Eternal Night

by Richard Turner

  “Camera gear,” answered Artan.

  “Open the back; I’d like to take a look.”

  “May I offer you a cigarette?” said Artan pulling out an opened package of cigarettes from a shirt pocket.

  The officer glanced both ways before taking the packet. He glanced inside and nodded. The policeman waved at his colleague, who pulled the wooden barrier back so they could proceed.

  “Thank you,” said Artan, shifting their Rover in drive.

  The officer tapped the side of the vehicle as it drove away.

  “How much was in the packet?” Mitchell asked.

  “The usual two hundred dollar donation,” replied Artan, smiling. “They’ll be lucky to see twenty dollars after all the people above them take their cut.”

  “Is two hundred the norm?” asked Jackson.

  Artan nodded. “A few months back the army tried asking for more, but the businessmen got angry, so it was agreed to only ask for a two hundred dollar donation at each stop.”

  “Are there any more checkpoints?” asked Dawn.

  “Five,” replied Artan. “Don’t worry, my sister made sure I have enough money to get us to Kafia Kingi.”

  “Graft and corruption,” said Jackson. “It’s the same all over the world. Someone always has their hand out for something.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” agreed Mitchell.

  “Ryan, since we’re not really looking to buy ivory, what’s the game plan when we get to Kafia Kingi?” asked Jackson.

  “I’m hoping Jen and Fahimah have solved that piece of the puzzle before we get there,” he replied. “If not, I say we discreetly ask around about the Sandesh Corporation and see if that gets us anywhere.”

  Jackson looked over accusingly at Dawn. “Do you know any more than you’re pretending to?”

  “No, Mister Jackson, I know no more than you do,” she replied. “On this, you’ll have to trust me.”

  “That’ll be the day,” said Jackson, under his breath.

  “We’re nine hours ahead of Albany,” said Mitchell, “I doubt we’re going to get any news from the folks back home until 1700 hours.”

  “That’ll put us very near our destination,” said Artan.

  “Sometime after lunch, find a secluded spot and pull over,” said Mitchell. “I don’t want to go wandering into unfriendly territory until I know what I’m getting myself into.”

  “What if the ladies have nothing for us?” asked Jackson.

  “Then we spend the night out in the open. We’re not going in blind.”

  “My feelings exactly. Do you know, this assignment is starting to remind me of the time we went looking for the Goliath.”

  “The what?” said Dawn.

  “Since we’re all in the same business, but with rival bosses, if you’re good to me, I’ll tell you all about it while we eat our lunch MREs.”

  Mitchell glanced down at his watch and thought, come on Jen, don’t let me down.

  29

  Polaris Headquarters

  “Quiet, please, people,” said Jen to the staff sitting around the briefing room. “I’ve got Ryan on the speakerphone.”

  “Hello, can you hear me?” said Mitchell.

  “Loud and clear,” replied Jen. “Besides myself, Fahimah, Mike, and the general are in the room.”

  “Sounds good. Do you have anything new for me on Kafia Kingi?”

  Jen picked up her notes. “We sure do. As you’re aware, during the Cold War, the Soviets propped up the regime in the Sudan with money, technical support, and more importantly, weapons. In exchange, the Soviets were allowed to conduct chemical and biological warfare experiments on their soil.”

  “Where did you get this info?”

  “One of my contacts in the CIA owed me a favor and supplied me with the file,” explained Donaldson.

  “I don’t like the sound of bioweapons testing,” said Mitchell.

  “Ryan, there’s more,” said Jen. “The weapons plant was located in a valley near the border with the Central African Republic. According to the Russians, the plant was closed in accordance with the 1987 international test-ban treaty. What they didn’t say was that the plant was bought by an East German pharmaceutical company, which itself was then taken over by a Romanian corporation in the early nineties.”

  “Please don’t tell me it’s still operational.”

  “No, we don’t think so. Mike was able to obtain a satellite photo of the facility, and it looks like it has been abandoned for quite some time.”

