***
Freetown
The UN Mission Force Commander was a busy man. The Indian four-star General was doing his utmost to maintain a precarious ceasefire with a peacekeeping force comprised almost entirely of developing-world soldiers. Most of them were simply there to collect the UN dollar and wave their national flags. None of them actually wanted to enforce the ceasefire with the RUF; they left that to the poorly equipped forces of the Sierra Leone Government.
Sitting in his makeshift office, the General methodically sorted through the pile of reports on his battered desk. The room had been part of an old primary school and it was in even worse condition now. The Sierra Leone education system had collapsed years ago. An ancient air conditioner rattled on the wall, leaking water and uselessly blowing hot air. The room’s original furnishings had been looted and replaced with a street market mismatch of furniture. It wasn’t the usual work environment for the Indian General, but it was plain that was irrelevant. He had far more pressing issues.
Reaching across the desk for the ‘Incident Reports’ folder, the General contemplated Colonel Kapur’s account of the Kilimi incident. He had to admit the actions of the young Lieutenant were bold, even though they broke half a dozen of the UN mandated rules of engagement. The Colonel’s comments were damning. Bishop was described as insubordinate, reckless and trigger-happy; attributes highly unsuitable for the role of a UN peacekeeper.
The UN officer’s thoughts were interrupted by the entry of his US Liaison Officer, a CIA paramilitary operative that he knew only as Vance. The towering African American barreled through the door like it was attached to a Western saloon. The door crashed behind him. “General Singh, what the hell are ya gonna do about this Kilimi cluster?”
The General sighed, “I haven’t decided yet. Part of me wants to promote the young man and place him in charge of an entire battalion of infantry. A combat leader like him could pull the RUF into line within a week.”
A broad smile split Vance’s huge bald head. “Damn straight. As far as balls go, that kid’s packing a pair the size of Kansas,” he bellowed as he lowered himself into the only other chair in the room. The tiny school chair groaned and threatened to splinter under his weight.
The General nodded as Vance continued. “Somehow I don’t think that pansy-ass Head of Mission would approve. Word on the street is he wants to make an example of the Lieutenant.”
“A pity,” replied the Indian General. “We could use more men like him. The RUF are screaming murder. Lieutenant Bishop killed one of their most respected Commanders.”
“Horseshit! The evil bastard was a rapist, a murderer and a criminal. Even by RUF standards he was fucked up. I’ve tried to have him killed three times. Hell, most of the RUF were terrified of him.”
The General rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to know about the black ops that Vance was conducting. While he respected the CIA man, his methods were more than a little disconcerting.
“Vance, the issue here is not the actions of the RUF, it’s what to do with the Lieutenant. The Head Of Mission wants to charge him with war crimes.”
“What the fuck? Don’t you think that’s just a little excessive?”
“Yes, but—"
The CIA man interrupted. “If Bishop hadn’t intervened, those butchers would have slaughtered the whole damn village.”
“You and I know this, but the Head of Mission wants to show the RUF we’re serious about maintaining the cease-fire. I’ve never seen him so furious.” The General’s face displayed a look of real concern. “He’s worried that if the media gets hold of this, it could jeapordize everything. He has to hold someone accountable and that someone is probably going to have to be Lieutenant Bishop.”
Vance slammed his hand down on the arm of the flimsy chair. “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let that happen!” he said. “Bishop did what any soldier should have. If anything, we should have that gutless Colonel’s head in a noose.”
“Where does that leave us? The Head of Mission wants action and he wants it now. He will not jeopardize the ceasefire for one man.”
“It’s your command, boss, but know this. If you choose to prosecute Bishop, I will defend him with every resource I can pull. I ain’t gonna let the HOM, or any of the UN fat cats, hang that kid out to dry.”
The General was moved by Vance’s words. He was a straight shooter, one of the few people who seemed to understand the reality of the situation in Sierra Leone. For a moment he thought Vance may have been right. With men like Bishop leading his forces maybe, just maybe they could make a difference.
He shook his head. As long as the UN hamstrung his soldiers and continued to seek a peaceful resolution, what could he really achieve? The decision was made, Bishop would be sent home. They would let the Australian Army discipline him.
***
The sun was low on the horizon. Bishop sat on his pack, waiting on the tarmac for the C-130 transport aircraft. Although it was late in the day, Freetown Airport was still hectic, the contractors working in the sweltering heat to unload the queue of aircraft. The UN Mission was expanding and the tiny airport was operating at maximum capacity as a continuous stream of food and humanitarian supplies was delivered.
Bishop paid no attention to the activity; he was wracked with anxiety and guilt. The slaughter of the RUF gunmen had made him uneasy, but the actions were justified. It was the vision of their leader hacking off the boy’s arm that played over and over in his head. He tried to supress the images hammering in his brain and forced his thoughts back to the UN Headquarters where the Force Commander had told him he was being sent home. The Indian General had been severe. Bishop had stayed silent.
Vance had stopped him as he left the General’s office. “Hey, LT,” the big man had called out. “You did a damn fine thing out there. A lot of people are alive because of you.”
