Kerr laughed. “Let the good times roll.”
John didn’t smile. “With all the focus on the Middle East, there’s a question: How can we address other issues when they come up. Like this bomb, for instance.” He set his coffee aside. “We need to take possession of this weapon or neutralize it. Quickly. Before some terrorist group gets hold of it.”
“Send in a SEAL team plus a HAZMAT team from the Department of Energy for protection against any radiation.”
John shook his head again. “Not so simple. It’ll take time to put teams on the ground and organize an extraction process. We need time. That’s why they sent Gus to South Africa.” He apparently saw her quizzical look. “Colonel Gustave Frederick from the director’s executive staff. He’s headed there to work with the COS in Cape Town.”
“Those men who came in on the helicopter,” Elizabeth asked. “Think they’re members of a terrorist group?”
“Hard to tell. Don’t think terrorist groups have the kind of network to use helicopters …” He stopped. “But their cousins managed to hijack four commercial airliners; still, I think the word has somehow gotten out about this thing sitting in the desert, there for the taking.”
“The French? It was a French helicopter.”
John shrugged.
“The Iraqis, Iranians, Libyans? Any one of the crazies out there.”
“Either someone who wants to use it against somebody,” John said, “or someone who wants to prevent it being used against them. Doesn’t matter. We must get it first.” He shook his head. “And the thing is leaking radiation, for God’s sake!”
They drank their coffees for a while. Elizabeth asked, “What kind of resource does this colonel of yours have down there in South Africa?”
“The COS is Charles Fleming. Base chief is M. R. D. Houston. Gus also has Sandra Harrington. All top-notch people. They better be, and they better move quickly.” All at once, John straightened in his chair and grinned.
“What?”
“Colonel Frederick also has an ace in the hole. A fellow by the name of Hayden Stone.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hayden Stone sat back and watched Luke Craig’s eyes darted back and forth from his computer screen to Stone. The afternoon before, after Stone and Dirk Lange had killed two of Nabeel Asuty’s henchmen, Stone had returned to the embassy and reported the incident. As he related the details, Craig’s bronzed face turned dour and the scar over his right eyebrow became prominent. All he did was nod and scribble notes. Finally, he ordered Stone to prepare a detailed report while he notified CIA headquarters.
Five minutes later Craig read the response from headquarters that appeared on his computer. “They want to know why you didn’t think it was a routine robbery.” He looked up. “They’re right, you know. Crime is rampant here in Sierra Leone.”
“You’re shitting me. Right? I explained what happened at the café. Nabeel and I had words. Afterward, his henchmen came after me in the restroom. They weren’t interested in my wallet.” Stone felt himself becoming impatient, so took a deep breath. “Nabeel is connected somehow to Abdul Wahab, who carries a grudge against me because of what happened in France.” Stone’s head ached. He never had migraines, didn’t know how they felt, but this one had to be as bad. “Abdul Wahab is responsible for the deaths of two CIA case officers.”
“Yes. I know.” Craig returned to the computer.
“There’s the matter of the guns and explosives in the trunk of their car.” Stone waited and got no response. “What’s wrong? Do they want to know if you authorized my actions?”
Stone knew the routine: Monday morning quarterbacking by the people up the chain of command in the CIA’s Africa Division. Would there be repercussions with the Sierra Leone government? What if the incident became fodder for the press? Craig was caught in the middle. Was Craig thinking of a way to direct the flack in his direction?
Craig’s face hardened, yet his voice stayed calm. “Look, Stone. You’re not a staffer. You may think you know how we work in the agency, but you don’t.” The computer beeped with an incoming message and he looked back at his screen. “Shit!” He shoved his face closer to the monitor while saying, “I don’t have time to discuss this.” His head shot around. “You’re just a damn cowboy. The word is everywhere you go there’s gunplay. Get yourself reassigned to a teaching post at the Farm. They’re gearing up for Iraq. They need your type. Or better still, go back to Afghanistan.”
Stone’s head throbbed. He was about to tell this bastard to take a flying leap when a knock on the door interrupted him.
“That’s Sandra.” He waved Stone off. “I’ll talk with you later. Don’t do anything unless you check with me.”
As Stone passed Sandra coming through the door, she avoided eye contact. She looked concerned.
A few minutes later, at the front door he met Sandra rushing down the stairway. Obviously distraught, she said she didn’t want to talk and dashed down the hallway. The meeting with Craig hadn’t gone well.
Outside, Stone spied Mitchell, the embassy driver, and walked up to him. “Do you mind taking me to the housing compound?” he asked. “I’m calling it a day.”
With nervous jerks, Mitchell steered the van back and forth through the crowded streets of Freetown, eyes intent on the rearview mirror rather than on the road ahead. Approaching an outdoor bazaar crowded with people in gaily colored clothes, he swerved to the right into a narrow alley. Hawkers leaped from in front of the vehicle. He shot a glance at Stone. “I’m taking a circuitous route, sir. One suggested many times by the RSO for security purposes.”
“Fine. But slow down before you hit somebody.” Stone waited for him to ease up on the throttle. “What are you looking for in the mirror?”
Mitchell gave a high-pitched laugh. “Just traffic, sir. Just traffic.”
Now Stone found himself looking in the mirror. He realized that Mitchell was on edge, and no doubt the reason he was frightened was the word had gotten out that Stone was a marked man. Mitchell had no intention of being caught in crossfire. Stone understood — it wasn’t Mitchell’s fight.
At the compound gate, Stone hopped out and waved good-bye to a visibly relieved Mitchell, who sped away. After Stone passed the guard shack, he decided not to go to his apartment but headed for the clubhouse. An airy glass-sided structure that served for informal gatherings by the residents, it faced the swimming pool where parents reclined in deck chairs, watching their children splash in the pool. Palm trees shaded the lawn and pink bougainvillea bloomed along the walls of the buildings.
Inside the clubhouse the air was chilled a few degrees lower than outside. Still, the air conditioning hadn’t eliminated the touch and smell of dampness. Stone found himself alone in the lounge.
The vending machine buzzed a tone that signaled it was on its last legs. Stone inserted coins for a soda and took a chair with a view of the pool. After allowing his thoughts to gather, he took stock of his situation. Obviously, his mission to Sierra Leone was over. Operationally, he was a liability for the agency. He was on the local jihadist hit list. By now the local authorities had gotten word that he was involved in the deaths of two men. He had accomplished identifying Nabeel Asuty and the terrorist’s apparent connection with Abdul Wahab. As for the nature of his plans — the local CIA office had to follow up on that.
The soda helped relieve Stone’s headache. His eye caught sight of a lizard sitting on a low rock wall outside the window. Slender, with a thin tail, at times its greenish-gray body sparked with a touch of fluorescence in the sunlight. Every few seconds the lizard did a push-up, and then it darted a glance from side to side. A little African comedy.