The Helpers: An International Tale of Espionage and Corruption

The phone attached to the radio transmitter rang and jolted Pierre out of his daydream. It rang once, twice—an emergency! He rushed to a room behind the kitchen. He glanced at the switchboard: the call was from Code Quarto, on the Island of Comoros. This was not a good sign. Pierre started to sweat profusely. He jumped to lock the door, flicked on the switch, latched a scrambler onto the mouthpiece, and grabbed a pad.

“Yes, A1, come in,” he said as he took a pen. He listened intently to the caller, then quickly started to write down some notes—all the time perspiring.

After what seemed like an eternity, he asked, “Is this for certain, A1?”

“Yes, monsieur,” came the reply.

“Thank you.”

He put the set down and stared at the transmitter in disbelief. Sweat turned to rivulets of perspiration as he considered the implications of what he had just learned.

“Goddamn it! Why didn’t anyone notify me earlier?” he shouted out loud as he placed a call to his boss.

“Boss, we need to meet immediately. I just received a call from Code Quarto.”

“I will meet you in the office in an hour,” his boss responded.

He looked at the paper of code that was still in his hand. Years of reading coded messages had made him an expert at decoding information. He took a match from his pocket and burned the paper. It turned into dust.

This new information was disturbing. A few days ago, he’d heard a rumor of plans to get rid of the Congolese President if he signed a peace agreement with the rebels. Subsequent investigation had revealed that the culprits were extremists who had no contacts whatsoever with either the government or the rebels.

He got up slowly and made his way to the living room. He picked up all the scattered papers in a daze and deposited them in the safe. He was drenched and his clothes were sticking to his back as he headed to the bathroom and jumped in the shower. He dried himself still thinking about the message. He put on a pair of baggy khaki pants and a jean shirt with a white T-shirt underneath and then combed his hair. Pierre didn't like cologne; all he used was aftershave.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw a man with black hair, cut almost military style. At thirty-two years of age, Pierre was in excellent shape. He was six feet two inches tall and very handsome, but he did not seem to be aware of it, which made him even more appealing. He had never been a ladies’ man, and his job was not conducive to a relationship, so he shied away from committed relationships. One last look in the mirror convinced him that he was ready. He looked around the room before he picked up his briefcase and headed toward the front door.

Once outside, he could hear guns going off in the distance. Pierre had heard about the conflict, corruption, and craziness in Congo before he arrived, but nothing had prepared him for the chaos of Kinshasa. There was a war still going on between different factions of the government and the rebels. The city itself was full of people, soldiers mixed with civilians. Nobody seemed to understand completely what the war was about, except for the fact that the rebels belonged to the minority group and they were closing in.

Unlike other expatriates who lived in the Gombe area, the political and business district of Kinshasa, Pierre lived alone, outside the city center of Kinshasa. He wasn't particularly fond of the city and the large crowds, and sometimes the temperature could be hot and unbearable, but he enjoyed the culture, music and local food. Still, he preferred his privacy and needed it for a good reason. If his colleagues were aware of his activities, their lives would be jeopardized. He locked the door and turned on the alarm system, which he had installed the moment he rented the house. The system was sufficient to ward off ordinary burglars, but it wasn't much of a deterrent to professionals.