Nighthawk: African Ice

By C. Edgar North

Nighthawk: African Ice is a sequel to Nighthawk Crossing. Wanted by the FBI for murder and smuggling, Joseph Branson, Chief of the Midlake Indian Tribe, flees with his wife Hazel to the Maldives in the Indian Ocean where he is a business partner with Igor Romanoff, one of the world’s biggest arms merchants. All this is carefully watched by the CIA.

Joseph and Igor begin trading weapons for raw diamonds sourced from conflict zones in Africa (Blood Diamonds – African Ice). Joseph sets up a system to cut and polish the diamonds and profit from the added value. In the process, they wind up dealing with African Jihadists establishing the Central African Caliphate threatening to engage much of Northern and Central Africa in genocide.

Selling the cut high grade diamonds takes Joeph to Colombian Cocaine processors who trade immobile US Dollars for more mobile diamonds.

In the meantime, Hazel returns to the Midlake Indian Tribe and runs for Chief to replace Joseph. She is opposed. Her life is threatened and she kills.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Edgar North
• Release date: Dec 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463248195

C. Edgar North

C. Edgar North is a pen name for Glen Witter. He is retired from an eclectic career as a "workforce development" consultant on projects in over 30 countries for development banks, NGOs, aid agencies and private sector clients. He is writing fiction under the C. Edgar North pen name to maintain a separation from his many non-fiction publications. Inspiration for his books evolve from his many experiences in 30+ countries citing geography and enlarging some already larger-than-life characters encountered in his travels. His experiences as a volunteer firefighter and paramedic, in marine and mountain search and rescue and as a deckhand/diver with a fishing fleet also contribute. Favorite sport is scuba diving (wreck diving) with underwater photography. Second favorite sport is fishing. He is also a golfer (frustrated) and was a downhill skier until his knees blew out. So far, his fiction works are: Nighthawk Crossing; Blood, Fire and Ice; Nighthawk: African Ice; Nighthawk: Chief Hazel; and Nighthawk: The Deacon and The Art Flogger Although the plots are fictitious, technologies inserted tends to be accurate.

Book preview

Prelude 1

¹

Kelowna, B.C., Canada

A day after the funeral of his son, David, who was killed in a shoot-out with FBI and border patrol agents during a cross-border smuggling operation, Joseph met Donny, the regional Capo of the biker gang, The Devil’s Brew, for lunch in his bistro at the Oak Dale winery. As usual, Donny had picked a quiet time and ensured their table was secluded. After being served their food, Donny, while pouring a three-year-old Pinot Noir he had selected, said, I know you’re hurting pretty bad right now but we need to talk. And I apologize in advance if I offend you in our discussion. We’re long-time friends and brothers of The Devil’s Brew and we will always be so.

But?

You’ve sure fucked up our distribution system in this region.

You’re blaming me for the shoot-out?

Shoot-outs. Plural.

Why? We got jumped by the FBI. That’s all. They were following the supply lines stateside to the source.

Nope! I got it from a very reliable individual that this is all a legacy from you using that f-ing archery weapon to kill those two border patrol officers a while ago.

What? I stopped using it as I promised you!

You’re associated with a terrorist threat somehow linked to that weapon in Afghanistan. Anyway, it resulted in the Americans spending big time and money for the FBI, DEA, ATF and even ICE to track you down and in the process, they took down a lot of people in the drug distribution system on their side of the border. Add to that your successful shoot-out at Molson which very much embarrassed the Fibbies – not that they didn’t deserve it – and you have a lot of their resources dedicated to catching you.²

I wasn’t at Molson. David and Willie and Chris killed the Fibbies at Molson.

Yeah, well, you’re tarred with the same brush.

Naah!

You’re hot, man! H.O.T.! Get it?

I know that! I didn’t need you to spell it out for me. It started with the archery weapon?

My sources say you and most of the others crossing the border on the smuggling have been identified by the FBI. Warrants are out to apprehend at border crossings if and when you cross into America. Soon they’ll be approaching the Canadian government for your extradition. They’ve started picking up your soldiers on the American side. You’ve got to lay low. Effectively, you’re out of the smuggling business for now. They’re concentrating on this sector – your back yard.

Nuts. What about extradition? Are they going to try that?

Not for a while. Apparently, they have some legalities they have to hurdle first. You’re wanted on suspicion of murder, plus they want to find out how a secret commando archery weapon – same as the one you used to kill the two border patrol agents – got into the hands of the Taliban. But they’re treading lightly with that as it’s classified info they don’t want out. By the way, they arrested your two moles at Oroville Border Patrol and they’ve been talking.

