by Tony Park
‘We?’
‘America. Our allies. The South African Government.’
‘Are you out here for America, Chris? I thought we were here for the wildlife.’
‘Both.’
‘What do you do? Who do you work for?’ Miranda asked, her mind racing.
‘I observe, and I record my observations, the same as any other scientist.’
‘You’re ex-military aren’t you?’
Chris shrugged. ‘You’ve read my bio, you know I was in the Army.’
‘Are you still working for the Government, Chris?’
‘Would it bother you if I was?’
Miranda thought for a few seconds before answering. ‘My dad – my real father – is in Afghanistan. He’s with Special Forces.’
‘I know.’
She was surprised. ‘How? I never told you. It’s not in my bio. He even has a different name to me.
I use my stepfather’s name.’
‘His name is Jed Banks. He’s a good soldier by all accounts. Probably approved of you joining the Young Republicans at college.’
‘You checked up on me! My politics is nobody’s business and, for the record, my dad votes Democrat.’
‘Now that I didn’t know, but I check up on all my research students.’
‘Including their politics and their father’s military records?’
‘Where necessary, yes.’ Chris held her eye and Miranda did not want to break the stare first.
‘Why are you telling me this, Chris?’
‘You tell me.’
‘What makes you think I’d want to help you?’
‘I have no idea whether you would want to help me or not. But you’re smart, you’re fit, you’ve got a good eye for detail and you’re mature. We’re in the middle of a war, Miranda. Your dad’s doing his bit…’
Miranda laughed. ‘You almost had me then, right up to the part about “doing your bit”.’
‘But you will, won’t you?’
‘Are you CIA?’
‘I could tell you who I work for, but then I’d have to kill you.’ They both laughed.
There were no miniature cameras, no bugs, no poisoned lipstick or concealed weapons. But the job was real and Miranda took to it with the same dedication and professionalism that she had applied to her research work. Chris was pleased. In time, she revealed her real life story to Miranda.
‘All I wanted to do when I left the CIA in 2000 was go to Africa and study wild animals full-time. But the government came looking for me again,’ she explained to Miranda over a drink one night as they staked out a waterhole near the Mozambican border. Night birds called and in the distance they heard the mournful rumble of a male lion’s roar.
‘In the same way you came looking for me?’
‘Pretty similar, Miranda. One of the Company guys in the South African embassy – Solomon, a real jerk – tracked me down out here in the bush. He wanted me to look at some satellite pictures of a vehicle that had been taken by one of our birds.’
‘What were the photos?’
‘They were of a pick-up truck. In the back was an RPG 7 – a Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade-launcher. It was kind of hard to make out as it was partly covered by a tarpaulin. The wind must have loosened the covering as it drove along. Solomon wanted to know what I could tell from the photo.’
‘Surely they had someone who could identify a grenade-launcher?’
‘That was the easy part. Solomon told me that the CIA badly needed to track down this vehicle, but the satellite had been unable to get a clear shot of the vehicle’s licence plate. They needed any information that would help them place its owner. I identified straightaway that the truck was parked a couple of blocks from the US embassy I’d been there a few times before to meet with USAID people about funding for my research.’
‘Were they expecting an attack on the embassy?’
Chris nodded. ‘Anyway, in the back of the truck there were three other things that the Company guys hadn’t picked up on. First, there was a two-hundred-litre drum. Second, a coiled length of plastic hose, and third, a pair of red plastic triangles. What would that tell you?’
Miranda hadn’t expected to be asked a question. She thought about the clues. ‘The triangles are for Mozambique. I remember you told me that when I first saw them on the front and rear bumpers of your truck. You need them as warning signs in case you break down, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘So the vehicle was either from Mozambique or had been there recently. The drum is interesting. For fuel, I guess. That probably indicates the vehicle was passing through or coming from somewhere where fuel is a problem. Zimbabwe?’
