Covert Action

8 Boots on the Ground

The bored customs officer took the man’s passport with a surly gesture. “Purpose of your visit?” he droned impatiently.

“I am with Siemens, AG and here to work with CAPC, the Central African Power Corporation, to assist with your electric power supply. I believe my papers to be in order, are they not?” The German electrical giant worked throughout Africa and was, in fact, also contracted to repair and expand the telephone system in Iraq.

The customs officer’s whole demeanor immediately changed. “Of course, Mr. Schultz. Welcome to Zambia.”

Steven Fagan, who had arrived on the morning flight from Nairobi, proceeded to clear customs and recovered his single piece of luggage with no further delays. Bill Owens had him well documented as a consultant with the German firm under contract to provide engineering services for CAPC. Dodds LeMaster had managed to hack into the Siemens HR database and list a Herman Schultz as one of their field engineers. Steven had a working knowledge of engineering and German, but few spoke German in Zambia, the former British colony of Northern Rhodesia. The closest former German colony was Tanzania. Zambia and Tanzania shared a section of border where the black surrogates of Germany and Britain had fought a bloody conflict during World War I.

CAPC employees and any foreigners working with CAPC enjoyed privileged status in Zambia. Revenue from the copper mines and tourism came and went, depending on metal prices, exchange rates, and the world economy. Hydroelectric power generation was a constant. Zambia exported close to two billion kilowatts of electricity, primarily to South Africa. It was an important source of revenue, and since this was Africa, it was also a source of under-the-table payoffs to key members of the government. Currently, the name not withstanding, those members belonged to the ruling Movement for Multiparty Democracy, which held a slim majority in the Zambian National Assembly and controlled the presidency. Steve Fagan, aka Herman Schultz, sported a pair of clear-rimmed glasses and a white plastic shirt-pocket protector that, along with his mild, inoffensive manner, said he was a man who was interested in technical matters and the transmission of electricity.

Steven also carried papers that identified him as a regional director for the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation. For what he needed to do in support of the operation, he had to be two people in Zambia. Once outside the terminal, he hit a redial number on his satellite phone.

“Garrett.”

“Hello, Garrett. I’m on the ground and heading for the hangar. It’s on the civil aviation side of the airport, hangar B-5, as in bravo, five.”

“Hangar B-5, got it. See you there in about an hour.”

“In an hour, then,” Steven replied and snapped his phone shut.

He caught a cab that took him to the civil aviation complex, which was far more utilitarian than the main passenger terminal. He was anxious to see the hangar and to ensure that it was suitable for their needs. Things were going to begin to happen fast. An employee of the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation had made the arrangements through an intermediary — a hangar between eight and ten thousand square feet, suitable for general aviation purposes, with shop space, power, and water — a tall order in southern Africa. He had also asked that the facility be remote, if possible, and secure. Steven handed the guard at the gate to the complex a 50,000-kwacha note, about $10 U.S. He checked Steven’s Simpson Foundation ID and gave him a ring of keys and directions to hangar B-5. After a short drive down a dusty road, they came to a hangar served by two smaller outbuildings. From the outside, it looked perfect. He paid off the cab and began a careful inspection of the facility. Close to an hour later, another cab delivered Garrett Walker. He found Steven inside, and they greeted each other warmly.

“What is that god-awful smell?”

“Chemical residue. Apparently the hangar was once used to support a crop-dusting operation. They grow a lot of corn and sorghum north of here. It probably wouldn’t meet OSHA criteria, but I think it will do nicely for our purposes. There’s a head and shower facility in one of the outbuildings, and some crude office space in the other. No matter, we won’t be here all that long.”

“When do the others arrive?” Garrett asked

“Just after dark. We’ll unload and get set up. Janet wants to get them across the Zambezi as soon as possible, but no later than dawn day after tomorrow. Have you heard from Benjamin?”

“We talked by phone this morning, and I plan to see him this afternoon. He says everything is in order. How soon will you be moving from here?”

Steven paused to consider this. “If we can manage it, I’d like to see the equipment and main group move at first light, but that will be Janet’s call. We both agree we’ll be a lot safer when we are dispersed and away from the capital. I know she wants the assault element out of Zambia as soon as possible.”

“How about Tomba and AKR?”

“They will be here sometime late this afternoon or this evening. Can you get back here before dawn tomorrow morning for a jump-off briefing?”

“No problem,” Garrett replied. “I’ve got a cabdriver on retainer until we leave. You want the doctor here?”

Again, Steven was not quick to answer. “I don’t think so. We’ll probably talk about a lot of things that he has no need to know about. We don’t want to scare him, but then again, I don’t want him too surprised at what may be taking place. My sense from our meeting in Hawaii is that he’s a pretty solid man. How do you feel about him?”

“I think he’s good to go — physically, for sure. We got up this morning and went for a run. When I left him, he was heading for the hotel health club to lift some weights. On the flight over we talked at length about what might be happening at the hotel in Zimbabwe, and it’s some pretty scary stuff. You don’t have to worry about Rosenblatt not taking this seriously. He’s pretty keyed up. Judy still due in tonight?”

“She’ll call you as soon as she gets to the hotel. I understand her appointment at the embassy is for sometime late tomorrow morning.”

Steven showed Garrett quickly around the hangar complex, and they shook hands before Garrett climbed back into the waiting cab. He rode up front with the driver, and they maintained a running conversation all the way back to Lusaka. They spoke mostly in English, but the driver was astonished at how easily this white man picked up on the few words he used in his native Kaonda.

While Garrett Walker made his way back into Lusaka, Claude Renaud was sitting in Helmut Klan’s office, slouched in a chair across the desk from him.

“So, Herr Doktor, your research is about finished. I’m sure you and your colleagues will be happy to return to the comforts of Europe.”

Klan smiled tightly. He couldn’t wait to be out of Africa, but he was not going to admit that to Renaud. “Actually, Claude, it’s been an interesting experience. Perhaps,” he lied, “I can return at some point for a visit that is purely pleasure. At any rate, I’ve asked to meet with you, as my principals have informed me that there may be a dedicated threat to our work here. What I’m saying is that someone or some force may attempt to intervene.”

Renaud leaned forward, suddenly very alert. “You don’t mean that someone would attack us here, at the Makondo? But that is impossible. You yourself said that the authorities in Harare had been well paid to leave us alone as well as to alert us if someone comes nosing around. Who could get to us without someone sounding the alarm?”

“I really don’t know,” Klan said patiently. “All I know is that I was told to complete our work as soon as is practical, and that I was to instruct you to have your men be extra vigilant. Apparently there may be a small American unit that has the ability to project force globally. It seems that they can move with great speed and striking power. I think we can be finished with our work in five days, perhaps less. Your job is to keep us safe until that time.”

“I know my job, Herr Doktor. I’d like to see someone try to interfere. I’ve trained these men myself, and they are the best group of fighters on the continent. No, Doktor, you go about your business; we will see that you are not bothered.” Renaud was now slouched back in his chair. “And if someone does come nosing around, we will see that they get a warm reception.”

