He called his workplace next. By seven, most folks would already be in. Early birds were common at NGOs centered on sub-Saharan Africa, given that most of their business was conducted in time zones at least four hours later. Not to mention, hitting the road by six helped avoid the worst of the DC-area traffic.
“Health Ventures International. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi Beth. Archie here. Any chance Michael’s in yet?”
“Oh, Dr. Parsons! HR’s been trying to reach you.”
“HR? Really?”
“Hang on. I’ll forward you.”
Archie sighed. He really didn’t want to talk to HR about some quirk in his 401K withholding or whatever. He needed to speak to Michael Boone, his program manager, to let him know that Global Change for Children would not be receiving their cash allotment anytime soon.
“Alan Tibbs here.”
“Alan, this is Archie. I’m not sure why they connected me with you.”
“Oh my gosh, are you in Liberia already?”
“Um, as a matter of fact, I am.”
“Well, congratulations! I wish we could have reached you before you traveled. It would have spared you a trip.”
“Huh? Congratulations for what?”
“That position you applied for at PMI. You got it!”
“What? I didn’t … I never ….”
“You didn’t expect it? I don’t see why not. You’re perfect for the job. I mean, talk about qualifications.”
“Alan. I never applied.” In fact, he would never have gone near an opening with the President’s Malaria Initiative. It was a USAID-affiliated outfit stuffed with political baggage out the gills, and rumored to be infested with spooks.
“Whoa! That’s pretty aggressive recruiting,” said Alan. “I don’t see how you could say no. It’s a GS-14 with a 30% post differential plus all the usual perks and allowances including POV shipment. We’ll sure miss you here.”
“Hang on, Alan. I’m not leaving HVI just yet.”
“Oh really? But I thought you had requested termination. In fact, I’m looking right here at a termination order, effective immediately. They don’t even need you follow through on your current mission. They’ll send someone else to take up the slack. Hey, if you want, I can have someone at the travel office book a flight out for you. There might be seats out tonight on KLM.”
“I can’t fly, Alan. My passport was stolen.”
“Oh. That sucks. Well, the embassy can get a new one pretty quick. You’ll have to go there in person to re-apply, so they can verify your identity. But we’ll keep you on the books till you’re safely home. That way you get the benefit of our insurance.”
“Listen, I need to speak to Michael. I think there’s been a mistake.”
“It’s going to be hard to reach him today. He’s in DC for a workshop. He’s not taking calls.
“Just … great.”
“Oh, and about that cash you’re carrying? The accounting folks would like you to deliver it to a contact at the US Embassy in Monrovia, a man by the name of John Smart.”
“How interesting. All roads lead to the embassy.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. It’s just … I’m finding this all very curious.”
***
The taxi was all gassed up with no place to go. Archie handed James another hundred dollar bill. “Pay for the gas and keep the change.”
James grinned. “Every time you pay for something it is one hundred dollars.”
“You’re a good driver, James. Stick around and I’ll keep it coming.”
“No problem. I stay.”
“So, do you like driving taxis?”
“Yes. It is good. With customers like you. Very good.”
“Well, it looks like you might have some competition soon.”
“How so?”
“I just lost my job.”
“Oh! I am so sorry to hear this.”
“It’s okay. Someone apparently gave a new job. One I never asked for, never wanted and actually there’s no way in hell I’m going to take it.”
“Oh? You no want to work?”
“Not for them,” said Archie, grimacing as he uncrossed his sore left leg. He might need to find some ice to help get the swelling to go down in his knee.
Maybe there was a way to get that passport back without dealing with those squirrely folks at the embassy. The guy at Xtraktiv seemed straightforward enough. He had responded like any subcontractor would, protective of his workers, skeptical of unfounded accusations and savvy to the law enforcement challenges of a rebuilding country.
Archie had played it wrong, mentioning the mugging. He should have known better. Direct confrontation was not the way to get things done in West Africa, not even with expatriates. Here, all manner of business and crimes were conducted with a smile. Maybe he could start from scratch, in person, and do it right this time.
There was a way out of this predicament that required only a little care and patience. He had done this dance before. If he could just find who took his documents they could both pretend that the passport had been simply misplaced and he could reward the finder with some of the money he was carrying for GCC.
“James? Let’s head back to Monrovia. I want to see about getting my passport back.”
“You want to go to embassy?”
“No. There’s this company I want to go see. They’re called Xtraktiv, with an X?” said Archie. “Near the clothing markets.”
“Oh, yes! I know these people,” said James, tucking his chin firmly as he made a U-turn through a dodging crowd. “They are the mercenaries.”
“Say what?”
Chapter 5: Solicitor
James’ taxi weaved around potholes in the dusty alley, passing shops bursting with bolts of bright Chinese fabric, rubber boots and aluminum cookware. Vendors swamped the cab, hawking bags of cut pineapple, chewing gum and small packets of facial tissue.
Archie’s heart accelerated as they passed the ditch where the brick had taken him down. The brick still lay where it had landed. He realized how lucky he had been. If it had struck him just a little more squarely, he might have suffered a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain. He might also be dead.
