The African Contract Read Online Free Page B

Indians, and Israelis sharing the cabin. “And now the jihadists have descended,” Stone offered.
    â€œYes, but this time, a group is here, not to sell, but to purchase.”
    â€œBuy what?” Stone asked.
    Jacob shrugged with his upper body.
    â€œLet’s see, my boss advised that you,” Stone pointed, “suggested I travel to Sierra Leone.”
    Nodding, eyes closed, Jacob pushed a white index card across the table on which appeared a name, a company, and a telephone number in heavy marker ink. “Memorize,” he ordered.
    Stone studied the card, looked away, and mentally repeated the words. Pushing it back, he planned to write the information down in code and slip it somewhere secure.
    â€œHe is an Afrikaner. You must see him very soon,” Jacob said. “He is taking a big risk.”
    â€œUnderstood.” Stone watched the man pull back and again look out the window as if looking for someone.
    Pulling the radio partially out of his pocket, Stone keyed the transmitter twice, signaling Goodman and Sandra to pick him up. He rose and made his way to the door.
    Without looking, Jacob tossed a good-bye.
    In the backseat of the SUV, Stone asked if they had detected anything strange while they waited for him. “Nothing,” Sandra answered, and added, “You didn’t waste any time.”
    â€œGot what I wanted.” He also learned that, as usual, his boss and mentor back at Langley, Colonel Gustave Frederick, had told him the bare minimum. Even Jacob realized Stone was in the dark, a professional embarrassment as it placed Stone on a lower rung in the operation.
    Stone rubbed his forehead. A headache was coming on, not from job stress but from his anti-malaria pills. “When’s the next plane to Freetown, Sierra Leone?” he asked Goodman.
    â€œOne is scheduled at eight in the morning for Abidjan. From there you can get a connection to Freetown.”
    Stone touched Sandra’s shoulder. “Do you have a pen?”
    When she passed it back, he inked in his palm only the telephone number Jacob had given him. He was good at names; still, to be safe, he repeated to himself the name and the company: Dirk Lange, York Export Ltd.

Chapter Four
    Monrovia, Liberia
    Above the horizon, through the haze and city smoke, the sun bubbled blood red. Al Goodman had gone to the airport to make arrangements for Stone and Sandra’s flight the next day to Freetown. The embassy’s cafeteria had closed, leaving the two on their own to find a place for dinner. Sandra suggested they stay in their quarters and combine what snacks they had brought with them.
    â€œLet’s try the restaurant Goodman and I went to last night,” Stone suggested. “We can borrow that old car sitting on the embassy compound. The restaurant’s only a five-minute drive from here.”
    â€œIs the food good?”
    â€œNot especially, but it’ll be nice to get out.”
    â€œAt night. In this town?”
    â€œWe won’t sightsee. Just have a quick meal and head straight back.”
    Stone began to have second thoughts as he turned the ignition key on the beat-up sedan. The motor struggled, but when he put the shift into first gear, the car moved along somewhat. Driving past the darkened buildings, Sandra showed unease but relaxed when Stone, at the wheel, pointed out the landmarks he recognized from the night before. The streets were deserted. The sun dropped below the horizon, leaving behind a gray glow.
    Stone found the restaurant, or what Goodman had called an urban “cook shop,” resembling what one would find in the Liberian countryside. It took up the ground floor of a two-story house that hadn’t seen a paintbrush since the beginning of the civil turmoil years before. Long strips of black tape zigzagged across the front window, keeping the cracked glass from collapsing.
    â€œThis is a restaurant?” Sandra asked.
    â€œYeah. Goodman said