Mad Dogs by James Grady
She glided on sunlight past a wall of store windows where mannequins posed in well-clad visions of how we all should live. She stopped in front of a window diorama that put a magazine mother center stage with two perfect children. Hailey hugged her arms over her heart. Her slim black hand floated out but could only touch the glass.
Hailey twitched, jerked. Her hand jumped off the window. She crossed the street to us, her face aglow with a smile.
And proclaimed: “I’ve got a plan!”
21
The CIA’s plan in June 1998 was definitely not for Hailey to be sitting in First Class on a night flight from Paris beside a snoring bald Black man in an Armani suit named Christophe, a Deputy Cabinet Minister of Nigeria’s Department of Energy.
Hailey was the junior operative on a CIA Paris-based team targeting loose nukes by posing as a network of black marketers. The team established their bona fides by hooking Christophe with a routine bribe for Nigerian end user certificates to facilitate an arms shipment for another CIA Op. They reeled Christophe in with a commission from a diversion of 100,000 barrels of oil from the renegade truck caravan that every day rolled over the border from U.S./U.N. embargoed Iraq and into Turkey. That scheme papered the illegal oil into Nigeria gasoline that was legally pumped out of service stations along America’s highways. To grease that scam, the CIA worked with Milli Istihbarat Teskilati, their Turkish counterparts who—in my time—helped the Agency profile Derya.
Guns and oil smuggles were the set-up to get Hailey’s team inside a heroin-for-plutonium swap Christophe had concocted with rogue Russians who were more cautious than he was about electronic intercepts. Christophe needed seed cash and a European team to transport sensitive, bulky materials: his new-found network colleagues let themselves be persuaded to sign on for his grand venture.
But the CIA team leader’s appendix burst in Paris two days before he was to fly to Lagos with Christophe and make sure the Nigerian didn’t run off with the Agency’s buy money. The two other out-front male team members were locked-down setting-up the Op’s Prague connection. The Americans knew Christophe would balk at any stranger dropped into play so close to endgame. Hailey was the only other face Christophe knew.
This is why you joined the Agency, Hailey told herself as the airliner hummed through the dark sky. To win the good fight. Stay in control. Run the mission. Stop heroin, loose nukes plutonium. It’s worth it and now it’s all up to you.
She was jet lagged when the plane landed in Lagos. Christophe led her through the bright bedlam of the airport. Even with his diplomatic passport and government I.D., he needed to bribe a customs inspector.
A toadish Nigerian met them at the curb.
“Who’s she?” he demanded of Christophe.
“Asking questions is not your place,” said Christophe. “Ken, this is Hailey.”
Ken muscled their bags into a blue Ford. Christophe climbed in the front seat, Ken slid behind the wheel. After a moment’s hesitation, Hailey climbed in the back seat.
Lagos swallowed them like a giant anthill with its ‘go-slow’ of traffic.
“You must see this thing,” Ken told his boss.
Lagos held 11,000,000 jammed-together people. The humid air smelled of car exhaust and rotting waste. Children held out their palms, chanted: “God bless!” Vendors sold radiator caps, water bottles, tomatoes, videos of movies still premiering in New York, toilet paper, T-shirts with portraits of Elvis and NBA stars. Teenagers swung dead rats by their tails as proof that they sold the best poison. A pack of men on the sidewalk stared at the creeping-past Ford with rage in their eyes.
“We call them area boys,” Christophe told Hailey.
“Yan daba,” muttered Ken. “Sons of evil. No jobs. No plans. No connections.”
“But sometimes useful,” said his boss.
Traffic stopped for a red light. Cars all around the Ford shut off their engines.
“Saving gas,” said Christophe.
“But Nigeria is one of the largest oil producers in the world!” said Hailey.
“Not for them,” explained Christophe, with a nod towards the people of this city.
