'A' for Argonaut (26 page)

The men loosened up with relief. The reputation of Cabinda Air, three crashes resulting in forty deaths over the previous five years, hadn’t given them the greatest sense of security, “Two of those crashes were civil war shoot-downs,” Kurt Tracha observed.

“The war here will never be over,” Maran responded.

“Why should it be?” quipped Goodwin. “It’s the only growth industry they have, unless you count funeral parlors.”

“They don’t have funeral parlors,” Tracha chuckled.

“Well, coffins.”

“Some growth,” Tracha retorted.

Although August in this part of Africa usually is one of the coolest and driest times to travel, it was so hot that the heat waves off the tarmac looked to Maran as if he could ride them. Exiting the jet, the men carried backpacks and duffels. Tracha had a camera bag slung over his shoulder, part of the ruse they had planned. Maran carried the “Walter Q.R. Jackson” I.D. card Levine had given him signifying his membership on the board of the Society of Competitive Intelligence Professionals. They were fictively in Angola on behalf of the World Wildlife Fund to uncover illegal poaching activities in the region’s national game parks. The Fund was concerned that tens of thousands of elephants and apes were being slaughtered each year for tusks and meat in the Congo Basin by rebels like the Ninjas who had militarized the illegal industry. They were making huge profits on the gruesome business and using them to support their nefarious activities.

Maran had a letter he had solicited from the WWF confirming his role. The second page included Maran’s agreement that the work was being done pro bono, free, a public service. He planned to keep that page to himself in the realization that it would raise suspicions of his true purpose. Everyone, on the other hand, understood the money motive.

They walked over to the Customs official who guarded the gate at the exit to the airport foyer. He held out his hand when the men stepped up to his post. Maran tipped him four thousand Congolese Republic Francs, about five dollars. Most major transactions were in U.S. dollars. Maran and his team were going native.

The man neither searched their luggage nor looked at their passports.

The first thing Maran did was to go to the men’s room. He used a stall where he unpacked his gun and put it in a holster at the small of his back.

The airport had more amenities than usual for a third-world country. It was kept active by the large number of oil company executives coming and going to visit Global Coast, Chevron, and other international oil companies that operated the rigs offshore. They waited in the private lounge for Rocky Daniels, an old Army colleague of Tracha’s.

A white man dressed in khaki pants with a matched safari jacket stopped just off the tarmac.

“Is this your friend now?” asked Al Ray Goodwin. Maran reached back and checked the gun on his back under his jacket.

“Rocky Daniels. A Boer.” The term referred to a dumb redneck African-Dutch farmer or a proud Afrikaner, depending on who used it. Tracha meant it as a compliment. Daniels ran Zoo Link West Africa, Inc., out of Cabinda, a provider of rare species to zoos and zoological research institutes.

Out in the hall, Daniels brought them to a bank teller at Banco de Cabinda. Maran pulled out the Walter Jackson platinum credit card and cashed out four thousand more Congo Francs and tipped the man behind the bulletproof glass case.

“We’ll take my
bakkie
,” Daniels said and led them to his Land Rover. “We have dinner reservations. Sola Ubulom will join us. He’ll fill you in on the black market for animals.”

“Protected species? Talk about a dance with the devil. Sell their souls for the right price,” Tracha said.

“They already have,” Daniels answered.

The Luna Nova dining room with its large-leafed vines looked like a jungle village. Ficus and philodendron hung from tree limbs which were stretched across the thatched ceiling. The big wooden menu offered
Mufete de Cacusa
and
Farofa,
tilapia with a manioc and palm oil sauce, as the specials that night.

A waiter approached. Maran ordered the special. When it came, he blanched. It looked awful, Maran thought. It tasted worse.

“Try the
boerewors
,” Daniels suggested.

When he finished the spicy sausage, Maran popped an unlit stogie into his mouth, savoring its spicy bite as he chomped down on it with his molars. He looked at Daniels.

“Kurt tells me you work for the World Wildlife Fund?” Daniels said.

