by Larry Johns
I receive a letter from her once, sometimes twice a year, which I answer in some depth. Even old dogs can learn. I also get progress reports from the college. Brown was right; she shows a great deal of promise. We meet occasionally when I’m down that way. But they are desultory, strained meetings, at which neither of us can find much to say.
Love? I just don’t know. I know of the love one man can have for another in a pitched battle situation, where flying bullets and shrapnel take second place to a life that can be saved. But this kind of love is unexplainable, instinctive. I am rock certain that I do not understand the other kind. Karen is my flesh and blood, whatever I am, whatever I feel. But will I, can I, ever be a real father? God alone knows.
“Ah, mister McCann. At last! Welcome!”
I was wrenched from my thoughts to the realization that I had passed through the barriers and was in the main concourse. A pretty Chinese girl stood in front of me, her hand outstretched. With an effort, I forced myself to concentrate on the business at hand. Only time would reveal if I could or would sacrifice the lives of three hundred men on the altar of my conscience; and Karen was that altar.
Brown had already told me that Chi Luang was not one of the people waiting for me, but that of the three who were, one was a girl. She was in her mid-twenties, I guessed, as I took the proffered hand, and dressed in a neat, very business-like beige skirt suit. Her shoulder length, jet black hair flicked effortlessly back into perfect place after she straightened from her oriental bow. Her make up had been lightly, artfully applied, and on looks alone I had her down as some VIP’s personal secretary. On feel I had her down as something else entirely; her hands were almost leather-like to the touch and her grip belied her size and diminutive stature. I have shaken hands like those before, but mostly on men. Her eyes also, close up, were at odds with her general appearance. They smiled, certainly, but in nervous snatches. In between times it was as if she had never smiled before in her short life. I thought about trying to read her expression for any suspicions she may have had about what had taken place. But I discarded the notion as a waste of effort. What would be would be. All I could do was play along with the cover story.
“Glad you could wait,” I said, injecting a note of irony into my tone. “Sorry ‘bout that. I hit one the last time around, too.”
The smile flashed again. “Most inconvenient, sir.” Her accent was near-perfect. Perhaps too perfect for her to have been born and raised in China. “And no fun after a long flight. My name is Mai Chan. I will be your assistant whilst you are with us.”
“Right,” I said, briefly. I could go along with the cover story, but was in no mood to underscore it with small talk for the benefit of possible listening ears. “Do you have a car for me?”
“One is waiting, sir...Oh, Sammy will take your case.”
“Sammy” was a burly African dressed in jeans and sweatshirt. He had the appearance of a gofor but, as with the girl, his eyes talked in a different language; and they were everywhere but on me. He relieved me of the case and disappeared into the crowd.
“If you will follow me, sir,” said the girl. She led the way towards the crush of milling bodies at the concourse exit. The air was heavy with the smell of stale sweat; a lot of which I was personally responsible for. “I do hope we have not organized too rigorous a schedule for you, mister McCann,” Mai Chan went on over her shoulder as we surged through the doors and into the sunshine. She was playing to a gallery that may or may not have been there and, for my money, overacting. “Mister Saitung, our new branch president, would like you to lunch with him before you meet the investment board, to brief you on the current economic climate. But I will take you first to your hotel where you can freshen up after your flight. We have a suite for you at the Holiday Inn. Will that be satisfactory, sir?”
Now I had the feeling that she was playing to a very specific audience, but I was damned if I could see it. The crowd had fanned out and thinned now and the car park, towards which we were headed, was almost deserted. I said, “Fine,” in a normal voice, and left it at that. I could not see the supposed third member of the reception committee, but guessed he would be around somewhere. Brown appeared nothing if not thorough.
