Covert Action

6 Deployment

“All right, I’m going to need your undivided attention for the better part of the next two hours. This will constitute the jump-off briefing for this operation. Since there is a lot we don’t know and much that we yet need to know to accomplish this mission, this will be a phased deployment — one thing at a time. The first phase will entail getting what we think we might need into the region in a way that will provide us as much flexibility as possible. We still don’t know what kind of a nut we have to crack, let alone how to crack it. Once we are on the ground, we tackle the next phase; getting people and assets into position to move against the target objective. Right now, we are obviously short of specific target data. And finally, the takedown of this objective. It’s not going to be easy. We have to stage assets, move into position, and make our attack without alerting the locals or the opposition. We have a border crossing to make. And then we have to repatriate everyone and everything, leaving no footprint — or, as Steven would often have it, leave the footprint behind that we want read. In my opinion, it can be done, but as with any semi-denied-area operation, we will have to move carefully — one step at a time. Again, there’s a lot we don’t know, but hopefully, we can fill in many of the blanks along the way.”

Janet Brisco stood behind a small elevated table that served as her briefing platform. They were assembled in the Kona operations building. The exterior was plywood prefab, with a corrugated metal roof; a post-and-pier construction with two feet of latticed crawl space under the single main flooring. There were thousands of similar buildings in Hawaii. Inside, it was part modern office space and part space-age military planning center. There were seven in her audience: Steven Fagan, Garrett Walker, Akheem Kelly-Rogers, Dodds LeMaster, Bill Owens, Tomba, and another of his Africans, a small ferret of a man with aquiline features, hooded eyelids, and a calm intensity. His name was Mohammed Senagal, the only Somali among the Africans. He was quite different in appearance and manner from Tomba, but both men seemed to radiate a quiet forcefulness. They had that measure of deadly serenity that only years of soldiering in extreme conditions could form in a man. In spite of their primitive appearance, both men spoke excellent English, and both were reasonably well versed in the application of modern technology to military applications. Brisco spoke a little slower in her briefing than normal, but she did not talk down to them. All eight of them had indexed briefing folders in front of them.

“Okay, let’s start with what we do know.” She touched a keypad on the table in front of her, and a satellite image emerged on the two-by-three-foot plasma display behind her. There were no cords from her laptop; the system functioned on a wireless local area network. She stepped to one side so everyone had a clear view.

“This is the area in northern Zimbabwe we have to penetrate. Mostly high veld cut by deep ravines and heavily wooded areas. There is worse country to cross, and there will be challenges if we have to move overland with any equipment. This is where we think we will have to go.” She tapped the keyboard several times. A series of increasing magnifications and lower-resolution images resulted in the grainy outlines of a hotel complex. “This is it, gentlemen, the Makondo Hotel.” She quickly outlined the Japanese-Saudi history of the structure, and what they knew of its most recent history. Then she flipped through several subtle variations of the same image. “You will note that there are very few vehicles about the complex, but those we do see are very inconsistent with a luxury hotel operation. About half of them are small pickup trucks, probably set up for off-road travel. Note that the gatehouse is positioned on the only improved road into the area. From all appearances, it’s a normal security gatehouse — all hotels have them, right? Well, take a look at the emplacement off to the right of the guard shack.” The image grew, larger and more grainy, then suddenly clarified. “With some computer enhancement by our friend Dodds, we have what appears to be a machine gun emplacement — a fifty-caliber machine gun emplacement. One of the problems in this part of Africa is that anything that is nice is very well guarded, sometimes even guarded with automatic weapons. But a fifty-caliber? If they have fifties, then it would follow they probably have RPGs, perhaps even mortars. That means they are probably prepared to deal with light armor and helicopter gunships. Something is going on there, and I’d wager it is more than elegant dining and Swedish saunas. Hotels in Africa do need security, especially those in remote areas, but a fifty-cal. is over the top.

“We have a set of architectural plans coming, but the French firm who designed the place turned out to be a little stingy about sharing their work. Damn Frogs made it necessary to go through a consulting engineering firm in London, pay them a fee, and sign a licensing agreement if the plans are used for future construction. Of necessity, we have to go slow, as we don’t want to surface any unusual or urgent interest in the place. I should have them in forty-eight hours, so we will have them for final assault planning.

“Now take a look at what we just got in from the NRO. Langley finally got them to bring one of their high-resolution satellites across Lake Kariba. Here we have two vehicles parked out in the middle of nowhere, covered by camouflage netting. Who in the hell cammies up their vehicles in the daytime? The safari concessions don’t do this, and there are no Zimbabwean military units in the area. Poachers, maybe, but I doubt it; they look too disciplined. We can’t make the kind of vehicles, but the dimensions match a Toyota 4x4. Now look at this.” A slightly oblique image showed two blurry, upright figures. Both had what appeared to be dark headgear. “Something look a little strange about these two?”

“They’re both wearing berets,” AKR offered.

“Exactly, and look at their arms. One is definitely black. The other is either a light-skinned black or a very tanned white guy. What do you make of this, Tomba?”

Tomba studied the image for a long moment before answering. “It has all the appearances of a long-range scouting party, one that moves at night and laagers up during the day. And it’s a military unit. See the dark smudge well off to the right side of the lower vehicle?” Brisco marked it with a laser pointer. “Yes, there,” Tomba continued. “That seems to be where they built a fire for their rations. It is also near a stand of bush willows, which provide good low cover for men in a laager. Men in a scouting party will seek shade away from their vehicles. Perhaps from habit and training, all men in scouting elements fear helicopters. If helicopters find their vehicles and attack, they will be able to engage the helicopters from a relatively safe location, or if the attack is overwhelming, fade into the bush. I agree they are not poachers. Poachers would have a single flatbed truck, and they would cover it with canvas and brush, not military netting. And no safari, photographic or shooting, would take these measures.” Tomba glanced at the Somali, who blinked slowly and slightly lowered his head in agreement.

“Excellent. Thank you for that. So it seems we have located the center of activity, and it appears to be guarded by a professional, mobile military force, one that can, or has reason to, range well away from their base. Other than that, we know very little about the threat environment from a conventional perspective. Since we suspect biological activity, this brings on a whole other layer of consideration. If it comes to moving on this complex, resistance from what appears to be a security detachment with light infantry capability may be only a part of the problem. Needless to say, we need a lot more information. We will begin to deploy assets immediately. The planning process will be ongoing and will have to be flexible enough to account for new information. Under almost any other conditions, we would not even consider a regional deployment with this scant amount of knowledge, but the danger that this threat represents may be time-critical, so we move now. That said, let’s get into your briefing materials.”

