by Sam Powers
The taxi cut through the downtown to the waterfront, where the newest hotels vied with the mid-sixties last generation colonial offerings. Then it followed the waterfront road, affording a view of the tankers in the bay, to the Hotel Panorama, where he booked in as Tom Smith, a geologist.
The hotel was a gem from a distance, a piece of rectangular 1960s modernist architecture with the name in giant letters across its roof, Luanda’s own Hollywood sign. It sat on a peninsula called the Ilha that overlooked the water. It was built in white concrete, and the street level was open-air, with gigantic concrete columns supporting the rest of the hotel.
Up close, time and neglect told the tale. The concrete was cracking, the plastic chipped, dirty and faded. The once-red balcony railings that overlooked the water were faded to a light pink. The rooms were like something out of a youth hostel in a bad Moscow neighborhood. The bed was hard and smelled musty, the light bulb swung free of a shade and the toilet didn’t work. When he threw his bag down onto the stained, time-worn desk along one wall, a handful of cockroaches the size of his thumb scurried across the floor and under the bed.
It was a good place to keep a low profile; he knew from Walter’s file that the odd expatriate event was still held in the conference room and ballroom on its main floor; but none of the moneyed and corrupt stayed at the Panorama anymore; they were at the $500-per-night Hotel Baia Luanda.
A white Citroen, bug-like and unwashed, had been behind the taxi all the way from the airport, and it was still parked outside the hotel when Brennan looked out his south-facing balcony, towards the rest of the peninsula. Angola only had about a half-dozen decent hotels, and the Panorama wasn’t really one of them; it hadn’t been for more than two decades. The car had local plates, too, which suggested it wasn’t a tail.
But he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t think they’d had anything close to the technology at the airport to make his passport as fraudulent, as it was doubtless based on a real person, long dead. On a one-in-a million shot, he could have been recognized by someone in intelligence at the airport; Angola was probably still pretty busy in that regard. But he’d been a careful man his entire career and had never blown a cover, so it seemed the odds were at least that long.
The only person who knew he was in Angola was Walter, and Brennan knew he wouldn’t crack for any reason.
Night was falling. Brennan opened his suitcase on the dresser, taking out his bathroom travel bag. Along the bottom of its lining, he found the tucked-in zipper and slid its bottom compartment open, revealing the two thin ceramic knives, each perfectly balanced, double-edged and razor sharp – and undetectable to an airport metal detector. He reached down and pulled up each pant-leg in turn, sliding the knives into their sheaths, out of sight. Turning back to the suitcase, he picked up a pair of thick, web-like belts, each containing a series of pockets in which to hide his cash. He hadn’t bothered with the local currency, the Kwanza. Everyone in Angola would accept dollars; it was how the economy really ran. He strapped one belt on under his light shirt then placed the other inside the waterproof plastic bag he’d brought for the purpose. Then he hid it just inside the top of the toilet tank, where it was unlikely to be discovered by prying eyes or light-fingered staff.
He carried the other bottle of Cutty Sark with him as he left the room, locked the door behind him, and took stairs down four floors to the lobby. He’d made a mental note on arriving to never trust the creaking, ancient elevator.
In the lobby, a single night staff member was standing behind the chipped and aging marble-tile counter, looking bored. “Can I help you sir?” he asked Brennan in Portuguese.
“I need to find a taxi,” Brennan said in English.
“It is Saturday, sir,” the man answered back, also in English, his accent heavy. “There are no Taxis available in Luanda on weekends, except to and from the airport.”
Perfect. “Then I need to rent a car.”
“There are no car rental firms available in the evening,” the man said, looking genuinely sorry. “But I can help; my brother has a car that you can hire. He is very reasonable: only five hundred dollars each day.”
Brennan smiled back, just as friendly. Nothing was ever straightforward in places like Luanda. “That is a fine offer, my friend,” he said, “but it is a bit too rich for me. I am just a geologist, not an engineer. Will he accept one hundred? That is truly all that I can afford.”
He looked unshaken. “I think he might consider it,” he said, “if we were able to talk about a sum more in keeping with the state of the economy. Perhaps for three hundred and fifty he might be able to get away from his work and help.”
Brennan had played the game before. He shook his head, looking disappointed. “No, I’m sorry. But thank you for your offer. I shall just have to make my way on foot. It’s fine; it’s not far. It’s a shame, though. I suppose I could have gone as high as one hundred and fifty.”
“For two hundred,” the man said, “he would be a guide of excellence. He knows the city like the back of his hand. Anything you need – anything, if you know what I am meaning, my friend.”
Brennan nodded. “Okay: two hundred a day, but he gets half up front, half when I check out in a few days. And you get a bottle of Cutty Sark.” He left the bottle on the counter.
The man beamed a smile as he took it. Given the necessity of graft in the local economy, he’d probably drink the contents or share it with friends, Brennan thought, then refill the bottle with cheap whisky from Benguela or Lobito, down the coast, where they made a decent variety. Then he’d screw the cap back on so that it required real tension to open, and sell it, probably for a fair chunk of coin.
