Hurtubise is all about results. He just doesn’t care who gets trampled as long as he gets what he wants. It can’t be proven, but it’s the next thing to certain that he or his people got rid of the other French PMC guys.” Johnson paused for emphasis. “If this FGN outfit starts to regard us as competition in any way, it could mean big trouble.”
“What’s FGN doing here, anyway?” Whitney asked.
Lee shot her a grin. “Bingo — the sixty-four-franc question. As Gunny says, we’re not doing the same thing — at least it looks as if Hurtubise and company aren’t involved in training. The most we can find out right now is some sort of security work. Not just here in the capital but up along the border as well.”
Foyte asked, “Where are they based?”
“They have an address near the French embassy but apparently that’s just a room with a phone and a mail drop. Near as I can tell so far, they move around a lot, in and out of the city. I’ve asked Roosevelt to see what he can find, but he’s pretty high-profile, being an attache.” Lee turned back to Whitney. “Martha, I’d like you to snoop around, ask some discreet questions and see what you can learn. Don’t risk drawing attention to yourself, but maybe develop some contacts in our embassy and theirs.”
“Will do, Maje. I done already got a cover as a stenographer.”
Johnson looked at her. “I didn’t know you can take dictation.”
She waved a bejeweled hand at him. “Honey, I can’t write a word in that chicken-scratchy text. But I remember conversations for quite a while afterward. I can write ‘em down or use a recorder.” She winked broadly. “Mind like a platinum trap.”
“Uh, I think that’s steel trap/’ Johnson replied.
“Well, sweet cheeks, some folks got steel minds and some of us got platinum.”
She waved bye-bye and strode out of the room, humming “Hello, Dolly!”
29
The metallic cacophony was grating to refined ears. Grinding gears, scraping noises, and diesel engines were not the ambience either of the observers ordinarily preferred. But they both acknowledged that occasionally one had to endure unpleasant surroundings in order to reap the potential benefit.
Overlooking the open pit, Felix Moungar and Marcel Hurtubise took in the machinery and surveyed the surroundings. Other than the dilapidated huts that once housed the workforce, they were satisfied with what they saw.
“There has been much progress since our last inspection,” the government man offered. “I trust that your team will be able to maintain security for the time required.”
Hurtubise nodded. “My men are already moving in. Some of them may grumble about living in tents, but they understand the need for secrecy.” His meaning was easily grasped: the less attention drawn to the once abandoned mine, the better. Construction of even temporary quarters would tell any observers that something beyond routine maintenance was under way.
Moungar shrugged in indifference. The discomfort of a dozen foreign mercenaries was of little concern to him as long as they maintained order and secrecy for the duration of the renewed mining. Still, conditions in the Sahara were strenuous at the best of times: sand that found its way into every orifice, beastly heat, and furious winds.
But Hurtubise had greater concerns. He suspected that one or two people at the embassy in N’Djamena might have grown leery of his true allegiance — an entity that had little to do with the current crop of Paris politicians — but if he acted fast enough, his goal would be achieved and he could finally retire. Somewhere suitable both to Gabrielle and himself. Switzerland was nice…
Hurtubise forced his attention back to the job at hand. He asked, “What of the yellow cake processing?”
Moungar unzipped a wry grin. “It goes slowly but steadily, my friend. We should have enough for a shipment in a week or so. After that, as much as your… customers… can manage.”
“Well, as you know, they do not require a great deal. Just as long as the shipments get sent by the deadline, we will both be wealthy.”
The African grinned again.
As they walked around the periphery of the mine, the unlikely partners exchanged concerns. Since Groupe FGN was hired to provide security, Hurtubise looked inward as well as outward. “Felix, tell me again about the workers you have hired. How reliable are they? Some of them are bound to talk about their time here.”
The African waved a dismissive hand. “Naturally, my associates and I would prefer that none of them discuss their work. But we are going to keep them busy with minor chores after the shipment. Nobody will be permitted to leave until I know that the yellow cake has reached its trans-shipment point.”
The Frenchman regarded his colleague with renewed confidence. In his experience, most Africans were so nearsighted that they seldom thought beyond the next paycheck, or even the next meal. But knowing who was funding the project made a difference as well. Deep pockets combined with astute planning formed a powerful inducement. “What do you propose if some workers get too eager to spend their pay and want to leave prematurely?”
Moungar gave the ghost of a smile. “Why, I propose to let your men handle that problem.”
Marcel Hurtubise’s own smile came to life, far more than a ghost.
Paul Deladier nudged his partner. “There she is.”
Gabrielle ran a quick assessment of her target. A black American woman, mid to late forties, on the heavy side. But she seemed aware of her surroundings. Gabrielle’s brain defaulted to her years on the street before Marcel found her. This woman would not be an easy mark: alert, large, and probably strong. An experienced mugger or strong-arm bandit would look elsewhere.
Gabrielle Tixier was not looking for a snatch and grab purse theft. She was after something more difficult — information.
It had been a long wait outside the American compound, but not entirely unpleasant. Gabrielle and Paul had played the role of flirtatious young Europeans visiting an exotic land, and despite his absence of deodorant on occasion, Gabrielle found the well-built Gascon a tolerable companion. She knew that Marcel would understand the tactical reason for her arms around Deladier’s neck.
She
Gabrielle gave Deladier a not so quick kiss on the cheek and waved as he turned to go. In truth, he would duck into a vendor’s stall about twenty meters away.
After all, the American might have a partner, too.
Feigning interest in some fruit, Deladier watched the young woman walk toward her intercept point. Not quite thirty, Gabrielle always looked good from behind, especially wearing tight jeans. He suspected that her saucy walk was more calculated than natural, but the effect was pleasing to males on at least two continents.
Deladier purchased some dates and leaned back to enjoy them without looking directly at Martha Whitney. She was approaching him on the opposite side of the street, making her way through pedestrian traffic, but he did not want to be recognized as the young man who had bummed a cigarette a few days before.
Gabrielle suddenly turned right, sprinted in front of an ancient Citroen taxi, and feigned frustration at the seeming near miss. The driver laid on the horn, prompting a Gallic snit expressed in blunt Parisian French unsuited for a well brought up young lady.
Stepping to the sidewalk, purposefully looking behind her, Gabrielle Tixier collided with Martha Whitney.
From his stall, Deladier admired the tradecraft. Even to his experienced eyes, the incident appeared accidental, and he could almost read the young woman’s lips, profusely apologizing to the older lady.
In less than four minutes by his imitation Rolex, Deladier catalogued Tixier’s progress: from collision to apology to discussion to an interval in a tea shop.