‘That’s what I thought. The only vehicles I’ve seen in southern Africa that carry their own drums of fuel are Zimbabwean. The plastic hose -’
‘Is used as a siphon.’
‘Bingo. The Agency guys thought the drum was to turn the vehicle into a car bomb, in case the terrorists missed their target with the RPG.’
‘So did they track down the truck?’ Miranda asked, fascinated.
‘The CIA got the South African Police to issue an all points for a red Zimbabwean-registered pick-up carrying a fuel drum. Two days later the vehicle was stopped in Pretoria. The driver was a Muslim Mozambican who had been living on a remote game ranch in south-eastern Zimbabwe. He was charged with possessing an illegal weapon – the grenade-launcher. He rolled over eventually and told the cops he and three other men had been training in Zimbabwe and planned to attack US diplomats in Harare and Johannesburg. His accomplice was picked up in Pretoria, but the Zimbabwean police were too slow to catch the other guys. By the time they finally got around to investigating the camp the place was empty.’
‘Were they Al Qaeda?’
‘A locally grown splinter group. There are still enough weapons kicking around Mozambique as a result of their civil war to arm a terrorist group with the basics. What worried us more was that one of the men hinted that they had been trying to organise supply of more sophisticated armaments – like surface-to-air missiles.’
‘And you’ve got no leads as to where the other men went to?’
‘Well, now that you mention it…’
By that stage Miranda was hooked. She found she desperately wanted to prove herself to Chris, to show her that she, too, could play an active, effective part in the war that had escalated with the destruction of the World Trade Center’s twin towers.
Chris had a theory that the missing terrorists were still in Zimbabwe. ‘Because of our government’s frosty relationship with the regime we only have a very small diplomatic presence in the country. The Zimbabwean intelligence organisation, the CIO, watches our people and the Brits like hawks. They’re paranoid that we’ll try to covertly support their opposition party to overthrow the government.’
‘So terrorists – even if they’re not supported by the State – can pretty much do as they please,’
Miranda said.
‘That’s right. As long as they’re not breaking any local laws they can virtually carry on with impunity Mozambique’s a different story. The government there is doing everything it can to get back into the international community. The downside for Islamic fundamentalists in Zimbabwe is that there isn’t a big Muslim community for them to blend in with. The vast majority of Zimbabweans are Christian.’
‘I guess that makes it easier for you to look for supporters. Terrorists have to have money, right? Zimbabwe’s economy is not strong, so they’d need a contact with access to foreign exchange, and maybe someone in the transport business or import-export who could move people and arms across borders quietly.’
‘Good thinking,’ Chris smiled, but then stopped.
‘Chris, what is it? You look worried.’
‘No, nothing. You know we can end all this right now if you’re having second thoughts.’
Miranda bridled. ‘I’m not the one having second thoughts. I’m ready to help in any way. I’m a
big girl, you know, Chris.’
Chris nodded. ‘You’ve just about nailed the profile of the guy I want to take a closer look at, only he’s not in transport or import-export. He’s into tourism in a big way’ Chris reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a large buff-coloured envelope.
‘My secret orders?’
‘Very funny’ said Chris as she removed a sheaf of papers. ‘His name is Hassan bin Zayid. He’s a Zanzibari-Omani or, to be precise, he’s half Omani-Arab. His father started with a cafe and guest house on Zanzibar and expanded onto the Tanzanian mainland. The old man married an English flight attendant. The son inherited his mother’s good looks and his father’s taste in western women.’
‘How do you know something like that about a person?’
‘He made a pass at me the first time I met him. When the old man died, Hassan took over his tourism empire and expanded it even further, this time into Zambia, where he set up a luxury private game reserve. He’s passionate about wildlife conservation and is breeding cheetahs in captivity with the intention of releasing them into the Lower Zambezi National Park. I met him at a Worldwide Fund for Nature conference here in South Africa. That’s when he invited me up to the Zambezi Valley for a weekend. I got the impression straightaway that he wanted to show me more than his big cats.’