As we walked, at something of a rocketing pace, I glanced over the open space at the old police fort, except that it was not there anymore. It had been a mess, in any case, the last time I had seen it; the result of our lobbing thirty or so mortar shells into it. Prior to that it had been quite a handsome building. In point of fact, there was nothing I recognized about the area; a few new structures going up here and there, in varying degrees of completion, plus several mounds of rubble that may well have been all that remained of the army barracks, but that could just as easily have been mounds of builder’s debris.
The car was a current model dark blue Renault with tinted windows. I could see the vague outline of a man behind the wheel. The third member, probably. Sammy had the trunk open and was stowing my case. The girl opened one of the rear doors and the sound of the car’s stereo escaped into the atmosphere. I was about to ask why it had to be so loud when the girl, her mouth set in a tight smile, hissed, “Say nothing, colonel. Just get in the car. We have a directional microphone trained on us!”
I was quick on that uptake; but, as I climbed in, the sight of a man sprawled on the floor between the front and rear seats, did faze me for a moment. He was a European in a business suit, and he beckoned me in with an urgent gesture. Perhaps it was the tension trying to find a way out, I don’t know, but I had an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh at it all. I wanted to yell at them that it was all useless and stupid; that the gaff was blown in any case. Why the man was sprawled there, I didn’t know, but it seemed ridiculous, senseless. Even childlike.
“Get in, for God’s sake!” spat the man.
I climbed in. Wearily. Mai Chan nudged me further over on the seat and climbed in beside me, as Sammy slid in beside the driver who, mercifully, brought the stereo down to a more normal level.
“Please do exactly as you are told, colonel,” said the girl, which had me wondering how many times a day I would hearing that instruction. “When we pull out of the car park we will drive into that street.” She pointed. I looked, nodded, and reserved judgment. “The car will stop. You will immediately get out and this car will drive on. Another car, a red Volvo estate headed the opposite direction, will stop. The door will open and you will get in.” Then, to the driver, “Go, Ranjid!”
We slid forward and headed for the exit. The girl went on, “All this is vitally important, colonel. Please treat it as such. Mister Luang will be in the other car. He will explain.”
Cops and Robbers, I thought. The classic “switch”. The man on the floor was to be me. I looked down at him. He smiled crookedly up at me. “Welcome to the Congo, sir. Land of opportunity and stealth. I don’t always travel this way, but when - “
“Shut up!” spat the girl, and he shut up. “Get ready, colonel. We are almost there.”
The driver swung the car into the designated street, rolled on for a few yards, then stopped hard.
“Go! Go!” yelled the girl.
As I slid across the seat I saw the red Volvo cruising down the road towards us. There was no other traffic about. Neatly done, I thought. As I swung my legs out the door my heel caught the European’s shoulder and I heard his grunt of pain. But before I could mutter an apology the girl yelled for the driver to go on, and the Renault was off and away, the door banging shut in flight. The Volvo stopped opposite me, its front passenger door open. I spared a second to glance up and down the street. Shops, and more heaps of rubble. The shops were still shuttered. A man on a cycle appeared at the far intersection, crossed, and was gone. There was no-one else in sight.
“Colonel!” called a voice from the Volvo. “Quickly!”
I loped over the road and climbed in. Chi Luang, the man who had contacted me in Crete, was behind the wheel. I closed the door behind me and we moved forward, at a
normal speed. “I apologize for all this, colonel.” said Luang. “But you will see that it was not without good reason.”
Chi Luang was an “Odd-Job” character; from the Bond movies. Big everywhere, but not fat, with a small mandarin style moustache and a completely bald, or was it shaven? head. Unlike the film character, Luang had an open, friendly face. He smiled continually and without apparent effort. In Crete he had talked politics for a long time over drinks and had surprised me by coming across as closer to a liberal than a communist. There was good and bad, he had said, on both sides of the divide. A trite line, to be sure, but coming from him it had sounded fresh and hopeful. He certainly did not impress me as a man who hated the west simply because it was the west. In fact, I did not think he hated anyone. He was either a true “citizen of the world,” or the world’s best actor. Politics leaves me cold, but I was glad I had listened to him. If only so I would know who I was working for. Fanatics - and I have worked for enough of those - are a danger to everyone around them.
