Monrovia, Liberia—August 7, 2002
The phone’s hollow ring brought Stone out of a hazy sleep. He reached for the receiver, scanning the floor for any unwelcome visitors. After the incident with the black mamba the night before, he had made a thorough check of his new room in the quarters directly across from the embassy. It took time before he allowed himself to close his eyes.
Over the crackling phone line, Sandra Harrington said she was having breakfast at the embassy cafeteria and wanted to know if he was interested in joining her. “Al Goodman will try to be there. After he’s handled some employee problem.”
Stone agreed, and before replacing the handset, he examined the phone. At least twenty years old, the beige instrument appeared and smelled clean like the rest of the room. He sanitary-wiped it anyway. The room contained the bare necessities: bed, table, a straight back chair evidently borrowed from an embassy office, a shower, and toilet. Over the washbasin, a mirror hung by picture wire. A crack, apparently not recent, ran diagonally right to left. Inserted through the outside wall, an air-conditioning unit hummed, blowing in wet, cool air.
The second-floor window overlooked the backyards of two houses beyond the walls of the embassy compound. The one on the left side balanced a remnant of a corrugated metal roof over its burnt-out shell. The other, directly across, was a three-story Victorian showing a fresh coat of chalky paint. Someone had planted corn in the area between the houses, and banana trees hugged the trunks of immense banyans.
Stone traced his finger along the windowpane and made a line in the condensation with his fingernail. What a difference this world was from the French Riviera. Less than three months ago he had been relaxing in a village along the sea. He had completed a successful assignment for the CIA and now intended to enjoy the Mediterranean ambience. As he sat in his garden, his boss, Colonel Gustave Frederick, phoned and asked if he’d accept an assignment to Africa. He agreed, realizing the trip meant trouble, but that, along with a nice fee, was part of the enticement.
While he waited for his orders, he spent time in Paris visiting Sandra, who was assigned to the CIA station there. He also met with his old FBI colleagues at the American Embassy in Paris, then flew to Los Angeles to visit his two children attending college.
The call from Colonel Gustave Frederick came while tending his vegetable garden in McLean, Virginia. The garden had lain untended since his divorce. Three days later, he was on a plane heading for Monrovia.
He wiped the moisture from his finger. After this last, easy assignment he’d retire for good. Open that café on the beach in Southern California.
Stone found Sandra in the empty cafeteria sipping hot black coffee. She wore a sleeveless blouse and jeans. Over the cup, she eyed him, a twinkle in her green eyes. “I see you’re properly dressed this morning.”
“Long sleeves and long pants keep the bugs off. Along with prying eyes. What’s good on the menu?”
“Fresh fruit and fresh-baked bread.”
“Your recommendations are always dependable. I’ll have the same. And coffee.” Stone gave his order to a short woman who had come from the kitchen. Head drooped, with worried eyes, the woman shuffled away. He saw Sandra studying him. “Bad morning for her?”
“Every day’s a bad day for these people,” Sandra said. “The ethnic warfare has taken its toll.”
Stone knew Sandra as a cool CIA professional. His boss, Colonel Frederick, had done him a favor sending her down from Paris to assist him. They had worked well together on the anti-terrorist operation three months before in the South of France. He had saved her life in Marseille; she had saved him from the CIA bureaucrats. They were a good team.
Al Goodman entered the cafeteria from the patio area. The sound of the surf followed him in and faded as the door closed. He came to their table, slumped into a chair, and shouted for coffee and a roll. “Awful day already. The roving security patrol found one of our employees dead behind the garage. The doc believes it was snake bite.”
“Seems snakes are a problem around here,” Stone said.
From the kitchen, the server carried a tray that rattled with the breakfast servings and coffee cups. She placed each item in front of them and gave Goodman a long stare as she trudged back.
“The man who died was her cousin,” Goodman said, watching her leave. “He just started work at the embassy last week.”
The three picked at their food.
“During the last upheaval, we had thousands of refugees next door on the Greystone compound for over a month,” Goodman said. “Little food, little water. All the wildlife disappeared.”
“Odd that snakes have returned all of a sudden,” Stone said.
Goodman broke his roll in half. “Before he left to go up-country, the COS told me to tell you to stay alert.”
