“You are not going to leave them there?” the owner yelled.
“We’ll pull them outside in the street for the police to pick up.” Stone said.
“What police?” The owner was angry. “Your embassy has to fix this.”
Stone looked around the restaurant. Tables overturned, bullet holes in the walls, broken dishes, food spread on the floor. The glass in the front window had shattered.
“Who will pay me for this?”
Stone walked up to the woman. “Do you take American dollars?”
Chapter Five
The tan Land Cruiser bounced out of a pothole in the two-lane tarred roadway. Hayden Stone sat shotgun and watched the signs to Monrovia’s Roberts International Airport pass by. In the backseat, Sandra Harrington held on to the baggage stacked next to her. The thirty-five-mile drive from the embassy took them through endless rows of homes and shacks in varying stages of disrepair. They met only light vehicle traffic, evenly distributed between old diesel trucks belching blue smoke and new military and police SUVs.
During the entire time, Goodman, at the wheel, remained taciturn. The previous night had been spent leading Stone and Sandra through the Liberian legal hurdles consisting of giving statements and signing papers — for Stone, in his alias Finbarr Costanza. The police took the four jihadists’ bodies away. Liberian immigration people advised the four deceased’s entry papers were “not in order.” That helped the American position. Financial recompense slated for the owner of the restaurant further helped matters.
On the phone, the CIA chief of station wished them a safe and mainly speedy departure from his turf. The information on the four thugs would be cabled back to Langley for analysis.
Back in his room, Stone shared his Irish whiskey with Sandra. When finally he slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes, he hoped not to have his usual bizarre dreams that normally followed a gunfight. That night he had none. The whiskey had worked.
The SUV bounced out of another pothole, shifting luggage in the backseat.
“Sandra and I are scheduled to leave at eight,” Stone said. “What are the chances of departing on time?”
“None at all.” Goodman blew his horn at a man wandering in the middle of the road. “Once you board, the weather from here to Abidjan is clear. From there to Freetown as well.”
People plodded along the side of the road. As for many in undeveloped African countries, travel by foot provided the only means for getting to and from the markets. The women’s clothes appeared more somber than Stone remembered. The bright, gay colors were absent. Instead of the light sway in their walk, the people shuffled.
The low-lying airport buildings appeared in the distance as Goodman slowed at a police checkpoint. The pulse always quickened at roadblocks in the third world. Stone knew the rules: be prepared to show your passport, hand over some of the local ragged currency, and at all costs stay in the vehicle. Just hope that one of the young, untrained thugs in a dirty uniform didn’t let loose intentionally or unintentionally with his AK-47. Goodman, experienced with the situation, finessed the grinning policemen with their outstretched hands.
At the entrance to the hangar building, Goodman introduced the embassy’s expediter, a slender African with airport security badges dangling from his neck. “This fellow will get you through the gate and show you to the lounge — if you can call it that.” Goodman extended his hand. “Got business to attend to. Next visit, we’ll keep the snakes and bad guys away.”
The expediter knew the right people and whisked them through the airport check-in. Goodman had been accurate; the lounge looked unimpressive, consisting of only seven battered chairs in a roped-off area from the main terminal. The plane was scheduled to arrive in an hour, which was only thirty minutes late. Not bad for this region.
Stone and Sandra settled themselves in a corner. She handed him a soda from her backpack. “It still has a chill to it. Damn, the air in this terminal is stuffy.”
They sat quietly, watching the throng. No smiles on their faces. Stone witnessed only frowns. No displays of flashy jewelry on the women. No ties on the men.
His mind drifted to the events of the night before. The attack was not a random assault in a city in the throes of anarchy. Foreign jihadists had planned the operation, and he and Sandra were targeted. He knew now that his mission was not a matter of talking with an Israeli contact and going to Sierra Leone to question some South African.
“What’s eating you?”
Stone waved off the question.
“You’ve had that look since this morning,” Sandra said. “The one where the creases in your face become hard and those gray eyes lose their sparkle.”
Stone moved close to her and whispered, “This mission is not just a stop and shop. As usual, I haven’t been told everything. I’m a bull’s-eye for some terrorist group and I haven’t done squat.” He put his finger on her knee. “You were sent down here to help me. Have you been clued in and are holding back on me?”
Sandra’s mouth tightened and Stone backed away. He had witnessed what she could do with a quick karate chop.
“I thought we were … closer.” Before her eyes moistened, she put on her Italian sunglasses. “You know as much as I know,” she mouthed between her teeth.
“Sorry. You’re right.”
She relaxed. “Do you expect to hear from Colonel Frederick when we reach Sierra Leone? Some response on our contact with Jacob?”
“I’m counting on it. At that time I’ll expect more from him about this gig.”
“The colonel will give you as much as he thinks necessary,” she said.
“Knowing that people want to kill you comes under the heading of necessary.”
“Keep in mind Frederick would not have sent you and me here if the mission wasn’t important, and he knows from experience you can handle yourself.”
She looked over the terminal from behind her sunglasses, still alert after the night’s gunfight. If she had a case of the nerves, she didn’t show it. Wearing snug jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, a scarf hid much of her blonde hair. Unlike many western women who traveled to Africa, she had the good sense to dress modestly to avoid as much attention as possible.
“How long will you be with me?” he asked.
“As far as I know, a couple of days. Have to get back to Paris.” She sighed. “You didn’t expect this to be a long trip, did you?”
“The last time Frederick offered a job, he said it would be a lark. Sunning and boating on the Riviera. You know how that ended up.”
“So what happened last night can’t come as a big surprise.” Sandra leaned toward him. “Back in Marseilles, you had some good meals, didn’t you? And there was the contessa.”
“I still don’t think I’m welcomed back there anytime soon.”
“Well, you’re always welcome in Paris.” Sandra’s smile had returned.
“Thanks. I may take you up on that.” He thought about how she performed during the gunfight. Amazing. Cool and professional … and the best-looking partner he ever had.
The terminal became energized. Upon hearing a loud scream from jet engines, people rushed toward the doors. The African puddle jumper discharged its passengers, and a uniformed employee directed Stone and Sandra outside onto the tarmac toward the movable stairway set next to the plane’s door. The air felt less oppressive outside the terminal.
“What make of aircraft is this?” Stone asked.
“A Yak forty.”
He studied the three-engine jet. “Looks like a shrunken Boeing 727.”