EBOLOWA 12

12

 

Niamey, Niger.

 

     Over a thousand miles to the north Marc Benet had been on the terrace of the riverside Sahel Hotel watching the sunset, a giant orange sliding into a shimmering surface of red and gold.  It was one of the scenes on the postcard “the Glories of Niger” he had just written to his daughter.  He licked a stamp, a new one for her: a silver and beige graphic of the uranium mines at Arlit. He put the card into his bag and in his mind crossed off another day.  He glanced at his watch and right on cue the headwaiter came through the doors from the main restaurant.

     “Phone for you, Monsieur Benet,” he murmured as he reached the table, “Mlle Yasmin.”

“Merci,” he said and followed the man back to the booth in the lobby. 

“Bon soir Yasmin.” 

     “Bon soir Monsieur.  Two calls - - one from Marcel in Douala, and one from M Dayak who says the truck is on schedule to cross the border at ten o’clock.”

“Très bon.  Did he say anything else?  Exactly?” 

“What he said,” she said firmly, “was that it was always a pleasure to do business with Destination Sahara.”

     “Thank you Yasmin.  And the American?”

“I took him to the hotel.  He loved the air conditioning!”

     “They can’t live without it.”

“He speaks some French, but with the funniest accent.”

“It’s Cajun - - from Louisiana.”

“I know,” she said, sounding slightly put out.

“Of course you do.  Well, thank you so much for working today and remember, please take Monday off if it suits you.  I‘ll be in the office tomorrow unless we have trouble at customs.”

“Last time it took all night.”

“Don’t remind me.”  It had been the first sign of Gaddafi’s meddling.  “Hopefully tonight will be better.”

“God willing.  Bon nuit Monsieur Marc.”

     He bid her good night and put the phone down, ruminating a moment and rubbing the scar on his cheekbone.  He mailed the postcard in the lobby and bought a couple of bottles of cheap cognac from the bar.  He had just settled the bill when a tall man took him gently by the elbow - - Seyni Amadou, the main Citroen dealer in Niamey.  They shook hands.

     “Business that bad?” asked Amadou, wrinkling his nose at the cheap brand.

     Marc lowered his voice.  “I’ve got a consignment coming across at Malanville - - ”

      “And you don’t want to be there all night.  Naturally.”  Amadou nodded and looked around, “this Libyan business is making my life hell.”

     “Us too.  Bookings are down.  Maybe Gaddafi will find somewhere else to meddle.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“I won’t,” he said with a grim smile: he always expected the worst of his enemies. 

 Amadou leant close and nudged him with his elbow, “anyhow, a little bird told me you were making plans.”

“I’m always making plans.”

“Huh,” Amadou waved an elegant hand, “anyhow, good luck tonight.”

“Thanks.” 

He’d never relied on luck and wasn’t about to start now.  He went out into the balmy air and followed the river.  His paddle steamer was the largest and most ornate vessel moored at the quayside.  He paused at the broad stern to look at the repairs before continuing to the gangplank.  Half way across he was caught in the beam of a powerful flashlight.

     “Pardon Monsieur Marc,” called a voice as the light was promptly switched off.  “I didn’t realise it was you.”

     “That’s all right, Albert.  It’s your job.  I’m expecting a visitor.  An American called Blake.  Show him up.”

     Marc’s office was one of the more spacious cabins on the upper deck.  He dumped his bag before crouching down and twirling the combinations on the safe.  On the top shelf was a Colt .44 Magnum and a box of shells.   He loaded it and put it into the desk drawer before going out to watch a taxi swing off the main road and free wheel down to the quayside.  A lithe young man climbed out of the back.  He was dressed in a light linen suit with soft loafers and white socks.  His blond hair was cropped short like a GI and he carried a smart briefcase. 

     Marc looked on, sizing the man against his paper profile:  Luc Pleven, late twenties, background haut bourgeois, powerful patron, arrogant, glittering CV and a novice, wet behind the ears, a risk.  Marc cleared his throat and leant out of the shadows and into the moonlight.  The young man looked up and nodded before crossing the gangplank and taking the stairs two at a time.  Marc waited for him at the top.

“Welcome to Niger, M. Pleven,” he said.

It should have been Guy.

 

Pleven grasped his hand and Marc stood back as the young Frenchman savoured the moment of triumph: his first service mission accomplished and the perfect rendezvous, a paddle steamer on the Niger.  An ideal script: he was on the point of punching the air but at the last minute picked up Marc’s vibe and held back.

