Vultures in the Playground

by A. Sparrow

  But these guys looked like they were headed out to fish. If that was the case, they wouldn’t be back to shore for hours. Hopefully, Black would be done with the job by then and he would be screaming across the waves back to Ureca and a cold beer, with or without them.

  He strolled back to his tent and set about repacking his gear. The sky was milky. The thin clouds let enough sun got through to dry out most of his things. Only his jeans needed a little more time.

  He brushed the sand off the pieces of his satellite phone and reassembled it. He had barely clicked the battery back into his cell phone when it went off.

  “Hodges here.”

  “Where the fuck have you been?” It was Gus Henson.

  “I haven’t gone anywhere. Sorry I missed the last status check. I had a problem with my phone.”

  “Your line secure?”

  “Oops.” Hodges enabled crypto. “It is now.”

  “You heard from White?”

  “Um, nope. But like I said, my phone’s been out of commission.”

  “It working now?”

  “I … guess so.”

  “We’ll upload a package with his contacts. Give him a call. There’s been a mission mod. He’s now your Alpha man.”

  “Huh? What about Black?”

  “The guy you thought was Black … he … uh … he ain’t really Black.”

  “Get out!”

  “He there? He with you?”

  “He’s … uh … on his way to see El Presidente.”

  “Crap. Listen, Hodges. We need to get to him. There’s a kill order in.”

  “Holy shit! How did all this happen?”

  Henson’s exhaled breath rustled in the receiver. “It was our people in Liberia. They—”

  “Oh, that crew,” said Hodges. “Say no more.”

  ***

  As he packed up his shelter halves, Hodges kicked at the sand, pissed at letting himself be duped. Of course that guy wasn’t Black. What was he thinking?

  Sure, Black had a reputation as a consummate shape shifter, a human chameleon who could alter his body shape and facial appearance at will. But even a man like that had limits to what he could do. This Parsons guy was a scrawny, weak-willed puppy of a man. Hodges had seen that from the start but had been blinded by the legend that was Black. He should have gone with his instincts instead of trying to rationalize this cognitive dissonance.

  He dialed Arcadio on his sat phone, noticing with disgust that his battery was already down to one bar. Must be a short in the electronics. He’d have to crank up the boat and get it charged.

  “Yo, Arcadio. We got a problem.”

  “Problem?”

  Hodges could hear loudspeakers and excited voices on the other end of the line. Arcadio was someplace busy and bustling.

  “Where the fuck are you? The airport?”

  “Si.”

  “Hey … look out for the B team, will you? They’re supposed to be flying in this morning. It’s about time they showed up.”

  “They are here. I saw them.”

  “About this problem … anybody in the car with you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, listen. We got a change in plans. These two are not who we thought they were. They don’t work for us.”

  “Que? What you mean?”

  “This guy we’ve been dealing with, he’s not Agent Black, he’s Archie Parsons. The original. The malaria guy. What this means is that our mission is compromised. White’s here on-site and they’ve asked him to take them out, but they’re fair game for us, too. The thing is, we gotta do it discreetly. You just get them back here. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the rest. I got some body bags in the boat. A little ballast and ….”

  A truck or bus roared by on Arcadio’s end.

  “The woman, too?”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a goddamn shame. But these two got tangled up in shit they had no business meddling into. That’s how it goes, sometimes. You understand?”

  Silence.

  “Arcadio? You still there? Do you understand what we need to do?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “Okay.” Hodges caught his breath. His heart was fluttering like a bird. “They back with you, yet?”

  “No. I am still waiting.”

  “Well, when they get back, all you gotta do is bring them back to me. Just drop them off at the beach and get the fuck out of the way. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “The woman, too? For sure?”

  “It’s a dirty business, Arcadio, my boy. But that’s why it pays so well. Right?” He waited for answer. “Right?”

  “Si,” said Arcadio, softly.

