Covert Action

3 The Africans

Garrett’s trip back to the Big Island of Hawaii was not unlike the one to Washington except that they were chasing the sun. The Gulfstream lifted off from Andrews shortly after eleven in the morning and let down at the Kona airport just before 4:00 P.M. local time. For part of the trip Garrett was busy at the aircraft’s computer console, which was equipped with high-speed Internet access. His meeting with Jim Watson had brought up a number of issues he wanted to research. After five hours at the keyboard, he stretched and asked Cindy to bring him a scotch and the cribbage board. They cut for the deal and embarked on a rematch, but this time she beat him soundly. He could console himself that he could only play the cards dealt him to best advantage, but that didn’t, at least for Garrett Walker, make losing any more palatable.

AKR was waiting for Garrett when he made his way through the private aviation terminal. Kelly-Rogers was dressed in shorts, shower shoes, a collarless shirt with the top three buttons unfastened, and wraparound sunglasses. His hair was approaching dreadlock length, and he wore a pooka-bead necklace. They shook hands warmly. AKR took Garrett’s bag from him, and they headed for the car that AKR had left in the redlined fire lane along the curb of the terminal.

“You know, brother,” Garrett said, “every day you look more and more like a drug dealer and less like one of the good guys.”

“What do the good guys look like these days? Hey, you never know, man,” AKR said with a chuckle, “when you’re gonna want me to go into the ville and score you some Kona gold.”

“That’ll be the day,” Garrett replied. “You buying weed and me smoking it. Steven at the camp?”

“In his office and waiting for you. He just received an intelligence report forwarded from State in Harare. It seems that one of Outreach Africa’s doctors got himself whacked in Zimbabwe yesterday. It’s been confirmed by the French. And I understand it wasn’t very pretty.”

“An American doc?”

“No, Indian.” AKR crossed Highway 19, which ran along the coast and headed east toward Mona Kea. Soon they began to climb into the foothills. “As I understand it, the guy got himself hacked to death by a machete. According to the reports we obtained from Doctors Without Borders, it was a pretty gruesome scene. All the NGOs have ordered their medical personnel out of the area. Langley tells us that bookings out of Harare International are way up.”

AKR merged onto the Mamalahoa Highway, which took them in a northeasterly direction toward Wiamea. It was almost fifteen degrees cooler in the foothills than along the coast.

“Akheem, you’re an African, what do—”

“Correction, sahib, I am an Englishman,” he abruptly cut in, adding just a little more nasal tone to his public-school accent, “an Englishman who was born in Africa.”

“How could I forget,” Garrett replied. He sometimes found AKR’s Bonnie Prince Charles act a little tiresome. “What do you know about the Selous Scouts?”

Kelly-Rogers gave him a sidelong glance before answering. “Steven asked me the same thing, and I’ll tell you what I told him. They were the last and baddest of the Rhodesian Light Infantry. We left Rhodesia in 1970. Things were none too good then, but they really got ugly after that. My dad used to speak of them. The Selous Scouts were formed to counter the terror tactics of Mugabe and his Marxist movement. Originally they were trackers, and their mission was to track the terrorists after one of their raids back to their base camp. That often meant they would follow them across the border into Zambia or Mozambique. Then they called in the Rhodesian Air Force or the main elements of the Rhodesian Army. Sometimes they were known to slip into a terrorist camp to slit a few throats. There was butchery and atrocity enough to go around, although I think Mugabe and the Marxist-backed ZANLA rebels were probably the worst. Both sides were pointing fingers. For a while Dad thought that if the Rhodesian white farmers hadn’t been so keen on groups like the Selous Scouts, maybe they could have cut a deal with the new government.” AKR swerved to miss an oncoming car that was passing on a double yellow line. Garrett flinched, but Akheem kept up the narration. “But when Mugabe and his thugs took over, things changed. There were hard times for whites, and a lot of blacks for that matter — black Africans who were proud to be Rhodesians. Bottom line, you can’t out-atrocity a Communist-backed insurgency. They were brutal beyond comprehension. Say, what is all this with the Selous Scouts? They’re history, right?”

“Possibly. How’s training going with the new men?”

AKR flashed him a broad smile. “Hey, you wouldn’t believe how good these guys are. They get better by the day — by the hour. They’ve made a lot of progress since you saw them last, and best of all, they’re starting to function as a team. That’s something that doesn’t come easy to these guys, but Tomba has them working as an integrated unit. And they’re getting much better on their radio procedure, much more disciplined.”

“How about their shooting?”

AKR shrugged. “Better, though I don’t think they’ll ever shoot like Brits or Americans. But I’d put them up against any of our special operations guys with a grenade launcher. They’ve taken to the M-203s splendidly.” The M-203 is a 40mm grenade launcher slung under an M-4 rifle, the standard weapon of the IFOR fighters. “They’re tough, and they’re proud. Give me another two weeks, and I’ll take them into the bush against anyone, even up against your Gurkhas.” Garrett gave him a questioning look. “Seriously. These guys move in the bush like no one you’ve ever seen. Just wait until you go out with them. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the camp. Garrett dumped his bag in his quarters, a spartan single-room studio apartment in the staff quarters. When he was not in the field or on overseas deployment, he had lived much of his life in places like this — bed, kitchenette, private shower and washstand, a bookshelf, a small desk, and plenty of locker storage for operational gear. The operations building was a short walk — nothing in the central area of the camp was far away. Garrett slipped into Steven’s office and waited by the door for Steven to acknowledge him. Behind the desk, Steven hurriedly tapped out the reply to a secure e-mail and swung away from the computer screen. He rose and offered Garrett his hand.

“Welcome back. We expected you late yesterday, but I understand you got held over.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I decided to hold myself over. Did some liaison work with our FBI liaison officer.”

On the way back, Garrett had done a mental calculation on the one-day cost of a Gulfstream G550 and a flight crew. It was a serious five-figure number.

“Mission accomplished?” Garrett nodded, which brought a grin to Steven’s face. “Then it was time well spent.” Fagan leaned across the desk on his elbows. “I understand you spent some time with Jim Watson. Tell me about it.”