Bishop had no idea who the African American was, but he looked like Special Forces. “Tell that to the dead refugees at Kilimi,” he had countered.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. That whole camp would have been slaughtered if you hadn’t stepped up.”
“They still might be.” Bishop eyeballed him. “What’s to stop those West Side animals from rolling back in now and murdering the lot? A couple of old men armed with AKs?” Bishop shook his head. “The UN has hung them out to dry.”
“I know you’re angry, buddy, but a lot of people are trying their damned hardest to make this work.”
“Yeah, well, trying isn’t fucking doing and it sure as hell isn’t saving lives! Until the UN takes off the gloves and cracks down hard, this…this is all for nothing.”
“That’s why we need more men like you. Men who are willing to put their balls on the line and make shit happen.” Vance crushed Bishop’s hand and pumped his arm in a handshake that would have dislocated a lesser man’s shoulder.
“You ever need a job, LT, look me up.” A business card appeared and the CIA agent slipped it into the startled Australian’s shirt pocket. “We can always use more men like you.”
Vance’s words had embarrassed him. Bishop usually didn’t have time for Americans, but this one was different.
A whine of hydraulics interrupted Bishop’s thoughts as the ramp of his aircraft lowered. He stood up, waiting as a pallet of cargo was offloaded. Once the forklift was clear he swung his pack over his shoulder and walked toward the idling aircraft.
“Sir!” The Indian’s voice was clear over the droning turboprops. Bishop stopped and turned. Mirza jogged up to Bishop and grasped him by the shoulder. “Sir, I heard what happened and I want you to know I think it’s bullshit.”
A smile lit up Bishop’s sullen jaw. The loyal soldier had adopted a few Bishop-isms. “No need for the ‘Sir’ anymore, Mirza. It’s just Aden. What punishment did you cop?”
“I was charged and lost rank.” He shrugged. “Now I am a Private, but at least I can stay and finish the mission.”
“I’m sorry, Mirza.”
“That would be an honor, my friend, that would be an honor.”
They shook hands, Bishop turned towards the aircraft and walked up the ramp. As it closed, he took one last look at the man who had saved his life. Part of him wanted to stay, serve with men like Mirza and try to make a difference, but he knew that ultimately the UN Mission was hopeless. He resigned himself to being sent home.
Chapter 5
Club Kyiv, Kiev, Ukraine, 2004
“No, I will not sell you just one missile,” Dostiger said as he slammed his fist down on his desk. “Your superiors ordered an entire shipment. Not one, a shipment!”
The Iranian agent’s eyes darted around the room as he avoided the crazed Ukrainian’s gaze. The opulence of the arms dealer’s office unnerved him. Located in Kiev’s most expensive nightclub, it emphasized the wealth and power of the man he’d angered.
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Things have changed. The Americans have sold Israel the latest countermeasures and our sources tell us they’re fitting them to all their aircraft, military and civilian—”
Spittle left the Ukrainian’s mouth as he cut in. “I’m not selling cheap Chinese junk! These missiles are state of the art. They will tear the Israeli jets from the sky no matter what toys the Jews bolt on.”
“You tell us this, but how can we—”
“Because I would not sell them otherwise. Because I do not sell empty promises. I sell weapons that kill!”
Dostiger stood up as he poured a whiskey from the decanter on his desk. Limping, he turned and walked to the one-way glass that separated his office from the nightclub below. He watched the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor below and sipped his whiskey.
“How many weapons have I sold you?”
“But—"
“And have they not worked as I promised?”
“Yes, of course. You always deliver.”
He turned back to face the Iranian. “No! The Revolutionary Guards come to me because no one else can deliver!”
The Iranian flushed. “Let us buy just one. We will do tests and if we are happy, then we will buy more.”
The Ukrainian smiled, a twisted grimace of a smile. “And let you copy the technology?” There was a guttural laugh as Dostiger limped back to his desk.
“We would never—”
“No? Because that’s exactly what I would do.” Dostiger sat down. “But then I would also want a demonstration.” His lips stretched into a grin.
“What…what do you mean by demonstration?”
“The Revolutionary Guards want to shoot down Israeli planes, yes?”
“No, not the Guards. Hezbollah!” the visitor replied.
“Hezbollah, Guards,” he shrugged. “What matters is business and Iran will not part with money unless results are guaranteed. Yes?”
“That is correct.” The Iranian was sitting up in his chair, his interest sharp.
“So! I will demonstrate the weapon.”
“What sort of demonstration?”
“A display of the missile’s capability against an Israeli aircraft.” Dostiger’s face was impassive but his voice cold. “A passenger aircraft. If the demonstration is successful then Iran will purchase ALL of the missiles.”
“You would attack an unarmed Israeli passenger jet to ensure the sale?”
“Correct!” Dostiger‘s eyes glinted.
“What about reprisals? What about the Americans or Israel? Surely they will hunt even you down?”
The Ukrainian laughed. His pitted and scarred face looked like a macabre gargoyle. “What are the Jews going to do? They will blame Hezbollah, use it as an excuse to occupy more Lebanese soil, and I will make even more money selling rockets to your comrades.”
“You’re not worried they’ll come for you?”
