“Quite a change.”
Goodman chuckled. “Embassy people would drive to Payneville to see the Omega communication tower. Fourteen hundred feet high. Badge of honor if you climbed it.”
“Did you?”
“You bet I did.”
“See any hope for a rebound here?”
“The country’s still in shock from the civil war. The leader of the new government is …” Goodman looked around as if someone might hear him, and gave a dismissive hand gesture.
They stayed quiet for a time, listening to the wails. Two or more drums joined in. The waves pounded as they grew higher, and the lights now brought out traces of transparent green in the gray water. Stone took in the smells of Africa he had forgotten since his last visit — the scent of vegetation breathing at night, smoke from the cooking oils throughout the city, the heavy warmth. He always found it difficult to relax on this continent, but at the same time, it exerted a strong fascination.
Goodman rose from his chair. “Time to go to the airport. Have to meet and greet a visitor on the evening flight in from Paris. It’s always a challenge driving here at night. No city electricity. No traffic lights.” He tossed the rest of his drink out onto the rocky ground. “Tomorrow, let’s try to get in a game of tennis.”
“Maybe in the afternoon, when I get back from my appointment.”
Stone watched the man descend the two cement block steps from the porch and carefully make his way on the overgrown path to his quarters. Raindrops slipped through the muggy air. Monsoon time.
Goodman appeared to be a decent man, an old Africa hand, but Stone hadn’t known him long enough to place him in a friend or foe camp. An undercurrent of animosity existed between foreign service people like Goodman and the CIA, and Stone faced the added problem that many RSOs disliked the FBI. He wondered if Goodman knew he was a former FBI agent now working for the agency.
The embassy assigned Stone a unit in a four-bedroom complex facing the ocean. On entering, he found the room dark and had trouble finding the light switch on the table lamp. The air smelled musty, and he detected another scent he hadn’t noticed that afternoon when he had brought in his luggage. A thick, sour ammonia odor.
He undressed, placed his Colt .45 semiautomatic on the nightstand, brushed his teeth, and slipped between the sheets. One benefit of staying in embassy housing in Liberia was the freshly washed and ironed bed linens every night. Still, the cloth felt sticky to the skin.
Overhead, two geckos made their way across the cracked ceiling. He watched their progress in and out of the shadows from the lamplight and hoped they’d dine on the mosquitoes before the insects had a chance to feast on him. The medical unit back at Langley had given him mefloquine tablets, but they were only malaria suppressants, not full protection against the disease. The only things they guaranteed, Stone learned, were weird Technicolor dreams.
He flipped through the book on African birdlife he found in the embassy library, and after occasionally pausing where particularly colorful birds appeared, he became drowsy and dropped the book next to his gun. Yawning, he closed his eyes and debated whether he should turn out the light. Sleep came before making a decision.
A noise woke him. The straight back chair by the door to the toilet had scraped along the floor. Stone remained still. He could see only the top of the chair, where he had draped his trousers. He heard a swish along the floor. The sound approached the end of his bed. As his hand moved for his gun on the side table, the head of a thick, black snake with large scales rose from the foot of his bed. It continued to rise higher and higher.
Stone yanked his feet under him and hugged the headboard. He held the pillow in front of him. His left hand touched his gun, but it and the book tumbled to the floor. Startled, the snake slinked onto his bed and quickly coiled.
“Holy shit!” He jumped out of bed, dashing for the far wall. Once there, he inched toward the door.
The full length of the snake came into view. At least nine feet long, the creature became aggressive. Poised at the edge of the mattress and with open mouth, it hissed loudly. Stone saw that it was about to slide onto the floor in his direction. He ran to the chair and held it out as a shield against the snake.
“Help! For Christ’s sake! Help! I got a big-ass snake here!”
The snake dropped to the floor and slithered toward him. Stone looked into the snake’s black irises as the head swayed back and forth. It coiled and struck the chair with quick, short strikes, almost knocking it out of Stone’s hands. The strength of the creature surprised him. Stone made for the door, but the snake blocked his escape. Striking again, the trousers dropped off the chair, which confused the snake.
“Unlock the door!” a voice shouted from outside.
“Can’t get to it!”
The snake showed a fearless display of aggression. Mouth wide, it rose and made a quick nip at Stone’s bare legs. Its head touched Stone’s calf, but there was no sting, no bite.
The door banged open. The snake backed up, shifted its gaze, and hissed at the figure standing in the doorway.
A familiar woman’s voice spoke. “Damn thing’s too fast to shoot.”
Stone leaped toward the door, eyes on the snake. Another voice, Goodman’s, ordered, “Get out. Fast!”
As Stone exited, a marine security guard brushed past and leveled a short-barreled Remington 870 shotgun at the snake. “Request permission to shoot, sir.”
“Permission granted,” Goodman barked. “Blow it away.”
The lance corporal fired and missed, racked the gun, but before he could fire again the snake disappeared into a ventilation shaft in the wall. The blast from the shotgun had gone through the bathroom door. One of the pellets burst a water pipe.
“Well, Hayden, I see you still manage to find ways to get yourself in harm’s way.”
Stone turned and recognized CIA officer Sandra Harrington. As usual she looked stylish, in tight khaki shirt and shorts. Barefoot, she had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and held a Glock automatic by her side in her left hand.
“Here on holiday?” he asked. So, she was the visitor who flew in from Paris.
Her eyes traveled over his body. “Just taking in the sights.”
Stone forgot he was naked. He retrieved his trousers from the floor and slipped them on. Local embassy workers arrived, and Goodman gave orders to clean up the room and repair the water leak. The men crept into the room, their eyes on the opening in the wall where the snake was last seen.
Goodman tapped Stone on the shoulder. “That, my friend, is a black mamba. One of the deadliest snakes in Africa. Don’t know how it got in here, but the locals do call this place Mamba Point.”
“Great.” Stone turned to Sandra. “So the boss sent you down from Paris to babysit me.”
Before she could respond, Goodman said, “Think we’ll move you to the embassy quarters across from the main gate. Ms. Harrington, maybe you should move too.”
“The name’s Sandra. I don’t relish sleeping with a snake in the ventilation system, even though the noted writer Graham Greene slept here.” She bent over and picked up Stone’s Colt from the floor, sauntered over, and gave him a hug. “Besides, I should stay close to my colleague and keep him out of trouble.”