“Probably a stolen design. A Russian-made Yakovlev forty. Been around since the sixties.”
Inside the cabin the air conditioner blew full blast. With all the passengers seated, two men in coveralls slid boxes and crates up the center aisle and stacked them. They worked their way to the rear door, placing cargo as they went, making the aisle impassable. Finished, they yelled something in Russian to the two pilots on the flight deck. One of the pilots slammed the compartment door shut, and the plane lurched forward.
An hour into the flight, the door to the flight deck swung open. The two pilots in white shirts with blue epaulettes were involved in an animated discussion. Balanced upright between their seats was a liquor bottle containing a clear liquid. The pilot on the left picked it up and took a swig.
“Sandra, is that what I think it is?”
“Yep. Good old vodka.”
The pilot on the right saw the open door, reached back, and closed it.
Stone shouted in Sandra’s ear over the noise of the plane. “This is what I love about Africa. You’re always putting up with snakes, disease, gunmen, and drunken pilots.”
After passing through Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire, the plane arrived at the Freetown International Airport a little after five in the afternoon. From the plane’s window, Stone watched black thunderheads building along the coast. The CIA station had advised that someone would be at the airport to escort them to town. Anyone arriving at the airport and wanting to continue on to Freetown had to cross a wide estuary to reach the city. Only one ferry operated, usually overloaded, and it took someone who knew the ropes to get across with minimum problems.
Descending from the plane, Sandra said, “There’s the station chief, Luke Craig.”
Standing on the runway, arms folded over his safari shirt, a tall, weary-looking African-American in his late twenties stood wide-legged. At his side an embassy employee with touches of gray in his hair and with access badges suspended on a lanyard around his neck held two blue embassy welcome folders.
Craig introduced himself and then they walked to the terminal. While the local employee took Stone and Sandra’s passports and hurried off to passport control to expedite their arrival, Craig removed his sunglasses and directed his attention to Sandra.
As they talked, Sandra’s concentration switched to someone across the room in the boarding section of the terminal. Craig was in mid-sentence when she excused herself, saying she had to talk with someone. Both men watched her push through the same door they had entered. Back on the tarmac next to the plane, she intercepted a bearded white man.
It was easy for Stone to interpret her body language — arms akimbo, finger pointing and jabbing the man’s chest — and know that her words were rough. The man kept backing away in the direction of the aircraft. Finished, Sandra turned and headed back to the terminal, turning once and presenting her middle finger to the man who rushed up the boarding stairs.
Sandra returned, and before she said anything, Craig moved off to the baggage area.
“What was that all about?” Stone asked.
“That was Farley Durrell. An old partner, business that is — well — a little personal as well.” She paused. “The bastard double-crossed me.” She glared at Stone. “I don’t forgive nor forget.”
Stone nodded. I’ll keep that in mind.
On arrival at the dock, they found the ferry packed with vehicles, but Craig managed to secure one of the last parking slots. The embassy employee guarded the SUV while Craig led the way to the stairs to the upper deck lounge. Finding it jammed with drunken patrons, Craig suggested a spot he knew forward on a covered platform over the bow.
Stone took in the view of Freetown harbor. Using his monocular, he scanned the port across the bay. It hadn’t changed over the past five years. Rusty shipwrecks, including a derelict ferry, dotted the water, but the green hills touched by white clouds still provided a pleasant backdrop. Grass and tall trees still reached down to the water’s edge. Palm trees here and there broke the monotony. The only harbor traffic consisted of one- or two-man fishing boats, long, thin craft skimming across the water. As his eyes swept the harbor, black thunderheads still engulfed the sky, and he watched rain walk in from the ocean.
Craig went to the bar and returned carrying three bottles of Star beer dripping condensation. “What a bar. I had trouble finding someone to take my money. Drink up. We’ll get more.”
The beer was cold and wet. Stone thought he had never tasted a better beer to cut through the heat. Fifteen minutes later, when the ferry pushed off from the dock, soot from the two smokestacks rained down on the passengers on the open deck. Where Stone and his companions stood, they were protected from ash as well as from the heavy rain that had begun to fall.
Halfway across the wide bay, Sandra and Craig moved off and spoke in low tones. Stone saw Craig look repeatedly in his direction. Sandra shook her head a number of times. Craig straightened and, with Sandra following, returned. Stone leaned on the wet railing, watching the city grow larger as the ferry steamed ahead.
“We had a short talk,” Craig said.
“The beer’s very good.”
Craig threw a glance at Sandra. “We were talking about you and your reputation for attracting trouble.”
“That’s why the agency loves me,” Stone said.
“Yeah.” Craig seemed to regroup. “Game plan is you talk with this South African fellow. Station provides coverage. You make your report, and off you go.”
Stone frowned and took the last swig of beer from the bottle. “And you’ll take care of the bodies, right?” He studied the label on the beer bottle.
“That’s not funny.”
“Hayden. Behave,” Sandra said. “I just spent ten minutes convincing this guy that you’re trustworthy.”
Craig fidgeted. “Sierra Leone is not easy duty, Mr. Stone. It’s not the South of France.”
“I’ve been here. I know Sierra Leone.”
“This morning I read about what happened in Monrovia.”
“Gotcha.”
Stone looked out at the city. Soft yellow twinkling lights came from the numerous gas and oil lamps. Evidently, electricity still had not returned on a regular basis to Freetown. The South African they were to meet lived somewhere out there in the darkness. What was so important that this man had to tell them?
Chapter Six
Hayden Stone caught the coffee mug before it shattered in the kitchen sink. He looked across the room toward Sandra’s closed bedroom door. The noise had woken her, which he didn’t want. The previous night, he heard her make repeated trips from her bedroom to the bathroom. Obviously, she had caught a West African intestinal bug, part of the travel experience in this part of the world. His turn would come if he stayed too long in Freetown.
The embassy had provided them a well-furnished apartment, quite a step above the Spartan quarters in Monrovia. The fenced, well-maintained, guarded compound accommodated the staff and dependents assigned to the embassy. Back in Monrovia, aside from the skeleton staff, only people on TDY, or temporary duty, visited, and they departed as soon as possible.
In the refrigerator, Stone found milk, yogurt, and local fruit, the makings of a quick breakfast. Opening a blueberry yogurt, he went out onto the second floor balcony to inspect the grounds in the daylight. The morning air coming up from the bay felt fresh. This was the season when one could expect rain almost every day, yet clouds shielded the sun, keeping the temperature down. Only when the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky did the heat drive a person into the shade.