Klan started to warn him about complacency and overconfidence, but he knew it would be a waste of time — better to flatter. “Very well, Claude; I have complete confidence in you and your fighters. But we have come a long way, and we are very close to finishing our mission here. If we are not successful, neither of us will collect our completion bonus. Think about that as you go about your duties.”

Renaud had no intention of losing out on his bonus. As soon as he left the hotel, he went to find his team leaders to discuss additional security measures. Renaud would have liked the project to go on a little longer. He was enjoying the power of heading his own mercenary band, not to mention the weekly sums that were deposited to his account in Maputo. He had never had such a financial cushion. But he knew it would have to end sometime, and there was the bonus — three hundred thousand American dollars. With that kind of money he could return to Johannesburg, find himself a comfortable apartment, and buy a new car — perhaps a new Land Rover. And when he went back into the Broken Tusk, he would be a man with a mercenary contract under his belt — a man who had led his own commando. While he was sure that their position at the Makondo was unassailable, he again walked the grounds to inspect their perimeter security. Since there was no longer any need to procure test subjects, he was free to concentrate all his men on security. He doubted that any American force could suddenly appear in the heart of southern Africa. The Americans could not move without jet transport and a huge logistics train. True, the Makondo had a helo pad, but it was only suitable for light-duty helicopters, not troop transports. Still, he would locate a machine gun to cover the pad. If an uninvited helo did try to land, he would cut it to pieces. But this was all conjecture. If there were such a force, he would hear of it long before they got to the Makondo. That’s why he kept two men in the town of Kariba, and had paid the constables in the villages along the road that led to the hotel complex to alert him if anyone approached.

As Claude Renaud was walking the security perimeter of the facility, stopping occasionally to chat with the men in their security outposts, François Meno inspected the final group of test subjects held in the basement of the Makondo. That’s how he and the others referred to them — test subjects, or hosts. They were in small rooms — cells actually, two to a room. Most of them were men, but there needed to be a few women to ensure that the pox was not somehow gender-selective. When the genetic composition of a virus was altered, almost anything could happen, and any number of unintended side effects could accompany the modified organism. Meno would have liked a more even ratio of men to women, but the teams that procured his subjects brought in mostly men, even though he and the others on his team repeatedly asked for more women. Meno was aware that African men have a low regard for women. Perhaps, he thought, they felt that taking women captive was beneath them, or they wished to leave women behind because they performed virtually all the manual labor around the home. No matter, the pathogen they had developed was aggressive and lethal beyond their expectations to either man or woman.

“Which one do you want to examine, Johann? And this is the last, right?”

“It is. I think we need only see the man in this room.”

Johann Mitchell was a pathologist with a great deal of experience in internal medicine. It was his job to gauge the progress of the disease and the intervening time between exposure and death. He was also tasked with the critical issue of contagion — how long did it take an individual, once infected, to become contagious? How long was an infected person contagious before they became ill and exhibited symptoms? With the more common variola major smallpox, a victim was not contagious until the onset of symptoms, when he or she was too sick to move around. The Makondo strain of hemorrhagic smallpox they had developed acted very differently.

The man they were about to examine was ambulatory and appeared healthy. Only the drugs that were administered with their meals kept him quiet and semi-catatonic. Meno and Mitchell entered the room and locked the door behind them. During the initial testing, before the use of sedatives, they would not be able to work like this without guards present. Still, Meno carried a pistol. The man was sitting docilely on his cot. Mitchell asked him to lie down, and he quietly obeyed. Meno remained standing while Mitchell pulled a stool alongside the man’s bunk. He talked to the man in reassuring tones while he drew blood and thoroughly examined him. Bedside manners, even in this macabre setting, were a matter of reflex for most physicians. Then, with wooden-handled swabs, Mitchell took cultures from the man’s nose and throat, sealing them carefully in special ziplock bags. If the man thought it strange that two men encapsulated in yellow spacesuits were visiting him in this way, he didn’t show it. He merely smiled vacantly up at them through a drug-induced haze.

“No symptoms yet?” Meno asked.

“None,” Mitchell replied. There was a rubber diaphragm in the airtight suits that allowed them to communicate with only slight distortion. “It’s been nine days since he became contagious, and if it were not for the sedatives, he would be up and about with no abnormalities. It’s incredible.”

As they left the room, they passed the cot of a woman who was moaning softly. Her symptoms had begun the day before. She was drenched in sweat from fever. A few lesions were beginning to appear on her forehead. The sedatives that had been administered to keep her quiet and passive would alleviate some of her suffering, but only for a while.

The decontamination process took longer than the examination. Those tasked with developing and refining this deadly strain of smallpox were able to cut corners that would have been unthinkable in a normal clinical setting. Decontamination, however, was not one of them. First they passed through a shower of a sodium hypochlorite solution to thoroughly wash and disinfect their suits. Then they passed into an ultraviolet-lighted room with heating elements to dry the suits and remove moisture from the air. From the drying room, they moved to a disrobing area, where they carefully removed the suits and pulled on respirators. They kept the respirators on until they got into the shower room, where they could fully scrub down. The whole process took close to half an hour.

The blood samples and swabs they had taken were then sent to the lab, where a masked and gowned lab tech handled them in a Plexiglas isolation chamber with holes in the glass for rubber-gloved access to the sealed and sterile environment. An examination of the cultures would ensure that the few seemingly healthy subjects were still infected and contagious. An hour’s work by the lab tech confirmed that the swabs contained hemorrhagic smallpox, still virile and very deadly. He called Meno in his office with the results.

“It’s confirmed, Johann,” Meno said as he hung up the phone. “The healthy-appearing ones are just as contagious as those manifesting the advanced symptoms. So it would appear from the last infected group of subjects that we can expect a victim to be a contagious carrier seven to nine days before he becomes sick — perhaps longer. And our carrier, depending on his health and level of activity, will become contagious about forty-eight hours after becoming infected. Very impressive, Johann. Very impressive indeed. I think we’re there.”

Mitchell nodded. With this last strain, a carrier would have a week, perhaps more, to move about and contaminate those with whom he came into contact. He would still be contagious after he fell ill, but those with the outward symptoms of smallpox — fever, malaise, vomiting, and body aches — were seldom ambulatory. The symptoms of smallpox were reasonably well known, and those with symptoms could expect to be quarantined.

“With these last cultures, we can expect them all to be showing overt symptoms within forty-eight hours,” Mitchell said. “I, uh, prepared some lethal injections should we want to help them along. It’s probably best all around, don’t you think?”

Meno considered this. The final stages of this strain of smallpox were not pretty. It usually began with a fever, followed quickly by the first lesions. Then it was a quick progression from lesions to pustules, with the fever causing the pustules to scab over. Most of their test subjects experienced several days of fever, dehydration, internal bleeding, and a great deal of pain. Death was welcome. There are few more painful ways to die than from hemorrhagic smallpox.

