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

by R G Ainslee

  "He is… Comment dit-on courageux?

  "Brave," answered Sarah.

  "Yes, yes, he is brave."

  What about the kidnappers, is she still in danger?"

  "Don’t know."

  Jim spoke up, "She'll be safe here. We have the best security in Nairobi."

  Lisette’s eyes glowed with pride. "Oh, I am safe with Ross. Our life will be magnifique. I want to return to Lamu with Ross. We will never part."

  Perplexed by the revelation, I sensed Barker's stare and gave him a furtive glance, hoping he wouldn't spill the beans about Addis Ababa. I wanted to tell her when we were alone. He kept quiet and I breathed an inner sigh of relief.

  "Lisette tells me she is an accomplished skier. Do you ski?"

  That was news to me and reminded me how much I didn't know about Lisette. "Yes, I skied some, up on the Indian reservation, when I was in high school."

  My answer brought a smile of approval from Lisette.

  The food was good; we were hungry and didn't stop for light conversation. I spent the rest of the meal trying to figure out a way to break the news to Lisette.

  "Sorry folks, I need to get some sleep," said Jim, "Been a long day, no, two long days."

  "Me too." I stood awkward and uneasy, wondering where I would sleep. Looked like another uncomfortable night. The couch was on the small side.

  Sarah and Lisette lingered at the table engaged in a brief animated conversation in French. Sarah winked at me and left the room to join her husband.

  Lisette glided over and grabbed my hand.

  Confused, I inquired, "What’d Sarah say?"

  She gazed up into my eyes, an enigmatic expression laden with the possibility of more to come. "Sarah ask me, where does he sleep."

  Anticipation wound like a spring.

  She tugged at my fingers and led me into the bedroom. Twin beds.

  She gathered up the pajamas Sarah provided and sashayed into the bathroom leaving me standing like a fool, trying to make sense of it all.

  Common sense told me not to hope: We just met a few days ago … and this nun business … and her uncle's warning, 'she is innocent in the world of men.' Good grief, what am I gonna do. I’m trapped.

  The door opened. She spread her arms, a pixie in the too large pajamas. The scent of exotic French body lotion borrowed from Lara rose around me. Lisette stepped forward, closed her eyes, and tilted her face up to me, her breath warm and sweet.

  I struggled to keep control. Gotta tell her … owe it to her to tell her first. "There’s… I must tell you." I swallowed hard, mouth dry and unyielding.

  She beamed at me, breathing fast, her eyes bright with desire.

  "I'm leaving in the morning for a few days." Just did get the words out.

  She gazed deep into my eyes. A puzzled expression, a flash of realization, her lips parted. Puzzlement turned to anger. "You not do this to me … Ne me quitte pas — Non." She tensed and stepped back.

  "Can't help it, have to go, I have unfinished business." My voice trailed off, "Can’t tell you why."

  A wave of gloom clouded her features, her voice dropped, almost inaudible. "I want you stay. Ne me quitte pas."

  My heart twisted with regret. I raised a hand to touch her — she swatted it away.

  Her fingers trembled as she placed a hand over her face. "If a bad comes to you … I want to be dead." Her eyes had a sadness that tore at my heart.

  Good grief, I think she's in love. I'm in way over my head. Every time I leave, something bad happens. Can’t do it. Can’t take advantage of her. She's had too much suffering. Gotta let her down gently.

  We stared into each other's eyes, her shoulders slumped, her tear-filled eyes blinked furiously. I reached out, but she brushed past me, retreated to the edge of the bed, and plunked down.

  A serious expression of resolve replaced her mask of despair. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. After a moment, she made the sign of the cross and began to speak. Her voice initially clear and composed, and then her heartbreak and grief poured out as if she was exposing her secret wounds and deepest feelings for the first time. She revealed between sobs, her suffering, torment, and loss of faith. She lapsed between English and French. Somehow, I understood.

  My pulse raced, every sense focused on Lisette, the rest of the world blocked out. At that moment, nothing else mattered.

  She leapt to her feet, wrapped her arms around my neck, and pulled me down to her. Her head tilted, her eyelids lowered, her lips soft and warm brushed my cheek.