AKR opened his packet, turning it forty-five degrees to read the tabs: Topography, Country Profiles, Indigenous Peoples, Military Orders of Battle, Phase One Equipment Listings, Loading and Movement Schedules, Cover Documentation, and the list went on — some nineteen tabs in all. It was the size of a phone book for a small city. He leaned close to Garrett.

“Is she always this anal?” he whispered.

Before Garrett could answer, she was on him. “You have a problem, Kelly-Rogers?”

“Oh, no problem at all, madame planner. I was just remarking to my colleague what a comprehensive set of materials you’ve assembled.”

“Okay, then, let’s get to it.” She glanced at her watch. “We don’t have a minute to lose if we’re going to begin to move personnel and gear by day after tomorrow. Everyone turn to the first tab.”

There was an immediate rustling of pages. Like grade-school boys kept after school, they dutifully complied.

Judy Burks was waiting for Elvis Rosenblatt when he emerged from the jetway into the Delta concourse at Dulles International. Most Americans now meet new arrivals at the security screening exit, but if you happen to have an FBI credential, you can go right to the gate. He walked into the concourse wearing cargo pants, a tan bush shirt with button-down epaulets, and sand boots. He had a small underseat backpack swung over one shoulder. During all his time with the CDC and for all his expertise with exotic disease, he had been to Africa only twice, and on both occasions it was to address gatherings sponsored by the World Health Organization, usually at a four-star hotel. His talents lay in his research product, and research was best done in a well-equipped laboratory. There were none better than those at the CDC. Rosenblatt was strictly, in his words, a lab rat. The prospect of an actual field expedition was all very exciting.

“Oh, my God,” Judy Burks said under her breath as she spotted him. “This is going to be a charming trip.”

“Hey there, Agent Judy. Good to see you again.”

“Hello, Elvis. Nice outfit.”

He lowered his voice. “It’s my bwana cover. You like it?”

“Sure, it’s just great. Look, we have the better part of an hour before they call away our flight. Let’s get a cup of coffee, and I’ll brief you into the problem, or as much as I know about it.”

Breaking a key CDC epidemiologist away from Atlanta had not been easy. They were very parochial about their staff and not anxious to let him go, especially since they had been told nothing — only that the services of Dr. Rosenblatt would be needed for an indefinite time to consult on a classified project. Sensing that this must have something to do with infectious disease, they wanted details. It took a call from the President to the Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare and a second call from HEW to the head of the CDC before Rosenblatt was allowed to leave. In order not to leave the Center totally in the dark, they were told that their man would be working with GSI on a critical project. Guardian Services International, while becoming a niche player in the corporate security world, did some contract work for the government. But the link between GSI and IFOR remained closely held. Only a handful in government knew of it, and those that did were at the very highest level. All but Judy Burks.

Elvis Rosenblatt had been asked if he would volunteer to help with a problem in Africa. He was told only that he would serve as a consultant and advise on how to handle a contagion that had surfaced intermittently in Central Africa. He was also told that this investigation was privately funded and that help in this particular area was something of a pet project for someone high up in the administration. He was, however, asked to make a list of field equipment that he might need if he were to conduct an on-site investigation, the tools he would need should they uncover some form of pathogen. Rosenblatt was immediately caught up in the excitement. He worked most of the night to deliver a detailed listing of everything he would need to do field work on a variety of viral agents. His bags checked through to Hawaii held an array of personal test equipment, some of them scaled-down versions of larger instruments he had personally modified. He told his colleagues at the CDC he was going on a bug safari.

“Okay,” Judy Burks said after they found a table in the crowded concourse just outside of Starbucks, “here’s the deal as I understand it. We are going to be met by some people in Hawaii. They will give you a more in-depth briefing as to exactly where you will be going and what to expect. The NGO that is funding this effort has chartered an aircraft to ferry you and your supplies to a forward operating base where you will—”

“Forward operating base,” he said, cutting her short. “That sounds kind of military.”

Judy Burks recalled the last time she had gone forward with an IFOR deployment. She had waited in a Quonset hut in Diego Garcia while an IFOR probe, led by Garrett Walker, was infiltrated into the Afghan-Iranian border region.

“It’s just a figure of speech. You will probably be set up in some kind of field lab, probably in a regional clinic, maybe even in a hospital.”

Rosenblatt considered this. He didn’t like hospitals; he was a bug detective, not a healer. Hospitals could be full of distractions in the way of viruses and bacteria that had nothing to do with the bugs he might be looking for. He called it background noise.

“And you were able to get all of the equipment — everything on my list? Y’know, Agent Burks, that was a pretty expensive set of gear.”

“I’ve been told that every item will be waiting in Hawaii and that it will all travel with you.”

“No fooling,” he replied skeptically. Some of the items he requested were not only expensive but sometimes very hard to find. And a few pieces of the metered test equipment could be obtained only in Germany. He would be very surprised if they had managed to pull it all together in such a short time.

“So what’s your role in all this, Agent Burks? I thought people like you were supposed to be out catching crooks.”

That was one question she could answer truthfully. “How many times do I have to tell you, the name is Judy. And I’m strictly a liaison officer. I’m the link between the U.S. government and the NGO funding this research. If government assistance is needed to support this work, then I’m the person that sees to it. And believe me, there are times when I’d much rather be out chasing crooks.”

“Why, Agent Burks, how—”

“Elvis!”

“Okay, Judy, but look at it this way. Dangerous felons are a dime a dozen. We may have the chance to catch a really dangerous bug. Don’t you find that unbelievably exciting?”

“Positively stimulating,” she deadpanned.

Once at the gate, they boarded early with the other first-class passengers bound for Honolulu International. “You work for the same government I do, Judy, and we never fly first class.”

“I was told to take good care of you, Elvis, so I flushed my frequent-flyer piggy bank. Consider it my treat.”

“Y’know, for a cop, you’re a pretty decent human being.”

