Monrovia, Liberia—August 8, 2002
The tan Land Cruiser bounced out of a pothole in the two-lane tarred roadway. Hayden Stone sat shotgun and watched the signs to Monrovia’s Roberts International Airport pass by. In the backseat, Sandra Harrington held on to the baggage stacked next to her. The thirty-five-mile drive from the embassy took them through endless rows of homes and shacks in varying stages of disrepair. They met only light vehicle traffic, evenly distributed between old diesel trucks belching blue smoke and new military and police SUVs.
During the entire time, Goodman, at the wheel, remained taciturn. The previous night had been spent leading Stone and Sandra through the Liberian legal hurdles consisting of giving statements and signing papers—for Stone, in his alias Finbarr Costanza. The police took the four jihadists’ bodies away. Liberian immigration people advised the four deceased’s entry papers were “not in order.” That helped the American position. Financial recompense slated for the owner of the restaurant further helped matters.
On the phone, the CIA chief of station wished them a safe and mainly speedy departure from his turf. The information on the four thugs would be cabled back to Langley for analysis.
Back in his room, Stone shared his Irish whiskey with Sandra. When finally he slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes, he hoped not to have his usual bizarre dreams that normally followed a gunfight. That night he had none. The whiskey had worked.
The SUV bounced out of another pothole, shifting luggage in the backseat.
“Sandra and I are scheduled to leave at eight,” Stone said. “What are the chances of departing on time?”
“None at all.” Goodman blew his horn at a man wandering in the middle of the road. “Once you board, the weather from here to Abidjan is clear. From there to Freetown as well.”
People plodded along the side of the road. As for many in undeveloped African countries, travel by foot provided the only means for getting to and from the markets. The women’s clothes appeared more somber than Stone remembered. The bright, gay colors were absent. Instead of the light sway in their walk, the people shuffled.
The low-lying airport buildings appeared in the distance as Goodman slowed at a police checkpoint. The pulse always quickened at roadblocks in the third world. Stone knew the rules: be prepared to show your passport, hand over some of the local ragged currency, and at all costs stay in the vehicle. Just hope that one of the young, untrained thugs in a dirty uniform didn’t let loose intentionally or unintentionally with his AK-47. Goodman, experienced with the situation, finessed the grinning policemen with their outstretched hands.
At the entrance to the hangar building, Goodman introduced the embassy’s expediter, a slender African with airport security badges dangling from his neck. “This fellow will get you through the gate and show you to the lounge—if you can call it that.” Goodman extended his hand. “Got business to attend to. Next visit, we’ll keep the snakes and bad guys away.”
The expediter knew the right people and whisked them through the airport check-in. Goodman had been accurate; the lounge looked unimpressive, consisting of only seven battered chairs in a roped-off area from the main terminal. The plane was scheduled to arrive in an hour, which was only thirty minutes late. Not bad for this region.
Stone and Sandra settled themselves in a corner. She handed him a soda from her backpack. “It still has a chill to it. Damn, the air in this terminal is stuffy.”
They sat quietly, watching the throng. No smiles on their faces. Stone witnessed only frowns. No displays of flashy jewelry on the women. No ties on the men.
His mind drifted to the events of the night before. The attack was not a random assault in a city in the throes of anarchy. Foreign jihadists had planned the operation, and he and Sandra were targeted. He knew now that his mission was not a matter of talking with an Israeli contact and going to Sierra Leone to question some South African.
“What’s eating you?”
Stone waved off the question.
“You’ve had that look since this morning,” Sandra said. “The one where the creases in your face become hard and those gray eyes lose their sparkle.”
Stone moved close to her and whispered, “This mission is not just a stop and shop. As usual, I haven’t been told everything. I’m a bull’s-eye for some terrorist group and I haven’t done squat.” He put his finger on her knee. “You were sent down here to help me. Have you been clued in and are holding back on me?”
Sandra’s mouth tightened and Stone backed away. He had witnessed what she could do with a quick karate chop.
“I thought we were … closer.” Before her eyes moistened, she put on her Italian sunglasses. “You know as much as I know,” she mouthed between her teeth.
“Sorry. You’re right.”
She relaxed. “Do you expect to hear from Colonel Frederick when we reach Sierra Leone? Some response on our contact with Jacob?”
“I’m counting on it. At that time I’ll expect more from him about this gig.”
“The colonel will give you as much as he thinks necessary,” she said.
“Knowing that people want to kill you comes under the heading of necessary.”
“Keep in mind Frederick would not have sent you and me here if the mission wasn’t important, and he knows from experience you can handle yourself.”
She looked over the terminal from behind her sunglasses, still alert after the night’s gunfight. If she had a case of the nerves, she didn’t show it. Wearing snug jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, a scarf hid much of her blonde hair. Unlike many western women who traveled to Africa, she had the good sense to dress modestly to avoid as much attention as possible.
“How long will you be with me?” he asked.
“As far as I know, a couple of days. Have to get back to Paris.” She sighed. “You didn’t expect this to be a long trip, did you?”
“The last time Frederick offered a job, he said it would be a lark. Sunning and boating on the Riviera. You know how that ended up.”
“So what happened last night can’t come as a big surprise.” Sandra leaned toward him. “Back in Marseilles, you had some good meals, didn’t you? And there was the contessa.”
“I still don’t think I’m welcomed back there anytime soon.”
“Well, you’re always welcome in Paris.” Sandra’s smile had returned.
“Thanks. I may take you up on that.” He thought about how she performed during the gunfight. Amazing. Cool and professional … and the best-looking partner he ever had.
The terminal became energized. Upon hearing a loud scream from jet engines, people rushed toward the doors. The African puddle jumper discharged its passengers, and a uniformed employee directed Stone and Sandra outside onto the tarmac toward the movable stairway set next to the plane’s door. The air felt less oppressive outside the terminal.