  "Sarah tell me, you and Dzhim have un devoir … a duty. Is as you do … your profession. She say you must present a danger. I not make sense," she sobbed, "I think of you … I will do all for you. Tu es mon amour."

  Amour? Does that mean love?

  I curved an arm around her waist and kissed her. She responded. Feral anticipation began to build. I burned with an intensity that frightened me. Unable to speak coherently, I mumbled an incomprehensible sting of platitudes.

  Without warning, her body turned rigid in my arms and she pushed away, her eyes dim with anguish. She thrust her hands out and cried, "Non — first, you must return. Is too much pain for me." She inhaled a deep breath. "Si tu m'aimes … if you love me," her voice broke, "you wait." She retreated and covered her face with trembling hands. Her body shook with sobs.

  I felt two feet tall.

  Chapter 20 ~ Addis Ababa

  Saturday, 18 February: Nairobi

  "Let’s go." Barker tapped on the door for the second time. "Need to get moving."

  "Okay, okay." I woke-up late and was busy pulling up my pants. Lisette already in the kitchen, they had big plans for breakfast. Unfortunately, we didn't have time.

  Said good-by, received a tentative kiss on the cheek, dragged out the front door, still dog-tired, and running well behind schedule. Lisette's disappointment obvious, more like exasperation. Sarah took it in stride.

  Barker's car, a locally assembled Toyota Land Cruiser, weaved through morning traffic. I barely noticed. The night had been almost sleepless, for the wrong reasons: restless soul searching and conflicted feelings for Lisette. It was obvious, she loved me, but I couldn't picture us together.

  Maybe I just felt sorry for her or guilty because of what had happened, not the basis for a relationship. We had just met, and I didn’t know that much about her, besides she wasn’t my type.

  Last night — what if… good grief, she could’ve ended up pregnant or… what a train wreck — gotta clear my mind – can't have this hanging over me in Addis. Need to focus, too much can go wrong.

  Jim asked, "You okay?"

  "Life’s getting complicated."

  "Yeah, I can tell." After a pause, he glanced over and said with feeling, "You better take care in Addis. You understand?"

  "Yeah, guess so."

  "Sarah told me about her conversation with Lisette. Lisette’s had some tough breaks. She sees you as her protector and is dependent on you. Sarah thinks you have something wonderful and you would be a fool to lose it."

  Something wonderful? "Dunno about that. Anyway, she was pretty upset when I told her I was leaving."

  "Sarah understands the type of work we do and tried to get that across to Lisette. She explained to her someday you might have to leave for a dangerous assignment, a duty you had to do in spite of personal desire or in face of danger. She said Lisette understood. Her time in the convent taught her to respect a commitment to a higher cause. She told Lisette your devotion to duty was a sign you are a good, trustworthy man and she should cherish that quality in you."

  Oh man, they’re ganging up on me. If Sarah don’t watch out she’s gonna raise Lisette’s hopes up too high. She’s well-meaning but…

  All I could say was, "Jim, you're a lucky guy."

  * * *

  We barely made it to the embassy for our seven-a.m. meeting. Wilson, Michaels, and John Smith sat waiting in the conference room. The colonel glanced at his watch. Barker headed straight for t
he coffee pot. Santini followed us through the door with a box of local pastries.

  The aroma was too tempting to pass up. I picked out a spiced pea and potato Indian Samosa and grabbed a cup of coffee. Barker made a lame joke about the condemned man's last meal. No one laughed.

  Santini asked if we were rested up from our trip. Barker shrugged, and I ignored the question. The hot and spicy Samosa seared my taste buds. Wonder what Lisette was fixing when we left?

  The phone rang, Santini answered, listened, and in a few moments an irritated expression emerged. He slammed the phone down and announced, "There will be a delay." Wilson appeared annoyed. "Brennan's papers from the Canadian embassy haven't arrived. They've had a little problem. Seems like a dead man with a bullet hole between his eyes showed up on their front steps this morning."

  Everyone stared at me. I glanced at Barker. His eyes showed he made the connection, but kept his mouth shut. Owe him one. A mental note: never get crossways with Lara Dumont. Glad she's on my side. Better keep it that way.