“He will be happy to help. He has a good car, a Skoda. Built in Czechoslovakia, very dependable.”
“Where can I get something decent to eat around here?”
The man squinted unreadily, obviously not sure how to answer optimistically. “On the Ilha? There are some places but I am not sure you would think much of them. Perhaps you should have my brother take you to downtown, where there are some nice restaurants.”
“Give him a call,” Brennan said.
The man smiled and took out a cell phone. Brennan wasn’t surprised; the country’s landlines were undependable and likely bugged beyond belief. Now that there was a cell network, people didn’t bother with the old system as much as they once had.
He ended the call. “My brother says he will be here in twenty-five minutes, and he promises you will have an unforgettable trip. His name is Cristiano.”
“I’m hoping it will be unforgettably quiet and stress-free.”
His smile dimmed a little. There was probably less money in “quiet.” “Perhaps it would be wise to mention that to him, sir,” he said. “He is very enthusiastic about offering services.”
The driver’s rusted, patched-together white Skoda Favorit pulled up into the Panorama’s parking area exactly twenty-five minutes later, as advertised. It was old, probably from the late eighties, Brennan figured, a rectangular hunk of junk. The hatchback was missing completely and replaced with three bungee cords, strung across it to hold in anything it might be carrying. The rear body panel on the right hand side was pressed tin from some unknown source that had been crudely cut into a replacement of the original, then painted light blue, which Brennan just assumed was a natural consequence of it being in Angola, where most of the locals had little to choose from. There was light blue paint available freely because of the number of old Volkswagen Beetles of that shade imported from Brazil in years prior. The rest of the little hatchback’s body was mottled with rust stains and, in a few places, actual holes going right through it.
When he saw Brennan, the driver honked the horn. It played the first eleven notes of ‘Dixie’, just like the General Lee from the seventies TV show the Dukes of Hazzard. Brennan opened the back door. “You’re Cristiano?”
He nodded. “My English is not bad,” he said, motioning with his hand that it wasn’t particular
ly good. “Parlez-Vous Francais?”
“Fala Portuguese?” Brennan asked.
The driver was happy to switch to the dominant local language. “I was worried, because it can be difficult to deal with the English,” he said. “It does not roll off of my tongue well. Now, where are we going tonight, my friend? And do you have my two hundred dollars?”
“I have the one hundred you get now,” Brennan said, handing him a c-note. “Can you get a few things together for me? There’s an extra hundred in it if everything goes smoothly.”
The man’s eyes brightened. “Of course, of course. What do you need?”
“I’m going to be going out into the country and I need some self-protection.”
The driver sounded most pleased. “Ah! In this area I know many suppliers. We have many weapons available from the war in perfect condition. What would you like?”
Really? Brennan thought. That easily? “What are you offering?”
The man’s face was a momentary mask of disappointment. “Do not worry my friend; if I was a police officer, I would have asked you for a bribe by now. But if it will ease your mind, I will tell you that the cheapest and easiest things to supply are the Makarov PM for a handgun and the AK47 for a machine gun. I will also note that the latter is the real thing, supplied by the Russians, and the not the Chinese copies you find everywhere else.”
“And if someone wanted to buy a Makarov PM or two from one of your friends, how much would it be? Just out of curiosity.”
“I believe they would be available for ten dollars each. A clip for each will be five dollars more. Ammunition can be had at the hundred-load for five dollars.”
In a sense, Brennan thought, Angola was like Somalia, but with more buildings and overt manners. Life was still the cheapest commodity, and weaponry went for less than European cigarettes.
“And an AK?”
“Twenty dollars for the gun, ten dollars for a standard clip, fifteen for an extended. Ammunition is two hundred for five dollars. Again, there is much more of it that the small caliber for the Makarov, which is why the former is so expensive.”
Brennan nodded towards the Ilha. “I’ll tell you what, my friend: how about I buy you dinner, and we talk a little more. You help me out for the next couple of days, I’ll make it worth a whole lot of AKs worth of actual dollars. How does that sound?”
The man smiled broadly, leaned over his seat and slapped Brennan with a hand-clasp and shake. “Mister, I believe we are in business.”
The weapons dealer was situated in an old colonial neighborhood not far from the airport called the Alvalade. The streets were lined with villas from Portugal’s heyday, Cristiano explained, plaster in shades of pastel, faded and dirt-stained from time and neglect. Most were fronted by palm trees. As with much of the city there was debris and garbage everywhere; giant dumpsters could be found every third of fourth block but were generally overflowing, the smell so bad they had to roll up their windows as they passed.
For the most expensive city on Earth, Brennan thought, it looked an awful lot like every other Third World outhouse. And for a country no longer at war with itself, there were plenty of soldiers, too. As the car navigated the pothole-ridden streets, it seemed like every tenth person was in army fatigues and carrying a weapon. The locals were a mix of obliviously happy but malnourished – generally, the kids – and worn down; the male adults wore faded dress shirts and trousers with sandals, underweight, eyes hollow and joints stiff. The local women seemed generally healthier than the men, most wrapped in colorful kangas: multi-colored, single-sheet wrap-around dresses. Every so often, Brennan would see a pair of women walking side by side, balancing large jugs or platters of fruit on their heads.
