Melissa shrugged. “The stuff they asked seemed … harmless. And for all I know, they might have been the FBI. If I didn’t cooperate—”
“Didn’t you ask them?”
“Ask them what?”
“Who they were.”
A dull roar carried across the wind. Archie thought it might be another truck, but it was that motor boat, the odd one, skipping across the breakers, coming closer to shore.
“They didn’t say exactly. I just kind of figured—”
“Did they pay you?”
“Say what?” Melissa sat up abruptly, grimacing and crossing her arms, as if she had been insulted.
Arcadio came down the path, trundling Melissa’s suitcase and carrying Archie’s belongings in a plastic sack along with a new briefcase, this time blue and metallic.
“The boat is come.”
“What boat?”
“Your boat. It is come.”
The engine of the motor boat cut off and the long, sleek craft drifted in close to the beach, rolling with the breakers. A man tossed an anchor out of the wheel pit.
Archie just stared at Arcadio.
“You must go now,” said Arcadio. “The boat cannot stay. People will see.”
The man in the boat whistled to them long and loud.
Carter hustled up to the gate and pointed at the waiting boat. “You guys better get a move on. Here those sirens? Those are police cars screaming down the marshes from Bata to check things out. Some fisherman with a mobile must have tipped them off. Coast Guard will be out patrolling before you know it.”
“But where are we going? I need a shower.”
“You can shower in Ureca.”
“Where?”
“Ureca. Next stop on your grand tour. Don’t worry. It’s all in that briefcase.”
Melissa shook out her towel and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Come on Arch. Let’s go.” She waded out towards the boat.
“Pleasure working with you Mr. Black,” said Carter. “Good luck, you two!”
Chapter 22: Ureca
The cigarette boat was a smuggler’s dream, long and sleek with twin powerful turbines and planar surfaces designed to skip atop the water like a hydrofoil. It looked more like a spaceship than a watercraft.
Archie waded up to his waist into the surf. The water was bathtub warm, but he should have taken off his leather shoes first. They were likely ruined. What was he thinking? All this rushing about with those sirens going off and his heart pounding made it hard to think straight.
A stocky, mustachioed man with a fringe of gray around his ears threw a rope ladder over the side of his craft and helped Melissa aboard with one hand bracing the small of her back and the other firmly around her wrist. She nearly jiggled out of her bikini as she landed on the deck.
“Beach blanket bingo. Oo-rah!” said the boatman.
Arcadio had waded out with them, balancing Melissa’s suitcase atop his head. Archie hoisted the briefcase over the side and started up the ladder with difficulty as the boat lurched and bobbed in the heavy swells.
“Fucking A! Agent Black. The … Agent Black. Man, I’ve been dying to meet you. Some Navy Seals in Djibouti told me all about your escapades, you rascal.”
“Hi,” said Archie, meekly as he lowered himself with care onto the heaving deck.
“Name’s Curt. Curtis Hodges.” He thrust out a calloused right hand missing the tips of his ring finger and pinky.
Archie shook it, conscious of his own scar-free, baby soft fingers. “Good to meet you.”
“Well, off we go. Can’t afford to stick around with the dang equatos on our ass.” He rushed to the wheel. The engines growled to life, rumbling the boards underfoot. “We’re lucky. Today the choppers are grounded.”
“Choppers?”
“El Presidente’s pride and joy—a pair of Russian Hind helicopter gunships. They follow him around like puppies wherever he goes. He’s off in Mongomo at the moment. Far end of the country. He’s actually got five of them birds, but the others are off-line, getting worked on in Bata and Malabo. Never seen ‘em up and running all at once. The upside is we got nothing to bother us by air. By sea, it’s no contest. This baby’ll outrun and outmaneuver anything they got.”
“But why would they? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“He-heh. Good one, Black.” He hauled up the anchor as Arcadio gave the bow a shove to orient it out towards the open sea.
“Bye Arcadio! Thanks for everything,” said Melissa, blowing a kiss to him. “Bye everyone!” She waved to Carter and the guard at the gate. “Aw, I wish we could have stayed longer. I liked it here.”