  The CIA man briefed us on the latest developments in Addis Ababa. His men obtained a small aircraft and pilot to fly Marsden to the Pibor Post airfield in southern Sudan, where they arranged an un-official refueling stop. Then they would fly south to an isolated airstrip in northern Kenya, or if possible, proceed directly to Nairobi. Which location would depend on how much interest Kenyan authorities showed in the unfolding events.

  Thirty minutes later the phone rang, Santini answered and gave the thumbs-up. "Ready to go." I had just returned from changing outfits and preparing my gear for the trip.

  I left the embassy by the back gate with a Canadian passport, a carry-on bag with a change of clothes, and a folder full of credible business materials. The taxi stand at the Hilton Hotel was only a couple of blocks away. Stopped at the corner to look around, needed to see if the coast was clear. El Jefe was nowhere in sight, neither was Kara.

  Saturday, 18 February: In Flight to Ethiopia

  The flight from Nairobi was uneventful until, just before we landed, an announcement from the pilot: "We regret all passengers will be required to disembark at Addis Ababa. The airline will provide passengers scheduled to fly on to Bombay with overnight lodging."

  "Bloody hell, not again," fumed the Englishman next to me. "My travel agent warned me about this. They do this all the time." He told me the Ethiopian government often takes planes out of service to ferry troops to the Ogaden front. The war seemed closer.

  While waiting at the airport in Nairobi, I noticed Sergeant King and Corporal Machado wandering around in civilian clothes, trying to be inconspicuous. Avoided their eyes, they did the same. I wondered if Wilson was aware of their presence, Barker probably arranged it on his own initiative. Several of my fellow passengers looked vaguely suspicious. Fortunately, no one seemed to pay me any particular attention. Clean-shaven for a change, except for a light mustache, I was dressed in a tan tropical weight business suit, even had a tie on. Hoped the disguise wouldn't be necessary.

  Familiar Ethiopian countryside passed below. The landscape mostly brown, mixed with green patches, small villages and farms, and the occasional road. The airliner descended to Addis Ababa airport, a mountain loomed to the left, the final approach, and soon we were on the ground.

  * * *

  The airport hummed with activity, but not normal airport activity. Armed guards and sullen soldiers filled the arrival area along with the usual tourist herd. Shabbily dressed officials whisked passengers through customs and immigration with a cursory glance, unusual efficiency for Ethiopia. They seemed anxious to move us out soon as possible. The Ethiopians had a war to fight.

  The stench of stale urine mixed with cheap cigarette smoke welcomed us to the main lobby. Incomprehensible utterings emanated from loudspeakers. The place was a nightmare, people milled about, pushing, talking, and shouting. Vendors screeched, offering their wares. Porters tagged along and tried to grab suitcases.

  The prospect of a hectic taxi ride in from the airport was worrisome. If, for some reason, bad guys were waiting for me, might be dangerous to travel alone.

  An airline bus stood outside the terminal ready to transfer Bombay passengers to their complementary hotel accommodations. It struck me as another unusual efficiency for Ethiopia, especially in these times.

  Why not? A quick clean trip into town, they’ll never know.

  A young Ethiopian blocked my way to the modern Mercedes-Benz bus. "May I be your guide? I am student…" With a quick sidestep, I brushed past him and boarded with the other passengers.

  Inside the vehicle, an officious young man in an airline uniform curtly informed me, "Bus for Bombay passenger only." Knew what to do, a crisp five-dollar bill secured a seat. Some things never change.

  * * *

  Ethiopia had once been my home. The two years at Kagnew Station in Asmara my best duty, bar none. At that time, the U.S. ran a so-called communications relay station. The post was in reality, a sophisticated intelligence collection facility. Those days were gone forever, a communist leaning military junta now held power. The Eritreans in Asmara were trying to break away from the central government. The situation didn't look good for them.

  Along the road into the city we passed boys with a herd of sheep, a girl balanced a water jug on her head, and several men carried spears. Ethiopia seemed timeless with traditions unchanged for hundreds of years. Reality intruded on the peaceful scene, a convoy of olive drab military vehicles roared by, headed towards the airport.

