by A. Sparrow
But Addis was as good a place as any to wait things out. He could reach any part of East Africa—his assigned territory—from Bole Airport in a few hours time. He enjoyed the food and the climate appealed to him immensely. It was sunnier than London, but at 2,400 meters, the air was thin and the nights were dank and cold, just how he liked them. Good sleeping weather.
A man in a blue smock came bustling out of the kitchen and began hauling down the steel security doors. The waitress came over and shyly handed him a bill.
“Sir … we have to be closing … due to the student troubles.”
“Troubles?” He downed the last of his smoothie and his coffee-tea. “This is no trouble at all.” He slapped several filthy birr notes on the glass table. “Bunch of pansies, these AAU kids. Look at them lurk. Look at them hiding behind each other. That’s not how you protest. They need to send some folks up from J-burg or Cape Town. Give ‘em some lessons. Show ‘em how to do it properly.”
“Sir. I beg to differ,” said the man in blue. “Last time we had elections. Ten students were shot dead on this very street.”
“Oh? And how many policemen fell? How many soldiers? In Cape Town the protesters give as good as they get. Here, the coppers here got nothing worry about. They can punish with impunity.”
“Sir, if you would not mind my asking. Which side do you sympathize with? This is not clear to me.”
“Sympathize? I’ve got no sympathy for any of these blokes. The government’s rotten to the core and the people get what they deserve for putting up with them. I’m not a fooking Ethiopian, so what do I care? I’m just passing through.”
“Yet you wish for the students to show more resistance? I do not understand.”
“I’m just looking for a bloody good show. That’s all,” he said as he slipped out the door. “That’s all there is to it.” He glared across the street. “Bunch of pansies.”
A man in a striped shirt stepped out of a pizza shop just as White hit the sidewalk. His narrow, weasel-like features looked all too familiar. He had crossed paths with this guy too often that day for him not to be a tail. Yemeni operatives were scattered throughout Addis, and some had been stalking him for months.
Such pests they were. Nothing aggravated White more than constant surveillance. He treasured his solitude.
It all started after a contract in Balhaf, Yemen when he had snuffed the wrong target not once but twice. Third time was the charm but by then he had gotten himself on some of the most exclusive shit lists in the Horn of Africa. He had tribal Imam’s after him, multinationals, the Yemeni Secret Police, maybe even Al Qaeda.
He patted the zip gun in his jacket pocket. If things got noisy and violent enough in this crowd, it might provide an opportunity to take him out in public. He would have to do a switch and get behind him. Get close enough for the small caliber, low velocity projectile to do its work properly.
Crowds were marvelous for sewing confusion, but doing the deed in such close quarters risked collateral harm to bystanders. His record was already littered with black marks for imprecise kills. It was the biggest strike against him when it came to issuing new contracts, and likely the reason he had gone without work for several months.
Maybe instead, now that the sun was falling, maybe he could take advantage of the cover of darkness and circle behind Arat Kilo to the unlighted street that harbored his hideaway, a little guest house near the Armenian Club. Somewhere back there he could do the deed and quickly disappear into his haven.
The little guest house had all the characteristics a man like him needed: steel gates street side, a high cinderblock wall topped with glass shards, hot showers and a non-inquisitive proprietor.
He had hired all four rooms. That way he could choose a different one to sleep in every night by flipping a shilling and a penny. Two heads and it was Room A. Two tails—Room B, and so on down the line.
He had kept his room at the Sheraton because it had a roomy safe and the consortium felt better about sending their couriers to a five star hotel. Unfortunately, the place crawled with visitors from Yemen. Some, no doubt, were aware of his notoriety in Aden, and some were probably assassins just like him. Only rarely did he sleep there, though he often used it to impress dates. Rumpling the sheets now and then helped make his room seem lived-in.
