, but the people there normally respect our facilities. We’re not political; we just care. Before the burnings, the hospitals were reporting some strange deaths—people coming to the hospitals with symptoms they had not seen before. Some lived, but most died. It’s our business to know why they’re dying, but we hadn’t a clue. Now we have no information coming out of this area. Of course, when you deal routinely with large numbers of AIDS-related deaths, it’s often hard to determine if a death was brought on by something unrelated to the AIDS virus.” He looked directly at Garrett. “How much do you know about Zimbabwe and the situation there?”
“Not that much, I’m afraid. We talked about it on the way over here, but only in generalities. It’s a failed African state with a lot of problems and not many options. Robert Mugabe has ruined the country, and things are not likely to improve until he dies or is assassinated. And then it will be a long road to any kind of recovery. You said people are dying there, and you don’t know what is bringing this on. Are we talking about some kind of epidemic?”
Burkett gave him a tight smile. “I know what you’re thinking. The Ebola virus. That was what we first thought, but I don’t think that’s it. It’s interesting to note that an outbreak of Ebola, even a relatively isolated one, is cause for great alarm in the West. Yet the AIDS epidemic kills hundreds of thousands each year, and it seems to be of little concern.” He paused, lost within himself for a moment, then continued. “But that is another story. As for Ebola, the Africans know about it, and to some degree, they know how to deal with it. Total isolation and burning everything—the bodies, huts, and personal effects of those infected. Since the first documented outbreak in 1976, we’ve never had Ebola in a major city, just in outlying villages. They let the virus run its course, then go on with life. Most tribal societies are very stoic about these things. Drought, famine, Ebola, even AIDs; they carry on. These people can be very dignified in their suffering and misery.” He paused a moment and swallowed, and for a brief instant, a look of pure sorrow and hopelessness passed over his soft features. Then, almost as if by an act of will, he cleared his throat and continued. “Usually under these conditions, our mobile medical teams are welcomed, especially in a region where a clinic has been forced to close, or in this case, burned. But in northern Zimbabwe, primarily in the Tonga Province along Lake Kariba, they have been turned away. Several times we have tried to send in a relief effort, usually a small convoy of Land Rovers with basic medical kit and supplies. They are turned back, politely but firmly. This in itself is very contrary to our experience, but there’s more to it. We have reports that people are being taken out of villages at night. Some come back, usually sick and dying, and others are never seen again.”
“Do you have any idea who may be doing this?” Garrett asked.
“Not a clue. The bits and pieces of information that we get come from Zimbabweans being treated at our hospital in Harare. These are patients who have relatives who live in the Tonga region.”
“Any idea at all what may be the cause of the illness?”
Burkett leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His whole countenance became deadly serious. “Before the clinics burned, we had the chance to examine three individuals from the area. They were all Bantu. One had what looked to be anthrax. He recovered, but before we could investigate further, he left the clinic—fled in terror, actually. The other two died of what appeared to be some form of hemorrhagic fever. Before we could make arrangements to bring them to Harare for autopsy, the family claimed them and took them away. All three came into our facility in a small village near the town of Kariba. All three were seen by one of our field doctors on the same day. He could do little but make a preliminary diagnosis. His report did state that the families were terrified but would say nothing. The people in this region can be very superstitious. It was that night the clinic was burned, and we suspect arson. The headman of the village told our doctor that he was no longer welcome there. He also reported that the whole village was terrorized into submission. Midwives he had trained, young men he had befriended—all turned away from him. He could do nothing but leave. So he collected what personal effects he had in his quarters and drove away.” Again Burkett paused. “I’m afraid that is about all we know.”
Garrett considered this for a moment. “You said your medical teams trying to reenter the area have been turned away. How were they turned away?”
“The country is pretty open, with few roads. There are checkpoints along the roads manned by men with automatic rifles. They are what might loosely be called local police. Sometimes they are in uniform and sometimes not. Since President Mugabe’s land redistribution program went into effect, much of rural Zimbabwe has reverted to tribal and clan contro
l. They inspect all traffic that comes through. But they know of our work, and they usually let our people pass without a problem or with a token bribe. Since the burning of the clinics, our people are ordered to turn around and return the way they came.”
Garrett had any number of questions. “Have you been able to question any of the locals about this? Has anyone from the area been willing to talk about it?”
Burkett smiled. “My mother asked the same questions. No one from that area will speak about it. The only people willing to talk seem to be out-of-area relatives, and they are very guarded. Our senior administrator asked several government officials in Harare about it, but she was told that it was none of her business. So as you can see, we know something is wrong, but little else.”
Garrett was silent for a moment, digesting what Burkett had said. He was about to ask another question when Judy Burks began to stir in her seat, pointedly glancing at her watch. Garrett took the hint and rose from his chair
“Mr. Burkett, we’d like to thank you for your time. We’ll be looking into the matter and getting back to you, or at least Miss Burks will be getting back to you.”
“Thank you. It’s been my pleasure to make both of your acquaintances,” Burkett replied. He shook Judy’s proffered hand and then took Garrett’s. Once again Burkett clasped Garrett firmly, and there was deep concern in his eyes as he spoke. “Mr. Walker, my mother said to answer all of your questions, and not to ask any of you. So be it; I understand. But sir, please understand this. I know Africa, and I believe something is wrong in northern Zimbabwe—very wrong. I’d consider it a personal favor if you could be of any assistance to my people there.”