by A. Sparrow
Chapter 29: DNA
Gus hovered outside the door of the squash court. Harry was inside, playing a set with his twenty-year-old intern.
Squash was popular with the upper echelons of the consortium, but Gus could never get into it. Same thing with golf. He got his exercise doing practical things, like chopping firewood or tilling his garden.
As the minutes dragged on, his pulse quickened, his palms grew sweatier. He snuck peeks through the tiny acrylic window. He paced the hall. He leaned his forehead against the wall and listened to the repeated crack and thud, wishing it would stop. He lacked the gumption to interrupt Harry’s game, no matter how important the news.
The court went silent. He stepped back, a jolt of anticipation ripping through him. The hatch popped open and the intern ducked through, nodding to Gus on his way to the locker room. Harry stepped out. Gus ambushed him. “We need to talk. Now. Some place secure. And I mean tight.”
Harry gawked at him, his face all red from exertion, sweat soaking his white jersey. “Okay. How about in this court? Nobody’ll bother us in there, and it’s probably more secure than my own damned office.”
Gus clambered in after him. Harry watched him slam the door and latch it.
“So. What’s up?” Worry lines rippled Harry’s forehead.
“You know those samples I got back from Liberia?”
“From the dead guy. Yeah. You got the results?”
“It’s confirmed. The samples came from Black.”
Harry’s eyelids flickered. “You sure about that?”
“It’s a 99.9% match.”
Harry exhaled abruptly. “Okay. So maybe he was injured? Some of his blood got splattered on the tile. Happens.”
“Well, that’s what I thought at first. Except one of samples was taken by our embassy liaison directly from the corpse before they sent it for cremation. Hair and skin. They came back with the same match as the blood. It’s all Black, and only Black.”
“Holy crap! Then who the hell is—?”
“Archie Parsons. It’s gotta be. The real Archie Parsons. I mean, who else could it be?”
“But what about those two assassinations?”
“One. One assassination, at most. Kremer’s identity has been confirmed. He’s as happy as a clam, sipping palm wine on some mountain hut in Cameroon. And I looked carefully at the B team’s debriefing notes. Sounds like that Appiah guy’s death might just as well have been an accident.”
“This Parsons … is he an operative?”
“Don’t know.”
“But for who? Our competition? Greenpeace?”
“No idea.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Harry sank to the floor. He laid his racket down and grabbed his knees. “So how do we handle this?”
Gus swallowed around the knot in his throat. “If I were you, I wouldn’t mention this to the folks upstairs just yet. It’d be better if we could tidy up a bit first. You know, stabilize the situation. If you went to them now, it would look really bad, like we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing.”
“That’s the truth, though,” said Harry. “Ain’t it?”
Gus chewed his lip. “How about we activate White?”
“Say what?” said Harry. “After all the crap you told me?”
“What other choice we got? You ready to tell the folks upstairs what happened?”
Harry squeezed the handle of his racket. “Go ahead, then. Mod the orders.”
“To finish the hit on de Marazul? Or to go back after Kremer?”
“Both. Eventually. But don’t you think we’ve got a higher priority target?”
“Parsons. Not to mention that girl of his. I don’t know who they work for or what they’re up to, but we need to get to them before they do any more damage … or squeal.”
Harry looked dazed as he struggled to his feet. “Alright. You’ve got my verbal approval to get things rolling. Authorize White to take out Parsons … and the girl. If all goes well, we’ll talk about extending it to de Marazul. I’ll make it all official once I’m changed and in my office. But you gotta emphasize to him, he can’t be so messy this time.”
Chapter 30: Mod
White sat at a sidewalk café sipping sweet tea, scribbling on a sketch pad, listening to the gossip of government workers on their way to work. A chicken scurried under his plastic table to peck at some crumbs in the dirt.
He ordered another cup of tea and worked on the shading of his pencil sketch of the little cathedral across the way, alongside the Presidential Palace. He was no great artist, but had an eye for perspective and light. He did well enough to garner a compliment from the waitress.
