The African Contract (4 page)

Freetown, Sierra Leone—August 9, 2002

Hayden Stone caught the coffee mug before it shattered in the kitchen sink. He looked across the room toward Sandra's closed bedroom door. The noise had woken her, which he didn't want. The previous night, he heard her make repeated trips from her bedroom to the bathroom. Obviously, she had caught a West African intestinal bug, part of the travel experience in this part of the world. His turn would come if he stayed too long in Freetown.

The embassy had provided them a well-furnished apartment, quite a step above the Spartan quarters in Monrovia. The fenced, well-maintained, guarded compound accommodated the staff and dependents assigned to the embassy. Back in Monrovia, aside from the skeleton staff, only people on TDY, or temporary duty, visited, and they departed as soon as possible.

In the refrigerator, Stone found milk, yogurt, and local fruit, the makings of a quick breakfast. Opening a blueberry yogurt, he went out onto the second floor balcony to inspect the grounds in the daylight. The morning air coming up from the bay felt fresh. This was the season when one could expect rain almost every day, yet clouds shielded the sun, keeping the temperature down. Only when the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky did the heat drive a person into the shade.

The country had gone through a horrendous civil war since Stone had last visited, and he wondered what he would find when they left the treed suburbs and headed downtown. Here in the bubble provided for the Americans, the world felt safe, with gentle smells, brightly colored flowers, and noisy birds.

From inside, Stone heard something drop on the kitchen table and knew Sandra was up and about. Back inside, she sat at the table, face buried in her hands.

“Did you hear me make all those trips to the john last night?” She looked up with red eyes. “I caught a bug.”

“Intestinal parasite. Could have caught it anywhere. Maybe you should stay here today.”

“No way. Got to keep you and Craig on friendly terms; besides, I'll see the post doctor. Hope he's not on a road trip.” She looked around the room. “Any crackers here? I can't have coffee or anything that will make me feel worse.” She settled on dry cereal.

Stone left her alone to gather herself and went to shower and shave. He assured her he would spend minimal time in the bathroom.

As they waited for the shuttle to take them to the embassy, Stone went over the day's schedule. They would meet with Craig, see what he knew about Dirk Lange, and find out what he had planned as support for his meeting with the South African. “Whatever information Lange has, we'll pass on to Craig and cable it back to CIAHQ.” Stone rose from the bench as the van arrived. “That will be that and off we go. Short and sweet. Unless we run into more trouble.”

“I'm getting curious what this fellow Lange has for us.”

“So am I.”

When they boarded the van, Stone recognized the driver from his last visit to Freetown. They exchanged nods, but he couldn't remember the man's name. Seated, he continued his conversation with Sandra. “It's apparent that there are people, obviously jihadists, who don't want us to meet Mr. Lange. Or maybe someone just doesn't like me.”

“You have a tendency to piss people off. Like the terrorists back in France.”

From the American compound to the embassy, sections of the route, especially the crossroads, looked familiar. Here and there, homes and buildings lay in ruin, but the people treading along the sides of the road had more confidence in their stride than he'd witnessed in Liberia. Bicyclists accompanied the pedestrians; still, their clothing looked worn and drab. On his last visit, Stone had seen young African children in school uniforms like those worn in England. Not today.

The road winding through the suburbs, wide enough to allow parked cars on either side, narrowed as the van entered the city. Three-story buildings, their facades stained with mold and dirt, lined the streets. Along the curbs, vendors displayed their wares of fruit, breads, and recycled appliances and tools. The driver constantly held down the horn, urging pedestrians to move off the street.

“Ah. There it is,” Stone said. “The Cotton Tree.”

Ahead, standing in what Freetowners considered the center of town, stood a tree matching in height the nearby eight-story Electricity House, the headquarters for Freetown's spotty electrical supply. It commanded the central square.

“And the significance?” Sandra asked. Her face had regained some color.

“The people here sort of revere it. I was hoping it didn't get chopped down or destroyed during the rebel siege.” Stone studied the thick limbs and green leaves extending out umbrella fashion. “I guess superstitions work for the good sometimes.”

