Heat of Passion

by Harold Robbins

  “You found a pipe?”

  “I’ve found the same indicators I examined before, but now I know the direction they are spread in.” He pointed off my property. “The pipe may be on your property, or on the property next door. We’ll find out after we tunnel.”

  “Pray,” I told Cross. “Promise Him anything, but ask Him to let us win the lottery.”

  52

  Kruger had to fly back to South Africa to get equipment he needed. I didn’t want to leave him without Cross or me at his side. His sudden need to leave the area worked out well. Cross called his CIA friend in Luanda and set up a meeting for us after we dropped Kruger off at the airport.

  We flew together to the capitol. I made sure Kruger was safely on a plane to Cape Town before I would leave the terminal.

  “You afraid someone’s gonna kidnap him from the airport?” Cross asked.

  “This is Angola.”

  Cross nodded. “Good point.”

  We talked about Kirk, the ex-CIA agent, on the way to the meeting. The meeting was to be held at Kirk’s apartment. “Less chance of being seen than if we met him at a bar or restaurant.”

  “How’d you meet Kirk?” I asked.

  “Hoosier T-shirt. I was wearing one in the lounge at the Presidente Meridien in Luanda. This guy comes up and says he went to Indiana State, same as me. We start comparing notes and find out we lived in the same dorm, one semester apart.”

  “Kirk’s black?”

  “What do you think, bubba? Would the CIA send a white-ass with blackface to pass themselves off as Angolan?”

  “You have a bad mouth. Someday I’m going to stick my foot in it. You said Kirk’s tight with Savimbi from the days when the CIA was running a covert operation in the country. You think he’s still tight with him?”

  “He used to feed Savimbi the guns and money that kept him fighting the government. It’s not the sort of thing that Savimbi would forget. Especially when he tells Savimbi that he has a dude who wants to talk about guns and money.”

  “Why’d he stay in Angola?”

  “Why not? As far as his wife and kids back home are concerned, he’s dead. As long as he can keep the disease under control, he can live a relatively normal life here. His Angolan woman’s infected and so are a million others. He doesn’t have to put up with the prejudices he would at home.”

  Cross and I had settled on a story that we wanted to talk to Savimbi about “diamonds and guns.” We figured that was vague enough. I was inclined to tell Kirk the whole story, get his opinion of what we should do about Jomba, but Cross had howled with laughter.

  “You are a naive bastard. Kirk has to survive in this country. You tell him you’re double-crossing Jomba, and Kirk would tell Jomba to protect himself and his old lady.”

  “You have any faith at all in anyone?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I have faith in Washington, Lincoln, Jackson, and whoever’s face is on the hundred-dollar bill—the bigger the denomination, the more faith I got.”

  Kirk’s apartment building, located in an area with harbor views, was being renovated. The first thing I noticed was the security. The doorman who buzzed us in was behind a counter topped with bulletproof glass. I didn’t doubt that he had an AK-47 or two under the counter.

  We took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked down the hall to his apartment door. Kirk opened the door. I was in for a surprise. I had expected a duplicate of Cross, a big-chested man with broad shoulders, from the steel mills of Indiana. Kirk was short and skinny. I didn’t know if he had shrunk from his disease, or if he was just a much smaller man. He had thick glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. He looked a little scholarly, not at all the James Bond type.

  The surprise was that he was a double amputee. Both his arms were gone halfway between the elbow and wrist. He had a prosthetic on the right side.

  His wife, Maria, was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. A cute little girl of about ten poked her head in for a second before Maria disappeared after her as we sat down to talk business.

  “Cross says you want to meet with Savimbi and talk business. And that you’re a relative newcomer in Angola. What do you know about Savimbi?”

  “I’ve heard he’s tough and mean.”

  “He’s that and much more. A charismatic political leader beloved by a couple million people in this country. Honored at the White House as a head of state when all he had was a ragtag army. He’s got university degrees from Portugal, Switzerland, and China and speaks a half-dozen languages. And he’s burned people at the stake.”