He knew better than to draw the Presidential Palace. That would have labeled him as a security threat as surely as if he had clicked away with a telephoto SLR. A church drawing drew less suspicion, but helped explain to passersby and security goons why he stared and studied so intently every movement to and from the Palace.
A true palace, it was not. A mansion, maybe. More like a blocky Russian-built monolith with a tacked on ornamental frieze and a well-pruned garden.
In the two hours he had sat there, he had heard no mention of the President’s activities, no sign that the man resided there or had come or gone. His satellite phone buzzed. He was sure it was his satellite phone this time as he had made sure his GSM phone stayed off. He didn’t need any more of Alice’s drama.
“Secure. What do you need?”
“What the fuck, White? We’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I had it turned off. A man’s gotta sleep.”
“Listen. There’s been a mod.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’ve been activated.”
Delicious words, those. They made him tingle and twitch. “I’m going after the big fish?”
“Um. Not just yet. First we need you to go after Black, except … he’s not Black.”
“Black? Huh? Repeat that, please.”
“This so-called Black isn’t actually Black. He’s Parsons. Parsons is impersonating him. So basically, we want you to go after Parsons now, and the girl – Melissa Wray.”
White chuckled. “It was supposed to be the other way around. How the fook did this happen?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Well, where the bloody hell is Black then?”
“He’s dead. Cremated.”
“Holy Mother of—”
“Have you been in touch with Hodges? We haven’t been able to reach him, either.”
“Um … well, no. You told me to stay incognito.”
“Find him and fill him in. Make sure that kid, Arcadio, is in the loop, too. Coordinate your actions. We want this taken care of quickly … and discreetly.”
“You mean … they still think still Parsons is Black? Hoo boy!”
“Yeah, well. So did we.”
“But you’re across the fooking Atlantic. He’s just spent three days with them in a boat.”
“Hodges had never met Black. He’s been working out of Djibouti.”
“Yeah, but, one would have thought he’d have it figured out by now. Parsons is just a fookin’ NGO drone. He’s not a tenth the man that Black … was.”
“Hodges ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed. There’s a reason he drives boats.”
“I should be glad you transferred him out of Djibouti. That’s my territory. Except—”
“All of Africa is your territory now, Mr. White. You’re the only operative we have left on the continent.”
“Whoa. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Listen, see what you can do. B team should be on the ground soon. They have your contact info. Try linking up with this Arcadio kid as well, but be aware, he doesn’t have a sat phone. This is your op, White. You’re in charge of the whole shebang. Don’t screw it up any worse than it already is.”
White grinned. This was much more than he had ever hoped for—a chance to rebuild the confidence of his employers and redeem
his reputation. And not only that, he had all of Africa to himself, coast to coast, Cape Town to Casablanca.
“I’ll get you those targets straightaway. All three of them.”
“But top priority is Parsons. Understand? De Marazul can wait. We’ll need you to check in twice a day, 0700 and 1700 EDT. There will be new keys waiting for you at the hotel. Oh … and White?”
“Yes, boss?”
“We’d appreciate it if you can keep things a little tidier this time.”
“Not a problem,” said White. “I’ve altered my methods. I will not disappoint you. You will not be disappointed.”
“Happy hunting.” The call clicked off. White sat and stared at a brick wall across the street, a smile slowly spreading across his face.
His guns were back at the hotel, locked away in his room safe. But who needed bullets? They had only caused him trouble and heartbreak. There were cleaner, more precise ways of committing murder.
He guzzled the rest of his tea, threw down a bill, and got up, fondling the latest addition to his modest arsenal—a tiny knife with a honed blade long enough to slice open arteries, but small enough not to alarm a cop.
As he walked, he ripped his sketch off the pad, crumpled it and tossed it on the ground. The hen ran over and pecked at it.
