DANGEROUS GROUNDS

By Sam Wolo

Having solidified his power after bringing an abrupt end to the nation’s most powerful political dynasty, newly installed Head of State James Barchue embarks on an ambitious plan to restore the people’s trust in government.  But when his second-in-command loses sight of the regime’s overall goals and objectives, a familiar and extremely crafty intelligence officer, is sent on a meticulously planned covert operation.  His handlers in North Africa have given him explicit instructions and the wily assassin is once again on the move. 

 

However, when a well-coordinated CIA counter-surveillance operation uncovers a spectacular scheme involving the Vice President, Head of State Barchue’s response spawns an unexpected ripple effect.  Sensing the political winds were changing, the head of state assembles his inner circle to devise an elaborate scheme to derail a sensitive accord with the United States.  But when a valuable government asset suddenly disappears, the regime’s worst nightmare is about to be realized.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 11, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463488635

Sam Wolo

A creator of fast-paced and edge-of-your-seat thrillers with crisp storylines that keep readers captivated, Sam Wolo holds a BA in Political Science from Dillard University, and a MA in International Relations from Howard University. A former Legislative Aide to two United States Senators, he now lives in the Southeastern United States where he is currently working on a new series of adventure novels.  Sam lived in Liberia for a substantial period of time where he gained a wealth of real-life experiences without which his novels could not have been realized.  The knowledge and foresight gained through his travels and the people he has met and formed relationships with have proven both invaluable and extraordinary.  His professional and personal experiences over the years played a significant role in the production of this action-packed thriller, and his ensuing novel, Dangerous Grounds, another gripping and fast-moving tale of international espionage.  

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SAM WOLO

DANGEROUS GROUNDS

Title_Page_Logo.ai

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2005 Sam Wolo. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 06/27/05

ISBN: 1-4208-4644-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-8863-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005903137

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Also from Sam Wolo

In The Crosshairs

for

Elaine A. Wolo

Tanae Wolo Williams

&

To the Memory of

Samuel N. Wolo, Sr.

Contents

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my parents for providing me a wealth of real-life experiences through their travels to many countries around the globe—experiences without which this novel could not have been realized. The knowledge and foresight gained through our travels, and the people I have met and formed relationships with have proven both invaluable and extraordinary. These life experiences have provided the nourishment needed to feed the huge appetite my vivid imagination demands. Thanks to my wonderful wife Toya for her patience and support. To all readers of my maiden novel, In The Crosshairs, thank you for providing me an opportunity to share my creativity with you. Your feedback played an essential role in the creation of another exciting adventure of intrigue and suspense. My gratitude also goes to those who contributed to this book, but chose to remain anonymous.

PREFACE

For as long as can be remembered nations have had shared interests, not friendships. This was especially true during the Cold War. For obvious reasons the Superpowers never engaged in direct combat as a means of winning allies and influencing the decisions of other nations. Instead, they used diplomacy and blank checks. But when shuttle and pocketbook diplomacy failed to motivate leaders of tiny mineral rich and globally strategic nations, less flattering methods of generating cooperation were brought to bear.

The usual result—regime change. And in many cases the choice of successor was the lesser of two greater and unpredictable evils. As such, the selection process was more of a gamble than a science. This seldom used foreign policy approach sometimes backfired—but not often. However, when it did, the outcome was disastrous. In Zaire it produced Mobutu, and in Uganda it created Amin.

But officials in Washington could never in a million years have prepared themselves for what the latest shakeup would mean for U.S. foreign policy objectives in the region. Once again a tyrant had slipped through the cracks, and like so many others before him he had ambitious designs of his own. Only this character was slightly ahead of his time. Liberia was in the midst of an incredible transformation, and all parties to the shakeup soon found themselves on dangerous grounds.