Even with the long-term discount, the Sheraton’s daily rate was more than twice the monthly cost of his four rooms at Zeta Guest House. He tipped the landlord and his staff amply to protect his privacy. He told them that he was a singer, a celebrity from LA and that he had come to Ethiopia seeking a quiet place to write songs.
The ladies who cleaned his rooms, enchanted by his purported celebrity, hovered close whenever they could and made a game of guessing who he was, blurting out the names of well-known singers and rappers.
“Snoopy Dog,” the older one had guessed the other day upon bringing him a tray of oatmeal and toast.
“Sorry. No.”
“Black Eye Pea,” said her young assistant, wiping the same window over and over.
“Guess again.”
The elderly owner, a retired university professor had stepped into the room and the ladies quickly put their heads down and got busy.
“Good morning,” he had said. “I trust these ladies are not disturbing you?”
“Not at all. These two are a hoot. I enjoy their banter.” Of course, he had already slept with the younger of the pair, but that was between the two of them.
“If they disturb your peace too much, you let me know. In fact, you tell me if you find anything here unsatisfactory. Anything at all.”
“Everything’s brilliant. It’s a marvelous establishment that you run here.”
The owner stared down at the paving stones, hissed through his teeth and winced in that distinctly Ethiopian way. “I am sorry to tell you, sir. We have tried very hard to be quiet about your presence, but I am afraid some paparazzi may have located you.”
“Paparazzi? How … how do you know they’re paparazzi?”
“They have cameras,” the owner had said. “And they have rented the house across the street.”
This had been his first indication that the Yemenis had located his hideout. He wasn’t worried about his safety as much as his privacy, and the safety of the girls he brought back to the guest house. He hadn’t heard from one in a while and now he had an inkling that her disappearance had something to do with these Yemenis. They used kidnapping and torture to gather information as casually as some people used Google. Perhaps it was time to curb their enthusiasm.
The guy tailing him in the striped shirt he recognized from the shoeshine stands in front of the Orthodox church near Menelik Square. White’s favorite restaurant was around the corner, and the Yemenis knew it. They were probably recording his movements, detecting a pattern with which they hoped to destroy him with a well-placed, well-timed bomb or if necessary, a knifing. They weren’t the most discreet of operatives. He and they had much in common that way.
He ambled down the walk, maneuvering through and around those who had come to gawk at the protests. He paused now and them to feign curiosity at the proceedings, while tracking the location of his pursuer in the corner of his eye. The striped shirt made it easy. Such bad form, wearing such distinctive clothing on a tail. What did the guy think this was, ‘Where’s Waldo?’
White turned off the main road and entered the deep shadows of a side street stocked with a smarter breed of rubbernecker, people with sense enough to remain out of the crossfire that would likely ensue between the protesters and police. Once he pushed past this throng, he was alone with a few stubborn and curious grade-schoolers who darted this way and that for a view of the action, ignoring the pleas of their parents.
He turned left, away from home, one a side road paralleling the main road leading towards the city center. This part of town rested on a shelf above a steep ravine harboring a stream that was more open sewer than water course. He cut down some stone steps that le
d into the ravine. There were few lights along the way. In places, under the trees, the darkness was nearly absolute.
A quick glance revealed Mr. Stripe Shirt illuminated by the street lamp at the top of the stairs. He lit a cigarette and pretended to linger but White could tell he still intended to follow.
Halfway down, he reached a terrace with side paths leading to neighborhoods dense with shanties in either direction. He turned down the darker path and tucked himself under some overhanging vegetation. It would be a shame to waste his plastic pistol on this poor bastard. Two shots and this kind of gun became useless, its barrel too fouled and warped to make it worth reloading.
He fished in the pocket of his jean jacket for his garrote—a coil of braided wire with sticks attached at either end. He listened to the footsteps coming down the stone stairway, heard them pause, turn the wrong way, then double back.
