by Vince Milam
Overcast, the gray day met the strip of asphalt on the horizon. Ocean on the right, jungle to the left, screwed-up revolution ahead. I had no edict from Global Resolutions for this jaunt, no macho desire to mingle with the other side. This was my job. If pressed, I might admit an adrenaline-driven desire to hang it on the edge. But at the end of the day, it was my job.
Behind, questions and obfuscation and at least one murder. The blueprints in Tjon’s office portrayed no backer, no banker. Just Hoebeek’s trading-company stamp, leaving the door wide open for several possibilities. One thing for certain: Hoebeek played for keeps. Just ask Ravindu Tjon, who’d failed to sprout wings when he’d departed the third floor of his house.
Nothing cut and dried about any of it at the moment, and clarity wouldn’t come in Paramaribo. Another bullet aimed my way, perhaps, but no clearing of muddy waters. So I’d take my chances in a new venue. Niew Nickerie. The rebel army and Joseph Hoff. At least they hadn’t shot at me. Yet.
I focused on my job—satisfying the gnomes in Zurich. Overarching games of global intrigue meant nothing. As a member of Delta, I’d done my part. Hammered the requested nails, killed and wounded and gathered information. The past. Today would be about finding a semblance of truth, report out, and let the chips fall where they may. And while subsequent global chess moves were made, I’d motor down the Ditch on the Ace.
I stopped at two armed checkpoints on the Niew Nickerie run. At each one, the rebel soldiers—dressed in a variety of ragtag uniforms and hand-me-downs—looked at my press pass, shook their heads, and signaled me to pass. One reporter, one old Toyota Land Cruiser—no threat. They carried a variety of arms: Chinese Kalashnikovs, Belgian FNCs, Israeli Uzis, and a sprinkling of US M16s. Several donned black berets. Most wore Chinese Ray-Bans, a badass look.
It took two hours—the road potholed and rough—before I arrived at the third checkpoint on the outskirts of Niew Nickerie. Another ragged collection of soldiers allowed passage after they performed their soldier strut, circling the vehicle. I rolled along the main drag and pulled up to a small hotel, clapboard and clean. The town had the eerie feel of a place that might not have been fond of the current His Excellency, but wasn’t enthused with Mr. Replacement now occupying the town. Looks over shoulders, tight nods of greeting. Let us do our business, live our lives, and don’t shoot us. A reasonable outlook.
I booked a room and asked the owner how I might go about meeting Joseph Hoff. A reporter, looking for a story. He shook his head no. The three Benjamins slipped across the desk counter changed his outlook. I was assured, in broken English, he’d at least make an effort.
Now that I’d arrived, the first order of business was how to get the hell out. I scouted escape routes. The Nickerie River, small, ran alongside town. Three miles to the west, the larger Courantyne River—the primary objective for a shit-hit-the-fan scenario. Crossing it put me in Guyana, semi-safe turf. Joseph Hoff and I already had common interests—the same exit plan. I strolled west, rucksack over one shoulder, stretched my legs. The pistol remained hidden under the untucked tail of my T-shirt. Rain threatened but didn’t fall, the sky gray, low.
Jules had been wrong—I knew how to exit gracefully. True enough, running wasn’t in my nature. Because running left you exposed. I preferred to cover my tracks with a planned exit and avoid violence directed my way.
At the edge of town, I stopped for something to eat. The small, neat café held a few locals who returned tight nods at my smile and hand wave. The owner attended me. He tried Dutch, Sranan, and then Hindi. I tried Spanish and Portuguese—little point in trying Arabic. The other diners chuckled and smiled at the linguistic impasse. The owner raised a hand, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a teenager, his daughter. She spoke English, laughed, and informed me a typical Niew Nickerie breakfast was just what I needed. I let her know that as long as it came with coffee, I’d be good.
The java, excellent. The meal, different—rice, a slab of dense bread with local goat cheese, and dried fish reconstituted with curry sauce. The owner’s daughter asked if she could sit with me while I ate. She was a delight.
After explaining my job as a reporter for Rolling Press International and my desire to interview Joseph Hoff, I asked questions.
