by Carr, Jack
Reece pumped the primer bulb and set the choke before cranking the motor. It took three tries before it caught, and he let it idle for a full minute to warm it up. Satisfied that it wasn’t going to stall at the wrong moment, he untied the bow and stern lines from the Bitter Harvest’s cleats and drifted away from the boat that had been his only home for the past fourteen weeks. As he advanced the throttle, the bow lurched skyward, obscuring his view of the shoreline in the distance. He kept the speed to a minimum, just enough to stay on plane. He wasn’t in a rush and there was no sense in making any unnecessary engine noise. He assumed it was too early to encounter any fishing vessels, and he didn’t know if his destination nation had a navy or even a coast guard patrolling its waters. After sixteen years in the Teams, Reece felt perfectly comfortable in a small boat headed toward the coastline of a foreign land that wasn’t expecting his arrival, though he did silently long for a couple of armed teammates, some fresh intel, and perhaps a map.
He had debated whether to steer the Bitter Harvest to within a mile of shore and simply swim in from that distance, but given that his only exercise over the past several weeks had been operating the sailboat, he wasn’t sure he was physically up for it. Also, given the lack of intel about potential coastal patrols, he preferred the decreased signature that the Zodiac gave him. As he steered the boat and scanned the horizon, he inflated the small dive vest around his neck using the plastic tube attached to the front. The spray of salt water that soaked him felt good against his skin in the warm night air. It took twenty minutes to close the distance to where Reece planned to make his approach, approximately five hundred meters offshore. He carefully scanned the sandy beach and dark waters for any sign of activity.
Seeing nothing concerning, he swung his legs over the side and entered the eighty-degree water while keeping a firm grip on the inflatable hull, his vest helping support his head above the waves. He had lined the inside of his duffel with garbage bags to render it effectively waterproof, which also made it buoyant. His NODs quickly fogged thanks to the water, body heat, and humidity, and he pushed them up onto the helmet and out of his way. He didn’t need to see much other than the white sand of the beach at this point, anyway. He unclipped the Winkler folding knife from the waistband of his board shorts with his right hand, locking the blade with a flick of his thumb before methodically stabbing each section of the sponson tubes, turning the workhorse craft into a flooded mess. Weighed down by the thirty-five-horsepower outboard motor, the craft quickly sank into the black water. Pushing his floating duffel ahead of him, Reece kicked toward Mozambique.
• • •
The beach was deserted. Reece had aimed for the darkest spot on the horizon during his approach and, as his feet made landfall for the first time in ages, he made his way onto a stretch of coastline devoid of structures. He paused in chest-deep water, slowly scanning the shoreline in front of him with his NODs, looking for any movement, the glow of an ill-timed cigarette break, or sharp edges to shapes that might signify something man-made. Satisfied his approach was clear, he waded ashore. He had thought he might feel an urge to kneel in thanks like some conquistador who had just discovered the New World, but, oddly enough, he felt like he was coming home.
Reece moved as quickly as the soft white sand would allow toward the tree line ahead. As he entered the scrub vegetation, he opened the duffel and reached into the back pocket of his pack to remove his Glock from the freezer bag that had protected it during his one-man over-the-beach operation. He then sat quietly, pistol in hand, for ten minutes, letting his senses get in tune with his new terrestrial environment. It took about thirty seconds for the mosquitos to discover his presence and he endured scores of bites as he struggled not to move.
Satisfied that no one was aware of his arrival, he reached back into his duffel and tore through the garbage-bag liner. He stripped off his vest and traded his soaked T-shirt for a dry one, using his wet shirt to clean the sand from his feet before putting on socks and lightweight Salomon trail runners. SEAL or not, Reece was not a fan of sandy feet. Digging a hole with the help of a nearby rock as a spade, he dropped in his vest and dirty wet shirt. He then removed his NODs and helmet, giving them one last look. He needed to travel light, and being caught with ITAR-restricted night vision might complicate his story as just another backpacker wandering the earth in search of the meaning of life. Not the greatest backstory, and not much to support it except for the long hair, beard, and lack of personal hygiene, which just might be enough.
