by Harold Coyle
Lee went on point. “Tehran?”
“Uh-huh. Exotic stuff. Pricey things like rugs and ancient artifacts.”
Lee removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “Could that be a cover for smuggling other things?”
“I suppose so. Why?”
Lee replaced his military-issue frames. “Just speculating, Matt. I mean, if this Fasari character is shipping things out of Iran, he could be sneaking things in as well. Know what I mean?”
Roosevelt laid down his notepad and leaned forward. “I think so. And it makes me nervous.”
“Me, too.” Lee scrawled a note to himself for passing along to David Dare’s mysterious intel shop back in Arlington. “All right, who else might interest us?”
“Let’s see … several prospects. Oh, there’s quite a bit of activity with a mid-level Chad government official. In fact, you might recognize the name: Felix Moungar.”
Lee recognized the name. “Moungar! Hey, isn’t he related to Kadabi, the defense ministry representative?”
“Affirmative. François Kadabi. I think you’ve met him.”
“Sure have. Two or three times.”
Roosevelt leaned back, biting his lip in concentration. “Moungar is with the natural resources ministry. I think he deals with mining contracts and things like that.”
“What would he have to do with Hurtubise?”
“Well, it’s no secret that FGN has provided security consultants to the ministry. In fact, I think it’s on the company’s Web site. But that might be a forest and trees situation.”
“How’s that?” Lee asked.
“As you know, there’s something hinky going on along the northern strip. Since the logistics are serious—it’s about six hundred miles up there—it’s not really possible to keep the lid on. Somebody would notice the traffic in and out of the area. So I think it’s possible…”
“Hiding out in the open.”
“You got it.”
Lee asked a rhetorical question. “Now, what’s the most interesting commodity that’s mined up there?”
Roosevelt’s eyes widened. “Uranium!”
“And our friend Hurtubise has contacts with the mining ministry and with one of the major exporters in the region. A legitimate businessman who has ties to Iran.”
“Ho-lee sh…”
“You said it.” Lee extended a hand. “Go Army!”
Roosevelt grinned hugely. “Beat Navy!”
SSI COMPOUND
Steve Lee closed the door to his small office and poured Martha Whitney two fingers of bourbon. She applied a token amount of water, swirled twice, and took an educated sip.
“Aaah,” she enthused. “At times like this I’m sho’ ’nuff glad I’m a Baptist and not a Muslim.”
Lee’s eyes gleamed in response. “And here I thought that Baptists were mostly teetotalers.”
“Honey, they’s Baptists and then they’s Baptists! Besides, I’m more spiritual than religious. Ya’ll know what I mean?”
He touched Styrofoam cups with her. “And how.”
“Here’s how,” she replied. Another sip, this time with closed eyes, the better to appreciate the warmth trickling southward.
Lee set his cup down. “Okay, tell me.”
Whitney reclined as much as possible in the straight-backed chair. “Well, I gotta give the girl credit. She done real good. For a minute there I wasn’t sure.”
“You’re saying she’s a pro.”
Another long, slow sip. “Uh-huh. She’s been ’round the block a time or two. Even at her age, poor thing.”
“But…”
Martha gave the Aunt Jemima grin again. “But … Maje honey, I done been around the world an’ Dee-troit twice. No, she’s had some experience; maybe even some training. But I made her early on.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, for one thing, she didn’t maintain eye contact like a person would’ve done in that situation. Oh, she handled bumping into me real well, but she was lookin’ over my shoulder as much as lookin’ me eye to eye. And she wasn’t nearly as flustered as somebody would be after presumably dodging a car.”
Lee played devil’s advocate. “Martha, you know people are different.”
She waved a bejeweled hand. “Oh, course I know that. But like they taught us at Langley: pay attention to your instincts. Usually they’re right.”
“Okay. For the moment let’s say you’re right. She’s working you. But why?”