The driver pulled up outside a whitewashed concrete wall, which featured a wide, solid-metal double gate. Just beyond it, Brennan could see the second floor of a white stucco home, impressively large even by modern standards. They got out of the car. The driver pressed a buzzer button beside the gate. “Hey Francisco, it’s Cristiano. I have a customer for you, a good one.”
There was no reply, and they stood there for a few seconds, the driver crossing his arms and smiling sheepishly, obviously worried about whether he’d get a response. Then they heard footsteps, followed by the thick clang of a heavy bolt being drawn back. The gate swung open and a short, dark-haired man eyed them over, before nodding to go inside. Cristiano led the three across a small courtyard area, then up the concrete side steps to the expansive home’s main floor. The door led directly into another small courtyard, this time inside the house proper. It was open to the night sky above, and people were lounging around on beach furniture, drinking cold beer and talking. Brennan counted nine, mostly women.
A large Latino guy in a white shirt and white cotton pants with the cuffs rolled up was entertaining two ladies at the same time from his lounger, the sun glinting off his mirrored aviators. “Hey Cristiano!” he yelled as they walked in. “Good to see you my little friend!” He said something to the two women – and kissed one woman’s hand – and they both moved across the courtyard to talk to others. He got up and came over to meet his new customer; Francisco was a beefy guy with a strong hand shake and a collection of gold jewelry. “Introduce me to your guest.”
The young African driver grinned widely. “This is Tom. He needs to arrange some protection, and maybe would like to shop your wares a bit, yes?”
Francisco winked at Brennan. “That can easily be arranged. Would you like a beer?” He leaned over and opened a cooler chest by a nearby director’s chair. “Nice and cold.”
Brennan nodded and Cristiano followed suit. Their host uncapped the two green bottles and handed them over. “Come, let me show you what we have,” he said. He moved to the far side of the courtyard and slid back a glass patio-style door, leading them into a big, air-conditioned living room. At its far end, a set of stairs with glass panels under the railing led to a lower level. He flicked on a light switch as they followed him.
The basement was open concept. One entire half of the room was covered with display cases and weapons hanging from the walls. “Now what can I get for you?” Francisco asked. “Maybe an M60 copy with a handy, aftermarket flame-thrower attachment?” He walked over to the wall and took the weapon down. “This thing chews through brick walls, eh?”
Brennan shook his head. “I don’t think we need to go that heavy. Is everything you have Russian?”
The arms dealer shrugged his shoulders. “It’s what’s out there, for the most part. I can get things in for you on special order but it would be very expensive. But then, that’s why it’s a buyer’s market; if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t get past the gate, my friend.”
“What I could really use is an MP-433 Grach with a suppressor, and a vest.”
Francisco exhaled heavily. “The Grach? No problem. It’s a new gun, so it will cost you a hundred. The vest is another matter. They are in heavy demand and short supply. Can you wait until tomorrow?”
“Possibly. I also need to round up some intel; nothing official or illegal.”
The arm’s dealer was nodding but he looked suspicious, which Brennan expected. “Sure, sure…. Of course if depends what kind of intel you’re looking for. You want to know what movie is playing at the Miramar? I can do that. You want Dos Santos’ cell number? That’s punching above my weight.”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Tread carefully, my friend. Cristiano, what’s this about?”
“I don’t know, Frankie… he didn’t mention information, just weapons.”
Brennan held up both palms. “Like I said, it’s nothing government.”
That seemed to calm the arms dealer somewhat. “Then I guess it depends what you want and how much you can spend to get it. I know some people who know some people.”
Brennan handed the picture of Andraz Kovacic. “This guy may have been in and out of the country, maybe even a long time ago. I think he left something behind here and I need t
o find it.”
Francisco’s eyes widened with surprise. “You don’t want much, do you? Why don’t you put a bullet in my head yourself right now?”
“So you know him.”
“Yeah… well, not personally. But I know people who know people, like I said. But this is interesting; I haven’t seen or heard of this guy in … maybe four years?”
“Can you find out if he’s still around?”
“Sure. But expect a serious bill for this, my friend. We are talking five figures.”
“For five figures, you take me to him.”
“Or,” Francisco said, “you can go fuck yourself with the negotiation bullshit. You have nothing here, no cards to play. I have the info and the connections. So, for ten thousand I get you a confirmation if he’s alive. For another ten thousand, I get you a meeting.”
It would just about drain his resources, Brennan knew. But he didn’t have an option. “Half upfront, half on completion,” Brennan said. “Needless to say, the people I work for will be incredibly upset if you don’t produce.”
“I like my head where it is, my friend,” Francisco said. “I’ll tell you what: the pistol is on me. The vest, you get tomorrow. The information, within the week.”
9./
March 3, 2016, ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Christopher Enright had been Addison March’s assistant for three years. It wasn’t the meteoric Washington career he’d expected out of Yale law, but he handled his task with efficiency and skill, and he knew March appreciated it. His boss was about to run for President; and that meant that Enright had as much riding on the next few months as the veteran politician.