Six

After dinner I joined others making the climb to perform our gear check. As space was limited and, counting the president’s group and the Secret Service agents, there would be more than 20 climbers, we were broken into two groups for this vital process. We stood in a large semi-circle as each item was called out. We held up ours then placed it into our own safari-provided bag. It was to contain everything we’d need for the next week. This included climbing boots, clothing, sleeping gear, coats, first aid kit, climbing poles, sanitation items, gloves, clothing, goggles; if we’d need something, it went into the bag. Our own light backpacks would carry energy and candy bars, water, lip balm, sunblock, miscellaneous personal items we’d need during each stage.

This was an unusual check in my experience, as so many bags clearly had substitutes standing behind them. It was to be expected that the president wouldn’t attend, but Onesphory and his friends weren’t here, either. When we’d finished, we filed out, now free for the evening. Our bags would be loaded up and transported to Camp One the next day.

Alone, I went to the bar beside the pool, where I’d gone the previous night, my mind abuzz from the day’s activities and unexpected developments. I understood the rainy season would arrive in two or three weeks. Still, there’d been afternoon clouds this day, though they’d cleared away by now. That smell of Africa I’d first experienced when stepping from the plane was strong tonight, carried on a soft, pleasant breeze from across the Serengeti Plain and through the forest at the Kilimanjaro base.

We were setting out for the mountain in the morning, and my mind was turning increasingly to the climb itself. Kili wasn’t known as an especially difficult climb, certainly not in the early, gentle stages. Yet many climbers died on this mountain every year. The routes were well established, and the one we’d be taking was deemed the least risky for the president. It was also the most popular. But none of the Seven Summits was to be taken lightly, and on summit day, when we pushed to the highest lip of the dormant volcano and up into the ice, snow and freezing wind, the going would be very demanding—as it always was.

Natasha had arrived while we’d been at the village, and Tom was with her now at the Kilimanjaro Luxury Resort, some miles away. Calvin had complained of being tired and had gone to bed early. As I understood it, the resort where Tom and Natasha were staying was designed for a different class of tourist—the very rich. It was a much nicer place than where we were, and where we were was very nice, indeed. They were pampered in every way, as if they’d never left the West. The food was, of course, first class. There were massages, horses, lovely grounds. The Serengeti safari she’d experience would be unlike that of the ordinary tourist; she’d be allowed to go where others could not, and every aspect would be unique, protected—the rich tourist would be indulged at every moment.

I wasn’t alone in taking in the African night air. There was a large turnout from the president’s entourage. For every woman among them who’d come with us there were five men, a few engaged already in the hard sell, though the night was young. The lovely young local women of the previous night had as yet to make their appearance.

I could see no Secret Service agents; given recent scandals about their behavior on these foreign trips that was as it should be. But with enough years and distance I had no doubt they’d return to old habits. No military-style work is any more boring than guard duty, and these men and women were perpetually on that. When an attack came, as one surely would someday, the reality was that they’d very likely react slowly. Their precautions and training might be enough, but as Kennedy—who died—and Reagan—who lived—had shown, it might not.

An older man, dressed in a wrinkled linen suit and wearing a straw fedora, approached me from the bar, carrying two Safari beers before him. He sat in front of me, uninvited, removed his hat, set one beer down, then took a long pull of the other. In a gravelly voice he said, “You looked as if you could use a drink.”

Lester Fowl had surprised me once before, appearing unannounced like this when I’d believed him dead, but this was no less surprising. The last time I’d seen him he’d been under medical treatment in Chile, recovering from a gunshot wound. I was stunned.

Fowl had a wiry frame and wore his thin, white hair cropped close. He had stained teeth and hollowed cheeks from a lifetime of chain smoking. He was the last of the CIA’s Cold Warriors. He’d been with me in South America, and that’s where he’d been shot. Before that, he’d been sent to southern Russia when I was there, assigned to an NGO for cover, and there he saved my neck. He’d volunteered to remain behind to give the covering fire that made my escape possible, also covering Natasha, Tom and Tarja. I’d given him up for dead until he’d shown up in Argentina the previous summer as part of the Aconcagua expedition. He’d been vague about that mission, but it apparently had not included the Inca idols I’d been sent to recover.

“Good to see you, Lester…though I’m a bit surprised.”