He held his breath, grasping the sticks and spreading the garrote as wide as it would go and crossing his wrists to make a wide loop. A glimpse of dim stripes through the leaves. White leapt out into the path, startling the man into a stumble. A knife flashed out. White whipped the loop of wire over the man’s head and yanked the sticks as far apart as he could.
It was as simple as drawing a bow string. His pecs flexed. Something cracked in the man’s neck. The knife fell. The man gurgled and kicked. White maintained the pressure until Mr. Stripe Shirt went still. And that was that.
Voices. People were coming from one of the neighborhoods. White rifled the man’s pocket for a cell phone, a notepad and a wallet and shoved him into the underbrush.
He walked briskly back the other way and turned up the stairs, watchful in the wash of lamplight up top for another Yemeni who might have been supporting his partner.
His cell phone buzzed. He sighed. This was no time for a chat. He glanced at the screen. It was Houston. He had to take it. He enabled the encryption app on his touch screen and answered, eyes scanning the knots of people emerging from the shadows of the un-illuminated side road. The hash function came up verified. Satisfied, he flipped it open.
“White here.”
“Crypto secure?”
“As always.”
“Got a mission for you. West Africa. Backup for Black.”
“Say what? West Africa is Black’s territory.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So what’s the deal? Since when does Black need backup?”
“Guys upstairs are getting nervous. They’re after a real big fish. I mean, game changing big. But Black’s been acting rather funny lately. Missing checkpoints. Trashing weapons for no good reason. Might have something to do with this girlfriend he has tagging along.”
“He’s doing an op with a girl? That’s bad form. Totally unprofessional. Is she an operative?”
“Kinda. Sorta. I mean, she’s on payroll but—”
“What do you mean? She an operative or not?”
“I mean, she’s an informal hire. Piece work. One of these rent-a-spy types. A paid informant, really. Practically zero clearance. We never intended for her to go to Africa.”
“Holy fook. You think he’s taken a fancy to her?”
“I guess. It must have been lust at first sight, because they only met for like ten minutes during a briefing. Doesn’t seem to have hurt his efficiency. He’s two for two on contracts. Both as clean as a whistle.”
“Yeah, well don’t rub it in. Where do you want me to go and when?”
“STP and ASAP.”
“Where the fook is STP?”
“You’ll find the details in your room at the Sheraton. I suggest you get yourself some sleep.”
“Bloody hell! You fooking ignore me for three months and now you want me to ship out the next morning?”
“Don’t give me that. You know how this business works. So? You on?”
White turned back towards the protests on the main drag. He could tell things were getting wild from all the shouting and bloody faces passing him in the other direction. A cloud of CS gas billowed into the alley. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose, squinting through the tears.
“I repeat. Are you on?”
“Of course,” he said, coughing and hacking. “Have I ever said no?”
Chapter 21: Cigarette Boat
Archie and Melissa picnicked in the fluffy sand just outside the fence, hep now to the cars and trucks using the wave-packed flats near the water line as a major thoroughfare. Some people waved, others just stared as their vehicles screamed past. During the long gaps in between, they were lulled by the regular crash of waves and the lilt of a woman singing away her chores in the little settlement beside the camp.
Arcadio had brought them a cooler packed with langostino salad on soft rolls, and sliced and salted cucumbers with grape tomatoes from Cameroon, and sliced papaya drizzled with lime. A separate compartment held coconut macaroons along with a bottle of South African Chardonnay and two stemmed glasses.
“So what will you do in Paris?” said Melissa, belly down on a beach towel, an empty glass tipped beside her as a baby crab investigated the nature of grape sugar and ethanol.
“I don’t know,” said Archie. “Eat crepes. Feed pigeons. I’m not even sure it’ll be Paris that I end up. Might be cheaper and safer to hole up in the countryside.”
“You realize, eventually, you’ll have to get the government to correct the official records. I mean, you can’t just go on being dead.”
“Why not? I kind of like being dead. Why can’t I give myself a new name and start from scratch? I hear they’ve got great health care in France. Number one in the world. Not to mention the rest of their social safety net. Doesn’t even matter if you’re illegal.”