Garrett recounted their meeting while Steven concentrated on him with his soft, patient gaze. Steven Fagan could listen like no one Garrett had ever met. He had the bedside manner of an elderly priest and the mind of a chess master. On top of that, he was perhaps the most experienced and knowledgeable covert action specialist in the world, at least in the free world. Fagan was a man of rare ability and intelligence, but what Garrett valued most in this quiet, unassuming man was his character. Garrett Walker had met few men he liked more than Steven Fagan, and none with more personal integrity. Issues of character were sometimes overlooked in their work, but for Garrett it was a crucial matter. When dealing in life-and-death issues, Garrett found comfort in the fact that others beside himself considered the moral implications of what they did. When Garrett finished, Steven leaned back, carefully digesting what he had just heard.

“Jim Watson is a good man, one of the best at Langley,” he said, thinking aloud. “Watson is personally involved in this because Armand Grummell is concerned, and that means the concern goes straight to the White House. I think their worries are justified. If this were happening anywhere else in the world, we would be all over it diplomatically, either in bilateral discussions with that nation or through the United Nations. Or we would put a special operations team into the area to investigate. Africa, as we all know, is very touchy.

“And there is the particular case of Zimbabwe,” Steven continued. “It’s been kicked out of the International Monetary Fund, and it resigned from the Commonwealth of Nations before that body could kick it out. With the current government, it’s just a step from reverting to tribalism. We have an official presence in the capital, but no real ability to move about the country to find out what’s going on.”

“What about CIA assets?” Garrett asked. “The Special Activities Division has some pretty impressive capabilities.”

“They do, but they’re also heavily committed in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan. They haven’t really developed the personnel or assets to operate in Africa. No,” Steven said, thoughtfully stroking his chin, “if I wanted to hide from satellite coverage and diplomatic scrutiny, and where white men can’t easily move about, then that part of Africa would be a good choice. You see, we don’t care much about Africa; nobody does. Undoubtedly, if there is an organization behind all this, and evidence suggests there is, then they know we have almost no intelligence and military capability in this area, and that our close allies are just as limited. Our focus is the Middle East and Southwest Asia right now. In the current war on terror, we put more time and money in Iraq in one day than we put in all of Africa in one year. Our country is stretched pretty thin right now, and Africa is well off the scope.” He paused a moment, then continued in a measured voice. “Armand Grummell seems to be worried about this, and the DCI doesn’t rattle easily. We need to put something together, and quickly. I’ve already asked Janet to work up some preliminaries on the situation. I’d like you and Akheem to be back here in an hour for a quick planning session.”

Garrett wandered out into the compound. An hour would give him time for a light workout and a quick shower. On the way to his quarters, he saw AKR squatting on his heels in conversation with a man whose skin was so black it almost had a blue cast to it. He was dressed in sandals, loose cammie trousers, and a green T-shirt. His head was shaved, and as he addressed AKR, he spoke with gestures as much as with words. AKR rose when Garrett approached. His companion seemed to uncoil effortlessly as he also brought himself upright. He was handsome and serene, but his mild features did not altogether mask an underlying fierceness.

“I see you, my brother,” the man said in his native Turkana dialect. He spoke very good English, but was aware that Garrett had a fascination and an ear for languages.

“And I see you, my brother,” Garrett replied, unconsciously copying the manner and gestures of the Turkan. Garrett had a near-photographic memory for sounds, so he had quickly mastered the formal greetings that are so important in the Turkana culture. “Will my brother excuse this interruption?” When the tall warrior nodded, only then did Garrett turn to AKR and speak in English.

“Steven wants us in his office in an hour. Looks as if there’s a growing interest in Africa.”

“I’ll be there,” AKR replied.

Garrett bowed slightly and backed away as Turkana custom dictated, and headed for his quarters. He glanced back over his shoulder to see AKR and the tall African back in their stooped conversation.

The African’s name was Tomba. Tomba and the others AKR had recruited had been in camp for about three months. Most of the new men were shy and polite, and they worked very hard. They were all warriors and immensely proud, but there was something very special about Tomba. Garrett had felt it in his presence and demeanor from the very first time they met. The Turkana were from northern Kenya and, like the Masai, had been influenced little by Western culture until quite recently. They had a well-earned reputation as fierce fighters. Tomba’s father was a laibon, a ritual leader of the Turkana, and Tomba would have followed in his father’s footsteps. But as with many young men in postcolonial Africa, drought, famine, and border wars had driven Tomba from his tribal lands. AKR had met him when his father was posted to Nairobi, and Tomba was a young park ranger at the Masai Mara National Park. In his early teens, he fought in the colonial wars, including a tour in the Rhodesian Army. Following the demobilization of the army, he served in the forces of Bantustan and sometimes worked as a safari guide, his employment usually determined by the fortunes of war. But he and AKR had remained in contact. IFOR had hired Akheem Kelly-Rogers to recruit and supervise the training of an IFOR contingent that could operate in Africa, much as IFOR’s Gurkhas could move easily in many parts of Southwest Asia. He found Tomba in Kenya, working the national game parks in search of poachers.

An hour later Steven, Garrett, and AKR were seated at a small, circular conference table in Steven’s office. The fourth member at the table was a face on a large flat-screen monitor. What she might have lacked in physical presence was more than made up for in the rich and authoritative voice that came across the speakers.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Can everyone hear me okay?”

Steven answered for them. “We hear you fine, Janet. How’s the picture and audio on your end?”

Janet Brisco was the senior operational planner and controller for IFOR. When members of the intervention force were sent into the field, she would do most of the planning and serve as the focal point for command and control while they were on a mission. While on active duty in the Air Force, she had been the go-to ops planner of the U.S. Special Operations Command. She was recognized as the best in the business in the male-dominated special operations community. Steven had hired her with the understanding that she could do much of her work from her home in East St. Louis, where she nurtured and managed a large extended family. That is where she now sat at a console in her home office. On the split screen in front of her were the three familiar faces of Steven, Garrett, and Akheem Kelly-Rogers.