Nuts. He was quiet for a while and Donny let him stew while finishing his glass of wine and pouring himself another. Then Joseph said, Well, I guess I’m entitled to some bereavement leave – at least that’s a good excuse to leave town for a friendlier climate.

Where to? You can’t go to your villa in the Florida Keys and staying in Canada may not be a good idea as Canada would have to honor a call for extradition if the Americans decide to go that route.

I have a place in mind. A friend asked Hazel and me to spend some time on his yacht in the Maldives. Then, again, I promised to take Hazel along the Great Silk Road someday to meet some friends of mine.

Two days later, after turning all the Midlake Indian Band’s affairs over to his assistant, Gloria Muntz, Joseph and Hazel flew to Vancouver and caught a flight to Hong Kong where they spent a week playing tourist, then caught a flight to Bangkok, Thailand, and settled for a month at a beach front condo in Jomtien, south of Bangkok, beside Pattaya, on the Gulf of Siam. It was owned by a fellow native Indian chief from northern British Columbia, who offered it to them. They then went on to the Maldives after a stop in Mauritius to do some banking.

They eventually joined Igor Romanoff, the Russian arms dealer, on the Blue Northern II in the Maldives and took a leisurely sail over to Zanzibar on the East African coast.

¹ Prelude 1 is from Nighthawk Crossing. It is provided as background. Nighthawk: African Ice is a sequel to Nighthawk Crossing

² See Nighthawk Crossing by C. Edgar North (ISBN 9681626756632)

Chapter 1

Zanzibar, Tanzania

Igor, his wife Anna, Joseph and Hazel were enjoying a leisurely lunch on the Blue Northern II. As the day was bright and hot, the Chief Steward had laid a white linen tablecloth over the circular table on Igor’s veranda under canopy at the stern of his private deck, one level below the wheelhouse. Riding at anchor, the three hundred fifty foot Blue Northern II had swung with the tide so that they had a beautiful full vista view of Old Stone Town, Zanzibar. Panning from the left, they took in the docks at Zanzibar harbor with two compact coastal freighters tethered to the pier loading and unloading, the ferry terminal awaiting the noon arrival from the mainland, numerous wooden fishing craft marooned on the mud flats with the low tide, and down at the point the majestic, world famous Serena Inn boutique hotel with its mosquito net canopied beds. Past that was Tippu Tibb’s mansion which once was home to the renowned slave trader. Diverse local cargo craft, from barges and lighters under tow to the dhows of ancient but still seaworthy design – the backbone of coastal transportation for centuries – passed by under motor or sail.

They had been in Zanzibar only two days, having brought the Blue Northern II from the Maldives, a three-day voyage. Zanzibar, a semi-autonomous state of Tanzania, lay some 20 miles off the coast of the mainland of Tanzania, comprised of an island archipelago of numerous small islands but only two large and notable ones – Pemba and Zanzibar (Unguja). For tens of centuries, it was and still is a trading port and way stop for seafarers plying the east African coast and the southern Indian Ocean. In the past, it was renowned for both spices – black pepper, cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg – and slaves. The trading port today was mainly centered in and around Zanzibar town. Some spices were still exported but the slave trade was only a written memory. The main port, Malindi, was shallow, tending to silt up, and the docks were crumbling and sinking from questionable construction. The attempt at a free trade port industrial export zone had failed, likely because of political instability and a poor quality labor pool. However, an international airport, tropical climate, clear and warm ocean and copious white sandy beaches had resulted in a tourist boom and the establishment of beach resorts – much to the consternation of the large subsistence-level local population that saw no benefit. Offshore, significant oil had been discovered but had yet to be developed. The population was restive and the government unstable. Hence, the political parties were separate customers of Igor, the arms merchant.

The Zanzibar Chamber of Commerce and Industry was central to any business dealings, with the members controlling who could do business. They influenced the government and got their way – as they had been doing for centuries. Igor called them the Gatekeepers as no business of his nature could be conducted without their approval and participation. Igor had carefully nurtured a positive relationship over the years and it had paid off. Many of the trader members of the Chamber were his customers who, in turn, supplied the many conflicts in the Eastern African region.

After spending an hour in the ship’s fitness room followed by a massage, Hazel and Anna had been suntanning but had covered up their bikinis with white-laced frocks. They were good friends, enjoying each other’s company, and between them, able to keep busy with various activities and excursions while the men were at work.