  Chapter 33: Trinidade

  Archie got out of the SUV and loped towards the end of the market where the taxis were parked. Melissa moved to the front seat. “Later gator.” She slammed the door.

  Arcadio stayed put, idling by the side of the road.

  “Go!” said Archie, waving him on. “Get moving! To the aeropuerto.”

  Arcadio ignored him. Melissa stuck her head out the window. “He wants to see what car you take, so we can find you later.”

  “You don’t need to find me. Just go to the Miramar. I’ll find you.”

  A gaggle of loitering drivers interrupted their gossip to descend on him, each vying for his business, their behavior oddly bereft of the precedence and pecking order that usually governed such negotiations. This was a free-for-all.

  To spite the pushy ones, Archie chose to ride with the elderly man who had been the least aggressive, hanging back at the fringe of the group. The other drivers laughed. The old man, too, seemed quite amused to be the chosen one.

  Archie followed him to a reddish-brown Lada, its finish pitted from sun and salt, its windshield cracked, front fender attached with bits of twisted wire threaded through rusted punctures. The door sagged when Archie opened it. He had to lift it back up on its loose hinges to close it. As he settled onto the shredded seat, he realized he had made a mistake. This taxi was ready for the junkyard.

  “Onde você quer ir?” said the driver, lisping severely through his missing teeth.

  “Where? Um ….” He pointed into the misted hills. “A casa … do Presidente.”

  “O palácio?”

  “No, not the palace. His roça.”

  “Onde!?”

  The man spoke no English and Archie had just about exhausted his Portuguese. Arcadio appeared at the driver side window, coming to his rescue. As he explained Archie’s destination to the old man, the grizzled fellow erupted in a wheezy cackle that turned into a belly laugh.

  A beige sedan pulled up behind the SUV. Its lone driver rolled down his window and perused them. He looked on with an expression of vague disinterest that was belied by the intensity of his stare. Something about the man’s behavior gave Archie the willies.

  “He doesn’t believe you,” said Arcadio.

  “He doesn’t have to,” said Archie, losing patience. “All he has to do is take me there.”

  “Oh, he will take you. He just think it is so funny that you take such a car to visit de Marazul.”

  The other drivers were just as amused. They burst out laughing when the taxi failed to start on the first and second attempts. Third time was the charm, engulfing them all in a cloud of blue smoke.

  They lurched out onto the street. Arcadio waved, unsmiling, his eyes sober and serious. They turned left onto a road that ascended through a series of dense residential areas consisting of concrete block apartment houses separated by shady plazas. The city transitioned to clusters of single-family wooden shacks surrounded by papaya groves and garden plots growing sugar cane and maize.

  The pitch of the road steepened and they rose above the city, curving back and forth through patches of forest and pockets of fog. The little taxi struggled on the steeper inclines, slowing at times to a walking pace. Every vehicle that came up from behind overtook them, including at one point, a tractor.

  To its cred
it, the taxi never stalled. It was like ‘The Little Engine That Could,’ winding ever upward through forests underlain with shade-grown coffee shrubs, their berries burgeoning but still green. The temperature dropped almost a degree for every hundred feet they climbed.

  The beige sedan he had seen at the market appeared behind them. It matched their snail’s pace up the slope, maintaining a fixed distance as it were cabled to their back bumper. It finally passed them when they pulled over at filling station in Trinidade, but when they continued onward, it pulled out from a parking space as they went by.

  Archie tried to blaming it on the paranoia pills, but this tail was too obvious to ignore. He was being watched again, and the thought unsettled him, even though he should have been used to it by now.

  They arrived at the main gate of President de Marazul’s estate about ten minutes before the appointed meeting time. The gate opened through a twenty foot wall of stone and brick, beyond which sprawled an airy but not overly ostentatious stucco and tile colonial house, with two main floors plus an attic with sleeping porches.

  Four guards descended on them like a pack of jackals. Two searched the car while the others frisked and wanded him. It was a good thing he hadn’t let Arcadio drop him off.

