The Helpers: An International Tale of Espionage and Corruption

His garage was only about twenty paces from his house. Pierre looked around carefully to make sure everything was in order before he opened the garage. He cursed the idiot who had built the house for not having been a little sharper; a lot of things could happen while a man walked that distance. The car he had acquired was a white Peugeot that was over three years old. He liked it because it was inconspicuous, and he loved the sound of its engine. He got in the car, deposited his briefcase on the passenger seat, and started the engine. He felt the surge of power at the sound of screeching tires as he took off.

He joined the traffic on the main road heading to his office as he mulled over the repercussions of the disturbing information he had just received. A hand-held surface-to-air missile had been acquired a week ago in South Africa and transported to Congo without anybody noticing anything. It had been shipped to Kinshasa, although it was not on the list of incoming ammunition. Pierre glanced outside his right window. Visibility was much better and he could see the Congo River clearly in the distance. Thank God it was April and the rainy season was mostly over. Pierre hated to drive in the rain.

When he finally arrived at his office at the French Embassy, the Congolese security guard quickly opened the gate to let him in. Pierre was so preoccupied that he barely noticed the man, who waved in greeting. He pressed the intercom and announced himself. A buzzer went off and Pierre punched some numbers on the red phone that was mounted on the wall before another door opened. His mind was working overtime as he walked hurriedly toward his office. He checked his watch to make sure he was not late. It was almost seven o’clock in the evening, the time he was supposed to meet his boss. His secretary, Piquet, greeted him cheerfully, but Pierre barely noticed her and instead asked her sternly if his boss had shown up.

“No, monsieur, he hasn't called in,” she answered meekly.

“That’s all for now, Piquet,” he said before he closed his office door firmly behind him.

Piquet’s phone rang and she quickly picked it up. “Hello?” she inquired.

“You can go home now Piquet. I know you are tired,” Pierre said. He wanted to ensure privacy during his forthcoming conversation with his boss.

“Thank you, monsieur. I will direct all communication to your office.” She put away the files and checked the telephones and computers before she left.

Pierre tried to keep his cool as he waited for his boss. He started to pour himself a drink from a bottle he kept in his desk for emergencies, but decided against it. He needed to be alert. He reached across his desk, turned on the switch for all the cameras in the Embassy, and monitored the movements for a while. Most of the staff had already left, which suited Pierre just fine. Once they were gone and his boss arrived, he would switch on the motion detectors, a routine procedure when using the office after hours.

Pierre’s boss, Monsieur Lance Lemand, was the head of French Intelligence in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Lance was in his mid-fifties but he still had a full head of dark brown hair with some gray at the temples. He was an inch taller than Pierre and was still in good shape, having been in the French military for most of his life before joining Foreign Intelligence over two decades ago. Pierre liked and admired his boss. In the beginning, he’d been intimidated by the man, but over the last year they had become friendly.

Lance was very intelligent and knowledgeable; he also knew the inner workings of the African continent better than anyone Pierre had ever met. Pierre had learned a lot from his boss, and he knew that he could rely on Lance to provide insight into the current situation. He was agitated and shaken as he anticipated his boss’ reaction to the news. Pierre knew Lance’s short temper—he would fly off the handle when he learned what was happening in the country under his watch.