Maran reached into his inside jacket pocket. Daniel’s eyes jumped. Maran laughed and pulled out a canvas I.D. folder. He handed over his laminated “Walter Q.R. Jackson” credentials.

Daniels grinned as he looked at the card and turned it over.

“BANG! Competitive intelligence?”

“Right,” Maran answered. “Discreet investigations. Strictly business. Mostly boring stuff. They want us to sort out the information. Leopards, white rhino, gorillas. Kurt says you can help.”

Daniels rose. Sola Ubulom came through the restaurant door.

“Excuse the tardiness, gentlemen. The children needed a ride home from school. My wife was at her ill mother’s house. She’s making dinner for them,” Ubulom said. He was a tall, lean, taffy colored man with a Portuguese accent. He wore a wildlife ranger uniform from the Kissama Game Reserve where he was in charge of apprehending‌—‌or shooting‌—‌poachers.

Daniels made the introductions. Maran took charge.

“Mr. Ubulom, we need to know the major players.”

“Rocky tells me you plan to write a report.”

“Right. Our group will publicize the poachers that threaten your most valuable national resource.”

“Wild animals! White rhino, elephant, leopard, gorilla. Money.”

“Protected species. A lot of money.”

Ubulom took a careful look at Maran. He had already sized up the rest of Maran’s party. “I have to warn you, your request is dangerous. These are not just moneymen, serious moneymen, tens-of-millions of dollars. They are criminals and they can get pretty tough.”

“We’re here for World Wildlife. That’s all. Not with any government.” He showed Daniels the letter from World Wildlife confirming his assignment.

“Yes. These people will demand confidentiality, and your project would put a spotlight on a world that might be best left alone,” Daniels said.

“We understand.” Maran pulled out the Amex travelers checkbook Levine had provided. He was prepared to pay for the information. Humane altruism was as rare under the laws of the jungle as humane justice between its animals.

“U.S. cash, Mr. Maran. One-hundred-percent up front. The local currencies can’t be trusted to hold their worth. Moreover, we don’t trust anybody. Take it or leave it.” Maran pulled a small envelope of finished stones from his pocket. He poured a large one into his big palm and handed it to Ubulom who took it outside to inspect in the sunlight.

“Good enough,” he said when he returned.

“Before you put that in your pocket, let’s get a sample of what you know,” Tracha said. His voice sounded like an empty dump truck on a gravel road.

“Fair enough. The biggest threat to the animals comes from two theaters. First, the hunters from Europe and the Middle East go after rare breeds. Second, the Asian thirst for animal parts: rhino horns, gorilla brains, sexual organs of male tigers, and hearts of lion, anything thought to be blessed with extraordinary sexual potency or curative powers. The market is served by the safari farms, like Billa Billie Safaris. For enough money, say seventy, a hundred thousand dollars per person in a party, you can hunt with hounds for any species you name, from pandas to convicted prisoners‌—‌or you can buy aphrodisiacs. Those markets are so diverse they would be tough to investigate without an insider. In this region, one man dominates both, and I know him: Tank Olloobwa. Does that give you a feel for the value of my services?” Ubulom asked.

Thirty-One

Boma, DRC

M
aran and his team bumped their way for 60 miles over the heat-baked ruts on N11 over the border from Cabinda to Boma, a two-lane unpaved road. Bomb craters, weeds, and brush hindered the dust-filled passes carved into the hillsides. They intended to reach Boma by late afternoon. It was there they planned to find and interview Tank Oloobwa, manager of Billa Billie Safaris, who Ubulom told them got many of his animals from Slang Vangaler’s Ninjas.

It was already noon. They were about eighty miles from Boma when they pulled into the town of Tshela.

Goodwin insisted on lunch.

“There,” he said. He pointed to a shack with a rusty sign: “Welcome to the Baboon Diner.”

“This place looks deserted,” Maran observed. “Why don’t we go on into the center of town?”

“This is worth a shot,” Goodwin pressed.

Maran pulled up in front of the door. He wore a blue-dyed non-rip tropical five-pocket combat shirt, the same type he had worn in the botched Cabinda operation, with the standard-issue tropical camouflage pattern dyed out of it.