The flight was long but comfortable. En route, Judy got a detailed history of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and of Africa’s contribution to the world of deadly viruses, specifically AIDS and Ebola. When they arrived, they were greeted by an unassuming man in slacks and a quiet aloha shirt. He was not an FBI agent, but somehow he still managed to meet them at the gate.

Pavel Zelinkow sat on his balcony in a teak Adirondack chair, watching the evening shadows play across the rooftops of the crowded, ancient dwellings below him. It was the balcony of the spacious flat that had sold him on the property; it seemed to float high above the western outskirts of Rome. The structure was a jutting, cantilevered platform, with an ornate iron railing that afforded him an unobstructed two-hundred-and-seventy-degree view. The flat was just outside the metropolitan boundaries of Rome, near the municipality of Eur. This was his favorite time of day, and he had positioned himself to take advantage of the magnificent panorama to the west. The offshore breeze that usually came in the afternoon had carried most of the pollution down and away from his hillside perch. Those noxious fumes that choked most major cities, including Rome, would soon filter the last rays of the sun and set the world that stretched before him ablaze. In the mornings, before the haze from the city materialized, he could glimpse a broad section of the Mediterranean. The eternal smog of the Eternal City made that impossible after midmorning. Occasionally he would catch a flash of reflected sunlight from one of the planes queued up for landing at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. Later that evening, a procession of evenly spaced landing lights would mark the staggered patience of those waiting their turn to land.

He had never been a small man, but his girth had broadened since he came to Rome just a little over a year ago. Zelinkow was two people. One was a meticulous manager of clandestine activities — a chess master who reveled in the manipulative, dangerous world of covert action. Once he had done this for his country, but now, as a stateless person, he did it for the money — that and the thrill of what he called the Grand Game. He was Russian, and that was a condition of one’s soul, not a mere nationality. Zelinkow missed Russia, much as he missed his mother, who worked herself into an early grave to raise him after the father he never knew died of cancer. Both the woman and the nation, he reflected, were hard, no-nonsense, inflexible, and demanding. They were both gone, and nothing would bring them back.

The other Zelinkow was a connoisseur of food and wine and a patron of the arts. He glanced at his watch, noting that the Tuscan amarone he had opened to breathe a few hours ago would now be ready. He poured himself a splash and swirled it gently in the glass. It had an excellent nose and good legs. He held it up to the remnants of blue sky overhead and savored the deep, rich magenta color. The taste more than justified its other superb physical properties. With the tones of the wine still echoing in his mouth, he carefully set himself to preparing his afternoon cigar. It was an unhurried ritual, one in which he took a great deal of pleasure. Through a rolling cloud of blue smoke, he inspected the glowing tip of the Lonsdale to ensure the uniformity of the burn. You could tell a lot about a cigar by the way it took the flame. As he slowly blew a mouthful of smoke into the evening air, he once again revisited the African matter in his mind.

He had set a number of forces into play, and any one of them, if it went awry, could prove disastrous to the project. This assignment, as he referred to it, once again put him in the uncomfortable position of having to deal with people of questionable reliability and integrity. For the most part, these individuals did his bidding for the money. In those few cases where money was not the driving force, or just one factor in their participation, he had to be careful to balance the payment with their particular form of idealism or motivation. Such was the case for the mercenary Renaud. He needed money, but he also wanted the chance to prove himself. He was a contemptible man — totally amoral and self-absorbed. But Zelinkow had needed just such a man for this particular assignment, though he was relatively incompetent in many aspects of his profession. That was why he kept a close watch on Renaud’s movements and had set up separate procurement channels to support his force. Zelinkow rightly marked Renaud as an ambitious bully. He was a man who would guard the project site and do the heinous chore of finding test subjects because he saw himself as a mercenary leader of stature. He had chosen Renaud because no responsible PMC would have taken the work, at any price. But Zelinkow did not kid himself. In Renaud, he knew he was dealing with a loose cannon.

He was far more comfortable with the choice of Helmut Klan to manage the project site. For Klan, the issue was certainly money, but it was also the job. Any queasiness he may have had about the objectives of the project was quickly overcome by the fee he was being paid. Any lingering doubts about the morality of the undertaking were quickly erased by the organizational challenge of running the operation. Perhaps it was the Teutonic mind-set or some latent Germanic gene that allows someone like Klan to attend to the mechanics of an operation like this and somehow divorce himself from the outcome. How is it that a man can do that? Zelinkow thought. He took a sip of wine and further reflected on it. How is it that I can do it? he wondered. I suppose to one degree or another, all men continue down the path on which they took their first steps as a boy. Such is the inertia of life.

The members of the medical team he had assembled for the project were no less puzzling than Helmut Klan. They were a mixture of refugees and renegades from various academic and medical establishments. Each was undeniably brilliant in his own right, but research today was driven by research teams, and few of these men were team players. They also lacked the political skills to succeed in modern research efforts, which were driven by a quasi-academic bureaucracy fraught with political maneuvering. And there was the certain childlike naïveté that often accompanied a really fine mind. At least to some degree, they were blinded by their own brilliance. Zelinkow had gone to great pains to learn about these men and assess their intellectual gifts as well as their personal and emotional shortcomings. It was to Klan’s credit that he could keep them all working together toward a common goal. And, if he could believe Klan’s progress reports, the work and the clinical trials were very much on schedule. But Zelinkow was not one to allow good news to disturb his focus or his skepticism. He knew he could not relax his vigilance until the project was complete and the product shipped — safely in the hands of those who were paying him. Then he would take on a whole new set of challenges.

And then, of course, there was the issue of the people he worked for. Zelinkow had initially been contacted by Abdel Moski, a man who described himself as a broker for a consortium of unnamed individuals who wished to retain his services. They wanted him to oversee a project for them. That Moski even knew how to get an e-mail through Zelinkow’s elaborate electronic screening protocol had been disconcerting. Through a series of cutouts and trust-building measures, the two had finally met in Cairo. It was a short meeting, and both men knew it would be their last. No business was concluded; Moski told him what his principals desired, and Zelinkow said he would consider it. The two men then went on to resolve two issues: communications and money transfer. When it came down to it, Zelinkow’s interaction with a principal was quite simple. He had to be tasked, and he had to report his progress on this tasking, both of which required a secure, untraceable method of communication. Fortunately, corporate America had developed all that was needed in the way of secure communications technology. It was for sale to U.S. military forces, intelligence agencies, government entities, and corporations, which meant it was for sale to him. Usually the people that hired him were not so sophisticated, and Zelinkow had to see to the upgrading of their systems for the protection of all concerned. As it was, Abdel Moski had a state-of-the-art system, and he assured Zelinkow that his principals did as well.

