by R G Ainslee
* * *
Barker's bungalow was located in the Nairobi Hills section. The neighborhood resembled an English town with exotic trees, out of place in Africa. Barker's place sat on the grounds of a larger estate.
We pulled in and Barker explained the large house belonged to an older couple. The man retired from the British Foreign Service and the wife a famous mystery writer. The former guesthouse, a safe and secure residence for the Barkers.
"They're out of country until the end of the month. However, they have the best security available." He pointed towards a Kenyan dressed in a blue uniform. The muscular man wore a Cincinnati Bengals football helmet and toted a baseball bat.
Barker's wife Sarah met us at the front door and didn't seem surprised to see us. She was average height with a full figure, shoulder-length auburn hair, and casually dressed in knee length shorts and a brightly colored top. Barker introduced us and explained we needed to clean up and head to the embassy.
"Come right in. Hello Sergeant King." She nodded to Lisette and me. "Pleased to meet you."
"Honey, Lisette needs a place to stay for a few days. Will that be okay?
Sarah paused for a moment, glanced at Barker with an obligatory smile, and answered, "Of course."
"Merci." Lisette lapsed into French again.
Sarah's eyes lit up and began a lively conversation with Lisette in French as they strolled into the kitchen.
"Forgot to tell you, Sarah minored in French Literature," said Barker. "She doesn't get much chance to practice here. They'll get along fine."
Barker's house was a gem: a two-bedroom bungalow with a comfortable living-dining room and a cozy kitchen. Colorful African tapestry wall hangings and carved masks decorated the main room, and a large Ohio State pennant hung incongruously between two stuffed gazelle heads.
We hastily cleaned up and Barker changed clothes. He offered a way-too large dress shirt. I settled for a clean tee shirt. King said he would wait until we returned to the embassy and stepped outside to check on the security arrangements.
Lisette and Sarah sat at the kitchen table engrossed in quiet girl talk. Lisette reticent, not over her ordeal of the morning. I told them we were ready to go. Sarah gave me a knowing smile.
Lisette jumped up and hugged me with unexpected passion. "Ne me quitte pas … Ne me quitte pas."
I glanced at Sarah for an interpretation.
"She said, do not leave me."
I gave Lisette's shoulder a reassuring pat. "You'll be safe here."
Sarah spoke to Lisette in French.
Lisette whispered in my ear, "You come back."
"Yeah sure, I won't leave you."
She offered a timid smile, a tear rolled down her cheek.
* * *
On the way back to the embassy, I asked Barker about any connection between Lara Dumont and the Canadians. I was curious why the Canadians would help her dispose of the body.
Barker laughed. "Lara Dumont and Daniel Broussard, the security officer at the Canadian embassy, were romantically involved last year. The break-up was the talk of the local diplomatic circuit."
King said, "Still can't believe your little gal actually shot somebody."
"Saw a picture of the guy. Right between the eyes."
"You know what? … Ross, here's some advice. Don't ever let her catch you with that Kara chick."
"She already has."
"You don't say … Man, you sure do live dangerously."
Chapter 19 ~ Lisette
Friday, 17 February: U.S. Embassy, Nairobi
Back at the embassy, we returned the gear to the Marine supply room, thanked King for his help, and hustled upstairs to the attachés' office. The only person on duty was Karen, the secretary.
"Is Major Santini back from Frankfurt?" asked Barker.
"No sir, we expect him sometime this afternoon." She glanced at the clock. "His flight should have already arrived."
"How about Colonel Gregory?" Barker had told me Lieutenant Colonel Gregory, the chief defense attaché, was in Bahrain, but didn't say why.
"No sir, he is scheduled to return next week."
"Can I use the secure line to call the States?"
"Sure," said Barker. "Right there in my office."
I gave the secretary Mack's home phone number and just before she started to dial, told her to try his office number. Closed the door to Barker's office and tried to relax. Maps of East Africa hung on the walls along with his framed degree from Ohio State. A picture of Sarah sat on his desk.