“I have your smiling, handsome faces in front of me, and hear you five-by.”

“Excellent,” Steven continued. “Gentlemen, I’ve had Janet working on this for the last day and a half. I’ll let her give us some background before we get into the specifics. Janet?”

“Okay, here goes,” Janet responded. She had notes in front of her, but she didn’t need to refer to them. “Zimbabwe. British colony of Rhodesia turned African basket case when in 1978 white rule came to an end. Like most colonial turnovers, this one was very bloody. The first black prime minister elected to the new nation was Bishop Abel Muzorewa. The country name was then changed to Zimbabwe-Rhodesia. A decade-long guerilla war that preceded independence continued through Muzorewa’s short tenure until new elections were forced by civil unrest, and the Marxist Robert Mugabe was elected prime minister. The British supervised the election, but it was thought that Mugabe had rigged the outcome right under their noses. In retrospect, the British made a real mess of it. They wanted out quickly so basically they cut and ran, handing the country over to the Communists. No offense, Akheem.”

“None taken,” AKR replied to the screen.

“Mugabe brought a lot of changes to Zimbabwe. He essentially ended democracy and any future for whites in the country. For over a decade, Mugabe continued to let the whites farm the large tracts of land they inherited from colonial rule. But then, about five years ago, he started appropriating the white-owned farms and distributing the land. With the seizures, farm productivity fell dramatically. Rhodesia and even Zimbabwe, in the early days, had a great deal of land under cultivation and were running modern, Western-style agribusinesses. Then things began to slip. Farming does not do well in a centrally managed economy. In a bid to build popular support for his embattled regime, Mugabe began a massive redistribution of the large farms. There is now only a handful of white farmers left in the country. People are starving, and the infrastructure is rapidly running to ruin. Mugabe, like Idi Amin Dada and Mobutu Sese Seko, has ruled only for his own personal gain. He has the nation in a state of economic collapse. The country is literally at the mercy of relief organizations and NGOs. The army, as in most failed Marxist states, is part of the problem. Extortion is becoming more widespread, and the Zimbabwe Republic Police are only capable of keeping order in the capital and some of the resort areas.” Janet Brisco paused, looking at each of the faces on the screen. “With me, so far?” The three heads nodded. “Let me know if I’m going too fast for those of you who are taking notes.

“Now we come to this business in the province of Tonga.” Janet continued. “We know something’s going on there, but we’re not sure just what. From the information that’s coming in, we know that there are widespread kidnappings and that people have died under strange circumstances. And that the people seem to be terrorized. We also know that the government in Harare, which means Mugabe and his cronies, show no interest in what’s going on there, nor are they disposed to help any of the NGOs who are concerned about the welfare of the people in that region. One can only assume that they are being paid to look the other way.

“The problem seems to be isolated within the boundaries of Tonga. Its population within the province is somewhere between a hundred and thirty and a hundred and fifty thousand. The largest city is Kariba, with some forty thousand. The people refer to themselves as Batonka or Tonga, but they are mostly Bantu. They were first discovered by Dr. Livingstone when he came down the Zambezi River in 1860. No white man came back until much later in the 1900s. In many ways, the Tonga consider themselves separate from the rest of Zimbabwe. There are really two Tongas. One is the city of Kariba and the area immediately surrounding Kariba along the shores of Lake Kariba. This region caters to the tourist trade that’s grown up around the lake and provides workers and services for the Matusadona and Mana Pools National Parks. While the Shona is the dominant tribe in Zimbabwe, there is both Shona and Ndebele influence in Tonga. As for what is considered the other Tonga, it is the countryside in and around the national parks, and in the valleys that reach up from the lake. Its countryside ranges from inhospitable to unbearable. When the dam was built that created Lake Kariba, the Tongans were split into the Zambia Tonga and the Zimbabwe Tonga. The Zimbabwe Tongans are much more isolated than the Zambian members of the tribe. This only stands to reason, as the Zambian capital of Lusaka is closer to the lake than Harare. The Zimbabwean Tongans are also much worse off economically. They are and have always been a very superstitious people, and witchcraft is still a significant influence, especially in the rural areas.

“And finally, there is the lake. Lake Kariba is the biggest man-made lake in the world. It’s some twenty-five miles wide and over a hundred miles long. It was formed when a huge dam was built on the Zambezi River in 1960. The creation of the lake displaced people and animals on both the Zambian and Zimbabwean sides of the river. The disruption caused by the creation of a lake this size was, as you could imagine, substantial. But it eventually spawned a lively tourist industry. Tourism is a financial sacred cow of southern Africa. In Zambia, Mozambique, and Zimbabwe, tourism brings in valuable foreign currency. It is also a barometer of the political climate and regional problems. Tours are still going to the Zambian side of the lake and into the Victoria Falls area, but not to the Zimbabwean side of the lake. Without tourism, the people in that area are back to substance living at best. The other sacred cow in the region is the power generated by two power stations just downstream of the dam. Electricity is shared equally between Zambia and Zimbabwe and managed by the Central African Power Corporation, or the CAPC, which is owned jointly by the two countries. The CAPC has an output of about fifteen hundred megawatts, and the revenues tend to find their way into the pockets of officials in Harare and Lusaka. So whatever it is that is going on in Tonga has affected the tourist industry. So far, it seems to have had no impact on the CAPC. My guess is that the people responsible for these deaths are paying off the government and scaring off the tourists, but they are not disturbing the power generation facilities. I went online this morning and tried to book a hotel room in Kariba or along Lake Kariba in Tonga and didn’t have much luck. Many of them said there were no vacancies, which we know is not the case, or that they were closed for repairs.

“Also, one interesting note about the dam that made the lake. Just after construction began, a suspension bridge across the river collapsed and killed eighty-six Italian workers. Then the area experienced a once-in-a-thousand-year flood. Eighteen workers were swept away, many of them entombed in wet cement. The locals felt that the damming of the river offended the river god, a fish-headed, serpent-tailed creature called Nyaminyami. The tribes in the area say that Nyaminyami is still unhappy with the dam and the lake it created. As I said, the locals there can be very superstitious.

