Hostile Contact

by Gordon Kent

  Dukas tried to stretch and succeeded only in pushing his seat back into the knees of the person behind him. He got a hard thrust back, and he grunted. His wound ached. His head ached. His mouth tasted like old mummy wrappings. The memory of Sally Baranowski was like a sore.

  When the sun at last rose, he found himself looking down at endless red desert. It was shockingly beautiful, shocking because stark and unpeopled and alien, undulating away to the horizon without a hint of green or a suggestion of movement. Shadows, exaggerated by the early sun, made a moonscape. Only once, an hour after sunrise, did what might have been a road appear, going from somewhere to somewhere all by itself, unpeopled, undriven, unwalked.

  “What d’you see?” Triffler said in a hoarse voice.

  “Africa.”

  Triffler craned across Dukas’s lap and looked down. He made a sound like a groan.

  “When the Brits made maps of it,” Dukas growled, “they wrote ‘MMBA’ on the empty places.” He grinned into Triffler’s worried eyes. “ ‘Miles and Miles of Bloody Africa.’ ”

  Then there were hills and dusty green off to the plane’s right, and then a river and intense green, and he thought they were skirting the Sudd, the part of the Nile in southern Sudan where weed grew so thick that it used to close the river. And then there were mountains below and a great dry plain and a vast lake in it, which he thought was Turkana, teeming with fish and crocodiles, its successive levels over the millennia marked by terraces of dark stone that had once been beaches where, when this had been lush savanna, the first humans had lived and died and left their bones for the twentieth century to find.

  Dukas had been to Kenya four times and he knew the terrain by car, but from the air he got lost. When they got too low for him to follow the escarpment of the Rift, he had to guess where he was, hoping that the rounded green mountains were either the Aberdares or the Matthews, and the still-greener hills with fields and houses that looked like specks, and the roads that had movement on them now like ant trails were the Kikuyu country, the old white man’s country, with lakes to the west and savanna to the south. Then they were lower still, houses and cows below, and roads and fields, and buildings and streets and throngs of people and then grassy prairie again; they banked and turned and turned again and came in on the final approach into Kenyatta, and he saw the other morning flights turning in the sky above them, and two already on the ground below, bright silver and tan dust, the look of drought, acacia trees casting thin shade on dry earth, and then concrete and wire and the hard whack of the first touch and the roar of the engines.

  “Welcome to Africa,” he said.

  “They wouldn’t give me a polio shot,” Triffler said. “I should have had a polio shot.”

  “You had polio shots when you were a kid; you’re immune.”

  “I should have been given a booster if I wanted one.” Triffler was dodging people who were jerking baggage out of the overheads as if the Mau Mau were about to attack the plane. Triffler got hit in the shoulder and sat back down. “Africans have no manners,” he said in a loud voice, but, as most of the people on the plane were Americans, nobody cared. Dukas started to say that in his experience Africans were the politest people in the world, but then he thought that that wasn’t quite right, either. Africans could be the politest people in the world, he decided, but they also could be the most shortsighted, the cruelest, the stubbornest, and the least caring, and the best way to bring out their courtesy was to be their guest.

  “Remember, we’re guests here,” he muttered to Triffler as they passed the weary cabin attendants and started up the tunnel.

  “I read the State Department booklet,” Triffler said. “Do you suppose there’s a Starbucks in Nairobi?”

  “Dozens of them,” Dukas said. Fatigue was pressing on his shoulders like two big, nasty birds perched there. “Starbucks on every corner.” They trudged through endless corridors to the dark shed where customs officers glowered. “Better get your passport out of your panty hose,” he whispered, “so they’ll know you’re a rich foreign devil.”

  Triffler had stopped to stand and sniff. Other people were going around him, banging him with carry-on luggage, muttering. Triffler was taking in his first smells of Africa. Dukas could get them faintly, too—dust, smoke, sourness, altogether a smell that is mostly pleasant and utterly unforgettable. Triffler sniffed again. “It’s a blend,” he said, as if he were talking about coffee. “Interesting.”