“How's that?”

“People believe spirits live on the top of the tree. Some claim they see the spirits dancing.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Not that I'll admit.”

Luke Craig looked in a better mood than he had the night before on the ferry. He sat erect behind the desk in clean khaki slacks and appeared confident in his role as station chief. Peering over his reading glasses, he zeroed in on Stone. Craig informed him he had just reviewed the morning cables from headquarters. “It appears that the executive council takes your visit here seriously. Specifically, Gustav Frederick, who is pretty close to the director, is urging we move swiftly.”

“I'd like to interview this Dirk Lange today and get the report out by close of business,” Stone said.

Craig looked over to Sandra. “I assume you two will be talking to him.”

“Luke, I'm under the weather,” Sandra said. “We were told the medical officer is heading off on his road trip today. I'd like to visit him before he departs.”

Craig took an exaggerated breath and continued, “The station has very little on what's happening here with your visit. I assume it's important. Care to fill me in?”

Stone related the details of the meeting with Jacob in Monrovia. “Aside from the headquarters briefing back in Washington and what Jacob told me about this fellow Lange, that's all I know.” It was time to find out what Craig knew. “So what information does the station have on Lange?”

Craig steepled his hands together. “Headquarters just said to provide support, and, by the way, our personnel resources are a tad thin. We can lend only limited countersurveillance when you conduct your meeting.”

“Which gets us to Lange,” Stone said.

Sandra jerked forward in obvious pain from a cramp.

“Better get to the doctor before he leaves,” Craig urged.

“Sorry, you two. Will be back.” Sandra hastened out of the office.

“Occupational hazard in these parts.” Craig paused as if he didn't quite know how to handle Stone one-on-one. He started on what sounded like a rundown appearing on a baseball player's stat sheet. “Dirk Lange. Age thirty-two, South African national, white Afrikaner.” He moved some papers on his desk. “Let's see, he's been here in Sierra Leone for two years, oh no, more than that now. May have been working somehow with a South African mercenary group. Now works for an export company that handles minerals—”

“Diamonds, I assume.”

Craig looked him in the eye. “That's the lucrative commodity hereabouts, yes.” He went back to his sheet of paper. “Lange seems to be involved with a humanitarian organization here. Spends a great deal of his free time in the bush finding the victims of the last carnage and bringing them back for rehabilitation.” He pushed the sheet away and steepled his hands again.

Stone waited.

“This Lange fellow is typical of your white Africans. Comfortable with his surroundings here on the continent.”

Stone nodded.

“Coffee?”

“No thanks,” Stone said.

“Lange is rather educated. Engineer. Did postgraduate work at the University of Cape Town in the classics, can you believe?” Craig became evasive. “Went to a religious school in what we call high school. Dominican-run place. Suppose that's where he got his charitable instincts.”

That did it. Stone now knew the station had an extensive file on Dirk Lange. A mere cursory trace would have resulted in name, date of birth, and any criminal background. The agency had gone back into his early schooling. Lange was now or had been a person of interest.

“You have an address for him?”

“His office is only a few blocks away. As you probably know from your previous visit here, most businesses are clustered downtown.”

“Close to the Cotton Tree.” Stone pulled out a three-by-five index card and a pen. “I'll need a business and residence address.”

Craig smiled ever so slightly. “Don't know where he lives. Here, give me that card and I'll write down the number and street where he works. I suppose you'll contact him this morning?”

“Yes, but first I'll check on Sandra.”

In the embassy's medical unit, Stone found Sandra looking piqued. Asking how she felt, she shook her head. “I'm afraid I'm wasted, damn it. Can't possibly help with the meeting.” The driver of the van came to the door. “I'm asking this gentleman to take me back to the apartment.”

Stone now remembered the driver's name. Mitchell. Five years before, the man had worked for the RSO, or more accurately Jonathan Worthington, the chief investigator for the embassy's security office. He was a local employee known by the State Department as a foreign service national, or FSN.

