by Vince Milam
“Elliot Krupp triggered it.”
She sipped coffee, eyeballed me over the thick porcelain cup’s rim, and waited.
“I had a contract to investigate Alaton. Which led to a meeting with Krupp in Hawaii.”
She remained silent.
“It didn’t go well.”
No point divulging the thumb drives at the data center. The Company was a client of Alaton’s, and my electronic break-in would slam shut any potential offer of Company help.
“I see.”
Yeah, I bet you do, Marilyn. She’d be in warp-drive dot-connecting mode as she continued staring.
“Somehow he backtracked my history and discovered the bounty’s source.”
Thin ice. I’d intimated Krupp had CIA records access. It wasn’t lost on Townsend.
“I can assure you we had no hand in his endeavors,” she said, her voice flat, matter-of-fact.
A broad and meaningless statement that the Company didn’t actively help Krupp. I could buy it. But he’d utilized their background data as anchor points and then created his own connectivity map. Unless the Company flat-out owned intel on Musa Kibir as the funding source. A possibility. Welcome to spookville.
“I appreciate it, Director. But the kickstart for recent activities was driven by Krupp, and Krupp alone. He raised the ante. Ten million for my head.”
The slightest single eyebrow lift on her part told me everything. The Company wasn’t aware of the bounty increase. New news for Townsend, more fodder for the Company’s mind map.
“I take it this prompted an increase in activity,” she said.
Well, yeah, Marilyn. You might call it that. I might term it a buttload of hitters coming out of the woodwork.
“It did. Through one of the winner-take-all participants, we gleaned the source. Musa Kibir.”
“We. As in the four of you?”
“Yes. The four of us.”
She drained her coffee and held her cup toward the nearest spook. He approached, took it, and went for a refill. The two young people nearby finished their meet-up or date or whatever it’s called these days, indicated by the closing of both laptops. Marilyn waited until they’d gathered their things and left. The bell tinkled at their exit. Down to one barista, a gaggle of spooks, and a desperate ex-Delta operator.
“A Chinese agent approached me in Hawaii,” I said.
An attempt at sweetening the pot. Not a major revelation or a grand reveal, but something, anything, to help leverage the moment.
“Did you acquire contact information?”
“No. Male, late thirties, with a concern over my endeavors with Krupp. I’d put it as a protecting their investment discussion.”
“Hmm.”
Her refill arrived and she took her time, again, adding cream and sugar. While stirring, she asked, “What is this meeting’s purpose, Mr. Lee?”
“Logistical help. Outfit us and transport us to Goz Beïda. We’ll take it from there.”
“I’m sure you would.” She sipped, her face deadpan. “Have you and your team considered such a time has passed? The clock has ticked. It is impossible to replicate the past.”
“We’ve lived with this far too long, Director. All of us. And with the increased reward for me, my family is threatened. I’m committed to ending it. So are my teammates.”
“I do not question your intent or commitment.”
“Logistics, Director. No fingerprints from the Company. Just provide supplies and get us there. We’ll finish it. And get ourselves back home.”
“And therein lies the crux of the matter. Your perspective is one of finality. A chain broken, events terminated. I do not live in such a world. Nothing is ever over. Nothing. The waterwheel turns, events continue.”
“I understand. But at the end of the day, this would be a minor endeavor on the Company’s part. Your part. And this is a Janjaweed leader we’re talking about.”
She took another long sip, returned the heavy cup back to the table, and with a gentle nudge moved it forward. She was finished.
“We will not be able to assist you.” She pulled her jacket closed and reached for her cane. “There will be no further discussions on the matter.”
Her cadre of spooks approached.
“We could have finished this back in the day, Marilyn. All I’m asking is to hitch a ride. You and I left unfinished business in Sudan. We both know it.”
She ignored my statement, stood with a mild groan, and tapped her cane twice before turning toward the door.
“I wish you Godspeed, Case. You and your teammates. I say so with the utmost sincerity.”