  “If it’s been closed for years, why would Grace think that it’s important to whatever she’s doing?”

  “Ryan, it’s Fahimah. The Romanian company that last ran the plant is a shell corporation. We’re pretty sure it was once owned by the Sandesh Corporation. Whether he knew about it or not is up for debate. There has to be something there that’s worth checking out, or Grace wouldn’t have slipped you the flash drive.”

  “Do you have a map reference for this installation?” asked Mitchell.

  “That, and Mike’s picture, have been sent to you on your other secure account,” replied Fahimah.

  “Thanks; this is more than enough info to go on. Have you heard from Sam and Gordon recently?”

  “We have, and I cannot in mixed company repeat what Miss Chen said about Grace,” said O’Reilly. “I’ve never heard that many four-letter words come out of the mouth of a woman before.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “To be succinct, Ms. Maxwell set them up. They found, but no longer have, the artifact that went missing in 1942. Instead, they were robbed and given the name of an island in Kazakhstan in exchange for a priceless sword that allegedly once belonged to the Prophet Mohammed.”

  “Let me guess, there’s something suspicious about this island?”

  “It’s a former Soviet bioweapons test facility.”

  “At least we’re being consistent. Does any of this mean something to you?”

  “Sorry, Ryan, not yet. Until we discover what Mister Sandesh is up to, all we’ve got to go on are the clues being spoon-fed to us by Ms. Maxwell.”

  “General, where are Sam and Gordon now?”

  “They’re with Yuri, and are staying at a comfortable hotel in Cyprus.”

  “Yuri?”

  “He was played, too. He can explain it to you the next time you two are together.”

  “General, keep them there until Nate and I have taken a look around this old bioweapons plant. Things are starting to come to a head, and I think it would be wise for all of us to get together before heading to Kazakhstan, if that’s what we need to do.”

  “I agree. They won’t leave until they hear from me.”

  “Is there anything else for us?”

  “One last thing,” said Donaldson. “I did a background check on Sandesh’s head of security, and found out that he’s a former Bulgarian intelligence agent. Although he never served under the Communist regime, many of his superiors had ties to agents in the former Soviet Union. He’s quite intelligent and quickly rose through the ranks, but suddenly resigned when he turned thirty. He set up his own security firm, and made a ton of money supplying contractors to guard western civilians during the Afghan and Iraq Wars. When Sandesh’s old head of security died in a traffic accident five years ago, Dimov sold his company and offered his services to Mister Sandesh.”

  “So, a self-made millionaire is working for a billionaire,” mused Mitchell. “It all sounds a little too much to believe, if you ask me.”

  “I agree, but the facts are what they are.”

  “I guess so. If there’s nothing else for us, I’m going to sign off and brief up Nate and Dawn.”

  Jen leaned toward the speaker. “Take care and keep your head down.”

  “I will, and please give Sarah a kiss for me.”

  Jen switched off the speaker and took her seat.

  O’Reilly stared off thoughtfully into space for a moment. A few seconds later, he swung his chair aroun
d and looked into the faces of his key people. “Bioweapons seems to be the common denominator here. Folks, I’ve said it before, but we really need to get ahead of the curve and find out all we can about the gene-editing process Ryan told us about. Also, we need to learn all we can about what the Soviets were doing in Africa and Kazakhstan.”

  “Will do, sir,” said Fahimah.

  “I’m going to make a few calls to some of my friends in Washington. I suggest you all do the same, before something explodes in our faces that we can’t control or stop.”

  30

  South Sudan

  Mitchell waved at a couple of Kenyan peacekeepers standing next to their white-painted armored car as they left the small town of Raga and drove into no man’s land.

  “From here on up, the land is controlled by Patrick Kagame,” said Artan.

  “Have you ever met him?” asked Mitchell.

  The young man shook his head. “No, sir, and I never want to. Some people say Kagame has two lions he feeds his enemies to.”

