The Ethiopian Intercept: A Ross Brannan Thriller (The Secret Cold War Book 2)

by R G Ainslee

  I asked with a croak, "What happened?"

  She held the stare and replied with a harsh tone, "What you do here?"

  "The men are gone, you're safe now. I took you away from them."

  Her eyes darted around in panic.

  "They're gone. We're alone, safe."

  "The men come to you."

  "Tell me what happened."

  She set off in a rapid flurry of French.

  "Wait … don't understand."

  "Vous n'êtes pas avec—"

  "Don’t understand."

  "You with men?"

  "No, I wasn't with them. They are after me. They tried to kill me."

  Her eyes offered a hint of comprehension. "You no with—"

  "No — tell me what happened."

  A flood of tears streaked down her cheeks, and then she collapsed to the deck and sat unspeaking, eyes focused on me.

  "Please … tell me what happened."

  She wiped the tears away and sat up straight. Tension drained from her face and she tried with grim determination to explain. She thought it started two days before and wasn't sure how many days had passed. Early in the morning, two men came to the hotel and asked about me.

  "Describe them. What did they look like?"

  "A big man with noir…" she rubbed her upper lip, "moustache."

  "Yes, got it, a black mustache. What else, did he talk?"

  "The man … parlait avec accent espagnol."

  "He spoke with a Spanish accent. You’re sure?"

  "Oui."

  Her description matched El Jefe, the Cuban leader. The Cubans had split up to find me. I prompted her to continue.

  She had no reason to be wary and told them I had left the day before. When the men pressed for details, she became suspicious and refused to tell them more. She tried to call for help, but the Kenyan grabbed her and carried her from the hotel to a small boat in the channel. She didn't remember anything after that. They must have drugged her.

  "What about your uncle?"

  "He go to Lamu with Ali, le cuisinier, to buy food."

  "Thank goodness, he's safe. Did anyone see them take you?"

  "No, I alone on veranda. The men want you, n'est-ce pas?"

  "They want me and will… no, have tried to kill me. They are after me because…" I still didn't know why. "I can't explain."

  Her expression changed to one of bewilderment. "Pourquoi? Why me?"

  "They don't know what I look like. You can identify me. They need you to tell—"

  "Non — Je ne, I will never tell."

  "I know. You're safe now."

  She didn't understand how they made the connection with her and the hotel. I told her someone must have seen us together in town. The deaths of the Arab and the Cuban seemed like raw justice. Wished I could kill them again.

  Lisette was frightened but determined. We couldn’t return to Doctor Louis in Lamu, they might be watching. We couldn't go to the police: too many dead bodies to explain, no passport, and the stolen vehicle. Voi lay only a few miles away. Driving the Land Rover wasn't an option. They would be searching for it. Going to town on foot was out of the question.

  Gotta stay cool. Only one choice left. Walk down to the road and hitch a ride with one of the tourist vans. I explained, and she agreed.

  "Let's eat first." We ate the bananas and tried the bread, stale and hard. I swallowed a last swig and pitched the empty canteen to the back seat.

  "Ready?"

  She closed her eyes, whispered an incantation in French, and made the sign of the cross. Her eyes opened with a renewed sense of determination.

  * * *

  We stood in the brush beside the road, the fresh morning air lost in the rising heat. She stayed out of sight, just in case.

  I threw the AK-47 into the bush. The empty magazines reminded me that it had been used to kill the people on the bus. Too large to hide, taking it along would have entailed too much risk. Besides, an AK-47 is good for serious hijacking, not so good for casual hitchhiking.

  We waited about fifteen minutes for a vehicle returning from the park. A roar from a bad muffler heralded the arrival of the now familiar zebra striped van. I stepped out, waved my arms, the vehicle slowed, and stopped beside me. The driver was alone.

  "My car broke down off the road and I need a ride. Can you help me, please?"

  The driver, a graying middle-aged Kenyan man dressed in a safari outfit examined me with a wary eye. "You are afoot. What happened?"

