Operation Lucifer
The two men sat opposite each other in a highly secure office on the top floor of the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters. Not even an ant could hear their conversation. A howitzer or RPG launcher could not penetrate the concentric rings of proof against attack that secured the place.
Alan Dwight sat comfortably behind the massive mahogany desk. At fifty-five he was tall, well-built and aristocratically handsome. His neatly combed black mane was bereft of gray. His square, florid face was clean-shaven. The deep-set, ocean-blue eyes God endowed him with could either be laser-beams piercing into your soul or totally devoid of emotion, depending on their owner’s inclination. He wore his three-piece black suit as if that was what he was born to do.
A top graduate of the University of London, and the second-best of his set from the Yale University Graduate Programme in International Studies, Dwight was among the high-fliers of his intake in the Agency thirty-one years ago. Those who knew him were not surprised when he became the Agency’s Deputy Director in charge of Operations nearly two years ago.
Lounging in the visitor’s chair, as if the world was a happy rollercoaster, was a short and deceptively corpulent blond man. He was bald and his small blue eyes twinkled like those of a merry dwarf behind his glasses. In his less than natty brown suit he looked like a favourite uncle who had come home for Christmas. But Dwight never made the mistake of taking him at face value. Hidden behind the man’s Santa Claus mien was one of the sharpest and utterly ruthless minds in what Rudyard Kipling called the Great Game. Dwight knew this better than most: both of them had joined the CIA on the same day and had trained together at the Farm, the nickname for the Agency’s Training School. They had paired in some of the most hair-raising missions as field agents. As soon as he was elevated to Deputy Director, Dwight pulled the ace out of the field kicking and screaming and made him Head, Africa Bureau. It was one of the best decisions Dwight had ever made in his new position. The head’s name was William Axelworth and at fifty-four what he did not know about Africa was not worth knowing in the cloak-and-dagger business.
Dwight gave him a penetrating look. Axelworth met it calmly. He was one of the very few people who never buckled under those blue laser-beams.
‘‘What are the chances of success, objectively speaking?’’ Dwight asked.
Axelworth shrugged.
‘‘The damned computers say seventy to ninety percent. But computers don’t figure out human factors. However, we stand a good chance if we give the animal what he feeds on.’’
‘‘Money?’’
Axelworth took a heavenly drag on his cigar and watched the sweet smoke dissipate under the control of concealed high-power air-conditioning units. He knew his friend tolerated his smoking habit just as Axelworth struggled to come to terms with the fact that a man like Dwight who never smoked and only drank in the line of duty was a committed Casanova. To be fair, his womanizing never compromised his efficiency and all the ladies who graced his bed did so willingly, even enthusiastically.
‘‘You have studied his file.’’ Axelworth spoke carefully. ‘‘The man is propelled by much more than basic greed. Sure, he wants money, more and more of it. But he is also imbued with a sense of shall we say, regality? Think of those African kings their subjects dared not question because they were chosen by the oracle. In his case he is chosen to rule Giberia. But his divine mandate is controlled by a cold, calculating mind.’’
‘‘Which can always tap into the country’s ethnic patronages and cleavages,’’ Dwight concluded. He got to his feet and began to pace the well-furnished room. Axelworth dropped his partially smoked cigar in the exquisitely carved ashtray and watched him closely. Then he raised a question of utmost importance.
‘‘Alan, aren’t we going too far? This isn’t Africa of the 1960s and ‘70s, hell, not even 1980s. Sure, Africa has a lot of shit stuck in the toilet bowl but Africans of this day and age are smart and can see through shenanigans. We have strongholds in Giberia. The oil companies, the government institutions, the military and security forces, the academia, hell, even their churches. If we keep our grip on these systems whoever that comes to power will have to abide by our wishes or he won’t be worth a roll of toilet paper in the National Palace. But an agent at the very top? The comebacks could be unpleasant, to put it mildly.’’
Dwight paused and looked at his friend. They went back a long way. Axelworth was not a man whose concerns could be dismissed with the wave of a hand. He had raised these points at the conception of the operation. The Deputy Director took them seriously. But he firmly believed that fair maidens and great kingdoms timid souls did not win. He had been a spook long enough to know that there were times in the Great Game the best option for success was to go forward at full tilt, despite the cloudy skies overhead.Besides, this maximally classified operation had the full imprimatur of the Republican POTUS and the Agency’s Director. The Director was a savvy political bastard who listened to his more professional number two and cleared the landmines in the ruling councils of Washington D.C. Dwight came up to the Africa expert’s chair and leant against its armrest. Both men were eyeball to eyeball as he spoke.