“Well, honey, it sure ain’t because she wants to practice her English with me. She speaks it well enough, and in fact I suspect she speaks better than she lets on. But that’s what she said. Insisted on buying me tea so we could talk en anglais for a while.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Chitchat at first. Background, work, that sort of thing. I kept with my embassy story—temporary steno help out of Cairo. She said she’s touring with her boyfriend. When I said that not many tourists come to Chad, she hesitated just a little. Said he’s a photographer working up a portfolio.”
Lee finished his one finger of bourbon. “That shouldn’t be hard to confirm. What’s his name? I’ll run a Google search on him.”
“She just said Paul. I didn’t push it at that point. We’re gonna get together again in a couple of days.”
“Well, okay. I’ll make sure that your name is on the embassy list so the phone operators don’t ask ‘Martha who?’ if she calls.”
“Oh … I was gonna tell you. I’m not Martha Whitney. I’m Martha White.”
Lee made a point of reaching back in his lower drawer. “I think I need a drink!”
CO-IN COMPOUND
Bosco slumped into a folding chair to the side of the training compound. He watched Adjutant Bawoyeu dismiss the second platoon of the day and anticipated a long bath in his quarters. If Breezy didn’t beat him to it—the sumbitch would hog the tub if he got there first.
Bosco accepted a bottle of water from Chris Nissen and hoisted the plastic container in tacit salute. They were working together better than before, partly because Mr. Boscombe was beginning to recognize certain useful phrases. Apart from fusil automatique and other technical terms, he had just mastered the phrase “Keep your elbow under the weapon.” “Gardez votre coude sous l’arme.”
Nissen did not bother to explain that Bosco’s pronunciation left worlds to be desired.
“So whatchathink, Sarge?”
Nissen shot a glance at the budding commandos departing the arena. “Well, they’re making progress. We have to remember that some of these guys have never had any foreign training. Believe it or not, I’ve seen worse.”
Bosco took a pull at his bottle and regarded his new colleague. “Would you trust them in combat?”
“That depends. Against who?”
“Well, let me rephrase it. Would you trust them not to run off and leave you high and dry?”
Nissen looked around, confirming that nobody else was within earshot. “Within limits, yeah. I would. But it depends on who’s leading them. I mean, doesn’t it seem odd to you that we hardly ever see any officers?”
Bosco was ready for that one. He dipped into his stash of patented responses and brought one to the surface. “Why let rank lead when ability does better?”
Nissen’s face was serious in the slanting evening light. “Lieutenant Colonel Malloum shows up once in a while, and I guess he’s busy with admin jobs. But we’ve only seen a couple of company-grade officers. It’s like they’re just passing through.”
A bulb flicked on in Boscombe’s cranium. He sat up straight. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that we are gonna have to hand-hold these dudes through their first few ops?”
Nissen shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s not in our contract. And I know for sure that J. J. doesn’t plan to do any fieldwork. But still…”
“Damn!” Bosco threw the half-empty bottle at a trash can and missed. He ignored it. “We need to talk to Lee. Muy pronto.”
&
nbsp; “That’s Major Lee, maggot.”
Bosco turned at the sound of Foyte’s voice. “Hey, how ’bout it, Gunny. Are we expected to fill in for the junior officers?”
Foyte took a DI’s stance: hands behind his back, feet spread, slightly inclined forward. “In words of one syllable—what an Army puke would understand—there’s no pukin’ way.”
Nissen grinned despite himself. “Hey, Boscombe. You know how Marines count?”
Bosco rose to the occasion. “No, Staff Sergeant Nissen. How do Marines count?”
“Hup, two, three, many! Hup, two, three, many!”
Foyte ignored the jibe—he had heard it dozens of times. He knelt before the two Army veterans. “I been talkin’ to Johnson and a couple of the others. These guys seem to understand fire team and squad tactics: fire and movement stuff. That’s good. It’s the basic building blocks. We’ll keep reinforcing those maneuvers, but we’re also gonna bear down on marksmanship. Too many of these boys think that ammo capacity equals firepower. And I’m here to tell you…”
“Firepower is hits on the target!” Boscombe replied. Nissen did not answer: he was pondering Foyte’s use of “boys” again.
