Carmichael sat back in her padded chair, trying to conjure a reason to decline the suggestion.
Martha Whitney: smart, sassy and articulate. She read people well — a product of the Detroit streets. Because Carmichael and Whitney were influential women within SSI, many staffers assumed they were close. It was a reasonable conclusion: both were single mothers— Carmichael with two daughters, Whitney with college-age sons — who had been successful in a previously all-male environment.
Carmichael could not think of a valid reason for voicing opposition, other than the fact that she cordially disliked Martha Whitney. That made Carmichael a member of a big club. “Well, I suppose we can consider her.”
Leopole spread his hands. “What’s to consider, Sandy? My God, she’s smart, she’s capable, she’s qualified. And she’s black!”
“Yeah, I know,” she said resignedly. “That would be an advantage in Chad.”
“Well then?” Leopole allowed the question to dangle in midair.
“Well, for one thing she’s a staffer without much field experience. I mean, she’s very good at what she does but…”
“That sounds a lot like
“I’m just saying that in a heavily Muslim country a woman isn’t going to be accepted as an authority figure.”
“She doesn’t have to be in authority Sandy.” Leopole was tiring of the sparring. He thought that he knew what lay behind Carmichael’s aversion to Whitney. The forty-one-year-old Detroit native had proven her worth in CIA covert ops before joining SSI, where her Agency contacts were valuable. Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael envied Whitney’s record as an agent — something Carmichael herself relished, but she knew that she would draw too much attention in the field. Her prom-queen good looks were a detriment in most situations.
Sensing his advantage, Leopole pressed ahead. “There’s something else to consider.
“You know I don’t.” Carmichael was semifluent in Italian.
“Well, one of her grandparents was Haitian. She passed the government fluency test in French. Eighty-three percent, I think.”
Peters, who had not run SSI recruiting until recently, was barely acquainted with Whitney. “How much of that sassy mouth of hers is legit and how much is insecurity?”
Leopole shrugged. “Damifiknow. But I tell you what: I’ve seen her at work. When things get reeeal tense, she’s pretty damn cool. Jabbers like a blue jay when the smoke clears, but Martha can hack the program.
“There’s another advantage, and for obvious reasons I wouldn’t want it repeated. I mean, she’s an overweight black woman who’s not very attractive. Nobody’s going to look at her and think she’s a threat.”
Carmichael shot Leopole a feminine dart.
“Tactical, babe. Tactical.”
Omar Mohammed, who had grown to like Frank Leopole despite their initial coolness, decided to intervene on the former Marine’s side. “As long as we are committed to Chad, a black woman would be advantageous. She could be especially helpful in surveillance.”
Leopole nodded his crew-cut head. “Absolutely.”
Peters merely said, “Concur.”
Carmichael threw up her hands, literally and figuratively. “Okay.” She tended to twitch her nose at such moments. Leopole wondered what it was about Sandys — he had never known one who wasn’t downright cute.
Nobody had ever said that about Martha Whitney.
9
“Alex, they are moving again.” The younger member of the surveillance team spoke into his lightweight headset. As the limousine pulled away from the Hotel D’Afrique, he let it go halfway down the block before he kicked his Vespa scooter into gear. He trailed it at a discreet distance, using some of the capital’s traffic to screen his presence.
His earpiece crackled as the carrier wave was activated. “Maintain contact,” the senior partner said.
The limo departed the hotel in the west side of town and took the street parallel to the Chari River, passing the U.S. Aid office just off Gouverneur Felix Eboue. It passed the federal buildings, town hall, and police headquarters along Rue du Colonel Moll, the avenue commemorating a notable French officer who died in 1908, fighting tribesmen near Djirbel.
The scooter tailed the limousine through a dogleg right through the Place de l’Etoile on General de Gaulle. From there it was nearly a straight run up Commandant Curlu, passing the National Assembly on the left en route to the airport on the north side of the capital.
Approaching the passenger terminal, the limo’s brake lights came on. The Vespa driver checked his tail, swerved to the corner just ahead of an ancient Citroen, and stopped beside a taxi stand. He gave the attendant a ten-dollar bill worth about five thousand Chad francs and promised another if the Vespa was still there in an hour or so.
The chauffeur and passengers emerged from the limousine: four men and a woman whom the surveillance operative confirmed as his marks. He turned away from them as they struggled with their luggage, speaking discreetly into his handset. “Subjects arrived at departure. Proceeding normally.”
“Continue observation” was the terse reply.
With the aid of the chauffeur, two passengers and a couple of porters, the luggage was taken to the Air France counter. Following check-in the three travelers exchanged farewells with their hosts, the older man and the woman, apparently his wife. She was fortyish, well coiffed, and gave each traveler a continental kiss: left cheek, right cheek, left.
The Vespa driver noticed that during the parting the older man spoke with one of the travelers with earnest brevity. A heartfelt hug and they parted. The older man and woman returned to the limousine.
The limo had diplomatic plates. Anybody with knowledge of the numbers would have identified it as belonging to the French embassy.
While the surveillance operative walked toward his scooter he made one more transmission. “Subjects departed for Paris.”
As he reached in his pocket to pay the attendant, he was approached from behind. Strong, silent men grasped each arm, took him a few steps to the curb, and shoved him into a waiting van. The door slid shut as the Volkswagen drove away.
10
Leopole asked, “Jack, have you heard back from Main?”
Jack Peters felt a bit defensive; he had ceded some of his responsibility to Sandra Carmichael, head of foreign ops. “Not yet — it’s only been a couple of days. But I told him that we need small-arms and tactics instructors qualified in French and Arabic. The most likely prospects are Special Forces guys since one of their missions is training local people.” He almost said “indigenous personnel” but thought better of it. SSI was not big on Pentagonese.
Leopole twirled the pencil between his fingers. “Well, these days the French part shouldn’t cause much fuss.