The phone rang. Mack was still at work.
"Mack, what time is it there?"
"Close to midnight. I was about to leave for home. How’re you feeling?"
"Okay, except my memory's still sketchy."
"Have you recalled any details about the signal? Did you make an intercept?"
The trip to Mount Kenya gave me time to mull over the flight. "Some scattered fragments, but still don't have a complete picture of what happened. Tell me, what did you expect me to find?"
"Marsden's signal in the third harmonic … don't you remember? We tried to embed the guidance instructions in the third harmonic. You should have switched manually to the third harmonic of a tracking signal."
A scattering of muddled disjointed recollections began to connect into coherent images. "Yeah. Starting to come back."
"Did you see or hear any unusual activity?"
"We lost communications right at the— Wait a minute. We lost radio communications and the engine quit, had an un-start, and Sam couldn't restart the engine. We coasted over the ocean and bailed out. I remember … trouble ejecting and … and then … everything went blank."
"The signal, did you detect a new signal?"
A surge of optimism, details started to flood the empty recesses of my memory. "Fan Songs and Barlocks, think they were from Egypt. Don't remember sites in Ethiopia." Egypt — the Foxbat. "A MiG-25 tracked us and tried to lock in over Egypt. I remember that."
"The Egyptians don't have any—"
"I know — had to be Soviet."
"You're sure."
"Yeah, Sam turned on the afterburners and lost him."
"I'll check into that aspect, might be important, but you don't recall any new signals."
"It’s right on the tip of my tongue. I did… but, I can't…" The unfathomable mist lifted one more level. "We switched to manual control to override a signal and…" I struggled to recall what happened next. "Sorry, can't remember."
Mack’s disappointment was clear. "If we’re going to solve the problem, we’ll either need to get lucky or get a hold of Marsden."
"Guess we need to get lucky, because Marsden ain't about to walk through the door any time soon." But knew what I’d do if he did.
Mack led me through the mission priorities once again. I racked my brain for new details but came up empty. He thought it strange we lost communications and had a power failure.
"I'll give you a call if we have further developments. NSA is on this big time and last I heard Wilson was headed to Europe."
Hung up the phone and was about to go find something to eat when there was a knock on the door. Santini stuck his head in and asked all businesslike, "Brannan — Where's Barker?"
"Not sure, been with Mack Gibson on the secure line."
The secretary called out, "Major Santini, here he comes."
Barker came down the hall and Santini motioned for us to follow. Barker paused and told me about his conversation with Vance Reynolds, the CIA station chief.
"He listened but didn't say one way or the other. Got the impression we were right in our suspicions."
"Why wouldn't he confirm it?"
Barker shook his head. "You know these CIA types. They think they have to kill you if they tell you anything." He noticed the surprised look on my face. "It's a joke, an embassy inside joke."
We entered the conference room, a drab imitation of the high-tech facilities available at more important embassies. To my a
stonishment, Colonel Wilson sat at the head of the table in civilian clothes, his face a model of military sternness. Two men sat beside him, one I had never seen before.
Wilson took charge, "Gentlemen, I'm glad you finally found time to join us. Come on in and take a seat." The colonel straightforward as always, spoke his mind. He didn't bother with double talk or dance around with evasive words. He didn't even tell me he was glad I was alive.
He introduced us to the new men. "This is Captain James Barker and Ross Brannan. Barker, Brannan, you are acquainted with Mr. Michaels from Meade." He nodded to the other man. "This gentleman is Mr. John Smith from Langley."
John Smith — give me a break. When someone is introduced as being from Langley, they really mean CIA.
Wilson announced with an air of gravity, "The issues discussed at this meeting are classified Top-Secret/Crypto. Major Santini and Captain Barker have been provisional access on a mission specific basis. From this moment on, all information will be on a need-to-know basis only. Does everyone understand?" He didn't pause for an answer.