However, the transfer of money was not so easy. It would always be a spy-vs.-spy game. The people who wanted to move funds with no attribution and the bankers who wanted to accommodate these transfers worked together against those who wanted to be privy to their dealings. Basically it was the whole world, from the terrorist to the taxpayer, against the United States of America, with a little help from the Brits and the Japanese. This did not mean that it was a one-sided affair. Zelinkow had long ago learned never to underestimate the American intelligence and counterintelligence services. For Zelinkow, this only put more of an edge to the Grand Game. And it kept a lot of amateurs out of the game. They were quickly and easily caught and put out of business.

After his meeting with Moski, Zelinkow began combing his many sources to learn the identity of Moski’s clients. Not that Zelinkow really needed to know, but he was more than just curious. The effort it took to learn their identities would go a long way toward documenting Moski’s professional credentials. It proved to be much more work than Zelinkow expected, which elevated Abdel Moski in his estimation. As Zelinkow suspected, it was an Al Qaeda — sponsored operation with Saudi financial backing. Most dedicated acts of terror were. There was no need to peel the onion back further and try to learn which Saudi organization, or which member of the royal family put up the money. He had no doubt that the pockets were deep.

After much consideration, he had accepted the commission, taken the retainer, and agreed to see the project through. It was certainly no casual undertaking; this would not be an easy task, nor would its successful completion be pretty. Had he not been thoroughly embarrassed by the Americans on his last major endeavor, he might not have taken this job. Two years ago, he had been asked to penetrate the Pakistani nuclear weapons stockpile and remove two of the weapons stored there. He had done this and made careful plans to bring the two bombs into Afghanistan. There they were to be detonated, causing little loss of life and crippling the construction of the Trans Afghan Pipeline, a massive project designed to bring Caspian oil to a deepwater port in Pakistan. The pipeline was underwritten by an American-backed consortium of Western oil companies with security provided by the U.S. military. Its destruction would have caused a great deal of embarrassment to the United States and further drawn America into the tarbaby of Southwest Asia. But it was not to be. Zelinkow considered himself a careful planner, someone who accounted for all eventualities. But something happened; a force he had not counted on, nor even knew the existence of, had intervened. This force had prevented the nuclear detonations and recovered both bombs. It was the first time he had ever been denied an objective — ever. This mysterious organization had also found a way to track his incoming payments and dispersals, eventually causing the French Sûreté to raid his home. He had lost everything — everything but his life and the sums of cash he had stashed in discreet banks around the world, banking sanctuaries he had once thought safe.

Nine/11 was a mistake. He had said so when he was hired to help Mohammad Atta and the others to attack New York and Washington. Americans respond when attacked. Now they controlled Afghanistan and might yet Iraq, and their influence in the region was many times what it was. By attacking America, Al Qaeda had called forth an American resource that was usually content to deal in commerce and commercial enterprise — American ingenuity. The fundamentalists thought America was fat and complacent, and 99 percent of Americans were exactly that. But it was the other 1 percent that made all the difference. Zelinkow was convinced that it was the efforts of that 1 percent that had defeated him in Afghanistan. That bitter defeat still troubled him. But what bothered him more was that he still did not know who these people were. Given their unorthodox methods and uncharacteristic brutality, he was sure they were some form of nongovernmental entity. No American congressional oversight committee would sanction what they had done; no American president would countenance that kind of activity unless he had complete deniability. No, Zelinkow concluded as he puffed thoughtfully on the Lonsdale, this was something new and out of the ordinary. Somehow they had bested him in that adventure in Afghanistan, and he had never been able to find out who they were or how they accomplished it. Africa was a whole different business, he told himself. Or was it? One thing was very clear to him, and probably to those who had hired him. He could not afford another failure.

The people who had denied him success in Afghanistan, whoever they might be — he figured he owed them one. As they were undoubtedly American, then it would be America that would pay.

Zelinkow poured himself a final glass from the bottle of the marvelous amarone. Two things seemed apparent to him. One of them was that the people who had hired him hated the United States. They consistently raised the ante with each project he undertook for them. And now that the Americans had established a presence in Iraq, their hatred knew no bounds. If accomplished, the Afghan venture would have done much to destroy American credibility in the region. The second: if this venture now germinating in Africa was seen through, it would destroy America as an economic superpower, and quite possibly as a military superpower. He was quite sure America would retaliate with everything it had. Even a crippled America would be formidable. Zelinkow had never played the Grand Game for these stakes. It both intimidated and exhilarated him. If he was successful, it would leave a huge power vacuum on the world stage. Perhaps Russia, with its emerging economy and vast store of natural resources, could fill that vacuum. Anything was possible.

He rose from his chair, draining the last of the wine from his glass. High stakes, indeed, he reflected. Zelinkow was a man who could work tirelessly for any length of time, focusing his not-inconsequential intellect and experience on a project. He could also totally segregate that part of his being, and devote his attentions to that which gave him pleasure. Nearly matching his passion for his work was that which he reserved for the arts. A superb string quartet was touring European capitals, and he had box seats for this evening’s performance. Not only that, he had reservations at an exquisite Neapolitan restaurant. He would be joined by a ripe, round, middle-aged widow who enjoyed music and food almost as much as he did. For now, the collapse of the so-called leader of the free world would have to wait. Zelinkow headed for his bath with a subtle spring in his step, collecting a glass of sherry along the way.

It was now late in the day, several hours after Janet Brisco had held her deployment briefing. She was still in her office reviewing personnel and equipment lists, along with a host of other details that accompany the secret movement of men and material. As was always the case, she had to continually remind herself to concentrate on the immediate concerns of logistics and staging. Naturally, her mind fast-forwarded to the tactical considerations, but she disciplined herself not to get too far ahead — first things first. Experience had taught her that too much tactical thinking early on in an operation restricted flexibility. A good planner knew that tactical decisions made too early in the game were inevitably changed due to better and updated intelligence. In most situations, there were really only so many ways to assault a target. She remembered the old army saying: Amateurs talk about tactics; the professionals talk about logistics. Once her people and equipment were in place, then she could deal with tactical issues. And hopefully, by then they would have a better picture of what they were up against.