  The bus entered a large traffic circle: cars, taxis, trucks, busses, and motorcycles chaotically moved around in all directions. Pedestrians, donkeys, goats, and a camel added to the confusion.

  The man from the airline announced, "Mr., you next."

  * * *

  The Blue Nile Hotel turned out to be a basic establishment in the heart of the city, one that catered to budget tourists and thrifty business travelers. An obvious choice for a frugal Canadian named McGregor. I remembered the hotel from an earlier trip to Addis, but never stayed there, preferring a cheaper place a few blocks away.

  Outside the entrance, a squad, ten soldiers armed with U.S. made M-1 carbines, stood guard. A tall sergeant inspected my papers and pretended to be able to read. A dollar bill ensured his literacy. Inside, the desk clerk failed to find my name on the reservations list. Once more, a greenback did the trick.

  I commented in a casual manner, "A lot of troops around. Are we safe here?"

  "Many soldiers today," responded the clerk. "All hotels have many soldiers. They come today. Many soldiers."

  Not wanting to seem too curious and draw unwanted attention, I asked no more questions. I followed the porter, a grey haired older man with high cheekbones and dark bronze skin, up the stairs to my room. He didn't bother with the elevator. It never worked during my brief stay. A dollar tip elicited a polite response in perfect English.

  "Thank you, sir, and welcome to Addis Ababa. If we may be of assistance at any time, please let me know."

  "You speak English very well."

  "Thank you, sir. I studied at the University of California for four years."

  Started to reply but paused with an obvious question on my lips.

  "Until the troubles, I was a professor at Haile Selassie University, now…" he didn't finish, bowed slightly, and left.

  I was tempted to speak with him some more, but he might work for the secret police. The ruling Marxist military committee, the Deng, recently installed a brutal totalitarian régime that left the country in near chaos. I needed to stay focused on the task-at-hand.

  The small room included a private bath with a western style toilet and a moldy shower. A placard informed guests, hot water was available from six until ten in the evening. Flicked the bathroom light switch — no bulb. Checked the threadbare sheets, which were sort-of clean — no sign of bed bugs. The room decor consisted of well-worn carpet, cracked-plaster, peeling paint, and a bullet hole in the window glass. A small black and white te
levision offered Marxist propaganda and military music on both channels. Decided to take a nap and wait for someone to contact me.

  * * *

  About an hour later, a knock on the door abruptly ended my siesta. The grey-haired porter greeted me with a message.

  "You taxi is downstairs, sir."

  "My taxi?"

  "Yes sir. As arranged for you by Mr. John Smith."

  "Mr. John Smith from Calgary?"

  "Yes sir, Mr. John Smith from Alberta."

  "Thank you, I'll be right down."

  The military régime had good reason not to trust the professor. John Smith, Calgary, and Alberta; simple and effective code words. He was a secret agent all right, but not one of theirs.

  The taxi, a beat-up Italian Fiat driven by a wiry man, stood in front of the hotel. I slid in, the driver drove off without a word, headed north up Churchill Avenue to a large traffic circle, and returned down the broad boulevard. We passed a small park. He slowed and came to a halt. A man opened the right rear door and slid in.

  The new passenger, a guy about my size with light brown skin, told the driver, "Tafari Hotel." He looked me over. "Nice to meet you Mr. McGregor, how was your flight? Is this your first time in our city?" By his appearance and accent, he could be any number of nationalities.

  He had given the pre-arranged signal. "Yes, my flight was quick," so went my proper response.

  "Okay. You ready to do this?" he asked with an American accent.

  "Yeah … at first I was afraid you were Cuban."

  He gave me a stern glare. "I am Cuban."

  The surprise on my face must have been priceless. The driver laughed and spoke with a Brooklyn accent, "Don't worry brother, he's a Miami Cuban."

  "Let me introduce you to the Rasta Man. Don't let his accent fool you he's Jamaican. They call us the Caribbean Connection.

  "Do you have names?"

  "Rasta Man and Amadeo will do."

  "What now?"

  Amadeo detailed the plan. In the evening, I was to go with him to the Tafari Hotel Bar. We would wait for Marsden to come in with his Russian drinking buddies. All I had to do was positively identify him to Amadeo, seemed simple enough.