Second thoughts plagued him. He didn’t quite believe James that this company was a front for a mercenary force. Why then, would they need all of those bulldozers and dump trucks? But what if James was right? Mercenaries were not something to be messed with. They would not take kindly to his snooping around their operations.
Yet, he felt compelled to take the risk. What harm would there be posing as a bed net sales rep? Was anything less threatening than a mosquito net? The worst that could happen was that they would turn him away.
But if they let him in, once inside he could look for the man who mugged him. They hadn’t sounded too interested in turning in the guy, but maybe a discreet one-on-one conversation and a few Benjamin Franklin’s would be all that was necessary to coax his passport back into his possession. It seemed the quickest way to resolve his problem without having to go through the embassy.
They came to a larger road and Archie spotted another building he recognized from the other night—the shell of a multistory structure that had been taken over by squatters. It had either been damaged in the war or never completed. It had no interior walls. The living quarters were separated by with tarps and reed mats.
“Turn here,” he said.
They crept down a rutted lane until they reached the fenced compound where the man who had taken his passport had taken refuge.
“Okay, this is the place. Stop right here and pop the trunk.”
Archie put on his floppy hat and sunglasses—the best he could do for a disguise. He went around to the open trunk and fished through his suitcase for a bed net sample and a stack of brochures.
“Park around the other side and wait for me, there. Okay?”
James nodded.
Archie worked his way
around the periphery of the fence to what looked like the main entrance. In the shade of a booth, a guard with a billy club sat atop a stack of crates. Three bony dogs lay sprawled in the dirt at his feet.
Archie rapped his knuckles on the gate. The dogs exploded into action, attacking the gate, snarling and barking.
“Yes? Who are you?” said the guard. “What do you want?”
“I sell bed nets.”
“You have appointment?”
“Yes.”
“With whom?”
Archie’s stomach sank. His head was still fuzzy from the mugging. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had suffered a concussion. Even if it was a mild one, it impaired him. He was in no condition to improvise his way through this mess. It had been a mistake to come here.
“I … uh … don’t remember. I just spoke to him on the phone. He’s in logistics or supply.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re already late. They’re going to be very upset if you don’t let me in to see him.”
“What is your name?”
He glanced at the business card attached to the bed net sample he carried. “It’s … um … Joseph.” He peeled the card free and picked off the bits of scotch tape still clinging to it. “Joseph Cunningham of Vestergaard Frandsen.”
“Wait, please.” The man took out his phone. “Ah yes, good afternoon, Mr. Dieter, I have a Joseph Cunningham here to see you. He is a salesman. Yes. He has the mosquito nets. Oh? Okay. Yes.” The guard looked up. “There is no appointment, but you should come.”
The guard scolded the dogs to stop their yapping and pointed a remote control box at the fence post. Servo motors whirred and the gate clicked open, to reveal three restless mongrels sitting on their haunches and growling.
Archie entered the compound, and the gate clicked shut behind him. There was a ton of activity going on around the construction vehicles. Two white men with shaved heads were loading a pair of trucks with cases of MREs, and plastic-wrapped bundles of water bottles. They wore cargo shorts and baggy shirts. Archie saw no sign of his mugger.
The guard led him to a door opening into a glassed-in foyer embedded in a tall smooth wall of concrete block. With a kerchunk, safety bolts slammed into sockets in the jamb. His heart started to pound.
In a small waiting room on the other side, a paunchy, graying man with a thick mustache waited with his hands in his pockets and puzzlement in his eyes. The interior was as chilly as a meat locker. Archie’s sunglasses immediately fogged. Archie adjusted his floppy hat to conceal his head wound.
Two hard plastic benches lined the wall across from a glassed in reception area, not unlike a bank or a Forex bureau. Thumb-worn trade publications were scattered across a coffee table. Most dealt with earth moving and mining, with the odd bass fishing and gun collector’s magazine stuck in the bunch.
“Who the fuck are you?” said the man as Archie passed through the inner door. He had a strong Afrikaaner accent. This was not the person he had spoken to over the phone.
“I’m sorry. I thought a meeting had been arranged. My company was supposed to have set something up.”
“So you’re a salesman?”
Archie nodded and stuck out his hand. “Joseph Cunningham. I sell insecticide-treated bed nets for … Vestergaard.”
“Dieter Martz,” said the man, who gave his hand a brusque shake. He had yet to smile. “I have to say, we’re not used to solicitors here. It’s such a curiosity I had to let Alfred show you in.”
“I really apologize for the cold call. It’s not at all how I like to conduct business. But in a place like Monrovia, sometimes … it’s the only way to make contact with potential clients. Well to keep it short, we at … uh … at uh ….” He glanced down at the business card. “Vestergaard. We, as you may know, manufacture the gold standard of long-lasting insecticidal nets. In a field like yours, I assume your workers spend quite a bit of time in the field, in lodgings that expose them to malaria vectors?”
“You might say that.”