  "We took a turn off the road to eat and ran over something. The car won't start."

  He shook his head and glanced around.

  "Please, I need a ride."

  "Very well, I am going to Voi. I will take you."

  I called Lisette to come out of the bush and we climbed into the van.

  The driver shifted into gear and chugged off down the bush-lined road towards Voi. We met a van and a couple of Land Rovers. None seemed threatening.

  Halfway to Voi, he asked, "Did you see the trouble yesterday?"

  "No, we just got here. What happened?"

  He laughed. "Big trouble at the rail station. A foreigner and some shifta men fought with some of our lads on the train. The police shoot two shifta men dead. — Big trouble."

  Lisette, with a puzzled expression, asked, "What is shifta man?"

  "Shifta is a bad man from the North. Very strange don't you think?"

  "Yes, extremely," I replied. "Did they kill the foreigner?"

  "No, he go away. Police not have him."

  Lisette gripped my arm and squeezed.

  "How did he manage to escape?"

  "He escape when shifta men shoot at police. He go, they die. Two shifta men escape. Shifta very bad men."

  Lisette let out a gentle whimper, her grip relaxed.

  "Anyone else hurt?" I thought of my travelling companions on the train.

  "One of our lads was hurt. The shifta cut him."

  "Will he be all right?"

  "Yes. Very bad luck, he will not be able to play in the football match this week."

  "He's a footballer?"

  "Yes, he is a member of the Tusker Breweries side. He will miss a match. Very bad luck."

  My new friends had obviously taken up for me. However, the Cuban El Jefe was on the loose and even more dangerous.

  "You want mechanic? I find for you."

  I lied. "No, we need to get to Nairobi and catch a plane."

  "But your car?"

  "I'll call the rental company to collect it."

  "Oh, they will be much happy."

  It was a sure bet the vehicle would be collected soon and not by a rental company.

  "How can we get to Nairobi? When is the next train?"

  "The train is not due, and the motor bus has left this morning."

  "Any suggestions?"

  "I will leave you at the lodge. They know what to do. They have cars to Nairobi every day. But very expensive."

  We passed through town and turned north on the main road. The only thing out of place was the level of security. Two tall officers with sub-machine guns stood guard at the intersection that led to the station and others patrolled down the road.

  "You see, our lads are ready if the shifta men return."

  "Do you think they will?"

  "No — they are cowards. They have tasted their own blood and will hide like hyenas."

  We continued north for several miles, cut a right off the highway, passed through a gate, and down a drive past manicured grounds. A large sign informed us that we had just entered the Tsavo River Lodge.

  The driver, pleased with a generous tip, left us at the front door of the safari lodge, a one-story building, obviously, a relic of British colonial days. We walked up the timbered steps, past an arch made from elephant tusks, and entered an exotic hotel lobby. My first impression: Looks like an old Hollywood movie set.

  Stuffed animal trophies: lions, elephants, gazelles, impala, and some I couldn't name, festooned the walls.
The open lobby gave way to a patio bar that overlooked a wide lawn. Potted palm trees and baskets of flowers added color to the engrossing scene. Pictures of movie stars from the fifties covered the wall behind the front desk. Obviously, this was the hangout of the wealthy and influential. The lodge appeared to be expensive. My blood money supply was dwindling. I might not be able to afford the place. At least I was dressed for the part.

  "Yes, may we help you," inquired a tall well-dressed Kenyan man with a highbrow accent.

  "We've had car trouble and need to find a way to get back to Nairobi." He glanced towards the door and I answered the question he was about to ask. "We left our vehicle in town for the rental company to collect. A van driver brought us here. He said you might assist us."

  "We have an estate car departing to the airport this morning." He paused to ponder the situation. "I will inquire if you may be accommodated."

  "Thank you. Any help will be greatly appreciated."

  He walked with a poised stride past the front desk to a door to what I presumed was the office. At the entrance, he paused and gave us a discreet glance. I relaxed: our luck had changed.