“As for access into the area, I’ve been looking for contacts within the tourist industry that are still active. I’m also checking for anyone within the CAPC who could help if we have to operate in the area. I’ve got some feelers out, but it may take a while to develop some dependable contacts. That’s about it, unless you want a cultural lecture on the fauna and flora of the area, which are really rather spectacular.”

“Thanks, Janet, for your report. Perhaps later on the fauna and flora.” Steven turned his attention to Garrett. “Garrett, let’s hear what you’ve got for us regarding the military aspects of what is happening there.”

“As you all know, there is very little information coming out of the area. We have no reporting assets there on which we can rely for conclusive intelligence, but there is no doubt that there are some strange things going on in Tonga. We know that a nongovernmental armed force is moving in the area and, to some extent, terrorizing the locals. This paramilitary activity reaches throughout the province, but the focus seems to be the remote valley drainage leading up from the northeastern boundary of the lake into the foothills of the Mavuradonha Mountains. It’s an unpopulated area, with a single road leading in and out. The road was built to serve a small resort hotel that was only marginally successful. It’s very rugged country, with thick vegetation and hardwood forests. We don’t have much satellite coverage in that part of the world, and the only mapping that’s been done was by the Rhodesian Army when they operated there some thirty years ago. There are, or were, only a few bush camps there that catered to photographic safaris. What I’ve learned from the few available reports, and my recent briefing by Jim Watson, is that this new force in the Kariba area and east of the Zambezi River looks a lot like the old Selous Scouts. I know that sounds a little far-fetched, but the memory of Selous Scouts seems to be very much a part of this region. They are not so mythical as the serpent-tailed Nyaminyami, but the people in the area all have very strong recollections of them. When the Communist guerillas went into the Mavuradonhas to hide, the Selous Scouts went in after them. Most families in the area have at least one member who fought with the Scouts or against them, or had a family member killed by the Scouts. They left quite an impact on the area.”

“You mean the Selous Scouts are back?” AKR exclaimed.

“That may be the case,” Garrett continued, “or more probably, a force that patterns itself after the Selous Scouts. As a quick overview, the Selous Scouts were a group of trackers and bushmen culled from the Rhodesian Army. They were formed in the last days of white rule in Zimbabwe, when a decision was made to fight fire with fire. A Rhodesian Army captain named Ron Reid Daily, who was also a British SAS veteran, was tasked with developing a battalion-sized force that could track the Communist-backed terrorists to their bases and deal with them. Daily set up a training camp near Lake Kariba. The training is variously described as some of the most difficult and dangerous in the world. Men were killed in training. Captain Daily was looking for men who could live off the land and track their quarry for as long as it took to run them to ground. The force was mostly black; only two in ten were white. Volunteers came from all elements in the Rhodesian Army, but mostly the Rhodesian African Rifles. Perhaps only about one in ten of the volunteers made it through the training and qualified as a Selous Scout.”

“Sounds like Navy SEAL training,” Steven said.

“From what I’ve learned, this training was much shorter and much more brutal than SEAL training. The Communists under Mugabe were a pretty savage bunch. Villages that refused to support the insurgents could count on murder and rape at the hands of the rebels. But they met their match with the Scouts. For about eight years, they waged one of the most intense and bloody guerrilla counter-guerrilla campaigns of the colonial wars. Independence came to Rhodesia in 1978. Mugabe came to power in 1980, and the Selous Scouts were summarily disbanded. A few of the blacks stayed on, but not the whites. Many of the whites joined the South African Army, and moved on from there. A lot of the blacks found work in Bantustan and the Transkei Defense Force. But for eight bloody years, they were probably one of the most capable group of fighters on the continent. Their reputation over the years has grown and been exaggerated to some degree, but there’s no doubt that they were good — probably very good.”

“Akheem?” Steven asked.

“Garrett has it about right. Ron Reid Daily is still talked about in the SAS, but he was more a soldier of fortune and professional African hand than a career military officer.” Then, turning to Garrett, “So what makes you think that there has been some sort of rebirth of the Selous Scouts?”

“As I understand it, we don’t have much of an intelligence-gathering presence in Zimbabwe. Most of the reporting comes from State Department officers, and their activity has been restricted to interviewing people coming out of the area. So far, it’s been mostly hunters and a few who were on walking safaris in the Matusadona National Park. These people reported seeing paramilitary units moving about the area in squad-sized units. One person, an American on shooting safari, was close enough to observe one of these units through his rifle scope. When he called it to the attention of his native guide, the guide said they were probably poachers. The American who reported this was little more than a trophy hunter. As it turns out, he had served a tour in the 101st Airborne, so he felt confident about what he observed. This guy said there were blacks and whites in the squad file. This alone marked the group as a non-Zimbabwe military unit. The whites wore bush shirts and hats and cargo shorts, and the two in this particular group had beards. He was pretty specific; some of them were carrying Belgian FAL rifles and others AK-47s. The blacks had a professional military look to them; they moved like soldiers. There have also been reports of terrorist-like activity in the Kariba area. Along the lake there are a few upscale hotels and marinas, but the town of Kariba lies some fifteen miles from the lake. It is spread out and very poor. One of the embassy officers talked with a Harare resident who has relatives in Kariba. The report said that this relative was very worried about his family there. He said people have been disappearing from their homes, both in Kariba and in some of the outlying small villages. Men come in the night and rob and kidnap people, and this activity seems to be happening throughout the northern part of the province of Tonga, mostly in the foothills that border the lake and along the Zambezi River.

“At first, they wrote it off to bandits or antigovernment activity. But with the hassling of NGO personnel and the exotic diseases that are popping up, Langley thinks it might all be connected. The Agency has asked the National Reconnaissance Office to step up their coverage, but they’ve yet to get anything specific from satellite imagery.” Garrett paused a moment before continuing. “It’s almost as if someone were trying to seal off the area and put a good scare into those who remain.”