Zambia, Zimbabwe’s neighbor to the northwest, presented its own set of challenges. It was about the size of Texas, and like Zimbabwe, the nation had massive social problems. Zambia had only half the population of Zimbabwe, about eleven million, and only one in five Zambians had AIDS, where in Zimbabwe it ran as high as two in five. The Zambian economy was only slightly better off than their neighbor’s. The nation depended on copper exports, but low copper prices for the past several years had stagnated the economy. Zambia had all the problems of a struggling African state; high inflation, high infant mortality rate, high unemployment — about 50 percent — and a huge national debt. On the positive side, it was a reasonably functioning democracy, and that political stability made Zambia one of southern Africa’s more popular tourist destinations.

There were two Zambias — rural Zambia and the capital of Lusaka. Lusaka was a modern city of some 1.3 million souls that offered a higher standard of living and more opportunity through an emerging service economy not available to rural Zambians. But it also had big-city problems. Like many black African capitals, it ran the gamut from the modern to the wretched, but at four thousand feet, it enjoyed one of the more temperate climates among African cities. There was also a fully staffed American embassy, including a Peace Corps representative and an officer on loan from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. For Janet Brisco, it was a jumping-off place for her force. It would be a place to hide and to stage equipment. Fortunately, they were well funded and had the Simpson Foundation to use as a cover for their activities.

In basic terms, Janet Brisco had to get Tomba and his Africans from Kona to Lusaka with all the equipment they would need to conduct an assault on a heavily defended position some hundred and fifty miles east of Lusaka in Zimbabwe. She had to get her command and control element there as well, not only to Lusaka but to a position where it could support the operation. And both the command and assault elements had to be equipped for a number of infiltration and recovery scenarios. Critical decisions had to be made. Too much equipment could raise their profile, and the lack of a critical piece of gear could put the mission at risk. Garrett and AKR continually shuttled in and out of her office to answer questions about what they might or might not need. Except for each man’s individual kit and personal weapons, she made all final decisions.

As Janet wrestled with these dilemmas, there was a soft rap at the door. On the third series of knocks she finally looked up from her desk, an uninviting scowl on her face.

“Come!”

“Excuse me, miss, you wished to see me?”

She immediately softened. “Yes, Tomba. Please come in.”

He made his way into the office and stood by the desk. Janet Brisco had worked in a man’s world, a special operations man’s world, for close to two decades. Her work often dictated that she take the measure of a man in short order — could he do the job? Could he cut it, or would he come up short? It was not an issue of battlefield bravery or judgment. Her world was one of command and control of men in the field. A bad decision by a controller could jeopardize a mission or get men killed just as surely as a bad decision in the field. As the senior planner and controller, she had to know about the men she ordered into battle — the warriors in the fight. And Brisco felt that this Turkana warrior was something very special.

As part of her preparation, she read the dossier of each of the African recruits. They came from all over central and southern Africa. They all had formal military training of some sort. Most of them had served as mercenaries at one time or another. Some were working as security guards when they were recruited, and not a few were game park rangers. All had some connection with Tomba, yet he was the only Turkana among them. The only common thread she could find from her review of their files is that they were all literate, all spoke English, and all seemed to be stateless. Tribalism had a strong influence on most Africans, and it often created problems. She was surprised to see that these men were recruited from such diverse tribal groups.

“I need a few minutes of your time,” she said. “Can I offer you some coffee? Tea?”

“Some tea would be nice.”

The Gurkhas recruited for IFOR had made a tea drinker out of her, but only when she was in camp, and only the tea made by the Gurkhas. She kept a carafe of it on her desk. She carefully poured him a cup and then warmed her own. He accepted the mug and quietly sipped at it. “Thank you,” he said, relishing the strong, dark brew. “It is the first thing our British mentors taught us — how to make good tea. Yet only a few of us have had British training; I need to send some of my men over to the Gurkha camp to learn their method.”

She watched him carefully. Tomba was lean, with long, hard muscles, a thin waist, narrow hips, and an oversized shoulder girdle. His hands were like heavy work gloves. He was not shy but soft, in his manner and his speech, and very polite. But all her senses told her that this was a very disciplined and capable man. Like many of the men in his unit, he was hardened by years of fighting. In Tomba’s case, decades of living and fighting in the bush.

“Tomba, we are assembling the needed equipment to support you and your men in the field. I’ll need some help in completing this deployment package, but first, tell me how you selected your men. And how is it that they work so well together? I know some of them come from tribes who have been historical enemies.”

Tomba took a measured sip from his mug before he answered with a warm smile. “You have to understand, miss, that Africa today is not the Africa of Kitchener or Rhodes or Livingston. The forces of colonialism, Communism, and capitalism have swept through the continent and”—he paused to search for the right word—“rearranged things. This has happened in other societies, but most other societies are more uniform; change settles on a much larger group — a conquered or occupied nation makes the change as a nation. It is not that way in Africa; we are too diverse. Loyalty to one’s tribe is not a bad thing, but it is out of step with the national boundaries set by colonial powers, and out of step with the world today. There is no going back. My men and I love Africa, yet Africa means different things to each of us. Tell me, miss, what did you do when you left the service of your nation? Did you go home?”

She smiled. “Why, yes, I did. I went back to St. Louis to be with my family.”

He met her smile with his own. “It is the same with us, although for most of us, home as we knew it from our youth is gone. But we hold these images in our hearts. We are warriors from many different tribes, but for now, we are brothers. And we will fight as brothers from the same tribe. Was it not the same when you left your home to serve in your military? Did you not join a tribe of warriors in uniform? When we finish our service here, we will go home, each of us in our own fashion.” He paused for a long moment, and she waited, knowing he was not finished. “Many in Africa long for the old times and the established order of things. I do not, and neither do my men. We respect the old customs, but you in the West, for all you have taken away, have given us something much more valuable. It is that a man is not bound by the restrictions of his tribe or his station in that tribe. And a tribal chief is no longer free to brutalize his subjects. Now, if a man is clever and brave and works hard, he can advance himself. And that is the biggest change of all. Many in the West think the whites destroyed Africa. In some ways they did. Painful as the transition from the old to the new has been, I believe they have liberated Africa.”