  “Wonderful qualifications for leadership,” I said. “He must be nuts.”

  “He is. To understand Savimbi, you have to understand why this country has been going through nearly two decades of civil war, following a war of independence against the Portuguese. Guerrilla warfare to gain independence started around ’61, and continued for fourteen years until Portugal’s colonial hegemony was thrown off in ’75. Portuguese colonial rulers were sent packing, but the same thing happened here in Angola that happened in Mexico and South America after the Spanish were tossed out. The mestizos, the mixed bloods, most of whom are city dwellers, inherited the government and the economy. The villagers were exploited economically and kept from exercising political power. That created resentment and a political vacuum.

  “Savimbi filled that vacuum. He became the champion of the villagers, millions of them. With the backing of Cuba, the government attacked Savimbi. He retreated into the bush in his own ‘Long March’ reminiscent of Mao’s. He regrouped there and kept up guerrilla warfare against the regime in Luanda. He was the son of a railroad stationmaster and he knew the operation of Angola’s rail system intimately. He used that knowledge to attack the rails and disrupt the flow of troops and military supplies. And, with the Commie block supporting the regime in Luanda, Savimbi became the darling of Washington.

  “Pretty soon the Luanda government had Soviet MIGs with Cuban fighter pilots on hunt-and-destroy missions against Savimbi’s troops, and Savimbi had Stinger missiles to shoot down the MIGs. Besides foreign aid, the government financed the war with its oil fields and Savimbi grabbed the diamond mining area.

  “He claims to be a devout Christian, but if he has any serious religious views, they’re the kind that Satan holds. I suspect that he’s something of a Marxist at heart, but leaned toward capitalism when Washington opened its checkbook. He likes to tell a little joke about how religion affected Angola. He says that when missionaries came to Angola centuries ago, they had Bibles and Angolans had the land. Now Angolans have Bibles and the missionaries have the land.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” I said, “the peace agreement between Savimbi and the government won’t last.”

  “It’s already in shreds. It’s just a matter of the actual shooting starting up again. The government will never give Savimbi substantial power. Remember, this is a guy who has burned opponents at the stake, who has personally murdered the wives and children of men who opposed him. What do you think he’d do if he got a position of power in Luanda?”

  “Take over the government by murdering everyone else,” Cross said.

  “Exactly, and he’d do some of the killings himself. Think about that, the political leader of millions of people, with blood on his hands. Nuts like Hitler killed millions, but never with his own hands. About the only killer rulers I can think of offhand are Genghis Khan, Stalin, and Saddam.”

  I said, “If everything is going to hell between Savimbi and the government, this might be an opportune time to approach him with a, uh, merchandising deal. How well do you know him?”

  “I was the C.I.A. point man with Savimbi during the mid-eighties. I traveled with him, hiding my head when the bullets flew and the bombs dropped.” He laughed. “I saw the look on your face when I opened the door and you saw my arms.”

  I nodded. “Cross didn’t tell me.”

  Cross shrugged. “Hell, I never noticed you didn’t have arms.”

  Kirk sp
rayed out a mouthful of tea he was in the process of swallowing and broke into a gale of laughter. When he was done laughing, he wiped his mouth. “Sorry. Okay, let’s get down to business. I don’t know what your business is with Savimbi, and even if you wanted to tell me, I don’t want to know. I can introduce you to Savimbi, set up a meet. Whether he kills you or does business with you, that I can’t say. I want fifty thousand dollars, U.S., in advance. I want another fifty if you come out of the meeting alive.”

  We made a deal for diamonds instead of dollars and left the apartment. When we were in a taxi, I asked Cross, “What happened to Kirk’s arms?”

  Cross laughed, almost a giggle. “Haven’t you guessed?”

  It hit me. “Savimbi?”

  “Savimbi. He caught Kirk and one of his own men with their hands in the till. They were diverting CIA-supplied weapons and reselling them. Savimbi personally chopped off Kirk’s hands.”

  “Jesus. But he was CIA.”