Surrounded with heavily armed spooks, she limped through the door and into the cold Virginia night. Leaving me with Malta and Libya and a string of seat-of-our-pants unknowns. Son of a bitch.
Chapter 25
I texted the team I was returning and drove straight through. Arrived before dawn and met with the three of them. No one had slept. Catch handed me my rifle as we trekked up the drive and stood in cold darkness, away from farmhouse lights. There had been no activity, no hitters, during my absence.
“What was the outcome?” Marcus asked.
“Good and bad and mixed.”
“A potent mixture,” Bo said. “Fitting.”
“Townsend?” Marcus asked. He ignored Bo and avoided Jules.
“She wishes us Godspeed and won’t lift a finger to help.”
Marcus spit, and the Zippo clacked open. The flame highlighted the face of a black man with lines of concern and a hint of resignation. In his mind, we were going it alone. A poor foundation for any mission.
“And the inestimable Clubhouse resident?” Bo asked.
“She’s ID’d Musa Kibir’s camp. His clan’s headquarters. I have satellite photos and coordinates. He’s not far from where we took out Baabas.”
“Nice,” Catch said. “We don’t have to waste time searching.”
“Along with photos of his three lieutenants.”
“Double nice. Good for Jules,” Catch said. “We can hit the bastards where they’re all holed up.”
“What are you not telling us?” Marcus asked.
“We head for Malta.”
“Makes sense. A fair distance from Goz Beïda, but a decent staging area,” he said.
“It’s not our staging area. The first stop. I can get us there. A chartered Gulfstream from Raleigh-Durham is our best bet.”
“So where’s the staging spot?” Marcus asked.
“The middle of nowhere, Libya.”
“Libya?” he asked and spit again.
“Appropriate,” Bo said. “Strife and danger. A fitting prep for ensuing actions.”
“I don’t require any prep,” Catch said. “What I’m hearing is we’re landing in Libya naked as jaybirds.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s possible we can tote our current weaponry with us. With the plane change in Malta, we’re transit passengers, so no customs or immigration.”
“You sure?” Marcus asked.
“No.”
“The witch has lined up a shadowy outfit to transport us from Malta to Nowhere, Libya. Where we assemble our equipment through, I’m guessing, another fly-by-night outfitter. Then what? Magic carpet to Goz Beïda?”
“The same Libyan fixer who’ll supply arms. He’s arranged the Goz Beïda run before. God knows why.”
“Did you and that woman discuss hitching a ride with an NGO?” Marcus asked.
“At length. Not going to happen.”
“I like it,” Bo said. “A rocky path, twists and turns and cosmic vortices unknown. We were meant to travel this route, my brothers.”
“I still can’t believe Willa enjoys listening to you, Bo,” Catch said. “When do we leave?”
“Wait a damn minute,” Marcus said. “What about Egypt? Or Eritrea? We could fly in from there.”
I didn’t hold it against Marcus. He was being thorough, exploring options. I hadn’t painted a well-honed logistical map. But
I’d painted reality.
“No one else will land on a dirt runway in a hot-conflict zone at Goz Beïda, Chad. Just the occasional NGO transport with relief supplies. And the even rarer revenge-seeking band of blood brothers. If Jules had alternatives, she would have presented them. She wants us to succeed, and she’s used these fixers before. For other clients.”
“Who? The Albanian astronaut corps?”
“Marcus. Set the personal animosity aside and consider this. She’s never failed me. And saved my butt more than a few times.”
“Libya?” he asked.
“Yeah. Libya.”
He remained silent. Bo, Oklahoma born and raised, barked muted Comanche war cries. Catch tossed out, “Let’s get this shitshow on the road.”