Looking down at his M4, he whispered a quick good-bye as he wrapped it and his NODs in trash bags from the boat and cached them as best he could in the ground, brushing over the area with a dry limb. Though it didn’t fit his thin backstory, he couldn’t bring himself to cache his Glock. It wouldn’t do much against many of the larger animals of the African bush, but it would be more than sufficient against the two-legged variety. Be prepared. Noting the exact position of the cache on his GPS, Reece stood and began the next phase of his journey.
CHAPTER 17
Managua, Nicaragua
December 1991
OVER THE ENSUING WEEKS since their unlikely encounter on the beach, Grey and Andrenov met regularly. Their photographic journeys took them away from the city and into the villages and hinterlands of this nation not far removed from the conflict between the Sandinistas and Contras. There was still a sizable U.S. presence in Nicaragua, but engagement was cautious at best after the fallout from the Iran-Contra affair. It was no coincidence that these remote locations kept them from the prying eyes of U.S. counterintelligence agents and chance encounters with other embassy personnel that would require explanation. Grey enjoyed the companionship and the ability to speak freely in his mother’s native tongue. He knew he was being assessed and recruited, of course, but like a lonely spouse who wasn’t getting enough attention at home, he enjoyed being on the receiving end of the chase. For the first time in his life, he felt wanted. Andrenov believed in him and trusted him to be the spy the CIA didn’t think he could be.
When the ask came, there was no great philosophical pitch or movie theatrics; it was simply a favor from one friend to another. Grey was scheduled to return to Langley and Andrenov asked if he might be able to look up something for him in the archives, something personal. As a token of their friendship, Andrenov also gave Grey a gift just before he departed: his olive-green Bundeswehr-marked Leica M4. To a layperson, the camera looked like something one might pick up at a garage sale, but to a photography buff like Grey, or any auction house, it was a priceless treasure. That it was a fake, a Leica painted and engraved by the technical division of the GRU to mimic the famed collector’s piece, was a fact that Grey would never discover.
Upon his return to the States, Grey set about returning the favor to his newly adopted Soviet father. He found Andrenov’s first request to be an odd one. He didn’t ask for details of a classified weapons program or even the identities of any U.S. intelligence assets working in Russia. His request was ancient history by Agency standards: the identities of the MACV-SOG team members who ambushed and killed a group of Soviet military advisors in Laos in 1971. It took some digging, but Grey found the after-action report of Reconnaissance Team Ozark, a mixed U.S. and South Vietnamese special operations unit attached to the Phoenix Program. Led by a U.S. Navy chief petty officer, Team Ozark had been tasked with a series of cross-border missions to interdict communist supply lines along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
The team’s report was among the records from the CCN Compound near Da Nang, where Agency and SOG personnel based many of their classified operations. Though the paper reports had been converted to microfiche and were cumbersome to sift through, Grey did his research the way he lived and worked, unnoticed by anyone. RT Ozark reported executing a near ambush on a three-vehicle convoy on the Laotian side of the border, killing all the enemy troops with a combination of claymore mines, 40mm grenades, and small-arms fire. Among the dead was a Caucasian male dressed in th
e uniform of a Soviet army officer.
CHAPTER 18
Pemba, Mozambique
March
AT FIRST LIGHT, REECE found himself walking westward on a dirt road that ran toward the city of Pemba. The shacks and homes that lined the roadside became more frequent as he traveled, confirming that he was moving in the right direction. Within minutes of sunrise, Reece began seeing other pedestrians along his route, no doubt headed to work. Many stared wide-eyed at the strange-looking white man who’d trespassed on their morning commute, while others paid him no mind, having seen many of his adventure-seeking backpacker brethren wander through over the years.