  A man with a sign that said DUCKAS PARTY was standing in the crowd where immigration disgorged tourists into Africa. Other men held up sticks with signs that read TRANSSIMBA TOURS and BWANA TOURS and BESTWEST HOTELS, and a man was shouting “Beckstein! Beckstein!” as if he had Beckstein for sale somewhere, and taxi drivers with hot eyes and lean, muscular bodies were darting forward to grab half of the handle of a piece of luggage so they could rip it from the owner’s hand and shout, “This way! This way—taxi, best taxi—!” Dukas pushed Triffler ahead of him, dodged a taxi driver, and shouted, “Duckas! Hey! I’m Duckas!”

  “Duckas?” Triffler said. “Duckas?”

  “In Africa, you learn flexibility,” Dukas said as their greeter pumped his hand and introduced himself as Mister Ngugi and then began to load himself with baggage. He wore a tan safari suit with short sleeves and Ngugi and Rolls Rentals embroidered on the pocket. They tumbled out into the morning heat, and the smell was stronger, and Triffler sniffed some more. Minivans were darting in and out; horns were blowing; black men in green uniforms were stepping from Range Rovers with zebra stripes painted on their doors to pick up stunned and grinning whites.

  Kenyatta is a more or less modern airport, but it sits near a city of only modest modernity, which is confined to a central area of about six blocks where the Euro-American hotels and the upscale shops huddle; beyond them, poverty and the Middle Ages fight an often-winning battle with the twentieth century. Between Kenyatta and the city is paved highway, scrub savanna, lots of trucks, and some of the worst driving in the world. Once the city itself is reached, armed soldiers start to appear—a truckload at this roundabout, a trio at that intersection.

  “Teenagers with assault rifles give me the willies,” Dukas said.

  “What’s going on?” Triffler said.

  “Nothing. They’re always there. That’s why nothing’s going on.” Dukas could tell that Triffler was thinking of walking these streets with a gun hidden in a holster, and of what it would mean to start shooting here. Their guns would be in a safe at the embassy now, waiting for them. “One shot, you could start a war,” Dukas said. “How do you deal with a high-risk meeting in Nairobi?”

  “Verr-ee carefull-ee,” Triffler murmured.

  “Hilton Hotel?” their driver said. Mister Ngugi was polite and brisk and spent his working life driving Americans around Nairobi, on contract with the embassy. He probably knew more about what spooks were in and out of Kenya than the local CIA station did.

  “Of course, the Hilton,” Dukas said. Mister Ngugi would know as well as Dukas did that all Americans who worked for the government had to stay at the Hilton or one of a couple of other central-city, upscale, expensive hotels for reasons of security. Mister Ngugi would know it, the Kenyans would know it, the Chinese would know it. You staying at the Hilton? What agency you work for?

  They pulled into one of the modern streets that surrounded the modern hotels, and Triffler sat up a little and looked hopeful. “I wonder where you run here,” he said.

  “Not in town; the muggers wear track shoes. Run in the boonies—the lions give you a hundred-yard head start.”

  They pulled up in front of the Hilton. Mister Ngugi jumped out, and baggage began to pass from black hands to black hands. Triffler stood on the sidewalk and said, “So this is Africa!”

  Dukas took his elbow. “No, this is Kansas City. Africa is about three blocks that way.”

  They headed into the hotel.

  Africa at sunset. Glorious colors as Alan landed at Jomo Kenyatta, the r
emembered red earth and green foliage, even in local winter. He smiled to himself before the smell had even reached him, because he always loved to return to Africa, and his mood lightened at once. It was more than just a land of adventure. It was a place where anything could happen.

  Nairobi after sunset. Darkness covered everything, seemed to flow through the doors of the Hilton, darkening even the electric light. No streetlamps, and cars without headlights. It reminded Alan of a city under siege. Across the square from the Hilton, the matatus, tiny buses built of pickup trucks and minivans, honked for passengers and bowled off into the night. Most had only one headlamp and marginal brakes. He stopped just outside the entrance of the Hilton and lit a cigarette, peered off into the dark for a moment as he inhaled, and then walked a few steps to a bedraggled flower border armored in brick that marked the edge of the Hilton’s efforts to maintain North America in Africa. Through the smoke of a trash fire and the screen of untended acacia trees in the park, he could see the dark yellow lights of the Ambassadeur Hotel, an Indian-run institution where he’d have stayed except that it wasn’t approved by the U.S. government. It cost less, offered less, and pretended to less. It also housed the best restaurant in Africa, the Safir.