  “Yeah, but remember what Kirk tried to get across, the guy’s psychotic. You don’t burn people at the stake unless you’ve got a serious personality disorder, one that you don’t find in the average textbook on abnormal psychology.”

  “What happened to the other guy?”

  “He wasn’t CIA. Kirk told me Savimbi had the guy impaled on a sharp stake—alive. And raped his wife in front of him as he was dying.”

  Cross leaned over and nudged me with his elbow.

  “Just think of it this way, bubba. You’ve got so many enemies, Savimbi would probably be doing everyone a favor killing you.”

  53

  The meet with Savimbi was set up for the following week in a rural area in the Moxico region in the southeast of the country. Savimbi’s headquarters were in a place called Jamba—no relationship to Colonel Jomba—but Kirk told us he was not always there.

  “We fly into a landing strip in the jungle,” Cross told me, relaying Kirk’s instructions. “The pilot won’t even know the precise location until we’re in the region. Once there, we’ll be transported to another location for the meet.”

  We were getting ready to have Gomez drive us to the airfield where we would meet the puddle jumper arranged by Kirk, when Cross gave me the bad news.

  “Jomba is here to see you.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “No shit, José. If Jomba got word of the deal with Savimbi, we can all kiss our asses good-bye.”

  Jomba was waiting out by his jeep. I sneaked a look at the hood ornament. I wasn’t sure it was the same skull.

  He slapped the side of his leg with his swagger stick as we walked.

  “I received a call from João Carmona. He tells me you have created a problem in regard to the exchange.”

  “He’s a liar, there’s no problem.”

  “Why would he say that if it were not true?”

  “Like I said, he’s a liar. There’s no problem with the deal, there’s a disagreement between us over a diamond. He stole a valuable diamond and I’m getting it back in the exchange. That’s all there is to it.”

  He stopped and faced me, giving me that horrible grin. His tattooed horns glowed. “Your troubles with Carmona must not interfere with the arrangements that have been made. I will be most unhappy if they do. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand that we have a business arrangement. If João fucks it up, go after João.”

  He tapped my chest with his swagger stick. “If João fucks it up . . .”

  I pushed the stick away. “I don’t perform well when I’m being threatened. Look, we’re in a deal together, we all need each other. Coming over here and stepping on my tail won’t help either of us.”

  I swear those goddamn horns turned purple. I was sure that the big bastard was going to kill me on the spot. But I was gambling that getting the arms deal through would be more important to him than stomping a bug like me.

  He looked at the mine and back to me. “Understand this, senhor. I don’t care what you do with Carmona, you can kill him if you like. But if you do anything to harm my arrangement for the weapons, I will not just destroy your mine, I will take you down below, into a dark tunnel, and give you such pain that even your soul will cry. Do you understand me, senhor?”

  “Understood.”

  Cross was waiting for me at the mine entrance when I finished with Jomba. He snicked ash from his cigar and examined the burning end before looking up and shaking his head.

  “What is it you don’t understand about pissing off that devil? I could see from his body language that Jomba was teetering on the edge of getting himself a new hood ornament.”

  “Only the fact that I’m instrumental in getting him weapons kept him from squeezing my head till my eyes popped out. Why kill one man for a little personal satisfaction when he can get an infusion of guns and kill thousands?”

  “Jomba doesn’t have to kill me,” Cross said. “Everytime he shows up, I lose a few years off my life. Pretty soon I’ll die of old age.”

  We flew over five hundred miles of equatorial Africa, mostly above the great plateau that occupies much of the east and south of the country once you get away from the coast. Kirk wasn’t with us. “He says he can’t afford to lose his legs, too,” Cross said.

  We landed on a stretch of dirt road where a Hummer and a jeep were waiting. It was an area more like a savanna, not as thick and lush as the rain forests closer to the equator, but still humid and thickly wooded.

  “Put these on,” the pilot told us. He handed us cloth masks that were similar to Halloween items.

  “Why are we wearing masks?” I asked.