A morning meeting with the COS, as the CIA chief of station was known, had been scheduled to discuss Stone’s meeting with Jacob, an Israeli Mossad agent. Colonel Frederick had instructed him to contact Jacob, who had some important information to pass on to American intelligence.
“What are your thoughts about your man’s death?” Stone asked.
“The doc says the symptoms matched a bite from a black mamba. His initial diagnosis is death from suffocation resulting from paralysis of the respiratory system. Death would have taken about fifteen minutes.”
Sandra shivered. “Guess if you’re going to handle one of those nasties, you’d better know what you’re doing.”
Stone found the coffee bitter and thick. Too much and the veins in his head would throb, but a couple of good swallows would get his reasoning in gear. “I’d wager your dead man was bitten by the same snake that paid a visit to my room.”
Goodman shrugged in agreement. “The COS said to help you with your meet today. I suppose this is all necessary?”
Stone realized Goodman hadn’t been let in on all the details of the meet and was miffed. This was his turf, and he had the right to know what was happening. If Stone got himself killed, he as the security officer would be held responsible. He decided to feed him just enough information to settle him down.
“I’m meeting a guy named Jacob who’s an Israeli who deals in diamonds. Travels throughout West Africa from Amsterdam and Tel Aviv. He works for Mossad, but I don’t know if he’s staff officer or a ‘sayan.’ In other words, he helps out when Israeli intelligence needs him.”
“The COS told me that.”
“He wanted to meet me.” Stone paused. “I knew him years ago when I worked in New York City as an FBI agent. This all has something to do with your neighbor next door. Sierra Leone.”
“Is Jacob his real name?”
“Probably not,” Stone said.
“Trust him?”
“No.”
“Why would someone here want to kill you?”
“The snake?”
“It was a message. Obviously, someone doesn’t want you to meet your Jacob.”
“I agree. But who, I don’t know.”
“So, you’re FBI?”
“Retired. Now I’m with the agency.” Stone folded his arms. “You don’t like the bureau?”
Goodman looked at Sandra, then back to Stone. “My brother-in-law’s an FBI agent. He thinks he’s a hot shit.”
Stone stayed low in the backseat of the armored Suburban SUV while Goodman drove and Sandra rode shotgun. Four blocks from the embassy compound, the meet, selected by Jacob, was to be in a restaurant. Few people walked the trash-littered streets lining gutted buildings, and Stone expected he and Jacob would be the only patrons.
After two passes around the block, Goodman slowed as they approached the back door of the restaurant and said to Stone, “Check your radio.”
Stone keyed his device by depressing the send button. The signal crackled over the car’s radio.
“Listen, and don’t tell anybody I told you this.” Goodman looked at him in the rearview mirror. “If you have to use your gun, don’t hesitate. Life’s cheap here and yours is cheaper.”
Sandra turned around. “We’ll be close. Yell if you need help.” As the SUV came to a halt, she said, “Out now! Don’t stay longer than necessary.”
Stone leaped from the car, took three long strides to the door, found it unlocked, and slipped into restaurant and darkness. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the SUV drive off. He slipped the safety off his semiautomatic and inched across the room toward leaking light from behind a door hanging from one hinge.
Footsteps shuffled from the other side, and the door opened slowly. A black man in an ironed white shirt, age forty to sixty with graying hair and red-veined eyes, motioned for him to enter. Dust hung in the air. Even in peaceful days the restaurant couldn’t accommodate more than ten customers. The man pointed to a solitary figure across the room wearing a khaki safari jacket, sitting with his back to the wall.
Jacob looked hard at Stone, then shot a glance out the dirty window toward the street.
“You came alone.” Jacob said, not so much a question than a statement.
“No.”
Jacob looked older than the last time Stone had seen him. Thinner, and with a sallow complexion. Stone figured that during Jacob’s travels in Africa he had caught a dose of malaria, or maybe dengue fever. Nevertheless, he still broadcasted a defiant look.
He pushed out a wooden chair with his foot. “Have a seat.”
“You look good, Jacob.” Stone didn’t bother to offer a handshake, knowing it wouldn’t be returned.
“Cut the bullshit. You have any idea why I wanted to talk with you?”
Stone considered giving him a New York City smart-ass response, but instead answered straight. “My boss said to come here and find out.”
“I believe you.” Jacob hunched his shoulders and waved to the old man standing by the counter. “A Club beer for my friend.”
