Pro A.
07-27-2005, 06:57 AM
The Final Downfall By: Chris Vavra
©MMV
February 2, 1994; Libya 1
He had one appointment scheduled for the middle of the day. He had gone through the security detail with the two potential clients before even agreeing to the meeting. Both of them were Rwandan Nationals that worked for the President of the country. Sinar Masak didn’t remember the President’s name. There were too many names going around and he didn’t have time to remember the complicated ones. He doubted that it would matter to them. Most of the rulers in Africa were despots that ruled on fear and fear alone. The head of Rwanda was no exception to the rule. He looked up his name just as the two men walked inside.
Habyarimana. That was the name.
The two men that walked into his office were a bit shorter than Masak and they had several war scars on their faces. Masak didn’t know much about their culture, but he was willing to bet that they boasted about them all day long. Masak looked up and motioned for them to sit down. The two men did so. He looked over their names because he didn’t remember who they were. He put his index finger on the piece of paper and he mumbled their names through his teeth.
The taller one with the scar that ran down his face. His name was Malatuk Kibyama. The other man, who was shorter and missing two fingers on his left hand was Tital Sibimen. Both of them were wearing business suits and carrying briefcases. Masak took a minute to gather his thoughts and then he looked at them. Their faces had no expression. Total deadpan. He cleared his throat.
“Welcome to Libya. I trust you had a safe flight.”
Sibimen cut right to the chase. “Look, let’s make this quick, all right? We don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.” His voice was harsh and filled with anger and fear. His eyes went red. Masak guessed that his early life was one that he would prefer to forget, given the chance.
Kibyama put a hand on his shoulder and told him to calm down. Sibimen nodded, but his eyes didn’t let go of the fear and the hate that boiled through his blood.
“Yes, the flight was very nice.”
Masak nodded. “Good. Well, I, too, have a pressing agenda and I can’t be here too long.”
“Trying to get rid of us? You hate black people, don’t you?”
Masak ignored Sibimen’s outburst. “Now, you contacted me about a job available in Rwanda. What do you want me to do?”
Kibyama cut to the chase this time. “Kill the President.”
Masak showed no facial reaction. He looked at both of them and let the comment sink in. When it was done, he leaned forward and put both of his hands on the table. “Kill him? Why?”
“He’s going to start the Arusha Peace Accords. He’s going to let the Tutsis in and take power that is not theirs. They are being given power without earning it like we have. We must keep the balance of power in Rwanda, and the only way to do that is to have him pushed out of the way and have a stronger leader come in.”
“I see,” Masak said. “This is a coup d’ etat.”
“Exactly. We need someone who is an outsider and has no affiliation. We checked and you fit the profile perfectly.”
Masak nodded and rubbed his brow. He didn’t have any business to speak of in Rwanda. He didn’t care what happened in that part of the continent because there was very little value in working with a landlocked country that had no viable economy. The only countries in Africa that he had investments in were Libya, Egypt, Algeria, Morocco, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Somalia, and South Africa. The rest were useless pieces of territory that could slaughter one another. Maybe then there would be profit. War always meant profit. There were plenty of factions that would need weapons when war broke out, and that was where he came in.
“Well, before we go any further, I need a few pieces of information.”
“Like what?”
“When do you want to do this?”
“In two months.”
“Okay, in April. What method do you prefer?”
“We’ll leave that up to you. Just so long as the paper trail doesn’t come back to us.”
Masak thought that was fair enough. “How much?”
“$500,000.”
Masak almost snickered at the two men. “You must be joking. There are contracts for the President of the United States worth twenty times that. I won’t do it for anything less than two million dollars, U.S.”
Sibimen looked like he wanted to reach across the table and grab his larynx. “You can’t extort us. We can just find someone else.”
“Yeah, and I’ll bet they screw it up.”
“There are plenty of professionals who are willing to kill for far less than you.”
“Are any of them at the top? I doubt it. Let me tell you something, Sibimen. I have been in the business of killing people for more than fifteen years. I know how it is done and I have played just about every different angle in the book. There is nothing that I don’t know about. I have earned the ability to demand whatever price I want. If you don’t like it, fine. But, before you do get around to thinking of someone else, just remember that you won’t have the best doing your dirty work.”
There was a long silence. Kibyama leaned over and whispered some words into Sibimen’s ear. He listened and cursed at him in guttural whispers, but he continued to listen. When they were done, Kibyama opened up the second round.
“What about 1.5 million?”
Masak considered the offer and he thought it over. It was a bit of a step down, but with the assassination of a President, especially in Africa, there was no telling what could happen next. The possibilities were limitless and it might open up the avenues in Central Africa for the first time since the major civil wars in the Congo came to a cease-fire.
“Deal,” he said. They shook hands.
“We’ll contact you when we’re ready.”
They left the office and Masak summoned his ops chief, Varush Salaam, right into his office. Salaam walked in holding a clipboard and with a pen over his right ear. He looked stressed and his eyes were red and bloodshot.
“How are things in Bosnia?”
“Hard to say. Our clients have been standing mute for a while now.”
“Give them time.”
“Yes, sir. How did the meeting go?”
“Very well, I think. There is promise for the future, as always.”
“Of course, sir.”
He bowed and walked away. Masak turned his attention to another part of the world, one that was on the edge of exploding into chaos and violence. In the back of his mind, he didn’t think that the Rwanda idea would go through. He believed that the two clients would be assassinated, exiled, or would have second thoughts. Killing a man as important as the President was a job reserved for the few and the fanatical.
Somehow, these men didn’t fit the profile.
March 31, 1994 2
The time passed and not a word came up from the people in Rwanda. Masak had his own problems right now. The operation in Bosnia was a disaster and he had been forced to take drastic measures to ensure that the bloodshed would escalate, which it did. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had decided to take an interest in the former republic of Yugoslavia. Masak still found plenty of clients waiting in the wings, but the market was getting tighter. It was harder for him to make the profit that he demanded every single month.
After three weeks of trying, he decided to let the sides battle each other. He moved on to other prospects. There were some jobs in the Far East that interested him, especially in Hong Kong and Taiwan. There was a lot of raw opium going through the channels and Masak considered the possibility of getting in on that trade. The Triads, the Chinese Mafia, would be pissed, but there was money to be made even as a middleman.
Masak went to his office, which was on the second floor of an old Air Force base that he had bought from Qaddafi several years ago. They had been friends when they were younger and Masak decided that he could use a new base because working underground in Morocco seemed to be a killer for morale. The Libyan leader had agreed to the terms, but the only condition was that they operate like an Air Force base. That wasn’t a problem for Masak. He had six MiG-12 jets and several Russian and Chinese helicopters in his arsenal. The central network couldn’t cover every single square inch of the base, but so far it seemed to fool the spy satellites, which was all that mattered.
When he got inside, he sat down at his desk, which was made of American oak more than 150 years old. It was a special antique. The design, which was during the Victorian Age, made it more opulent. He had bought it through a discreet channel at an auction in London three years ago. He had to admit that not everything the Americans designed was a piece of garbage. This was a fine work of craftsmanship.
Masak, who was a little past 40, had been in the freelance department (or so he liked to call it) for the last ten years. Before that, he had worked with the Libyan military and had been involved with black operations. Because of his contacts in the military experience, he had been able to build an international network with little trouble. His body exuded charisma, as well. He was 6’4 and had a strong, powerful build that defined power. There was always that belief that tall people could become powerful leaders (his favorite example was Abraham Lincoln, who was 6’6).
His desk was littered with papers and reports that were from all over the world. He tried to keep them in order, but that never seemed to work no matter how conscientious he was about it. He was about to go over some of the financial reports from Colombia when his private line started ringing. He grabbed the phone.
“Yes?”
“Sir, its Taba. I have a guy from Rwanda. Wants to speak with you.”
“Patch him through.” Two clicks later. He could hear heavy breathing on the other end of the line. “Yes?”