She was not convinced. “Would you not, had you the chance, want to live in an Africa with none of the influence of the white man?”

He shrugged. “Possibly. Not all that the white man brought to Africa was good. Smallpox, as an example, devastated many parts of Africa. But the white man did not bring the AIDS virus. Western knowledge and medicine are the only hope of stopping this terrible disease. What if AIDS had come to Africa three hundred years ago? How many Africans would there have been left to exploit in the nineteenth century? The river of life moves on; we can only play our given roles as best we can. I do, however, envy Bijay and his Gurkhas. They come from a small nation in a remote part of the world that has been left alone. There are no diamonds or farmlands or metal ores that draw outsiders to their lands. When they return home, they can live much as their fathers and grandfathers once did.”

“Where will you go, Tomba? Where is your St. Louis? Is there someone who waits for you?”

This brought a chuckle. “I have many choices, and in some ways all of southern Africa is my home. There are many men I have trained and fought with who live throughout the area. Some have become successful and wealthy. I will always be welcome at someone’s kraal, if not my own.”

“So there is no one who waits?”

A shadow seemed to pass across his rugged features. “No, miss, there is not. I have had two wives, but they are both gone, as are the children from both.” He said this with a certain finality that brooked no response on her part.

“Tomba, we will probably move to a forward location the day after tomorrow. We have found some airport space at the Lusaka International Airport that is secure. You and your men will be able to stage from there, if and when we receive the order to move on this. Are your men ready to move out?”

“We are. Their kit is in good order, and our combat support equipment, well, it is of such a quality that we are very well equipped indeed. And the various uniforms are in place. We can dress out as a Zambian Army unit, Zimbabwe Republic Police, or just a roving band of bush fighters. The men can also pass as laborers if required.” He smiled. “The men are very excited — so many uniforms and so many different weapons. They are used to going on a patrol with an assault rifle, six or eight extra magazines, a canteen, and a bag of cornmeal. With that they can stay in the bush for many weeks. Now, we have so much. Have we learned any more about our objective?”

“No, we haven’t. Perhaps when we get on the ground in Lusaka we will have a better idea of what we’re up against. We have a number of sources providing us with information, but this is a very unusual and remote target.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course!” He had her full attention.

“Nkosi Akheem says we may be up against a unit that is similar to the old Selous Scouts. Is that correct?”

“Yes. And I understand you once served with the Selous Scouts.”

“In another lifetime,” he said easily. “But I have been thinking about this. If that is truly the situation, then these men are recruited mercenaries, and there is only one place where a mercenary force with both whites and blacks can be raised. South Africa. My men are in all respects ready for travel. Perhaps I should leave now and spend a few days in Johannesburg and rejoin you in Lusaka. I have many contacts in Johannesburg. If such a force was recruited, I may be able to learn something of their number and the contract for which they were recruited.”

Janet considered this. Her first notion was that it was an excellent idea, and the second was, Why hadn’t she thought of it? Or why hadn’t Akheem Kelly-Rogers thought of it? Both of them should have.

“How do you propose to travel?”

“I have spoken with Mr. Owens. He recommends a British passport. I can fly from here to Japan, then on to Johannesburg. He can provide documentation that I am a travel agent employee. Getting to Johannesburg is not a problem. As a travel agent representative I will have no problem getting from Johannesburg into Zambia. I shouldn’t be more than a day or so in Johannesburg, and perhaps a day in Pretoria. It will not take long to find out what we need to know.”

She thought about it a moment and concluded that it made perfect sense, feeling a little embarrassed that they had not thought to make better use of this resource.

“Yes, go ahead and prepare to leave at once. I will speak with Akheem and Mr. Fagan, but it seems an excellent idea.”

“And another thing, miss. I would also—”

“Tomba, I would be most grateful if you would call me Janet. We are colleagues; it is only proper that you do so.”

He paused and seemed to draw himself more upright, if that were possible. “You honor me, Janet. Thank you. If you will permit me, I have another suggestion. One of my men, Benjamin Sata, grew up in Lusaka and has relatives there. He is both intelligent and an excellent bushman. Would it not be a good idea to send him on ahead to spend a few days with his family? We may need some local assistance there. It will be easier for him to help us if he has been with his family for a short while before we task him with any requirements. As an intelligence officer and planner, miss — I mean, Janet, you understand the value of local knowledge and information.”

Brisco considered this. Tomba was one thing, but one of his men going home, a man who was probably known to those in his extended family as a soldier of fortune…As if reading her mind, he continued.

“Benjamin will be discreet about our work and his role in this venture. His father is old, and it is quite natural for a son to visit to pay his respects. I have trusted him with my life many times, and he has never failed me. It could prove quite valuable to have someone who knows Lusaka and has contacts there.”

“Again, Tomba, that makes perfect sense. Let me speak with Akheem about it.”

Judy’s eyes lit up when she saw him. “Steven, thank you for meeting us here at the gate. I’d like you to meet Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt, from the CDC. Elvis, this is Steven Fagan. He will be coordinating this investigation.”

“Dr. Rosenblatt, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Steven said, extending his hand. If he thought Rosenblatt’s outfit a little strange, he gave not the slightest indication. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.” He chatted amiably as he led them from the gate down the concourse, but he could sense Rosenblatt’s growing anxiety. Steven Fagan was nothing if not a careful observer. Just before they reached the main terminal, he stopped and turned to Rosenblatt. “Doctor, I know you have a thousand questions. No doubt you are wondering just who we are and what we do. One of my jobs is to see that all your questions are answered fully and to your complete satisfaction. We have booked a room for you at the Hyatt, just a few minutes from the airport. I’ve arranged for your bags to be sent over there. There’s a car waiting to take us straight to the hotel. I hope that will be acceptable? And before I forget,” he added politely, “there are any number of people who appreciate your traveling here to help us with this matter. It is the opinion of our government that we may be facing a dangerous and potentially devastating situation. It is imperative that we learn more about it.”

Rosenblatt wondered just who this agreeable, soft-spoken man was, but he was content to wait until he got settled in and received a proper briefing. Fagan put Judy Burks and Rosenblatt in the back of the sedan and climbed in the front with the driver for the short stint to the hotel. He tipped the bellman and told him to have Dr. Rosenblatt’s bags sent up to his room. The room turned out to be a four-room luxury apartment with a small kitchen, a generous sitting room, and two bedroom-bath suites bracketing the sitting room. Steven held the door for Judy and Rosenblatt, and followed them in. Inside the main sitting room, a tall man in blue jeans and a bright aloha shirt was mixing himself a drink at the bar.