Fowl made a face. “Your president’s got a love affair going with secret agent types. He reads the action reports at bed time. Kennedy was the same way about Special Forces. I heard you got a medal out of that Antarctica thing.” I nodded. “I got my walking papers at last.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they couldn’t get me killed off, so they decided that getting wounded was close enough. The director gave me a medal and I was processed out in record time.” He took a long pull of the beer, smiling as he looked at the bottle. “These Africans know how to brew this stuff. Every time I’ve been here the beer is always good. Before AIDS this was a white man’s paradise, I can tell you. Now all it’s got is good beer, but they’ll find a way to screw that up.”

“So you’re retired at last.”

“After a fashion. You never really get out of it, you know.”

“What does that mean?”

“I heard you went to the president’s village today,” he answered, avoiding the question. “What was that like?” I told him. “What did you think of Itosi, the chief in waiting?”

“I had no impression at all beyond his appearance.”

“He’s a piece of work, I can tell you. He’s never liked being number two, and now that the cat is out of the bag about Number One Son, he’s chaffing at the bit. The two never got along.”

“The chief looked healthy. I don’t see this being a problem. Onesphory’s life is about to take a big change. He’s not likely planning to return to his little village.”

Fowl shook his head. “Don’t be too sure. Stranger things have happened. Not everyone craves the limelight like his dad. And these tribal power struggles go on for years, in my experience.” He took a long, satisfying pull on his beer. “Did you see the house where the president was born?” I looked at him in surprise. “Come on, everyone’s heard the story,” he said in disbelief.

“Yes, I’ve heard the story about him being born in Africa and that not revealing his birth certificate for so long fanned the flames, but I thought all that was settled. Anyway, I never read where he was supposed to have been born.”

“I was here four years ago during the election to check the story out.”

“The Company was interested?”

“Kid, you surprise me, you really do. Sure we checked it out. Hell, I’ve been in that hut, talked to the midwife and witnesses.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“He’s president, right?”

“So the story isn’t true, in other words.”

Fowl leaned toward me and winked. “I didn’t say that, now did I?” He glanced about the bar taking in the D.C. women. “Those are pretty hard ladies, I can tell you. Take a career, stir in a bit of ambition, get a woman close to the perception of power, and it’s an ugly thing. My second wife was one of them. Live and learn. Say, you still running errands for the DIA?”

“No longer.”

“It’s about time. I wondered if you’d smarten up before they got you killed. Never in my career have I seen a man thrown into more dangerous situations with less preparation. I used to have a boss who liked to do that just to stir things up, you know? The idea was, you take a gifted amateur or new recruit, give him a taste of the mission—as little as possible—then pat him on the back, give him an ‘atta boy,’ and push him onto the field.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Not bad for the missions, usually. I guess that was the appeal. The opposition gets so busy with the new guy blundering around, they lose focus and the pro on site has an easier time of it. Not so good for the new guy, usually. Not many came out of those alive, you know?”

“Are you making a point?”

“Me? Naw. Just chewing the fat with my much brighter buddy. Say, I saw that news lady Diana whatshername earlier.”

“Maurasi.”

“That’s the one. I used to watch SNS just to see her, especially in the winter, when she wore sweaters. Couldn’t hack that morning show she had, though. Too girlie for me. She looks even better in person.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Doesn’t have one of those watermelon heads like most actors and newscasters. I read once that big heads film better, but still, it’s a bit freakish the first time you see it in real life. No, she’s all babe. So…you and her back together?”

I shook my head. “No, she’s got a boyfriend.”

“Hooker? I’ve seen him. All wimp. If you can’t knock him out of the running you’re not the man I remember. Still, if you need help, let me know.”

I didn’t want to consider what Fowl thought constituted “help.” “You’ve got something against Hooker?”

“Hell, he peddles anti-American propaganda and calls it news, doesn’t he? You’re damn right I’ve got something against him—and all the others just like him.”

I decided to change the subject. “So what are you doing here?”

“Like I said, the pres has got a thing for us secret agent types. You got an invite to climb the thing because of Antarctica, I got one for helping out in South America plus I’ve known Tony for years. He thought an extra set of eyes would be handy. I guess your DIA contact is here too, right?”

“Robert Martin. I saw him yesterday.”

“Is that what he calls himself with you? His name’s Russell Noblet.”

“Then you know him?”

“Oh, yeah, I know him. We go way back.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, snaked one out and lit up. He drew a lung full of smoke, then said, “Well, what goes around comes around.” He winked. “If you live long enough.” His eye caught one of the first of the African beauties to come floating in from the darkness. He rose. “Think I see a new friend.” He looked at me. “This climb’s going to be a lot of fun, I can tell you.”