Rebel Trade

by Don Pendleton

  “Good night, sir,” the detective interrupted Boavida, and the line went dead.

  Like Jamba and the others. All of them. Sixteen including Jamba, and all the weapons lost.

  And then it struck him.

  If there was a traitor in the ranks, as his white caller had warned Boavida earlier, it could not have been Jamba. Why in hell would he contrive to kill himself?

  But if the traitor wasn’t Jamba…

  Who else could Boavida trust?

  * * *

  EVEN WITH THE BATTLEGROUND a hundred miles behind them as they drove through the Omusati Region, Bolan still watched out for Nampol vehicles behind them, or approaching from the east. It was still dark out—two hours until dawn, officially—so there was no point checking overhead for aircraft. Nampol’s airwing had been created in 2009, and had waited twelve months longer for its second helicopter to arrive.

  Two choppers to cover eight hundred and twenty-five thousand square miles?

  Bolan reckoned they had a good chance of evading that team.

  The flip side of that coin was desolate country with only six recognized highways. The state, in its wisdom, had dubbed them B1 through B8, with no B5 or B7 to fill out the list. Lesser roads—meaning one lane with dubious pavement—had a C prefix, with double-digit numbers. The worst routes available, unpaved and rarely maintained, carried a D prefix and four-digit numbers.

  Namibia has no A-rated roads.

  If they were spotted on their journey back to Windhoek, Bolan had no realistic hope that his Volkswagen could outrun a Nampol cruiser. And for damn sure, he would find no place to hide from searchers in a landscape that was mostly desert, with a few scrub trees along the way to offer minimal variety. Their only hope lay in avoiding the police as long as possible and hoping they could reach the crowded city without being stopped.

  So far, so good.

  “You know,” Ulenga said, breaking the silence that had stretched for thirty miles, “there will be more weapons next week, next month, whenever.”

  “Sure there will,” Bolan agreed. “First thing you learn in this business, there’s no such thing as final victory. A battle’s only won for now. You stick around in one place long enough, you’ll have to do it all over again, from scratch.”

  “And if you don’t stay?” Ulenga asked, sounding vaguely wistful.

  “Same thing, different scenery,” Bolan replied. “It doesn’t matter if you’re in Namibia, in Russia or the States. Look past their pigment and their dialect, people are all the same. Most people do their best, while some hang back and prey on the majority. They may use politics or a religion as their cover—some may even be sincere, who knows? But the results don’t vary. People who’ve done nothing to the predators still wind up dead or wounded, homeless, violated. Traumatized.”

  “But if you cannot stop it…”

  “What’s the point? I still ask that, from time to time,” the Executioner admitted.

  “And can you answer?” Ulenga asked.

  “Likely not to anybody’s satisfaction but my own,” Bolan said. “I can’t save the world, okay? Hell, I can’t even save a town the size of Windhoek. Any long-term change depends on locals rising up, demanding that their leaders either solve a problem or step down in favor of someone who will. Finding a true reformer isn’t easy. I’m not sure I’ve ever met one.”

  “Then it’s all a waste of time,” Ulenga said.

  “Might look that way,” Bolan acknowledged. “But consider this—if you’re a villager and there’s a crocodile that hangs out at your water hole, eating whoever comes along, what do you do? Pack up and move? Let it keep snacking on your neighbors?”

  “Kill it,” Ulenga said.

  “There you go,” Bolan said. “But you always know another croc may come along and start the same thing all over again.”

  “Sometimes,” Ulenga told him, staring out the window into darkness, “I prefer the crocodiles.”

  “I hear you,” Bolan said. “You and me, both.”

  Cuban Embassy, Windhoek

  CAPTAIN RODRIGO ACOSTA was accustomed to strange hours. The nature of his work dictated that he be ready and available to deal with problems as they came, at any hour of the day or night. It could be anything: a summons from a worried diplomat demanding information or a wounded agent seeking refuge from local authorities. Whatever the demand, he must respond promptly, professionally—with, it hardly needed saying, one eye firmly fixed on the preservation and advancement of his own career.