“Are you safe here? I mean, while the conflict is going on?”
“We are not affected. Unless we wish to travel to Paramaribo. That is dangerous now. But, yes, we are safe.”
“Have you met Joseph Hoff?”
“No. I have seen him. Often.”
“Do you go to school?”
“Yes. Senior school. Not quite a university, but good.”
“How’d you learn English?”
She giggled. “You have heard of the Internet? It is mostly English. Do you have a Facebook page?”
“Afraid not.” She wasn’t surprised. I occupied the ancient side of the age scale.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“California.”
“Ah.” It brought a wide smile. “Hollywood.” A statement rife with possibilities and wonder.
“Has there been fighting here? In Niew Nickerie?”
“No. Do you know any movie stars?”
“I’m afraid not. But I’ve seen a few. Do you know how many men Joseph Hoff has?”
“A lot. I suppose. What stars?”
“Arnold Schwarzenegger. Jennifer Aniston. Are there any large military vehicles here?”
“Some. In the jungle. What were they like?”
“Very nice. They smiled. What do you think is the best way to find Commander Hoff? I have to write the news story.”
“He will find you, I’m sure. Any others?”
She meant movie stars. I’d never laid eyes on Schwarzenegger or Aniston, and I’d wearied of lying to this wonderful young lady. “No. That’s it. I want you to be careful while all this is going on. Will you do that for me?”
She laughed again. “I’m careful. There is no worry.”
I finished breakfast, washed down the dry bread and goat cheese with black coffee. Then off again, strolling toward the Courantyne River. The road changed from asphalt to dirt, potholes filled with rainwater. The few occupants of ramshackle shacks scooted inside when I meandered by. A couple of mangy dogs barked, and tall, thick weeds lined the road.
Larger vessels, including one tramp freighter, were tied up along the dilapidated docks. The Courantyne River, here at its Atlantic Ocean mouth, was two miles wide, the current swift. A ferry capable of carrying six vehicles ran a twice-daily service across the river and provided connectivity between Suriname and Guyana. The normal route for a traveling tourist. Upriver of my riverbank position, tied to high-water poles driven into the ground, were dozens of small fishing vessels. Mixed with them were a handful of viable exit craft—dugout canoes. Exit strategy of Case Lee, Esq.
On my way back, an old motorcycle approached from the rear. I turned and stepped aside, waved. The slow-moving bike held the driver, his wife and child, and a pile of baskets roped together. The man ignored me, the woman stared, the child pointed and giggled. The dirt road returned to silent and empty.
A quarter mile later, a small Datsun pickup truck rambled my way. Four armed soldiers occupied the truck bed, two more in the front seat. The truck stopped fifty yards away. I continued walking toward it, waved and smiled. One of the clowns in the truck bed cut loose with his Uzi, the bullets zipping down the other side of the road. Two others joined the game. So damn typical.
Bored and exhibiting their badass control of all things before them, rebel soldiers the world over delighted in scaring the hell out of innocents. I presented a prime target for their testosterone exhibit.
Diving into the head-high brush along my side of the road provided two options. I could wait, the scared reporter, until they finished their firearms display. Or lose the rucksack and pull the pistol. Circle behind them through the thick brush, and—six shots later—end their day. I chose the former, although the lat
ter option held strong appeal. Being shot at does that to me.
The firing stopped, the laughter continued, and the Datsun ground into gear, approached.
“Reporter?” the soldier in the passenger seat called as they stopped near me. “Reporter?” They exchanged more laughter.
“I’m a reporter!” I yelled back, hidden.
“Yes! Yes, reporter. I know.” A lighthearted exchange in Sranan among the pickup occupants was cut short by someone’s command.
“You are not in danger, reporter. Come, come.”
I stood and became visible. The good news was nobody pointed his weapon my way. The lanyard with the fake press ID still dangled from my neck.
“Yes,” I said. I affected a look of fear, eyes moving from one rebel soldier to the next, body hunched, apprehensive. If these guys knew the real deal, they wouldn’t have smiled. Hell, a couple more shots my way, and they wouldn’t have been breathing.