He strode off towards the harbor, peeking into every parked car, looking for a vehicle worth stealing and which would not be missed too soon.
Chapter 31: Morning
Archie spent a hellish night in the stilted bungalow, most of it awake, tossing and turning on a thin and lumpy mattress. Mosquitoes whined in his ears and nibbled at his ankles. He found nothing soothing in the sound of the waves, only torment.
During one brief snatch of slumber, he dreamt of running a two mile race around the cinder track at his old high school. The fog was so thick he couldn’t see across the football field. He kept lagging farther behind the leaders. Their red and blue jerseys faded into the mist.
With one lap to go he ducked under the wire, thinking he would dash across the field and catch up with the pack on the other side, without anyone knowing he cheated. But the grass changed to muck. He sank to his ankles and then his knees and then deeper and deeper until the mud penetrated his nostrils. He awoke gasping, face buried in a musty pillow, legs tangled in a dank, threadbare blanket.
Melissa snuffled softly from across the room. She seemed to have little trouble sleeping in any situation. But she wasn’t meeting with a sitting president in the morning. She didn’t have to convince a man about an international conspiracy to end his life.
He sat up and listened to the crash of the waves against the ledges around the point. It he ever escaped from this place alive, he swore he would sleep for 72 hours straight in the cushiest most sound-proofed hotel room he could find. It would have air conditioning worthy of a desert night and cotton sheets as fresh as new-fallen snow.
He dragged himself onto the porch with the blanket draped around his shoulders. The morning was more clammy than chilly. Again, the sun was just a patch of slightly brighter mist over the water.
The poles of Hodges little tent leaned askew. Its walls drooped. Socks and skivvies were strewn across the sand, along with pieces of his disassembled satellite phone. He stood by his unzipped duffle bag, squeezing out soggy articles of clothing item by item.
Archie snickered. “What the heck happened to you?”
“Pitched my tent too close to the water. Kind of underestimated the tide. Got swamped.”
“Oh my.” Archie glanced out at the cigarette boat, alarmed to see it so much farther away than where they had left it. “Is it my imagination or has that boat drifted?”
“Yeah, the current’s been tugging at it, dragging on the anchors. I’ll need to haul it back in and set ‘em in some boulders instead of the fucking sand. Soon as I take care of this.”
“Need help?”
“Nah. You all go about your business. I got this part handled. Arcadio’s here, by the way. He can take you anywhere you need to go.”
Arcadio, upon hearing his name, stepped out from under the porch, smiled and waved. Archie heard a groan issue from the bedroom.
“Melissa? You awake?”
She staggered out across the creaking floorboards, her eyes heavy lidded. “I guess.”
“Ready to go?”
“Oh yeah. Don’t I look ready?” she said, sarcastically.
He glanced at his watch. “Jeez, it’s already after seven. We need to get moving.”
Her groggy smile vanished. Her eyes cleared slightly. “Give me a minute. I’m gonna go down and wash up by that creek.”
***
Melissa joined Archie in the back of the SUV. Hodges grinned and waved. “Good luck! I’ll be here. Ready to go. Buzz me.” Arcadio swung around the beach. They bounced along the rutted track to the main road.
“I had a lot of time to think last night,” said Archie, glancing at Arcadio, who had just slipped on a pair of battered headphones. He lowered his voice. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Arcadio’s going to drop me off somewhere where I can catch a cab. I want you to go with him straight to the airport and book a flight for Cape Verde. One way. Pay cash.”
“Just for me?” said Melissa, alarmed.
“For two.”
Melissa’s smile stretched a bit wider. “But … why don’t I take the cab, and you go with—?”
“Guns, Melissa. We have pistols and submachine guns under the seats.”
“Oh … right.”
“Any flight you get, make sure it leaves no earlier than four pm or so. That’ll give me time to do my thing, for us to check in, get through security. Since we can’t … we shouldn’t use our phones … I suggest we meet up at the Miramar Hotel, in the restaurant. And then we take it from there, depending on what time it is. How’s that sound?”