  This morning it was Boavida, calling once again with more complaints about the losses he had suffered from attacks by unknown enemies. Since one of those, a faceless white man, was presumed by some to be American, Acosta had attempted to identify him with the tools at his disposal, but the task had proved fruitless. In the wake of 9/11, the United States simply had too many competing agencies involved in covert work around the world: collection of intelligence, “rendition” and “enhanced interrogation” of suspected terrorists, attacks on suspect individuals and groups which ranged from surgical removal to the deployment of the Reaper drones most famous for near-misses in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

  Too many agencies and far too many hunters on the loose these days.

  On top of which, Acosta was not absolutely certain that his target was American, or even acting on behalf of a specific government. It was a fact of life that Boavida and the MLF had enemies, in Africa and elsewhere.

  “What have you learned?” Boavida asked, after a truncated salutation. Courtesy had never been his strong point, and the rudeness grated on Acosta’s Latin sensibilities.

  “So far, nothing,” Acosta answered.

  “What? Nothing? How is that possible?”

  “Review the circumstances, Oscar. You asked me to find a white man, reasonably tall and possibly American. Beyond that, you provided no description, certainly no name or other leads to his identity.”

  “But you—”

  Acosta interrupted him to say, “On my initiative, inquiries have been made at Hosea Kutako International. As you’re aware, it is the only airport in the country that accepts international flights.”

  “Yes, yes. But—”

  “In the week before your trouble started, fifteen white men, traveling alone, landed at the airport. According to their passports—which, you realize, may have been forged—six of the men were German, three British, two French, two from the United States, one Russian, and one Greek. At my suggestion, the police have launched inquiries to discover which of those are still inside Namibia, and where they may be found.”

  “With what result?” Boavida asked, managing to sound slightly impressed.

  “Of the fifteen,” Acosta said, “nine left within two days of their arrival—five Germans, both Frenchmen, the Russian, and one American. That leaves—”

  “Yes, I can count!” The rudeness coming back again. “Where are the rest?”

  Acosta made his caller wait ten seconds, while he calmed himself, then said, “Inquiries are ongoing. As you know, all visitors must proffer an address where they’ll be staying in Namibia. In each case, the remaining six listed hotels—five here in Windhoek, one in Swakopmund. That is the Greek vice president of a respected shipping company and fifty-nine years old. Police in Swakopmund confirm his presence there. He’s not your man.”

  “Still, five remain,” Boavida said. “That is something.”

  “There is more,” Acosta told him. “I’ve discovered through a contact with FSB in Moscow that the Russian is a wealthy businessman with one foot in the underworld. It’s possible, in my opinion, that he may attempt to deal with your competitors for access to specific contraband, but he is not a soldier. Furthermore, one of your local officers assigned to Interpol has shadowed him since his arrival
in Namibia. Again, he’s not your man.”

  Growing impatient, Boavida pressed him. “What of the American?”

  Acosta paused again, refusing to be hurried. “Police confirm two of the Englishmen pursuing normal business here in Windhoek,” he forged on. “The third was not at his hotel, the Heinitzburg, when they checked in. They will keep looking for him. The last German divides his time between discussions with a local manufacturer and dallying with prostitutes. He has no time for killing revolutionaries.”

  “The American!” Boavida exclaimed.

  “Sí. The name on his passport is Matt Cooper. Home address in Richmond, Virginia—a street that exists, by the way, in an affluent suburb. He travels on business, unstated, and lists his address as the Hotel Furstenhof on Dr. Frans Indongo Street. A room has been reserved there, in his name. Again, he was not present when police came calling.”

  “You have a description?”

  While Acosta gave it to him, he heard Boavida scrawling notes. Finished, he said, “Your immigration officers, regrettably, do not photocopy passports.”

  “They’re not my officers,” said Boavida. “Not my people.”