DANGEROUS GROUNDS

CHAPTER I

Freetown, Sierra Leone, 11:51 p.m. (local time)

From tree to tree, the bearded man moved cautiously through the darkness hugging the heavily shrub-covered fence-line of the eighteenth century colonial estate. Once the residence of the former British colonial ruler, the property had been restored by a wealthy Belgian diamond dealer and converted into a luxury hotel and resort in the seaside Sierra Leonean capital of Freetown. Known as the Cape Sierra Hotel, the south side of the building overlooked the steel gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean below.

Having been inserted into the country two days earlier, the man was confirming the surveillance team’s assessment of the target before the principal arrived. The fully loaded 9mm Glock automatic, equipped with a liquid engineered suppressor, was clutched tightly between his palms as he moved. With his index finger pressed firmly alongside the trigger and the hammer engaged, the man shortened his paces as he reached the corner of the ten-story cobblestone tower. Focused and on high alert, the man was on guard against any sentinels his surveillance team may have missed. Reaching into the left pocket of his Kevlar vest, he pulled out a small mirror, stuck it out approximately two inches from the wall, and tilted it from side to side until his mark was in sight. Through the smoke gray glass, he could see the doorknob on the emergency exit. There it was, just as the map had indicated—his insertion point. Rotating the mirror to acquire an expanded view of the perimeter, the man quickly retracted it and tucked it back into his pocket. The scene was non-threatening.

With the perimeter clear, he moved swiftly around the corner and scampered towards the door. Quickly scanning the four corners of the door for tripwires, he gave the knob a hard turn and a firm pull. The steel door released a subtle squeak as it opened. Slithering into the shadowy stairwell, the man discretely closed the door and stood in complete silence for ten seconds. Satisfied that he was alone, he began searching for the packet he had arranged to have waiting for him under the staircase. Bending to one knee and reaching under the base of the staircase with his outstretched hand, the man let his fingers do the walking. Clenching his hand into a fist as it latched onto a brown nylon gym bag, he recovered the parcel, unzipped it, and verified the contents. Quietly acknowledging the due diligence of the housekeeper he had recruited to ensure the door was left unsecured and the parcel delivered, the man zipped the bag, placed the strap over his head, and shifted the bag behind him.

Reaching for his black paramilitary boots, he peeled back a one-inch piece of black tape he had placed on the left heel of the boot and plastered it along the top left corner of the door. In the event the door was tampered with, he would need to expand his options. His years of training and experience in special operations and counter-surveillance with Istikhbarat al Askariya, the intelligence wing of the Libyan military, had taught him how to avoid ambushes and booby-traps. Clasping his weapon in his right hand and moving it towards the back of his upper thigh to shield it from view, the assassin stayed close to the wall as he made his ascent.

Floor to floor the man moved with absolute stealth. Arriving on the sixth floor, the intruder stepped softly onto the landing and moved towards the gray steel door in front of him. Pausing as he took inventory of his surroundings, he looked up at the red and white sign above the door—it read, Exit. Before entering the guest quarters of the hotel, the man needed to know that he would be alone in the corridors on the other side of the door. Sticking the 9mm in his waistband, he rotated the nylon bag around to his abdomen and unzipped it. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a micro video monitor. Attached to the top of the monitor was a directional fiber-optic cable. He would use the device to see under doors and around any corners he came across. Secured in a dark gray leather pouch, with a strap attached to the sides, the five-by-five inch black and white monitor transmitted live feeds captured through the eye of the fiber-optic cable. Placing the strap over his head—the monitor hanging just above his belt buckle—the man stuck the eye of the six-foot long cable under the door to see what was on the other side. Maneuvering the eye from left to right with the tiny joystick, he watched the monitor closely. The well-lit hallway appeared to be clear. Retracting the cable, the man slid on his latex gloves, slowly turned the doorknob, and pulled the door towards him. Entering the quiet corridor, the bearded man moved quickly across the plush tan and burgundy carpet until he reached the door he was searching for. Shutting his eyes in a tight squeeze and standing completely still, he listened for any curious activity. Hearing nothing, he stuck the eye of the cable under the door to room 632 and studied the monitor again. The room was still.

