Johnson Denis - The Laughing Monsters

The LRA mission will belong to about 100 special operators, Pentagon sources said. They declined to say which unit will be assigned to the mission, but a media report in the Colorado Springs Gazette suggested that the 10th Special Forces Group, out of Fort Carson, Colorado, will be the one. This unit typically handles special operations in Europe and Africa.

Despite the heat I walked to the Scanlon. I was angry. Not with Michael, as I might have been, but with Mohammed, because it was simpler.

Along my way I stopped at the Ivory Castle Hotel to talk to the baffling, inscrutable West African men who pretended to manage the air service piloted by the drunken Russians. We had to resort to the Russians because no genuine airline would take us aboard without Ugandan visas, although Uganda would issue them to arrivals at Entebbe without any problem — so Michael had assured us. I asked about the fares and schedule. The managers seemed not to understand why I would even want to know. I presented them with the white European’s suffering weary smile, the only alternative to murder. Ultimately they revealed to me the prices and the times. Michael, Davidia, and I would get out of here in less than forty-eight hours.

* * *

At three in the afternoon I once again entered the Bawarchi. The patronage was light, the place was quiet. At first I thought my contact hadn’t come, and when I located him, seated at one of the smaller tables, nothing before him but a pair of sunglasses, I thought he must be someone else, because I’d only seen him in business suits. But he was Hamid, the one I’d talked to several times in Amsterdam.

He waved me over and I sat down with him. He gave the impression of being middle-aged and fond of comfort, in a loose white linen outfit with a tunic, more Arab than Euro, except for his eyes, which weren’t brown, but a washed-out gray. He had his sleeve pulled back as he checked his Rolex Commander wristwatch. He wore six jeweled rings, three on either hand.

“Exactly on time.”

He handed me his phony business card, and I handed him mine.

“Do you want something to eat?” he said. “A snack of some kind?”

“Nothing, thanks. Have you ordered?”

“Won’t you join me for some tea?”

“If you haven’t ordered—”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Why don’t we walk on the beach?”

“Nobody hears us. We can talk.”

“I’m nervous indoors,” I said.

“Come on, don’t be silly. Just tell me what you’ve got.”

“You know what I’ve got.”

“I want to know what I’m buying.”

“Let’s walk. I don’t like it in here.” I wanted us out of the public eye, because I couldn’t be sure of his reaction to a bit of news I had for him. “Do you mind?”

He sighed, and then he picked up his sunglasses.

I donned my own as well, and we passed from under the roof and into a hot, steady breeze while the sunshine crashed onto our heads. Through the soles of my sandals I felt the beach burning. In our sinister shades, the only figures in view, I suppose we looked like nothing so much as a couple of crooks plotting mischief.

When we got near the water’s edge, he stopped. “Now, before we get a stroke or dehydration or something — what have you got?”

“Exactly what I told you I’d have. Maps of the US military fiber-optics cables throughout seven West African countries. Mali is one of them. Also I have a list of the GPS coordinates for twelve NIIA Technology Safe Houses.” Including, I might have added, the safe house in the basement beneath Elvis Documents.

“You’re definite about Mali.”

“Mali. Yes. That’s definite.”

Mali was the current hot spot. With Mali I had him hooked. Talk about a thirsty face.

“Let me establish something with you,” he said, “and please forgive me: Do you know what can happen to a party who sells false product?”

“I would expect to be assassinated.”

“Your expectation is precise.”

“I’m not worried. It’s very good product.”

“What about the transfer?”

“A push of the button. I have things stored away.”

“We can do it all digitally?”

“Correct. You never have to touch the goods.”

“Do you still stipulate cash payment?”

“Correct. Cash only.”

“And the price is twenty thousand US.”

“No,” I said, “not twenty thousand. That’s no longer correct.”

This was the bit I didn’t like.

He started a retort, but stifled it. He must have been counting ten. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“The price is no longer twenty thousand. For you, out of your own pockets, the cost will be nothing — because we go in as partners.”

“Partners for what?”

“We’ll be equal partners in the sale you’re making. I’m providing the product, and you’re providing the client.”

He bunched his mouth in an ugly way and made a sharp noise with his tongue. “It’s completely unacceptable.” He raised his sunglasses. “What are you thinking? You know nothing about my business.”

“I think I do. The Chinese are all over this continent, and they’re paying ridiculous sums. If they’re not the people you’re selling to, you’re an idiot.”

He replaced his dark glasses over his eyes. “I don’t like this conversation. You’re too forceful. You use a personal tone.”

“I’m being emphatic, but only for the purposes of business. It’s nothing personal. I’m just saying the Chinese will pay plenty for something good. And this is good.”

“It was agreed. Twenty thousand US. It was agreed.”

“We’re beyond that point now. We’re talking about a partnership. This is excellent product with long-term potential. Very long-term. The loss of this material will never be detected.”

He clicked his tongue again and turned his back and walked toward the restaurant, leaving me by the shore.

A dozen meters along he called out over his shoulder, “You’re a liar!” After that he didn’t look back.

My head roared. Switching the price had felt like a bold move in a sport without rules, but what was bold, and what was stupid?

I took a look at his card. CREATIVE PRODUCTIONS / Film Plus Internet / Hamid Faisel / Managing Director.

In Amsterdam he’d had a different last name but had still been Hamid. He’d been chatty, sociable, kind of fun. We’d gone to a film together, Zero Dark Thirty , in English, the Hollywood action movie about the killing of Osama Bin Laden. Afterward Hamid made jokes about the great martyr. “It wouldn’t be so funny to my relatives in Lebanon,” he said. “But why should I care? Because I’m not really Lebanese. My mother is French, my stepfather also. I was raised in Marseilles. I am French. France is a happy country. Lebanon has turned into shit.”—As I say, chatty. Today, in Freetown, neither of us had any jokes to make.

I gave him time enough to get lost, if that’s what he wanted, and then I went through the restaurant toward the cars out front. Hamid was sitting at a table near the entrance with a cup and a saucer before him. I headed for the front without looking at him.

“One moment, one moment. Come on.” He waved me in and I sat down with him once again. He had a pen in his hand. “How can I believe anything you say, when you’re a liar?”

“You’ll have a small sample to work with, enough to understand that this represents an ongoing intelligence mother lode to anyone who taps into the cables.”

“What have they got to detect such tapping?”

“Nothing remarkable, unless there’s been an upgrade in the last ten years. And there hasn’t been.”

“Give me back my business card, please.”

“If you say so.”