information to pass on to American intelligence.
âWhat are your thoughts about your manâs death?â Stone asked.
âThe doc says the symptoms matched a bite from a black mamba. His initial diagnosis is death from suffocation resulting from paralysis of the respiratory system. Death would have taken about fifteen minutes.â
Sandra shivered. âGuess if youâre going to handle one of those nasties, youâd better know what youâre doing.â
Stone found the coffee bitter and thick. Too much and the veins in his head would throb, but a couple of good swallows would get his reasoning in gear. âIâd wager your dead man was bitten by the same snake that paid a visit to my room.â
Goodman shrugged in agreement. âThe COS said to help you with your meet today. I suppose this is all necessary?â
Stone realized Goodman hadnât been let in on all the details of the meet and was miffed. This was his turf, and he had the right to know what was happening. If Stone got himself killed, he as the security officer would be held responsible. He decided to feed him just enough information to settle him down.
âIâm meeting a guy named Jacob whoâs an Israeli who deals in diamonds. Travels throughout West Africa from Amsterdam and Tel Aviv. He works for Mossad, but I donât know if heâs staff officer or a â sayan .â In other words, he helps out when Israeli intelligence needs him.â
âThe COS told me that.â
âHe wanted to meet me.â Stone paused. âI knew him years ago when I worked in New York City as an FBI agent. This all has something to do with your neighbor next door. Sierra Leone.â
âIs Jacob his real name?â
âProbably not,â Stone said.
âTrust him?â
âNo.â
âWhy would someone here want to kill you?â
âThe snake?â
âIt was a message. Obviously, someone doesnât want you to meet your Jacob.â
âI agree. But who, I donât know.â
âSo, youâre FBI?â
âRetired. Now Iâm with the agency.â Stone folded his arms. âYou donât like the bureau?â
Goodman looked at Sandra, then back to Stone. âMy brother-in-lawâs an FBI agent. He thinks heâs a hot shit.â
Stone stayed low in the backseat of the armored Suburban SUV while Goodman drove and Sandra rode shotgun. Four blocks from the embassy compound, the meet, selected by Jacob, was to be in a restaurant. Few people walked the trash-littered streets lining gutted buildings, and Stone expected he and Jacob would be the only patrons.
After two passes around the block, Goodman slowed as they approached the back door of the restaurant and said to Stone, âCheck your radio.â
Stone keyed his device by depressing the send button. The signal crackled over the carâs radio.
âListen, and donât tell anybody I told you this.â Goodman looked at him in the rearview mirror. âIf you have to use your gun, donât hesitate. Lifeâs cheap here and yours is cheaper.â
Sandra turned around. âWeâll be close. Yell if you need help.â As the SUV came to a halt, she said, âOut now! Donât stay longer than necessary.â
Stone leaped from the car, took three long strides to the door, found it unlocked, and slipped into restaurant and darkness. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the SUV drive off. He slipped the safety off his semiautomatic and inched across the room toward leaking light from behind a door hanging from one hinge.
Footsteps shuffled from the other side, and the door opened slowly. A black man in an ironed white shirt, age forty to sixty with graying hair and red-veined eyes, motioned for him to enter. Dust hung in the air. Even in peaceful days the restaurant couldnât accommodate more than ten customers. The man pointed to a solitary figure across the