Sayeed Adib Fawwaz had been waiting a long time for this moment, and it was finally here. After months of careful planning, his hard work had paid off. He had found his man. However, a few hours earlier his services had been contracted by a wealthy financier who was missing a very valuable case. As such, Sayeed’s meeting with his asset would have to take a back seat. Satisfied that his entry into the target was not compromised, Sayeed put the monitor back in the bag and reached for a tiny pouch clipped to his belt. Pulling out a platinum-plated card, he slid it into the electronic entry system. The green, yellow, and red lights on the mechanism blinked and the digitally enhanced card unlocked the door. Sayeed cautiously entered the room and closed the door. Once inside he extracted a silver ink pen from the pouch. Disguised as a Parker pen, the instrument was a device used to locate hidden microphones, otherwise known as bugs in his line of work. Depressing the button on the top of the instrument, a red light on the tip of the pen began to flash as Sayeed moved across the room sweeping the device from left to right. Beginning with the bed, he swept the room inch by inch.

When he was satisfied the room was clean, he put the bug detector away and moved towards the window. Confident he could make his escape without being detected, Sayeed glanced at his watch. His timing was perfect. Placing his surveillance equipment on the coffee table, he extracted the Glock automatic and double-checked the suppressor and safety latch. With his countermeasures in place, the assassin waited in the dark room—his hand wrapped snugly around the rugged grip of the custom fitted 9mm weapon.

As Sayeed measured his breathing, an electronic passkey entered the keypad on the exterior side of the door. The Libyan watched as the door handle tilted downwards and the door opened. The target was in sight. Suppressing his nervous energy, Sayeed kept his eyes on the rotund man as he entered the room and shut the door. Clumsily, the fat man activated the deadbolt lock and flicked on the lights. Turning to walk towards the bed, he suddenly froze in his tracks.

Huhhh!!! The stunned man gasped in astonishment at the sight of the tan-complexioned stranger standing ten feet in front of him. Sayeed leveled the 9mm at the man’s head. Staring at the menacing thick black suppressor pointed at his forehead, the man quickly re-tooled.

Who sent you? he snapped in a brave stance.

A man who doesn’t see so well, Sayeed replied with a cold stare. He wants his stones back.

The man with the patch? asked the doughboy arrogantly.

What’s in the case? Sayeed demanded, as he brushed aside the man’s question. Allowing himself to be easily distracted, the amateur looked down at his attaché case. Sayeed’s index finger flexed. The top of the man’s head caved in as the silencer coughed. The doughboy crumpled to the floor as the high-powered round collapsed his skull—the case resting beside him. Sayeed moved quickly. Grabbing his equipment and the case, he snatched the "Do Not Disturb" sign off the door handle and opened the door. Placing the sign on the exterior handle, he began his escape.

Retracing his steps with the same level of caution he exercised coming in, Sayeed headed for the stairwell and began his descent—the 9mm clenched firmly in his right hand.

Hugging the wall as he moved, he soon reached the bottom of the staircase. Sayeed studied the tape above the door for a few seconds. It had not become unglued—a sign that the door had not been compromised. Calmly shifting the bag back to his abdomen, Sayeed unzipped it and pulled out a dingy baseball cap that read, Cape Sierra Maintenance.

Tucking his weapon back in his waistband, he pulled the cap down low across his forehead. Letting out a series of coughs that sounded like a seventy-year-old chain smoker, he pushed the door open and let it slam behind him. Adopting the swagger of a local middle-aged male, he swore in a moderate tone as he walked into the night air. Sounding like a disgruntled hotel employee frustrated after a long day on the job, his masquerade drew only polite attention as he disappeared into the darkness.

Eight Hours Later

The green and white taxi cruised down the shiny blacktop driveway and pulled into the breezeway of the angelic resort-styled complex. The passenger in the back seat absorbed the scenery as the vehicle coasted to a complete stop. Reaching into his attaché case, the man inquired about his fare in a thick British accent.

How much do I owe you?

Six Leones, the driver replied pleasantly.

