The country had gone through a horrendous civil war since Stone had last visited, and he wondered what he would find when they left the treed suburbs and headed downtown. Here in the bubble provided for the Americans, the world felt safe, with gentle smells, brightly colored flowers, and noisy birds.
From inside, Stone heard something drop on the kitchen table and knew Sandra was up and about. Back inside, she sat at the table, face buried in her hands.
“Did you hear me make all those trips to the john last night?” She looked up with red eyes. “I caught a bug.”
“Intestinal parasite. Could have caught it anywhere. Maybe you should stay here today.”
“No way. Got to keep you and Craig on friendly terms; besides, I’ll see the post doctor. Hope he’s not on a road trip.” She looked around the room. “Any crackers here? I can’t have coffee or anything that will make me feel worse.” She settled on dry cereal.
Stone left her alone to gather herself and went to shower and shave. He assured her he would spend minimal time in the bathroom.
As they waited for the shuttle to take them to the embassy, Stone went over the day’s schedule. They would meet with Craig, see what he knew about Dirk Lange, and find out what he had planned as support for his meeting with the South African. “Whatever information Lange has, we’ll pass on to Craig and cable it back to CIAHQ.” Stone rose from the bench as the van arrived. “That will be that and off we go. Short and sweet. Unless we run into more trouble.”
“I’m getting curious what this fellow Lange has for us.”
“So am I.”
When they boarded the van, Stone recognized the driver from his last visit to Freetown. They exchanged nods, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Seated, he continued his conversation with Sandra. “It’s apparent that there are people, obviously jihadists, who don’t want us to meet Mr. Lange. Or maybe someone just doesn’t like me.”
“You have a tendency to piss people off. Like the terrorists back in France.”
From the American compound to the embassy, sections of the route, especially the crossroads, looked familiar. Here and there, homes and buildings lay in ruin, but the people treading along the sides of the road had more confidence in their stride than he’d witnessed in Liberia. Bicyclists accompanied the pedestrians; still, their clothing looked worn and drab. On his last visit, Stone had seen young African children in school uniforms like those worn in England. Not today.
The road winding through the suburbs, wide enough to allow parked cars on either side, narrowed as the van entered the city. Three-story buildings, their facades stained with mold and dirt, lined the streets. Along the curbs, vendors displayed their wares of fruit, breads, and recycled appliances and tools. The driver constantly held down the horn, urging pedestrians to move off the street.
“Ah. There it is,” Stone said. “The Cotton Tree.”
Ahead, standing in what Freetowners considered the center of town, stood a tree matching in height the nearby eight-story Electricity House, the headquarters for Freetown’s spotty electrical supply. It commanded the central square.
“And the significance?” Sandra asked. Her face had regained some color.
“The people here sort of revere it. I was hoping it didn’t get chopped down or destroyed during the rebel siege.” Stone studied the thick limbs and green leaves extending out umbrella fashion. “I guess superstitions work for the good sometimes.”
“How’s that?”
“People believe spirits live on the top of the tree. Some claim they see the spirits dancing.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Not that I’ll admit.”
Luke Craig looked in a better mood than he had the night before on the ferry. He sat erect behind the desk in clean khaki slacks and appeared confident in his role as station chief. Peering over his reading glasses, he zeroed in on Stone. Craig informed him he had just reviewed the morning cables from headquarters. “It appears that the executive council takes your visit here seriously. Specifically, Gustav Frederick, who is pretty close to the director, is urging we move swiftly.”
“I’d like to interview this Dirk Lange today and get the report out by close of business,” Stone said.
Craig looked over to Sandra. “I assume you two will be talking to him.”
“Luke, I’m under the weather,” Sandra said. “We were told the medical officer is heading off on his road trip today. I’d like to visit him before he departs.”
Craig took an exaggerated breath and continued, “The station has very little on what’s happening here with your visit. I assume it’s important. Care to fill me in?”
Stone related the details of the meeting with Jacob in Monrovia. “Aside from the headquarters briefing back in Washington and what Jacob told me about this fellow Lange, that’s all I know.” It was time to find out what Craig knew. “So what information does the station have on Lange?”
Craig steepled his hands together. “Headquarters just said to provide support, and, by the way, our personnel resources are a tad thin. We can lend only limited countersurveillance when you conduct your meeting.”
“Which gets us to Lange,” Stone said.
Sandra jerked forward in obvious pain from a cramp.
“Better get to the doctor before he leaves,” Craig urged.
“Sorry, you two. Will be back.” Sandra hastened out of the office.
“Occupational hazard in these parts.” Craig paused as if he didn’t quite know how to handle Stone one-on-one. He started on what sounded like a rundown appearing on a baseball player’s stat sheet. “Dirk Lange. Age thirty-two, South African national, white Afrikaner.” He moved some papers on his desk. “Let’s see, he’s been here in Sierra Leone for two years, oh no, more than that now. May have been working somehow with a South African mercenary group. Now works for an export company that handles minerals—”
“Diamonds, I assume.”
Craig looked him in the eye. “That’s the lucrative commodity hereabouts, yes.” He went back to his sheet of paper. “Lange seems to be involved with a humanitarian organization here. Spends a great deal of his free time in the bush finding the victims of the last carnage and bringing them back for rehabilitation.” He pushed the sheet away and steepled his hands again.
Stone waited.
“This Lange fellow is typical of your white Africans. Comfortable with his surroundings here on the continent.”
Stone nodded.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks,” Stone said.
“Lange is rather educated. Engineer. Did postgraduate work at the University of Cape Town in the classics, can you believe?” Craig became evasive. “Went to a religious school in what we call high school. Dominican-run place. Suppose that’s where he got his charitable instincts.”
That did it. Stone now knew the station had an extensive file on Dirk Lange. A mere cursory trace would have resulted in name, date of birth, and any criminal background. The agency had gone back into his early schooling. Lange was now or had been a person of interest.
“You have an address for him?”
“His office is only a few blocks away. As you probably know from your previous visit here, most businesses are clustered downtown.”
“Close to the Cotton Tree.” Stone pulled out a three-by-five index card and a pen. “I’ll need a business and residence address.”
Craig smiled ever so slightly. “Don’t know where he lives. Here, give me that card and I’ll write down the number and street where he works. I suppose you’ll contact him this morning?”
“Yes, but first I’ll check on Sandra.”
In the embassy’s medical unit, Stone found Sandra looking piqued. Asking how she felt, she shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m wasted, damn it. Can’t possibly help with the meeting.” The driver of the van came to the door. “I’m asking this gentleman to take me back to the apartment.”