He went on, “I understand you were subjected to one of our infamous spot-checks. Was it dreadful?” His accent was perfect Oxford English. His use of British colloquialisms stemmed, he told me, from an Etonian education. I found it easy to like him. It happens like that sometimes.
I shrugged. “Thorough shakedown. Toothcomb job.”
“Ah, yes,” he said knowingly, negotiating the corner that brought us onto the airport road. “A harrowing experience, I am sure.” Then he frowned. “A toothcomb job...Tell me, colonel, does that refer to a toothbrush? I’ve always wondered.”
I glanced over towards the airport buildings and wondered if Brown and the gang were on the ball. I hoped not. “I don’t know,” I said, remembering the question. “I guess. Never gave it much thought. It’s just an expression.
He nodded and the frown disappeared. “Of course. Silly question at a time such as this.”
I could not fault him there. I caught a whiff of myself and figured a smoke-screen would be in order. “Do you mind if I smoke, mister Luang?” I knew from Crete that he did not himself indulge.
He flapped a hand in the air. “My dear fellow, do go ahead.” All the same, he wound his window down a crack. Perhaps he preferred the smell of travel sweat. I slid mine down all the way and lit up. The smoke tasted foul and I wondered why I bothered with it myself. “A time such as what?” I asked, figuring that attack was the better form of defence.
Luang shrugged expansively. “I must stress at the outset, colonel, that there is nothing for you to be alarmed at. But the truth is we have a small security problem.”
“Oh?” I said, thinking; Tell me about it! “How much of a problem?”
“It is never possible to be one hundred percent certain of security in...how shall I put it?...in this line of work. Ours, that is, colonel. Not yours; though I’m sure you have your own special kinds of problems. We all know that walls have ears, etcetera. But here in this part of the world the very air seems to be listening...and looking,” he added.
I nodded. The cigarette now tasted better. I puffed a fan of smoke out the window and watched it get whipped away on the slipstream. “Miss Chan told me about the directional microphone. Whose was it?”
“The Americans, we think.” He shrugged again, turning the car onto Djoui Road and heading north towards the Reserve de Lefini. “Then again, it could be the South Africans, or the British.” He chuckled. “Take your pick, colonel.”
“General interest?” I asked. “Or specific?”
He sighed. “General, of course. It always is.” He glanced at me. “But also, we fear, somewhat specific also.”
I forced some grit into my voice. “So it’s off, then.” I felt a flutter of hope. If the whole thing were called then Brown would be left high and dry, without a shot having been fired.
“Good Lord, no!” Luang laughed, and the flutter subsided. “But we are moving matters forward somewhat.”
I swallowed my disappointment. “But if the operation is blown...”
Luang shot me a sideways glance. “Don’t look so alarmed, colonel. It’s all very much routine, I assure you.”
“Routine!” I said, coming on as quietly outraged as I knew how.
Luang nodded. “Of course, colonel.” He pulled an apologetic face. “Forgive me, perhaps I should have broken it to you differently.”
Before I replied, I snuck a look at the rear view mirror. The road behind was clear except for a cattle truck we had overtaken a minute before. I said, “You told me in Crete that there would be no such problems this side of Zaire.” What he had actually said was that they, presumably meaning the Bank of China, would be responsible for security as far as the Zaire border. Not quite the same thing. But not that much different, either.
Luang looked pained. “I can only repeat, colonel, that the problem is ours. Not yours. And I mean that in the overall sense, not merely as a reference to our contract. If we act quickly neither you nor your command will be compromised in any way. And do not forget,” he added, glancing over at me, “We plan to be here in the Congo a lot longer than you do. And I am not in the least perturbed. Conscious of a need for haste, yes, but not perturbed.” He shot me another glance and suddenly chortled. “If you could only see your face, colonel!”
