The Ethiopian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "This is new, may be a problem. Have to wait and see tomorrow. It's four o'clock now. Rasta Man will pick you up at six sharp and drive you over. I'll meet you in the lobby." The taxi pulled over and he got out.

  Rasta Man glanced back in the rearview mirror. "When I leave you at your hotel, pass me a good tip, say five bucks."

  "What, they don't pay you guys' mileage?"

  He chuckled. "It'll be noticed and give me a reason to pick you up again at six. Tell the guy at the door to instruct me to come back at six."

  "You mean the doorman?"

  "That's right man. Don't get too friendly with him … if you know what I mean."

  "Understand."

  We wove our way through traffic, around another circle and pulled up to the Blue Nile Hotel. The porter met me on the front steps. A minute later, a pleased Rasta Man promised to return at six and drove off with his five-spot.

  * * *

  My watch read: six o'clock sharp. Time goes by slowly when you're waiting. The past two hours spent viewing an incomprehensible speech on TV. Your mind begins to wander and think about things that might happen. That’s when you get jumpy, when panic edges in. Not this time, the prospect of snatching Marsden from the Russians produced a state of enhanced consciousness.

  A knock on the door, the porter announced, "Your taxi is downstairs sir." Down the stairs, past the snoozing clerk, into the taxi, another dollar tip, and we were off.

  Rasta Man drove a long rambling route in the opposite direction from the Tafari Hotel. He fit right in with the rest of the traffic: honking, braking, accelerating, cutting off other cars, pointed hand gestures, curses, grinding gears. He was enjoying the wild ride.

  After we cruised by the same intersection for a second time, I asked, "You think we're being followed?"

  "Just in case. Anyway, might look suspicious for an Addis cab driver to take you the shortest way. You're new to the city, right?"

  He weaved through back streets and eventually ended up on the traffic circle on Churchill Avenue. We passed the Lion of Judah monument on the way to the Tafari Hotel where he dropped me off. This time I gave him a dollar tip. His hurt expression seemed genuine.

  After the taxi left, I checked out the surroundings and started to enter the hotel. A young Ethiopian approached me.

  "Welcome sir. You like Ethiopia. May I be your guide? I am student. I take you many girls."

  "No thanks." Past-experience taught me not to trust any so-called student in Addis Ababa or any other Ethiopian town.

  "You buy me coffee, I guide you city."

  "Hid! Hid!" told him to get lost in Amharic.

  "Sir…"

  The kid was persistent. I had to give him that. Most of them are. But I knew what to do. An old trick learned in Asmara: pulled out a dollar bill, waved to a soldier by the entrance, and pointed to the kid. The private grabbed the greenback and chased the student down Churchill Avenue. Problem solved.

  Freed from distraction I entered the hotel, one of the best in Addis Ababa.

  Amadeo sat in the lobby reading a newspaper. He glanced up. "Welcome, Mr. McGregor. Would you care to discuss our business in the bar?"

  I continued the formal tone, "Yes, thank you. I've had a long day."

  The wood paneled bar was about one-third full, a few Ethiopians, mostly Europeans. An Italian espresso machine sat on the bar, a mirrored wall held glass shelves stocked with an impressive booze assortment. Amadeo chose a table in the darkest corner, partially obscured by a potted palm. I caught a waiter’s attention with a dollar bill.

  "Hulet Kidus Giorgis Bira." I ordered two King George beers.

  "Sounds like you know your beer. Where did you learn the local lingo?"

  "Learned the phrase by repetition in Asmara. Spent a couple years down there, a long time ago."

  The waiter brought two cool King George beers and we tried to simulate a legitimate business discussion.

  "How long you been here?" I asked.

  "Four months but can't go into any detail. You understand?"

  "Okay, can you fill me in on the local situation, it's been a while."

  "The war has made things tense. Normal tourist traffic has slowed considerably. The people don't seem to be any better off, just your typical third-world post-revolutionary business slump. That about sums it up."

  "How ‘bout the other Cuban’s? You fit in with the crowd?"

  "Not this time. Gotta keep a low profile, don’t do anything to prompt someone to ask questions."

  "Any problems?"