The alarms pealed louder from the Bata road. Two vehicles with red and blue lights surged off the road and onto the beach, fishtailing in the dunes.
“Hang on!”
Mr. Hodges threw the turbines into gear. The bow leapt out of the water and they exploded out towards the reef. Archie tumbled and rolled against the deck, knocking his head against a storage bin.
“I told you to hang on. This baby’s got quite the kick.”
***
The shoreline dwindled to a faint and rumpled line on the horizon. In the other direction the tops of oil platforms began to pop up like little Eiffel Towers in the Gulf of Guinea.
Archie leaned against the side, hair flapping wildly as the cigarette boat skipped like a flat stone over the tops of the waves. Melissa stood next to Mr. Hodges, making small talk, her towel flying straight back like a superhero’s cape.
Hodges kept glancing back at Archie. “You’re looking a little green, Black. You’re not fixing to hurl, are you?”
“Nah. I’m just beat.”
“There’re two cabins in the bow if you need to crash. It’s gonna be a few hours before we reach Ureca.”
“Yeah. Maybe I will.”
“Watch your head, they’re kind of low. Like pup tents, really.”
Archie grabbed the briefcase and crawled through a hatch that reminded him of a doggie door. The frame of the boat thrummed with the vibrations of the muscular turbines. That was fine. He could use the massage.
The cabin was fitted with a full-sized poly-fill futon and a pair of waterproof pillows. He flicked on an LED lamp, made himself comfortable and flipped open the briefcase.
No weapons this time, but there was something new embedded in the foam. It looked like a Smartphone, but more angular and bulkier than most he had seen. It carried no model name or corporate logos, no identifying marks whatsoever. He left it stuck in the foam, afraid to turn it on lest someone call him.
He shuffled through the papers, finding yet another black card.
“NOTIFY! & VERIFY!” it shouted in glossy capitals. “tR8bL56q.” He stuck the card in his shirt pocket with the others.
The papers included the usual cryptic background material, but this time there were names and photos and places—another target. He picked up a photo smiling, nappy haired mulatto man with Portuguese features. The guy looked familiar. He turned the picture around and found a printed caption: Fernando Armando Carlos de Marazul, President of STP.
“Holy shit!”
“What’s wrong?” said Melissa, poking her head into the cabin.
“Look at this guy. I know him.” He handed her the photo as she clambered in and knelt on the mattress.
“You know … a President?”
“Well, not personally. I was part of a group that wrote a successful Global Fund proposal. The President brought us in during an M&E visit to thank us. He’s a real down to earth guy. Does his own farming. He was really pleasant to talk to.”
“Why would they want to kill him?”
“It’s … not clear. Probably for the same reason as those other guys. He’s in the way of something they want to do.” He thumbed through the paperwork. “Something tells me it has nothing to do with mangroves this time.”
Melissa pulled a folder out and started reading. “Looks like it has something to do with oil.”
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“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Archie … I’m trying to help.” She glared for several long seconds before turning back to the papers. “Lots of stuff here about contracts with Nigerians. Here’s something about a rigged bid for an exploration block, whatever that means.”
“Let me see that.” Archie crawled closer and peered over her shoulder. “Huh. They’re accusing him of putting up for bid zones he knew to be dry and withholding the juicy ones, the ones that have a chance to be commercially productive.”
“Here’s a speech he gave. Translated. He says something about how oil wealth can be a curse for a country and how he wants to avoid the ‘petroleum disease.’ Not taking the path that ruined Gabon and Angola. He wants to save São Tomé’s oil for the future, when not only it’ll be worth more, but they can handle it better.”
“Weird. Who thinks that way?” said Archie.
“De Marazul, obviously. That’s why they want him out of there.”
“So … this one’s gonna be easy,” said Melissa.
“How so?”
“You already know the guy.”
“Oh, I doubt he’d remember me. I was just another pale face in a crowd of consultants.”