“You must be the good Dr. Rosenblatt,” he said, crossing the room to offer his hand. “I’m Garrett Walker. I was just fixing myself a scotch. Can I build one for you?”

Rosenblatt took in the room, the bar, and the Magnum P.I. look-alike with a drink in his hand. “Only if it’s a single malt,” he replied, taking Garrett’s hand.

“Is there any other kind?” Garrett said, turning back to the bar. “Judy? Steven?”

Judy Burks opted for a rum and tonic, while Steven deferred. Garrett handed out the drinks and dropped into one of the easy chairs that, along with a long high-backed divan, surrounded an ornate mahogany cocktail table. He hung a leg over the arm of the chair and waited for Steven to begin.

Fagan suddenly rose and retrieved a Perrier water, then took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa from Rosenblatt. He twisted off the bottle cap and poured a measure into a short crystal glass. Just what to tell Rosenblatt and what to withhold had been on Steven’s mind, but he wanted to meet the man before he came to a decision. There was a great deal the doctor didn’t need to know, but there was risk in withholding information from a key player in the operation, someone who might well be risking his life in the venture. Which secrets to share and which to withhold fell within his discretion and his expertise.

“Doctor,” he began, “I think the best way to do this is to tell you a little about the organization that Garrett and I work for. We are a privately funded organization that is sometimes called in to deal with problems that our government cannot address, or where the presence of the U.S. government would either be counterproductive or inappropriate. When I said we are privately funded, I meant just that; we are not a government contractor, nor do we function with any kind of a retainer. Miss Burks is not formally part of our organization. She serves as liaison officer to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the intelligence community, and the executive branch as needed. I should also like to point out that only select, key people in the government even know of us and what we do. The President of the United States is one of those people. Neither the Surgeon General nor the head of the CDC are cleared to know about what we do, or that we even exist, for that matter.” Steven went on to outline IFOR’s ability to project limited force and their semi-official, deniable relationship with the U.S. government.

“So,” Rosenblatt interrupted, “you might say that you are kind of the opposite of the Peace Corps. Instead of sending in people to do good things, you send in people to do difficult and bad things — Mission Impossible stuff.”

Steven’s reaction was one of thoughtful consideration. “I never really looked at it quite like that, but perhaps your assessment is not entirely inaccurate. Maybe the current example will help to clear things up a bit. We believe, from a variety of sources, that a group or organization is developing and testing biological agents in a remote part of Zimbabwe. The facility where this is taking place, a small resort hotel, seems to be guarded by a mercenary force that exerts control in the immediate area and has been terrorizing the local population.” He watched Rosenblatt carefully as he spoke. “We even suspect they are doing human testing.” Steven paused to refill his glass. “We have trained a team of Africans who we plan to put into the area to observe the facility and, if needed, to neutralize it.”

“Let me guess,” Rosenblatt said, “these are also mercenary soldiers, only they are our mercenary soldiers, right?”

“I can see that you’re grasping the concept,” Steven said mildly. “Tell me, Doctor, have you heard of a man by the name of François Meno?”

“François Meno! You don’t mean the French microbiologist!”

“The very one, I’m afraid,” Steven replied. “He, along with the two scientists Miss Burks spoke about with you a few days ago, is nowhere to be found. As I am sure you know, he was dismissed from the Pasteur Institute several months ago over a dispute with Institute policy. Due to the controls now in place to monitor certain airports, we know that Professor Meno flew from Paris to Kuwait City and then on to Djibouti. From there he must have left under a different identity, but a number of flights connect from Djibouti to central and southern Africa. We don’t know where he is, but it seems he may be headed toward our mysterious hotel.” As he spoke, Steven watched Rosenblatt carefully. “Dr. Rosenblatt,” he continued, “I’d be preaching to the choir if I were to tell you the level of havoc these men could create if they are working in concert in the same rogue laboratory. Modern genetic research has put some frightening capabilities in the hands of those who know how to modify and manipulate genetic material. Of course, they could simply be off working on cures for diseases using nonstandard methods and human testing. But we don’t think so. We must know what is going on at that facility, and we need to do it quickly. You know better than anyone what these people are capable of.” Again, Steven paused to measure his man. “If there is even a small chance that these people are trying to bring about the unthinkable, we simply have to do something about it.”

Steven Fagan was very skilled in dealing with others. He knew when to speak as well as when to be silent. Now he held Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt in an open, patient gaze. On the other side of the table, Garrett watched all this play out. He had seen Steven Fagan perform this velvet rope-a-dope with others; he exuded warmth, trust, and sincerity with great skill.

Slowly, Rosenblatt nodded his assent. “So what can I do to help?”

Fagan did not miss a beat. “Doctor, as I mentioned, we are planning to put a small force into the area to find out what is going on. It would seem that we have a military problem as well as a potential biological problem. We need your advice in planning an assault on a biological complex and what precautions our men need to take. And should we be able to secure this facility, we will need someone with your experience and training to evaluate the situation.”

Rosenblatt nodded again. He had suspected it would be something like this; in fact, he had long known it was only a matter of time before the proliferation of genetic research took an evil turn. When Agent Burks called and the head of the CDC told him his services had been requested by “senior government officials,” he knew this might indeed be what many at the CDC feared most — a genetically engineered biological weapon in the making. Rosenblatt knew, as few people did, the difference between a bioterror weapon and a biological weapon. A terror weapon was designed to terrorize. These were things like anthrax or ricin. Biological weapons, ones that were now possible through genetic engineering, were designed to cause mass depopulation. But under this sober analysis, the prospect still excited him. They were after bugs, perhaps some new and rare bug he had never seen before.

“It seems my services are needed, and I’ll help in any way that I can.”

Before he could continue, Steven held out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor, thank you.” Rosenblatt hesitated, then took his hand. “Speaking for all of us, I can say that we all feel an element of relief with your particular expertise aboard.”

“Well, thank you for your confidence; I’ll do my best.” He paused, feeling a little flustered at this kind of attention. “I do have a few questions, however.”