  "No, but low profile means I can’t step up and order a Mojito. Hear the bar here has a pretty good imitation … but…"

  An hour and one more round of King Georges later, a party of boisterous Russians surged through the door and strutted to the far side of the bar, pulled three tables together, and ordered drinks. Marsden wasn't with them.

  The bar continued to fill up. The Tafari Hotel, obviously, a popular place for expatriates. In addition to the Russians, one heard French, German and some unidentifiable Slavic languages. Seven-thirty came, and Marsden still hadn't showed up. I began to think the trip was a wash out.

  On our fourth round of King Georges, Marsden finally arrived. Recognized him the instant he entered the door. Floodgates holding back repressed memories opened: the Cochise Project, the flight, the dhow, no longer fleeting fragments, the past weeks crystalized…

  Marsden swept into the bar accompanied by a tall, slim, attractive young woman with a thin face and cafe latte skin. They took the only empty table, fortunately over by the Russians. Everyone was having a good time joking with Marsden, who sat with a broad smile on his face, reveling in the attention.

  "That's him." The woman reminded me of the girls back in Asmara. "Looks like he's made a new friend."

  "An expensive chica," responded Amadeo with a wink. "In Cuba, she would be a jinetera … like an escort … you get the drift.

  "Yeah." Enjoy it now you sorry SOB. May be your last. With Marsden, it was no longer about duty, honor, and country. No longer about the intercept, it was personal; I wanted him and wanted him bad.

  Amadeo stayed poker-faced. A professional well practiced at keeping his face expressionless, he kept his eyes on me, but his attention focused on Marsden. I struggled to hide my feelings.

  Marsden and I had always got along fine. He was just different, most geniuses are. However, Marsden was unable to handle criticism, wasn't afraid of confrontation, and often got into it with Hansen. Nevertheless, in the end he was a traitor. He sacrificed his country to achieve his personal ends.

  "How did you get your info on Marsden?"

  "Can't say. My local contact has a source in the Russian delegation. He’s a stickler for operational security, so I don't know who the source is."

  Marsden rose from his chair, swaggered over to the Russian's table, and leaned over a young woman. She was moderately attractive, appeared to be East European, with an oval face and brown curly hair. He placed a hand on her shoulder and let it slip low under her collar. Everyone at the table, except the woman, laughed when he slurred a few words in broken Russian close to her ear. Marsden made a clumsy attempt to plant a kiss her on the side of her neck. She sprang out of the chair, slapped him hard upside the head, and stormed out of the bar. Everyone had a good laugh, including Marsden.

  "Let’s go, can’t risk him recognizing you."

  "No, I want to—"

  "You got fire in your eyes. The way you're glaring at him, someone's sure to notice — we're outta here — now."

  He motioned for the waiter, paid, and we left. Rasta Man pulled up with the taxi as we exited. We jumped in and sped off down Churchill Avenue.

  Amadeo said, "I'm concerned about the level of security. It'd be better if you stay with us tonight at the safe house. The situation has changed, and you may have trouble finding a taxi tomorrow."

  Rasta Man glanced up at the rearview mirror. "Yeah man, some of the cabbies I've talked to are real nervous. We jus
t gotta play it by ear."

  "Is that it or you afraid I might sneak out and take care of him myself?"

  Amadeo furrowed his brow. "You'll stay with us — don't argue."

  "Okay, but I'll have to come up with some story for the hotel."

  Rasta Man said, "Hey man, a beautiful woman, always a beautiful woman, they'll understand." Amadeo nodded in agreement.

  We drove through a series of local neighborhoods and eventually arrived at a compound surrounded by a high wall with glass imbedded on top and a solid steel gate. Inside the compound, a one-story concrete-block house and a metal shed.

  The house, a typical third world dwelling, with dirty drab walls covered with brown adobe like plaster, a rough wooden table, and four equally rough chairs, showed few signs of recent habitation, apart from trash piled in one corner.

  We ate bread and cheese and went over the plan. Amadeo was concerned. "The added security may cause problems. Too many troops stationed around the hotel. Could get dicey."

  "Let's grab him after he leaves," said Ras.

  "Agreed," said Amadeo. "That's the safest choice. We'll follow him in the cab and hope to get lucky."

  "Think you can do it?" I asked.

  "We've had tougher assignments. Remember the chemist in—" A glance from Amadeo stopped Rasta Man in mid-sentence.