Hazel and Anna were opposites in complexion. Both were beautiful. Hazel’s Native American blood line could be seen in her light mocha complexion, deepened slightly with careful suntanning which helped accentuate her long jet-black hair. She had the long fingers of a pianist, an oval face with high cheekbones, dimples, brown eyes and a trim leggy five foot seven inch, one hundred thirty-five pound frame. She was in her mid-forties, had excellent bearing, cultured manners and a pleasant personality that had been perfected at an exclusive women’s college in Ontario, Canada. On top of that, Joseph had told her many times that he loved the brains, perception and business sense which had made her his most trusted partner.

Anna, by contrast, was a Nordic-Russian beauty with bright blue eyes, short cut natural blonde hair that had been further lightened by the sun, an oval face with pronounced dimples, sharp, perfectly proportioned nose and tight lips, slender neck, ample bust. She was a slim five feet six inches, one hundred thirty pounds and had what Igor called perfect ankles. Anna was some twenty years younger than Igor – his second wife. She had started as his executive assistant and the timing for both was perfect for a whirlwind romance that led to now fifteen years of marriage.

Igor and Joseph had just returned from a meeting in Old Stone Town with executives of the Zanzibar Chamber of Commerce and were similarly dressed in light fabric khaki slacks, brown leather sandals (made and bought in Zanzibar) and long-sleeved, but lightweight, shirts, Igor’s ice blue with the ship’s logo on his left chest side, and Joseph’s maroon red. The long-sleeved shirts were worn in deference to the Chamber of Commerce members who were all Muslim. It was customary, despite the tropical humidity in Zanzibar, to wear long sleeves and long pants when on business.

Igor Romanoff, a notorious Russian entrepreneur and known arms dealer, didn’t look his sixty-three years. Joseph well knew his history of ruthlessness honed in the bureaucratic infighting of the KGB and Kremlin of the former Soviet Union. When the new Russia was formed, Igor had managed to grab significant corporate assets at fire sale prices, often just taking over by rule of force. He had been careful to play the diplomatic game with the emerging and aspiring leaders in the political turmoil of the New Russia, assisting all parties financially and with his large and growing network of contacts at home and abroad. He made it clear he never wanted a role in politics and this had enabled him to develop his empire without interference. It was rumored his major partner was the Russian government. In the new Russian order, he also played a role in intelligence gathering.

Like Anna and Hazel, Igor and Joseph were physical contrasts. Igor was Nordic-Russian, handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, tanned and slightly overweight with two hundred pounds on his five foot ten inch frame. Joseph, by contrast, was forty-nine, a Native American Indian from a small tribe on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State. At six foot two, one hundred ninety pounds, with jet black crew cut hair and near black eyes, he was a very handsome man. He had spent eight years in the marines, much of it as a Navy Seal. When he left the service, he finished a B.A. degree in business management he had started while in the military. He became the very popular activist chief of the Midlake Indian Band in the Okanagan of British Columbia, Canada, where he and Hazel met, settled down managing the affairs of the Midlake band, perfecting the art of cross-border smuggling, and producing four children, three boys and a girl. David, the oldest boy, had been recently killed in a shootout with the FBI. The remaining three children, Veronica, Mike and Martin, were away in university.

The Blue Northern II, with five decks above the waterline, was one of two Igor currently owned. Both had cost upwards of US$400 million. There were rumors to the effect that military analysts classified the vessels as auxiliary Russian navy vessels (Intelligence Gathering) but the paper trail of ownership on the Blue Northern II rested entirely with one of Igor’s companies registered in the tax haven of Mauritius. The roof of the wheelhouse on the top deck and the mast behind it sprouted a vast array of communications aerials and dishes. One deck above the waterline, on the stern flagstaff, where customarily a flag is flown identifying the country of registry of the ship, a flag of the small island tax haven of Mauritius was waving gently in the offshore breeze. The yacht bore a huge logo of a blue polar bear on the front of the wheelhouse below the panoramic windows.

Small talk had centered on the visit to the Chamber of Commerce building, a three-story ancient stone and mortar structure deemed to be over five hundred years old, situated deep in the rabbit warren of the old town. Igor test sipped and approved a superb chilled South African white wine before continuing with business: We could never have found that place without a guide! The streets are all narrow – a hodgepodge, as the British say – with blind alleys, no easily discernable landmarks. Thankfully, a member of the Chamber picked us up at the quay, and escorted us there and back. That place is unbelievable! Anyway, we broke for lunch and we meet again about two p.m. – that gives them time for private discussions over lunch and prayer time. Someone will meet us at the quay again.

