by Arthur Kerns
Seated in the glass-enclosed dining area, Elizabeth Kerr let her coffee cool and looked around. Even though it was between normal breakfast and lunch hours, the spacious area was busy, attesting to the fact that the CIA operated around the clock and on irregular shifts. Outside the windows, she saw the lawn sculpture in the open courtyard. The artist had placed a lengthy coded message on the four copper plates. The artwork had been the subject of numerous articles in magazines and the Washington Post. “Anyone break that cipher out there?” She pointed.
John shook his head. “Break the Kryptos? Not that I know,” he said without looking, his mind apparently on something else.
She felt her cup and decided it cool enough to sip. John took his time to say something he seemed hesitant to say.
Finally, he said, “Afghanistan is sucking up a lot of our resources. We’re having success there, but not for long, I’m afraid.” He looked at her. “The White House wants to go into Iraq. We’ve begun redirecting our resources.”
Kerr laughed. “Let the good times roll.”
John didn’t smile. “With all the focus on the Middle East, there’s a question: How can we address other issues when they come up. Like this bomb, for instance.” He set his coffee aside. “We need to take possession of this weapon or neutralize it. Quickly. Before some terrorist group gets hold of it.”
“Send in a SEAL team plus a HAZMAT team from the Department of Energy for protection against any radiation.”
John shook his head again. “Not so simple. It’ll take time to put teams on the ground and organize an extraction process. We need time. That’s why they sent Gus to South Africa.” He apparently saw her quizzical look. “Colonel Gustave Frederick from the director’s executive staff. He’s headed there to work with the COS in Cape Town.”
“Those men who came in on the helicopter,” Elizabeth asked. “Think they’re members of a terrorist group?”
“Hard to tell. Don’t think terrorist groups have the kind of network to use helicopters …” He stopped. “But their cousins managed to hijack four commercial airliners; still, I think the word has somehow gotten out about this thing sitting in the desert, there for the taking.”
“The French? It was a French helicopter.”
John shrugged.
“The Iraqis, Iranians, Libyans? Any one of the crazies out there.”
“Either someone who wants to use it against somebody,” John said, “or someone who wants to prevent it being used against them. Doesn’t matter. We must get it first.” He shook his head. “And the thing is leaking radiation, for God’s sake!”
They drank their coffees for a while. Elizabeth asked, “What kind of resource does this colonel of yours have down there in South Africa?”
“The COS is Charles Fleming. Base chief is M. R. D. Houston. Gus also has Sandra Harrington. All top-notch people. They better be, and they better move quickly.” All at once, John straightened in his chair and grinned.
“What?”
“Colonel Frederick also has an ace in the hole. A fellow by the name of Hayden Stone.”
Chapter Thirteen
Freetown, Sierra Leone—August 13, 2002
Hayden Stone sat back and watched Luke Craig’s eyes darted back and forth from his computer screen to Stone. The afternoon before, after Stone and Dirk Lange had killed two of Nabeel Asuty’s henchmen, Stone had returned to the embassy and reported the incident. As he related the details, Craig’s bronzed face turned dour and the scar over his right eyebrow became prominent. All he did was nod and scribble notes. Finally, he ordered Stone to prepare a detailed report while he notified CIA headquarters.
Five minutes later Craig read the response from headquarters that appeared on his computer. “They want to know why you didn’t think it was a routine robbery.” He looked up. “They’re right, you know. Crime is rampant here in Sierra Leone.”
“You’re shitting me. Right? I explained what happened at the café. Nabeel and I had words. Afterward, his henchmen came after me in the restroom. They weren’t interested in my wallet.” Stone felt himself becoming impatient, so took a deep breath. “Nabeel is connected somehow to Abdul Wahab, who carries a grudge against me because of what happened in France.” Stone’s head ached. He never had migraines, didn’t know how they felt, but this one had to be as bad. “Abdul Wahab is responsible for the deaths of two CIA case officers.”
“Yes. I know.” Craig returned to the computer.