Even this early, the salty air was warm and damp and Reece slowed his pace so as not to soak through his clothing. He’d lost so much weight during his months at sea that he had to safety-pin the excess waistband of his board shorts so they didn’t slide off his hips. Still, he had to pull them up every few minutes as he walked. His uphill path took him by an abandoned-looking sports complex complete with faded tennis courts and an empty soccer stadium, artifacts from the nation’s colonial past. Reaching a paved two-lane road, he followed it for close to a mile until it intersected with a four-lane highway. Across the intersection was the Pemba airport, a relatively small facility with commercial service to larger sub-Saharan locations such as Dar es Salaam and Johannesburg. Where was Liz Riley and her plane when he needed her?
He had no idea of the day’s flight schedule but expected that the early morning departures from the major destinations would be arriving shortly, with taxis likely to be queuing up to meet the passengers. Even a remote third-world airport such as this might have surveillance cameras and would definitely have a police presence. Reece had to assume that his face was plastered on every television in the world, so contact with law enforcement had to be avoided. He crossed the four lanes of traffic and began walking on a shaded path that paralleled the road toward any cabs that would be approaching the airport from the city center. Unlike in some African nations, drivers in Mozambique used the right-hand side of the road.
The morning traffic mostly consisted of flatbed and stake-bodied delivery trucks, but within ten minutes of walking, Reece saw what he was looking for. He stepped into the edge of the oncoming lane and waved his hand at the white compact sedan. The Toyota slowed, put on its turn signal, and drove slightly past him before pulling onto the road’s shoulder. The driver of the King Cab Radio Taxi Toyota, a thin black man dressed in penny loafers, dark dress pants, and a threadbare button-down, stepped out to help Reece with his bags. He was obviously uncomfortable with his car’s position and moved quickly to open the hatchback. Reece loaded his duffel but kept his pack as he climbed into the small backseat.
Feigning an Australian accent rather poorly, Reece asked the driver to take him to an Internet café. Reece hadn’t spoken to another human since he’d left Katie and Liz on the runway at Fishers Island. He couldn’t help but wonder where they were now and if they were all right.
The cab’s path took it back toward the airport, where the driver made a U-turn to head toward Pemba proper.
Pemba had a reputation as a refuge for mercenaries, spies, and criminals due to its remote location and minimal connection with the inept national government. The city, known as Porto Amelia during Portuguese colonial rule, was both decrepit and beautiful at the same time. In some ways it reminded Reece of the many Caribbean islands he’d visited where locals scratched out a destitute existence adjacent to the walls of luxury resorts catering to families who never ventured beyond their secure boundaries. The beaches here were as beautiful as anywhere on earth and were virtually undeveloped; no skyscraper condos, just a scattering of thatched roofs along the white sand. The city sat on a peninsula and would be an ideal deepwater port if Mozambique had an economy to support it. The architecture was a mix of utilitarian concrete residences, shacks, and aging Portuguese structures that highlighted the dominant influences of the world’s first colonial empire; churches represented an expeditious religious footprint to win the hearts of the indigenous population, along with the accompanying military fortifications required to win their minds.
Following the high ground on the bay side of the peninsula, the driver’s path into the city led them through streets crowded with more pedestrian than automotive traffic. People and vehicles moved at a laid-back pace; no one seemed to be in much of a hurry. After spending so much time alone on the open seas, he felt a bit claustrophobic in the crowded street, but a few deep breaths got things under control. The taxi stopped in front of a building in what appeared to be a shopping district and the driver pointed to the meter, which read 462.25 MZN.
“How much U.S., mate?”
The driver smiled and held up seven fingers. Everybody likes dollars. Reece peeled a ten-dollar bill from a wad of cash in the top pocket of his pack and handed it to the driver, who nodded enthusiastically. He stepped out of the cab as the driver moved to unload his duffel from the back, pointing at a storefront. Reece nodded, looked around at his new surroundings, and headed through the propped-open double doors of the café.