“What is the State Department’s official position?” Janet asked.

“According to Watson, State and our embassy there have both written it off to banditry,” Garrett replied. “And Langley doesn’t dismiss that theory. The final stages of a failed Communist state are not pretty. A lot of things break down, and it’s usually worse when it comes to Africa.”

They were all quiet a moment, until Steven spoke. “I’ve traded a few e-mails with Jim Watson since Garrett met with him in Washington. The doctor who was just killed was an expert in epidemiology. His death was made to look like a random robbery, but some of our embassy people in Harare are not so sure. The matter is now before the National Security Council. This situation has some of the earmarks of biological terror, and these days, that gets a lot of people’s attention. The question now is what to do about it. By charter, this is CIA territory, but they don’t have a lot of options on this one. Langley recently sent one of their experienced officers there. As a visiting embassy staffer, he tried to arrange some official travel into the area, but was denied access by the Zimbabwe Ministry of Tourism. Langley talked about putting a few SA men in there under big-game-hunting cover, but neither the shooting nor the photo safari concessions are taking any new bookings. And even then, they would be restricted to the game preserves. When it comes down to it, white men just don’t move too well in rural Africa. And for that matter, neither do American or Western blacks.”

“Well then,” AKR said with a sly grin, “this would seem to be a job for real Africans.”

“Yeah, right,” Garrett said, also grinning, “so now you’re an African.”

While Steven Fagan conferred with his key players, another staff meeting of sorts was taking place almost a half a world away. The setting could not have been more different from the IFOR compound and the Kona Coast of Hawaii.

The road between Harare and the town of Kariba stretches some 225 miles. Most of the land along the way is dusty high-veld African plain. Due east and north of Kariba the land rises gently to a series of mountain ranges with peaks approaching four thousand feet. The Mavuradonha Mountains look much like the foothills of the Rockies. Up one particularly scenic valley some sixty miles northeast of Kariba, the Japanese had built a small luxury hotel in the late 1970s. The Japanese consortium that built it called it Kubwa Msitu, thinking the name—“Big Forest” in Swahili — would draw Western tourists. While the upland forests are dense and beautiful, they lack the big game populations of the lower veld and the expansive vistas along Lake Kariba. Tourists come to southern Africa for the animals. They can find trees and mountains in much more convenient locations than this remote area of Zimbabwe. Shortly after the Japanese began losing money, they lost interest, and the hotel passed through a succession of British, German, and French resort chains until it was purchased by a wealthy Saudi prince. By then it had been renamed the Makondo Hotel. For a period under the prince’s steward-ship, the hotel was well stocked with luxuries prohibited in his country and by his religion. The prince and his entourage would fly into Harare on their private jet and transfer to stretch limousines for the trek into the veld. They would sometimes drive through Matusadona National Park for a chance glimpse of an elephant or a lion, but always anxious to reach the hotel for a few days of drinking and pornography, either on film or in the flesh — or both. However, the recent availability and convenience of the fleshpots in Bahrain eventually made the long trip to Zimbabwe unnecessary. The hotel had not seen the prince or a guest in well over two years, but a staff of Yemeni caretakers had kept up the grounds and were on hand to discourage looting.

Shortly after the Americans rolled into Baghdad, the prince was approached by an influential Wahabi cleric who asked about the hotel. The holy man seemed to know a great deal about the hotel and its history of who had visited there and what took place. After a short negotiation, it was agreed that the hotel would be an excellent choice for a retreat and school — a madrassa for the Muslims in northern Zimbabwe. The fact that only about 1 percent of Zimbabweans are Muslim did not seem to discourage the cleric. He was even able to get the prince to agree to pay for annual maintenance for as long as the school operated. Some months after the cleric and the prince concluded their agreement, the Yemeni staff was dismissed, and a new group of caretakers took possession of the hotel. One wing of the main building was converted into barracks, four men to a room. Men and equipment began to arrive, some from Harare and some smuggled across the border from Mozambique. Not all of the equipment was military. A number of Mercedes four-wheel-drive lorries and Land Rovers crossing the borders into Zimbabwe carried laboratory equipment and medical apparatus. Once everything was in place, a pair of limousines met a private jet at Harare Airport. Eight men in expensive Arab dress deplaned and filed into the limos. The plane had landed early in the day to allow time for a drive through the park before heading up-country. Only two of the passengers — the security men charged with the safety of the other six — were actually Arab. The other six were among the most talented and highest paid biochemists and microbiologists that money could buy — three Germans, two Frenchmen, and a Russian. None of them had ever been to Africa. As luck would have it, they were fortunate enough to sight a pride of lions and one of the park’s rare and endangered black rhinos on the way to the hotel.

The speaker was as different from Steven Fagan as Africa from Kona. A middle-aged man with a coldly efficient voice, he was seated at the desk of what had once been that of the office manager of the Makondo Hotel. His English betrayed only a hint of an accent. A trained ear could detect that his native language was German, but he spoke many languages. He dressed like many Europeans in Africa, or at least like they used to dress — tan linen slacks, white collared shirt, and woven leather loafers. The desk from which he spoke, like his person, was neat and orderly. His voice betrayed no emotion, but his question was deadly serious.

Helmut Klan had been born in Argentina and raised in an expatriate German community in Buenos Aires. His father told young Helmut of the horrors of his own childhood and the final days of the Third Reich. His maternal grandfather, a ranking officer in the Waffen SS and a member of Himmler’s personal staff, told him of the glorious rebirth of Germany after the humiliation of World War I. Helmut was sent to the University of Lorraine, taking a degree with honors in civil engineering. From there he went to America and in one year had acquired two master’s degrees from MIT, one in engineering and a second in business, again with honors. He left Boston in 1985 and journeyed south, where he spent five years with DuPont in Wilmington, Delaware. Klan’s duties included managing and selling off unprofitable units within DuPont’s extensive holdings. This often meant he had to deal with the restoration and adjudication of the unpleasant environmental aspects of DuPont’s business. From there, he returned to Germany to take a position with Internationale Gesellschaft Farbenindustrie A.G., or I.G. Farben for short. The company had supplied the Nazis with fuel and war materials, and concentration camps with Zyklon-B gas. I.G. Farben had gone into receivership in 1952, yet the company and its vast holdings continued to generate revenue for another fifty years, funding its creditors and providing a rallying cause for generations of protestors. To Klan, Farben was like a noble, aging stag plunging through the forest, gradually being stripped of its strength and reserve by a pack of wolves. Helmut Klan stayed until the end, when Farben was finally dissolved in 2003.