“Well, we offer nine ounces of prevention in this little bag. Medical evacuation for malaria can be very expensive, not to mention the high mortality rate.”
“We take pills. The guys, they don’t like your nets. Too stuffy and too difficult to hang in the kinds of places they sleep. They’d rather sleep in a coffin.”
“Oh, but … have a new model that’s free standing for easy installation, and it has a larger mesh, so it’s better ventilated and more comfortable to sleep under.” There was no such product. Archie was just riffing to keep the man’s attention.
Mr. Martz cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. “What’s to keep the mosquitoes from squeezing through those bigger holes?”
“A higher dose of insecticide. It repels as well as kills.”
“Hmm. Got a sample?”
“I … um … I only brought the standard model with me … but I can arrange—”
“If you really want to sell us something useful, you’d give us something for the ones that bite outdoors. Our people, you see, they spend quite a lot of time out and about at night.”
“Sorry, but that’s not our business. Though, the mosquitoes that carry malaria don’t come out in force until the middle of the night when people are sleeping.”
“Someone better tell the bloody mosquitoes that, then. Up in Nimba County, they can hardly wait till sundown.”
“I take it, you’re a mining company? Exploration perhaps?”
“We service that industry, for sure. But we’re actually more … security-oriented.”
“Do you have many locals working for you?”
“Some. But we don’t worry about them so much. These guys treat malaria like a common cold. Some of them even come to work when they’re sick.”
“But giving nets to take home keeps their families safe, minimizes lost work time and maximizes productivity.”
Mr. Martz shrugged. “Again. No worries there. Our guys don’t miss work. They don’t show, they’re out of a job.”
“You know, I’d really love the chance to talk to your local workers about nets and how they feel about them. It would help me understand their needs and concerns.”
A Mercedes SUV pulled up outside and a tall, gangly man with a ginger buzz cut hopped out.
“Well, you’d have to go to Nimba County. That’s where we employ most of our full-time locals. The men we use in Monrovia do mainly odd-jobs. They’re casual labor, mostly.”
The gangly man from the SUV dashed into the lobby. He did a double-take and squinted at Archie. “Dieter, who the fuck is this guy?”
“Salesman.”
“Well, show him out. We got ops coming in.” The red-haired man punched a key code and vanished into an inner sanctum.
Mr. Martz rose. “You heard the man, it’s time to go. But uh … stop by if you can get us a sample of that new net. The one that keeps you cooler. Heck, I might even use it myself. Bloody mosquitoes, drive me batty.”
“Please. Take my card,” said Archie, wondering if he would be causing any problems for Mr. Cunningham.
Mr. Martz glanced at the card and pocketed it. “Sorry I can’t reciprocate. We don’t do cards here. But you know how to get a hold of me.” He went and opened the inner glass door. “I apologize for the bum’s rush. Alfred will show you to the gate.”
The guard was waiting by the outer door. Waves of heat assaulted Archie’s face. It felt as if the sun had set the parking lot ablaze.
“Mind if I go out the back way? My taxi’s waiting for me there.”
The guard shrugged, reversing direction, strolling across the lot, slapping his billy club over his shoulder. The dogs sprawled in the shade of an overhang.
Around the corner, a group of local laborers uncrated generators on a loading dock. Another group of men leaned against a stack of palettes and shared a cigarette.
Among them stood a man with spiky dreads and tribal scars in sets of three—one of the guys who had assaulted him.
?
??Excuse me a moment,” said Archie, veering away.
“Sir … you need to go this way … you need to go out.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
Archie strolled up to the men, accompanied by the guard. The men stopped their banter and froze, their eyes shifty and uncertain.
Archie pulled off his hat and sunglasses. “Hi there! Remember me?”
The mugger rose abruptly and turned to face Archie, his arms loose at his side. The guard looked nervous, hanging back as if he expected something bad to happen.
“I just had a nice talk with the management and we’ve agreed not to involve the police in this matter.”
“Police? What police?”
“I’m talking about … your mistake. The misunderstanding. The one regarding my missing passport. I’ve come to collect it.”
The mugger looked incredulous. “You a crazy man. You lucky you alive. Why you come back?”
“I told you, I just spoke to your boss. It was all a misunderstanding. I can compensate you for your trouble, if you’ll kindly return it.”
The mugger barked something in Krahn to his friends. One of them ran off, vaulting onto the loading dock, disappearing into the warehouse.”
“I can give you one hundred dollars right now. Just hand me the passport.”
“You stupid for coming back. You a dead man now.”
“I don’t think so. Seems that you are the one who’s in a speck of trouble with the management, mister. But we can make things right—right here, right now. You give me my passport, I give you two hundred dollars. I go on my way. And that’s that.”
“I don’t have it. But you are the man. I am sure. You are the man they wanted.”
“George, what is the problem?” said the guard.
“Shut up, Alfred. It is not your business.”
The gangly, red-haired man came bustling out onto the loading dock. He gaped. “Holy Christ! I thought he looked familiar. That’s the bloke we’re after. Get him!”
Chapter 6: Robertsfield