“It’s a beautiful boat M. Benet,” he said instead with half a bow.  “Everyone talks about it in the piscine.”

“Really.”  Marc turned into the office, a converted cabin with two portholes and a desk and chair.  “Sit down.  Can I get you anything?  A coffee or a glass of Evian?”

The young Frenchman couldn’t suppress a smirk and Marc read his mind: mission accomplished, it said, and he’s offering me fucking mineral water.  So uncool, what a jerk! That was what they said in the piscine: the fucking gypsy didn’t drink, he’d converted to Islam, and he never, ever joined in.  No style, no sense of occasion: he just didn’t belong.

“I said, coffee or Evian?”

The young man’s smirk disappeared.  “Non merci.”

“Hotel ok?”

“Fine.”

“What about customs?  They’ve been tightening up.”

“No problem,“ Pleven said, putting his US passport down with a snap.  “Piece of cake.  This would fool the CIA.”

“And the package from Foccart?”  The whole point of the mission.

“In here,” he said, flipping the brass locks on his case.  “It’s real genius, straight out of James Bond - - look - - ” He opened the lid and slid his hand under the lower flap to release a false bottom and reveal a stack of pornographic pictures.

Marc looked on.  “What’s the point?”

Pleven smiled, a hint of condescension.  “In case customs found the compartment.  I was going to say I was smuggling a bit of porn on the side.”

“Not from France.”  Marc gave the postcards a dismissive glance.  “They’ve got Pigalle written all over them.  You’re supposed to be from New Orleans.”

Pleven coloured.  “But with a ticket via Paris.“

“I know.  I planned it.”

“Not this bit.”

“No.  At least your crew-cut and accent seem to work.”

Marc had created the cover persona:  Collis Blake, a paddle steamer technician and the only guy who could be trusted to refit the boat.  It was just a courier job, nothing glamorous but close enough to the front line to make it a tough first assignment. 

Pleven was fiddling with the lining in his case and triggered a second level secret chamber. “Voila, the package,” he said, “clever, eh?”

He held Marc’s eye, no doubt taking note of the damage, “clouded like a smudge of chalk on a blackboard,” somebody in de Gaulle’s entourage had said, and like everything else about that trip in 1940, the impression had lasted.  Ever afterwards Marc’s reputation preceded him, the famous limp, the impenetrable stare, and his not giving a damn. 

Pleven emptied the package in front of him: two stacks of banknotes and a bankbook for Credit Suisse.  He flipped through it angrily.

“Where are the passports?” he asked.

“They’re not ready.  Colonel Foccart said you’d understand.”

“I don’t.” 

Pleven shrugged as if he was just the courier and put a counterfoil on the desk.

“You need to sign this.  They’ve tightened up since your day.”

“I didn’t have a day.”

“Oh really,” Pleven said closing the case.  “Well, that’s it.  My job done.”

Marc stopped him and put the money back inside.

“You’ve just signed for that,” he said with larded patience.  “You’re responsible for it now, not me.”

“What did Foccart tell you?”

“The background obviously,” he said airily.

“Meaning?” 

“Well, the Arab oil embargo and our switch to nuclear - - “

“I meant the operation here.”

“The basic plan.”

“Which is what?”

“Well, the arms are coming in from Dahomey and the commando unit will come over on one of your adventure tours like a Trojan horse.  They’ll be expecting the paras so the ground attack will catch them off balance and we’ll get control of the Presidential Palace and the radio and TV station before anybody knows what’s going on and Colonel Kountché will do the rest.”

“When?”

“Midnight April 14 - - “

“You’re telling me that Foccart briefed a courier with all that?”

Pleven reddened furiously, “I needed to know - - “

“You needed to deliver a package, that’s all.  Anything else would’ve put the operation at risk.  Somebody else told you.”

“I was fully briefed by the Piscine - - “

“Like hell.  Even they aren’t that dumb.”  The idiot was lying.  “What if customs had bust open your fancy case?”

“I’ve done the service’s course on interrogation.“

“Bullshit.  You’d have been babbling before they’d even pulled your pants down.” 

Pleven leapt up.  “How dare you - - “ but his voice turned into a piercing screech as Marc slammed a hand into his crotch and crushed his testicles in an iron grip.

