Firestorm
Page 17
And now that he knew what the name meant? He never wanted to call her Savannah again. No wonder she preferred being called Savvy or James. He remembered what she’d said about James. “Your uncle was CIA?”
“Yes. My father’s brother.”
“Were you close?”
“He died a few months after I was born. He’s one of the stars on the wall at Langley.”
He remembered the photo in her office. The wall was important to everyone who worked for the CIA, and it didn’t surprise him she had a photo of it, but now he knew it went even deeper than Agency pride for her.
Jesus. Would Harrison Evers get a star?
He silently vowed to do everything he could to prevent that from happening.
17
“This is interesting,” Freya said as she read a document on the new computer. “Fitzsimmons questioned Lubanga on the prevalence of artisanal miners in Congo and protection for mining claims.”
They’d been on the road for several hours, and she’d used her satellite hotspot to download Lubanga’s files to the new machine. Now she combed through the files while Cal drove, looking for references to Fitzsimmons.
Artisanal mining was unregulated mining—in some cases, looting by an individual or small group—and it often involved child labor and extremely unsafe conditions. Artisanal and Small Scale Mining—commonly referred to as ASM—usually involved subsistence miners who used hand tools. Because it was illegal, they often worked in protected areas, endangering wildlife and themselves. In DRC, ASMs mined diamonds, cobalt, coltan, and even uranium.
“What kind of artisanal mining is he worried about?” Cal asked. “Diamonds? Coltan?”
“Doesn’t say.” She reread the document. There wasn’t much to it. No dates except the JPEG creation date: three months ago. No locations. Nothing concrete that could be pinned on the ministry. “Doesn’t even mention the school he’s supposedly funding.” She’d been searching the files for the location of the school, but so far, between encrypted files in English and French that would take time to crack, unsearchable JPEG files, and documents in Lingala, she’d come up empty.
“It’s weird,” she said. “As an American, I can’t help but think, how is it possible to hide a school? But in DRC…”
“Yeah. You need to let go of your notions of infrastructure. The gaps between organized towns and cities are vast. You can hide a lot in the in-between spaces, even if that isn’t the goal. Put some effort behind it, and you can be invisible.”
“I’ll keep looking, but so far, our best lead is ‘Versailles subway.’ It’s a starting point.” Even better, there were known tunnels under Mobutu’s African Versailles. No mention of a subway, but maybe the reference was more about underground passages. She’d looked up the location of the jungle palace—now a ruin—and had been relieved to see the main town, Gbadolite, had an airport. They could charter a flight and might even be able to skip—or bribe their way through—customs. She had several items she didn’t want anyone looking at too closely. Even satellite phones could be seen as suspect when entering DRC. Her satellite hotspot would be very suspicious. And it would be nice if they could keep their handguns and a few other goodies she’d brought.
A road sign indicated they neared Morogoro, a large city with plenty of options for food and fuel. “We should refuel the car and fill the jerry cans. As far as I can tell, gas stations get farther apart after Morogoro, and they might not be open twenty-four hours.” She closed the laptop and set it on the floor. “I’ll drive, and you can read the documents in Lingala. Maybe we can find something more about Fitz or whatever is supposed to happen in Versailles on the fifth.”
Cal nodded and took the exit. They spotted a dirt path that paralleled the main highway and agreed to stretch their legs for a bit after fueling up. They had a long night of driving ahead of them. As eager as she was to get the hell out of Tanzania, a walk with fresh air would do her good.
After getting gas, they grabbed a snack from their food supplies and set out on the path. This far inland was much muggier without Indian Ocean breezes, and the warm air was like an embrace. Pedestrians and bicycles filled the path on the sultry evening. A few people sharing the path were white, so Freya didn’t stand out as much as she might elsewhere in the more rural parts of Tanzania.
Cal touched her hand, but then released it. “Handholding and other public displays of affection aren’t really acceptable here, but handholding is okay in Congo. Definitely no kissing in public there or here.”
She nodded. Being around Gorev’s associates was not the same as being among Tanzanians.
“We need a new cover story,” he said quietly. “There’s no need for you to play whore or courtesan in Congo.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Married couple. I’m taking you to see my mother’s country for the first time.” Except for the married part, it was true, which would make it an easy cover to maintain.
“Works for me. Where are we from?”
“May as well stick to the truth as much as possible. I grew up in the DC area. You know DC from your time at Langley. So DC, Maryland, or Virginia. Your pick.”
“DC. We’re wealthy enough to charter flights for this trip and travel in as much style as possible in Congo, so I guess we’re both attorneys?”
“You’re an attorney. I couldn’t fake my way through legal terms. I’m a defense contractor. My company provides private security for diplomats.” And with a father in the State Department, he also knew a bit about that world.
“Perfect. How long have we been married?”
“I think only a year,” he said. “Your mom is starting to nag us for grandkids, so we decided to take this trip because it’s something we wouldn’t do with children, at least, not until they’re much older.”
She wanted to close her eyes and slip into this fantasy of a quiet life with Cal. She’d never wanted kids, but the idea of raising a child with him triggered an ache that was new. She had a feeling he’d be an amazing dad.