  We walked around the lobby and silently took in the magnificent setting. Gentle soft breezes floated through the open area and brought welcome relief from the morning sun. I sat down on a comfortable leather lounge chair. Lisette examined a large carved tribal mask on the wall.

  The man returned, glided over to Lisette, and spoke, "Voulez-vous prendre un verre?"

  She replied with a gracious, "Oui, merci."

  He nodded and walked out to the patio bar.

  "What did he say?"

  "Do I want a drink?"

  The exchange triggered my sixth sense. How did he know she spoke French?

  Moments later, he returned with a glass of water, presented it to Lisette and told us, "A slight problem has arisen. The driver is unfortunately delayed. You are welcome to wait here until he arrives."

  "How long will it be?"

  "I am so sorry, I do not know."

  Alarm bells started to go off in my mind. "Will it be all right if we walk about the grounds while we wait?"

  He paused for a moment "Of course. It will surely be only an hour or so until the driver is ready."

  Lisette finished her drink and we stepped out through the arched entryway and strolled towards what appeared to be a campground.

  "How did he know you spoke French?"

  She replied with a sarcastic tone, "Do I look so French?"

  "You didn't speak, so how did he know?"

  She shrugged and gave me a puzzled look.

  I persisted, "Why did he want to find out if you were French?"

  She stopped in her tracks, gasped, and placed a hand over her mouth. She understood. "Is one of them?"

  "No, but maybe he knows someone is looking for a couple who matches our descriptions. The delay may be a ruse to get us to stay until they arrive."

  "Ruse?"

  "A trick."

  "And now?" she asked, concerned, one eyebrow slightly raised.

  "Not sure, but we can't wait around here. We need to find a way to leave soon as possible."

  We strolled along without speaking and came to the edge of the campground. More than a dozen semi-permanent safari tents scattered through the large grove. I scanned the area for another car to steal. Only a few remained, most campers had already left: touring the park or heading to their next destination. However, several families lingered, packing their gear, preparing to leave.

  We passed a green Land Rover camper parked at a tent site. Lisette broke free and rushed up to a young couple loading camping gear into the back of a vehicle. She conversed with the woman in French.

  I stood and listened as Lisette pleaded, accompanied by fervent hand gestures. The man shot a bemused glance my way and continued to load gear. The woman made several cursory glances in my direction. I began to feel self-conscious about the Great White Hunter outfit.

  Lisette returned with a resolute countenance. She cocked her head towards the couple and imparted with a confident tone, "Nous allons à… We go to Nairobi, now."

  I glanced up at the couple. The woman smiled, and the man gestured for me to come on over.

  I gave Lisette a puzzled look. "We got a ride?"

  She answered with an impish smile, "You are my amant. We are on vacances … holiday. Allons, we go now."

  "Ama… don't understand."

  "Amant… how you say," she blushed and murmured, "lover." She grabbed my hand and led me over to introduce me to our new best friends, Jules and Dominique.

  Chapter15 ~ Nairobi

  Tuesday, 14 February: Road to Nairobi

  Jules drove out of the campground and passed the lobby entrance. I sneaked a peek in the rear-view mirror. No one noticed our departure, and no one followed. I was beginning to believe we were home free.

  We drove past the park boundary and continued north across the plain. Nairobi was about 300 kilometers away, more than a four-hour drive. The ladies kept up a spirited conversation in French, punctuated by knowing glances in my direction by Dominique. I wondered what Lisette was telling her.

  Lover? — She told them we were lovers. — Good grief.

  Jules listened without speaking and after an hour, they fell silent, content to view the scenery.

  Dominique turned and remarked, "You do not have much to say."

  "Don't speak French."

  She gave me an amused once-over. "How do the two lovers communicate?"

  Lovers. The thought made me tingle with expectation. I said to Lisette. "What was that French poem? Between two hearts, no talk is necessary."

  She blushed and glanced away.

  Dominique's eyes twinkled with delight. "Oh, you mean, Entre deux coeurs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles, from the poet Desbordes-Valmore."