DuPont, Klan often reflected, was never the company that I.G. Farben had been. Had they been competitors on a level playing field, Farben would have easily put DuPont out of business. But DuPont was on the winning side in World War II, and that had made all the difference. It never ceased to amaze Klan how America, and companies like DuPont, could have defeated Germany and the might that was I.G. Farben. Had a man like Hermann Schmitz, the brilliant founder of I.G. Farben, led Germany instead of the maniacal Hitler, the outcome would have been much different. But it was on the abilities and personalities of such leaders that the destinies of nations and corporations rested. Helmut Klan was contemplating such thoughts over lunch at an upscale restaurant in Berlin when he received a call from a Mr. Maurice Baudo from Rome. The caller said that he was due to arrive in Berlin that very evening and wished to meet with Helmut. Mr. Baudo conveyed to him that he had a project for which he was seeking a manager with Klan’s qualifications. They met the following day. The discussion lasted several hours, and shortly thereafter, Klan found himself in Zimbabwe.

“So tell me again about the death of this doctor at the clinic near Karoi, and why it was so necessary to kill him.”

The man to whom Helmut Klan now directed his question could not have been more different from himself. Klan had known the project would need security and perhaps even a bit of thuggery, albeit thuggery with some local knowledge. He had to admit that Claude Renaud was well suited to this unsavory task. Yet the man was unlike anyone he had ever had to deal with in his corporate universe. Renaud shrugged his massive shoulders in response to Klan’s challenging question.

“Ah, the doctor, that was unfortunate business. We went there only to smash his clinic and frighten away those who sought treatment there — make it look like the work of vandals. We did not expect him to come back there so late at night. When he walked in, there was nothing to do but to make quick work of him. At first, we thought only to hurt him — put a good scare in him — but the boys got carried away. Once he was dead, I thought it best to make it look like a tribal bush killing.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Now the word will get out. These Western doctors can’t come here unless they have help from the locals, and now they’ll have a devil of a time finding drivers and clinic workers. In the long run it’ll be good for us.”

“But this doctor was an Indian — a Hindu.”

“No matter. In Africa, those who are not African are Western, like you and me. Don’t worry, doctors are often killed in the bush. In a week it will be forgotten. Trust me, in the long run this will work for us, not against us.”

Klan was not so sure. Close to 40 percent of adults in Zimbabwe had the AIDS virus. That had attracted a lot of attention and money from the West. The Gates Foundation alone had spent millions in the country on clinics, medicine, and education. That kind of money was usually accompanied by foundation workers and administrators who asked questions. They did not need people asking questions. Klan cared little about easing the suffering of Zimbabweans and even less about the AIDs epidemic in Africa. He only wanted to get on with the work, deliver the product, and get out of this godforsaken place. Much of what he did not like about Zimbabwe and Africa was embodied in Claude Renaud.

Renaud fashioned himself as a mercenary soldier and white hunter of a bygone era. His father was French and his mother Dutch; he himself claimed Belgian citizenship but held several European and African passports. He was a big man, six-two and close to two-fifty, with a full dark beard that began high on his cheekbones. It gave him a wild look, which he cultivated. Renaud had unruly black hair that he tied in a loose ponytail and a brow that was wide and brooding. His Shonas called him Nyati, “the Buffalo,” which he did not discourage. Invariably, he was dressed in a bush jacket with no sleeves, cargo shorts, and an old felt snap-brim hat. One of the lab techs referred to him as the Bwana Wannabe. As a young man in his late teens, Renaud had in fact served with the Selous Scouts for a while at the end of their short time in the field. From what Klan knew of this fabled Rhodesian Army scouting group, he had a hard time imagining Renaud surviving their brutal training. But he could well image that the atrocities of the colonial wars were certainly within his capability. For all his baggage and bravado, Renaud was just the man the project needed to guard the facility and to spread the required fear within the province. Now, it seemed, the killing of the Outreach Africa physician might have taken things too far.

“Perhaps in the long run,” Klan acknowledged, “but in the short run, you may have brought us more attention than we want. People in Harare are not about to fuss over a few missing locals, especially if they are Ndbele or one of the other lesser tribes, but the killing of a white man is another matter.”

Renaud gave him a tobacco-stained grin. “I thought you had those kaffirs in Harare in your pocket. And why should they care what goes on out here, anyway?”

“It’s not the government I’m worried about, it’s the international community. They can bring a lot of pressure to bear. We may need a month or more to conclude our business here, and I don’t have the time to fend off a lot of inquiries. So for the next few weeks, I want you to keep a low profile. Keep your men out at night so the locals know you’re there, but let’s avoid any more killings.”

“How about the snatches? You need more bodies?”

Klan considered this. They might have enough subjects, but given the incubation periods, he didn’t want to run short of host material.

“Don’t make a point of it,” he told Renaud, “but if an opportunity presents itself, singly or in pairs, go ahead and bring them in. But be absolutely sure to make it appear to be a random disappearance.” Rural Africans, Klan knew, were superstitious. When someone vanished into the night, it could be for any number of reasons besides kidnapping.

Renaud nodded and heaved himself from the chair. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it into the corner of his mouth as he headed for the door.

“Claude,” Klan called after him. The big man paused and turned in the doorway.

“We are getting close, so let’s not screw this up. We both have a bonus due us, but only if the project succeeds. And I intend to collect that bonus.”

“Understood, Herr Doktor,” Renaud grunted as he lumbered through the door.

