by Nick Elliott
He looked across at me. ‘Why the pretence all of a sudden?’
‘Because that’s the way it is, Carlos. This escapade is something I got dragged into. Not for the first time, but it’s not my usual line of work, believe me.’ He looked sceptical.
‘For an aircraft pilot you handle a boat well,’ I said, changing the subject.
‘Yeah, in Laos and ’Nam we got to do pretty much everything.’
‘Grant told me you went bamboo. What was that all about?’
‘I liked it out there. Okay, it was war. We were bombing the shit out of the place but it was a big adrenalin rush the whole time. Sure, I went bamboo - found myself a nice little local girl and shacked up with her. She was a Hmong – they were the local hill tribe in those parts and were fighting alongside us like tigers. But I was a pilot first and foremost. And Air America was kinda loosely structured, the Ravens too. We had a lot of latitude when it came to how we lived our lives. We were paramilitaries as well as pilots and I found myself feeding intel back to the CIA station chief in Vientiane. That’s how I met Grant. He was a junior intelligence officer reporting to the station chief so I saw a lot of him.’
‘That boat – the Navy PCF we hitched a lift on?’
‘Yeah, when Laos was wound up I stuck around for a while. Then Ailani died.’ He stopped talking and raised a pair of powerful binoculars to his eyes. ‘See ahead?’ he said passing me the glasses. ‘São Gabriel.’
I looked through them and saw the island, a black rock sticking out of the ocean, surrounded by white surf.
I handed the glasses back to him. ‘You were saying.’
‘Yeah, when she died that was hard. I bummed around for a while then headed for Angola. Pretty soon I realised that those PCFs would be ideal on the rivers there and up the coast. So they shipped half a dozen over. When I came up here to Kazunda I brought one with me.’
It took us another forty minutes to reach the island. He brought us into the harbour, even less spacious than the one at Black Reef, with the same cautious expertise I’d noticed when he flew us from Pointe-Noire.
I jumped ashore to secure the mooring lines and looked around. There was a concrete shed on the quayside and that was about it. São Gabriel was miserable looking place hardly worth calling an island. The constant battering it took from the ocean created a thick, salt-laden mist that hung over the place, making the air dank and clammy. Two men in military fatigues and wearing the maroon berets of the presidential guard approached us and greeted Cordeiro with noticeable deference. The three of them conferred between themselves before he turned back to me.
‘She’s well,’ he announced. ‘Come. Time for you to meet her.’
We walked up a narrow unpaved track running into the interior. Despite the salt spray the island was thick with vegetation resilient to the briny environment. After a mile or so the track petered out and we came to another concrete hut, rotting and green with mould. Sitting outside on a rickety old chair was Nzinga.
I had imagined a robust, forceful woman resembling Winnie Mandela in her younger days. The two had nothing in common. Nzinga stood up and went straight to Cordeiro. They embraced, and after some time she held him at arm’s length as if inspecting him, or to remind herself of what he looked like. They spoke intently to each other in Portuguese. Then Cordeiro turned to me and introduced us. We shook hands.
She was in her mid or late thirties. Although petite, she radiated energy through her gestures and body language, and I sensed determination in her manner. Something about her reminded me of Mariana.
‘Carlos tells me you and Mariana Da Cunha helped my people in Kintani. How many died, do you know?’
‘Almost thirty in the attack when you were taken, plus those who didn’t survive the journey to the city.’
She shook her head. ‘So senseless. I did not resist them when they came for me.’
‘I understand Mendesa was the one who fired from the helicopter.’
‘Yes, it was Mendesa. He treated it like a sport. That man is a psychopath, quite out of control. I knew he saw me as a threat to his plan to take over the presidency but I went willingly. I thought it would stop the slaughter of my people. Women and babies?’ She shook her head. ‘And Carlos tells me he has left the country; run like the coward he is.’
She hesitated before switching her attention. ‘And what about you and this other man – Mr Douglas?’
‘Are you asking what we are doing in your country?’
‘Yes, I would like to know that.’
‘It will take some time.’