“It’s Kibyama. Come to Rwanda in three days’ time.”
“Very well. Have half the money ready.”
“Half?”
“Standard procedure. Just to make sure you’re not going to pull a fast one on me after the job is done.”
A heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “…Very well. It’ll be ready.”
“Thank you. Out.”
3
After the call, Masak brought Salaam and a few of his agents with him. He explained the phone call and what would be happening next. Salaam was one of the few in the organization that knew about the possible deal in Rwanda. Salaam listened and asked him right after if there was a chance that the men involved would try to cheat them. Masak didn’t think so only because they were desperate for help and they would take what they could get. Salaam shrugged.
“I don’t know if they need the President dead now or not. Do they?”
“Well, they did mention something about the Arusha Peace Accords coming into action soon, but I don’t know. Maybe the President is moving ahead with his intentions.”
Salaam lit a cigarette, fine Turkish. He took a few puffs and released small circles above his head. “Either way, we’re facing a situation where we might have to question what our clients are going to do afterwards.”
“Perhaps. That’s why I asked for half of the money up front.”
“Which is… how much?”
“750.”
Salaam nodded. “Good. We can use that to help start our drug operations in the Far East.”
“You have any recommendations to head the operation down there?”
“Richek. He lived in the Far East for several years and is part Chinese. He knows Mandarin and would be the logical choice for what we’re heading in for.”
“I’ll consider it,” he said. He personally favored one of his best field operatives, Bin Denal, as the choice. He had fought in Afghanistan and had spent several months working in China afterwards. He knew several underworld contacts that would be able to make the network a success from the outset. Richek’s problem was that he hadn’t been to China in sixteen years and he would have a hard time making the transition to a new type of world where the Triads showed no mercy. They didn’t have to settle on this right now, though. They still had time to make their decision. The network didn’t need to be established until June 30, which was when much of the major drug ports would start harvesting their poppies in the fields in Afghanistan, Southern China, and Pakistan.
He motioned to the two men standing by Salaam. Both of them were of similar height, around 5’9. Their AK47 rifles were slung over their shoulders and they stood to attention like military officers. Masak wondered if it had been necessary to adopt close to every aspect of the military in their daily grind. After a while, he decided that he could have done worse. It seemed to give his men better focus when they went out and did their operations.
“You’re coming with me to Rwanda, both of you.”
“In three days, right?”
“That’s right. Bring standard equipment. I’m sure they’ll have something that we will have to use, but I’m not sure.”
The men nodded and Masak dismissed them, waving both men away with his hand. When they left, Salaam sat down on the opposite chair and he fiddled with his cigarette, which was sitting between two of his fingers.
“Well, this is an interesting mission, to say the least, boss. Are you sure you don’t want me to handle it?”
“No, that’s all right. They’re probably expecting me anyways.”
“Yeah, I guess, but still… we don’t even know if they’re going to stay with it.”
Masak smiled. “Well, they don’t have any choice now. Even if they back off, I’ll do it anyways. I have a contract and I am going to fulfill it.”
Salaam knew he would say that. He was very set in his ways. When he went out to do something, he would not stop until it was finished to his satisfaction. In regards to killing a President, he would make sure that the President had more than one bullet between the eyes when he was finished with him.
In Masak’s eyes, that was a precaution.
April 3, 1994; Rwanda 4
With Qaddafi’s permission, they used a stripped-down double-engine plane to get down to Rwanda. It was not registered to the Colonel or to anyone in the government, so for all intents and purposes this would be a private citizen coming down for a few weeks’ holiday to see the sights and to revel in the brutal conditions that the people lived in. Even flying over the land, Masak could tell which lands were run by the rich Hutus and the ones that the Tutsis were forced to squander in. The color of the trees and the foliage was much browner for the Tutsis. The Hutus could afford to have their own water supply and not have to worry about a thing. Money would take care of their problems.
The airport that they landed on was run-down and had shoddy hangars that looked like they had taken a beating from the heavy rain and boiling heat that descended on this country. The plane landed in the far hangar. Masak wasn’t surprised to see that no one was there. This was a private flight. He was certain that the two men they had spoken to were checking the daily log books with the control tower anyways. It was only a matter of time before they moved from their hermit shells and came out to greet them. They walked from their hangar, carrying a duffel bag each, and they walked down to a local hotel that was a mile away from the airport. They checked in as guests and each got a single room.
Masak’s room was elegant. It was owned by the white man, so it would be above-average. He would have been content with any hotel. This just happened to be the first one they ran across. Pure luck, nothing more. They stayed in their hotel room and meditated on their future mission for a few hours and then met for dinner in the hall. They ate a nice dinner that consisted of steak and wine. Masak had to admit that this was the best meal he had eaten in a while. The meat, medium-well, was quite succulent. He took a bite and he savored it for a moment. His eyes scanned the room. There was a young black man playing the piano, a sonata. The waiters were also black. The young gentleman that had served them was a tall, wiry fellow that had very few scars on his face. He guessed some family had taken him in when he was younger and raised him as one of their own, or he wound up becoming an indentured servant forced to make money.
Masak was about halfway through with the steak when he saw his two contacts walk into the lobby. They spotted him right away and they walked past the table, ignoring the maitre ‘d who wanted to know if they had a reservation with the hotel. Masak waved him away, saying that he had been expecting them. He nodded, unsure of what to do next, and he turned away. Masak greeted them and invited them to take a seat. They sat on either side of him and their eyes pierced into him. Kibyama, sitting on the left, put down a steel briefcase.
There was no reply in the black eyes and he went to his cigarettes. He lit up and he took a couple of drags, waiting for them to start going through their little discussion in chapter and verse.
Kibyama started it off. “Well, I’m glad to see you picked a good location for your stay. Any problems with the airport?”
“No. Did you just go around looking at hotels at random?”
“More or less.”
“We thought we’d never find you. You shoulda called us,” Sibimen said.
Masak took another drag. “I would have, but I didn’t have a phone number to call.”
There was a resentful stare from the representative, but he didn’t say anything.
Masak looked at both of them. “You know, you can order something. I’ll pay for it.”
Kibyama looked at Sibimen, who shrugged. His body expression said “I don’t care”. Kibyama nodded and he ordered some grilled sol with white Chianti. Sibimen ordered the same, but made his wine a Chardonnay.
“A fine choice,” Masak said.
“You are a connoisseur of good food and wine, Mr. Masak?” Kibyama said.
“Not really, but I seem to do well for myself.”
“Steak? I thought you A-RABS didn’t eat meat.”
“Some don’t, but I think you’re thinking of Hindus, Mr. Sibimen,” Masak said. He was trying to keep his voice at an even keel, but the pure ignorance of this bastard was starting to wear down on him.
“Whatever. It’s all the same.”
Masak ignored him. He turned his eyes to the briefcase. “That the money?”
Kibyama nodded. He was about to hand it to him, but Masak turned him away.
“Not here,” he said, taking another bite of his steak.
“Where?”
“Airport.”
“You have a car?”
“No.”
“I’ll arrange one for you.”
“Thank you.” Masak continued eating his steak and by the time he was finished the food had arrived for the two additional guests. They ate in silence, talking only occasionally about meaningless things.
So many roundabout clichés. Sibimen asked about the flight, which was typical in of itself. Masak thought he would die of boredom. The piano player seemed to pick up his body language and he moved to a more upbeat rhythm that seemed to keep him out of the lull for a little while. When they finished their meal, Masak took care of the bill and he tipped the waiter and the piano player. When they walked outside, Kibyama said they would drive down to the airport.
5
The money was exchanged and the details of the operation started to come into focus for the first time. Masak told the pilot on the plane to put the money in a safe place. It seemed that the President was out of the country right now, which gave them the chance to work out some of the more intricate details without having anyone look over their shoulder. Kibyama said that they wanted the job to be done while he was on the plane. It would send a powerful signal to everyone that they would not go along with this farce. Sibimen said that the peace accords would be in pieces, just like his body would be.