A very fit male Nordic crewman – blond, blue eyed, about forty years old in white slacks and socks and deck shoes and a light blue polo shirt with a monogram of the ship’s name and logo, came up beside Igor and waited discreetly for a pause in the conversation. At Igor’s acknowledgement, he leaned forward, whispered in Igor’s ear and handed him a note. Igor looked at the note and said, Thank you. I’ll come to the ops center. He looked at Joseph with a stern, poker face and said: You’d better come too. He leaned forward to get up. Excuse us, ladies.

On the way down to the Operations Center, four decks below, Igor said: Looks like a problem at Minora Fushi. I’m getting this second hand from our mole, Mohammed Haleem, in the President’s office, but it looks as if there’s been an explosion that obliterated the island. Some are saying a drug lab blew up.

No!

Apparently, it happened last night but the Maldivian navy wasn’t able to reach it until mid-morning. Let’s see what the story is…

Igor led the way into the communications center, spacious with a round lazy Susan board table that could double as a dinner table with plush chairs for eight. It was windowless, being deep and central in the ship. At one end of the room there was an array of radios, computers, flat screen TVs and other electronics behind a glass partition with two people working at computers, a man and a woman of obvious northern appearance, casually uniformed in white pants and polo shirts. The woman and man came to attention when Igor came up to them. The woman said: I have Mohammed Haleem standing by in Malé. He’s on the encrypted line. Do you wish speaker phone?

Igor nodded. She pushed a button and said into a speaker on her desk, Here’s Mr. Romanoff for you, Mr. Haleem.

Hello Mohammed, Igor said. My greetings to you. I’ve got my partner, Joseph Branson beside me. We’re on speaker phone. What’s going on?

Mohammed Haleem, age forty-six, an inner circle confidant-advisor to the President of the Maldives, said, "You’ve got quite a problem here. Last night, in the early hours of this morning, that is, there was a series of explosions on your island, Minora Fushi. The explosions were felt and seen over thirty miles away by residents on some of the other islands.

"Some islanders got into boats and set out to see what happened. The navy was notified and a coastal patrol boat was sent to investigate but didn’t arrive until ten a.m.. Some islanders were first on the scene by dawn and reported back that everything on the island had been destroyed but they managed to find seven survivors. They gave first aid and loaded them on a boat to bring them over to the hospital. Regrettably, two passed away on the five-hour journey to the hospital. The surviving five are being treated in hospital.

I talked by phone with one of the rescuers accompanying the survivors and he said when they asked the survivors what happened, none could explain. It seems they were all asleep when it happened.

Igor said, There were twenty-seven or so on the island. What happened to the rest?

Some bodies have been found. I am not yet sure of the count, but at least five have been recovered. Apparently no buildings were left standing. There are two large craters from massive explosions, so deep that sea water has filled them. The Navy arrived about ten a.m. and took over and I am awaiting a full report from the on-scene commander.

Mohammed, thank you for the update. I know you have very good medical services in the Maldives, but I am always concerned for my people. I’ll cover the costs of the best medical services possible, if you can arrange it?

Thank you, I’ll see to it. It may be that some may have to be transported abroad to India or Sri Lanka but we await more information. It would be nice if you paid the rescuers who transported the survivors to hospital – the fuel is expensive and it was a great distance. Regrettably, there were no seaplanes available so the survivors had to be transported by boat. The rescuers must also be commended, perhaps rewarded? The people who volunteered to transport the survivors are annoyed they did not have much chance to grab anything salvageable, that the others may have benefited. I am afraid that, between the civilians, who are very poor in that region, and the navy, that which is salvageable – even concrete blocks – will be taken. You will have nothing left there.

Yes. Good point. I’m not too worried about salvage. We’re more worried about the treatment of our people. Please, right away, tell rescuers they will be very well compensated for the fuel and the wear and tear on their vessel or vessels and for medical supplies. Then later, you and I can come to agreement on what is appropriate. Perhaps also something to benefit all the villagers – such as a desalination plant?