“Yes, please don’t shoot anymore. Please. I’d really like an interview with your commander. Joseph Hoff. For our international newspaper.” I held up the lanyard; the laminated press badge twisted with the breeze. “More of a website these days, but we do still publish the old hard copy. Someone needs to use that paper we bought.” A shy smile for my insider joke. All good humor. All in earnest. Mr. Passenger Seat lowered his fake Ray-Bans, his eyes bloodshot.
“Go to the hotel. We get you later.” He signaled the driver to turn around. A five-point turn in the middle of the road; then they headed back toward Niew Nickerie. One of the truck-bed occupants waved his Uzi in my direction and flashed white teeth. Asshole.
Alone again. An occasional large droplet of rain splatted on the hard-packed dirt road. By the time I made it the half mile back to the hotel, the sun had broken through and fierce tropical heat brought rivulets of sweat. At least the discovery of the dugout canoes offered relief. Past experience dictated I wouldn’t be taking the ferry.
Chapter 20
The small hotel front porch offered a comfortable rocker, a place to read a paperback, and watch life flow. Niew Nickerie displayed more normalcy than Paramaribo. Joseph Hoff had taken the fight to the capitol city.
The town’s traffic flow, both vehicular and pedestrian, appeared typical. No soldiers guarded intersections. The hotel owner kept me supplied with coffee. I hadn’t unpacked, and the afternoon rolled on.
An old Nissan pickup arrived, brakes squeaking. The lone occupant, elbow out the driver window, showed a camouflage shirt and black beret. He lowered his fake Ray-Bans, and we locked eyes. The engine idled.
Several seconds later, he asked in broken English, “You have car?”
I nodded back.
“Follow.”
I retrieved the Land Cruiser from around the corner and pulled behind him. He stared at me in the rearview mirror for a good thirty seconds before pulling away. I followed.
We drove south, parallel with the Courantyne River, and left asphalt after five miles. The track became enclosed; tight jungle pressed against our passage. The smell of decayed vegetation, the detritus of the jungle floor, mixed with the dank humidity. At irregular intervals, we slowed for checkpoints, manned by rebel soldiers armed with automatic weapons. The assortment matched what I’d seen earlier—Chinese, Belgian, Israeli, US.
The checkpoints coincided with undergrowth-cleared areas where men had pitched tents and now lounged in hammocks. Sprinkled among them, hidden from aerial view by the large canopied jungle trees, were military vehicles. Chinese. Type 92 armored personnel carriers. Wheeled, amphibious, with a 25 mm canon and 7.62 mm machine gun. They could each carry nine fighting men plus a crew of three. Perfect for Suriname. They could cross rivers if bridges were blown. Small enough for tight turns and urban warfare.
We passed through five checkpoints over the next five miles. Each contained several Type 92s as well as assorted pickups and four-wheel drives, several with mounted heavy machine guns. Smart money would be on the rebels—under appropriate leadership, at night, and spearheaded by the Type 92s—taking over Paramaribo. My professional opinion, and dependent upon the leadership component.
We continued, bounced over ruts and holes, traveled down deep-shit avenue. I estimated the river a mile off the right. Potential exit strategy.
The path ended at a large clearing. I took the time for a two-point turn and parked with my vehicle pointed back down the trail. Nearby, trees had been felled, opening a small pocket of cleared space. There was only one reason for such a clearing. A helicopter landing zone.
This was the main camp. A hundred men milled about, along with more Type 92s and a mixture of civilian vehicles. Campfires burned, tents and tarps strewn about the area. An extra-large camouflage tarp hung suspended between trees. Underneath, a few chairs, wooden boxes, several men. And Joseph Hoff.
He perched at the edge of the tarp-covered area, sideways in a hammock. Booted feet planted on the ground, he swung the hammock with leisure, waved at my approach. A powerfully built man, jet black, shirtless with camouflage pants and a bright red beret. A Maroon—descendent of slaves brought by the Dutch who had escaped into the jungle and formed their own society. He smiled wide at my approach. I reciprocated.
“My reporter!” he said, slapping his muscled belly. “Come! Come!” He gestured toward a couple of wooden boxes. I took a seat.