"Smith and Michaels are temporarily attached to the Special Signals Research project by their agencies. I have taken the initiative to request Major Santini and Captain Barker be assigned temporarily to my command. In the absence of his senior defense attaché, Major Santini approved the request." Santini seemed unaware at Wilson's ironic attempt at humor and remained stone-faced.
Wilson continued, "Brannan will you please bring us up to date on your recent activities."
I briefed them on the flight and my conversation with Mack. Wilson interrupted a couple of times and Michaels had several questions. Santini was skeptical about the Foxbat intercept over Egypt. John Smith seemed interested in the details of my escape, especially the Cubans. I mentioned Lisette only in passing, in a deliberate unemotional way, determined to keep her out of my troubles.
Wilson glanced around the room and inquired if we had any questions. No one spoke up. I relaxed thinking he was finished. The colonel leaned back and rubbed his chin. "I understand the French are involved in this too. Am I correct?"
A most inconvenient question: I was cornered and told him the whole story. The CIA's John Smith’s face distorted into a frown when I revealed my dealings with Lara Dumont.
"Is that all?" asked an exasperated Wilson.
I glanced over at Barker and he nodded his head. "One other person … this gal from Finland."
"Thank goodness, at least she's a neutral," interjected John Smith with a sarcastic tone. Everyone laughed except me.
Barker spoke up and expressed his concerns about security considering the Cubans propensity to be in the right place at the wrong time. Fortunately, he didn't mention Kara's similar tendencies.
"Gentlemen, I too am concerned about the security of this project." Wilson paused and glanced Barker’s way. "With respect for Captain Barker's concerns, I am sure Smith, here, can work with his agency's representative in the embassy."
It occurred to me: the CIA station chief wasn't present for the meeting.
Colonel Wilson added to the speculation. He said the suspicious woman had disappeared from the Mildenhall area, present location unknown. He concluded with, "But in any case, we must carry on post-haste with our mission."
Michaels briefed us on NSA's progress, or lack of progress, on analyzing what little technical details we had to work with. I brought him up to date with my latest conversation with Mack Gibson.
Wilson declared we were about to enter a dangerous era because of our newly diminished countermeasures capabilities. "Gentlemen, so far, what we have found has only raised more questions. The data we need is resting on bottom of the Indian Ocean. Therefore, I have decided to regroup and re-start the Raven-One mission." He paused and turned to the man from Langley. "We may have a solution to our problem. Tell us what you have come up with."
Smith relaxed slightly. The CIA man had an unmistakable ex-military look: burr haircut, fit for his age, looked about fifty, and an attitude that reeked of first sergeant.
"I am in possession of reliable information from my assets in Ethiopia — Marsden is in Addis Ababa." My heart skipped a beat. "However, it appears he will leave with the new system, and return to the Soviet Union within seventy-two hours."
The news caused a murmur of concern around the table. The shifty glance the colonel shot my way set off a silent alarm.
Smith continued, "My people believe they can grab him off the street and get him out of the country. The local security detail is not tight and may be overconfident."
Relieved, I said, "Sounds like our problem’s solved"
"Not entirely. My people on the ground cannot positively identify which person in the technical party is Marsden."
He turned his eyes and locked on with a penetrating stare. The hairs on the back of my neck perked up. It was one of those moments: you look around, don't see the chump — the sting of reality bites — you know it's you.
"Brannan." Wilson, his eyes squinted slightly, spelled it out with authority, "Raven-One is a go, we need you to fly to Addis Ababa and identify Marsden for the CIA team. You worked closely with him, can provide positive identification, and are familiar with the city." He paused for effect. "It may be necessary to interrogate him on site if we can't get him out of the country. You are the only one available who knows what questions to ask."
My chest tightened, and I sank back into the chair. There's one thing about trouble: you don't have to go looking for it, it'll find you.
I had mixed feelings. Wanted to get my hands-on J. Andrew Marsden: we had unfinished business. On the other hand, didn't want to leave Lisette unprotected, and most important, I wanted to get on with my life. — "No" — actually said it, used good judgment for a change.