‘Explain it on the way back to Black Reef,’ said Cordeiro. ‘I have told her you will not oppose the changes that are coming. We must go now.’
‘I’ll explain,’ I said, ‘and you must also speak with Grant Douglas and Mariana da Cuhna.’
As we walked back to the boat they talked excitedly to each other in Portuguese. This time the two guards cast off and joined us on board as Cordeiro manoeuvred out of the little harbour. I moved back to where Nzinga was sitting on a bench at the back of the wheelhouse, the two guards standing nearby. I sat down next to her as we headed back into the ocean’s swell.
‘I hate boats,’ she said. ‘I don’t trust them and they make me ill. Aircraft I don’t mind.’
‘Have you travelled much?’
‘In Africa, yes; and to Portugal where I studied.’
‘Are you confident of your revolution succeeding?’
‘Of course. It will be the Mussaenda Revolution, called after our national flower, and symbolising peace. You know Portugal had its Carnation Revolution – it was mostly peaceful and brought big changes to that country, for the better. This is what we will have here now.’
‘And your system of government?’
‘You know we are Marxists, but I am pragmatic and flexible. I studied politics and economics. I know which systems have worked and which have failed. Do I expect to turn Kazunda into some kind of economic miracle? Of course not. Marx was a moralist, not an economist. I know that. But I promise we will share the country’s wealth with its people. And we will not tolerate the kind of corruption and nepotism that we have suffered from all these years. Ours will be an honest and fair government.’
‘Will you have elections?’
‘Only when the time is right. When we have rid ourselves of the corrupt patronage we see in so many of our neighbouring countries, where politicians buy blocks of votes with promises of future favours.’
‘I wish you well,’ I said.
‘Thank you. Now it is my turn to ask you some questions.’
But Nzinga’s turn never came.
‘Let’s stand,’ I said as the swell surged. ‘It will be more comfortable. Keep your eyes on the horizon.’ We stood with our backs braced against the bulkhead, our feet planted wide apart as the boat lurched from wave to wave.
We were no more than three hundred yards off the wreck of the Sea-En Resolution when the bullets struck, smashing through the glass and striking Cordeiro first in his shoulder then his neck. At first he held onto the wheel to support himself. Then he turned to us, his eyes locking onto Nzinga. She screamed and threw herself towards him. More rounds crashed into the wheelhouse as he fell to the deck, still gripping the wheel. The boat veered in response, turning wildly in a tight circle. I dived across the deck and grabbed the wheel, forcing it back into the forward position. I glanced up to see where we were heading – straight towards the rig. I looked down at where Cordeiro lay, Nzinga draped across him. He was bleeding heavily from the wound in his neck. I turned the wheel again to get back on course, almost losing my balance as I slipped in a pool of his blood. Now we were leaving the rig behind us and the wheelhouse was protected from the line of fire. I held the boat on course for Black Reef. I could see it clearly now, its profile protruding from the coast and surrounded by the crashing surf.
***
I never knew for certain who killed Carlos Cordeiro. It had to be a trained sniper, equipp
ed, I guessed, with laser rangefinder, meteorological measuring equipment, ballistic prediction software and God knows what else to get that kind of accuracy. It was a professional hit alright and the assassin had fired from the Sea-En Resolution, American-owned but now an abandoned hulk. It wouldn’t have been difficult to get onboard and set up a firing position. But the shooter would have to have known that Cordeiro was going to pass within shooting distance. The CIA had good reason to do away with him. No matter what his excuses, Cordeiro had, initially at least and arguably for what he saw as the greater good, sided with Mendesa and the Russians to bring about Loma’s downfall. And to achieve that he had informed them of the CIA operations base on board the Sea-En Resolution. Many US citizens had died because of it. Neither would Grant have mourned his death for Grant had been complicit in revealing to Cordeiro the CIA’s plans to protect Loma from the coup in the first place. I wondered whether the CIA had ever seriously intended to accede to Cordeiro’s asylum request.