“There’s the matter of the guns and explosives in the trunk of their car.” Stone waited and got no response. “What’s wrong? Do they want to know if you authorized my actions?”
Stone knew the routine: Monday morning quarterbacking by the people up the chain of command in the CIA’s Africa Division. Would there be repercussions with the Sierra Leone government? What if the incident became fodder for the press? Craig was caught in the middle. Was Craig thinking of a way to direct the flack in his direction?
Craig’s face hardened, yet his voice stayed calm. “Look, Stone. You’re not a staffer. You may think you know how we work in the agency, but you don’t.” The computer beeped with an incoming message and he looked back at his screen. “Shit!” He shoved his face closer to the monitor while saying, “I don’t have time to discuss this.” His head shot around. “You’re just a damn cowboy. The word is everywhere you go there’s gunplay. Get yourself reassigned to a teaching post at the Farm. They’re gearing up for Iraq. They need your type. Or better still, go back to Afghanistan.”
Stone’s head throbbed. He was about to tell this bastard to take a flying leap when a knock on the door interrupted him.
“That’s Sandra.” He waved Stone off. “I’ll talk with you later. Don’t do anything unless you check with me.”
As Stone passed Sandra coming through the door, she avoided eye contact. She looked concerned.
A few minutes later, at the front door he met Sandra rushing down the stairway. Obviously distraught, she said she didn’t want to talk and dashed down the hallway. The meeting with Craig hadn’t gone well.
Outside, Stone spied Mitchell, the embassy driver, and walked up to him. “Do you mind taking me to the housing compound?” he asked. “I’m calling it a day.”
With nervous jerks, Mitchell steered the van back and forth through the crowded streets of Freetown, eyes intent on the rearview mirror rather than on the road ahead. Approaching an outdoor bazaar crowded with people in gaily colored clothes, he swerved to the right into a narrow alley. Hawkers leaped from in front of the vehicle. He shot a glance at Stone. “I’m taking a circuitous route, sir. One suggested many times by the RSO for security purposes.”
“Fine. But slow down before you hit somebody.” Stone waited for him to ease up on the throttle. “What are you looking for in the mirror?”
Mitchell gave a high-pitched laugh. “Just traffic, sir. Just traffic.”
Now Stone found himself looking in the mirror. He realized that Mitchell was on edge, and no doubt the reason he was frightened was the word had gotten out that Stone was a marked man. Mitchell had no intention of being caught in crossfire. Stone understood—it wasn’t Mitchell’s fight.
At the compound gate, Stone hopped out and waved good-bye to a visibly relieved Mitchell, who sped away. After Stone passed the guard shack, he decided not to go to his apartment but headed for the clubhouse. An airy glass-sided structure that served for informal gatherings by the residents, it faced the swimming pool where parents reclined in deck chairs, watching their children splash in the pool. Palm trees shaded the lawn and pink bougainvillea bloomed along the walls of the buildings.
Inside the clubhouse the air was chilled a few degrees lower than outside. Still, the air conditioning hadn’t eliminated the touch and smell of dampness. Stone found himself alone in the lounge.
The vending machine buzzed a tone that signaled it was on its last legs. Stone inserted coins for a soda and took a chair with a view of the pool.
After allowing his thoughts to gather, he took stock of his situation. Obviously, his mission to Sierra Leone was over. Operationally, he was a liability for the agency. He was on the local jihadist hit list. By now the local authorities had gotten word that he was involved in the deaths of two men. He had accomplished identifying Nabeel Asuty and the terrorist’s apparent connection with Abdul Wahab. As for the nature of his plans—the local CIA office had to follow up on that.
The soda helped relieve Stone’s headache. His eye caught sight of a lizard sitting on a low rock wall outside the window. Slender, with a thin tail, at times its greenish-gray body sparked with a touch of fluorescence in the sunlight. Every few seconds the lizard did a push-up, and then it darted a glance from side to side. A little African comedy.