The sky darkened. A haze cloaked the countryside, clouded the windshield. Maran stopped to wipe it with a dirty red bandana he pulled from a back pocket.

The restaurant turned out to be a bar with sandwiches. Maran didn’t like to eat at bars, but the jungle wasn’t for the choosy. He climbed on a stool and clamped down on the stogie in his mouth, toying with the Zippo embossed with the crossed upright bayonets which were framed in eagle wings. He didn’t light up.

Goodwin ordered a White Elephant: coconut, rum and milk. The others ordered
Ngoc
, the national beer. Everyone except Maran. He ordered the usual.

“If you don’t mind. I’d like just a Coke mixed with cold coffee and cream,” he smiled. The music from the 1950s jukebox was “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding. The song gave Maran a brief flurry of memories. Lost loves, missed opportunities. Sometimes he wondered.

Goodwin stood off to the side of the bar. Tracha sat beside Maran. He noticed a man at the other end of the bar watching him. The man was young, heavy-set, solid with big arms and at least two inches taller than Maran and a lot wider in the chest and shoulders. He wore faded jeans, a light woolen sweater, American mustard yellow cashmere. High-impact sunglasses covered his face. He looked over Maran’s shoulder, nodded and looked back directly at him. As Maran turned and started to get up off the stool to speak to him, another man walked over to stand in front of him. The man stood eye-to-eye with him. Shoulders bulged, stretched the fabric of his silk tank-top jersey, stenciled with the slogan: “Pit-bull Gym‌—‌Bad to the Bone.” In contrast to his friend, he was the ugliest man Maran had ever seen. His nose was broken and twisted like a pig’s tail. A bright knife scar ran across his face.

The man at the other side of the bar suddenly shouted, “Hey!”

Maran turned back to him.

The stranger standing in front of him lunged. In his hand, he held a knife, its blade blackened, edge glinting, stropped to razor fineness.

“Look out, Mack,” shouted Tracha. Maran swiveled, diving to the floor where he lashed one leg out to sweep the assailant’s legs out from under him.

The stranger fell to the floor with a crash, bounced back to his feet over Maran, swinging the knife with both hands down towards Maran’s chest. His eyes widened as he saw the knife plunging down at him. A shot deafened him as Tracha fired, hitting the assassin in the forehead and shouting over the reverberating blast.

Behind him, the bearded man with the sunglasses took three quick steps and was about to crown Tracha with a full beer bottle. Maran’s right hand shot down to his boot and came up with a cord-handled throwing knife that he flipped with a sharp, backhand snap. The knife hit the assailant in the throat.

Maran and Tracha barreled out the door, shouting for Goodwin to join them, the bartender shrinking behind the bar.

Boma, a city of 200,000
, is located in the jungle halfway between Matadi and Presqu’ile de Banana. Exhausted, they checked into the Boma Auberge Tonton, the closest thing to a hotel they could find in the city. It was already 5 P.M. Maran’s face drooped with fatigue, but he knew he had to stay sharp. He was a moving target. The room began to spin. He gripped the bedpost, concentrated on the window, focused on the trees outside the room. He gulped deep breaths, tightened his stomach muscles and eased the air back out of his expanded lungs with deliberation. His hands clutched the wooden post. He squeezed until the pain was near unbearable, lessons from the hospital. It worked.

The episode cleared his head. No matter how hard he tried to dispel the paranoia, it was always there. Real. He could justify it, feel it, touch it.

Cabinda! Was it my fault?

The question haunted him, yet again, betrayed by one of his own? There was no other option. Someone on his team, a trusted friend, had set him up.

They knew we were coming. They‌—‌and Washington.

It took Maran all
the next day to reach Tank Oloobwa, a former poacher-fighting park ranger from the Kissama Game Reserve, at the number he got from Sola Ubulom. He introduced himself. Oloobwa did the rest, then Maran called Tracha, told him to go into town to find a computer café where they could pick up e-mail from Sergei.