Then again, Cordeiro had also abandoned Mendesa and his Russian-backed coup in favour of Nzinga’s cause, providing ample motive for the GRU to eliminate him as well. He’d double-crossed the Americans, the Russians and Mendesa to ensure Nzinga’s accession. Whichever side had carried out the hit, Cordeiro had paid the price for his own double dealings. Mariana had been right when she’d said perhaps he’d been too clever for his own good. Either way, it had been one hell of a shot.
Nzinga wept as she cradled Cordeiro’s lifeless body in her arms. The two guards had stationed themselves on the companionway outside the wheelhouse, scanning the sea for further threats. Had one or both of them betrayed Cordeiro by telling his killers when and where to attack? I’d never know. But I wondered how safe Nzinga was now without her champion.
I took the boat back into Black Reef’s harbour and as one of the guards jumped ashore to take the lines I killed the engines and turned to Nzinga.
‘Who?’ she cried, but I didn’t have an answer for her.
Instead I said, ‘You cannot let this upset your plans, Nzinga.’ I wasn’t about to tell her that her comrade-in-arms – and I couldn’t avoid the thought that perhaps he’d been more than that – had just requested asylum in the US, was going to desert her. It didn’t matter anyway.
She stared back at me, but after a while she got to her feet. ‘I will go on,’ she said. Then she sighed and I sensed she was already resigning herself to what had just happened. ‘You know, we were once lovers; that was long ago. But we both believed in the cause. I will not lose faith now. And I will fulfil his dream. It is my dream too. A luta continua!’
She was more composed now. ‘Loma and Mendesa respectively were each proxies for the American and Russian governments,’ she said. ‘Carlos knew the only way to bring peace and stability to the people of Kazunda was to make sure both of them failed. He knew that meant playing dirty but he will be honoured in my country as a true martyr to our cause.’
Chapter 23
Three days later Nzinga stepped out to meet her people. It was more a coronation than an inauguration. As she’d hoped, the revolution had been short-lived. What took place was a largely peaceful assignment of power to fill the vacuum left by Loma’s assassination and the coup attempt. The police, the army and the presidential guard had, for now at least, supported the transition. They’d have been fools not too. Tens of thousands of citizens were out on the streets with their pink and white Mussaenda flowers and the crowds were swelling by the hour as others came in from the countryside to join them. The atmosphere was peaceful for now, but febrile with excitement at the same time.
I joined Grant, Mariana and Marco along with the Portuguese ambassador and his staff to watch the spectacle from a balcony in one of the government buildings in the central square. But before Nzinga was presented, there was an important symbolic act to be performed. Inspired no doubt by events in Baghdad fifteen years earlier, a team of presidential guard officers and men climbed up the forty-foot bronze statue of Eduardo Loma and attached a heavy chain round its neck. Amidst a roar from the crowd the other end of the chain was attached to the tow-bar of an old armoured personnel carrier which Grant informed me was a Portuguese VBR Pandur. And so Loma was toppled. The crowd, frenzied now as the statue crashed to the ground, converged around it. Some attacked it with hammers, others just used sticks. As the crowd grew the police moved in to disperse them with batons, lashing out indiscriminately.
Just as it threatened to turn into a violent riot Nzinga’s voice sounded across the square. ‘Pare! Ele se foi!’
Mariana translated: ‘She’s telling them to stop. He’s gone.’
Nzinga was standing on the balcony from where, only days earlier, Loma had stood, ranting with threats of imprisonment or execution against those who would challenge his rule.
Her voice was restrained, her tone measured and with frequent pauses. She knew the gravity of her situation and she knew instinctively how to draw the crowd together. They stood in rapt silence, mesmerised. She was flanked by her closest advisors, mostly elders from the country’s hinterland settlements, villages, townships, and from the city: thirty or so men and women in whose hands, along with their new president’s, the future of the nation now rested. The swearing in of her cabinet was to take place immediately after the investiture ceremony, she said. There was to be little fanfare. She spoke of her plans and hopes for the future. And she paid tribute to Carlos Cordeiro. Her tone and manner conveyed a hands-on approach. And for now she had the nation eating out of her hand. They hung on her every word as her voice carried with an echo through loudspeakers, across the square packed with hopeful and eager Kazundans, their faces turned up towards her.