Masak listened to what they had to say and he asked his first question after Sibimen made his snide comment about the President. “So, if you want to shoot him down, that’s fine, but I’ll need a missile launcher.”
“We have a contact we’d like you to speak with. He can get you what you need and suit it to your purposes.”
“Where is he?”
“Ten miles to the South. I’ll give you the address and some directions,” Kibyama said.
“Just don’t talk about his left eye. He’ll cut you up if you do,” Sibimen said.
“Why? What happened?”
“Some bastard tried to break into his store. They had a struggle and his left eye was sliced so bad it had to be shut. He wears an eye patch. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Masak said. “I won’t mention it.”
“Good. The plane is scheduled to land April 6,” Sibimen said.
“What time?”
“Eleven-thirty in the morning,” Kibyama said.
“Is it at this airport?”
“No, it’s on the other side of the city,” Sibimen said.
“I see. That’s pretty lucky.”
“Indeed. If we had to move it, there would be questions about just that.”
Masak nodded to Sibimen. “When do you want me to go to your contact?”
“Tomorrow. It won’t cost you anything. He works with us,” Kibyama said.
Masak received a piece of paper from Kibyama. He looked at it and nodded. It was a code. He put it in his breast pocket and he clapped his hands. “Is that all, then?”
“Yes. On the sixth, be at the airport at 0900 hours. We’ll be waiting for you at hangar #12.”
“Very good. I’ll be there.”
They shook hands and the two representatives drove back to the hotel. Kibyama said along the way that they would have a car ready for them by tomorrow morning. Masak bade them good day and he went back to his room. His XO for the mission, Tabyak, asked him why he was taking crap from them.
“For seven hundred fifty, I’ll put up with a lot,” he said.
“Hm. I guess the end result is worth it, uh?”
“And then some.”
April 4, 1994 6
They woke up the next morning at eight and they had their complimentary breakfast before starting out on the road. The car that Kibyama and Sibimen gave them was a beat-up Lotus that was at least fifteen years old. There was a note saying that the transmission could be a hassle at times, but it was nothing that they couldn’t handle. Masak looked at the list of directions. They had been written in Arabic for him. He was amazed that there was someone in Rwanda who could be bilingual outside of the tribal dialects.
He drove out of the parking lot and he moved through the capital city of Kigali. They drove through some of the nicer parts of the city, where the environment and the technology seemed to mesh almost seamlessly. As they continued to make their way through the city, everything seemed to degenerate little by little until they were in a neighborhood where the buildings were rotting from the foundation up and there were people of all ages lying on the streets. People were either wandering and meandering, looking for food or water, or they seemed to be resigned to their fate and lay on the street, their eyes slack and their bodies parched. Masak knew the sight well because he had seen it often during his time through the streets in Tripoli.
The building in question wasn’t much of a building. It was in the middle of a market, actually. Masak parked the car and told Tabyak to stand watch while they went in. He nodded and pulled out his AK47 from inside his jacket. He turned the safety off and he kept the barrel pointed towards the ground.
Masak felt there was a peculiar smell to the place as he walked past the first couple of booths, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it right away. Then it dawned on him as they passed a crazed old man selling live chickens. This placed smelled distinctly like a slaughter-house. He had been to a few in his day and there was a stench about it that was so strong one could not just turn their head away from it. The stench lingered for a long time and it made someone feel like he was in a room filled with dead people. Masak had hoped he never would have to smell that again, but it seemed that he had to suffer through a few tribulations to get the other half of the money that he wanted.
They walked to the exact spot on the map. It was a small alcove that had three men sitting at a booth. One was at front and center looking over what appeared to be a conflict diamond. His eye was looking through the magnifying scope and it illuminated from every dimension. He turned to the man on his left, who was carrying an MP5 submachine gun.
“Tell him that this is worth ten thousand dollars.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went back inside and the man continued to do his work. He didn’t even notice Masak when he sat down. He seemed to be absorbed in a world that was not his own. Masak guessed that the diamonds held some sort of fantasy for him that he would never attain, no matter how hard he tried.
His bodyguard tapped the man’s shoulder and he looked up. His eyes jerked and he turned his head to the bodyguard, asking him what he wanted. He pointed to Masak and he glanced at him, sizing the Muslim up.
Masak said, “You don’t see many markets like this these days.”
“Would you be interested in purchasing a firearm?”
“Only if it is of German quality,” Masak said, finishing the code sequence. The man, who was in his early fifties with gray hair growing in the temples, smiled and he shook his hand.
“Jilim Marrik.”
“Sinar Masak.”
His eyes illuminated. “Ah, I’ve heard of you. You run the Federation, don’t you?”
Masak didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Marrik already knew by just looking at his eyes. He thought it was amazing what they could tell about a human without the person ever having to open his mouth. It was a weapon that he had been trained to use for a long time. His days in the military continued to serve him well even after he had retired from active duty more than twenty years ago.
“No need to answer. Come into my real office.”
“Hm. What do you even sell out here?”
“Mostly diamonds. I have plenty of guards watching, so one tries to rob me.”
“I only count two.”
“They are the visible guards.”
“Oh,” Masak said. “Can’t even imagine how many you’ve killed over the years.”
“Enough to deter the people.”
Masak gave a brief salute and they walked past the canopy. The guards went out in front and they blocked the door. Masak walked through the lobby and they went to a display table that was littered with weapons and explosives. Jilim walked to the table and he leaned over the counter.
“My friends tell me you are looking for a missile launcher.”
“Yeah, that’s what was requested for the mission.”
He went to his stockpile behind him and he grabbed a case that was about two meters long. He placed it on the table with a grunt, nearly bending the steel girders. “This is an American-made Stinger missile launcher. It can pick up heat from more than five miles away. A friend of mine bought it on the black market in Panama a few years ago and I bought it for him, knowing that it would be valuable in the long run.”
“But maybe not in Central Africa,” Masak said. He scratched his beard. “I’m going to have to pass on the Stinger.”
He frowned. “Why is that?”
“Western technology is too easy to trace. I’ll need something from the other side of the Iron Curtain, either Chinese or Soviet-made.”
He smiled. “You have a good eye, then. I thought you would prefer something with power, but it seems you are looking at this three-dimensionally.”
“Protection, protection, protection.” Masak smiled, but it didn’t last. “Seriously, though. Do you have anything that is at least of good quality?”
“A few. Russian and Chinese technology is always easy to come by because there are plenty of leaks and plenty of greedy people to sell, but quality is an issue.”
“I know the feeling,” Masak said. Most of the weapons he bought came from the East because it was cheaper and often more effective in the types of operations that he chose to run.
He put the Stinger case away and he came back with three more from the back room a few minutes later. He put them on the table, a meter apart from one another. He looked at his client. Masak opened the first case and he saw a Chinese missile launcher that was designed to stay on his shoulder. Masak looked at his XO, Jamaka, and he nodded with approval. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t feel natural. Masak couldn’t explain it. There was just something inside his head that said it wasn’t natural. Looking at it closer, he could see some rust near the trigger. He put it back in the case and he went to the second one.
The second missile launcher was a larger model of the Chinese launcher and the sighting was more sophisticated. It had a bulls-eye just above the launcher. He could see everything. This was perfect. He nodded to Marrik and told him that he would take it. Marrik was surprised and asked if he would consider the third launcher, which was a Soviet miniature SAM. He declined. He knew what he wanted and he wasn’t going to deviate. He put the weapon back in the case and he closed it up. Marrik thanked him for their business.
“A pleasure to help you, Mr. Masak.”
“Thank you,” Masak said. “Perhaps we’ll get the chance to do business in the future.”
“Perhaps,” Marrik said. His voice rose in octave level. Just the idea of doing business with the most powerful terrorist in the world was enough to make his heart stop.
