The O'Leary Enigma Page 2

  Long ago, when I thought my stay on the Eisenhower would last a week, I had only taken my working uniform. “No, nobody said anything about clothing.”

  “Damn. Here’s a penknife; ditch the insignia before you get off the plane. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  After removing my insignia, I looked like any other civilian … if you were standing five hundred yards away. Before stepping out of the plane, I took the precaution to look at the passport Doug had handed me. I was now Barbara O’Malley, schoolteacher. I looked at my ticket and found I had a two-hour wait.

  The C-2 took off, leaving Doug and me on the tarmac in the early morning heat. Pointing toward a distant building, he said, “That’s the terminal. If you get tired of lugging that stuff, I’ll give you a hand.”

  I asked him how he liked Africa, and he informed me, “It sucks.”

  I tried again to strike up a conversation, but that effort also failed. In silence, we approached the doors to the terminal.

  About fifty feet from the entrance, Doug gave me a warning. “Don’t take any shit from these fuckers.”

  * * *

  As I entered the terminal, uniformed men besieged me, demanding I pay them ten dollars to check my bag.

  Doug stepped forward and told the most persistent pest to, “Get lost.”

  The man yelled out something in a language that I did not understand. The others in his group began laughing. I had the distinct feeling I was the object of the remark, because Doug, who seemed to know the meaning of the words, told me, “Don’t give those assholes the time of day.”

  At the check-in counter, I handed the agent my ticket. Haughtily, he informed me, “The plane is overbooked. There is no space. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Doug stepped forward and growled, “Maybe you ought to check again.”

  Without doing any checking, the agent answered, “Man, I already tell the lady the plane is overbooked.”

  Doug hopped over the baggage scale and positioned himself in front of the reservation keyboard and monitor. In spite of the ticket agent’s protests, he punched the keys.

  The display changed, and Doug, pointing to the display screen, said, “There are three empty seats.”

  Pissed, the agent checked my bag and gave me a boarding pass. Doug took out a twenty-dollar bill and left it on the keyboard.

  The angry ticket agent pocketed the money, saying nothing.

  Walking me to the security checkpoint, Doug said, “From here on, you’ll have to look out for yourself. Remember what I told you about taking shit.”

  Pondering that discomfiting thought, I asked, “Will there be anybody to meet me when I get to N’Djamena[6]?”

  “I don’t know.” Then in an ethnic voice, he added, “Not my territory, man.”

  “I appreciate your getting me through.”

  “All in a day’s work.”

  Trying once again to strike up a conversation, I asked, “How long have you been out here?”

  “Too long,” replied Doug, as he turned and walked away.

  * * *

  The flight to N’Djamena, other than being rough, was uneventful.

  As the door to the cabin opened, the central African heat almost knocked me off my feet. Recovering, I walked down the plane’s ramp to the tarmac, which was managing to capture every ray of light and turn it into heat.

  Following my fellow passengers, I sweltered my way to the terminal. Inside the building, a small, slender man in a white suit, who probably weighed no more than 130 pounds, waved at me and called out, “Miss O’Malley, follow me, if you would.”

  Before I could respond, before I could tell White Suit I needed to go through Customs and claim my bag, he turned and briskly started walking away from me. Fearful I would lose him and end up abandoned to the chaos on the other side of Customs, I chased after my guide. He spoke in a native language to a man in a military uniform slouched in a chair. Lazily, the soldier got up and opened the door he was supposedly guarding.

  Over his shoulder, White Suit said, “It’s best we keep a low profile.”

  Sprinting, I kept up with the man. Trying to strike up a conversation, I asked, “I suppose we’re going to the embassy?”

  “No,” replied White Suit, as we exited the terminal and began walking quickly across a parking lot. “That wouldn’t be advisable. The press is camped out all around the embassy complex. This hostage thing is world news. We’re headed toward a quieter part of town.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, we were in an area of modern, better-kept homes. Turning off the street, we drove up a long driveway and then into a detached garage. The door closed behind us. As I got out of the car, a tall young woman in her late twenties held the door. She was busty with platinum blonde hair and I instantly thought of Marilyn Monroe. Before I could speak, the woman introduced herself. “We’re so glad you could come on such short notice. I’m Susan Waterford.”

  “Lieutenant Barbara O’Leary.”

  “Barbara, I think you should avoid emphasizing your military connection. The political situation is kind of touchy, if you know what I mean.”

  Of course, I did not know anything about Chad or its political situation. But then again, one did not have to be a political scientist to realize that many in the Third World held America in low regard.

  I nodded my understanding and Susan continued. “Let me get you a rain coat then we’ll go inside.”

  In the blazing sunlight, I had not notice anything that remotely looked like a rain cloud. Anticipating my question, Susan said, “It’s a precaution. Your uniform might…”

  I nodded that I understood her uncompleted thought.

  * * *

  Inside the substantial two-story house, Susan explained. “Doug, the fellow you met at Douala, called and said you needed clothing. I found some things for you. You’ll be traveling on the street, so it’s best not to look conspicuous.”