  Alan took another drag on his cigarette and mashed it under his foot, as if destroying the butt could destroy the habit. Then he turned back for the lobby to find his friends.

  Dukas’s room had become his operations center, and it was packed with people. Dick Triffler was sitting primly in a chair, holding a STU to his ear and taking notes. Two overweight white men were poring over a plastic-coated map of downtown Nairobi, while a young black woman cleaned an automatic pistol on a chair near the bathroom. Mike sat at the tiny, inadequate desk, the whole awash in paperwork and what appeared to be stacks of dinner trays.

  Alan felt that they had all frozen at his knock, and the small man who opened the door was hesitant to let him in, but Dukas shot out of his seat and moved faster than his bulk would have suggested, only whacking his shin once in his move to the door. He engulfed Alan in a brief embrace, and Alan returned it, surprised at Mike’s vehemence, then realizing that it was Dukas’s apology for jerking him around.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you,” Dukas said. “We need you.”

  Alan tossed his big backpack on the bed and opened a zippered pocket. “Want to sign for this stuff, Mike? I’d like to get it out of my pack before the rot spreads.”

  The rest of Mike’s team had gathered around. Alan was holding an opaque plastic bag and a pill bottle.

  “Everybody, this is Lieutenant-Commander Alan Craik of the Navy. He is, at least temporarily, a sworn agent of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Alan, the dangerous woman with the gun is Margo Simcoe, the fat guys are Frank Rcozy and Bob Lightner. That’s Brian O’Leary who let you in.”

  Dick Triffler leaned past all of them to shake Alan’s hand. “Long time, no see,” he said with faint sarcasm.

  “What’s in the plastic?” asked Margo. She had reached the point where she had to put the spring back into the slide and run the slide back into its grooves when the door had opened, and as soon as she had fired off her question, she finished the job so that the slide made a little click of emphasis. She smiled. Alan thought she might have watched too many Dirty Harry movies.

  “That’s Colonel Chen. That is, those packets contain some small part of the rapidly rotting mortal remains of Colonel Chen.”

  “Oooh,” said Rcozy, stepping away from Alan’s outstretched arm. “Yech.”

  “Give me that,” said Mike. “Got a chain of custody?”

  “Yep. There it is. Sign there. It’s your problem now.”

  “Great job, Al. How’s Harry?”

  “He says to tell you he knew he was working for you when he got shot at. I thought I’d just echo his sentiment.”

  “Shot at?”

  “Yeah, in Tajikistan. Local shooters, probably Russian.” Alan didn’t dwell on it. “When’s my plane out of here?”

  Dukas put the two packets on top of his room’s refrigerator. “Bob, get part of the skin sample off to the Legal Attaché at the embassy in the morning, okay?”

  Bob nodded, already back to his map.

  Dukas was searching the piles of paper on his desk. “Dick, do you have any stickers?”

  Triffler opened a zipped leather notebook, carefully removed two round stickers, affixed one to each of Alan’s packets and wrote something on them. Then he put them into the freezer.

  “When’s my plane to the boat?” Alan asked again.

  “Where’s Harry now?”

  “Probably Dar es Salaam with his team. He’ll send a coded call when he has Lao in sight. When’s my plane?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Dukas said. His smile was hesitant.

  “Come again?” asked Alan. He had suspected something like this.

  “I need you, Al. We have a lot to do and we’re thin on the ground.”

  “Giving me a badge doesn’t make me an agent! What the hell can I do that these folks can’t?”

  “Fly.” Dukas opened his hands in mock apology. “We’ve got to have somebody in the air if we do a second meeting.”

  “Here’s the outline as I see it.” Dukas was sitting in the desk chair, the rest of his team perched on furniture or leaning against the walls. “I could spend all night on the maybes and the possibilities. Lao may not show, or he may wreck the meeting. He may not bite. Forget all that. We need to plan as if he makes the meeting, takes the hook, and shows some willingness to meet again or come straight over. So this is how I want to play.” Dukas flipped a big map of East Africa on the bed.

