“Is the food good?”
“Not especially, but it’ll be nice to get out.”
“At night. In this town?”
“We won’t sightsee. Just have a quick meal and head straight back.”
Stone began to have second thoughts as he turned the ignition key on the beat-up sedan. The motor struggled, but when he put the shift into first gear, the car moved along somewhat. Driving past the darkened buildings, Sandra showed unease but relaxed when Stone, at the wheel, pointed out the landmarks he recognized from the night before. The streets were deserted. The sun dropped below the horizon, leaving behind a gray glow.
Stone found the restaurant, or what Goodman had called an urban “cook shop,” resembling what one would find in the Liberian countryside. It took up the ground floor of a two-story house that hadn’t seen a paintbrush since the beginning of the civil turmoil years before. Long strips of black tape zigzagged across the front window, keeping the cracked glass from collapsing.
“This is a restaurant?” Sandra asked.
“Yeah. Goodman said it’s one of the two decent ones left in town. They cook outside in the backyard on a stone hearth.”
He parked at the entrance so they could keep an eye on the car from inside the restaurant. A group of four casually dressed African males entered the restaurant after eyeing them and their car.
“Hayden, are you carrying your gun?”
“Yes.” Stone had his Colt .45 but had brought only one extra magazine. He knew Sandra had her Glock.
They didn’t bother locking the car in case they had to make a quick departure from the restaurant. Inside, they met the smells of unfamiliar food. Candles on the three tables along with a kerosene lantern sitting on the bar next to the back door provided light. The city’s electrical power was down again.
A middle-aged woman, who Goodman introduced the night before as the owner, directed them to a table next to the window. The four men who had entered before them had taken a table on the other side of the room. Stone and Sandra became objects of curiosity.
“Interesting,” Sandra said, looking at the plates and glasses turned over, a napkin placed on top of each plate.
“It’s a Liberian custom.” Stone overturned his plate and glass. “I suggest having a beer, which will be warm, or better still, the house ginger beer.”
The owner said, “You were here last night, sir. With the gentleman from the American Embassy.”
“Yes. This is my colleague. What’s your special tonight?”
“The special is the only dish tonight. I’ll bring it.”
“What’s it going to be?” Sandra asked Stone, concerned.
“We’ll see.”
When the meal came, the woman identified the two plates as fufu and jollof rice with shrimp. She placed a small bowl of soup before each of them. “Goat soup,” she said. “Another specialty.”
“Hope the soup doesn’t have too many peppers in it,” Stone said. It did.
Sandra played with her meal, finding the rice and shrimp acceptable. “Where will you lay over when you return home?”
“Paris.”
“You don’t want to go back to Nice or Villefranche?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I’m not welcomed on the Riviera. The contessa blames me for shooting up her palace.”
“How did you two get together in the first place?”
“Almost twenty years ago, I was a naval officer assigned to the American consulate in Nice. During Christmas season I was invited to attend a local party. I guess you’d call it a dinner dance.”
“You were in uniform of course.”
Stone put his fork down. The fufu was good, but he questioned the age of the shrimp under the rice. “I was an ensign. It was a fun party. You know, they have this custom in France and Italy where at one of those functions everyone gets up, holds hands, and dances and skips around all the rooms singing loudly. Like being in a conga line. I met Lucinda there that night.”
“And?”
“We dated for about a year and then …”
“Who broke it off?”
Stone shrugged.
“You dumped her.”
“My ship left port.”
“You were assigned to a diplomatic establishment on land, not on a ship.”
Stone played with the rice on his plate. He wondered what Lucinda’s reaction would be if he returned to Nice and phoned her. Refuse to see him? Perhaps not.
“Only a few months ago, I planned to live on the Riviera with her. Then everything fell apart.”
“Still got that old feeling?”
He laughed. “Funny thing. I don’t have a photograph of her, and I can’t seem to form a picture of her in my mind.”
Sandra closed her eyes.
“No matter how I try, I can’t visualize her. I can hold images of strangers in my mind, but not her. Weird, no?”
After pausing, she said, “Same thing happened to me with a boyfriend in high school.”
“And?”
“Still can’t picture him.”
At that Sandra turned her head toward the other patrons, and her expression changed from inquisitive to alarm. It happened fast. Stone saw the local men leave their table and run out the back door. The owner moved behind the bar and began taking the liquor bottles off the shelf.
Like a leopard hearing a branch unexpectedly snap, Stone’s reflexes kicked in. His gun came out as he pushed away from the table. His eyes searched the room for adversaries.
Sandra pointed. Outside the dirty window, in the gloom of dusk, a car with its headlights on had parked in front of the restaurant. Four men, not African but Middle Eastern, emerged. Two carried submachine guns.
“Jihadists,” Stone said, his Colt out, safety off. “Showtime.”
Sandra and Stone jumped from their chairs and raced to the back door. They made it through as two men barged in the front door. The one with the machine gun sprayed the entire room, while the other fired in their direction with his pistol. A young busboy fell, bloody holes in his shirt.
Instinctively, Stone knew the machine gun had to be neutralized first. Using the doorjamb as cover, he squeezed off two rounds into the stomach of the man holding the machine gun. The terrorist clutched his midsection, jerked forward, and fell to the floor, dropping the gun.
Sandra behind Stone, in a crouch, shot the other terrorist with repeated rounds until her Glock emptied. The man, his body splattered with blood, fell backwards. She slapped a fresh magazine into the butt of the gun.
“That was the easy part,” Stone said. “The other two outside have to be going around to the back.”
“Let’s surprise them. We’ll go out the front and slip behind them.”
“Let’s do it.”
Passing by the man groaning on the floor clutching his stomach, Stone picked up his machine gun. At the same time, the man pulled out a pistol from inside his coat. Before he could shoot, Sandra fired twice. The man became still.
“Let’s move,” Stone said, and the two raced out the door.
Outside in the street, they rounded the building and saw the two jihadists entering the back door. Surprised when they saw them, the men turned and opened fire.
Stone and Sandra both knelt on one knee and continued to fire until they emptied their guns. One terrorist tried to stay on his feet but spun in a contorted tumble into a trashcan. The shooting stopped. The two jihadists lay at the doorstep. Still.
As Stone reloaded, Sandra said, “I’m out of ammo.”
“Here. Take the machine gun.”
Stone checked the bodies lying outside, removing their identification. Large black birds cried overhead. Dogs barked from behind walls.
Inside the restaurant, Stone carefully examined the two dead men on the floor. Again they removed anything identifying their would-be killers.