  For a moment, I thought of asking what had happened to my bag, but I decided not to. Instead, I took the jeans, running shoes and blouse into a room and changed, or more correctly, tried to change. The shoes were a good match, somewhat tight but not bad. The pants were skin tight, but I could get them buttoned, barely. The blouse was hopelessly small. I put the shirt from my uniform back on and stepped outside to tell Susan the bad news.

  White Suit, who was standing next to Susan, exclaimed, “She can’t wear that.”

  Ignoring the comment, Susan asked, “Too small?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “We’ve got to get going. They’re up my ass as it is,” complained White Suit.

  “Let me think,” replied Susan. “I could go into town. Be back in forty-five minutes.”

  “Too long!” exclaimed White Suit.

  Susan responded. “We need a shirt. Anything will have to do.”

  “No,” protested White Suit. “Not my Jets T-shirt.”

  “You’re the one who’s in a rush,” countered Susan.

  Muttering obscenities, White Suit disappeared then reappeared holding a New York Jets T-shirt. Handing it to me, he growled, “Try not to fuck it up. It’s sentimental.”

  * * *

  The Jets T-shirt bulged, and I looked like I was going to a wet T-shirt contest at a pick-up bar. As I sweltered silently, White Suit glared at the world and ignored me. For a half hour, we drove through the ever-poorer parts of the city, with evermore-curious citizens. Finally, we arrived at a rundown, four-story government building, whose obvious decay could not hide the architectural beauty it once had. A weathered bronze plaque contained the words “République du Tchad, Bureau Principal du Système de Téléphone et Télégraphe.”[7]

  The guards in camo paid White Suit no heed, but they closely observed my bulging T-shirt. As we stepped through the doors into the building’s lobby, o
ne of them made a remark that I did not understand. Because his comrades began laughing, I had no doubt about its object.

  With White Suit leading the way, we went to an office on the third floor and walked in unannounced. A tall, slender, blond-haired man stood up from his chair at an old wooden desk.

  “Phil, this is Miss Barbara O’Malley. She’s the communications guru you asked for.”

  Pushing out his hand, Phil lit up. “Great. Thanks for coming. You know French?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man, that’s really cool.”

  I smiled. Encouraged, Phil asked, “Can I call you Barb?”

  Although I prefer Barbara, I replied, “Sure.”

  “That’s cool. Barb, your knowing French is going to be a big help.”

  White Suit interrupted our chitchat with, “Look, I got some shit to take care of. How do you want to do this?”

  Phil responded, “When we’re done here, we’ll give you a call.”

  “Don’t make it too late. I’d like to get out of Dodge City before it gets dark.”

  Phil nodded that he understood.

  “I’m out of here,” replied White Suit. “Hasta la vista, ciao, whatever,” were his last words as he opened the door and stepped outside.

  * * *

  “Here’s the deal,” explained Phil. “I help the Chad government with the cell phone side of their telephone system. The radiotelephone portion, they handle themselves.” I nodded that I understood. “Well, along comes this kidnapping thing. And the kidnappers, through an intermediary, call up the government using the radiotelephone system. Well, they talk, and the kidnappers let three of the hostages go. So everything’s cool, right?”

  I nodded, and Phil continued. “Well, then something that’s not cool happens.”

  “Which is?”

  “There’s an outage. And zippo, there’s no more talking to the kidnappers.”

  To confirm my understanding, I framed a question. “A malfunction in the radiotelephone system is preventing contact between the government and the kidnappers?”

  “That’s it. That’s where we are right now.”

  Knowing there had to be more, I asked, “You’re the phone guy, correct?”

  “Yup.”

  “Phil,” I asked, “why don’t you fix the outage?”

  “Remember, I’m the cellular phone guy. The problem is on the radiotelephone side. And that stuff is before my time.”

  With the words ‘pulling teeth’ floating around in my head, I asked the obvious. “What about your counterpart who handles the radiotelephone system?”

  “That’s the problem. When they decided to change over to cellular, the government of Chad, in its wisdom, didn’t renew the contracts with the radiotelephone guys. So when their contracts were up, they headed for parts unknown.”

  This did not make sense. So I probed again. “What do you mean, parts unknown? They must have left forwarding addresses.”

  “They did. But time goes by and …”

  I stopped him in mid-sentence with a question. “How long have the radiotelephone guys been gone?”

  “Two years.”

  “Two years?!”

  “Let me explain,” replied Phil defensively. “Everything was in place to make the switchover. Then some things happened and there were delays. And then the rebels got active … and the switchover never happened.”

  Cutting off Phil’s explanation, I asked, “Let me understand this. For two years the radiotelephone system has been operating without any technical support?”

  “I was kind of wondering about that myself. But like I said earlier, I’m on the cellular side of things. It wasn’t my place to ask questions.”

  Attacking the problem from another direction, I asked, “If you’re cellular, and this is a radiotelephone problem, what’s your role in all this?”

  “Well, when the abductions occurred, one of the big shots who works here asked me to get involved, to see what I could do. Not screwing around, I called up our embassy and told them I needed help.”

  “That’s why I’m here?”