“I don’t think so,” Meno replied. “I’d like some more data on the average length of time between the onset of symptoms and death. Let’s let the disease run its course. It will give us a better idea of the length of time between the first symptoms and death. We know that they will still be highly contagious when they’re sick, and that they will have to be cared for. Even when quarantined, they will be dangerous, and they will clog up any health-care system. A lot of resources will be consumed trying to put off the inevitable.”

Mitchell nodded. “If that’s the way you want it.” He promptly left Meno’s office, trying to hide his displeasure.

By noon the next day, all of the eight subjects, five men and three women, three Shona and five Ndebele, were racked with fevers ranging to as high as 105 degrees. Most of them had begun to throw up, and all but two had lesions. It took them about two days to die once the symptoms appeared. The entry in Dr. Meno’s medical diary recorded it as two days, four hours, and thirty-seven minutes — on average.

As the sun slipped behind the horizon on the broad Zambian plain, a Lockheed C-130J Hercules crabbed in toward the Lusaka airport, fighting a strong crosswind. The pilot skillfully touched down and taxied to the general aviation area, pausing some fifty yards from hangar B-5. The plane was met by a jeep with two uniformed officials. With two of the four engines still turning over, a tall, commanding woman stepped down from the hatch just behind the flight deck and walked a short distance from the nose of the plane to the jeep. She towered over the one official who slid from the open jeep’s passenger seat. They talked for a few moments, then she handed him a manila folder. The man began to inspect the paperwork inside. From the shadows next to the hangar, three men tensely watched this mini-drama unfold.

“We have already paid the senior customs official and the airport manager,” Steven Fagan observed. “She should only have to present loading documentation and the forged manifest.”

“Perhaps this official was not a party to that which was paid to his superiors,” Tomba said. “It would seem that he is awaiting what he feels is his due.”

“That guy better clear that aircraft and do it soon, or he’s going to get his ass kicked,” AKR offered. They watched as she handed him a letter-sized package. The official touched his cap with a riding crop and climbed back into the jeep. “The man doesn’t know it,” AKR continued, “but he just survived a near-death experience.”

The three stepped from the shadows and into the dull glare of the bare bulb over the single sliding door of the hangar. Janet Brisco immediately saw them and began walking toward the hangar. The big Hercules pivoted and followed her.

“You seem quite intimidated by Miss Brisco, are you not?” Tomba asked.

“Quite,” Akheem replied. “That lady scares me. I’m just glad she’s on our side — at least, I think she’s on our side.”

The turbine whine of the two Allison turbofan engines cut short any further conversation. Brisco joined them, and they watched as the aircraft made a tight hundred-eighty-degree turn to bring the rear loading ramp to face the hangar. The aircraft was painted all white, with “Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation” blocked onto the tail in neat black letters. The pilot cut power to the two engines as the tail ramp began to grind down. Janet Brisco walked under the tail section and called up into the bowels of the aircraft.

“All right, people, let’s get this aircraft unloaded.”

In the orderly confusion that followed, the C-130 was quickly emptied. First, two white vans were driven down the loading ramp and into the hangar. They looked like nine-passenger shuttle vans, but there were no windows — just a number of wire antenna whips projecting from the van roofs. Tomba’s men were all dressed as laborers — dark tan trousers and short-sleeved, collared shirts. About half of them wore hard hats; they looked like any work crew at an African airstrip. Two small forklifts charged from the belly of the plane with the first of the palleted equipment. The two machines shuttled loads while the men formed a brigade for bags and small boxes. Some of them were stamped, “Medical Test Equipment — Handle with Care.” In less than forty minutes, the Hercules was unloaded. When the hangar doors were closed, the aircraft began to spool up the four big turbofan engines and crawl back out to the airstrip. It taxied to the main runway, where it hesitated for only a moment before beginning its takeoff roll. The big six-bladed Dowty composite propellers bit into the African night, and the Hercules gathered momentum quickly. Using less than half the allotted runway, it rotated and climbed steeply, banking to the north.

The inside of the hangar was a hive of activity. Janet Brisco roamed the interior with a clipboard, seeing that everything was staged in accordance with her planning diagram. Two 10kw generators were set up behind the hangar, with thick umbilicals leading inside. Lights on tripod stands were set out to augment the dimly illuminated space. Two of the Africans in the shabby attire of contract security guards lounged about in front of the hangar, seemingly inattentive to their duties. When all was in its assigned place in the hangar, the men recovered their personal bags and began to set up their operational equipment. Two of them began to pry the lids from the weapons and ammunition boxes.

“This is right out of The Dogs of War,” AKR said with a grin. “To hell with the mission; let’s take Zambia.”

Janet Brisco scowled at him. They were joined by Tomba, Steven, Dodds LeMaster, Bill Owens, and Mohammed Senagal, who had taken charge of the men in Tomba’s absence.

“Okay, everyone, we are on time and on schedule. The C-130 is on its way back to Nairobi to refuel and wait for any further tasking. The two Jet Rangers will be here just before dawn to begin ferrying men and equipment to the staging areas.” She looked at her watch. “It’s twenty hundred now. Tomba, I’ll want you, Akheem, and your men ready to move out by zero three forty-five. The final mission briefing will be at zero four hundred. Dodds, I want a full functional test of the vans’ communications and support electronics between now and then. Let me know if there are any problems. Steven, was Benjamin able to make the needed arrangements?”

“Garrett met with him this afternoon, and all was said to be in order. Garrett will be here for the mission briefing.”

“And the doctor?”

“He will not be here. As I understand it, he and Garrett will go forward tomorrow afternoon and wait for the assault element to do their work.”

Janet nodded, then turned to the small, hickory-skinned man standing next to Tomba. “Are you and the men sufficiently rested to begin tomorrow? They may get a few hours’ sleep tonight, but not much more.”

The men had flown commercial from Honolulu, taking a variety of flights and connections into Nairobi. There they had rendezvoused with the equipment and the C-130J. Janet noticed that they fell asleep immediately on takeoff and awoke only when the plane touched down. They were like gundogs, able to sleep anywhere and awake immediately.

“They will be well rested and ready, miss,” Mohammed Senagal replied, meeting her gaze. Senagal had none of the shyness of the other Africans, but then he was a Somali. He was polite, but there was an imperiousness and arrogance about him that was absent in the others. “But thank you for asking.”

“That’s about it. As we take inventory and test equipment, I will want to know immediately if there are any problems. Thanks, everyone, for all your hard work. And now, Tomba, I’d like a word with you and Akheem.”

“I will be with you in a moment, Janet,” Tomba said formally.

He individually greeted each of his men and had a quiet word with Senagal, then joined Janet and AKR in the corner of the hangar. Dodds LeMaster had a pot of coffee brewing on a propane camp stove. There, Janet listened without interruption as Tomba told her about their meeting with Irish near Johannesburg, and what might be waiting for them at the target.