“Um. Okay, I guess. But I was kind of hoping to meet this president with you.”
“Melissa. This is not—”
“I understand. We have to do what we have to. If you really think it’s gotta be done this way, then … what’s Cape Verde like?”
“Dry. Scrubby.”
“Dry would be nice, after all this humidity.”
Archie sighed, all sweaty and anxious. He watched Arcadio’s head bobbing to some private beat. Once they met up again at the Miramar they would have to find some way to ditch him. Maybe they could send him off to have lunch and then skedaddle off to the airport in a taxi.
“Hey Arcadio, what you listening to in those phones?” said Melissa.
He glanced up into the rear view. “Is Bob Marley.”
“No way! Why don’t you put it on in the car?”
“I do not wish to disturb you.”
“Are you kidding? I love reggae.”
Arcadio pulled off his headphones and sent ‘Concrete Jungle’ throbbing through the car’s tinny speakers.
“Wow,” said Melissa. “Is reggae popular in Africa? I mean it being Jamaican and all?”
“Oh! Is very popular. Everyone knows it.”
“Just the old stuff like this?”
“Oh no. In Bata we have a reggae band. Many singers do reggae. Many countries. Even Ethiopia.”
“Where’d you learn your English, Arcadio?”
“In school, they teach,” he said. “I speak five Europe language. Three tribal.”
“Get out!”
“Is true. Je m’appele Arcadio. Und ich spreche ein bisschen Deutsch. And I also have a little bit of the Chinese. The Mandarino.”
“Wow, that’s incredible,” said Melissa. “So where did you grow up?”
“In Bata. My mother, she is Congolese. Refugee from time it was called Zaire.”
“So that explains where you got your French skills,” said Archie, relaxing a bit under the spell of small talk. “Where did you pick up Portuguese?”
“Brasilia,” he said. “I go for working. One year, I stay. Is very nice. But I have a hard time. I have some tro
uble with my bosses. So I come back.”
“With those language skills you should be doing something more than just driving,” said Melissa.
“Oh. I am not just driver,” said Arcadio.
He cut down an alley past the black market money changers with their courier bags filled with cash. Around the next corner, the open bays of the central market came into view. Vendors sold everything from toilet seats to bicycle parts. Table after table bore heaps of groundnuts, stacks of tomatoes. Several taxi cabs and jitneys idled on the shady side of the street.
“Drop me off here,” said Archie. “Here’s good.”
Chapter 32: Kill Order
Saving the biggest problem for last, Hodges took a deep breath and waded out to deal with the boat. The situation was trickier than it had first appeared. He should have taken Black up on his offer to help.
Even though it was low, tide, the water it bobbed in was now chest deep. He thought it would be simple, just grab and haul on one the lines, but the current fought back. Every yard he gained, he lost in slippage.
A fishing boat with an outboard engine passed by the cove. The men saw him struggling and altered course to see what was up. Hodges tried to wave them off.
“It’s okay. No hay problema. I’ve got things under control.”
“Nenhum problema?” One of the fishermen giggled and hopped into the water beside him. The others maneuvered their boat in position to gently bump Hodges’ craft along, cushioned by some old, treadles tires.
“Que barco bonito!” said the man at the rudder.
“My boat? Oh yeah. It’s a beauty alright. Gee thanks, you guys. I could have handled it, really, but thanks.”
They got the boat tucked into a deep pocket in the stream outlet and fastened one of the lines to a small tree. They set an anchor to keep it from bashing around in the current.
As the men nosed their boat around, Hodges dug in his pocket for a couple sodden ten thousand dobra notes. The men waved him off.
“Aw come on! You guys deserve it.”
The shook their heads and gunned their little engine for the open sea.
Hodges stood and watched them go, worried that they would spread word about the high-class cigarette boat tucked away in the cove beside Boca do Inferno. Once that happened, it wouldn’t take long for the authorities to get wind of it.