“It’s a bit early for me. I usually wait ’till five. I’ll have a glass of water.” Stone tried to sense whether Jacob believed he didn’t know the reason behind the meet. Knowing this old operative, Stone withheld judgment for the time being.
“They refill plastic water bottles from the town sewer. Hold them up to the light and you can see the bacteria swimming. Beer’s the only safe drink in town.”
Stone nodded. When the Club beer came, he told the old man to forget the glass. He’d drink from the bottle. “So, what’s up?”
“Before we start, who do you work for? I heard you retired.”
“I was at home gardening when a friend called. He asked me to take a short trip for him and write a travel story.” Stone smiled. “I understand you’re here dealing in diamonds.”
Jacob’s face, his whole countenance, remained motionless. As if on cue, a slight smile appeared. “Diamonds. Yes, I understand you may need one for an engagement ring.” He gave his head a little shake. “Since your recent divorce and, of course, your friendship with that contessa in Villefranche.”
Stone took a long swig of beer, smiled, and took another swallow. The bastard was good. Jacob’s people had made some serious inquiries about him and learned about his marital status—a train wreck—and about his dalliance three months ago with Contessa Lucinda Avoscani. Mossad and Jacob may or may not know about Stone’s involvement in the deaths of a number of terrorists along the Côte d’Azur. Chances were they did.
Stone asked, “Why are we here?”
“You’re here because the last time I had dealings with your new masters, I met with an unfortunate circumstance.” He turned his head and brushed back his hair. Most of his right ear was missing. “With your veterans assigned to Afghanistan, you have some very inexperienced officers working the backwater countries. Mistakes are not forgiven in this region.”
Stone stared at the ear and knew Jacob had reason to be pissed at the CIA. He would be, but was Jacob’s tradecraft up to snuff? Had he let his guard down?
Remembering Sandra’s words about not lingering, he looked at his watch. “We should get to the point.”
They looked out the window. Birds, black with white blotches on their breasts, waddled on piles of garbage. The gloom from an overcast sky blended with the deteriorating setting.
Jacob spoke. “There are some disturbing rumors. As you know, many people from the Middle East ply this region. For years, they have come, lived here, and traded goods. Some of these people now trade weapons.”
Stone nodded, thinking what he had just heard sounded like some factoid from a news documentary. Anyone who flew on the regional airlines in Africa recognized the Lebanese, Indians, and Israelis sharing the cabin. “And now the jihadists have descended,” Stone offered.
“Yes, but this time, a group is here, not to sell, but to purchase.”
“Buy what?” Stone asked.
Jacob shrugged with his upper body.
“Let’s see, my boss advised that you,” Stone pointed, “suggested I travel to Sierra Leone.”
Nodding, eyes closed, Jacob pushed a white index card across the table on which appeared a name, a company, and a telephone number in heavy marker ink. “Memorize,” he ordered.
Stone studied the card, looked away, and mentally repeated the words. Pushing it back, he planned to write the information down in code and slip it somewhere secure.
“He is an Afrikaner. You must see him very soon,” Jacob said. “He is taking a big risk.”
“Understood.” Stone watched the man pull back and again look out the window as if looking for someone.
Pulling the radio partially out of his pocket, Stone keyed the transmitter twice, signaling Goodman and Sandra to pick him up. He rose and made his way to the door.
Without looking, Jacob tossed a good-bye.
In the backseat of the SUV, Stone asked if they had detected anything strange while they waited for him. “Nothing,” Sandra answered, and added, “You didn’t waste any time.”
“Got what I wanted.” He also learned that, as usual, his boss and mentor back at Langley, Colonel Gustave Frederick, had told him the bare minimum. Even Jacob realized Stone was in the dark, a professional embarrassment as it placed Stone on a lower rung in the operation.
Stone rubbed his forehead. A headache was coming on, not from job stress but from his anti-malaria pills. “When’s the next plane to Freetown, Sierra Leone?” he asked Goodman.
“One is scheduled at eight in the morning for Abidjan. From there you can get a connection to Freetown.”
Stone touched Sandra’s shoulder. “Do you have a pen?”
When she passed it back, he inked in his palm only the telephone number Jacob had given him. He was good at names; still, to be safe, he repeated to himself the name and the company: Dirk Lange, York Export Ltd.