This was not Pavel Zelinkow’s first trip to Tehran, and each time he found it taxing. On this trip he was Philippe Poulenc, a French expatriate living in Algeria. On his last visit, he had been a French businessman in the olive oil export/import business. This time he was a representative for Bouyges Telecom, a French wireless provider, here to sell digital cell phones to the Iranians. Even though Zelinkow found it too dangerous to live in France, it did not mean that he could not convincingly masquerade as a Frenchman. The beauty of being French, Zelinkow often mused, was that no one took you too seriously. You could appear greedy or ill-mannered or arrogant, and if you were French, it was accepted. His last visit here had been to meet in secret with Imad Mugniyah, the security chief for Hezbollah. The personal security for Mugniyah had been tight, but it would be even tighter for this meeting — tighter and much more discreet.

The plane was an older A320-200 Airbus operated by Orca-Air, an Egyptian carrier out of Cairo, but it managed to arrive exactly on time that evening. His papers were in perfect order, so he quickly and easily cleared customs. As he stepped out of the building, he was unprepared for the cold, damp wind that swept in from the Elbruz Mountains to the north, still carrying moisture from the Caspian Sea. Tehran was actually farther south than Rome, but the Caspian was not the Mediterranean. There had been no one waiting to pick him up, so Zelinkow approached the first cab in the queue waiting for fares outside Mehrabad Airport. The cabdriver stood holding the door open for him, then quickly slid in behind the wheel.

“The Shohreh Hotel in Tehran, please,” Zelinkow managed in Farsi, which was far from his best language.

“With your permission, sir,” the driver replied in very good English, “my instructions are to take you to the city of Chahar Dangeh. It is only about ten kilometers south of here. A private residence there has been reserved for you. It is perhaps not so elegant as the Shohreh, but more private, and hopefully to your satisfaction.”

Zelinkow was momentarily taken back, but realized that there was now nothing he could do but agree to go. He had always found it safer and less conspicuous to be in a crowded city than in some out-of-the-way place. There were many reasons that a secret, private meeting was better carried off in an urban setting. But Chahar Dangeh was indeed a city, one that passed for an industrial city in Iran. Above all, he could understand why the man he was going to meet might want to stay out of Tehran, and well away from public view.

It was only ten kilometers, but in the afternoon traffic it took them close to forty minutes to reach the residence, a neat one-bedroom stucco structure, clean and most unremarkable. The cabdriver said he would call for him in an hour and that the meeting would be a dinner meeting. Once inside, Zelinkow locked the door and made a quick inspection of the premises, making sure the back door and windows were closed and locked. He tossed his carry-on bag on the bed and headed for the bath. It was nothing fancy, but it was adequate. Having left Rome very early that morning, he was grateful for the time to shower and shave. The flight from Rome to Cairo and the flight from Cairo to Tehran were both about three hours. With a two-hour layover in Cairo, it made for a long day. His plans had him back in Rome tomorrow evening by way of Istanbul, but first there was the business at hand. The driver returned exactly one hour later, and another short cab ride brought them to a second private residence, albeit a slightly larger one. Zelinkow understood that a man of his international reputation would need to be kept from public view, but in as comfortable a dwelling as possible, subject to security considerations. Indeed there was a $25-million reward on his head. The cabdriver opened the door for Zelinkow but made no move to follow him to the door. It was a neat, above-average home, probably one that could have housed a professional or government worker, but indistinguishable from others on the street. Zelinkow started to knock, but a hard-looking man in traditional Arab dress opened the door. He stepped into a dim interior, thick with cigarette smoke. A man in casual Western attire rose awkwardly from the settee to greet him.

“Mr. Poulenc. It is very good to make your acquaintance. Thank you for coming such a long way to meet with me.”

“Not at all,” Zelinkow replied in Arabic. “Thank you for making time for me. It is an honor to finally meet you.”

The politeness was feigned on both their parts. Neither of these men particularly cared for the other; it was not a personal dislike but a cultural one. Also, each had his own agenda, and each was highly suspicious of the other. They had been thrown together only by necessity. Both were wanted men, but Zelinkow had been the one to travel because no one in the West, or Tehran for that matter, really knew his identity. That was not the case for Abu Musab al-Zarqawi; he was one of the most wanted men in the world. Before events in Iraq propelled him to the senior tier of Al Qaeda leadership, he was Al Qaeda’s top biological weapons expert. Technically deficient by Western standards perhaps, he was nevertheless totally committed to the use of biological agents against the infidel, specifically the United States of America. After the collapse of the Taliban in Afghanistan, he had slipped out of Tora Bora and crossed the Afghan/Pakistani border. He made his way through Karachi to Baghdad and from there to the Ansar al-Islam bio-weapons facility in northern Iraq. Then the Americans came again, and after a narrow escape from Kurdish partisans, he was given sanctuary in Iran. But sanctuary did not mean freedom of movement, though he occasionally slipped in to Iraq to meet with insurgent leaders. Al-Zarqawi was in many ways a liability. The Americans wanted this man very badly. The Iranians still struck a defiant pose, but the manner in which the Americans had dispatched the Iraqi army and occupied the country gave them pause. Iranian president Mohammad Khatami and the governing mullahs had their hands full with dissident students and disillusioned citizens. The last thing they wanted was a provocation that would launch an American armored column toward Tehran. The Iranians knew they were less of a match than Saddam Hussein for such an armored thrust. Not only did they not trust the American president; more importantly, they feared him, and with good reason.

Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was born in a Jordanian refugee camp in 1966, and had known nothing but poverty and terror his whole life. He had a special grudge against Americans. In February 2002 he was meeting with an Al Qaeda cell in eastern Afghanistan when a JDAM scored a direct hit on the building where the meeting was held. All were killed but for al-Zarqawi. He was wounded in the leg, a wound that eventually cost him the limb. He now had a prosthetic leg and walked with a pronounced limp. The loss had only stiffened his resolve. He had since been linked with numerous terrorist attacks in Britain, France, Georgia, and Chechnya. He was credited with the assassination of Lawrence Foley, the American diplomat killed in Amman, and the toxic ricin plot that was foiled in England. In addition to directing the insurgency in Iraq, he could link bio-weapons development in Iraq to Saddam Hussein, making Zarqawi a prize catch. Pavel Zelinkow had resisted a meeting with this high-profile terrorist, who must surely be watched by agents of the Iranian Intelligence Ministry, the successor to the notorious SAVAK. But like many in Al Qaeda, al-Zarqawi had a phobia of using cell phones and trusted few intermediaries. Indeed, so many Al Qaeda operatives had been brought to an untimely end by their cell phones that many resisted using them, even with encryption.

Once greetings were exchanged, al-Zarqawi motioned Zelinkow to a low table where a simple meal of rice, fruit, and khoresht waited. Zelinkow had removed his shoes and now took his place at the low table. Many in Al Qaeda used the funding of the Arab charities to live and eat well. Al-Zarqawi was not one of them.

“I am given to understand,” al-Zarqawi began, “that the weapon is almost ready.”