‘Men. What a sleaze,’ Miranda said.
‘On the contrary. I very nearly accepted!’ Chris flipped through the papers till she found a print-out from an internet website. ‘That’s him accepting an award for his conservation work from the Zambian Government. As you can see, he’s very handsome. He’s charming, has a great butt, and he’s a multimillionaire who’s nuts about saving endangered species.’
Miranda gave a little laugh. ‘Well, when you put it that way, he sounds like quite a catch, except for him being an international terrorist and all.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve got nothing concrete on bin Zayid and there’s no suggestion that he’s ever broken a law either in Zambia or anywhere else. The thing that set the alarm bells ringing was his brother. Hassan has a twin, Iqbal, whose name came up in some intelligence we obtained from the Russians. Iqbal was on a list of Arabs who had been recruited to serve with the Chechens.
Moscow suspected Iqbal of being the shooter who downed a heavy-lift helicopter full of soldiers near Grozhny.’
‘I remember that incident. That was a dirty war, by all accounts.’
‘There’s no such thing as a clean one. Funny thing is that if the Chechens had started fighting for independence twenty years ago, America probably would have been in there supplying them with Stinger missiles. Don’t forget that we helped give Osama bin Laden his big break in Afghanistan. The fact that Iqbal served with the mujahideen in Chechnya doesn’t make his brother a terrorist.’
‘But you’re suspicious.’
‘Hassan travels a lot between Zambia, Zanzibar and mainland Tanzania – he has his own aircraft and a luxury cruiser. He has money and maybe motive. On the plus side, he’s a hedonist who likes wine, women and the good life – hardly your stereotypical Islamic fundamentalist. Still, I want to know more about him – who visits his game reserve, where his sympathies lie.’ Chris handed over the envelope to Miranda. ‘The print-outs are background on bin Zayid, his business interests and his conservation work. Amazing what you can find on the net these days.’
‘Amazing what you can find on the net these days.’ Hassan had said virtually the same thing just before he fired the tranquilliser dart into her.
It had been easy for her to strike up a friendship with Hassan bin Zayid. Christine had organised the visas and work permits she needed to establish a lion research project at Mana Pools National Park in Zimbabwe, just across the river from Hassan’s lodge. Lower Zambezi National Park in Zambia and Mana Pools existed as a continuous ecosystem in all but name, and researchers and National Parks staff often hopped the river with the same impunity as elephants and other game that crossed the border when the water was low.
True to form, Hassan had welcomed the blonde, attractive Miranda into his world. Miranda had never used her feminine charms for trickery, but she surprised herself at how easily she could play the tease. She actually enjoyed the flirting and, as Hassan made no attempt to overstep the bounds of decency, she found herself looking forward to her regular visits across the river. He was as charming, smart, wealthy and good-looking as Chris had said. Miranda reported back to Chris via secure email that Hassan entertained clients from around the world, including some from the Gulf States. The Arabs who came to his lodge were not the wild-eyed fundamentalists she had at first expected, but rather corpulent sheikhs and wealthy businessmen with the same weaknesses as Hassan for good Scotch, fine cigars and, occasionally, western flight attendants from an Arab airline.
One night, while sipping a gin and tonic on the shaded deck overlooking the Zambezi, Miranda found that she was actually jealous of the attention Hassan was paying two attractive English women of about her age. The entire crew of a Gulf-based 747 was staying at the lodge as the guests of a millionaire friend of Hassan’s, who had been a passenger on the flight to Lusaka.
‘Gosh, who does a girl have to sleep with to wind up with a gaff like this?’ one of the women chirped.
Hassan smiled. ‘The owner might be a good start.’
‘Ooh, you’re a cheeky sod, aren’t you,’ the girl replied.
‘Hold on, Jen, I saw him first,’ her friend said, clinging theatrically to Hassan’s right arm, nearly spilling his drink in the process.