The jerky bob of an ebony man in a white short sleeve shirt on the other side of the street caught Hailey’s eye. Why were other pedestrians mimicking his high step as they shuffled through the sun’s fire? Hailey blinked. Realized the crowd was stepping over a man laying on the sidewalk. Flies buzzed above the prone man’s open mouth.
“Over there!” shouted Hailey. “That man laying on the ground: he’s dead!”
Christophe looked. Yawned.
One mile and 20 minutes later, Christophe squinted through the windshield, told Hailey: “Hold your American passport so it can be seen. Say nothing no matter what. And move very, very slowly, always with your hands in sight.”
Three parked Jeeps barricaded the road. Mirror-sunglassed men carrying AK-47s and wearing parts of uniforms stalked from car to car.
“The Mobile Police,” said Christophe.
“The Kill-and-Gos.” Ken spat on the floor.
A trio of mirror-sunglassed Kill-and-Gos thrust AK-47s into the blue Ford. Instead of a bribe, Ken flashed his I.D. picture, told them: “State Security Service.”
As the roadblock shrank in the rear view mirrors, Christophe smiled at the American: “Welcome to Tomorrowland.”
Ken parked across from a modern office building where a Nigerian in a white shirt directed 50 people picketing below the logo of a multi-national oil company. A boom box by the organizer blasted a man singing pidgin reggae-type English Hailey couldn’t understand. The pickets carried signs: FAIR WAGES NOW! POLLUTION POISONS CHILDREN! JUSTICE FOR ALL!
Christophe said: “Look at Bobo with his bullhorn. He thinks he’s a rock star.”
Hailey said: “What’s that music?”
“Stupid!” snapped Christophe. “Stupid music from stupid Fela Kuti. If he was so smart, why is he dead of white man’s disease? Of faggot disease? He was a monkey fucking whore. General Abacha was right to ban his stupid filth.”
“Fela’s dead,” said Ken. “But Bobo… Many of our friends wonder about Bobo. What the Ministry of Energy will do about his complaints to the U.N.”
“Who gives a shit about the U.N.,” said Chrstophe as they drove off.
Christophe’s house had the greatest of all luxuries: space. Three floors, a courtyard with an alley entrance. Christophe led Hailey inside, where beneath the spinning ceiling fan stood a woman wearing an orange and red wrapped dress.
“This is Janna,” said Christophe as he walked past the Nigerian woman in the bright dress. “She’ll look after you.”
Janna stared at Hailey.
“Here,” said Christophe, handing Hailey a bottle of water.
Hailey drank the water as she followed Christophe into the living room, as he dodged her questions about delivery schedules and back-up plans and—
Blink.
Hailey blinked again. Head throbs, full of smog.
She was on her back, staring up at a whirling ceiling fan. Blinked again and she realized she lay sweating on a bed.
Remember, can’t remember…
I’m naked. CIA, Christophe, Lagos, I’m… naked.
She felt pain down there. And knew.
Christophe strode into the sunlit room. He wore an African shirt, slacks, Italian loafers, scooped up a wad of cash from the dresser top. Noticed her open eyes.
“It’s about time you woke up.”
“What… You…”
“Woman, your people sent you with me. Wasn’t just that man’s appendix. I know what you wanted, they put it in the deal to help everyone trust everyone. But when you kept telling me no, changing the subject, I knew you would drag out negotiations. Who has time for that? Be thankful we’ve moved on.”
Hailey bolted from the bed and made
Retching until she could retch no more, Hailey stayed curled on the bathroom tiles, her hands around the porcelain toilet as the water swirled before her eyes.
From the doorway, Christophe said: “Be sure to drink plenty of water.”
“What… What did you…”
“In America, they call them Rufis. Less profit in them than in heroin.”
He tossed a hand towel to her. She caught it without thinking.
“Don’t act shy or be stupid. The deal is done. You can’t refuse to eat or drink, and anything else… you are just a weak woman. Relax. You enjoy it, so do.”
“Protection,” she whispered. “Did you—”
“I trust you.” He stroked his ebony hand over the different shade of black skin on her back and she almost threw up again. “We have no worries about faggot’s filth.”