Klan didn’t miss for a moment Renaud’s attempt at needling him. Klan wasn’t a doctor, but he oversaw a medical staff that needed human guinea pigs for their tests. Claude Renaud, he had to confess, was necessary for the project, but that made him no more palatable. They were both being well paid, and the bonus offered for a successful completion was substantial. Yet Klan sensed that Renaud was enjoying all this far too much. Bonus or not, Renaud was not so anxious to see this business come to an end. As an experienced and capable project manager, Klan couldn’t help wonder what Claude Renaud would do once their work was done.

Klan’s thoughts were broken by a knock on the door. He glanced at his watch, remembering that he had a meeting with the head of his medical team, and brightened as he rose and went to the door. “Come in, come in, Hans,” he said, shifting to German. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Garrett Walker did not enjoy this role. No doubt it was necessary, and someone had to do it, but it didn’t go down easy. Furthermore, he knew that AKR took a perverse joy in assigning him this duty. But he also knew that realistic training required good role players.

“You seem a little anxious this evening, my friend. Your spirit seems restless.”

Garrett gave a resigned shrug. “I guess I’ve always preferred being the hunter to being hunted.”

“I understand, my friend,” Bijay replied. “But it is a chance to learn. You know your role well as the hunter. Knowing the difficulties and misgivings of the quarry can also be valuable.”

Bijay Garung was Nepalese, and one of more than two dozen Gurkhas that IFOR retained as a component of the intervention force. Bijay was a Gurkha leader of some stature and reputation. It was through him that this small band of warriors had been recruited and trained. The Gurkha element had been part of IFOR for a little more than eighteen months and operational for half that time. Garrett and Bijay had already taken them in harm’s way, into Southwest Asia on an important mission, and they had performed magnificently. The reputation of the Gurkhas as tough, durable, loyal, competent soldiers was legendary. Garrett had found them to be all that and more. In Bijay he had found a brother in arms, as well as a man of immense talent and spiritual reserve. He often thought of him as a warrior monk, yet Bijay practiced no formal religion.

He and Garrett were stationed outside a small thatched hut on one of their training ranges. They walked their posts in and out of the shadows, bathed in lantern light that escaped through the windows. Inside two of the technicians sat at desks with portable radios. Garrett and Bijay were posted as guards at the “enemy” communications outpost. Night training evolutions like this were necessary to build the men into a functioning combat team. Usually this training was directed by a command and control element that would monitor and direct the evolution, as they would do on a real mission. Tonight’s drill was a purely tactical exercise; there would be no C2—command and control — element directing the exercise play. Bijay and his Gurkhas had worked many of these training evolutions before they had gone on a real mission. They still did.

“What do you think of the new men?” Garrett asked.

In response to Garrett’s question, Bijay picked up his rifle and began to pace. He was tall for a Gurkha, who were generally small in stature, and he carried himself with great ease and dignity.

“The Africans, they are not like us,” Bijay said, carefully framing his words. “You and I are much alike, although we come from very different worlds. But we have been in uniform for most of our adult life — proper uniforms. As our British mentors would say, we have been in garrison. The formalities and patterns of Western military life are ingrained in us. This is not the case with our black brothers. They come from clans, tribes, and families. They have been conditioned to fight for their tribal group, not for their nation or for a cause.” He was silent for a long moment before he continued. “They appear to be uncomplicated men, more like children than warriors, but this is not the case. I think it is because their souls — the essence of their being — are so closely linked with the earth and their native land. Our black brothers are spiritual and very connected to their environment. I know you wish they could shoot like my Gurkhas. I wish my Gurkhas could move in the bush like Tomba’s Africans. But I sense that, like my men, they are loyal to their brother warriors, and that when called upon, they will be very brave — brave even to the death.”

Garrett was about to answer when he saw Bijay’s knees buckle and his body pitch forward. A fraction of a second later he too was on his stomach, his face in the dirt. There was a forearm levered into the back of his neck and a hand that felt like a baseball glove over his mouth. He could breathe, but all other movement was impossible. There seemed to be two of them, but Garrett could not be sure. He could hear muffled commotion from inside the hut, then silence. Suddenly he was jerked to his feet, but kept facing away from Bijay and the hut. The hand was removed from his mouth, only to be immediately replaced by a length of duct tape. Another strip sealed his eyes and wound around his head to block much of his hearing. He next felt nylon snap-ties as they encircled his ankles. Strong arms pulled him from behind, and he felt the bark of an ohi’a tree at his back. His hands were quickly bound behind the tree. Then all was quiet. It had taken less than two minutes. He would have felt foolish at being taken so quickly and easily, but his mind was instead drawn to the nylon snap-ties cutting into his wrists and ankles.

He did manage to reflect on the swift and professional action that had taken place. Neither had heard their attackers coming, and Bijay Garung was a man who was not easily surprised. He may have heard, but refrained from a reaction to stay in character, but Garrett didn’t think so. There was no verbal communication, nor did they make much noise when they entered and secured those in the hut. They must have had their duct tape strips precut; there were no tearing sounds from the roll. And they seemed to have worked as a team, which was most important to Garrett. Teamwork sometimes did not come easy to cultures that championed the exploits of the individual warrior. They had left the area without a sound, taking their prisoners with them. The exercise called for them to neutralize the guards and capture the technicians. Impressive, Garrett thought, very impressive. Through the tape that bound his ears, he heard the approaching strains of “A Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square,” very proficiently whistled. Then there was a soft snipping as jawed pliers bit into the nylon straps. He rubbed his wrists while his rescuer cut the duct tape. Garrett worked the tape from his mouth and head while AKR went over to free Bijay.

“This way,” he said without preamble. “I want to watch them at the extraction site.”