  Amadeo answered, "We know what we're doing … trust me."

  "Guess I don't have any choice, do I?"

  "No."

  "I'm going with you."

  "No. Nothing personal, it's just that we haven't worked with you before and you're too emotionally involved. Remember, our lives are on the line, we train and work as a team. Believe me. We know what to do. Come on. Let's get some sleep. Ras and I have an early start."

  Chapter 21 ~ Marsden

  Sunday, 19 February: Somewhere in Addis Ababa

  The city stirred as ordinary people headed to work. Amadeo and Rasta Man left before dawn. Their work for the day was far from ordinary. They planned to grab Marsden somewhere between the hotel and the airfield. Their weapons choice showed they expected trouble. Both Amadeo and Rasta Man carried AK-47's with folding stocks and 9x18mm Makarov PM pistols. Apparently, the local gun market was doing well.

  I sat inside the house and played the waiting game. If they didn't return by ten o'clock, I was supposed to walk to a main road three blocks away and take a taxi back to my hotel.

  Time drug on, I started to worry, wandered around the compound, and began to think about things that might happen. Events of the past weeks continued to come into focus. The shock of viewing Marsden in person did the trick. The more I remembered, the more I hated the SOB.

  Eight o'clock, my worries increased, they hadn't returned. Sick and tired of the whole mess, a fire in my belly, hate for Marsden, drove me on.

  Apply analytical skills to the problem: What did the signal mean? Was it associated with the Cochise project? Every time I thought I had it, a contradiction emerged, and the answer slipped away.

  Nine o'clock, the same — finally ten o'clock arrived — no dice. I decided to give them thirty more minutes.

  Fifteen minutes later, a rattle, the gate began to move. Amadeo, Makarov in hand, thrust the steel portal open for the taxi. The beat-up Fiat limped into the compound: right front fender smashed, windshield out, steam shot from under the radiator, the left rear tire flat. Amadeo carefully looked both ways down the street, then closed and locked the gate. No sign of Marsden.

  Rasta Man kept the taxi running while Amadeo opened the door to the metal shed. The door swung open and revealed an even older Fiat van. He hurried in, started the vehicle, and backed out into the small courtyard. The taxi took its place.

  Amadeo motioned to me and shouted, "Give us a hand."

  I ran to the shed and helped him drag a body from the backseat floorboard. The body had a cloth bag over its head, its hands tied behind the back, and feet bound with electrical wire.

  "He's okay. He's alive for now. Let's get him inside."

  Rasta Man closed the door to the shed and helped us drag the body into the house. Bloodstains covered his shirtsleeve. When he noticed my concern, he said, "Hey man, only a flesh wound, no problem."

  Inside the house, we tied the body to a chair with wire. Amadeo removed the sack and revealed the corpulent ruddy drinker's face of J. Andrew Marsden.

  It took a few moments for Marsden’s eyes to adjust to the light. A grey duct tape strip covered his mouth. Desperate eyes scanned the room, first at Rasta Man and then at Amadeo. When he spotted me, his eyes grew wide with astonishment.

  I greeted him with a pleasant conversational tone, "Good morning Andy." He hated being called Andy. "Glad you could join us."

  The sorry SOB couldn’t respond, just grunt and groan, which was fine by me. He sat like a statue motionless and breathless.

  I circled the chair and addressed him from behind. "Think you understand what we want." Leaned over and yelled into his ear, "?Comprende, pendejo?" Amadeo snickered.

  Marsden nodded his head and I stepped in front. His eyes pleaded for understanding.

  "We need you to cooperate and tell about your little adventure with the Russians."

  His eyes opened wide, eyebrows raised. The vein on his neck beat violently. He began to sweat. Fear is a survival mechanism occurring in response to a specific stimulus. I intended to deliver lots of stimulus.

  "Want you to tell me the whole story." I leaned forward, face-to-face. "You know, third harmonic, Long Track, missiles — the whole enchilada."

  Without warning, the look in his eyes changed to defiance. Fear, like any other powerful force, can be turned to one’s advantage. Didn’t plan to allow Marsden to use it to heighten his senses, I intended to drive him into blind panic and impair his ability to think clearly.

  "One last time." Still no sign — his eyes glowed with rage.