  A slight gentleman in a baggy suit and round spectacles strode across the gravel drive that looped around a cobbled plaza with a dry fountain. The aide grimaced at the dilapidated taxi. He gave Archie a stern once-over.

  “Good morning. I am Octavio Buteira, the President’s assistant. I presume you are the American doctor?”

  “Well … yes … I’m Archie Parsons.”

  “Where is your bag?”

  “My bag?”

  “Your medical kit?”

  “Oh. Well, I’m not a medical doctor, just a PhD.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, that’s odd. I suppose … a relief.” He glanced at his watch. “You are a little bit early. Let me check if he is available. He had a late night last night. It is possible he may still be sleeping.”

  “No problem. I can wait,” said Archie. He had plenty of time. Even if Melissa managed to book a flight for earliest part of his specified window, he had hours to burn.

  The aide placed a call, the tone of his voice shifting to a softer, higher pitch. He said very little, grunting affirmatives, but listening much more than he spoke. He closed and pocketed his phone.

  “The President is awake. He is out tending his farm. Come, I will take you.”

  He led Archie around a tidy path skirting the flanks of the house. Melodious voices—children playing—emanated from a window, its curtain billowing in the breeze. A flagstone courtyard opened to the back, with a modest swimming pool and a patio edged with fire pits.

  A narrow back gate crawled with red trumpet vines. It opened to a walled ornamental garden and beyond, cultivated fields bounded by orchards. A tractor pulled a cultivator between the rows, ripping through and overturning a thick layer of weeds, leaving soil as dark as coffee grounds in its wake.”

  “Is that him, driving?”

  “Oh, no,” said the assistant. “He is working in the pepper beds. He must be feeling strong. It is a good sign, he is out so early. He has been not feeling so good.”

  A soldier in green fatigues and a garrison cap un-slung his AK from its shoulder strap and cradled it in his arms. He watched them approach, his gaze unwavering.

  Amidst a patch of glossy, spade-leafed seedlings, a barrel-chested man knelt with a short-handled scuffle hoe. He wore green fatigues, a madras shirt and a straw hat coming apart at the rim. A heap of weeds lay wilting in a basket beside him.

  “We are here,” said the aide.

  “Yes, I see,” said the President.

  “Your Excellency,” said Archie. “I’m sorry to disturb your work.”

  The President smirked as he rose. “Your Excellency? Please. No need for such titles. And I don’t consider this work. It is one of my few pleasures.”

  “Even worse, then, for me to disturb you.”

  The President brushed the dirt from his fingers and shook Archie’s hand. “You must be the doctor?”

  “Um … I’m actually not an MD. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I’m not here to look after your health. Not …exactly.”

  “Who are you, then?” said the President. “What is the purpose of this meeting?” He squinted. “Have I seen you before? You look familiar.”

  “We sort of met last year, at the Presidential Palace. I was part of a monitoring and evaluation team from the Global Fund.”

  “Ah … you’re one of the malaria consultants. Of course. What brings you back so soon? I thought we passed the review.”

  “You did. My visit has nothing to do with malaria or the Global Fund.”

  “Oh? Then what?”

  Archie glanced at the aide. “It would be best if we had some privacy.”

  The President nodded at the aide. “You may as well return to the house, Octavio. I’ll bring him back when we are through.”

  “Sir, this is not a good idea. I don’t recommend—”

  “I’ll be fine, Octavio. Go on. Go back and check your Facebook or something.”

  The aide forced a smile and trudged back through the loose dirt in his shiny dress shoes.

  “Quite a garden you have here … or should I say, farm?”

  “Oh, this is not just a farm. It is my experiment station. It is my hobby. Of course, we already have research stations for cocoa production and banana disease resistance and such. But I have my own agenda. I like to try new varieties to see what grows best in the climate and soil of São Tomé. A diverse agriculture is key to our islands’ self-sufficiency and sustainability. Without it, we have to import everything. That gets very expensive without a tourism industry to help pay.”