“It is,” Zelinkow replied. “I am told that within the week it will be fully tested and ready for delivery.”

“And in what form will that delivery be made?”

Zelinkow was careful in his reply. “There will be enough material to infect twelve people by direct injection. It will be packaged in twelve syringes and hidden in an attaché case. A courier will take it from Harare to Riyadh, where he will deliver it as you have instructed. At that point, my part of the project will be complete.”

Al-Zarqawi considered this. “I understood that the delivery would be made by diplomatic pouch from the Zimbabwean capital to Riyadh.”

“And it is my understanding,” Zelinkow said politely, “that those officials in Saudi Arabia who said they would do this, while still sympathetic to our cause, feel it is too dangerous for this kind of overt official help. They will assist you with a safe haven and allow your people to move freely, but they will not put themselves in a position where they cannot deny the help given. Using the diplomatic pouch is something they will not risk. We will have to trust this to a courier.”

Al-Zarqawi slowly nodded. “You have the name and arrival date of this courier?”

“I do,” Zelinkow replied. He took a single piece of paper and wrote from memory a name, flight arrangements, and date, then handed it to al-Zarqawi. The Arab stroked his beard and studied the information.

“You have done well, Mr. Poulenc, and you have earned the right to know what we will do with this weapon you have provided.”

Pavel Zelinkow did not want to know what was to be done with this pathogen he had helped to create, but it would have been unthinkable for him to refuse to listen. So he listened stoically as al-Zarqawi outlined his fanatical plan.

After dinner, they were served harsh Turkish coffee, which Zelinkow loathed and al-Zarqawi seemed to relish. Zelinkow stayed only long enough to be polite, then rose to leave. Al-Zarqawi limped to the door to see his guest out.

“You must understand,” al-Zarqawi told him before he left, “it is for the cause that we must attack the infidel, but for me personally it is life itself. If I do not get them, these Americans who now chase us like a pack of dogs, they will surely get me.”

Zelinkow was returned to his quarters and caught his flight the next morning without incident. He was not in the habit of drinking while traveling unless courtesy demanded it, but on the leg from Istanbul on Air Anatolia into Rome, he asked for a double Courvoisier, straight up. Al-Zarqawi’s plan was simple and essentially foolproof. And it would lead to a pandemic such as the North American continent had never seen — such as the world had never seen.

Janet Brisco paced about the hangar amid the bustle of activity. Periodically, she paused to look at her watch and to light another cigarette. She saw everything but said nothing. If anything soothed her, it was the professional way in which Tomba and his men prepared for the mission. They slept as one between 10:00 P.M. the previous evening until 2:00 A.M. — 2200 to 0200 in military time — and promptly arose to begin preparing their gear. Their weapons, ammunition load, and operational gear were displayed and inspected by Tomba and Mohammed Senagal. AKR had his equipment laid out for inspection as well. Then Tomba picked two of the men at random to inspect his own combat load as well as Senagal’s. Once the inspections were complete, the gear was stowed in individual waterproof duffel bags, the weapons in the center of the bags, with softer gear packed around them. Each duffel was then carefully weighed, staged, and strapped to pallets. The men themselves were once again turned out in the uniform of the African laborer — leather shoes or sneakers, dark cotton trousers, and white shirts. In America, a lean group of fighting men cannot pass unnoticed in a population that is largely overweight. In Africa, nearly all men have that lean, purposeful look to them. Only a close inspection would identify them as soldiers. No announcement was made, but a few minutes before 4:00 A.M., everyone assembled in the corner of the hangar where Janet Brisco stood before an easel with a large-scale map of the Lower Zambezi, with the Zambezi River bisecting a section of Zimbabwe and Zambia, west-southwest to east. Just before she began, Garrett slipped through the side door of the hangar. He looked tired, having just quietly left the room of a federal agent at the Intercontinental Hotel to get to the briefing.

“This is it, people,” she began in a clear, commanding voice. “Today it begins, and tonight the assault element will cross the Zambezi and begin their advance on the target. I have zero four hundred in fifteen seconds…ten seconds…five, four, three, two, one — mark, zero four hundred. Today is day one of the mission. This is also the last time we will all be together before we meet at the final extraction site. This is the objective.” She flipped over the Zambezi area map to reveal a grainy black-and-white overlay from a satellite image. “This structure is the Makondo Hotel, which we believe is being used for bio-weapons research. Our mission is to defeat the security forces that now guard this facility and to capture it intact, or as intact as possible. Once that is done, we will bring in a medical specialist to evaluate what may or may not be going on there. The Makondo Hotel complex is just over a hundred and forty miles from here as the crow flies. The first hundred miles will be relatively easy; the last forty are over some of the most difficult terrain in Africa. It will be a formidable journey, to say the least.

“This is a better look at the target.” She again flipped the sheet to show a precise layout of the Makondo compound. “This is a composite rendering of the site from the architectural drawings and landscape design. You will see marked in red — here, here, and here — what appear to be security positions with machine gun emplacements. This outbuilding here is where we think the security element keeps itself when not on duty. Apparently their barracks are inside the hotel. This is all we have from the limited satellite coverage of the area. Given the size of the guard force, there have to be more security emplacements than we are seeing here from these few fixed defensive positions.

“There will be five phases to the operation. Phase one will be the approach to the target. This will comprise of getting the assault force across the Zambezi to the target, and to get the support assets in place. Akheem, this will give you two full days to get through the mountains. Phase two will be a twelve-to-twenty-four-hour period to observe the target and make the final refinement to the assault plan. Phase three will be the actual assault, which is planned for zero four hundred four days from now. With the facility secure, we will begin phase four, a careful inspection of the hotel for signs of bio-weapons activity. Phase five will be the extraction to the forward operating base. If all goes well, we will be clear of Zambian airspace and on our way to Nairobi in a little more than four days from now — if all goes well. I will be your tactical controller, and I will do my level best to see that it does.

“We have an hour and a half before the first helicopter arrives. By noon, I want this hangar empty, except for the vans, and completely sanitized. Questions so far?” There were none. “All right, let’s get started with the details of phase one.”

The briefing lasted for a little over an hour. It was designed primarily for the Africans; Brisco would conduct separate briefings for the aircrews and support elements. Steven Fagan stood alongside Garrett while she detailed the infiltration to the target area. They listened carefully; both had been in the business of covert and special operations long enough to know a brilliant operational plan when they saw it. Two Bell Jet Rangers would arrive shortly after dawn, along with a stake truck driven by one of Benjamin Sato’s cousins. The operational equipment and most of the men would be loaded onto the truck, while the medical boxes were put on the Jet Rangers with the remaining Africans. The helos would return midmorning and begin ferrying pumps and water purification equipment out to projects managed by Africare and Water Aid International. Jet Rangers are the most common helicopters found in Africa, used extensively in moving equipment too fragile for the primitive roads, and for flying tourists out to see wild game and to view Victoria Falls. A military version of the Jet Ranger, the OH-58 Kiowa, had been used by militaries around the world for four decades. These two aircraft were owned and operated by the Simpson Foundation, but flown by contract pilots with extensive military special operations experience. One of the first things Janet Brisco had done when it became apparent that they would stage out of Zambia was to get two of these helicopters headed for Lusaka along with crack maintenance crews. Until they were again needed, the helos would fly humanitarian sorties for NGOs working in Zambia.