Foyte removed his cover and rubbed the stubble on his head. “Well, I’m glad that somebody understands that. Now look here.” He pulled his ever-present notebook from a pocket. “I have a list of the twenty best shooters in the battalion. I’m gonna suggest that we reassign them throughout the platoons so there’s some depth in each unit. Then I think we should put about half of ’em on the belt-fed guns.”
Nissen frowned in concentration. “Wouldn’t they be better used as precision riflemen?”
“Maybe later. But for now we don’t have any precision rifles, and won’t for at least a few weeks. Meanwhile, I keep thinking of what a very great man once said.”
Bosco nudged Nissen. “What great Marine was that?”
Foyte was serious. “Well, since you ask, I’ll tell you. His name was Merritt Edson, and he was a Distinguished Rifleman who got a Medal of Honor at Guadalcanal. Maybe you heard of it.”
“Is that anything like the Erie Canal?” Bosco was enjoying the banter, but knew he could only push Foyte so far.
Foyte turned to Nissen. “Red Mike Edson wrote that only accurate firepower is effective, which is why he put expert riflemen on his BARs. I think that makes a lot of sense, especially since not many of our guys are very proficient shooters.”
Nissen nodded. “Concur, Gunnery Sergeant.”
Foyte stood up, giving the black NCO a comradely tap on the arm. “Like I always said: people are smart when they agree with me!”
31
N’DJAMENA
Steve Lee and Chris Nissen leaned over Martha Whitney, whom they had poured onto the couch. She failed in her effort to suppress a loud belch. Regaining her breath, she inhaled deeply and accepted the cold cloth that the medic offered.
“Martha, what did she say?” Lee did not want to seem too insistent but he was eager to learn the results of Whitney’s latest meeting with the Frenchwoman.
“Oooh, my goodness,” Whitney exhaled. She forced herself to focus. “That girl can drink but she can’t hold it.”
“You mean you drank her under the table?”
Whitney waved feebly. “I mean, she couldn’ hol’ it. Puked all over her shoes an’ mine!”
“But what did she say? What are they up to?”
“Oooh my.” Whitney pressed the cloth closer to her eyes. “Not so loud, Maje.”
Lee and Nissen exchanged empathetic looks. Both men were trying not to smile. Neither objected to seeing the self-confident Ms. Whitney brought down two or three pegs.
Lee moderated his voice. “All right, Martha. Try to concentrate. Did you get anything out of her?”
“Oh, ’bout three quarts I’d say. My shoes…”
Chris Nissen turned away, clasping a hand to his mouth. Lee saw the sergeant’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
Steve Lee pried the wet cloth from Whitney’s stubby fingers. She blinked in the light. “Martha, listen to me. What … did … she … say?”
The former spook smacked her lips loud enough to be heard, then tasted the taste. “Oooh my.” Finally she gestured toward her purse. “Wrote it down in th’ taxi.”
Nissen went through her bag and fetched a notebook. He flipped through the first few pages with assorted notes unrelated to the meeting with Gabrielle Tixier. Then he held the notebook out at arm’s length. A few seconds later he looked at Lee. “I can’t make out anything. Just a couple of words.”
Lee took the pad and squinted. Finally he shook his head. “Martha, we can’t read your handwriting. You’ll have to read it for us.” He held it before her, knowing she lacked the strength to sit up.
Whitney blinked in concentration, trying hard to focus. She raised her head, put a hand on Lee’s, and adjusted the focal length. After a valiant effort she slumped back. “Nobody can read that. Not even me.”
“My God, what’d you drink?” Nissen asked.
“Oooh my, what didn’t we drink? She was ready for me, tha’s fershure, honey. Started with wine, then whiskey. Then somethin’ else. I was doin’ okay. Then she brought out the cognac…” Whitney burped again.
“Brandy?” Nissen frowned. “If you can handle whiskey, why not…”
“Eighty proof,” Whitney ventured. “Seven years old.”
Lee stood up, his hands wide in exasperation. “Chris, we have to sober her up. Time’s important.”