He left her alone all day.
She had a cell phone. Emergency numbers. One panic call, rescuers would come.
But the mission would explode.
Nothing would happen to Christophe except that he’d be harder to catch again.
The heroin would hit the streets of America.
The plutonium…
Worth it. Make it worth it.
She showered until the cold water made her numb. E-mailed an ON TARGET message to her “network associates” that wouldn’t alarm Christophe if he snooped on her laptop. She found food, forced herself to eat, forced herself to drink more bottled water.
Hailey found Janna smoking a joint in the courtyard and listening to a music CD.
The way Janna stared at her, Hailey knew she knew—and didn’t care.
Make her care, thought Hailey. Bond with her.
“That’s Fela Kuti, isn’t it?” Hailey asked her. “What is he singing?”
Janna answered: “Teacher Don’t Teach Me Nonsense.”
“How long have you worked for Christophe?”
“He married me ten years ago.” Janna shrugged. “My family had a little money. Knew right people at a foreign oil company.”
The African wife stared at the new Black woman. Said: “What did you have?”
Two hours and the heat of the day passed. From the bedroom, she saw Ken talking in the sunlit alley with a Kill-and-Go and two area boys.
Long after dark, Christophe came home, reeking of Scotch.
Worth it, she told herself over and over again, making it a mantra that beat in time to the bedroom’s whirling ceiling fan. Worth it. Worth it.
Morning brought a newspaper with a photo of Bobo’s machete-hacked corpse. The Mobile Police announced that he’d been killed by robbers.
Sunset brought four men to the house who never took off their dark glasses. The visitors left five foil bags of heroin that looked like packaged coffee beans.
When they were gone, Christophe told her. “E-mail your people. Day after tomorrow we go to Prague. Tell your people they must be ready to transport the plutonium. I will tell our Russians.”
He smiled. “And we have two nights.”
Worth it, she told herself. Worth it.
The ceiling fan whirled.
The phone rang in the darkness before dawn.
Christophe bolted awake—Hailey was not sure she’d ever been asleep. The naked bald Black man slid from the bed to answer the phone. Candles in the night flickered outside the open window at the barrel fires for roadblocks.
“No!” Christophe yelled into the phone. “This changes everything!
“Was it poison?” he said. “What about the girl?… Two! No wonder he died!… Of course! You will tell me everything as I will tell you! Immediately.”
She snapped on the bed lamp.
“Remember last night’s date forever,” Christophe told her as he hung up.
“June 8, 1998,” said Hailey. That day, both the Unabomber madman and terrorist bombers of an Oklahoma City building marched through the America’s courts.
“Exactly!” Christophe said. “Last night. Today. Now is when the world changes.”
No! Hailey wanted to scream. That’s planned for tomorrow!
But all she said was: “Why?”
“Nigeria’s supreme leader General Sani Abacha had his usual private party last night—this time with two Indian prostitutes. Abacha drops dead! Heart attack! But everyone knows it was the drugs.”
“What drugs?”
“Viagra! If the wrong people realize it was me…! I gave him ten Viagras in a silver box from Tiffanys. The idiot! Stupid old man! He probably took one pill for each prostitute, then one more just to be sure! Look what he’s done to me! He was my protector. Already the hyenas will be circling. They’ll eat him, all he has, and if I’m tied to his corpse or blamed for his death…”
“Doesn’t matter if Abacha dead. All we have to do is catch the plane to Prague, carry the heroin as your diplomatic luggage, link up with the Russians and my people.”
When they would land in Prague, a CIA Special Operations Group was on line to track Global Positioning Units in her laptop computer and cell phone. Plus, her team would be at the exchange site. A SOG strike force would swoop in. Grab the heroin and plutonium. The Agency would cut a deal with the Czechs to turn Christophe and the Russians into corpses, convicts, or co-opted assets eternally leashed to the good guys. Then, knew Hailey, then everything would be worth it.
