“You think I should go?”
“This is not the case of a … a petty matter.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “You had a failure, made a mistake. So, who does not from time to time? Do you still want Maurice Colmont’s telephone number? Perhaps, he can help you.”
She took him by the hand, led him to the living room, and turned the gas on in the fireplace. “Sit,” she commanded and stood in front of him, arms crossed. “My family line is long and involved. On the Italian side, we go back to the Middle Ages, when the Moors attacked our villages and castles. We fought back. On my father’s side, we are Coptic Christians who have lived in Egypt for two thousand years, most of those years under persecution. My family does not bend. We are survivors, because we do not walk away.” She sat in front of him on a footstool. “If you don’t go, you will never forgive yourself. In time you will place all the blame on me.”
Contessa Lucinda Avoscani arched her back and pronounced, “I will not have that.”
A brief moment passed and Stone said, “You said you had Colmont’s number? I have to call him before I meet with Jacob.”
She went to the bedroom and returned with the number. After he made the call to Colmont and got the name of a contact in Cameroon, he started to dial Jacob. She held her hand on the phone while leaning her head over to kiss him. She placed a gold object in his hand. “Take this with you for good luck. It is a family talisman.”
He looked down at the small Coptic cross on a gold chain.
Chapter Thirty
The Douala International Airport was how Hayden Stone remembered it fours years before. Courtesy of the French, it was an impressive complex for West Africa, but had had little routine preventive maintenance from the day it opened. It smelled rank and looked shabby. Few people walked the high-ceilinged terminal. If arriving passengers were lucky enough to find their luggage after paying a bribe, they had to pass through a gauntlet of a screaming, pushing mob outside the door, wanting to carry your bags, sell you a flashlight, take you to their taxi, or just demand money.
Jacob cursed and shoved his way through the crowd with Stone following in his wake, holding his backpack with one hand, the other on his money belt beneath his shirt. Beyond the throng, two tall men with short haircuts waved to them.
“They’re our contacts,” Jacob shouted. “They have a car waiting for us.”
The two pushed their way through the crowd and reached the SUV. As Stone closed the door, he discovered that somewhere between the airport and the SUV someone had managed to slip his cheap watch off his wrist. They were practiced in their art.
With all four men inside the vehicle, the driver inched away from the curb while remnants of the besiegers attempted one last effort to extract money from those whom they considered well-heeled foreigners.
“Now that’s what I call a welcome reception,” Stone said, removing his jacket and wiping the sweat from his face. He hoped his departure from Douala would be soon and a bit easier. When he flew out, he’d remember to have a fistful of local CFA francs to grease the palms at the airport.
Jacob spoke at length in rapid Hebrew with the two Mossad men in the front seat. Jacob’s organization definitely had a presence here in Cameroon, which he had neglected to tell Stone. Jacob sat back, deep in thought, and then turned to Stone.
“Here’s the rundown. My boys here are in contact with the CIA station at your embassy in Yaoundé. Colonel Frederick and his people are having trouble getting visas, but should be here tomorrow.”
“That leaves only us to find the bomb.”
“No. A man and a CIA woman will arrive from Cape Town later today. I assume Sandra Harrington and Dirk Lange. I have four more men at the safe house.”
“Sandra and Dirk either had quick physical recoveries or can’t bear being out of the action,” Stone said. “Any leads on Nabeel Asuty and his men?”
“Six hours ago your satellite found that C-119 at an abandoned French airfield ten miles outside the city. No further word on the terrorists or the bomb. My embassy and your people in Yaoundé are in contact and will keep us updated.”
Stone asked if the man in front would turn up the air conditioning. The additional cool air blowing in from the vent brought some relief from the humid air. He turned to Jacob. “I have the name and telephone number of a contact that Maurice Colmont, my friend in Paris, gave me. Do we have a clean cell phone?”
The man in the passenger seat passed back a cell phone to Stone. Stone held up the phone to Jacob, who waved a “go ahead and call.”
The male voice on the other end of the line identified himself in French as being a member of the Cameroon police. In French, Stone asked for Reynard Abdulyale. When he came on the line, Stone gave him the parole Colmont had provided to identify him to Abdulyale as a trusted agent.
Abdulyale paused, then asked when they could get together.
“Today. Lunch in two hours?”
A name and address of a restaurant was given to Stone, who repeated out loud to Jacob. The driver motioned he knew where it was.
When Stone hung up, Jacob suggested only the two of them meet with Abdulyale. “My boys will stay outside and cover our meeting with this fellow.”
“Where is the restaurant?” Stone asked the driver.
In English with a Brooklyn accent, he told him it was near the port area. “In the Lebanese district. Rough area. We have pistols for you.”
At that, the man in the passenger seat turned and handed them 9mm Glocks along with two magazines each, first to Jacob, then Stone. Not Stone’s favorite caliber.
They drove toward the city using back roads, alert for surveillance, but as the driver informed them, the intelligence service was underpaid and ill supplied with resources. “They are only interested in Nigerians and the opposing political party.”
Stone looked out the window at the usual parade of women in tie-dyed kaftans with baskets balanced on their heads, children walking holding each others hands, and men on bicycles. As they entered the edge of town, open sewers flowed on either side of the road.
“I think I’ll contact a guy I know. If he’s still here,” Stone said. “Don’t know his telephone number, but do know the name of his business and the street where he’s located.”
Jacob had him give the information to the man sitting in the passenger seat. The man called the safe house and had another agent find the firm’s telephone number in the Douala city directory.
Carl Cardinale answered Stone’s call and happily agreed to meet him. A half hour later, Stone stood in front of a two-story complex in a mixed residential and commercial area, which looked clean and safe. Before exiting, Jacob told him he would run a trace on Abdulyale. Like all Douala, Stone knew that because of its relative wealth this neighborhood had to experience high crime. He remained alert.
Carl buzzed him in the entrance door, and he climbed to the second floor to another locked door, this one identified it as the Regional Transportation Office. Carl quickly opened the door and welcomed him into his one-man cluttered office. The RTO handled all the shipping and logistics for the American diplomatic establishments throughout central Africa.
He was genuinely happy to see Stone, not because they were good friends, but being one of the few Americans in town, his social life was nil. There was little entertainment in Douala to speak of except for a few sorry restaurants and nightclubs offering cheap liquor and expensive women.
“May I ask what happened?” He pointed to the bruises on Stone’s face.
“Bad fall.”
“What brings you to this hellhole? Or shouldn’t I ask?