The fantasy is just escape. It’s not Cal and kids that you want. It’s to be out of this nightmare. To be safe. To be less alone.
But then she looked up at the man by her side and knew it was also Cassius Callahan. She was drawn to him like a magnet and had been since the first time she sat in a SOCOM meeting and met his gaze. She remembered the exact moment, the frisson that had spread through her. His look had been curious, interested. He’d changed later, when he’d learned she was CIA.
The change in him had led her to look up his service file—she had access to all the special ops teams information—and learned his mom was from DRC, which at least gave her a hint as to his disdain.
She realized now she could finally ask the question that had nagged at her then. “The CIA helped Belgium assassinate Lumumba, paving the way for Mobutu to seize power in Congo. Is that why you dislike the CIA so much?”
“It’s part of it.”
And now, she’d gotten him roped into another CIA assassination mission—of another Congolese man. Or, at least, she’d believed that was her mission. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Regardless, she was too raw to delve into all the reasons he didn’t like her, and regretted bringing the subject up. “I have more passports in different names. We’ll have no problem entering the country.”
“Who are we now?”
“The names don’t matter so much. We won’t use them anywhere but at checkpoints. I kept your initials, so you’re Charlie Carson. I’m Sandy Jones.”
“So you didn’t take my name when we married.”
“I could point out that you didn’t take mine.”
He smiled. Oh, how she loved that grin. “True. Cassius Lange sounds pretty good, actually. But then people would wonder why everyone calls me Cal.”
She knew he was just being silly, but for some reason, she felt a flutter at his use of their real names, casually combining them in matrimony. “Well, it could be your initials. What’s
your middle name?” She found herself mentally hoping it was Andrew or something else that would fit the A in CAL.
“Rishi. Named for my mother’s father.”
“That’s right. I forgot. Guess you should probably keep your name, then.”
He smiled again. “You ready to head back?”
She nodded, and they turned to walk to their car, discussing their new cover, deciding on the necessary details to prepare for their journey into the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
Freya was asleep as they neared the lakeside town of Kigoma just over twenty-four hours after leaving Dar es Salaam. Cal nudged her awake. “We’re almost there, sweetheart.” They’d decided to use endearments instead of names as much as they could, given that he’d have a hard time adjusting to calling her Sandy after rehearsing Jamie for so long.
It didn’t hurt that the endearment came naturally. Something he found both alarming and pleasant.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she took in their surroundings. She woke up like a soldier, he’d noticed. Ready to fight. But then, she’d been trained in much the same way as he had. She was an elite operator in her own right. The only difference was that his physical training continued on a daily basis as his work involved training others, while her work had been largely a desk job as she consulted with SOCOM and shared her expertise in intel gathering and analysis.
She could go toe to toe with him in the gym, and, he now knew, had a libido that kept pace with his in the bedroom. She could be his ideal woman, and for the first time since meeting her, the idea didn’t terrify him.
But it should. Given their situation? It definitely should.
They drove straight to the airport. It was early afternoon, and they hoped to find a pilot to fly them to Gbadolite, the ancestral home of Mobutu Sese Seko. His Versailles in the Jungle.
The first pilot they spoke to had another run to make and wasn’t available until the following day. The second pilot’s plane was grounded for a mechanical problem. The third ended up being the charm—for the right price, which was steep. Thank goodness money wasn’t an issue on this op.
They grabbed their belongings from the car, including a new backpack that was the same size as the pack he wore on ops, but in neon orange and green that proclaimed camping enthusiast, not military. The eastern part of DRC was overloaded with different militia groups trying to take over the country. Any hint of military affiliation, and no amount of bribery could get them into the country.
Freya had a special backpack for hiding her spy gear and should be able to pass inspection no problem. Cal’s pack was loaded with their camping supplies and the basic, over-the-counter electronics, including binoculars with night vision he’d picked up at the sporting goods store. They were far from military grade, but they’d do in a pinch and could pass border inspection. Freya had night-vision glasses for both of them in her spy gear, but they didn’t have magnification. The only item in his pack that was military grade was his GPS, but in Congo, over-the-counter GPS wouldn’t do. Given that all their gear—including the GPS—was shiny and new, they’d look like tourists who’d loaded up on all the best gadgets for their adventure.
Thankfully, the customs inspection was cursory, due in part to the cash Cal dropped to speed it along, but they had the perfect excuse—they needed to depart right away if they wanted to beat a storm that was predicted to roll into Gbadolite later that evening. As long as they didn’t hit any weather, the flight would take just under two hours.
An hour after reaching Kigoma, they settled in their seats in the back of the small plane. Cal reached across the armrest to take Freya’s hand and threaded his fingers through hers as they sped down the runway.
They circled around and gained altitude as they crossed the lake border between Tanzania and Congo. It wasn’t long before he was looking out the window as his mother’s country passed beneath them.
Congo. He was going back to Congo.
He’d grown up on his mother’s stories of the mining village she lived in until she was thirteen. Her stories of the jungle, the river, they’d been wildly magical. Even her stories of the Kinshasa of her teen years had a special quality.