Masak walked outside and he took his prize. When they got back, they found Tabyak holding off some of the kids, who were begging him for money. He had tried aiming his rifle at them, but they didn’t seem deterred by it. They saw rifles pointed at people they knew all the time, even themselves. To have this stranger aim an assault rifle at them was not going to stop them from trying to get food at the table.
Masak said, “What are you afraid of? They’re not going to get you sick.”
“I know, but I don’t want to cause a scene.”
“That’s fine. I’ll get things started for you.”
He put the case in the trunk and he pulled out his pistol, a Glock40. He fired two rounds in the air. The kids dispersed and Tabyak breathed a sigh of relief. Masak looked at him. There was no emotion anywhere, but his tone said it all.
“That was all you had to do.”
Tabyak didn’t say anything. He got into the car and stayed quiet the entire drive back to the hotel.
April 6, 1994 7
At 0845 hours, the trio arrived. He told Tabyak to stay and watch the car while they did the job. This was a remote piece of land, so he wouldn’t have to worry about beggars. He nodded and he went to the backseat to grab his rifle. Masak and Jamaka walked past two hangars until they reached one that was about seventy feet in height and was rusting from all directions. The original color had been silver-gray, but with the brown-orange rust covering most of the exterior one never would have guessed that. At the front of the hangar were two men standing out near the front door. They nodded to Masak and let him inside. He thanked them and they stepped into the center of the hangar.
Standing on the catwalk were the usual suspects: Kibyama and Sibimen. Both of them were wearing their business uniforms and smoking cigars. Masak felt a little underdressed in the presence of these two, even the military guards. He chose a black leather jacket and a dark brown colored shirt with matching pants and sunglasses. He removed the latter and put them over his head, nodding to the two officials. They nodded back, their eyes almost invisible through the smoke coming from their mouths and the end of the objects in question.
Masak put the case on the table and he opened the caches. He picked up the missile launcher and put it on the end of the table. Jamaka helped him clean the inside of the launcher by dismantling it down to its fundamental parts and then cleaning every single section with some oil lubricant to make sure that nothing jammed along the way. The two men up above watched with interest as the duo worked at lightning speed to get everything prepared for the big event.
When they finished lubricating the parts, they put the weapon back together and they loaded it with two rockets. Kibyama and Sibimen came down the stairs from the catwalk when they finished and they approached their client.
“Very good work, Mr. Masak,” Kibyama said. “ETA is one hour, forty minutes.”
“Here comes the boring part,” Sibimen said. His hands were shaking and he took another puff of his cigar to cool down his nerves, which felt like they were going to burst.
“Yeah,” Masak said. He reached into his jacket and he grabbed a pack of cigarettes. He lit up with an old gunmetal petrol lighter and he took a couple of drags. On the side of the lighter was a Yin/Yang insignia engraved into it. Masak had always believed it was symbolic. Everyone had two halves to a personality. He hoped for his clients’ sake they never had to see the other half of him in full force.
It was that half that would fire the missile for the plane.
8
Ninety minutes passed and Masak received the signal that it was time to begin. Kibyama received a call from the air traffic controller, who was coordinating with the members of the detail, that the Rwandan and Burundi Presidents were going to land in five minutes. Kibyama acknowledged the call and said that they would be ready. He nodded to Masak and he walked outside through the open door. He moved the rocket launcher into position and he made sure that the sights were ready. Kibyama mentioned to him that they did have a heat-seeking tracer in the interior of the plane so it would lock on.
“Which direction is the plane coming from?”
Kibyama didn’t know. He had Sibimen get that detail from the controller. He said that they were coming from the South. Masak alerted his position to the right and he took a couple more steps to stay away from the foliage. He could hear the two aides talking to one another, their voices ripe with anticipation and hope.
Masak said, “I can’t even begin to guess what this murder is going to do to your country, but I guess that’s not my problem. Whatever it is, I’m sure I will profit from the outcome.”
“Order and civility will come back to our land, although I don’t think you know the meaning of either word,” Sibimen said.
Masak’s right eye slithered to the corner and he stared at him with it. “I was in the Army. I know the meaning of both and I demand it from my men. I sometimes wonder if you reprobates know what either word means.”
Sibimen glared at him and was about to step forward but he was held back by Kibyama. Jamaka stood behind both of them, watching the action unfold with the guards.
A minute passed, and then two.
There wasn’t a lot of sun out; the sky was overcast. Masak could start to see something come up through the clouds. It was starting to descend into his line of sight. He turned on the heat-signature scan. It came up positive. The missile would lock on to the patterns registering and it would score a direct hit. He waited another fifteen seconds to allow for a positive hit. He could hear the two men continuing to talk. He silenced them by raising his index finger and he closed his right eye.
He fired the missile, the recoil shocking him. It flew from its berth and headed straight for the plane. It first, it didn’t look like it was going to hit because its trajectory was too high, but after a few seconds it started to home in on the target. The rocket flew in and hit the left wing of the jet, shooting debris into the cabin and starting a chain reaction that destroyed both engines and much of the interior. The plane, about a mile away from the airport, started to drop like a comet until it hit the edge of the runway, setting off several more explosions that did in the cockpit and the rest of the plane.
Masak lowered the rocket launcher and he nodded to his clients.
“It’s done, then.”
“Good,” Sibimen said. He reached into his jacket and he pulled out a Beretta. “Now that the job is done, we don’t need you anymore.” A sneer came across his lips. Masak looked confused and he put his hands down to his side. He put his hands in his pocket for just a second, but Sibimen stopped him before he got too far.
“Put your hands behind your head.”
He looked at Kibyama, who had a Glock40 aimed for his head. He searched him for weapons. He found the Glock in his jacket. He took it and put it in his holster. Kibyama didn’t have any emotion running through his face. Meanwhile, Masak was trying to figure out the logic for what they were doing, if there was any whatsoever. Every single rational thought ran through his mind as he tried to figure out what was going on. Jamaka, meanwhile, was being held by one guard with a Makarov at his head and another guard holding an AK47.
“This is the worst mistake you could have made. If you kill me, my entire organization will come and hunt you down.”
“It doesn’t matter to us. The final steps are in motion. War is about to break out,” Kibyama said.
Masak frowned. “The Arusha Peace Accords were a farce?”
“No, they were real. They were supposed to bring some level of peace to a group of people that never deserved it in the first place. We couldn’t allow that to happen, so we decided to have the President killed. With the weak bastard out of the way, we could take control and wipe out our enemies.”
“And you picked an outsider so no one would suspect a thing.”
“Right,” Kibyama said.
Masak’s muscles tensed. It was now or never. He flexed his fingers and he cocked his head to the right. In the distance at the edge of the hangar was Tabyak. He fired his Uzi at the guards standing near Jamaka. The guard holding the AK took two through the side and the guard carrying the Makarov was hit three times through the side of the head. Jamaka grabbed the AK and he pointed it towards Sibimen and Kibyama. Tabyak did the same, barking orders to the two leaders. They dropped their weapons and put their hands over their head.
Masak grabbed his Glock and he aimed it for Sibimen.
“I had a feeling you were going to set me up because of your resistance to my demand for money. I remember how apprehensive both of you were about paying half up front. You decided to roll along and see if you could play it out. I had my pilot check the money out. It was counterfeit. That was a clever move, thinking you could fool me, but I always play these scenarios out. That’s why I left Tabyak by the car. You didn’t notice that, did you? I only had one bodyguard with me the whole time. I’m surprised you never said anything, but I guess you weren’t as smart as you turned out to be.”
He executed both men at point-blank range.
“Leave the bodies. I’m sure the revolutionaries will be blamed for this. We have to get back to Libya before the shooting starts.”
As they drove out to the airport, Masak looked at the smoldering wreckage in the distance and he could only wonder at what would happen next. He didn’t care what happened to them because he had other interests that were more important to him, but to just consider the consequences of this was amazing. He only had one thought stick through his mind as they arrived at their airfield half an hour later.