His English was excellent. I suspected a connection of some sort with neighboring Guyana, a former British colony. Men milled, and he offered me a warm Pepsi. I accepted, the goat cheese and curry-laden fish still not settled. A young man grabbed two soda cans from another crate and, as he passed by Hoff, received an ass pat. Hoff’s lover.
I carried a small spiral notebook and pen. We chatted—rebel leader to professional reporter. I asked if he minded my taking photos. He agreed as long as the camera focused on him. No pictures of the military vehicles allowed. I snapped random shots with the beat-up camera. He posed.
A nearby soldier laughed a comment, and Hoff snapped back. “What? Tell me what is so funny!”
The soldier moved away, beyond the wrath of the commander.
“Can you tell me about your cause?” I started.
“It is a movement,” Hoff said. He started the hammock swinging again. “A movement of free people. A movement to return power to the hands of the people.”
The usual. At least this guy didn’t come off as a psychotic thug, often the case. The people of Niew Nickerie hadn’t been killed or harassed. They went about their lives, and Hoff left them alone. At least for now.
“And what drove this rebellion? What specific things did His Excellency do to cause your actions?”
Hoff took a hard turn down a personal alley and heaped a long litany of deprivations on the head of the current president of Suriname. I nodded, scribbled.
“If victorious, will you hold elections?” I asked. Background information for the gnomes of Zurich. I didn’t care if Hoff’s government drew straws at election time.
“Of course.” His boyfriend plopped on the hammock and rubbed his back. “I have no interest in a dictatorship, unlike the current president. Your newspaper must tell this.”
I assured him his story would get out. But things change. Hoff, if successful, might find he liked the trappings of office. And he’d have intimate dealings with his unknown sponsor, who would want more than a little input on a governing arrangement.
“Are other interests, other countries, helping your efforts?”
His defenses flared. “Those who support the oppressed. Those who wish liberation from iron fists. Those who support positive change. There are many in the world who wish this.”
Well, yeah, bud—but not too many willing to bankroll it. Joseph Hoff had been instructed, in no uncertain terms, to keep a lid on his army’s sponsor. The last piece, the missing ingredient.
Then the magic key appeared. A radio, sitting on another crate, crackled. A quick glance confirmed its origin. Russian, military grade. Everything came together.
The fighting military hardware—Chinese in this case—could be purchased on the open market by anyone. Luuk Hoebeek had done a little shopping and would have turned a profit during the process. But communications for these little global surprise parties were tightly controlled by the bankroller. Every time, without exception. As sure as the sun would set, that radio had locked frequencies, Moscow-bound. All communications monitored by satellite, sifted, acted upon. Russia intended to establish a Suriname naval base, move into the neighborhood. Move into what the United States considered its own backyard. Hot times at the global geopolitical dance.
A sense of relief at finding the answer—a job well done, but no alarm. No real concern. Case Lee, Esq., no longer played that game. I continued to nod and scratch on the spiral pad. Mission accomplished, a well-written and informative report soon sent to my Zurich client, contract completed. Not all the loose ends tied up, neat as a bow, but loose ends were the warp and woof of life. The big stuff, the overarching strategy, had enough evidence for a proclamation, an answer. The gnomes would be pleased. Now to get the hell out of there.
The radio crackled again, this time with a voice and the whomp-whomp of chopper blades as background. Bishop. No surprise, and he announced his intended arrival. ETA ten minutes. Fine. I’d be gone.
We chatted further about Hoff’s military efforts, he bragged about holding half of Suriname’s territory, and I snapped a few fake closing photographs. We shook hands. I half liked this guy. Sincere, candid—except for his funding source—and a leader of men.
The sound of the approaching helicopter signaled one last comment for Commander Hoff.
“I appreciate your time, Commander. Gotta go. I really don’t want to get too involved.” I head signaled toward the radio. “That helicopter means more involvement.”
He stood, hand in hand with his lover, and nodded, grave and understanding.
“But I do want to leave you with one thing,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Take it for what it’s worth, Joseph Hoff. Vladimir’s Christmas list changes regularly. And his friends tend to disappear.”