“Of course,” Steven replied. “Please go ahead.”

“If it is as you describe, there could be a catastrophic stew being brewed at the place. And given that this facility is well guarded, it would seem more appropriate that a battalion of Army Rangers should be storming the place rather than some private army. Why you? Why us?”

Steven smiled. “This is a remote facility in very rough country. Rangers, good as they are, are still light infantry, and their presence would signal an American invasion of a black African nation. It would be difficult for Rangers, or Special Forces or SEALs for that matter, to achieve the needed surprise. We believe that surprise may be essential in safely attacking this facility so that we can investigate what is actually going on there.”

“What makes your army better than Army Rangers or Special Forces?” Rosenblatt asked.

“Our group is not like any in the U.S. military. They are all African bush fighters — seasoned professionals who won’t stand out in the way an American military unit would. That’s why we will be looking into this, not the U.S. Army.”

Rosenblatt considered this. “Even so, breaking into any laboratory that is experimenting with biological material is a hazardous business, let alone one in some remote location. I’m not a military guy, but I can help with the evaluation. I gave Judy a list of equipment needed if I have to do a field analysis as well as necessary protective clothing. There would be little that I can do without them.”

“We have a rather efficient procurement organization. The items you requested are on pallets at a transshipment facility at the airport, ready to be airlifted to Africa.”

“All of them?” Rosenblatt questioned in disbelief. Had he submitted that kind of a requisition at the CDC, it would have taken the better part of a year for the paperwork to be processed, bids let, and the order filled. He had asked for the best and the smallest, most portable test equipment available, which meant the most expensive. He didn’t expect to get even half his list.

“Doctor,” Steven replied, “we provide our small force with the best weapons, communications, and combat support equipment in the world. Your work is no less important, so we certainly would do no less for you. It’s been a long day, but first thing tomorrow morning, we’d like you to inspect and inventory the equipment and make sure it is satisfactory. And should you determine that more is needed, you only need to ask.”

“That’s — that’s great. I can’t wait to see it. So then what?”

“Along with the rest of our people, we will need to get you into the area as quickly and as quietly as possible. Garrett, maybe you should explain what we have in mind.”

Garrett lifted a shiny aluminum case from the side of the sofa, laid it on the table, and lifted the lid for Rosenblatt’s inspection. “Tell me, Elvis, do you like animals — lions, tigers, rhinos — that sort of thing?”

Rosenblatt grinned. “Are there any other kind?”

“Wonderful,” Garrett replied, taking out a Nikon camera body and snapping a 400mm telephoto lens into place. “You and I are going on safari.”

Later that evening, Janet Brisco was at her desk, deep into a recent set of satellite images. There were two mugs on her desk, one tea and one coffee, and an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Now that most of the logistic flow for the deployment of her small force was in place, she was free to begin to build a target package and think about the tactical problems that they might face. There was a soft rap on her door.

“Come — Oh, hello, Tomba. Please come in.”

He crossed the room with several noiseless strides. “I will be leaving in a few hours. As you know, Nkosi Akheem will be going with me. There will be a private jet to take us to Nairobi, where we are booked on a commercial flight to Johannesburg.”

At first Janet had questioned the necessity of having AKR accompany Tomba, but she had to admit that he could move in African cities as well as Tomba, and should there be a need for contact or assistance from the U.S. embassy in Pretoria, then his presence would be useful. It had been Steven’s call, and on reflection, she realized it was a good one.

“My men are ready to travel in all respects; just give them the word when the time comes. I am here for two reasons. One is to thank you for all you are doing as we prepare for this mission. The other is to ask if you will join my men and myself for a few minutes. It is customary for African warriors to share a drink before we depart our base camp for an operation. I know you are very busy, but it would mean a great deal to my men — and to me.”

She was on her feet without thinking. “I would be honored, Tomba.”

They were seated around a small fire, dressed in T-shirts, long trousers, and sandals. All rose as she and Tomba approached.

“Nkosi Janet has come to join us for a drink. Please make her welcome at our fire.” There was a murmur of agreement among the men around the circle. Suddenly, AKR was at her side, handing her a wooden cup. He inclined his head in a show of respect, and he smiled warmly.

“I see you, Nkosi Janet,” he said as he solemnly raised his own cup and took a drink.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” she said under her breath.

“Enjoy the moment,” he replied quietly. “This is an honor seldom given to one outside their number.”

He gently guided her through an opening in the circle and paused in front of one of the men.

“I see you, miss,” he said, raising his cup to drink.

“And I see you,” she replied and drank. The brew was strong, bitter, and not altogether unpleasant.

With AKR’s guidance they made their way around the circle and back to Tomba.

“I see you, Nkosi Janet.”

“I see you, Tomba.” She paused to swallow before continuing. “I, uh, thank you for this honor, Tomba. This is, well, it is very special.”

He simply smiled and motioned for her to take a seat on one of the benches. They talked for the better part of an hour and passed around a wooden pitcher of the rich African brew. Then Tomba and AKR rose and quietly withdrew. Akheem gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as he passed behind her. After what seemed to be another hour, she listened as the Africans talked quietly about wars past and the upcoming mission in Zimbabwe. Occasionally they spoke in a dialect she did not understand, but for the most part they conversed in English. Finally she rose, a little unsteady on her feet, and thanked them for including her. Mohammed Senagal seemed to materialize at her side. He escorted her from the circle and thanked her for taking time to be with them. On her way back to the operations building she passed close to Bijay, who was watching from the shadows.

“Good evening, Miss Brisco, or should I say Nkosi Janet?”

“Have you been here long?”

“A while,” he replied, looking back at the men by the fire. “They are truly fine men, Miss Brisco, and they have done you a great honor. Take good care of them.”

“I will, Bijay. Good night.”

“Good night, miss.”

Back in her office, she found her way to her desk. Dodds LeMaster looked up from his computer to watch her cross the room.

“You all right?” Bill Owens stopped sorting documents to also look up.

She nodded. “Did I ever thank you for helping with the training of Tomba and his men?”

LeMaster cast a curious glance at Owens.

“As a matter of fact, Janet, you didn’t.”

“Well, I am now. Thank you both.” She took a deep breath. “And now Dodds, I would be in your debt if you would get me a strong cup of coffee and three aspirins. And then I want to go over these latest satellite images with you.”