After it was all over we returned to Mariana’s house on the hill. It was less than two weeks since we’d last sat around her stove discussing our plans, though it seemed much longer. Marco had gone to his family to continue the celebrations. Now there were just the three of us and Mariana prepared a simple meal herself which we ate on the veranda.
‘What will you do?’ I asked her. ‘Are you staying on here?’
‘No. There is nothing for me here, and I am happy to leave now I believe there is a future for Kazunda.’
Grant said, ‘Nzinga has told you, you are welcome to stay.’
‘I know. And I shall return from time to time I hope, but my life is in Lisbon.’
Grant smiled. ‘From where there are direct flights to and from Edinburgh.’
She looked at him fondly. ‘You know you will always be welcome, both of you.’
Grant took a drink of his Aguardente de Medronhos. ‘There are loose ends to be tied up, many of them, Gus. We’re not done yet.’
‘I’ll take care of them. You take care of Langley.’
‘Hey, thanks!’
‘You’re welcome.’
Then he turned back to Mariana: ‘Will you do one thing before you leave here? Will you tell Nzinga that she need not worry about Mendesa; about him returning to disrupt her rule and drag this country back into chaos and misery? Tell her we will take care of Mendesa.’
She nodded. ‘And if you don’t, then I will.’
Chapter 24
I left Kazunda the next morning, hitching a ride on one of Sea-En’s Pilatus Porters to Pointe-Noire and from there on Air Maroc back to Casablanca. Pedro had messaged me from Lisbon saying I should visit the Club’s representatives in the Moroccan city to discover the fate of the Dalmatia Star. I went straight from the airport to the offices of Benjelloun & Partners, a small and respected maritime law firm I’d had dealings with in the past.
‘Welcome, old friend,’ said Rachid Benjelloun as the receptionist showed me into his office. ‘You look awful. Sit down and tell me what illicit pursuits have been keeping you so busy. Pedro was a little vague over the phone. By the way, do you have somewhere to stay while you’re here?’
‘No. Can you get me a room at that hotel near the port where I stayed last time? I’ll only need it for a night, Rachid.’
‘So you hope! Can you arrange that for Mr McKinnon please, Farah?’ Farah returned after a few minutes with spiced coffee and ghriba almond cookies, confirming the booking. Like most young Moroccan women in this town she was dressed trendily and wore neither a veil nor a headscarf.
‘Yes,’ Rachid continued. ‘Pedro was unclear but he asked me to find out what I could about the Dalmatia Star. It wasn’t difficult. She sank barely fifteen miles off the coast from here just three days ago. All the crew are safe. In fact, they are in remarkably good shape. I interviewed the master – or acting master I should say – a Captain Mornaric. He’s been detained along with the rest of the crew by the port police pending their enquiries into the incident.’ He looked across his desk at me with one eyebrow raised.
‘Can you get me in to see him, Rachid?’
‘I believe so. I am sure you can guess what is suspected.’
‘I know. The sea was calm, the sun was shining and the ship was scuttled, but not before the crew had packed their bags, the cook had prepared sandwiches, they’d boarded the lifeboat in an orderly fashion and headed for port.’
‘Yes, that is exactly what is suspected. But Captain Mornaric is not admitting it. All he has said is that he would like to meet with you.’
Rachid accompanied me to the Surete Nationale’s port police headquarters in the Ain Sebaa arrondissement where the Dalamtia Star’s crew were accommodated in several cells shared between them. The police officer-in-charge led us down a corridor to the end cell, where Mornaric was sitting on a bench in splendid isolation. He looked lost and miserable but brightened up a bit when he saw us. The officer unlocked the cell and led the way up a flight of stairs to a room with a long table and chairs either side.
Having recently been incarcerated myself I sympathised with Mornaric’s plight, although the facilities here were rather more salubrious than in Kazunda. ‘Are you being well treated?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, but can you get us out of here?’