Here’s a ten, the man replied, keep the change.

Thank you, sir.

The Bellman opened the rear door of the vehicle and a neatly dressed gentleman of European descent, wearing a blue single-breasted business suit, stepped out of the taxi carrying an overnight bag and a brief case. Measuring his steps, the man headed for the double doors at the entrance to the hotel—his thick mustache befitting his curious demeanor. As he strolled towards the Front Desk, he scanned the faces in the lobby to make sure none of them were familiar. The delegates of member states to the Mano River Union were in the Sierra Leonean capital for their annual conference, and he could not afford to have his cover breached. Intelligence officers from third countries usually infiltrated these conferences to recruit officials of foreign governments, so the man’s extra vigilance was not an exhibition of overly cautious behavior.

The Liberian Foreign Minister was attending this conference, and the man had come to meet with him regarding some business left unfinished as a result of circumstances beyond their control. The two men had been out of contact for almost a year, but the traveler had been tracking the minister’s movements through various sources and methods, and was finally able to set up today’s meeting via a message delivered through the Libyan ambassador to Liberia. Because of the nature of the discussions, the two men had to conceal their meeting. For that reason, the traveler took special care in maintaining his cover. Traveling under an assumed name, and satisfied he had not been compromised, the well-dressed man approached the hotel’s registration desk.

Welcome to Cape Sierra, how may I help you? asked the Reservations Clerk.

Yes, reservation for Jack Hume please.

Certainly, sir.

The lady completed her check-in procedures, and handed the gentleman his key.

Okay Mr. Hume, you are in Room 723. Go down the hall to your right, and you’ll see the elevators on your left. Your room is on the seventh floor.

Thank you, the man replied.

You’re welcome, sir. Enjoy your stay.

The traveler grabbed his case and bag, and headed for the elevators. Once upstairs he looked for anything unusual. There was no movement on the floor. As he moved through the hallway, the reverberation of television sets emanated from behind the closed doors of occupied rooms. With the hallway coming to an end ahead of him, the numbers he was looking for appeared on the door to his right—Room 723. The traveler placed the electronic card into the keypad, unlocked the door, and gently pushed down on the door handle. With the door open, he reached his hand into the room and flicked on the lights. Pushing the door open a little wider, the man scanned the room for anything suspicious. Seeing nothing, he stepped in and peered into the bathroom to his left. It was clear—the shower curtain pushed to the side.

Sensing the scene was clean, he secured the door, put his overnight bag on the bed, and placed the attaché case on the dresser. The traveler scanned the room for a few seconds and then reached into his jacket pocket. Pulling out the silver detection device, he pointed the bug detector at the ceiling fan. Moving cautiously, he swept the radio, telephone, and the television set—waving the device across the screen twice. Then he knelt down and swept under the bed. Finally, he scanned the bathroom. The entire room was sanitary. With his counter-surveillance measures complete, he peeled away his artificial blonde hair and mustache, removed the bluish-gray color contact lenses from his eyes, and picked up the telephone receiver. His nicely tanned skin fit the disguise. Once again Sayeed had entered the facility undetected. Dialing a three-digit extension, he waited for a response. After two rings, the voice of a middle-age man broke through on the static filled line.

Hello.

Yes, sir. Your books have arrived.

Thanks! By the way, what time do you have?

It’s 7:23 a.m., sir.

Alright! I’ll be down to get them shortly, the man replied.

Sayeed hung up the phone, turned on the television, and took off his jacket. As he laid it across the back of the chair, there was a knock on the door. Sayeed walked over to the door and looked through the peep hole. Recognizing the face, he opened the door, ushered the man in and quickly removed the dime-size piece of green tape he had placed under the door handle to signal the location was safe. Making sure the door was secure, Sayeed inquired; his mild Arab accent back in play.

Did anyone follow you?

No.

Are you sure?

Yes, the man replied with tempered irritation.

Relax, Sayeed replied calmly.

No you relax, the fidgety man interjected.