“Would you be able to work without … a history?”
“Work? Oh, I’m not worried about work right away. I’ve got enough money stashed from all these briefcases, even after we pay back HVI. And if I run out, I’ll sweep floors, trim hedges. I don’t care.”
“I’ve always wanted to see France,” said Melissa. “Those cute cafés. The Louvre. That film festival in Cannes.”
“They’re pronounced ‘loov’ and ‘kahn.’”
“Whatever.”
“I’ve even got friends at the Institut Pasteur. But I’m not sure I’ll let them know I’m there. It’d be nice going solo for a change.”
“For a change? Archie, you’ve always gone solo. Ever since I’ve known you.”
“Not always,” he said, watching a fishing boat, sails full, dart past the breakers in a stiff southerly.
Melissa sighed. “I have no idea how I’m gonna get home. My return ticket says Accra. And I was supposed to leave like yesterday.”
“The airline should still be able to issue you a credit. Just tell them you were hung up somewhere. Happens all the time. This is West Africa. They’re used to it. After that, you can rebook. There might be a penalty, maybe fifty or a hundred dollars, but I’ll cover it. From here, they’ve got flights that stop in Zurich or Madrid, and then it’s non-stop back to DC.”
“Not … Paris?”
“I doubt it. Not from EG. From a Francophone country, maybe.”
Melissa gave him an odd, pouty look that barely registered with him. He was busy pondering what route he should take out of EG. Unlike Melissa, he had the visas to cross any border in West Africa. His options by land were either Cameroon to the north or south to Gabon. Douala was a bit more accessible by road than Libreville, but Kremer was supposed to be in Cameroon. It might be awkward if they crossed paths.
“You’ll keep in touch?”
“Um … maybe.”
“Maybe?” She twisted around on her blanket. “After all we’ve been through?”
“We need to be discreet, Melissa. I don’t want them to connect you with me.”
“Huh? Isn’t it too late for that? They know all about me Arch. They even got my dress size right this time.”
“These Xtraktiv characters are going
to want to track me down. They’ll be watching your email, tapping your phone.”
“If we stayed together, that wouldn’t be an issue. Would it?”
“It would make it harder for us to run, to hide.”
She tipped her brow and stared at him, her eyes flat and hard. “So we don’t. Let them come. We can find a place to make a stand. We’ve got weapons. I’m not as helpless as you think, Arch.”
Archie looked away and sighed. “I’d just feel better keeping you out of this. I just want you to be safe.”
Her eyes rolled skyward and she shook her head. “It’s too late for that. Don’t you see? It’s way too late.”
“Melissa, once they figure out that Kremer is alive. That … Archie Parsons … the real one … is alive. I’m just afraid the shit’s really gonna hit the fan.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll sweep it all under a rug. Chalk it up as a mistake and move on.”
“I don’t think so. Especially not after I talk to The Guardian or Sixty Minutes.”
“Say what?” Melissa’s chin dropped and dangled.
“Wishful thinking, maybe. But this story needs to get out. I can’t let them get away with this shit.”
“Archie. I’m just as upset as you that they do these things, but you should let bygones be bygones. These dudes are dangerous.”
Archie stared out over the water. Something buzzed far beyond the breakers—a strange motorboat with a long and low profile. It glinted in the sun and zipped across the whitecaps like a missile. Something Melissa had mentioned the other day still bugged him.
“Those guys who visited you while I was away. What exactly did they ask about me?”
The muscles in her shoulders tensed. Her eyes panned the dunes, avoiding Archie’s gaze. “I don’t know, besides your travel schedule, it was basic stuff. Your favorite beer. Foods you liked and didn’t like. Whether or not you smoked. Trivia, really. It was like they were planning a surprise party.”
“Or doing research on how to impersonate me. Why didn’t you just tell them to go away? That this was private information?”