Early that afternoon, the two vans left hangar B-5, which was again as deserted as it had been only twenty-four hours earlier. Both vans bore the logo of the Zambia Electricity Supply Company, Ltd., or ZESCO, and had the documentation to prove it. They were headed for the rural area of southeastern Zambia to survey for a new power line that was to run from the Central African Power Corporation generation site at the Kariba Dam, across Zambia, and into Tanzania. Since the prospective power lines were to run across the Lower Zambezi National Park, the route had to be carefully chosen. Steven, Dodds LeMaster, and Bill Owens all had CAPC documentation. Two of Tomba’s men who were with them had ZESCO identification as vehicle drivers. Since it would be odd for a Zambian woman to have technical expertise, Janet was identified as an American consultant with the Zambia Media Women’s Association, visiting the area with the survey crew in the hope of catching a herd of elephants or zebra. The documentation didn’t have to be all that good, so long as they had something to hand a curious constable along with a 50,000-kwacha note.

Late that afternoon, Garrett and Elvis Rosenblatt arrived at Chiawa Camp in the Lower Zambezi National Park. One of Africa’s top safari camps, it carried a five-star rating in the guidebooks. The camp, if it could be called that, was on the northern shore of the Zambezi River. The grounds were spacious and well tended. Guest accommodations consisted of large tents with slatted teak floors, queen beds, high-draped mosquito netting, cushioned rattan armchairs, and Victorian nightstands complete with a large porcelain bowl and water pitcher. There were fine cotton sheets and chocolates on the pillow. It was a setting that Katharine Hepburn, filming The African Queen, would have been quite comfortable with. And it was also just the kind of place that would attract two wealthy Canadian real estate brokers.

“Now this is what I call roughing it. And here I thought we’d be out in the bush with the tsetse flies and the hyenas. This is really cool,” Elvis Rosenblatt happily remarked as he surveyed the camp surroundings. A black man in shorts and a sparkling white T-shirt with the Chiawa Camp logo, two Cs superimposed with an elephant in the center, arrived with their luggage. Giving his name as Alfred, he placed a bottle of Crown Royal on the table next to the cut-crystal glass service and ice bucket. Alfred addressed them as “bwana,” and explained that he would be their personal helper while they were in camp. They could come to the main lodge for dinner, he explained, or he would bring it to them. They told him that they would dine in.

“Bwana,” Rosenblatt said after Alfred had departed with Garrett’s bag to deliver it to the tent-bungalow next door. “I’ve always wanted to be called that. This is great. And you can be my manservant and gun bearer. ‘Oh, Walker. Please bring up the Mannlicher big-bore. I think blighter is about to charge.’”

“Don’t push it, Elvis,” Garrett replied.

Ten minutes later they were sitting on director’s chairs under Garrett’s tent fly, sipping Crown Royal and watching the broad, muddy Zambezi flow past them, right to left. Garrett, who was no stranger to wild splendor, had never seen anything quite like this. They sat in an awed silence.

“I’ve gotta get out of Atlanta more often,” Rosenblatt finally said. Garrett freshened up their drinks.

In the manner of two businessmen on African safari, they had left the hotel for Lusaka International midmorning and been flown by air charter to the Jeki airfield deep inside the National Park. It was a half-hour flight into the dirt strip, and two hours by Land Rover to the camp. The drive should have been only an hour, but they stopped to observe and photograph a herd of elephants and a family of giraffes.

Alfred arrived, quickly set up a camp table, and served them a groundnut stew over a bed of jollof rice and ashanti chicken. A traditional sub-Saharan meal does not include appetizer or dessert. Alfred left them with a carafe of hot coffee and withdrew.

“Is this typical spy work? You do this kind of thing all the time?”

Garrett’s mind was across the Zambezi, up in the rugged Mavuradonha Mountains, where AKR, Tomba, and the others were soon to cross. It would be a brutal forced march with very little sleep, but he would trade his luxurious setting in an instant to be with the assault team.

“This is about it, Elvis. Another continent, another five-star outing. Just one patch of tall clover after another.”

“So what do we do while we wait? They’ve got everything here — river cruises, canoe trips, game drives, fishing, you name it. After all, we have to maintain our cover, right?”

“I don’t want to be more than a couple of hours from camp and the helo pad. We wait in luxury, but we have to be ready to move. I’ve booked us on a series of day bush walks with one of the camp rangers. He carries the gun, we carry cameras and photograph game.”

“Then we come back here for drinks, and Alfred brings us dinner?”

“That’s it. War is hell, but someone has to do it. We’ll have to earn our keep soon enough, but for now, we’ll just have to tough it out in this hellhole.”

Rosenblatt poured coffee, and they sat in silence, watching the clouds at the foothills of the mountains on the Zimbabwean side as they were set afire by the last rays of the sun.

The two vans, with their ZESCO markings, were led by a battered Toyota pickup truck over mostly unimproved roads southeast from Lusaka. The Toyota was driven by Benjamin’s uncle on his mother’s side, along with his son. They knew the roads and were able to find their way, even after dark. Two hours after sundown, about the same time Garrett Walker and Elvis Rosenblatt were pouring themselves a nightcap, the dirt-covered vans and their escort arrived at the Jeki airfield. This was some eight hours after the air charter that had delivered the two Canadian businessmen had departed on the return leg back to Lusaka. Tomba and one of his men were there to meet them. They had set up a small base camp across the dirt strip from the ranger shack that served as the runway office. Janet and Steven got out, stretched, and began to inspect the area by lantern light. They could hear hyenas howling in the distance. Charter aircraft and a few intrepid private pilots used the 3,000-foot-strip at Jeki several times a week to shuttle guests to Chiawa Camp and for other national park business. It was a natural place for a survey crew to spend a few days. Resupply by Jet Ranger would be in keeping with their business.

“Welcome to the bush, Miss Janet, Steven.” Tomba said in greeting. “I believe you will be safe here, and no one will bother you. A park ranger is assigned to monitor traffic at the airstrip, but he has been paid and knows you are with CAPA. He may come around out of boredom, as he has very few duties to keep him busy. Once we are away, Benjamin will be back here with you to oversee your camp. He and one of my men will remain with you, along with his uncle and cousin. A few of the local people may come from the bush and approach, perhaps to beg for food or out of curiosity. Benjamin will be here to deal with them.”

“The medical equipment?” Steven asked. There was more staged than would probably be needed, but they had planned for all contingencies.

“The helicopter delivered it as planned, and it is cached under that tree over there, along with the other supplies. The rains are late this year, but they could come at any time. Everything is on pallets and in waterproof containers, and covered with a tarpaulin. So,” he said, smiling as he turned to Janet. “How do you like Africa?”