What an unlucky country.
©MMV
February 2, 1994; Libya 1
He had one appointment scheduled for the middle of the day. He had gone through the security detail with the two potential clients before even agreeing to the meeting. Both of them were Rwandan Nationals that worked for the President of the country. Sinar Masak didn’t remember the President’s name. There were too many names going around and he didn’t have time to remember the complicated ones. He doubted that it would matter to them. Most of the rulers in Africa were despots that ruled on fear and fear alone. The head of Rwanda was no exception to the rule. He looked up his name just as the two men walked inside.
Habyarimana. That was the name.
The two men that walked into his office were a bit shorter than Masak and they had several war scars on their faces. Masak didn’t know much about their culture, but he was willing to bet that they boasted about them all day long. Masak looked up and motioned for them to sit down. The two men did so. He looked over their names because he didn’t remember who they were. He put his index finger on the piece of paper and he mumbled their names through his teeth.
The taller one with the scar that ran down his face. His name was Malatuk Kibyama. The other man, who was shorter and missing two fingers on his left hand was Tital Sibimen. Both of them were wearing business suits and carrying briefcases. Masak took a minute to gather his thoughts and then he looked at them. Their faces had no expression. Total deadpan. He cleared his throat.
“Welcome to Libya. I trust you had a safe flight.”
Sibimen cut right to the chase. “Look, let’s make this quick, all right? We don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.” His voice was harsh and filled with anger and fear. His eyes went red. Masak guessed that his early life was one that he would prefer to forget, given the chance.
Kibyama put a hand on his shoulder and told him to calm down. Sibimen nodded, but his eyes didn’t let go of the fear and the hate that boiled through his blood.
“Yes, the flight was very nice.”
Masak nodded. “Good. Well, I, too, have a pressing agenda and I can’t be here too long.”
“Trying to get rid of us? You hate black people, don’t you?”
Masak ignored Sibimen’s outburst. “Now, you contacted me about a job available in Rwanda. What do you want me to do?”
Kibyama cut to the chase this time. “Kill the President.”
Masak showed no facial reaction. He looked at both of them and let the comment sink in. When it was done, he leaned forward and put both of his hands on the table. “Kill him? Why?”
“He’s going to start the Arusha Peace Accords. He’s going to let the Tutsis in and take power that is not theirs. They are being given power without earning it like we have. We must keep the balance of power in Rwanda, and the only way to do that is to have him pushed out of the way and have a stronger leader come in.”
“I see,” Masak said. “This is a coup d’ etat.”
“Exactly. We need someone who is an outsider and has no affiliation. We checked and you fit the profile perfectly.”
Masak nodded and rubbed his brow. He didn’t have any business to speak of in Rwanda. He didn’t care what happened in that part of the continent because there was very little value in working with a landlocked country that had no viable economy. The only countries in Africa that he had investments in were Libya, Egypt, Algeria, Morocco, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Somalia, and South Africa. The rest were useless pieces of territory that could slaughter one another. Maybe then there would be profit. War always meant profit. There were plenty of factions that would need weapons when war broke out, and that was where he came in.
“Well, before we go any further, I need a few pieces of information.”
“Like what?”
“When do you want to do this?”
“In two months.”
“Okay, in April. What method do you prefer?”
“We’ll leave that up to you. Just so long as the paper trail doesn’t come back to us.”
Masak thought that was fair enough. “How much?”
“$500,000.”
Masak almost snickered at the two men. “You must be joking. There are contracts for the President of the United States worth twenty times that. I won’t do it for anything less than two million dollars, U.S.”
Sibimen looked like he wanted to reach across the table and grab his larynx. “You can’t extort us. We can just find someone else.”
“Yeah, and I’ll bet they screw it up.”
“There are plenty of professionals who are willing to kill for far less than you.”
“Are any of them at the top? I doubt it. Let me tell you something, Sibimen. I have been in the business of killing people for more than fifteen years. I know how it is done and I have played just about every different angle in the book. There is nothing that I don’t know about. I have earned the ability to demand whatever price I want. If you don’t like it, fine. But, before you do get around to thinking of someone else, just remember that you won’t have the best doing your dirty work.”
There was a long silence. Kibyama leaned over and whispered some words into Sibimen’s ear. He listened and cursed at him in guttural whispers, but he continued to listen. When they were done, Kibyama opened up the second round.
“What about 1.5 million?”
Masak considered the offer and he thought it over. It was a bit of a step down, but with the assassination of a President, especially in Africa, there was no telling what could happen next. The possibilities were limitless and it might open up the avenues in Central Africa for the first time since the major civil wars in the Congo came to a cease-fire.
“Deal,” he said. They shook hands.
“We’ll contact you when we’re ready.”
They left the office and Masak summoned his ops chief, Varush Salaam, right into his office. Salaam walked in holding a clipboard and with a pen over his right ear. He looked stressed and his eyes were red and bloodshot.
“How are things in Bosnia?”
“Hard to say. Our clients have been standing mute for a while now.”
“Give them time.”
“Yes, sir. How did the meeting go?”
“Very well, I think. There is promise for the future, as always.”
“Of course, sir.”
He bowed and walked away. Masak turned his attention to another part of the world, one that was on the edge of exploding into chaos and violence. In the back of his mind, he didn’t think that the Rwanda idea would go through. He believed that the two clients would be assassinated, exiled, or would have second thoughts. Killing a man as important as the President was a job reserved for the few and the fanatical.
Somehow, these men didn’t fit the profile.
March 31, 1994 2
The time passed and not a word came up from the people in Rwanda. Masak had his own problems right now. The operation in Bosnia was a disaster and he had been forced to take drastic measures to ensure that the bloodshed would escalate, which it did. Unfortunately, the rest of the world had decided to take an interest in the former republic of Yugoslavia. Masak still found plenty of clients waiting in the wings, but the market was getting tighter. It was harder for him to make the profit that he demanded every single month.
After three weeks of trying, he decided to let the sides battle each other. He moved on to other prospects. There were some jobs in the Far East that interested him, especially in Hong Kong and Taiwan. There was a lot of raw opium going through the channels and Masak considered the possibility of getting in on that trade. The Triads, the Chinese Mafia, would be pissed, but there was money to be made even as a middleman.
Masak went to his office, which was on the second floor of an old Air Force base that he had bought from Qaddafi several years ago. They had been friends when they were younger and Masak decided that he could use a new base because working underground in Morocco seemed to be a killer for morale. The Libyan leader had agreed to the terms, but the only condition was that they operate like an Air Force base. That wasn’t a problem for Masak. He had six MiG-12 jets and several Russian and Chinese helicopters in his arsenal. The central network couldn’t cover every single square inch of the base, but so far it seemed to fool the spy satellites, which was all that mattered.
When he got inside, he sat down at his desk, which was made of American oak more than 150 years old. It was a special antique. The design, which was during the Victorian Age, made it more opulent. He had bought it through a discreet channel at an auction in London three years ago. He had to admit that not everything the Americans designed was a piece of garbage. This was a fine work of craftsmanship.
Masak, who was a little past 40, had been in the freelance department (or so he liked to call it) for the last ten years. Before that, he had worked with the Libyan military and had been involved with black operations. Because of his contacts in the military experience, he had been able to build an international network with little trouble. His body exuded charisma, as well. He was 6’4 and had a strong, powerful build that defined power. There was always that belief that tall people could become powerful leaders (his favorite example was Abraham Lincoln, who was 6’6).
His desk was littered with papers and reports that were from all over the world. He tried to keep them in order, but that never seemed to work no matter how conscientious he was about it. He was about to go over some of the financial reports from Colombia when his private line started ringing. He grabbed the phone.
“Yes?”
“Sir, its Taba. I have a guy from Rwanda. Wants to speak with you.”
“Patch him through.” Two clicks later. He could hear heavy breathing on the other end of the line. “Yes?”