  “True or not,” said Jackson, “let’s try and avoid this psycho if we can.”

  “It’s getting late,” said Dawn. “Are there any places we can spend the night?”

  “I usually rest at a friend’s home,” responded Artan. “We should be okay there.”

  “How many times have you driven this road?” asked Mitchel.

  “I’ve lost count. My sister has me deliver messages to people up here. On the odd occasion we come up here together, and leave with children whose parents have paid us to rescue them.”

  “How old are you, Artan?” asked Jackson.

  “I’m nineteen,” replied the youth.

  “You may be young, but you’re a brave man.”

  Artan smiled. “Thank you, sir. Most of the people up here know what I’m up to, but don’t report me to Kagame or his people, because they like the bribe money I pay them to look the other way.”

  “Either way, outside of the military, there aren’t too many nineteen-year-old kids back home risking their lives to save kids from a life of depravity.”

  “What does your friend do?” Dawn asked.

  “He’s a mechanic,” said Artan. “Without him, many of Kagame’s beaten-up vehicles would never move.”

  “And you’re sure you can trust him?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes, sir, he’s my cousin. It’s family before all else in this part of the world.”

  “Okay, I guess that settles that.”

  “How long until we reach your friend’s place?” inquired Jackson.

  “Maybe fifteen minutes,” replied Artan.

  “Checkpoints?” asked Dawn.

  “One on the far side of the village, but we won’t be going that far tonight.”

  Just as the sun dipped below the western horizon, Artan slowed down to avoid a couple of children chasing each other on the red dirt road leading into the rundown-looking village. There were a handful of red-tiled houses that were built more than thirty years ago, mixed in with traditional circular grass hats, and thrown-together wooden shacks lining the road. Artan stopped outside of a home with a tall metal gate, preventing anyone from getting in or out.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” said Artan, as he got out of the Rover and walked to the closed gate. He banged his hand hard on the gate three times. A small side door opened, and Artan stepped inside.

  “He’d better be on the level, or we’re sitting ducks in this vehicle,” said Jackson.

  “Have faith,” said Dawn.

  “There are only three people in the world I trust with my life, and neither you nor Artan are on my list.”

  The gate creaked open. Artan ran back to the Rover and jumped in. “My friend said it’s all right for us to spend the night here.” He drove inside and parked the vehicle next to a long, wooden shed.

  A slender man in his early twenties, wearing grease-stained coveralls, walked out of the shed and waved.

  “This is my friend Omar Al Hassan,” explained Artan. “His English isn’t as good as mine, but he tries his best.”

  Mitchell made the introductions for his team. When he was done, he looked around the cramped compound. “Omar, where would you like us to bed down for the night?”

  “Shed, please,” replied Omar.

  “Sounds fine to me,” said Jackson. “I’ll grab our gear out of the back of the Rover and set us up a spot to get comfortable in.”

  “I’ll help,” said Dawn.

  “Omar, my friends and I will keep out of your way, and be gone before first light tomorrow,” explained Mitchell. “You’ll never know we were here.”

  “People talk,” said Omar. “People already know you are here.”

  Mitchell looked at Artan. “Is this a problem?”

  Artan shook his head. He reached into his pocket and brought out two hundred dollars. “No problem. I pay Omar for his help, and he pays off his neighbors to forget we were ever here. This arrangement has never failed.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “If only life was this smooth.”

  Across the street, a man in faded military fatigues and reflective sunglasses butted out his cigarette with the heel of his combat boot and reached for his cell phone. He dialed a number and waited for his call to be answered.

  “Yes?” said a man with a slight British accent.

  “Sir, the mechanic has taken in some guests for the night,” reported the spy.

  “And?”

  “These people mean business. They’re either here to buy a lot of ivory, or cause a lot of trouble.”