“It’s a little like what I expected, but I was not prepared for the vastness. Somehow, I didn’t imagine that it was so…so empty.”

“I know you and the others will be busy with your duties, but as they permit, ask Benjamin to take you on a walk in the bush. It can be very settling. But do not go without him.”

She looked around to where the lantern light was lost in the blackness of low scrub. “I think you can count on me not taking five steps from camp unless he is with me.”

“Excellent,” Tomba replied. “And now the others and I must leave. Benjamin will return before first light. Allow him and his relatives to deal with the park rangers and others who are curious. And relax. Africa can be a frightening place, but it is not as dangerous as one might think.”

“Good luck to you, Tomba.”

“And to you, Janet. If all goes according to your excellent plan, I will see you back here in less than four days.” He formally offered his hand to Steven and left them.

Tomba, the two who had served as drivers, and his other fighter climbed into the pickup and drove away. The others busied themselves around the small camp. Benjamin’s uncle, a silent man of undetermined age named Godfrey, and his son, Christian, started to erect tents and tended the small fire. Dodds LeMaster and Bill Owens began to get the two vans set up. As survey support vehicles, they could be expected to have some creature comforts along with some electronic gear, but that was not the half of it. The two vans were crammed with state-of-the art, solid-state components and microprocessors. The vehicles were connected with thick umbilical cables, and two small satellite antennas were set out a short distance away, each camouflaged with canvas drape. Inside each van were two consoles served by flat-plasma screens and a host of computer-driven electronics and communication equipment. The genius of Dodds LeMaster and the miracle of microtechnology had given these two dingy-looking vans the capability of a large, well-equipped military command center.

Steven found Janet by the fire. He took a canvas stool and pulled it alongside her as Christian approached and quietly handed them each a mug of tea. There were night sounds, but they were comfortably in the distance. It was cooling off nicely, and the canopy of stars was breathtaking.

“You’ve done a great job with the planning and logistic flow,” Steven said, “and in an amazingly short period of time. Thanks for all your hard work.”

She smiled. “I appreciate your saying so, but isn’t that what you pay me for?”

“I suppose so. But I do have a question for you.” She sipped at the sweet, strong tea as he spoke. “With the dedicated satellite links and the technology of the vans, you could be controlling this operation from our base in Diego Garcia, or from the embassy compound in Nairobi. Or even from a warehouse in Lusaka. Why out here?”

Janet Brisco considered this. On Tomba’s advice, they had decided to remain in Lusaka no longer than necessary and to get their small force broken into small groups as soon as practical. Much of what they were doing looked like mercenary activity or a smuggling operation, and would invite official and unofficial attention. Their presence at any embassy compound would have had to come at the expense of some State Department knowledge and approval. Most embassy staff were hardworking professionals, but they did talk. In African capitals, the embassy compounds were well-guarded American ghettos, where everyone seemed to know about everyone else’s business. They had previously used Diego Garcia to control IFOR activity, and it was both secure and very private. But during that mission, they were operating in Iran and the operation was totally black — no one knew who they were or why they were there. Africa was more like operating in Arizona or New Mexico, only the officials were bribable. But it was more than that.

One of the reasons Janet had come out of retirement to serve as planner and tactical coordinator for IFOR was the freedom and trust afforded her by Steven and the others. He could have asked this question back in Hawaii when they were putting this together, but he hadn’t. That he was asking now was a matter of curiosity, not trust.

“The operational security of what we do, given our lack of official portfolio, is always going to be something of a tradeoff. Out here our OPSEC is probably as good as anywhere else. Since we don’t know what or who we’re dealing with, they could have agents just about anywhere, especially in large cities. And it’s imperative that our men get there unobserved and undetected. Moving like this — hiding in plain sight — seemed to be the best way.” She was silent for a moment, and Steven, always the careful listener, did not intrude. “Since this is our first operation with the Africans,” she continued, “I thought it would be important for them and for us that we’re out here with them. Of course, we’ll not be doing what we are asking them to do, but they see it as our sharing some of the risk. I believe our being here, even in the safety of camp, will help the mission.”

Steven nodded. “I agree with you that it will most likely help the mission. Tell me something else. You’re African; how does it feel to be here? Were you not drawn back to see something of Africa, out of curiosity if nothing else?”

“You mean the roots thing and all that?” She smiled and lit a cigarette. “Steven, I grew up in East St. Louis. I’m used to the city, the smog, the lights, and all the creature comforts of the mall. I drive a Lexis, and I have a big-screen TV. When I’m not with you running special operations, I’m going to PTA meetings or getting my nails done.” She suddenly became serious. “When the operational considerations put us here, I was excited; I thought perhaps there would be some movement in my soul about ‘returning’ to Africa — the land of my people and all that. Well, it ain’t happened. It’s beautiful — dramatically beautiful — but in all honesty, it’s foreign. I’m an American, just like you. I just have black skin. When the job is done, I’m going to want to go home to America. Still, from what I’ve seen of it, it’s beautiful and very peaceful.”

Dodds LeMaster stepped into the glow of the campfire. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Not at all, Dodds,” Janet replied. “Pull up a stool.”

“I’ve just run a complete set of diagnostics on all the electronics,” LeMaster continued after he was seated by the fire, “and we have a clear satellite link — full communications and full backup. All the gear is up. We’re ready to go to work.”

“How about comm checks?” Suddenly, she was all business.

“I have AKR on satcomm and HF backup. He’s good to go. Garrett and Miss Burks are on encrypted sat links on both our dedicated channels. Bill has the first watch and is guarding all channels. I’ll relieve him midnight to four.”

Sat phone technology was satellite communications technology. It was clear, secure, and reliable. Through Guardian Services International they had contracted for commercial satellite time with a dedicated primary channel and one for a backup. In the highly unlikely event of the failure of their satcomm links, they could always revert to old-fashioned high-frequency radio.

Janet nodded and relaxed. “Good job. So now we wait for Tomba and the others to make the crossing and watch for indicators.” Then, turning to Steven, “So what’s on the menu this evening?”

“Sandwiches and soup today and tomorrow. Then we’re going to be eating like the troops.”

“MREs?”

“MREs.”

Janet considered this. “I’ll save my sandwich for when I relieve Dodds at 4:00 A.M. I think I’ll have an MRE right now. Want to join me?”

“Why not?” Steven said easily. “It seems like a good way to begin this venture.” Dodds LeMaster readily agreed. MREs, or Meals, Ready to Eat, were the standard field ration of the U.S. military, similar to hiking rations but with a packet that chemically heated the meal. Loaded with calories, and reasonably tasty, a single ration could keep a man in the field for an entire day.