  “Yet you stay.”

  “What will you do now?” Boavida asked him.

  “Do? What can I do?” Acosta countered. “It is up to the police, or to the men you call your soldiers. But whatever you intend to do, for your own sake, I’d recommend you do it soon.”

  * * *

  ULENGA WOKE WITH A START, surprised that he’d managed to doze while Bolan drove through the early-morning darkness. Far off to the east, a faint gray line marked the horizon and the advent of another scorching day.

  “I’m sorry if I snored,” Ulenga said.

  “I’ve heard worse,” Bolen assured him. “We’re ten minutes out of Otjiwarongo.”

  Another stop for fuel, Ulenga thought, before they crossed over to the Khomas Region and the last leg of their journey back to Windhoek. Back to battle once again with the Mayombe Liberation Front.

  “What will we do next, Cooper?” Ulenga asked.

  “Blow a few more houses down, then pay a call on Boavida,” he replied.

  “He’ll be well-guarded.”

  “Probably. The good news is, we’ve whittled down his army and he’ll have them spread thin on the ground, covering any place we’ve missed so far.”

  “And when he’s dead,” Ulenga said, “then that’s the end of it?”

  “For him, at least,” Bolan said. “The MLF won’t fold its tent unless Namibian authorities crack down on it across the board. We haven’t even scratched the surface of its operations in Angola, where the leadership comes from.”

  “You’re going to Angola next?”

  The big American shook his head. “Not this time out,” he said. “But I may drop in to see some of the folks who’ve been helping the MLF on this side of the border.”

  Where would that lead him? Ulenga thought the tall American could lose himself pursuing everyone who’d given aid to Oscar Boavida and his men, from ministers of government down to Nampol patrolmen on the street.

  “You may be here forever at that rate,” he said.

  “Not if I do it right,” Bolan said. “You can’t touch all the bases, necessarily, but touch the right ones, and the message comes across.”

  Ulenga understood, or thought he did. The warrior had a brief to follow, laid down by the people who had sent him to Namibia, and possibly a time limit for the performance of his task. In which case…

  “You’ll be leaving soon, then?”

  “If it all works out, sooner rather than later,” he replied. “And what about yourself? Have you made any plans for afterward?”

  “It’s difficult,” Ulenga said. “I have a passport and a little money put away, if I can reach it. Otherwise—”

  “The money shouldn’t be a problem,” Bolan suggested, “with the stash we took from Boavida’s club on Prum Street.”

  Taken by surprise, Ulenga turned to face his partner. “Don’t you need that for yourself?”

  “I brought plenty,” he replied, “and I don’t plan on any shopping. If it helps to get you started over somewhere safe, it’s yours.”

  And underneath his gratitude, Ulenga thought, I’m also a thief, not just a murderer.

  The faint gray streak of dawn did no more than the lights of Otjiwarongo, visible before them, to pierce the darkness that he felt lurking inside himself.

  “I’d like to check on my apartment,” Ulenga said. “I can take my own car, when we reach Windhoek.”

  “It could be dangerous,” Bolan said.

  “I won’t be long,” Ulenga said. He closed his eyes once more, and wondered where this long strange ride would end.

  * * *

  FANUEL GURIRAB ENJOYED waking the Deputy Assistant Minister of Home Affairs before daylight had brightened Windhoek’s streets. He sat and waited while a servant fetched Moses Kaujeua to the telephone. As to the nature of his call, there was no pleasure in it. Rather, Gurirab suspected that he might be damned for treachery.

  Of course, the man he was betraying had already broken faith with him, with Nampol. And, as the Americans were fond of saying, payback is a bitch.

  “Hello?” Kaujeua’s voice was throaty, gruff. “I trust you have good reason for a call at this ungodly hour, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir. It appears one of our officers may be involved in these attacks in Windhoek, at Durissa Bay and up in Kaokoland.”

  “What’s that? Another one up north? When did that happen?” Kaujeua asked.