Another laugh. “The Americans will not touch me! The CIA wants Russian technology as much as everyone else. One jet and a handful of Jews are…inconsequential.”
“Maybe to the Americans, but Mossad—“
“Mossad? Israeli intelligence are toothless fools; outside of the Middle East they are nothing. Look around, comrade, I own the Ukraine. Here I am a king. Do you think I should fear Mossad when I am surrounded by the best security money can buy?”
The Iranian could only nod. Dostiger’s headquarters was indeed a fortress. Heavily armed guards manned all the entrances and CCTV cameras watched every space.
“My men will conduct the attack and I will continue my business as I always have.”
“This will need approval from the head of the Guards,” the Iranian said.
“The decision they need to make is whether or not they want to continue doing business wth me. Tell them to watch the skies over Israel, I will show them what my missiles can do.”
The Iranian smiled for the first time and stood up. He held his hand out. “You are a cunning man, Dostiger.”
“Not at all,” Dostiger shook the Iranian’s hand. “I am simply a businessman.”
Chapter 6
Barcelona, Spain, 2004
The dingy internet cafe was hardly the most enticing location in the picturesque city of Barcelona. Half a dozen obsolete PCs, cheap plastic chairs, cracked linoleum and the stale stench of cigarettes. It wasn’t the place to be enjoying a holiday but Bishop didn’t notice. While other tourists explored the history and culture of the coastal city, he was scrolling through the latest news from the world’s conflict zones.
He noted the ongoing violence in Iraq with disgust. The headlines were all the same: bombings, kidnappings, beheadings, and increasing casualties. More soldiers dying, more innocent civilians slaughtered, and all for what? Oil. No one seemed to care that thousands of people die every day in other conflicts throughout the world. Shaking his head in frustration, he closed the webpage and logged onto his email.
There were two new messages. Bishop’s mood improved instantly as he opened one from his father. His parents had arrived safely in Tel Aviv and were visiting friends. In just over a week they would meet him in Spain, his mother’s birthplace.
The second email was from Mirza Mansoor. Ever since the incident in Sierra Leone four years ago, the two men had remained in contact, sharing emails and letters. Mirza had gone on to work with the Special Frontier Force, an elite special operations unit of the Indian Army. Bishop’s career on the other hand, had been sidelined. His otherwise perfect record marked with a single count of insubordination.
Bishop opened the email:
I hope you are making the most of your holiday, my friend. Make sure you are taking the time to relax and enjoy life outside of the army.
I have started a new job with a contractor based out of India, good money but a little boring. Thanks again for the job reference. Hope you visit sometime soon.
Mirza
He typed a quick response and hit send. Gathering his belongings, he paused at the counter to settle the account
“Ah, are you Mr Bishop?” asked the pimple-faced youth behind the till.
Bishop looked over his shoulder, quickly scanning the other users in the room. None of them looked familiar or particularly threatening. He turned back to the attendant. “I might be. What do you want?”
“A man left this for you.” He handed over a crisp white envelope.
Bishop opened it and pulled out a business card.
He looked around the room again and out the window to the street.
“Who gave you this?” he asked.
“An older man: big Black-American.”
“When?”
“Umm, hour ago, maybe more. He said to give it to Mr. Bishop, with the brown jacket.”
Fuck, thought Bishop. Is this a scam? How the hell does he know my name? He looked back at the card. It resembled a military patch, the
sort of thing US Special Forces sometimes wore. Sometimes the answer can be found in a book? It felt like a puzzle, a clue to some sort of treasure hunt.
He took the card back to an Internet terminal and punched the address into Google Maps. It was close, not more than a few blocks away. He rocked back in the chair, trying to make sense of it all. He knew there was no way he could turn his back on this. He threw a few coins on the counter and left the café.
Walking out onto the busy footpath, he joined the throngs of tourists, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder, searching for a tail. Nothing, no one seemed to be paying even the slightest attention to him.
Hauling a battered Lonely Planet guide from his leather satchel, he thumbed through the pages. He briefly read the description of Barri Gotic, the gothic quarter of old Barcelona. The route seemed simple enough; a long, pleasant walk through the ancient streets.
Although Bishop had been staying in Barcelona for a number of days, he hadn’t made any effort to explore the city. So far he’d either been thrashing himself with his vigorous exercise regime, drinking in dimly lit bars or surfing the Internet. Maybe it was time to stop dwelling on things he couldn’t change and make the most of his holidays. At least the cryptic card had given him something to break the self-destructive pattern he’d fallen into.
Strolling through Barcelona, Bishop began to see the city in a new light. The sheer magnificence of the architecture enthralled him, the ancient buildings steeped in over two thousand years of history. He wandered absent-mindedly, forgetting his mission, drawn away from the traffic-lined roads into the quiet cobblestone streets.
When he finally remembered to check his map, he had been walking for nearly thirty minutes. He looked around to gain his bearings. The streets were old and narrow, hemmed in by ancient sandstone walls. By pure luck it looked as if he had stumbled into the Barri Gotic. He checked the brass plaques that announced the names of the streets, searching for his destination. Bingo! Carrer de Cervantes, the street he was looking for.
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