I’m sorry Bulu, said Sayeed, but you can’t be too careful these days—especially after what happened last year.

Don’t remind me, Bulu replied nervously.

How was your trip? Sayeed asked.

So far it’s going well. The Mano River Union (MRU) conciliation agreement is finally coming together.

Good, one less thing for you to worry about. After all, we need your mind clear, and focused on other business. Have you been able to talk to Zoegah yet?

Yes, Bulu replied, I told him you were a heavy hitter who was looking to invest major dollars in Liberia, but that you were not interested in being given the run-around. He says he wants to talk to you. He likes to feel perspective investors out before considering doing business.

Nice work Bulu. In fact, I will be in Liberia next week. See if you can set something up then. That’s all I need—just a few moments with him. Do you think he’ll be available?

I don’t see why not, Bulu replied as he pulled out a business card and flipped it over. Here’s Zoegah’s home telephone number. He asked me to give it to you, and to have you call him.

Good deal. I like a man who works fast. Salivating as he glanced at the numbers on the back of the card, Sayeed replied,

Tell me a little about Zoegah.

What do you mean?

You know…what are his interests? What does he like to do for fun?

Well, let’s see, he likes money, luxury cars, expensive clothes, jewelry, you name it—women; oh, and he loves to fish and hunt wild game.

Really! Sayeed exclaimed enthusiastically.

Oh Yeah, said Bulu. Give him a rifle and a forest full of wild game, and you’ve got Zoegah in your back pocket.

Hmmm! exclaimed Sayeed with added excitement as he pondered a few thoughts. What about you and your guys? Sayeed asked jovially. Are you all lying low this time?

That’s not funny Sayeed, Bulu replied with a frown, we went through hell.

Yeah, I know. But you’ve got to admit, you brought that on yourself.

Thanks to you, I’m well aware of that, Bulu replied.

Anyway, said Sayeed, let’s do this again another time. I’ll be in touch after I talk to Zoegah. Thanks for the tips.

No problem, said Bulu. I’ll wait to hear from you.

Good! Just do your part and I’ll take care of the rest, Sayeed proclaimed.

The two men shook hands and Bulu headed towards the door.

Cracking the door slightly, Bulu listened for footsteps. Hearing none, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

Sayeed quickly secured the case and his overnight bag. He would need another hotel for the night. At some point the housekeepers would gain access to room 632, and he didn’t need to be around when the local police started swarming.

CHAPTER II

One Week Later, Monrovia, Liberia, 6:33 p.m.

Partially obscured by the swaying branches of the tall coconut trees that lined the beachfront estates of the Liberian seaside capital, the sun slowly disappeared into the lukewarm waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Streaks of lightening lit up the skyline as storm clouds rolled east across the horizon. With the trees bowing in the wind and the rain rapidly intensifying, a white Volkswagen mini-bus slowed to a crawl as the driver carefully guided the rugged vehicle into the supermarket’s damp and bumpy parking lot. The distinct growl of the Volkswagen’s engine filled the strip mall as the mini-bus came to a stop. The driver, a middle aged man wearing tan shorts, a tie-dye shirt and black sandals, emerged from the vehicle. His curly gray hair, well-groomed beard and gold-rimmed eyeglasses gave him a distinguished appearance.

The man casually strolled towards the supermarket’s entrance—taking a mental picture of the scenery as he walked. As he entered the supermarket, a Volvo station wagon with diplomatic license plates pulled into the parking lot and came to a stop under the overhang adjacent to the store’s front door. The driver put the vehicle in park, stepped out, and proceeded to the rear door on the opposite side of the car. As the door opened, a youthful looking and clean shaven man, wearing a double-breasted suit, exited the vehicle as a red and white DHL Worldwide Express van, with two occupants, pulled into the parking lot. As the man in the suit started towards the supermarket’s entrance he addressed his driver.

Thanks Harry. I’ll be out in a few minutes.

Yes sir, I’ll bring the car around when you’re ready.