“But I’m sure he remembers the grant you got for him. That should be your handle. So … you get an audience … a meeting … with him, or someone close to him, pass on the bad news and we can fly away to safety. A big cheese like him should be able to raise a public stink on his own.”
“Maybe so,” said Archie. Somehow, he didn’t think it was going to be as easy as she made it.
“Can you get to Paris from São Tomé?”
“Not directly. Looks like we’ll have to fly through Lisbon.”
“Oh wow! I hear that’s a wonderful city. Have you been there before?”
***
Archie dozed off, lulled by the hum and thrum of the turbines. When he awoke, he found Melissa snoring beside him. He peeked out a little porthole, hoping to see land, but finding only choppy seas toothed with foam. The cloud cover had increased, and the sky looked like it was fixing to burst.
He didn’t feel like going outside so he reached into the briefcase and retrieved the one folder he hadn’t yet looked at. He was intrigued to find that this one contained some of Black’s personal mail. All of it had been opened and looked like Swiss cheese. Parts had been redacted with an X-Acto knife to protect the identity of Black’s family and acquaintances, probably more to protect Black than to protect them.
It was clear that one note came from his mom and another from a lover.
“Hi Sweetie,
Not much new here. The woodchucks are trashing Dad’s garden as usual. He wishes you were here to shoot them. He doesn’t have the stomach to do it himself. Heck, if I had a gun I’d do it for him. Those bastards are even going after the tomatoes.
Aunt _______ came to visit the other day with her new Yorkie pup. That little creature was adorable. We miss you. I hope you can find a way to stop by the next time you’re in _______ even if it’s for a couple of hours. It’d be nice to see you.
I know it’s a hard thing that you’re doing and you made the right decision to get out. I never realized that this altered identity thing was going to stick to you for life. Kind of makes it hard to have a normal family life. I wish you had never gotten involved with this outfit. I know it pays well, but it can’t be good for your psyche, not to mention your karma.
Well, take care. They told me to keep these letters short. Just know that Dad and I think about you every day. I asked him to write his own little note, but you know how he is.
Love, Mom.
Archie paused to marvel at how much more human this beast of a man’s life seemed than Archie’s own life. How many months had it been since he had been in touch with his own mother? She was probably mourning his death, and he had made no attempt to reach out to her, or to anyone else in his family, other than his estranged brother.
How had he gotten so withdrawn from the human race? Was it all that travel? Was it the ridicule he got from his wealthy cousins with their Wall Street and Main Street occupations?
For a man who’s own occupation supposedly focused on saving as many human lives as possible, he had become quite the automaton—a bed net shilling robot. Maybe he was better off being Black.
He picked up another letter, this one scented heavily with perfume.
Darling _______,
They promised they would get this note to you but I don’t believe them. I am writing on faith alone. You promised we would meet when you returned to _______ but you never said where. You know where to find me, though, don’t you? I won’t budge until I see you again.
I still have the shirt that you left behind. It smells of you. I sleep with it every night. Call me silly for getting so infatuated with a man over the course of a single weekend. It’s never happened before to me. I’ve abandoned my boyfriend. There was no point in seeing him anymore after being with you.
You said I was special and it made me feel special, as if the magic of your voice could make it so. I hope you really believe that, enough to need seeing me again as much as I need to see you. Those others can’t possibly give you what I have to give you. And you know it don’t you? I can’t wait to remind you in person.
Archie put the letter down. He couldn’t imagine a woman penning such a letter to him. What did this guy Black have that he didn’t, besides a pulse?
The snoring ceased. Melissa rolled over. “Are we there yet?” she said, groggily.
“Not quite.”
She lifted herself to a sitting position and yawned.
“Whatcha reading, Arch?”
***
They reached Ureca just before nightfall. The shoreline looked like a scene from an old Tarzan movie, with thick forest growing right up to the black sand beach and backed by a huge volcanic caldera peeking out of the mists like some lost valley of the dinosaurs.