The three of them headed off at a trot to a jeep parked a short distance from the contact area. After a fifteen-minute drive they arrived at an open area dotted by low brush and hackthorn bushes. AKR parked the jeep well away from the clearing, and they walked to the edge and settled in. They waited in absolute silence under a quarter moon, AKR handing Garrett and Bijay each a pair of night vision goggles. They carefully surveyed the edges of the clearing but could see nothing. Garrett glanced at AKR. He could see the flash of his grin in the moonlight. A moment later they heard the rotor beat of an approaching helicopter. A single man moved into the clearing. With the low-light optics, Garrett watched as the man brought the H-60 in for a safe hover using infrared wands. Then an orderly file emerged from the bush and quickly boarded the helo. The captives each had a prisoner handler assigned to him. They handed the bound and gagged prisoners up to waiting hands in the hovering helo. The chopper lifted a few feet, then nosed over and began its run away from the clearing.

“Well,” AKR said after the helo had cleared off, “what do you think of my guys now?”

Garrett smiled. “I’m going to reserve comment until after the debriefings and hot washup, but I haven’t seen a thing I don’t like. How were they on patrol?”

AKR had initially patrolled in with them, as they moved six miles over rough ground as a part of the exercise. “They moved well, and their noise discipline was excellent. They were rucked up with about sixty-five pounds per man, and I was clean. I had to work to keep up. They move through the brush like puffs of smoke.”

“I too was very impressed,” Bijay said. “I know you are working to build them into combat teams, but as your training permits, I would like my men to begin accompanying them when possible. There is much each can learn from the other.”

The following evening, Garrett, AKR, Bijay, and Tomba sat around one of the outside tables after dinner. Bijay melded into the group with ease; they were professional warriors, and that cut through all cultural dissimilarities. But Bijay was held in a special regard by AKR and Tomba, who by virtue of his service with the Rhodesians was also a product of the British military. Bijay carried a distinction that merited him this special reverence: the Victoria Cross, Britain’s highest award for bravery. He had won that honor while serving with a Gurkha contingent assigned to the SAS during the first Gulf War.

That morning and afternoon had been spent on the rifle and grenade ranges, and now the men were busy cleaning weapons. A few of Bijay’s Gurkhas had been pressed into duty as shooting instructors. The rest of the Gurkhas were high up on Mona Kea, practicing rappelling. They would make an overnight mountain bivouac and return the following day. Garrett and AKR had wondered how the Africans and the Gurkhas would react to each other — would there be jealousies; would there even be racial tensions? Bijay and Tomba had talked for a long while when the Africans arrived, then each had spoken to their men. Both had tremendous sway with their men; there had been not so much as a hint of a problem. There was little interaction between the two groups, but Garrett noticed that there was much curiosity on both sides, for these were two very different kinds of warriors. He was relieved to see that there was also respect and acceptance. The two groups had never trained together. They were being groomed for work on two different continents. But it was a unique opportunity for them to learn different techniques from one another.

It was a soft evening, with the sweet smell of plant decay pushed up from the lower elevations by a gentle onshore breeze. They were four veterans, men who had known fighting in one form or another for several decades. In the case of Tomba and Bijay, due to their cultures, it had begun at a very young age. Both had been warriors for more than three decades. They had all fought different battles, taken life in the name of different causes, and believed in different deities — or no deity. But at this moment, they were four warrior leaders in garrison after a day in the field with their men, and that made them brothers. Each savored the moment in his own way. They were drinking warm beer that Tomba’s men had begun to brew soon after their arrival, a thick, bitter-sweet, malty concoction with a delicious after-taste. Garrett and AKR relished it, and Bijay sipped it with polite enjoyment. One of Tomba’s men brought them a fresh pitcher and shyly retired.

“They are shooting much better, Tomba,” Garrett said, placing his hand on the big African’s shoulder. “I think we are ready to move Konie and Mumba to the sniper weapons. They are steady and seem to have a good shooting eye. They’ll make excellent snipers.”

Tomba nodded. “I agree,” he said in his precise, halting English. “They are good with their assault rifles, and they pride themselves on their marksmanship. They will be honored to carry the long guns. Neither of them will disappoint you.”

“And it is not just Konie and Mumba who are doing well. All your men are performing well.” Garrett searched for the right words to frame his compliment. “We knew you were great warriors when you came to join us. But our ways and cultures are different, and our way of fighting is different. What I mean to say is that we appreciate their hard work, as well as your own. You have learned our ways of battle very quickly.”

Tomba smiled and lowered his head in thanks. “Nkosi, I appreciate your words. But it is I who should thank you — all of you — for you have allowed us to continue to follow the path of a warrior. For us, it is a path of honor. Our homelands are not what they were. The whole of Africa is in constant change. We are moved about, made to live away from our tribal lands, and made to serve men who are not our tribal leaders — often men who have never tasted battle. We were warriors, but without a warrior cause, so we were without honor.”

Tomba looked at each of them, holding each with his gaze, his eyes dark pools of intensity. None of them, save for perhaps AKR, had heard him speak with such emotion. They said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“You see, my brothers, my men and myself are warriors without land — without a home. I fought in the colonial wars, and most of my men were orphaned by them. I am Turkana. Among the fourteen men who left Africa with me, there are Masai, Luo, Samburu, and Turkana from the north. There are Matebele, Shangere, and Zulu from the south. And of course, our single Somali. They are all men who were born in the bush or on the veld, served in some national army with officers of a rival tribe, then were discharged to find their families scattered and their lands confiscated. We are warriors in search of honor; you have provided that. We will serve with you; our allegiance is yours. My men will save what you are paying us, and someday, they will return to their various homelands with wealth and honor. As a group here, you call us Africans, and we are that. But we are more, and we each have our place in the land you call Africa. My men want to find their tribes and clans, or what is left of them, when they return. It is then that they will be able to buy wives and cattle and have the comfortable life of an old warrior. Or they will perish in the process. Both are worthy goals. You have given us much.” He sipped his beer. “You have given me much. We will not disappoint you.”

“And what about you, Tomba?” Bijay asked quietly. “Will you save your money and return to buy wives and cattle?”

He looked at Bijay, and a smile cut his handsome features. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Or perhaps, like you, I am at home only when I am in the company of other warriors, preparing for the next battle. Only the gods know for sure.”

For some time they remained in companionable silence, sipping African beer and watching the Hawaiian dusk turn to night.