  “I have to say, the variety of produce I see in your markets is pretty impressive compared to a place like Bioko.”

  The President shuddered. “Bioko. What a disaster that place has become. The people there don’t even raise enough goats and chickens to eat. They have to rely on bush meat. How long can this last?”

  “Well … maybe they can afford to import food, with all that oil money.”

  “For who? The workers are all imported from the Philippines and Indonesia, The local people stay unemployed.”

  “I didn’t realize….”

  “Here … look at these tomatoes.” His hand caressed the broad leaves of a tomato vine with a stalk as thick as his wrist. “These are Brandywines. They have the best flavor. Not good for our markets, though. Thin skins. They bruise easily and they don’t keep. So I grow them just for my family. I wish I could share some with you. They are amazing. You won’t find local tomatoes or even maize in the market in Malabo. They import it from Cameroon. They blame it on being an island. Well, we are an island, too. They have simply lost all interest in agriculture. Everything to them is about oil. All that rich volcanic soil going to waste. But let’s not talk about EG.” He rinsed his hands in an irrigation channel and wiped them with a dirty towel. “They give me enough trouble.” He daubed his face with a handkerchief. “So what brings you to visit me? Consuela says it’s something about my health. Something urgent, she says. Do you know something I don’t know?” He sat down in a nylon camp chair as if it were a throne. “Tell me, we are alone. What is it you want to say?”

  “There are people on this island who want to kill you.”

  “Pfft.” The President laughed. “So what else is new? I have already been through two coups. Maybe forty percent of the people on this island want me gone. Anyone else will have to get in line behind my wife and daughter.”

  “These are serious people. With serious weapons. You are in imminent danger.”

  “And you know this, how? Rumors?”

  “I have the papers to prove it,” said Archie, patting the bundle of folders and envelopes tucked under his arm. “These people … they screwed up … they think I’m one of them.”

  “That sounds
preposterous. They send a malaria expert to—”

  “Like I said, they screwed up. They wanted to use my identity to you. And you must admit, it would have worked, because, here I am.”

  A sour expression came over the President. His eyes shifted back and forth. “And would you do this deed? With your pocket comb? Murder by paper cuts?” Archie saw his hand reach down for his hoe, just making sure it was there.

  “A poison pen … believe it or not.”

  The President laughed again. “I’ve always said, if the written word could kill, I would be dead a long time ago.”

  “I’m serious. And the thing is, though you’re safe with me. I’m just Plan A, there are other people here ready to step in when I fail.”

  “So who are all these nasty people?”

  “Best I can figure … it’s some kind of paramilitary group contracted to some kind of petroleum industry consortium. Chess is one of the companies involved.”

  “Chess is part of the group that bid on offshore exploration rights … but they’re small potatoes. Why would they—?”

  “It’s all in here,” said Archie, patting the set of folders he had brought. “They think you cheated them, that you’re sitting on prime oil resources in the Gulf of Guinea and that you didn’t bargain in good faith. You hung onto the best parcels while selling them deepwater rights to zones you knew to be dry. They want you gone so they can get a better deal from your successor.”

  “Filho da puta!” said the President. “What bullshit! This was a gamble for all involved. Yes we held onto some claims, but we put six out for bid. Yes, one of ours seems to be panning out, but we didn’t know which ones held oil. If God has chosen to bless us, so be it.”

  “If you asked me,” said Archie. “I think your country is better off without the oil. It’s like a disease, what it does to the little countries that have it. But you’ve made your choice, and now they’re coming after you. What I was hoping for is that you could take these papers and go public. Expose what they are doing.”

  “And what good will that do?”

  “It will get them to stop this … rampage.”

  A wistful look settled over the President’s face. “Why antagonize them? Why stir the hornet’s nest? This is nothing new. It is just jealousy. Perhaps my opposition has offered them a deal. It would not surprise me.”