We did. Marcus and I spread the Clubhouse envelope contents across the Formica kitchen table while Bo and Catch stood watch. The documents from Jules would remain there for absorption by the team prior to departure. The photos of Musa Kibir and his lieutenants were studied, memorized. We accessed Google Earth and zoomed in on the clan’s headquarters among the desert massif’s rocky crags. It appeared as a maze, with pathways and dead-end chutes and tarps and tents. The overhead protection was for satellite recon avoidance and the sun—I wouldn’t bet on much rain in their arid part of the world. We could discern several satellite dishes and what appeared to be a generator area, with diesel or gasoline jerry cans stacked nearby. No vehicles around as the interior of the warren-ways were too narrow. A semblance of a road led from the tiny village of Arawala toward the base of the massif. From there, donkeys or camels would haul supplies uphill. A challenging but smart play on the Janjaweed’s part. They couldn’t be attacked in their stronghold with military vehicles. Any assault would be on foot. Uphill. Against one helluva natural fortress.
“Let’s study this some more,” Marcus said. “And as much as it pains me, let’s get input from Bo. If he spearheads the attack, we’ll accommodate his lead.”
“Pretty much guarantee you he’ll be first in. It’s what he does.”
“And better than anyone you or I could imagine,” Marcus said. A matter-of-fact statement, bearing the stamp of Marcus Johnson realism. “Catch will study the terrain and keep an eye peeled for his cover-our-backs perch. Which will be a challenge given the rock-wall-lined paths.”
“There’s no doubt he’ll figure it out.”
“Comms will be paramount,” Marcus said. “When we spread among these cliffs and burrows, we gotta have tight communications.”
“Agreed,” I said. “Are you thinking day or night attack?”
“Unknown at the moment. We for sure want to catch his lieutenants while they’re there.”
“A tough assault. No doubt.”
“No doubt.”
“One good thing, though,” I said. “I’d bet Kibir runs the same type of camp as Baabas did. The women and children live in Arawala. They head uphill each morning then return at night.”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“We have a lot of those stacked up.” He relit his cigar and shot me a hard stare. As any good tactical leader, Marcus disliked uncertainty. The maybes.
“We do have a lot of those stacked up,” I said. “But I’m not seeing any options. Grit our teeth and go in.”
He puffed, stood, and poured himself a cup of coffee from the always-on coffeepot.
“The director was clear about keeping the Company’s hands clean?” he asked, sitting with a sigh.
“Crystal clear. There wasn’t any animus—she gives her regards—but they aren’t engaging at any level.”
“Damn disappointing,” he said.
“Yeah, it is.”
“This whole convoluted logistics BS—do you deal with it often?”
Marcus sought reassurance. This was alien turf for him. Not the locations—Libya, Chad, Sudan. It was the lack of organization and official backing, with zero solid logistical support. Marcus had assisted me when I returned from an Amazon gig. He helped, big time, stopping a terrorist attack in California. It was our first time working together on one of my jobs. Bo and Catch had joined me during past jobs—two individuals unperturbed when things failed to run as smoothly as a CIA and Delta Force ops. So I grasped Marcus’s consternation, and I wouldn’t tell a lie to a man I respected as much as anyone on earth.
“Yeah, I do deal with it often enough. It’s the price paid with shadow-world gigs.”
“I’m not saying we call it off, Case. I’m trying to give us the best odds of success. The attack itself will be under tough enough circumstances. It’s the getting us into position that wears mighty thin at the moment.”
“Understood. And there’s nothing I can say to alleviate your—and my—concerns. Other than let’s step off the cliff and tumble.”
Another cigar puff, another slurp of coffee. With another sigh followed by a wry smile, he patted my arm and said, “Screw it. Initiate communications. Let’s get the ball rolling.”
Whether he was driven by the acknowledgment the rest of us were going regardless of the challenges or by a personal desire to lead one last charge up a mountain, I’d never know. But he was all in, and I couldn’t ask for more.
It was too early for a phone conversation with the jet charter service, but I placed the order online. It would be East Coast business hours before I heard back. I also called the Malta flight contact and requested seats for the desert oasis town of Ghadames, Libya. He was six hours ahead of us, time-wise, open for business. The conversation started well, with him agreeable, but went downhill fast.