“Who told you?”  He pressed his face tight to Pleven’s.  “Whoever they are is a security risk.  Foccart should be informed.”

Pleven was standing on tiptoes to ease the pain.  “Mmm-y father - - “

“Your fucking father!”  Marc pushed him back into the chair. “I should’ve guessed.  Did he clear his breach of security with Foccart?”

“He’s in the Colonel’s confidence.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

“They have a long history together in the service of General de Gaulle.”

“Sure they do!  You all do, but right here it’s my life on the line and my business.  I don’t give a fuck about your father or de Gaulle.  Did your father also tell you I had a different first choice?  Guy Martin.  A renegade, thrown out of the Service in Biafra - - I’m sure they told you all about him as well.”

“No - - I didn’t even know his name.” 

“What did they call him then? Casanova?”

“I haven’t a clue.  I told you I don’t know anything about him.”  He struggled to his feet and started to take the money out of his case.  “I’m finished here and I might as well warn you now that I intend to file a report for assaulting a fellow officer.”

Marc seized the idiot’s wrist.  “Go ahead! Do it in triplicate for all I care, but leave the money where it is.”

Pleven shook him off and glared.  “Why?  You requested it.”

“You’re not taking it back.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

Marc ignored his outburst.  “How’s your shooting, M. Pleven?”

“I came out joint second.”

“Bravo.” He reached into the desk drawer and came out with the Magnum.  “Here.” 

“What?”  Pleven gawked at it, his face agog.

“Try it.”

“It’s too big - - not my style.”

“Get a feel for it, you’ll need to.“

Pleven’s face paled with panic. “I was only briefed for a courier job.”

“Come come,” said Marc, turning the knife, “a young lion like you with such a distinguished father should jump at the chance of a bit of real action.” 

“I don’t like not being prepared - - ”

Marc thrust the gun into his hand.  “That’s why I’m giving you a little practice.”

“It’s not practice I need,” he said, passing it back. 

“You sure about that?  They can be pretty scary you know.”

“Who?  The Libyans?”

“Libyans!”  Marc snorted.  “No, not Libyans, but big scaly bastards more than four meters long.  You need something like this to stop one.  Feel the weight of it.”

“I thought you meant really using it.”

“Really using it?  On Gaddafi’s men?  Is that what they tell you in one of Foccart’s seminars?  Heroic deeds on the front line?”

“Of course not.”  Pleven put the gun down, clearly fuming: he looked as if he would’ve happily shot Marc stone dead.  ”What’s all this about crocodiles anyway?”

“Just a diversion.”  Marc put the gun into the case and shut the lid.  “Gaddafi’s guys have made things a lot tougher.”

“But what’s it got to do with me?”

“You’re coming with me to meet the shipment and it’s a good spot to hunt crocs.”

“But I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, an American.”

“That’s the idea.  You’re a diversion.  Securité knows all about you already.  They’ve tapped my phone and listened to us talking.”

“But I haven’t talked to you on the phone - - ”

“The real M. Blake has.”

Pleven looked stunned.  “Blake is real?”

“Sure, an old friend from the Legion, a good old boy from the Bayou who likes to hunt alligators and fancies a pop at a croc.  You should know your cover story for God’s sake.”

 “I should’ve been briefed.  Colonel Foccart said it was just a courier job - - ”

“You have to think ahead in this game and it’s not a good idea to put everybody in the know.  People leak, even top brass from the Deuxieme.”

“You should’ve cleared it with Colonel Foccart.  He’s running the operation.”

“Not out here.”

“But it could go wrong - - ” the young Frenchman said.  “They might find the guns.”

Put into words, the prospect was clearly appalling, and he looked up into Marc’s dark deep-set eyes with something akin to a plea, but Marc just pushed the case across the desk and picked up his walking stick.  The handle was a knobbed like the knot of a thorn tree.

“You’re on the front line now,” he said and Pleven flinched.  “Not some pampered office in the Piscine.”

And with that Marc turned away leaving Pleven to follow with the case.  The Magnum banged against the side and for the first time the young recruit wondered if he’d made the right career choice.  He felt sick.  He was breaking a cardinal Service rule by exceeding his brief without authorization and for a second he panicked and thought of pleading illness - - he was going to throw up, the unfamiliar diet, he was sorry - - but one glance at the forbidding figure ahead was enough to stifle the thought and he trudged after him across the quay to a battered four-door Toyota Land Cruiser.