  "Yeah, sounds about right."

  "The proper translation is: Two hearts in love have no need for words. A fitting poem for this day, don't you think?" I must have looked puzzled. "The day of Saint Valentine."

  Lisette leaned over, placed a kiss on my cheek, and laid her head on my shoulder. Dominique gave us a tender smile.

  * * *

  The developments of the past few days intruded into my thoughts. The ordeal was almost over, but finding Lisette changed everything. Before, all I had to do get to the embassy find Santini, if such a person exists, and then go home. Now, I didn't know what to do.

  What's this lover business? She's cute, but defiantly not my type. After all, she was a nun and I'm not even Catholic. Yeah, a real recipe for disaster: me and some wayward nun who tells everybody we’re lovers. Oh man, just need to see her safely on her way back to Lamu, ASAP.

  Jules finally broke the silence and asked in English, "You are American?"

  "Yes."

  "What part of America?"

  "Right now, I live in Arizona."

  "I have never been to Arizona but have flown over many times going to LAX. I am a pilot for Air France. The Grand Canyon is magnificent from 10,000 meters."

  "That's in the northern part of the state. My job is down by the border, south of Tucson."

  "What is your profession?"

  "Work in electronics testing for the government." How did I know that? Work at Fort Huachuca. An image of Mack Gibson began to form. Call Mack, maybe he knows why I'm here. Someone has to know.

  He enquired, "You are going direct to the airport?"

  Too many questions. "No, we need to get back to Nairobi and collect our gear before we leave."

  "We have time and will take you to your hotel. Where are you staying?"

  I didn't have time to come up with a credible answer before Lisette intervened. "Nous restons à l'hôtel Hilton."

  I breathed an inner sigh of relief. The Hilton, one of the busiest hotels in Nairobi, it would be easy to get out and become lost in the crowd. Twice, Lisette's fast thinking had saved the day.

  We made more small talk and Jules recou
nted his travels with Air France. Fortunately, he didn't ask about our flight. I wasn't sure what Lisette had told them, so I just kept the conversation going by asking questions. It worked. Jules continued an interesting monologue about his journeys from Singapore to Rio and beyond.

  Jules’s adventures stimulated a memory of flying. I had flown at some time in my past … in the army and on large aircraft. The sight of a Thompson’s gazelle in the distance brought a flash — an image of hunting, pursuit, survival — the aircrew survival training course years ago. They taught us escape and evasion techniques in case we went down in hostile territory. The mantra burned into my inner being, repeated over-and-over, until it became almost instinctive, a concept beyond simple memory: Use what you have available and never give up. I also remembered thinking at the time: It’ll never happen to me.

  * * *

  We entered Nairobi mid-afternoon and our progress slowed as Jules negotiated the chaotic traffic. At last, he pulled up to the Hilton. Lisette and Dominique hugged and kissed. Jules gave me a firm handshake and we bid good-by with heartfelt thanks to our new best friends: Jules and Dominique.

  The Hilton, a prominent high-rise luxury hotel in downtown Nairobi, was conveniently located down the street from the American embassy. Normally, I would choose a lower profile place. However, the busy tourist hostelry offered safety in numbers. Thanks to Lisette's quick thinking we were where we needed to be.

  I nudged Lisette’s elbow. "Okay, let's go in and figure out what to do next."

  She held her ground and peered into my eyes. "Will you … have the room?"

  Was that a suggestion, or heaven forbid, an invitation? "Don't think I've got enough cash for this place. We'll get something to eat and talk it over."

  She clutched my hand and smiled. "Oui, J'ai faim."

  We entered the hotel lobby and headed for the bar. The tourist vans not yet returned from the local sights, the place half occupied by a scattering of locals and hard-core drinkers. I chose the most isolated table. A waiter materialized, and we ordered club sandwiches and mineral water, our first food since the fruit and stale bread in the bush.

  "When we're finished eating, I'll go to the American embassy. You stay here."