“We should land around dawn,” I said.
A nine-hour flight on a new Gulfstream, nonstop. They could shovel the coal into the boiler, and we’d make excellent time.
“My aircraft departs Malta at eight a.m. It is but a one-and-one-half-hour flight to Ghadames.”
“Understood. There will be four passengers.”
“Ghadames is most beautiful this time of year. I require payment prior to your arrival. I take credit cards.”
Perhaps he alluded to the beauty of it being hot instead of hot as hell.
“Understood. Again, there are four passengers and our luggage. Now, this is important. We are transit passengers. We go from our arrival aircraft immediately to your aircraft.”
“Yes, that is fine. We depart at eight a.m. You will require at least one hour to deal with customs. Payment is required prior to your departure.”
“We do not wish to deal with customs. Or immigration officials. Straight from our aircraft onto yours.”
“Of course. After you pass through customs. I will require payment prior to your departure. We depart at eight a.m.”
My jaw muscles worked, and irritation crept into my voice. This guy was stating, in essence, no bypassing customs and therefore no weapons. None.
“No Malta customs,” I said, hoping miscommunication was the issue. “No Malta immigration. Do you understand?”
“This is not possible. We depart at eight a.m.”
In the world of fixers, this guy sucked. Although in fairness, Jules had presented him as a transport arranger. Nothing more.
I received payment instructions and reserved four seats. Before I’d send a thin dime his way, we required a team meeting. And before that, a call to a Libyan desert oasis. A Mr. Ahmed Maziq. The guy Jules had proclaimed was a fixer.
Marcus sat quietly, stating once under his breath, “I suppose we could use sharpened sticks.”
I shot him a look and checked email. The charter service from the States clearly had 24-7 support. A Gulfstream was available. Pricey but available. Takeoff at three p.m. today. From Charlotte. It would arrive in Malta at six a.m. with time zone changes. At least the trip’s first leg was confirmed. I told Marcus and he nodded back. Game on.
The satellite phone conversation with the fixer Maziq—encrypted on my side, but who knows on his?—had a small lag time between us. We spoke Arabic.
After polite and f
ormal introductions, with his effusive compliments on my speaking ability and my American accent and his pointing out he spoke a bit of English and solid Italian, we got down to brass tacks.
“Four of us will arrive tomorrow on the cargo flight from Malta. We require supplies, and you come highly recommended.”
“Of course, of course! Whatever you might require.”
“What we require is protection. Protection that shoots. And a vehicle. A desert vehicle. And transport to Goz Beïda. In Chad.”
I avoided verbiage—weapons, guns, rifles—that would alert listeners-in such as the NSA. I doubted his side was encrypted. His response indicated either he, too, used encrypted comms or didn’t care who listened in.
“Of course! All such things can be arranged. A deposit is required, of course. A substantial deposit. The remainder in cash. I prefer Euros, but US dollars are acceptable.”
And so we began the Arabic dance—the negotiated zero-sum game with one side the winner and the other the loser—all the while insisting we were the best of friends.
“I am certain your variety of protection is excellent. Can you tell me about my choices?”
Start with the weaponry. We’d fly in naked. When fully armed, the team’s collective blood pressure would show a significant drop. The vehicle and air transport came after.
“Of course! It is my sincere hope the requirement of paying such a large cash sum is not burdensome for you.”
“You are too kind for showing such concern. No, it is not a burden. As to your variety of protection, would it be too much to ask what we might purchase?”
“Such a variety! You will be most impressed. Italian, Russian, Czech, German, British. Semiautomatic fire or full automatic. Full automatic is most popular. I also possess a great quantity of bullets.”
“We also require night-vision scopes.”
“Of course! You will be most impressed.”
I was. On the surface. His assured descriptions could also have portrayed a pile of old weaponry stacked inside a mud hut. Hard to say.