The tall, black NCO shook his head, smiling at the victim. “Major, I can deal with penetrating wounds, fractures, blunt trauma. Even childbirth. But I cannot cure a major hangover. Nature’s gotta take its course.”
Lee slumped into a chair. “So we let her sleep?”
“Look at her!” In the short interval, Martha Whitney had finally succumbed. When they turned out the light and left the room she was snoring like a rhinoceros.
32
AOZOU STRIP
“How much longer?”
Marcel Hurtubise was a past master at controlling his emotions, let alone his voice, but he also heeded his instincts. The mining seemed to be progressing well, but he sensed a need for greater urgency.
The site manager was an elderly French engineer—a piece of colonial driftwood remaining above the high tide mark when the colonial surf had receded. His name was Adolphe something or other, and he had tried returning to metropolitan France two or three times since the 1960s. It never lasted long; Africa kept fetching him back.
Adolphe gave a Gallic shrug—an eloquent gesture communicating infinite wisdom if not immediate knowledge. Four decades in l’Afrique could not exorcize his parents’ chromosomes. “A few days. Maybe less. The equipment, it is … vintage. Vous savez?”
Hurtubise knew. He had to admit that Adolphe knew his business, both technical and managerial. How he kept the black laggards working on anything resembling a schedule was the next thing to miraculous. “Well, mon vieux, once the ore is processed and the yellow cake packaged, your work will be done. Then you can…” His voice trailed off. For a shred of an instant, Hurtubise was almost embarrassed. He realized that he could not finish the sentence. Adolphe can … what? Probably return to a desultory life of cheap booze and cheaper accommodations.
“You can … rest.” He even managed a smile for the old man.
Adolphe seemed not to hear. He glared at a machinery operator and began cursing him with equal fluency in French and Arabic, not managing to raise his mask over his face.
Hurtubise turned away, seeking Etienne. He found the Belgian supervising the guard change at the top of the hour. Four on, six off, seemed optimum for the limited crew of mercenaries available.
“How goes it?” Hurtubise asked. It was a rhetorical question. Etienne was as reliable as gravity—always there, whether needed or not.
“Well enough,” the husky man replied. Marcel noticed that the Belgian had his sleeves rolled down, either from
concern over sunburn or the less likely risk of contamination through a cut or abrasion. But since the guards seldom went near the machinery, and the open-air mine had ample ventilation, there was little cause for concern. Briefly Hurtubise wondered if his colleague—not quite a friend—actually had plans for longevity.
“All right,” Hurtubise replied. “I’m flying back to N’Djamena tonight to put in an appearance at the embassy.”
“So soon?” Etienne realized that his boss had been back and forth twice in the past week—more travel than usual.
“I need to make sure the ministry is coordinating the arrangements here and with the shippers. There’s too much at stake to rely on … a couple of Africans. I’ll be back in two or three days. If you need me…”
Etienne raised a pudgy hand, then tapped the cell phone on his belt. It was there all the time, opposite his Browning Hi-Power. “Say hello to Gabby for me.” He gave a crooked grin; he knew how much she disliked that name—and him.
“I’ll give her more than that,” Hurtubise replied. For a change, he was smiling when he walked away.
33
SSI COMPOUND
Steve Lee paced to the front of the briefing room, about-faced, and looked at his team.
“We’ve just received a warning order.”
The SSI operators exchanged querulous glances. Then everybody was speaking at once.
“But we’re a training team!”
“Whose orders?”
“Holy shit!”
The latter sentiment predominated.
Lee raised both hands, urging quiet. When the noise abated he glanced at J. J., who was particularly vocal against going operational again.
Bosco interjected, “Gunny Foyte said just the…”
“Yeah, where is he?” Nissen asked.
Lee was growing petulant. “As I was saying…” He allowed the sentiment to drag out, hanging suspended in the seemingly frigid air.
“As I was saying, we’re advised to start planning for an op. Gunny Foyte is on the horn to Arlington, though he may not get anybody with the time difference. Meanwhile, I’m going to meet with the embassy staff. But before any of you decide to go spastic, maybe you’d like to hear the details.”