They set about preparing their MREs in companionable silence, eating them from the foil packets like containers of Chinese takeout. Dodds relieved Bill Owens from his comm watch so he could join them for something to eat. Steven had seen Janet Brisco run an operation before. She was normally tense, prowling about like a nervous cat; thus far, she had been no less vigilant about her duties, but she seemed far more settled and centered than he would have expected her to be. Perhaps Africa was reaching out to her, even if she was not reaching out to Africa.

Several miles east, and upstream of where Garrett Walker and Elvis Rosenblatt were so elegantly encamped, a group of men and several trucks gathered on the bank of the Zambezi River. They were on an uninhabited stretch between the Kafue and Chonga Rivers, which ran circuitously north to south into the Zambezi. They all worked quietly, showing no lights. One of the easiest, most popular, and accessible ways to see the Lower Zambezi is by canoe, so there are a number of concessions along the river downstream from the town of Chirunda that serve the Lower Zambezi National Park on the Zambian side and the Mana Pools National Park on the Zimbabwean side. Now that they were going into the wet season, Mana Pools National Park was accessible only by canoe. One of Benjamin Sato’s many cousins owned a concession that provided guided canoe tours on the Zambezi. These range from single day paddles on the river to canoeing safaris that lasted up to a week. The Zambezi from Kariba, through Chirunda and the two national parks, to the town of Karryemba, near where the Zambezi flows into Mozambique, is one of the most spectacular waterways in the world. Since the damning of the Zambezi to form Lake Kariba, the water levels have been controlled and consistent for most of the year, except for the runoff late in the wet season — generally March and April. It is a land of dramatic beauty and contrast. On the Zimbabwean side the land rises to rugged mountains. On the Zambian side, it is a hot, flat, malarial flood plain.

At first, Benjamin’s cousin had not been keen on the project. A concession on the Zambezi and the license to operate tours was his livelihood, but when Benjamin offered him three times what he made in a year, with half up front in South African rand, he agreed. A flotilla of eight safari canoes had been assembled on the bank. The assault team contained a dozen men plus Tomba, AKR, and their two guides. Crossing the placid Zambezi and drifting downstream toward the Mana Pools National Park on a moonless night did not appear to be a difficult task for a band of seasoned bush professionals, but the Zambezi could be dangerous. There were shifting sandbars and islands that were often hard to distinguish from the permanent shoreline, even in the daylight. Then there were several pods of hippopotamuses, mostly on the Zimbabwean side. A rampaging hippo could easily take out half of the little fleet of canoes; more Africans are killed by hippos each year than by lions. Then there was the matter of navigation. Tomba and his men were well equipped with GPS receivers, but the GPSs did not mark where the Mana Pool rangers might be camped along the river, nor did the exact trail that would take them into the hinterland have a set of GPS coordinates. To avoid park rangers and find the right trail, they needed guides with local knowledge.

The men had their individual gear stowed in waterproof bags, two men and two bags to a canoe. They were all dressed in dark clothes and black sneakers for the crossing, the canoes lined up on the bank, the men standing by their craft.

“All is ready, sir,” Benjamin’s cousin said to Mohammed Senagal, who had organized the crossing and had the small force ready to move when Tomba and the others arrived.

“And the guides understand exactly where we need to be on the Zimbabwean side?”

“Yes, sir.” Senegal exuded a quiet, powerful presence that Zambians seemed to respect and fear.

“Then we will be away. Thank you for your work here.” He handed him a bag filled with hundred-rand notes. “This is the balance of what is owed for your services. If something unplanned is waiting for us on the other side, then I will be back for the money and your life.”

Benjamin almost spoke out, but held his tongue. Senagal was not a man to be contradicted, at least not by him. Then Tomba joined them, placing one hand on Senegal’s shoulder and the other on the cousin’s.

“Benjamin has vouched for this man, so I am sure his services are in order and his guides will see us to the proper place in Zimbabwe. Still, it will be unfortunate if Mohammed has to return to Lusaka. Let us be about our business.” AKR stood to one side, allowing Tomba to handle the matter.

Benjamin and his cousin watched as the expedition eased themselves into the eight canoes and pushed off from the shore. Another of the Africans, a quiet Zulu named Msika, had been detailed to stay with Benjamin and to keep an eye on the Jeki camp. Both Tomba and AKR agreed that neither Benjamin nor Msika should be away from the camp at the same time. Both men understood their duties and did not complain, but both desperately wanted to be away with the assault force on the Zambezi.

One of the guides was in the bow of Tomba’s craft, the other with AKR. The canoes formed two loose groups of four as they paddled easily out from the shore, and the gentle current swept them off to the northeast. It was a very dark night, so both Tomba and AKR had Chemlights tied to the stern of their canoes. They were not visible from the shore, but the dull, lime green lights allowed the others to keep them in sight. In addition, one man in each boat had a small squad radio and was fitted with an earpiece and a small boom mic. Mid-channel, Tomba inventoried his flock with a radio check as they proceeded at a leisurely pace toward the Zimbabwean side of the river while the current carried them to the section of shoreline within the boundaries of the Mana Pools National Park. The string of canoes made their way around several islands and across a shallow bar where they could touch bottom with their paddle blades. On one occasion they could hear hippos snort and blow from shallows near the shore. Shortly before 3:00 A.M., they coasted into a marshy indentation on the shoreline. Tomba told them all to wait in the shallows while he and the lead guide beached their craft and scouted ahead. They were back in twenty minutes; this was the proper insertion point.

“Our trailhead is fifty meters in from the shoreline,” he whispered into his boom mic. “We will secure and hide the canoes as briefed and meet at the rally point.”

One by one, the men dragged their craft through the bed of papyrus reeds to the shore. They left the canoes in the water, nestled in the reeds, but hefted their gear bags onto solid ground. Once at the trailhead, the men began to change into their operational gear and prepare for land travel. At the shoreline, Tomba gave each of the guides a large tip and left them with the canoes. While the men melted into the bush to form a security perimeter, AKR dropped to one knee and shifted his squad radio to the designated satcomm frequency.

“Home Base, this is Unit One, over.”

“This is Home Base, Unit One. Go ahead.”

“Unit One, here. We are feet dry at point alpha and proceeding, over.”

“Home Base, Unit One. Understand feet dry at point alpha and proceeding, over.”

“Good copy, Home Base. Unit One, out.”

There was no need for strict radio procedure — their satellite channel was shared by no one else and fully encrypted — but proper procedure ensured a clear understanding, and it was a habit. Dodds stepped from the van to pass the news along to Janet. It was time to wake her, as she was to relieve him at 4:00 A.M. She was not in her tent, but he found her sitting by the fire, gazing at the riot of stars in the African sky.

As the dawn spread across the Zambezi, two men, each paddling a canoe and towing three others, worked their way out into the slow-moving river. Soon an aluminum boat with a large outboard came downstream to meet them. They tied the eight canoes together in a line astern and began to slowly work their way back upriver. This activity went unobserved, with the exception of a single white man, a Canadian real estate executive badly in need of a shave, sitting in a director’s chair at Chiawa Camp on the Zambian side. After they labored past him, he rose, stretched, and walked back into his tent.