That will be excellent! But you have a problem: all survivors have been arrested and are under guard in the hospital. The authorities assume you were operating a drug lab to supply illegal drugs to Maldivian citizens. This news has already spread wildly throughout our media – TV, radio, newspapers and internet. There are even videos of the devastation and debris of weapons and drugs on the island that the rescuers took and put up on social media. Even though the people in the area are very poor, there are always cell phones.

Nuts!

"You know that our law presumes guilt first and you have to prove your innocence? I would be careful that our judiciary also presumes you, as owners, to be guilty. You, even the ship, are likely to be arrested when you and or the Blue Northern II enter Maldivian waters again."

Can you help to work something out?

Certainly, as long as this affair does not embarrass the government.

I guess we start by reminding your President and his entourage and the leadership of the political opposition that we have had a mutually beneficial relationship?

Of course. Even I have visibly benefited when you volunteered to fund fifteen civil service salaries in lieu of our requirement that you hire fifteen Maldivians at your research island. Your generosity is funding the salary of my new web page designer. And, we have found your prices and quality and delivery vis a vis arms to be of merit. You have supplied us well for the past decade.

An excellent start; we must meet with your leadership and work something out. Can you discuss this with the President and his planners and, if there is willingness to accommodate, can you arrange to permit myself and Joseph safe passage in the Maldives – at least for the duration of our discussions and exit from there?

I am confident I can be of service that way, shall we say for my usual fee to the usual bank, in advance of course? I recommend you come by ship and remain on board.

Agreed. BUT a bonus of $50,000 to you upon our safe exit – for the ship, for me, Joseph, all crew and guests aboard.

I’ll get back to you but this may take a day or so.

Thank you. We’ll be standing by.

Igor turned to Joseph and said: I guess that’s all we can do for now. We may as well continue our discussions with the Gatekeepers of Zanzibar commerce and industry. I’m not sure if we should set sail for Maldivian waters tonight or wait a bit. Let’s give it some more thought.

Chapter 2

At 2 p.m. Joseph and Igor were met at the quay by the Secretary of the Zanzibar Chamber of Commerce and Industry, Mohammed Safil. As they walked into the labyrinth of Old Stone Town, a few questions from Joseph prompted Mohammed to talk. He was proud that his ancestors had been traders based in Zanzibar for over nine hundred years. The family company was staffed by siblings and cousins, currently supporting seven extended families. Their trading outreach was up and down the East African coast, ranging to the islands of Madagascar, the Seychelles, Comoros and the Maldives in the south and east and to India, Sri Lanka, the Red Sea and Arab Gulf to the north. Even today, in addition to some seven coastal freighters, his family enterprise included a fleet of one hundred twenty sailing dhows plying the Indian Ocean. In addition to the coastal countries, his firm traded as far inland as the Congo, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Rwanda, Uganda, the Central African Republic and the new state of South Sudan.

He was proud his family lived in Old Stone Town, just a short walk from his office and next door to the office of the Chamber of Commerce. He pointed out his house, and some of his brothers’ as they made their way deeper into the maze. Joseph noted that Mohammed’s house, four stories with an unpretentious stone front, identical to almost all in the rabbit warren of the old town, seemed to cover half a square block. He commented on this and Mohammed replied, Yes, unpretentious to the street. We keep our comfort out of sight. We live quite well. Room for servants, my wives, my parents, and currently, eight children. We have an inner courtyard and all our rooms open on to it.

Currently? Igor asked.

Yes, we are expecting our ninth child in a few months.

Congratulations!

Ah, we’re here!

As they walked up the well-worn steep stone steps to the third floor meeting room, Joseph again mused that he would never have found it by himself. They entered the room, large but Spartan, with plaster walls once lightly painted blue but now dusty and aging, ceiling and walls flaking from the ravages of moisture and musty smelling, even though the room had tall windows running fully along the walls on two sides, open to catch the prevailing breeze. The furniture was basic and well used plain wood, and Joseph wondered if it was from a previous century, or earlier. Aside from the ancient-looking light fixtures, which were clear bare bulbs hanging on chords from the ceiling, there were no electrical outlets and no electronics– save for the personal cell phones of the people in the room. The room was dominated by a large weathered bare wood table surrounded by bare, plain, wood chairs. Six men were seated at the table. They were all familiar to Igor and Joseph from their earlier meeting.

Mohammed Safil took a seat at the head of the table beside Mustaf Haziz, President of the Zanzibar Chamber of Commerce and Industry. He motioned for Joseph and Igor to sit in the same seats they had previously, and opened the discussion. "Gentlemen, we have had our break,