“What make of aircraft is this?” Stone asked.
“A Yak forty.”
He studied the three-engine jet. “Looks like a shrunken Boeing 727.”
“Probably a stolen design. A Russian-made Yakovlev forty. Been around since the sixties.”
Inside the cabin the air conditioner blew full blast. With all the passengers seated, two men in coveralls slid boxes and crates up the center aisle and stacked them. They worked their way to the rear door, placing cargo as they went, making the aisle impassable. Finished, they yelled something in Russian to the two pilots on the flight deck. One of the pilots slammed the compartment door shut, and the plane lurched forward.
An hour into the flight, the door to the flight deck swung open. The two pilots in white shirts with blue epaulettes were involved in an animated discussion. Balanced upright between their seats was a liquor bottle containing a clear liquid. The pilot on the left picked it up and took a swig.
“Sandra, is that what I think it is?”
“Yep. Good old vodka.”
The pilot on the right saw the open door, reached back, and closed it.
Stone shouted in Sandra’s ear over the noise of the plane. “This is what I love about Africa. You’re always putting up with snakes, disease, gunmen, and drunken pilots.”
Freetown, Sierra Leone
After passing through Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire, the plane arrived at the Freetown International Airport a little after five in the afternoon. From the plane’s window, Stone watched black thunderheads building along the coast. The CIA station had advised that someone would be at the airport to escort them to town. Anyone arriving at the airport and wanting to continue on to Freetown had to cross a wide estuary to reach the city. Only one ferry operated, usually overloaded, and it took someone who knew the ropes to get across with minimum problems.
Descending from the plane, Sandra said, “There’s the station chief, Luke Craig.”
Standing on the runway, arms folded over his safari shirt, a tall, weary-looking African-American in his late twenties stood wide-legged. At his side an embassy employee with touches of gray in his hair and with access badges suspended on a lanyard around his neck held two blue embassy welcome folders.
Craig introduced himself and then they walked to the terminal. While the local employee took Stone and Sandra’s passports and hurried off to passport control to expedite their arrival, Craig removed his sunglasses and directed his attention to Sandra.
As they talked, Sandra’s concentration switched to someone across the room in the boarding section of the terminal. Craig was in mid-sentence when she excused herself, saying she had to talk with someone. Both men watched her push through the same door they had entered. Back on the tarmac next to the plane, she intercepted a bearded white man.
It was easy for Stone to interpret her body language—arms akimbo, finger pointing and jabbing the man’s chest—and know that her words were rough. The man kept backing away in the direction of the aircraft. Finished, Sandra turned and headed back to the terminal, turning once and presenting her middle finger to the man who rushed up the boarding stairs.
Sandra returned, and before she said anything, Craig moved off to the baggage area.
“What was that all about?” Stone asked.
“That was Farley Durrell. An old partner, business that is—well—a little personal as well.” She paused. “The bastard double-crossed me.” She glared at Stone. “I don’t forgive nor forget.”
Stone nodded. I’ll keep that in mind.
On arrival at the dock, they found the ferry packed with vehicles, but Craig managed to secure one of the last parking slots. The embassy employee guarded the SUV while Craig led the way to the stairs to the upper deck lounge. Finding it jammed with drunken patrons, Craig suggested a spot he knew forward on a covered platform over the bow.
Stone took in the view of Freetown harbor. Using his monocular, he scanned the port across the bay. It hadn’t changed over the past five years. Rusty shipwrecks, including a derelict ferry, dotted the water, but the green hills touched by white clouds still provided a pleasant backdrop. Grass and tall trees still reached down to the water’s edge. Palm trees here and there broke the monotony. The only harbor traffic consisted of one- or two-man fishing boats, long, thin craft skimming across the water. As his eyes swept the harbor, black thunderheads still engulfed the sky, and he watched rain walk in from the ocean.
Craig went to the bar and returned carrying three bottles of Star beer dripping condensation. “What a bar. I had trouble finding someone to take my money. Drink up. We’ll get more.”
The beer was cold and wet. Stone thought he had never tasted a better beer to cut through the heat. Fifteen minutes later, when the ferry pushed off from the dock, soot from the two smokestacks rained down on the passengers on the open deck. Where Stone and his companions stood, they were protected from ash as well as from the heavy rain that had begun to fall.
Halfway across the wide bay, Sandra and Craig moved off and spoke in low tones. Stone saw Craig look repeatedly in his direction. Sandra shook her head a number of times. Craig straightened and, with Sandra following, returned. Stone leaned on the wet railing, watching the city grow larger as the ferry steamed ahead.
“We had a short talk,” Craig said.
“The beer’s very good.”
Craig threw a glance at Sandra. “We were talking about you and your reputation for attracting trouble.”
“That’s why the agency loves me,” Stone said.
“Yeah.” Craig seemed to regroup. “Game plan is you talk with this South African fellow. Station provides coverage. You make your report, and off you go.”
Stone frowned and took the last swig of beer from the bottle. “And you’ll take care of the bodies, right?” He studied the label on the beer bottle.
“That’s not funny.”
“Hayden. Behave,” Sandra said. “I just spent ten minutes convincing this guy that you’re trustworthy.”
Craig fidgeted. “Sierra Leone is not easy duty, Mr. Stone. It’s not the South of France.”
“I’ve been here. I know Sierra Leone.”
“This morning I read about what happened in Monrovia.”
“Gotcha.”
Stone looked out at the city. Soft yellow twinkling lights came from the numerous gas and oil lamps. Evidently, electricity still had not returned on a regular basis to Freetown. The South African they were to meet lived somewhere out there in the darkness. What was so important that this man had to tell them?