“I apologize, Mr. Mitchell. On the bus, your name was on the tip of my tongue, but …”

Mitchell placed his right hand on his heart. “No sir, I should have said something, Mr. Hayden.”

“How do I get in touch with my friend Jonathan Worthington?”

Mitchell's face clouded. His eyes filled with tears. Ignoring Stone's question, he looked away and addressed Sandra. “The van is ready, madame.”

She rose. “See you later. If I live.”

Stone patted her on the back. “I'll be back early afternoon. Can I bring you anything?”

Sandra shook her head and headed for the door. Mitchell closed the door behind them, avoiding eye contact with Stone. The door reopened and Craig stuck his head in, motioning with his index finger for Stone to follow. The countersurveillance team was ready to support Stone for his meet with Dirk Lange.

Two blocks from the central square, Hayden Stone found York Export Ltd. in the shadow of Electricity House. The city roadway in this section of town looked reasonably maintained; however, the sidewalks were cracked and broken. Stone carefully negotiated a deep hole. A twisted ankle was the last thing he needed. The two-story building where he found Dirk Lange's office had recently been painted bright white, which contrasted starkly with the surrounding area of pockmarked structures plastered with faded, tattered posters. A sign hung to the right of the door and in Gothic font stated YORK EXPORT was on the second floor. Stone found the front door locked.

After repeated knocks—the doorbell didn't work—a slight Sierra Leonese woman appeared at the door and asked his business. Stone told her he wanted to speak with Lange, at which she shook her head but opened the door wider and led him toward a stairway. The interior of the building smelled fresh from a new coat of paint, and sections of the wood staircase had been replaced.

He followed her up the stairs where a middle-aged man waited. “Sir. Pity you have missed Mr. Lange,” he said. “Presently he travels in the Kono District. He should return from Koidu tomorrow.” The temperature inside the building was stifling, and the man dabbed his shiny black face with a handkerchief.

“Made sense,” Stone thought. Koidu's was where the diamond fields were located. He continued up the stairs. “May I leave a card for Mr. Lange?” Stone asked with an Irish brogue.

The man nodded and invited Stone into the clean, almost sterile office. The outer space contained four desks at which women worked vintage computers. Their eyes darted up to Stone and returned to their monitors. Three closed two-door safes were positioned in separate corners of the room. Through an open door Stone looked into what looked like Lange's office. An up-to-date desktop computer sat on a credenza behind the desk alongside a satellite phone dock. Maps of Sierra Leone and greater Africa hung throughout the office.

Stone pulled out his Irish passport and looked inside. “Seems I've left my cards behind. May I give you my name and contact number, Mr. …?”

“I am Amadu. The office manager.”

As Amadu searched for a notepad, Stone tried to read the computer screen on the desk next to him. He glimpsed rows of numbers under a heading of what seemed to be a Dutch firm, name not recognized. The office was, as they say in the intelligence trade, clean. Not much could be learned on first sight, but the lack of telltale signs sometimes told more than intended.

Amadu returned with paper and pencil, and Stone said, “My name is Finbarr Costanza.” He gave him a telephone number to the cell phone Craig had provided. “I'll drop by again tomorrow afternoon.”

“I suggest you call beforehand, sir. If the telephone is working.” Amadu frowned. “May I tell Mr. Lange the nature of your business?”

“I'm a travel writer.”

“Really?” The slight lift of Amadu's eyebrow revealed amusement.

“Searching for ideas and possibilities.”

Leaving York Export, Stone took the route planned by Craig and his team. They instructed him to walk to the town center and after a few blocks turn east until he came to an eating establishment by the name of Goldie's. The café stood in sight of the once-famous two-story City Hotel that now reportedly served as a base for prostitutes.

Along the way, Stone picked up the countersurveillance. The three Africans and two Americans that Craig had placed on him. Their operational techniques impressed Stone. He had gone three blocks when he heard people singing a hymn. The music came from behind a dilapidated storefront, its front window displaying a taped-on cardboard white cross. He walked in out of curiosity and to puzzle the men following him.