Inside, a tired-looking employee manned the desk, and a handful of young men occupied seats in front of a row of ancient computer terminals. The room was dimly lit, with much of the illumination coming from the computer screens. There were no overt signs of surveillance cameras. A price list in what must have been the local language and what looked like Portuguese specified the rates. Hora was surely hour and, based on the cab fare, that much time was around five dollars. Reece handed the man behind the counter a five-dollar bill. He studied it carefully before putting it into his shirt pocket, then waved his arm toward the computers and said something that Reece couldn’t understand.
The other patrons were glued to their screens and paid Reece no attention as he moved to the computer closest to the wall. The machine was ancient, one of those Dell desktop tower PCs from the late 1990s that cost $3,000 and, a few months later, were worth about $100. The browser was an old, unsupported version of Google Chrome and it took a full minute of clicking and whirring for the program to open after Reece double-clicked on it.
He had a strong urge to look up a few news stories related to his last days in the United States and an even stronger inclination to do a Google search for Liz and Katie, but, knowing that the long arm of the NSA was likely on the lookout for just such an event, he resisted. He typed “Richard Hastings safari operator” into the browser and waited an eternity for the response. The first hit was a Web page for RH Safaris and he clicked on the link. It was obvious from the “About Us” section of the site that he had found the correct Richard Hastings, so he clicked on the “Our Areas” page. A map of the safari area eventually loaded and he took a small notebook and pencil from his pack to take note of the location.
The area was in one of the hunting blocks that bordered the Niassa National Reserve, a vast wilderness area in northern Mozambique along the border with Tanzania. The map wasn’t interactive, so Reece made a sketch of its proximity to terrain features, including the river that bordered the safari area and the closest town of Montepuez, which is where the paved roads ended. After waiting painfully for Google Maps to load, he found the approximate location of the safari area, and instead of dropping a pin, he used the scale in the bottom right-hand corner to estimate distance. The camp was at least five hours from Pemba by car, and that was being generous considering the likely condition of the roads. It was probably more like an eight-hour trip during this, the rainy season. Besides, he didn’t have a car, so the point was moot. He did a search for RH Safaris and, among various links and junk results, found a trip report from a previous safari client on a hunting message board. The report described the hunter’s trip down to the most minute of details, including his clothing and ammunition choices. Fortunately, this attention to detail also described the air charter service he’d used.
Pemba Air Charters listed an address on Avenue de Marginal near the airport, meaning that
he had walked directly past it this morning. Given the remote location of the safari area, Reece figured the charter service likely served as a regular shuttle to and from the camp and that the individuals involved would have a strong working relationship. Rather than trying to buy a truck or motorcycle to navigate his way to the camp while avoiding police and military, chartering a plane was course of action one. He wrote down the address and phone number before deleting the browser history and heading for the door. He nodded at the attendant and went back out into the slow-motion hustle and bustle of the coastal African city.
The same Toyota taxi that had dropped Reece off was still waiting, and the driver treated him like a long-lost brother. Currency breeds loyalty in certain parts of the world, well, most of them anyway. Reece handed the address to the driver, who nodded and steered the car back into traffic. A few minutes later, they were at their destination. Reece gave the driver another ten and this time the man handed him a business card and pointed at the phone number. Call me if you need me again. Reece nodded in understanding.
The world headquarters of Pemba Air Charters was a faded baby blue single-family home, surrounded by an iron gate with brick columns. The windows of the building were covered with burglar bars and an older Suzuki minivan parked just inside the gate had a magnetic “Pemba Air Charters” logo on the door. Reece pressed the doorbell button on the brick column and put on his best smile.
The front door of the house opened and a short, broad-chested white man wearing sandals, blue athletic shorts, and a faded olive T-shirt stepped out, squinting his eyes in the bright sunlight. He walked half the distance between the house and the gate.
“Can I help you?” he asked in the heavily accented English of East Africa.
“I’m looking for Pemba Air Charters; am I in the right place?”