Wilson slapped the table and announced with more than a little irritation in his voice, "Gentlemen, please take a break, I wish a moment alone with Brannan." Everyone trooped out of the room. I sat waiting for the hard sell.
The door clicked closed and Wilson leaned back. "The agency people, both NSA and CIA, will debrief you on the circumstances of the crash and will want to determine what went wrong. Your amnesia may present a problem. You’re aware these investigations can be unpredictable." Wilson paused to let it sink in.
Anger swelled up. I wasn't sure if I could trust him. My mouth turned dry and bile began to rise in my throat. I realized he was using me as a pawn in a larger game, manipulating my hatred of Marsden and my past troubles for his own ends.
Can’t let hatred of Marsden cloud my judgment, need to step back, and decide what's best for me. "What’s the alternative?"
"I prefer to play this close to the vest. The less the people in Washington know the better. I want to give them results not problems. Marsden's presence in Addis Ababa gives us a second chance to produce a positive outcome. We have no other options." He anticipated my question. "If you refuse you're on the next flight out."
He had me trapped. "You’re sure Marsden is in Ethiopia?"
"Yes. The new information indicates he is heavily involved. The Cuban's attempts to capture you suggest the Soviets are working on an important project. We need to find out what it is."
He was right. They had gone to a lot of trouble. Killed whoever got in their way and kidnapped Lisette. The flight produced no results, except a string of dead bodies. The only chance to salvage the situation was to get Marsden.
Before I had time to give the matter careful consideration, I jumped right in. My sixth sense failed. For some reason, a line from an old movie came to mind: Life is tough. It's tougher if you're stupid. Think John Wayne must have said it.
* * *
Four hours later, we completed the details for the trip to Ethiopia. John Smith already had most of the operation worked out in a detailed plan. It was easy to tell he was a complete professional. I hoped his people on the other end were just as good.
For the operation to have some degree of plausible deniability, I was to travel to A
ddis Ababa on the late morning flight posing as a Canadian businessman. From the airport, take a taxi to the Blue Nile Hotel where someone would contact me in the afternoon. Later, go to Marsden's hotel and attempt to spot him. His Russian comrades met at the bar every evening for a bout of heavy drinking. The next morning: Smith’s CIA operators grab Marsden and haul his sorry butt to a safe house for interrogation. Next day, fly back to Nairobi on the early flight. It seemed too easy.
My passport was to be ready in the morning. They had already taken my picture for a real passport issued by the Canadian embassy. Santini’s contact would take care of everything including an authentic visa for entering Ethiopia.
* * *
We returned to Barker’s house after nine o'clock in the evening, ready for a meal and a good sleep. He had called ahead, and the ladies met us at the door. They were happy to see us and had supper prepared and on the table. Lisette seemed to have recovered from her ordeal, and without further ado; we sat down and dug in.
The meat had a familiar texture. "Sarah, this is great. Thanks for going to so much trouble."
"Thank Lisette. She came up with the recipe. We shopped at the local market for ingredients."
I tilted my head to Lisette, raised my eyebrows, and pretended surprise.
She announced, "Mshikaki … a food from Lamu."
"Tastes good. What's it made from?"
Sarah answered, "Garlic roasted goat."
Lisette beamed with delight.
I offered a weak grin. "Back home in New Mexico, we call it Cabrito."
Lisette looked to Sarah. "Je ne comprends."
Sarah translated, "Un chevreau en espagnol."
"Is a délicatesse?"
"Yeah, you might say that." I’d eaten plenty Cabrito in my day. Sorta like chicken, one day you’ve had enough and don’t want no more.
Sarah gushed, "Lisette told me about her tragedy and the way you met. It is so wonderful, meeting on a tropical island and all. And you rescued her from those men. How exciting."
"He is… Comment dit-on courageux?
"Brave," answered Sarah.
"Yes, yes, he is brave."
What about the kidnappers, is she still in danger?"