  “Chinese Checkers has a meeting site in Nairobi. The site is the Safir Restaurant in the street level of the Ambassadeur Hotel. It’s an interesting site choice, as it’s very public. That should work in our favor. Nobody should be shooting in a crowded restaurant. It’ll limit conversation. It makes a snatch unlikely. That said, we have to be on our toes, especially as it’s just across the park. Tomorrow, I’ll spend all day moving, going to the game park, seeing the sights, and visiting the public market. Frank and Bob have built me a route. You guys will all play countersurveillance. As we begin the final run, you have to watch me and watch for Lao. And, of course, watch for Lao’s watchers, as well. Once he’s in the Safir, you have to try and tag as many of his guys as possible. His team could be local or Chinese. We’re going to stand out—in case you haven’t noticed, most people outside the walls of the Hilton aren’t white—which is why we’re limiting my route to tourist spots.”

  Dukas took a sip of water and stared off into space for a moment.

  “You’ll all have cell phones and headsets. I can’t guarantee the headsets will work. Margo and Brian tried them this afternoon in the park and had some problems. So stick to cell phones when you can. Everyone in Africa has one, so they won’t stand out. You’ll have weapons. Don’t use them. If you’re fired on and have any choice at all, just run. I want to say that again. Anybody shoots, for any reason short of the preservation of national security, and I’ll have your badge. The FBI guy at the embassy moved mountains to get the weapons to us, and I don’t want to piss on his trust. Okay?”

  Everyone nodded. Alan snuck a look to see if Margo was disappointed, but she wasn’t; her attention was fixed on Dukas. Triffler nodded at him. What did that mean?

  “When Lao walks in, Triffler calls him in on his handset. He’ll be sitting right there, at another table. My backup.”

  “Kind of hard to call him in when he’s eight feet away.”

  “Just one word. Just say ‘in.’ I want everybody to know when it starts. And when it ends. You call him out, too.”

  “And then I say ‘out’?” Triffler was deadpan.

  Dukas blew right by it. “Right. If he comes and stays willing, we’ll talk, and I’ll tell him some home truths. That is, I’ll tell him that Chen is dead, offer him proof, and suggest what happened to the money. If he bites, he’ll take
a second meeting. If he really takes the bait, he might offer to defect right there. If so, I’ll give the word—’Christmas.’ Christmas means we’re taking him out of the Safir and straight to the embassy. We’ll take him out through the kitchen and put him in a panel van with hotel markings. Frank has that part arranged.”

  Dukas swept the room with a glance. He looked at his watch, fidgeted a little, and looked at the map. “The hard part will be after the meeting. Any funny business will happen then. If I’ve called it wrong, and he gets the wrong message or has something bad in mind, we’ll see it at the end. Short of him trying to snatch me, you take no action. If he runs screaming from the building, let him go. If you’ve tagged one of their agents—”

  “Tagged?” asked Alan. “In the Navy, that means ‘destroyed.’ ”

  “Let’s not have that misunderstood.” Dukas laughed grimly. “ ‘Tagged’ means identified and kept under your eye. If you’ve tagged one, remember that there’s an intelligence value to having a photograph for future identification. That’s one. Two is that you can try to surveil your man, if you have one, back to his transport. That will depend on the situation, and every one of you will have to make that call for yourselves. If you see a probable, and I stress probable, you call him. The word will be cat.”

  “Cat?” asked Triffler. “I thought we were on a holiday theme.”

  “Lao calls himself Rathunter. We’ll call his people cats. Cat one, cat two, etc. Okay? Everybody still with me? I’d like to stress that most of us stand out like a sore thumb, and that it might not be worth your while to get aggressive. Whenever you break off contact, you run your own clearing route to make sure you’re alone and come back here. Odds are they know perfectly well where we’re staying. The necessity of playing ball with our own government makes stealth kind of impossible, but play the game, folks. We’ll rally here and talk it through. ‘Christmas’ means we’re now doing an extraction. ‘April Fool’s’ means we’re aborting. ‘Easter’ means one of you has spotted Lao. After that, he’s the rabbit. Any questions?”