  “Orders. Don’t take them off until you are told. Don’t talk to the soldiers or anyone else until you see Savimbi. They speak to you, just make short replies.”

  As we walked toward the vehicles, I took a guess about the masks.

  “Kirk wants to make sure that we aren’t identified,” I said. “Jomba may have spies at headquarters. Two American visitors would raise talk.”

  The soldiers waiting for us must have had orders to keep their mouths shut, too, because other than a “Boa-tarde,” no other conversation ensued between us. The driver and guy riding shotgun in the Hummer chatted away to each other in a Bantu tongue while Cross and I sat in back and looked at the scenery. I expected that it would be a short drive to Savimbi’s headquarters, but I didn’t get my expects. We traveled for an hour on the narrow dirt road and then left it for a grassland hardly scratched by wheeled vehicles.

  “From what Kirk told me,” Cross said, “Savimbi doesn’t hang around one place too long. He figures the government could settle their political differences with a little carpet bombing if they know where he’s staying.”

  It was turning dark when the Hummer entered a small village. In the thick foliage surrounding the village, I saw military vehicles and scattered encampments of soldiers.

  The Hummer pulled up to the headman’s house and we got out. A full-sized poster of Savimbi wearing a beret with general’s stars and wearing military fatigues was on the wall of the hut. The picture showed people cheering him while he shook his clenched fist at the world.

  We were greeted by an officer wearing a UNITA uniform. “Follow me,” he said in Portuguese.

  We stepped into the house and the door was shut behind us.

  “You can take off your masks now.”

  The room was lit with temporary lighting hanging from the ceiling. The hum of a generator could be heard coming from behind the house. A table was set for two.

  “Please,” the officer, a major, gestured at the two chairs. “Our leader will be here shortly. He asks that you enjoy a meal in the meantime. Wine or beer?”

  We both took beer. Wine would be iffy in the backcountry. The beer turned out to be cold. “That generator must keep a refrigerator going, too,” I told Cross.

  Once we had eaten, the same officer reappeared and offered cigars and brandy. Moments later, Jonas Savimbi entered, accompanied by the major. He was a powerfully b
uilt man, in his late fifties, with tight, short-cropped hair. Unlike the poster, he did not have a full beard—his cheeks were beardless. He still maintained facial hair in a circle around his mouth and down to his chin.

  I expected to see him in a military uniform, but he had on a leisure suit and a shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

  My first impression of him was a man full of energy. His eyes, body language, handshake, all conveyed a sense of powerful dynamism. Far from nervous energy, there was sense of deliberation about him. He was charismatic. Unlike the politicians back home who buy their way into high office with promises and deals, this man had stirred the hearts of millions of people with his rhetoric—and went into the bush with gun in hand to fight for . . . his beliefs? Naked power?

  I looked into his dark cold eyes as I smiled and shook hands, reminding myself that this was also a man who burned people at the stake.

  He got quickly down to business. His Portuguese was better than mine.

  “Why did you set up this meeting?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’ve got myself into a bind. I own a diamond mine in Colonel Jomba’s area.”

  “I’m the colonel’s superior officer.”

  “Yes, that’s why we’re here.” I took a breath and let it all hang out. “Something’s up, I’m not sure of all the ramifications. Jomba has worked out a deal with a diamond trader in Lisbon named João Carmona. And an arms dealer in Istanbul who calls himself ‘the Bey.’ Diamonds from somewhere else, I suspect Sierra Leone, are being brought in. My job is to certify the diamonds as Angolan, so they don’t have a blood-diamond taint.”

  I paused and glanced at Cross. He swished brandy in his glass and shrugged.

  “Go ahead, put the other foot in your mouth,” he said.

  “I think that Jomba’s planning a coup.”

  Savimbi exchanged looks with the major. Neither revealed any emotion.

  “Why do you believe Jomba is plotting against me?”

  “That’s the way we’ve sized it up. I was told by João’s wife that Jomba plans to take over UNITA once he gets his hands on the weapons.”