Entering the store, the man suddenly began to walk with a slight limp. Having visited the store on several occasions, he knew where the surveillance cameras were located, and had devised a scheme to deceive any unwelcome eyes. The man reached inside his jacket, pulled out a piece of paper from his left pocket, and grabbed a grocery cart. Moving casually from aisle to aisle, and placing items in his basket as he referenced the grocery list, the man reached the meat department. Using his peripheral vision, he glanced into the mirror to his left. Associating the attire on the principal with the description provided to him by his handlers a few days earlier, the man paused for a few seconds and then moved in the opposite direction—continuing his counter-surveillance maneuvers. After circling the store once more, he stopped in the fruit department and began scanning the freshly picked mango plums. As he looked down at the lime green colored apples on the rack below, a pale foot, wrapped in a black sandal, suddenly appeared next to the front wheel on the opposite side of his shopping basket. A perfectly ringed tan-line ended just above the visitor’s ankle.

OAU Village, 18 Miles West of Monrovia

Constructed two years earlier to host the sixteenth annual meeting of the Organization of African Unity (OAU), the Unity Conference Center lay sprawled across thirty acres of prime real estate. Well maintained and beautifully decorated with dark green palm trees and colorful exotic plants, the property was filled with festive music from the drums and saa-saas echoing in the background. The National Cultural Troupe, a group of the nation’s most renowned traditional dancers and musicians, was gathered on the front lawn preparing for their ceremonial display of dances and acrobatics. The deviously decorated Country Devil, on his fifteen-foot stilts, was swaying his way around the parking lot. His short, but menacing-looking counterpart was high-stepping in front of him—to the beat of the drums. Government officials, Diplomats, Clan and Paramount Chiefs, as well as religious clerics were in attendance. Today, the country was celebrating Head of State James Barchue’s first birthday as the new Liberian leader.

It had only been eight months since Barchue came to power on the heels of a well-coordinated U.S. backed military coup. Having initially drawn harsh criticism from Washington for what was deemed inhumane treatment of ex-cabinet members of former president Jenkins Allen Diggs, Barchue had consolidated his power and rebuilt his credibility with his backers in Washington. After releasing all political prisoners and allowing them to leave the country on their own accord, Barchue had formed what he considered a government of reconciliation. As an additional gesture of good faith, Barchue had chosen a cadre of military personnel, scholars, and figureheads from the opposition group who were once sentenced to death under Diggs, to serve in his military junta. The opposition group had also been instrumental in creating the atmosphere that propelled Barchue into power. However, the core of his political appointees was military brass and leaders from the opposition group. From the military wing Barchue named Sergeant Francis Zoegah as Vice President; Major General Charles Vani as Army Chief of Staff; General Rufus Boikai as Minister of Defense; and Colonel Isaac Glay as Commander of the Secret Security Service (SSS). From the opposition group he named Chea Bulu, Minister of Foreign Affairs; Jonathan Carter, Minister of State for Presidential Affairs; and Moses Wesseh, Minister of Justice.

As the music seeped through the huge double doors in the main ballroom, all eyes were fixated on the head table where Barchue and his cabinet were having a grand ole time. Extended bursts of laughter emanated from their table between sips of wine and champagne. Vice President Zoegah, who had adopted an extravagant life-style, was seated to the left of Barchue with a cigar tucked snugly between his fingers. It seemed, from the uncontrollable laughter at least, that everything Barchue said was hilarious. But as protocol dictates, a certain degree of polite laughter or better yet disingenuous indulgence is expected when the boss tells a joke—regardless of the punch line. Members of the cabinet were also piling on. As the latest burst of laughter subsided, Barchue wiped the blissful tears from his eyes. Struggling to compose himself, he said,

Seriously gentlemen, this has been and continues to be an exciting eight months for me. I never thought this job could be so fulfilling. I use to look at the presidency as an occupation that was extremely challenging, demanding, and beyond reproach. We could have done this a long time ago, Barchue proclaimed recklessly.

As expected, the heads at the table nodded in agreement. But