“It’s Kibyama. Come to Rwanda in three days’ time.”
“Very well. Have half the money ready.”
“Half?”
“Standard procedure. Just to make sure you’re not going to pull a fast one on me after the job is done.”
A heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “…Very well. It’ll be ready.”
“Thank you. Out.”
3
After the call, Masak brought Salaam and a few of his agents with him. He explained the phone call and what would be happening next. Salaam was one of the few in the organization that knew about the possible deal in Rwanda. Salaam listened and asked him right after if there was a chance that the men involved would try to cheat them. Masak didn’t think so only because they were desperate for help and they would take what they could get. Salaam shrugged.
“I don’t know if they need the President dead now or not. Do they?”
“Well, they did mention something about the Arusha Peace Accords coming into action soon, but I don’t know. Maybe the President is moving ahead with his intentions.”
Salaam lit a cigarette, fine Turkish. He took a few puffs and released small circles above his head. “Either way, we’re facing a situation where we might have to question what our clients are going to do afterwards.”
“Perhaps. That’s why I asked for half of the money up front.”
“Which is… how much?”
“750.”
Salaam nodded. “Good. We can use that to help start our drug operations in the Far East.”
“You have any recommendations to head the operation down there?”
“Richek. He lived in the Far East for several years and is part Chinese. He knows Mandarin and would be the logical choice for what we’re heading in for.”
“I’ll consider it,” he said. He personally favored one of his best field operatives, Bin Denal, as the choice. He had fought in Afghanistan and had spent several months working in China afterwards. He knew several underworld contacts that would be able to make the network a success from the outset. Richek’s problem was that he hadn’t been to China in sixteen years and he would have a hard time making the transition to a new type of world where the Triads showed no mercy. They didn’t have to settle on this right now, though. They still had time to make their decision. The network didn’t need to be established until June 30, which was when much of the major drug ports would start harvesting their poppies in the fields in Afghanistan, Southern China, and Pakistan.
He motioned to the two men standing by Salaam. Both of them were of similar height, around 5’9. Their AK47 rifles were slung over their shoulders and they stood to attention like military officers. Masak wondered if it had been necessary to adopt close to every aspect of the military in their daily grind. After a while, he decided that he could have done worse. It seemed to give his men better focus when they went out and did their operations.
“You’re coming with me to Rwanda, both of you.”
“In three days, right?”
“That’s right. Bring standard equipment. I’m sure they’ll have something that we will have to use, but I’m not sure.”
The men nodded and Masak dismissed them, waving both men away with his hand. When they left, Salaam sat down on the opposite chair and he fiddled with his cigarette, which was sitting between two of his fingers.
“Well, this is an interesting mission, to say the least, boss. Are you sure you don’t want me to handle it?”
“No, that’s all right. They’re probably expecting me anyways.”
“Yeah, I guess, but still… we don’t even know if they’re going to stay with it.”
Masak smiled. “Well, they don’t have any choice now. Even if they back off, I’ll do it anyways. I have a contract and I am going to fulfill it.”
Salaam knew he would say that. He was very set in his ways. When he went out to do something, he would not stop until it was finished to his satisfaction. In regards to killing a President, he would make sure that the President had more than one bullet between the eyes when he was finished with him.
In Masak’s eyes, that was a precaution.
April 3, 1994; Rwanda 4
With Qaddafi’s permission, they used a stripped-down double-engine plane to get down to Rwanda. It was not registered to the Colonel or to anyone in the government, so for all intents and purposes this would be a private citizen coming down for a few weeks’ holiday to see the sights and to revel in the brutal conditions that the people lived in. Even flying over the land, Masak could tell which lands were run by the rich Hutus and the ones that the Tutsis were forced to squander in. The color of the trees and the foliage was much browner for the Tutsis. The Hutus could afford to have their own water supply and not have to worry about a thing. Money would take care of their problems.
The airport that they landed on was run-down and had shoddy hangars that looked like they had taken a beating from the heavy rain and boiling heat that descended on this country. The plane landed in the far hangar. Masak wasn’t surprised to see that no one was there. This was a private flight. He was certain that the two men they had spoken to were checking the daily log books with the control tower anyways. It was only a matter of time before they moved from their hermit shells and came out to greet them. They walked from their hangar, carrying a duffel bag each, and they walked down to a local hotel that was a mile away from the airport. They checked in as guests and each got a single room.
Masak’s room was elegant. It was owned by the white man, so it would be above-average. He would have been content with any hotel. This just happened to be the first one they ran across. Pure luck, nothing more. They stayed in their hotel room and meditated on their future mission for a few hours and then met for dinner in the hall. They ate a nice dinner that consisted of steak and wine. Masak had to admit that this was the best meal he had eaten in a while. The meat, medium-well, was quite succulent. He took a bite and he savored it for a moment. His eyes scanned the room. There was a young black man playing the piano, a sonata. The waiters were also black. The young gentleman that had served them was a tall, wiry fellow that had very few scars on his face. He guessed some family had taken him in when he was younger and raised him as one of their own, or he wound up becoming an indentured servant forced to make money.
Masak was about halfway through with the steak when he saw his two contacts walk into the lobby. They spotted him right away and they walked past the table, ignoring the maitre ‘d who wanted to know if they had a reservation with the hotel. Masak waved him away, saying that he had been expecting them. He nodded, unsure of what to do next, and he turned away. Masak greeted them and invited them to take a seat. They sat on either side of him and their eyes pierced into him. Kibyama, sitting on the left, put down a steel briefcase.
There was no reply in the black eyes and he went to his cigarettes. He lit up and he took a couple of drags, waiting for them to start going through their little discussion in chapter and verse.
Kibyama started it off. “Well, I’m glad to see you picked a good location for your stay. Any problems with the airport?”
“No. Did you just go around looking at hotels at random?”
“More or less.”
“We thought we’d never find you. You shoulda called us,” Sibimen said.
Masak took another drag. “I would have, but I didn’t have a phone number to call.”
There was a resentful stare from the representative, but he didn’t say anything.
Masak looked at both of them. “You know, you can order something. I’ll pay for it.”
Kibyama looked at Sibimen, who shrugged. His body expression said “I don’t care”. Kibyama nodded and he ordered some grilled sol with white Chianti. Sibimen ordered the same, but made his wine a Chardonnay.
“A fine choice,” Masak said.
“You are a connoisseur of good food and wine, Mr. Masak?” Kibyama said.
“Not really, but I seem to do well for myself.”
“Steak? I thought you A-RABS didn’t eat meat.”
“Some don’t, but I think you’re thinking of Hindus, Mr. Sibimen,” Masak said. He was trying to keep his voice at an even keel, but the pure ignorance of this bastard was starting to wear down on him.
“Whatever. It’s all the same.”
Masak ignored him. He turned his eyes to the briefcase. “That the money?”
Kibyama nodded. He was about to hand it to him, but Masak turned him away.
“Not here,” he said, taking another bite of his steak.
“Where?”
“Airport.”
“You have a car?”
“No.”
“I’ll arrange one for you.”
“Thank you.” Masak continued eating his steak and by the time he was finished the food had arrived for the two additional guests. They ate in silence, talking only occasionally about meaningless things.
So many roundabout clichés. Sibimen asked about the flight, which was typical in of itself. Masak thought he would die of boredom. The piano player seemed to pick up his body language and he moved to a more upbeat rhythm that seemed to keep him out of the lull for a little while. When they finished their meal, Masak took care of the bill and he tipped the waiter and the piano player. When they walked outside, Kibyama said they would drive down to the airport.
5
The money was exchanged and the details of the operation started to come into focus for the first time. Masak told the pilot on the plane to put the money in a safe place. It seemed that the President was out of the country right now, which gave them the chance to work out some of the more intricate details without having anyone look over their shoulder. Kibyama said that they wanted the job to be done while he was on the plane. It would send a powerful signal to everyone that they would not go along with this farce. Sibimen said that the peace accords would be in pieces, just like his body would be.