What passed for a village was just a sparse array of wood and stucco structures tucked into some groves of oil palms. Mr. Hodges pointed the boat towards a cluster of tile-roofed cottages at the head of a narrow inlet cut by a stream that tumbled out of a jungle gorge. He cut the engines just past the surf line and drifted into a crude dock of logs lashed together with sisal twine.
“We’ll spend the night here and head for Príncipe in the morning. We’ll be island-hopping from here on out. Be a couple days before we hit São Tomé.”
“But I thought this was São Tomé,” said Melissa.
“This is Bioko, hon. Big difference. The only things they got in common are dead volcanoes and expensive beer.”
“Two days, huh? Why didn’t we fly?” said Archie.
“Fewer traces,” said Mr. Hodges, as hooking up a fuel line and pumping by hand. “Cleaner insertion, extraction. We get stopped at sea, remember, this is a fishing charter.”
“Pfft,” said Archie. “Some fishing boat.”
“Don’t laugh. I do okay. I’ve landed sharks on this baby.”
A tendril of smoke curled up from an open cook shack and a young man stepped out to fetch another load of load. “Oh crap,” said Mr. Hodges. “Moises? What the hell are you doing here? Where the fuck is Natalia?”
“She is at Moka, like you want.”
“No, you friggin’ idiot! I wanted her here. What’s the point of having my best cook in Moka when I’m not there to eat her stuff?”
“No worries. My cooking is getting better,” said Moises.
“Yeah, well, don’t fool yourself kid.”
“No. It is good. You will like. Natalia show me this one. Is stew.”
“What kind?”
“Fish and monkey.”
“Did he … did he say monkey?” Melissa’s lips pursed, eyebrows arching.
Chapter 23: São Tomé
The Ethiopian Airlines flight had shuttled White across the continent with an alacrity that would have been unheard of only five years ago. Back then, the crossi
ng still had to be done in a series of questionable hops on battered, old Soviet airliners, with days of delay in between legs. The only other option had been to ping-pong up to Europe on a major carrier.
Thus, the same day arrival in Douala had startled him. He had arrived with plenty of daylight to charter a boat plane for the next morning and recover his weapons cache from an old friend. After a mirthful evening of palm wine and brochettes he caught a couple hours sleep on a straw-filled sack. Before the roosters could crow, his friend had rushed him to the docks still half-asleep and after a dreamlike journey through the perpetual equatorial mists, they had put down at a lovely cove called Praia das Sete Ondas, just south of São Tomé town. He kept the pilot on retainer and on call, in case he needed to get away in a hurry.
Now here he was in place, blades sharpened, guns cleaned and Black had yet to enter the country. From all indications, White could have handled the job and skedaddled before Black had even cleared customs. If only he could convince the consortium to cede the contract to him. But such was the fate of a man on a shit list. He had to hurry up and wait for something that might never happen.
With a sack of Sagres cerveja between his knees, White toured São Tomé town from the back of a three-wheeled jitney. He felt like a warrior lord in his chariot, master of all he surveyed.
This was a lazy place, full of sleepy dogs, and idle people, like a page ripped out of an old National Geographic. The island was a back eddy in the stream of ages that the times had not yet overtaken.
But sleepy natives were good news. It meant that the security was likely naïve to threats and slow to respond. It was an island thing, this laxness. Like those flightless birds, dodos and whatnot, that evolve in places too small to harbor predators. A place like this had no experience with terrorists and corporate assassins.
The pink stucco presidential palace had the usual array of glaring soldiers in faded, far from uniform uniforms brandishing AK-47s in the open, as if that could deter a man like White. They had stuck concrete blocks here and there to impede traffic and erected a half-assed bunker with an occluded kill zone that just asked to be taken out with a grenade. The security felt 1970s retro, pre-9/11 for sure. A competent mercenary force could crack it with a mere squad.
And some had. The country had experienced two coups since 2003, yet de Marazul, the man in charge then, still held power. How was that possible? Well, the first coup happened while he was away on business in Gabon. The defense minister, upset that his interests were being neglected in the ongoing oil negotiations, had simply declared himself leader. A single phone call and some tender reassurance was all it took for de Marazul to regain power.