  “Right. So while I’m waiting, I decided to get all the documentation I could together so whoever came could hit the deck running.”

  “Good,” I commented.

  “Not so good, actually. What I got is mostly nothing. Nobody around here seems to know where the radiotelephone documentation ran off to.”

  “Two years. That’s not too surprising.”

  “I’d agree,” explained Phil, “if the flip had gone off like it was supposed to. Undoubtedly, somebody would have deep-sixed the radiotelephone documentation. But they couldn’t, could they?”

  Picking up on Phil’s thought, I said, “Your hypothesis is that somebody is maintaining the radiotelephone system and to do that they have to have the documentation.”

  “Give the lady a ceegar.”

  Phil went on. “This building is where I work. The second floor is where we cellular guys have our offices. The third floor is where the radiotelephone guys ended up. They used to have both floors. The top floor is where the bigwigs hang out.”

  Phil must have realized that I was not getting his point, so he asked, “You’re new to Africa, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “These people are poor, really poor. Then, way back when, along comes the radiotelephone system, and they need people. Not for the technical stuff; no, for the administrative end of business. They hire the locals and these really poor people move up, way up. The good life, Africa style.”

  Completing Phil’s thought, I said, “Then along comes cellular.”

  “You got it. Just like the States, it’s hasta la vista for the middle-class radiotelephone workers.”

  “They’re suspicious that your real intent is to eliminate their jobs?”

  “Yeah, and I can’t blame them, ’cause I am. Cellular will get ’em all fired.”

  “What about the kidnapping? How do they feel about that?”

  “Like they give a shit,” replied Phil, who was intent on me understanding the injustice of progress in the third world. “Look, how many of these people think the government is in somebody’s hip pocket? How many of these people see progress as another way to get an economic screwing? I can’t blame them. Probably do the same thing myself if I was in their fix.”

  Trying to get Phil back to the telephone problem, I asked, “How far did you get on your search for documentation?”

  Pointing to a schematic spread out over a desk, Phil explained. “I got this. It’s a system-wide overview that goes down to the station level.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Right,” agreed Phil. “I’ve identified the station that services the phone used by the intermediary, you know, the guy who links the embassy to the kidnappers.” Moving his finger to a box on the right-hand side of the schematic, Phil added, “This is the station, and here is the drawing number.”

  “Have you asked the staff for the drawing?”

  “My French isn’t very good. All I get is ‘no comprendo’.”

  “Je ne comprends pas,” I responded. “‘No comprendo’ is Spanish.” Phil smiled, and I said, “Let me take a shot.”

  “Be my guest, Barb.”

  * * *

  Creating all the wrong impressions in my Jets T-shirt and my skintight jeans, I began making the rounds asking for the exchange schematic. Phil had pegged the problem. No one wanted to give me any assistance. I was getting nowhere. To me, it was obvious everyone had decided to play dumb.

  An older woman proudly, even haughtily, approached and, in French, gave me a lecture in a loud voice. “I am Estelle, and I have worked in this building since it was dedicated in 1981.”

  In French, I replied, “Good day, Madame. I am looking for—”

  Cut
ting me off mid-sentence, the woman rebuked me for my entirely inappropriate dress. “This is not a nightclub. A young woman dresses appropriately in an office.”

  Contrite, I bowed my head and said, “I apologize. You are absolutely correct. It was not my idea, but circumstances—”

  Wagging her finger, Estelle continued her lecture. “You look like a woman of the streets.”

  This brought smiles and giggles from those who were watching us.

  Then waving a piece of blank paper in the air, Estelle informed all, “I tell you to leave and get some proper clothes.” Then writing on the paper, she said, “See, I write it on the paper so you don’t forget.”

  Some of those who were watching began clapping.

  I did not bother to argue the point. Humiliated, I turned to leave. As I did, the woman grabbed my hand as she told me, “You have forgotten your note. Now leave, go.”

  Stunned by her outburst, I retreated carrying the paper she had thrust into my right hand.

  * * *

  Returning to the office where I had left Phil, I announced, “The natives don’t seem very friendly.”

  With a shrug, Phil replied, “I guess you’ve won today’s Ugly American award.” Then seeing how upset I was from the treatment I had received, he suggested, “Barb, it’s almost four. Why don’t we call it a day and regroup?”

  I did not oppose Phil’s idea. While he was returning the schematic, I glanced at Estelle’s note. In English there was a street address and the words “5:30 PM. Come alone.”

  * * *

  Phil waited with me in the lobby until White Suit drove up. We had just left the building’s parking lot, when I told him to pull over. When we stopped, I handed him the note, saying, “I want you to drop me two blocks from this address at 5:25.”

  “Honey, this isn’t the place for lone wolves. Let me set up the meet properly.”

  “There isn’t time.”

  White Suit considered what I had just said, then replied, “Okay, I’ll drop you off one block from the address. Then I’ll tail you.”

  At 5:20, we pulled over, and I started to get out. When White Suit said, “Wait,” I halted. Reaching into the glove box, he handed me a cell phone. “Keep this on at all times. I can track you that way.”