Miranda caught Hassan’s eye and he gave her a little smile and shrugged his shoulders. His message was clear. He had tried to woo her, but she had pointedly resisted his advances, while, in his view, seeming to lead him on. He was too much of a gentleman to push the issue with her, but too much of a man to resist the attention of the tipsy flight attendants.
Miranda retired to her room early and the shrieking laughter of the aircrew as she climbed the stairs to bed only made her angrier. She knew then that she was falling for the handsome target she had been sent to spy on. So far she had learned nothing about him that pointed to his involvement in any terrorist organisation. He had openly volunteered information about his brother and confirmed that Iqbal had served in Chechnya. During the discussion they had had about September 11 he had seemed genuinely appalled at the direction Islamic fundamentalism had taken.
‘It’s one thing,’ he had reasoned, ‘to support Muslim people who are fighting for an independent homeland in Chechnya, but no one can justify the indiscriminate slaughter at the World Trade Center.
The people responsible make me sick.’
Despite her feelings about Hassan, and his apparent innocence, Miranda had felt duty-bound to find out all she could about Iqbal. Hassan had told her that he was currently studying at a university in Pakistan and teaching part-time in a madrassa, a school for Muslim boys. Hassan had said nothing about Iqbal being involved in the fighting in neighbouring Afghanistan, and Miranda sensed that he preferred not to know too many details about what his brother was doing.
Miranda had arrived early for a meeting with Hassan one day and, while she waited for him to return from the cheetah enclosures, she had taken his portable satellite phone from the battery charger on his office desk. She had scrolled through the numbers in the memory and found one with no name but with a country code prefix that she did not recognise. She had jotted down the number and had just stuffed the scrap of paper she had written on into the pocket of her khaki skirt when Hassan walked into the office.
‘Sorry I’m late. Trying to steal my phone?’ he had said with a laugh.
‘Sorry, just admiring it. I’ve been meaning to upgrade.’ She had felt her face redden, but he had said nothing more.
Miranda tossed and turned in her bed after the dinner party with the aircrew. That night she dreamed of Hassan making love to her. She awoke aroused and even more confused. The next morning, while the other guests took a
n early, hungover game drive, Miranda confronted Hassan on the deck.
‘I haven’t had a hangover like this since I was a teenager,’ he said, sipping a tomato juice.
‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself–you and your two friends.’
He laughed. ‘Surely you weren’t jealous?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Of course, silly me, thinking you might care what I did, or who I slept with.’ The smile had left his face.
‘You’re a grown man. You can do whatever you please, have whomever you want.’
‘Yes, I can, but who I get is not always who I want.’
Miranda felt the anger rise in her. ‘Well, which one did you sleep with last night?’
He smiled. ‘Would it shock you if I said both of them?’
‘No, Hassan, and neither would it surprise me.’
‘Don’t be a prude, Miranda. This is hard for me to say …’
She glared at him.
‘It’s you I care about, Miranda, but you don’t seem to be interested in me, not romantically anyway.
We have fun together, enjoy each other’s company, and then when I think we’re close to becoming intimate you turn your back on me. Is it because I am half Arab?’
‘Oh, God, no, Hassan! Of course not. It’s just that…’
‘What?’
She could see confusion and maybe pain in his dark, soulful eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him, but couldn’t possibly tell him the truth. What truth? she asked herself. She couldn’t tell him that she was spying on him, but there was another truth. ‘I care about you, too, Hassan.’
‘Maybe we need to get away from here, from the valley and your work. Maybe I need to get away from the lodge and the guests,’ he said, smiling at his own joke.
Miranda took a deep breath. There was nothing more she could learn about Iqbal, and as far as she was concerned Chris’s suspicions about Hassan had been unfounded. He was no terrorist, just a rich, gorgeous, sensitive heterosexual man who cared about endangered animals and loved life. Miranda knew she would have to go a long way to find another like him.