She’d left willingly, but that didn’t mean she didn’t cherish her homeland. She’d just fallen in love and saw a different opportunity for her children.
He’d seen her cry many times as her country was brutalized by war. When her sister and nieces were raped, her nephews conscripted. His mother had survivor’s guilt for escaping.
When finally it was safe to visit, she’d brought Cal and his brothers, and they’d seen the magic and the horror that was Congo, and he’d been captivated. His heart raced now, excitement and dread coursing through him.
Congo wasn’t home. Would never be home, yet it held a piece of his heart, and he carried pride in his Congolese heritage. That pride had spurred him and his brothers to learn to read and write in Lingala, when it was primarily a verbal language.
He’d not just claimed his Congolese side, he’d owned it. Honored it.
And now he was returning, hoping to find information on a corrupt government official who planned a coup, so they could stop it. If that didn’t honor his heritage, he didn’t know what would.
Freya squeezed his fingers. “The mountains are so beautiful.”
He ran his thumb over their entwined hands, reminded of their flight from Djibouti to Nairobi. He brought her knuckles to his lips, something he hadn’t done on that first flight. She smiled and leaned into him. He couldn’t help himself and draped an arm across her shoulders. It worked for their cover—not that the pilot could see them from his closed cockpit—but more important, it felt right.
In the same way entering Congo felt right.
This thing with Freya, it had a flow like water in a mountain stream. It was natural, shaped by the landscape. It could be wild, with shallow, rough rapids, but it also could slow to a deep pool, calm and serene.
This was the calm between rapids, he knew, but he’d take it.
The plane was small and loud, and they settled into the silence as they crossed mountains and rainforest. After so many long hours in the car, by comparison, the flight passed quickly. As they descended to the runway at Gbadolite, Cal brushed his lips across Freya’s temple even as he girded himself for the roles they had to play when they landed.
For tonight, they’d head to the formerly grand Motel Nzekele, which was now run-down, with an emptied swimming pool and dilapidated theater, but which they’d been assured still accepted guests who dared to make the trek to the once-luxurious palace. They’d talk to the locals, get a feel for the area—Cal’s language skills would pave the rutted roads, making it easy for them to gather intel—but after they secured a room, he planned nothing more taxing than sleep. They’d only slept in two-hour shifts during the drive from Dar to Kigoma. They were both due a solid night’s rest.
Tomorrow, which would be the fifth of June, they’d begin the real work of tracking down what was happening in Versailles that day.
On the tarmac of the old airport with the single, long runway that had been built to accommodate Mobutu’s chartered Concorde flights, Cal tipped the pilot and thanked him for a smooth, easy flight. Raindrops splattered the cracked pavement; they’d beaten the predicted storm by a handful of minutes.
Gbadolite was the rare city in DRC that had electricity, thanks to a hydroelectric dam on a nearby river constructed for Mobutu to power his Versailles. Most of DRC lacked infrastructure, but here, there were roads and ruins. Sure, the jungle was consuming the roads, and the ruins were a sad reminder of a horrific kleptocrat, but the area was unique for having lights and appliances. The sorts of things he took for granted on a daily basis, even in Djibouti.
Because of this affluence, locals were inclined to hold fond memories of Mobutu. This oasis in the jungle was the one place where Mobutu had created jobs and prosperity. His palace had employed hundreds, and for many years, this had been a thriving paradise.
Visitors were rare, and most flights to Gbadolite came from Kinshasa, not Tanzania, so their arrival was met with anticipation from locals, three of whom lined up to offer them a ride from the airport to wherever they wished to go. They were whisked to Motel Nzekele in short order, and the skeleton staff of the decrepit, formerly five-star hotel were similarly eager to rent them a room.
At last they were alone in a private room, after a grueling two days. Forty-eight hours ago, they’d been on Gorev’s yacht. Twenty-four hours ago, they’d been on the road, fleeing Dar es Salaam.
Now they were somewhere that was more of a nowhere, a strange, remote roadside attraction, and they could let their guard down for a few hours and get some sleep.
Customs had been cursory on this side—a perk of the airport not having an international terminal, or even daily scheduled flights. No one in the world knew where they were. For anyone from Lubanga’s circle to guess this destination, they’d have to know which files Freya had downloaded and read and then make the mental leap to Gbadolite with that information. It was more likely they’d opt for Kinshasa, or back to Nairobi.
In short, they were safe, and all Cal wanted was sleep. Well, he wanted Freya too, but all he’d get was sleep. They had too much to sort out between them to blithely pick up where they’d left off yesterday morning. But still, they slept in the same bed, the heat of their bodies further heating the musty, muggy room.
He didn’t mind the heat, and her scent filled his senses, making him want to pull her close, in spite of the humid air. It came as no surprise when he woke in the darkest hours of the night to find Freya at his side, curled against him.
He imagined waking her with his mouth, as she had done for him. Just the thought made him hard. He wished he could stroke one out, but the bathroom attached to their room had no plumbing and no door. He’d have to get up and walk down the hall to the only intact bathroom on this floor of the hotel, just to jack off in private.