Dawn lit the sky as she told Christophe: “We’ve got to follow our plan.”
“I’ve got to stay alive.” He dressed, drove away.
Morning heat baked the house.
Noon came.
Noon went.
The thick golden light of afternoon filled the second floor living room. Hailey wore sneakers and carried her passport and cash. She sat on the couch with her cell phone, her laptop, and a kitchen knife hidden in the waistband of her slacks.
Outside, a car door slammed. Hailey jumped to her feet. Shoes pounded up stairs.
Christophe stormed into the room, his shirt soaked with sweat. He staggered to a locked cabinet. His hands shook as he unlocked the door, reached inside—
Whirled around waving a bottle of Scotch and two tall glasses.
“I’m saved!” He thrust a glass into her hands and filled it with Scotch. Winked. “Death played a joke on your plan. So I made another deal. With the British. I now serve their Queen as a valued spy.”
“The British? You’re… I’m…”
“You Americans always think you’re the only game in town,” he said. “I almost went to the Americans, but Abacha’s people practically own them ever since his associate give $400,000 to President Clinton’s Miami group called Vote Now ’96. So now, if anyone blames me for Abacha’s death or tries to squeeze me out of power, the Brits will stop them. I got there in time, thanks to people in an oil company who called a man from the British embassy who is letting me make him a hero to his home office.”
“You—”
“I gave him the Russians—though the Brits won’t get all the plutonium, something I arranged but didn’t bother to tell them about. Midnight tonight, the Brits’ SAS will kick in Prague doors. All thanks to me. I’ll have proven myself invaluable to people who can tell even the Americans to fuck off.”
A ceiling fan whirled in Hailey’s head.
“Don’t worry,” said Christophe. “Since you and I are not going to Prague, your people will never be in the Brits’ gunsights.”
Hailey whispered: “The heroin?”
“Gone. I brokered it to New York. Your people will still profit.” Christophe refilled their glasses as they stood face to face. “This should be British gin. Imagine, me partnering with the old rulers of my country! Ah well. You colonialists are like cancer, but nobody who’s truly clever gets killed.”
He raised his glass: “To success.
Clinked his glass against hers.
And she shattered.
Hailey threw Scotch in Christophe’s face. He bellowed, pawed his eyes and blindly grabbed for her. She felt the kitchen knife fill her hand. Thrust into his groin. Blood spurted from Christophe’s crotch. Sprayed all over her. He thrashed to the floor. She straddled him while the kitchen knife hacked and stabbed his face, into his body, his groin. She felt herself washed by a crimson fountain.
Janna found them two hours later as sunset filled that room.
Christophe lay on his living room floor, a red slab under the spinning ceiling fan.
Blood-smeared Hailey slumped against the far wall. Eyes wide open.
Ken responded to Janna’s phone call. They stood in that room with the two human wrecks as darkness poured in through the open window.
Janna told Ken: “He’s dead, so his family will come take everything for themselves. Just themselves.”
She smiled at the man who clearly knew her smile. “As soon as he’s dead.”
“Close the window,” he told her—gently. “We don’t want to attract flies.”
“What about her?” he asked when the room was sealed.
“Her partners know she’s here. If we dump her at an American oil company, her friends will find her. She can’t say anything without cutting her own throat. Besides, look at her. She’s a broken doll. What could she say that anyone would believe?”
Hailey mumbled: “Gotta be worth it. Gotta be worth it.”
The Agency believed most of what Hailey said when they got her back home.
But she couldn’t believe what they told her at Langley or in RAVENS Castle. What she heard through all the doctors’ protests was the whirring of ceiling fans that spun her to logical clarity. Gotta be worth it, was what she knew. What she’d done/what had been done to her couldn’t be worth it if everyone walked away clean and free. Even her. Especially her. Failure her. Whore her. Murderer her. What she’d done/what had been done to her must be worth the ultimate price, so she knew that unlike Fela Kuti, she’d justly earned the historic death sentence meted out to failed spies and had AIDS.