  “Around midnight, sir. Another bad one. Sixteen dead, three lorries filled with weapons from Angola.”

  “Christ on Friday!” Having blurted out the curse, Kaujeua caught himself and asked, “Does this mean that the men responsible are leaving? Have they crossed the border?”

  “We have nothing to suggest it, sir. And if an officer from Windhoek is involved, it stands to reason that he’ll come back here.”

  “Police involved in terrorism. How can such a thing occur?” Kaujeua challenged.

  “Sir, our officers are only human, as you know,” Gurirab said. “Some steal. Two were dismissed in January for molesting women they’d arrested. Anything is possible.”

  “But this?”

  “If I was forced to speculate,” Gurirab said, “I might suggest, sir, that the officer may not regard his actions as those of a terrorist.”

  “But what else would you call it?” the Deputy Assistant Minister asked.

  “If he had been assigned to watch the MLF, sir, and grew tired of seeing crimes ignored or minimized, he might see what he’s doing as a form of justice.”

  “Vigilantism? It’s still the same as terrorism,” Kaujeua said.

  “To us, perhaps,” Gurirab said, thinking, To you. “But to a dedicated, frustrated policeman, I am not so sure.”

  “Don’t tell me that you sympathize with this.” It came out sounding like an order, rather than a question.

  “No, sir. Absolutely not. But I can understand it,” Gurirab replied.

  “Less understanding, Captain, and more action. Can you find this rogue or not?”

  “We’re searching for him, sir, of course. He’s not at home, but otherwise…”

  “Give me his name and address,” Kaujeua said, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Gurirab hesitated, then obeyed, waiting until Kaujeua wrote the name of Sergeant Jakova Ulenga down, then spelled it back to him. The address next, for an apartment house on Korrthaan Street, in Tauben Glen. Again it was repeated to him, first the number, then the street name.

  “Yes, sir. That’s correct,” Gurirab said.

  “All right, I have it,” Kauj
eua said. “Make no further efforts to contact him there, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gurirab understood that he’d condemned a fellow Nampol officer to death if he was found at home. “Shall we continue looking for him elsewhere, then?”

  “Of course,” Kaujeua said. “I’m sure you will agree that we must stop this rampage by whatever means may be available.”

  Including murder, Captain Gurirab supposed.

  He said, “Yes, sir. Agreed.”

  “You’ve done your duty, Captain,” the Second Deputy Assistant Minister for Home Affairs said. “Rest easy in that knowledge.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  And the line went dead.

  Rest easy?

  No, Gurirab thought. That was not in the cards.

  Chapter 13

  Ulenga drove his Opel Corsa south on Hendrik Witbooi Drive to Pelican Street, turned east when he got there, and made his way to the Tauben Glen suburb. It was an upscale neighborhood, expensive homes, but some of them had been converted to apartment houses. So it was with his address on Korrthaan Street, a house with five bedrooms where tenants shared the kitchen and the former single-family home’s two bathrooms.

  Not the best arrangement, granted, but he could have paid much higher rent for a similar place in Windhoek Central, or saved money on a rat-infested dump in South Industrial. Having a Nampol officer in residence also relieved some of the live-in landlord’s personal anxiety, and shaved a little off Ulenga’s monthly tab.

  A part of him was sad to lose the apartment, but what choice did he have? After his strange adventure with Matt Cooper, logic dictated there could be no going back to normal service as a law-enforcement officer. Assuming that the force would even take him back, instead of prosecuting him and jailing him for life, Ulenga knew that the frustration he had felt before the past day and a half would only be amplified a thousand times.

  Would be unbearable, in fact.

  The first thing he must do, Ulenga thought, was choose a place to live outside Namibia. Perhaps outside Africa. He thought of South America, a climate more or less the same as he was used to, but he knew nothing of the immigration policies its several nations followed. Could Matt Cooper or his employers help with that? he wondered. Was Jakova Ulenga doomed to spend his whole life leaning on the big American?