Masak listened to what they had to say and he asked his first question after Sibimen made his snide comment about the President. “So, if you want to shoot him down, that’s fine, but I’ll need a missile launcher.”
“We have a contact we’d like you to speak with. He can get you what you need and suit it to your purposes.”
“Where is he?”
“Ten miles to the South. I’ll give you the address and some directions,” Kibyama said.
“Just don’t talk about his left eye. He’ll cut you up if you do,” Sibimen said.
“Why? What happened?”
“Some bastard tried to break into his store. They had a struggle and his left eye was sliced so bad it had to be shut. He wears an eye patch. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Masak said. “I won’t mention it.”
“Good. The plane is scheduled to land April 6,” Sibimen said.
“What time?”
“Eleven-thirty in the morning,” Kibyama said.
“Is it at this airport?”
“No, it’s on the other side of the city,” Sibimen said.
“I see. That’s pretty lucky.”
“Indeed. If we had to move it, there would be questions about just that.”
Masak nodded to Sibimen. “When do you want me to go to your contact?”
“Tomorrow. It won’t cost you anything. He works with us,” Kibyama said.
Masak received a piece of paper from Kibyama. He looked at it and nodded. It was a code. He put it in his breast pocket and he clapped his hands. “Is that all, then?”
“Yes. On the sixth, be at the airport at 0900 hours. We’ll be waiting for you at hangar #12.”
“Very good. I’ll be there.”
They shook hands and the two representatives drove back to the hotel. Kibyama said along the way that they would have a car ready for them by tomorrow morning. Masak bade them good day and he went back to his room. His XO for the mission, Tabyak, asked him why he was taking crap from them.
“For seven hundred fifty, I’ll put up with a lot,” he said.
“Hm. I guess the end result is worth it, uh?”
“And then some.”
April 4, 1994 6
They woke up the next morning at eight and they had their complimentary breakfast before starting out on the road. The car that Kibyama and Sibimen gave them was a beat-up Lotus that was at least fifteen years old. There was a note saying that the transmission could be a hassle at times, but it was nothing that they couldn’t handle. Masak looked at the list of directions. They had been written in Arabic for him. He was amazed that there was someone in Rwanda who could be bilingual outside of the tribal dialects.
He drove out of the parking lot and he moved through the capital city of Kigali. They drove through some of the nicer parts of the city, where the environment and the technology seemed to mesh almost seamlessly. As they continued to make their way through the city, everything seemed to degenerate little by little until they were in a neighborhood where the buildings were rotting from the foundation up and there were people of all ages lying on the streets. People were either wandering and meandering, looking for food or water, or they seemed to be resigned to their fate and lay on the street, their eyes slack and their bodies parched. Masak knew the sight well because he had seen it often during his time through the streets in Tripoli.
The building in question wasn’t much of a building. It was in the middle of a market, actually. Masak parked the car and told Tabyak to stand watch while they went in. He nodded and pulled out his AK47 from inside his jacket. He turned the safety off and he kept the barrel pointed towards the ground.
Masak felt there was a peculiar smell to the place as he walked past the first couple of booths, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it right away. Then it dawned on him as they passed a crazed old man selling live chickens. This placed smelled distinctly like a slaughter-house. He had been to a few in his day and there was a stench about it that was so strong one could not just turn their head away from it. The stench lingered for a long time and it made someone feel like he was in a room filled with dead people. Masak had hoped he never would have to smell that again, but it seemed that he had to suffer through a few tribulations to get the other half of the money that he wanted.
They walked to the exact spot on the map. It was a small alcove that had three men sitting at a booth. One was at front and center looking over what appeared to be a conflict diamond. His eye was looking through the magnifying scope and it illuminated from every dimension. He turned to the man on his left, who was carrying an MP5 submachine gun.
“Tell him that this is worth ten thousand dollars.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went back inside and the man continued to do his work. He didn’t even notice Masak when he sat down. He seemed to be absorbed in a world that was not his own. Masak guessed that the diamonds held some sort of fantasy for him that he would never attain, no matter how hard he tried.
His bodyguard tapped the man’s shoulder and he looked up. His eyes jerked and he turned his head to the bodyguard, asking him what he wanted. He pointed to Masak and he glanced at him, sizing the Muslim up.
Masak said, “You don’t see many markets like this these days.”
“Would you be interested in purchasing a firearm?”
“Only if it is of German quality,” Masak said, finishing the code sequence. The man, who was in his early fifties with gray hair growing in the temples, smiled and he shook his hand.
“Jilim Marrik.”
“Sinar Masak.”
His eyes illuminated. “Ah, I’ve heard of you. You run the Federation, don’t you?”
Masak didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Marrik already knew by just looking at his eyes. He thought it was amazing what they could tell about a human without the person ever having to open his mouth. It was a weapon that he had been trained to use for a long time. His days in the military continued to serve him well even after he had retired from active duty more than twenty years ago.
“No need to answer. Come into my real office.”
“Hm. What do you even sell out here?”
“Mostly diamonds. I have plenty of guards watching, so one tries to rob me.”
“I only count two.”
“They are the visible guards.”
“Oh,” Masak said. “Can’t even imagine how many you’ve killed over the years.”
“Enough to deter the people.”
Masak gave a brief salute and they walked past the canopy. The guards went out in front and they blocked the door. Masak walked through the lobby and they went to a display table that was littered with weapons and explosives. Jilim walked to the table and he leaned over the counter.
“My friends tell me you are looking for a missile launcher.”
“Yeah, that’s what was requested for the mission.”
He went to his stockpile behind him and he grabbed a case that was about two meters long. He placed it on the table with a grunt, nearly bending the steel girders. “This is an American-made Stinger missile launcher. It can pick up heat from more than five miles away. A friend of mine bought it on the black market in Panama a few years ago and I bought it for him, knowing that it would be valuable in the long run.”
“But maybe not in Central Africa,” Masak said. He scratched his beard. “I’m going to have to pass on the Stinger.”
He frowned. “Why is that?”
“Western technology is too easy to trace. I’ll need something from the other side of the Iron Curtain, either Chinese or Soviet-made.”
He smiled. “You have a good eye, then. I thought you would prefer something with power, but it seems you are looking at this three-dimensionally.”
“Protection, protection, protection.” Masak smiled, but it didn’t last. “Seriously, though. Do you have anything that is at least of good quality?”
“A few. Russian and Chinese technology is always easy to come by because there are plenty of leaks and plenty of greedy people to sell, but quality is an issue.”
“I know the feeling,” Masak said. Most of the weapons he bought came from the East because it was cheaper and often more effective in the types of operations that he chose to run.
He put the Stinger case away and he came back with three more from the back room a few minutes later. He put them on the table, a meter apart from one another. He looked at his client. Masak opened the first case and he saw a Chinese missile launcher that was designed to stay on his shoulder. Masak looked at his XO, Jamaka, and he nodded with approval. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t feel natural. Masak couldn’t explain it. There was just something inside his head that said it wasn’t natural. Looking at it closer, he could see some rust near the trigger. He put it back in the case and he went to the second one.
The second missile launcher was a larger model of the Chinese launcher and the sighting was more sophisticated. It had a bulls-eye just above the launcher. He could see everything. This was perfect. He nodded to Marrik and told him that he would take it. Marrik was surprised and asked if he would consider the third launcher, which was a Soviet miniature SAM. He declined. He knew what he wanted and he wasn’t going to deviate. He put the weapon back in the case and he closed it up. Marrik thanked him for their business.
“A pleasure to help you, Mr. Masak.”
“Thank you,” Masak said. “Perhaps we’ll get the chance to do business in the future.”
“Perhaps,” Marrik said. His voice rose in octave level. Just the idea of doing business with the most powerful terrorist in the world was enough to make his heart stop.