Stone wondered how his friend Colonel Frederick would receive Craig’s situation report. Would he think Stone had let him down? Had he let him down? And what of Dirk Lange’s wisecrack at the café about him being over the hill? A guard who opened the door interrupted his musings. He said a gentleman at the gate wanted to speak with him.
Dirk Lange stood at the guardhouse, and although he appeared poised, perspiration stained his blue dress shirt. “Got a minute, old boy?” His demeanor sought a positive response.
When Stone led him into the clubhouse, Lange looked around and whispered, “Can we speak privately here?”
“For the time being, while we’re alone. Let me get you something to drink.” At the machine, Stone waited for the can to clang down the chute, then offered it to Lange. “Let’s sit.”
Lange looked nervously around the room. Not without a bit of sarcasm, he said, “You chaps have it made here, don’t you.”
“A pleasant place after a day in the salt mines.” Stone waited for him to get to the point. It didn’t take long.
“I’m settling my accounts here in Freetown and leaving tonight by boat for Conakry. My sources tell me that you and I are on the local jihadist kill list. Seems our boy Nabeel doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.” He took a swig of his drink and looked over at the wall. “What are your plans, Hayden?”
“It appears I’ve also lost some of my charm with the locals.”
“Who shot that?” Lange pointed to the large wild boar head mounted on the wall. “Looks like that specimen came from the Atlas Mountains.”
“Beats me. Nice tusks though.”
“Don’t want to end up like that bugger.” Lange crushed the can in his hand. “Just dropped by to say good-bye and, oh, a little tidbit for you. Our mutual friend Jacob advised you should be aware that Nabeel is in business with an influential South African in Cape Town.” He started to rise from the couch. “Don’t know this man’s name, but Jacob indicated he’s up to no good. Has to do with something big aimed at the US or Europe.”
“When did Jacob tell you this?”
“Last night.” Lange started for the door.
“Let me walk you out.” Stone followed him out to the gate. “Funny, Jacob didn’t contact me.”
Lange turned and shook hands with Stone. “He didn’t want to stay in town. Asked that I pass you the message.”
“What’s your final destination, Dirk? South Africa?”
“Eventually. Perhaps, we’ll meet there.”
“Are you seeing Jonathan before you leave?”
“No.” Lange frowned. “I’ve made provisions for him with the doctors out at the camp. Nabeel’s people may follow me, so I don’t want them to know Jonathan’s a friend of mine. I suggest you not go out and see him either.”
Stone nodded and saw Sandra push through the turnstile at the guard gate. Lange’s face brightened for the first time. Seeing them, Sandra stopped. She did not look happy. Lange approached and told her he was leaving Freetown and hoped to see her again someday. She gave him a quick hug and they exchanged more pleasantries. He went out the gate and disappeared.
Sandra said, “We’re heading back home.” She took his arm and led him to the apartment. “I know it’s early, but I need a drink.”
In the apartment Sandra slumped on the couch with the whiskey Stone had handed her. She avoided eye contact. Obviously, her day had been as bad as his. Her meeting with the station chief had not gone well. She would tell him about it when she wanted.
Her voice was raspy. “You’re not joining me in a drink?”
He shook his head.
She did a double take. “Something wrong?”
“Headaches,” Stone said. “Hope I don’t get those weird dreams again.”
“You didn’t have problems after the Marseilles shoot-out.” She thought a moment. “Unless you were keeping it a secret. I recall specifically asking you about that.”
“I know. Maybe it’s the anti-malaria medicine I’m taking. Maybe I’m just tired.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What’s this about heading back home?”
She sipped her drink, studied the glass, and placed it on the coffee table. “We’ve got to start packing. We’ve been yanked from the job. Our plane leaves tonight for Paris.”
Stone started to ask for the details, but she interrupted. “Bad scene with Mr. Craig. Let’s take a walk around the grounds and have a chat.”
Walking the compound’s pathway under the shade of the palm and banana trees proved pleasant even in the early afternoon heat. A breeze coming in from the sea a half-mile away helped. Sandra walked with her head down, as if intent on not stumbling on imaginary debris scattered on the path, unlikely as the grounds were kept in immaculate condition.
