WESTERN SAHARA
“This is the place.” The Chadian guide waved a bony hand as if revealing a marvel.
The three “tourists”—two French, one Belgian—took in the Saharan vista. They were vastly unimpressed.
Felix Moungar sought to improve his guests’ opinion of the region. “We have had two surveys conducted by geologists,” the official explained. As a deputy of the Ministry of Mining, Energy, and Petroleum, he was well placed to know such things.
“You say the surveys were both positive?” The inquiry came from the obvious leader of the trio, a swarthy, heavyset native of Nice. He had a perennial two-day beard, partly in concession to a scar running along his left cheek. It was a souvenir of his time in La Legion Étrangère.
Moungar nodded eagerly, flashing his white smile. “Oui, monsieur. The last was only two months ago. This remains a worthwhile site.”
The visitors took in the gaping pit, many meters deep and perhaps two-thirds of a kilometer wide. Some abandoned excavating machinery lay about, giving the facility a forlorn, idle appearance.
The Frenchman regarded his guide. “If this mine is still useful, why isn’t it in operation?”
Deputy Minister Moungar raised his narrow shoulders in elegant resignation. “Alas, my friend. There is practically a glut on the world market. But the consortium’s, ah, partners are willing to fund a small start-up because of the secrecy this place provides.”
The explanation only drew a grunt from the former Legionnaire. No more response was necessary: he already knew the identities of the parties, including the silent partners beyond the borders of Chad and France. What they did with the product was no concern of his. He and his colleagues were merely interested in the lucrative contract they stood to conclude for protecting the short-term operation and ensuring the product’s safe shipment.
He glanced at the nearest of his friends. “Etienne, what do you think?”
The tall Belgian glanced around. “Good approaches, no surprises. I suggest using only the main road in and out—better control of access and egress. And random patrols, of course.”
“Of course.” The older man winked at his friend. A covert smile passed between them. He turned to the third visitor. “Paul?”
The youngest of the trio idly toed the sand, musing again that he was far from the green hills of Gascony. “I’ll take a closer look, but from here I see no reason it shouldn’t work out. We should not stay too long, though.”
“I was told there would be another security firm in the area.”
Sideways glances flicked among the three Europeans. Only an unusually perceptive observer would have caught the import.
“We heard the same thing,” said the older man.
Moungar felt the ephemeral awkwardness, then recovered. “Gentlemen, I shall drive you into the pit for your closer examination. But I agree with Monsieur Laroque. We should avoid prolonged exposure inside the pit—with all that uranium ore.”