“What the hell should I look like?” I demanded. “From where I sit the whole operation looks about as compromised as it can get.” This, I thought, was a good line to take. If I baulked enough Luang might, he just might, come around to that way of thinking. He might even come to the conclusion that he had hired the wrong man for the job. I went on, “It’s one thing to slip a tail at an airport, but moving three hundred men, plus several truckloads of equipment, across more or less open country, is a ballgame of a different color. They, whoever the hell they are, will not need directional microphones, mister Luang, they’ll be able to televise the whole damn deal, and sell tickets into the bargain!”
Which spur-of-the-moment speech, I thought, was pretty good.
Luang sighed and shook his head. “You are a soldier, colonel. And I fully understand and sympathize with your reaction. But the problem is just not that acute, neither is it out of the ordinary - our version of the ordinary, I mean. Please...” He reached over and touched my shoulder. “Calm down, and let me explain.”
I nodded stiffly, my ray of hope all but gone. “Please do,” I said testily.
He thought for a moment, and then began, “Intelligence is a strange business, colonel. Strange, and often bizarre. We watch, we record. They watch and record. We build dossiers on people and events, they do the same...”
“They?”
“They. Anyone with any kind of an intelligence organisation at all. What would you say, for example, if I were to tell you that you have already met an agent of SAI - South African Intelligence?”
I stiffened, wondering what the hell he was going to say. “Here in Brazzaville?”
Luang nodded, smiling broadly. “Within the last ten minutes.”
I relaxed again. Whatever he was going to say, it could have nothing to do with Brown. I shrugged. “Hell knows!”
“Well, you have, colonel. Why then, you may ask, do I not do the sensible thing and remove this - this viper from our midst.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m asking.” Despite everything, I was interested.
He leant towards me conspiratorially. “Because, colonel, we stand to gain no capital from such action.” He straightened. “Besides which, it would be retrogressive. We know this person’s identity, where it could take weeks, months, to uncover the identity of a replacement. And a replacement there would most definitely be. So we watch, we study, and we feed - you will no doubt be familiar with the term disinformation.” He did not wait for confirmation. “Disinformation is a highly positive form of intelligence, colonel. So, to eradicate the intruder, would be to lose something positive. The other facet is that we may, at some later date, require some bargaining power. A quantity to trade with. We
may lose an agent of our own to SAI, and wish to have him or her returned to us. With our - our tame SAI mole...no, colonel, I will not add to your worries by even hinting at identity...we have such a ransom to hand. On ice, if you like.”
“Clever,” I said. He was teaching his grandmother to suck eggs, but I went along with him.
He shrugged offhandedly. “Not especially, colonel. But necessary. The point is - returning to your concerns - our position here in the Congo is on a sounder footing than most. We have friends here, which means we have an advantage. Though others may well be in possession of certain snippets of information regarding your presence here, there is no way, at this moment in time, they can gain capital from it...”
Think again, I mused wryly.
“In forty-eight hours the situation will have altered, which is why we must move swiftly. The very last thing anyone is expecting is for us to digress from a schedule we have taken such pains to establish.”
“Via your mole?” I ventured, to show I was paying attention.
Luang nodded. “In one respect, yes, Except that that was but a single example of the complex web we weave.”
On impulse I decided to chance my arm. “How about over in Zaire, mister Luang? Aaron Motanga also employs an intelligence system.”
Luang scoffed. “Certainly! The head of which is a supporter of the man Motanga deposed. We know this, and the British know this, and perhaps the Americans. And the French.” He grunted. “Accept this, and then ask yourself why Aaron Motanga remains in ignorance of it. The British, on the surface, profess undying friendship towards Motanga, yet he still is not aware of the true leanings of his chief of intelligence. No, colonel, not one power will be prepared to confide fully in Aaron Motanga unless they stand to gain more than he is prepared to concede.”