Masak walked outside and he took his prize. When they got back, they found Tabyak holding off some of the kids, who were begging him for money. He had tried aiming his rifle at them, but they didn’t seem deterred by it. They saw rifles pointed at people they knew all the time, even themselves. To have this stranger aim an assault rifle at them was not going to stop them from trying to get food at the table.
Masak said, “What are you afraid of? They’re not going to get you sick.”
“I know, but I don’t want to cause a scene.”
“That’s fine. I’ll get things started for you.”
He put the case in the trunk and he pulled out his pistol, a Glock40. He fired two rounds in the air. The kids dispersed and Tabyak breathed a sigh of relief. Masak looked at him. There was no emotion anywhere, but his tone said it all.
“That was all you had to do.”
Tabyak didn’t say anything. He got into the car and stayed quiet the entire drive back to the hotel.
April 6, 1994 7
At 0845 hours, the trio arrived. He told Tabyak to stay and watch the car while they did the job. This was a remote piece of land, so he wouldn’t have to worry about beggars. He nodded and he went to the backseat to grab his rifle. Masak and Jamaka walked past two hangars until they reached one that was about seventy feet in height and was rusting from all directions. The original color had been silver-gray, but with the brown-orange rust covering most of the exterior one never would have guessed that. At the front of the hangar were two men standing out near the front door. They nodded to Masak and let him inside. He thanked them and they stepped into the center of the hangar.
Standing on the catwalk were the usual suspects: Kibyama and Sibimen. Both of them were wearing their business uniforms and smoking cigars. Masak felt a little underdressed in the presence of these two, even the military guards. He chose a black leather jacket and a dark brown colored shirt with matching pants and sunglasses. He removed the latter and put them over his head, nodding to the two officials. They nodded back, their eyes almost invisible through the smoke coming from their mouths and the end of the objects in question.
Masak put the case on the table and he opened the caches. He picked up the missile launcher and put it on the end of the table. Jamaka helped him clean the inside of the launcher by dismantling it down to its fundamental parts and then cleaning every single section with some oil lubricant to make sure that nothing jammed along the way. The two men up above watched with interest as the duo worked at lightning speed to get everything prepared for the big event.
When they finished lubricating the parts, they put the weapon back together and they loaded it with two rockets. Kibyama and Sibimen came down the stairs from the catwalk when they finished and they approached their client.
“Very good work, Mr. Masak,” Kibyama said. “ETA is one hour, forty minutes.”
“Here comes the boring part,” Sibimen said. His hands were shaking and he took another puff of his cigar to cool down his nerves, which felt like they were going to burst.
“Yeah,” Masak said. He reached into his jacket and he grabbed a pack of cigarettes. He lit up with an old gunmetal petrol lighter and he took a couple of drags. On the side of the lighter was a Yin/Yang insignia engraved into it. Masak had always believed it was symbolic. Everyone had two halves to a personality. He hoped for his clients’ sake they never had to see the other half of him in full force.
It was that half that would fire the missile for the plane.
8
Ninety minutes passed and Masak received the signal that it was time to begin. Kibyama received a call from the air traffic controller, who was coordinating with the members of the detail, that the Rwandan and Burundi Presidents were going to land in five minutes. Kibyama acknowledged the call and said that they would be ready. He nodded to Masak and he walked outside through the open door. He moved the rocket launcher into position and he made sure that the sights were ready. Kibyama mentioned to him that they did have a heat-seeking tracer in the interior of the plane so it would lock on.
“Which direction is the plane coming from?”
Kibyama didn’t know. He had Sibimen get that detail from the controller. He said that they were coming from the South. Masak alerted his position to the right and he took a couple more steps to stay away from the foliage. He could hear the two aides talking to one another, their voices ripe with anticipation and hope.
Masak said, “I can’t even begin to guess what this murder is going to do to your country, but I guess that’s not my problem. Whatever it is, I’m sure I will profit from the outcome.”
“Order and civility will come back to our land, although I don’t think you know the meaning of either word,” Sibimen said.
Masak’s right eye slithered to the corner and he stared at him with it. “I was in the Army. I know the meaning of both and I demand it from my men. I sometimes wonder if you reprobates know what either word means.”
Sibimen glared at him and was about to step forward but he was held back by Kibyama. Jamaka stood behind both of them, watching the action unfold with the guards.
A minute passed, and then two.
There wasn’t a lot of sun out; the sky was overcast. Masak could start to see something come up through the clouds. It was starting to descend into his line of sight. He turned on the heat-signature scan. It came up positive. The missile would lock on to the patterns registering and it would score a direct hit. He waited another fifteen seconds to allow for a positive hit. He could hear the two men continuing to talk. He silenced them by raising his index finger and he closed his right eye.
He fired the missile, the recoil shocking him. It flew from its berth and headed straight for the plane. It first, it didn’t look like it was going to hit because its trajectory was too high, but after a few seconds it started to home in on the target. The rocket flew in and hit the left wing of the jet, shooting debris into the cabin and starting a chain reaction that destroyed both engines and much of the interior. The plane, about a mile away from the airport, started to drop like a comet until it hit the edge of the runway, setting off several more explosions that did in the cockpit and the rest of the plane.
Masak lowered the rocket launcher and he nodded to his clients.
“It’s done, then.”
“Good,” Sibimen said. He reached into his jacket and he pulled out a Beretta. “Now that the job is done, we don’t need you anymore.” A sneer came across his lips. Masak looked confused and he put his hands down to his side. He put his hands in his pocket for just a second, but Sibimen stopped him before he got too far.
“Put your hands behind your head.”
He looked at Kibyama, who had a Glock40 aimed for his head. He searched him for weapons. He found the Glock in his jacket. He took it and put it in his holster. Kibyama didn’t have any emotion running through his face. Meanwhile, Masak was trying to figure out the logic for what they were doing, if there was any whatsoever. Every single rational thought ran through his mind as he tried to figure out what was going on. Jamaka, meanwhile, was being held by one guard with a Makarov at his head and another guard holding an AK47.
“This is the worst mistake you could have made. If you kill me, my entire organization will come and hunt you down.”
“It doesn’t matter to us. The final steps are in motion. War is about to break out,” Kibyama said.
Masak frowned. “The Arusha Peace Accords were a farce?”
“No, they were real. They were supposed to bring some level of peace to a group of people that never deserved it in the first place. We couldn’t allow that to happen, so we decided to have the President killed. With the weak bastard out of the way, we could take control and wipe out our enemies.”
“And you picked an outsider so no one would suspect a thing.”
“Right,” Kibyama said.
Masak’s muscles tensed. It was now or never. He flexed his fingers and he cocked his head to the right. In the distance at the edge of the hangar was Tabyak. He fired his Uzi at the guards standing near Jamaka. The guard holding the AK took two through the side and the guard carrying the Makarov was hit three times through the side of the head. Jamaka grabbed the AK and he pointed it towards Sibimen and Kibyama. Tabyak did the same, barking orders to the two leaders. They dropped their weapons and put their hands over their head.
Masak grabbed his Glock and he aimed it for Sibimen.
“I had a feeling you were going to set me up because of your resistance to my demand for money. I remember how apprehensive both of you were about paying half up front. You decided to roll along and see if you could play it out. I had my pilot check the money out. It was counterfeit. That was a clever move, thinking you could fool me, but I always play these scenarios out. That’s why I left Tabyak by the car. You didn’t notice that, did you? I only had one bodyguard with me the whole time. I’m surprised you never said anything, but I guess you weren’t as smart as you turned out to be.”
He executed both men at point-blank range.
“Leave the bodies. I’m sure the revolutionaries will be blamed for this. We have to get back to Libya before the shooting starts.”
As they drove out to the airport, Masak looked at the smoldering wreckage in the distance and he could only wonder at what would happen next. He didn’t care what happened to them because he had other interests that were more important to him, but to just consider the consequences of this was amazing. He only had one thought stick through his mind as they arrived at their airfield half an hour later.
What an unlucky country.