On hearing about their orders to leave, Stone had become resigned to events he considered out of his control. The game was over for him—let someone else pick up the sword.
“I didn’t give you the whole story yesterday,” she said in a low voice. She related the details of her surveillance of Nabeel Asuty the day before—that she followed him to a walled compound in the hills overlooking Freetown. “What I didn’t tell you was I saw Farley in the compound talking with Nabeel.”
“Farley who?”
“Farley Durrell. The guy who double-crossed me.”
“The guy at the airport. Holy shit.”
Sandra stopped walking and wrapped her arms tight against her chest. She took deep breaths. “I had to tell Craig. Afterward, we composed a status report to Langley. Their response this morning was for you and me to leave immediately. That’s why they’re sending a special plane to take us to Paris.”
Stone attempted to craft his words. “I guess it’s good that you saw Farley. Now the agency knows he’s in contact with those people.”
“Ready for the whole story?” Her eyes teared. “Farley is CIA. He’s under non-official cover, a NOC, and not supposed to have any contact with people like me. He was deep cover. I wasn’t allowed to fraternize with him.”
“So? That was a year ago.”
“Someone from Nabeel Asuty’s organization may have noticed that altercation at the airport. The point is I wasn’t supposed to know about him being inside this terrorist organization. They think I’ve jeopardized the mission.”
Stone knew what that meant. A big career hit. Good-bye, interesting foreign assignments. Hello, dead-end job at some warehouse in Fairfax County, Virginia. He tried to think of a positive spin on their situation, but muttered instead, “Looks like we stepped in deep kimchi.”
Trying to laugh, she cried instead. He took her in his arms and she relaxed for a moment, pressing her body to him. She stiffened and pushed away. Now she looked him in the eye for the first time that day. “Time to pack. Craig picks us up at seven tonight.”
The bright moon broke a path on the rough surface of the bay as the embassy’s boat cast off from Freetown. Luke Craig had organized a quick extraction for Stone and Sandra, which included taking them from the city to the landing across the bay where they would meet the armored SUVs. From there they would drive to the airport and board the agency’s jet.
Stone and Sandra stood
by the helm, holding on to grips as the Boston Whaler skimmed across the water. Just enough light allowed them to make out the silhouettes of anchored ships on the starboard side, many derelict.
“Nice boat,” Sandra said to the helmsman, a young man with a crew cut and eyeglasses.
“Most of the American posts in this neck of woods have this model boat,” he shouted over the noise of the twin outboard engines. “We have two boats. Part of the emergency evacuation plan. We have enough fuel to make it to Guinea. Another West African rectum mundi.”
Twenty minutes later, the boat eased alongside a dilapidated wharf, and the young man helped them with off their luggage. Craig waited on the pier with two other men, whom Stone had never met. Both carried submachine guns.
“We’re behind schedule,” Craig barked, waving them on to the SUVs.
Conversation was limited as they raced to the airport. Craig was eager to send them off as soon as possible. Still, he ran a well-organized program, and they could thank his efficiency in getting them out safely.
The farewells alongside the executive jet were brief and formal. As soon as the two were seated, the engines started, and in a matter of minutes they were in the air, the city lights of Freetown below. The plane banked in a northerly direction, the moon shining in the windows, and they began to ascend.
The plane held ten passengers in two rows of single seats on either side of the aircraft. Stone sat in front with Sandra across the aisle. In the rear of the plane sat two long-haired men in dirty clothes who didn’t acknowledge Stone’s greeting when he boarded and didn’t speak the rest of the trip. Deep cover operatives, Stone assumed, going from one hellhole to another. Sandra had closed her eyes before takeoff, and they remained shut for an hour.
As the plane flew over nighttime Africa, Stone looked down at the moonlit vastness. Here and there he saw soft glows from single points of light. Oil lamps from villages somewhere in the backcountry of Mali or Guinea, their owners far removed from Stone’s universe. He imagined someone looking up at the blinking aircraft lights and wondering who flew above their world.