  Amadeo stepped forward. "Let me handle this."

  Raised my left hand to his chest and yelled, "No way … He's mine."

  "We have to follow procedures. Let us handle him."

  "I don't have to follow any flaming rules, procedures or anything else. This is personal." I pointed my finger straight at Amadeo. "Don't you even think about interfering?"

  He backed away and held up his hands. "Okay, just don’t hurt him."

  "Sorry. No guarantees."

  A deeper primal fear began to appear in Marsden's eyes — just what I wanted.

  "Ras, pitch me your switch blade." Knew a guy from Brooklyn had to have a switchblade.

  He pulled out a black pearl handled stiletto and hesitated for a moment. "Hey man, like they say, vengeance is a dish best eaten cold. Let us handle this. Don't hurt him."

  "Hell no — give me the knife"

  Ras pitched the knife and I popped the cold steel blade open inches from Marsden's eyes. They bulged in anticipation of what was to come. His pupils began to dilate, his brows drew together, and he made a slight nervous jump.

  "If you boys are skittish about blood, just wait outside, I'll call you when I'm finished." Instead, Amadeo produced a cassette tape recorder and punched the record button.

  Marsden let out a pitiful scream when I ripped off the duct tape. His breath reeked of booze and cigarettes. I pressed the knife to his neck, right below his left ear, hard enough to draw blood. He recoiled in a rictus of pain as I dragged the sharp edge down towards his shoulder. This produced an earsplitting shriek, his eyes electric with panic.

  He begged, "We worked together … I always treated you right."

  "Don’t owe you jack."

  "You know me … I—"

  "Let me make one thing clear." I tried to appear calm and kept my voice at a normal level. "This is personal. Do you remember the Mexican policeman you killed? He had a family, a wife and three kids." I leaned over and shouted into his ear, "Tres hijos."

  Now, I had his undivided attention and raised the volume to the point of screaming. "Remember shooting me and leaving me for dead
in the desert?" He started to shake. I broke into a rage. "You want to see my freakin’ scar?"

  Blood trickled down his neck and began to stain his shirt. The knife tip now pressed against his Adam's-apple. He gasped and started to whimper.

  "And that's just the beginning. You've been the cause of death of a friend and I almost died too." His eyes showed he didn't understand. I lowered the volume and spoke calmly. "I was in the aircraft you shot down." He understood. His expression told me all I needed to know.

  "You and your goons tried to kill me several times over the last few days." I yelled, "They failed. At least four of the bastards are dead."

  Marsden sweated profusely, his fear produced a sickly smell.

  "But I'm not gonna cut you up for trying to kill me. It runs deeper." I paused and caressed his cheek with the flat blade. "Your Cuban comrades kidnapped an innocent young woman — that's why I'm gonna slice you up."

  His lips trembled, and he begged me to believe he didn’t know about the Cubans or the kidnapping. His protestations were ineffective because I didn’t care if he knew or not. Had no feelings left — except rage and hate.

  "Remember the pimp in Nogales … What was his name? The one that pulled a knife on you, — Adolpho." Marsden’s eyes flashed a hint of recognition and I increased the volume. "Remember him; remember what he said he’d do?" Marsden didn’t answer, but his eyes did. "Gonna start with your ears and end with your—"

  "No — No, for the love of…" He started to cry in desperation. "Please — don't kill me."

  I patted him on the shoulder and leaned in close. "The last thing I want to do is kill you. But remember this … it’s still on my list." I stuck the narrow blade up his nose and drew more blood. "You know what I want to hear. — Start talking and don’t feed me no bull-squeeze. — You lie one time and I'll cut you up and feed you to the dogs."

  A burst of feral energy raced through my veins. Marsden was close to the precipice. One push and he would tell all. I removed the knife from his nose, jammed the point into his crotch, and pressed hard. Marsden let out a blood-curdling scream and started to talk.

  * * *

  When I returned to the hotel about three o'clock in the afternoon, the clerk gave a quizzical look. He knew I spent the night elsewhere. I flashed a wide grin, sauntered over to the front desk, and offered a few explicit remarks about the fine ladies of Addis Ababa. Rasta Man had been right, the clerk bought my cover story, hook line, and sinker. His silence and disproving stare, all the proof I needed.