  “Are you suggesting that I pay them a visit?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “How tiresome. So be it. I’m on my way. Make sure you keep a close eye on them, and let me know if they leave the mechanic’s home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead. The man, a veteran of Sudan’s civil war, stood up and adjusted the strap on his prosthetic leg. Paid to keep an eye on the people of the village, it was the first time he had ever called Patrick Kagame. He prayed he had it right and wasn’t wasting his employer’s time. The last man who did was never seen again.

  Jackson’s never-ending appetite came close to being satisfied while they dined on a mix of rations and lamb stew. Mitchell sat on an old, wooden box, cleaning the dust from one of the AKs Rahma had bought for them.

  A sudden loud bang on the metal gate made everyone freeze.

  Outside, Omar spoke with an unseen person in Arabic. With a quick nod, Omar opened the gate and stepped aside. Vehicle headlights from the outside flooded the darkened compound.

  Mitchell edged to a window and watched as a dozen or more armed men rushed in.

  “We’ve got company,” said Mitchell to his colleagues. “Put your weapons down, and don’t do anything foolish.”

  The door to the shed was flung open. Four guards with their weapons tight in their shoulders rushed in and took aim.

  “Evening,” said Mitchell, slowly raising his hands.

  A short, corpulent man strolled in, whistling a tune to himself. He wore a green beret on his head and ironed combat fatigues on his body. The polish on his boots was like glass.

  “Passports,” said the man.

  Artan walked from person to person, collecting their passports. He handed them to the man and edged back.

  The man perused the documents and smiled. “Another Canadian film crew. Let me guess, your story is the plight of the elephants here in the Sudan?”

  “Child combatants,” said Mitchell, noting the hint of an English accent in the man’s voice.

  “Original,” said the man, handing the passports back to Artan.

  “I thought so.”

  “So what brings the three of you to my part of Africa?”

  “Ivory.”

  “Please excuse my manners. My name is Patrick Kagame. I suspect the names in your passports are false, so I shan’t bother using them.” Kagame looked at Mitchell. “Since you seem to be in charge, what shall I cal
l you?”

  “Captain works for me,” replied Mitchell.

  “Okay, Captain, what makes you think you can walk unannounced into my territory and demand a piece of the ivory trade?”

  “Simple economics. Sooner or later, the police will smarten up and stop the flow of ivory to Asia along your existing smuggling routes. My partners and I served in Afghanistan and can guarantee you a new route to Asia for your ivory.”

  Kagame brushed the dust off a box and sat. “This is most intriguing. Please, do go on, Captain.”

  “In Afghanistan, the Taliban is once again cracking down on the opium trade. They, of course, will want to replace any lost revenue, and ivory is the answer to their problems. Because of Afghanistan’s porous borders, it is a relatively easy task to smuggle goods into Iran, Tajikistan, Pakistan, or China. From there, the ivory could continue on to your Asian markets.”

  “How can you guarantee that the ivory will get through?”

  Mitchell grinned. “That’s the easy part. Many Afghans have relatives on either side of the conflict. Over there, loyalty to one’s family blood comes before anything else. A Northern Alliance soldier will look the other way if his cousin from the Taliban wants to move ivory through his area. The best part is, they’ll never question it. Family first, Mister Kagame.”

  “You seem to have thought this through. How much of a cut would you be looking for?”

  Mitchell looked over at Jackson and then back to Kagame. “We’ll be the ones taking the risks, so I want fifty percent of your profits along our Afghan route.”

  Kagame stood. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Twenty, maybe.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “Forty-five and a half.”

  “Thirty, and not a penny more,” countered Kagame.

  “Forty-three.”

  “Forty-one and a quarter?”

  “Done,” said Mitchell offering his hand to seal the bargain. Kagame squeezed Mitchell’s hand tightly.

  “When can we expect this new operation to be up and running?”

  “My friends and I would first want to inspect your ivory, and then determine how much we can safely smuggle out of Africa to Afghanistan on a bi-monthly basis,” explained Mitchell.