‘‘Bill, you know the drill. Our masters want more than a stronghold on Africa. They want Africa’s soul. The Chinese and Russians want to recreate their empires there, and they are doing rather well in helping the destruction of ancient regimes the snooty French established on the continent as they exported liberte, eaglite and fraternite. For now, it is not yet a tornado but it will soon be if unchecked. The guy in the Kremlin thinks he is Joseph Stalin come back to life. Unfortunately many African states are beginning to see him as the messiah. If we don’t have a counter force we will be in deep shit. All these strongholds won’t matter. We need a man at the top in Giberia, the heartbeat of Sub-Saharan Africa. A decade of him in charge will change the tide.’’
Axelworth’s smile was deceptively unruffled.
‘‘My job is to do the job. That includes telling you fancy pants the facts of life. But in the end it is your call. May God, or should I say, Lucifer, bless you.’’
No other staff, not even the Director, would have dared speaking so bluntly to Dwight. Calling him fancy pants to his face was anathema. But then Axelworth’s fearlessness was legendary and his justified reputation gave him some privileges. The Deputy Director appreciated his friend’s candour. He laughed and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘‘Indeed. All hail Lucifer. Though you don’t need to be a scholar of religion to know that the God of the world’s three great monotheistic religions appreciates espionage.’’
Axelworth, an agonistic, shrugged. The Deputy Director returned to his seat and pushed across the file on his side of the desk to his friend. Both men had memorized its contents. Classified at the highest stratosphere, only this one copy existed, safely in Dwight’s custody. Axelworth had created it at his prompting four months ago.
‘‘Logistics, Bill. What next?’’
Axelworth’s tone became crisp as he got into his element.
‘‘Three distinct but interconnected operations are vital here. Op 1: ensure that all the past and present infelicities of our man are consigned to Sheol. Wiped out. Drug charges, tax infractions, court records. Even the non-consensual humping of that Miss Latina beauty queen when he was a college student in Miami. What cannot be erased should be squared away or sanitized.’’
‘‘By any means?’’ Dwight’s tone was cold. Axelworth got the message. He was not squeamish.
‘‘By all means,’’ he replied calmly. His boss nodded.
‘‘Op 2: a massive, systematic penetration of all of Giberia’s power systems. The elections are barely three years away.’’ He glanced at the box of quality Jamaican cigars. Dwight nodded. Axelworth lit up, puffed happily and continued.
‘‘Op 3 is the most delicate. I will personally handle it. Our man has to be ours, body, spirit and soul. Now he is on our side but he is smart enough to have the leverage of being a free agent. I want to remove that agency and make him realize that his destiny is tied up with being in our good books.’’
Dwight’s eyes shone with curiosity.
‘‘Pray, how are you going to achieve that?’’
The chief of the Africa Bureau sat forward and talked coldly and precisely for almost eight minutes. Dwight listened keenly, silently. The more he heard, the colder his experience-hardened spine became. When his friend finally sat back an almost visible silence filled the office. Dwight finally spoke after what seemed like ten years.
‘‘Good God, Bill. You’re a maniac, do you know that? If badly handled, it can tear the country apart. Even in good hands like yours the comebacks can…’’ His sigh completed his statement eloquently.
Axelworth shrugged again.
‘‘Which sane person can do what we do?’’
The Deputy Director’s cold eyes concealed his thoughts. Grudging respect for the portly man seemingly relaxed before him filled his mind. The guy was totally unfazed by the sheer lunacy of his proposal and ready to see it through without any qualms. Damn, he had a relaxed ruthlessness that just might achieve success.
‘‘You know the drill,’’ he said. ‘‘Carry on. The budget will be squared away. You have my provisional authorization on behalf of the Director. But I have no doubt it will pass muster with full marks.’’ He paused. ‘‘Both of us hate trails but they are evil necessities, at times. Use the special e-mail.’’ It had been created and specially encrypted for this operation.
Axelworth nodded.
‘‘That’s all for now.’’
Axelworth looked at the photograph of the Giberian in the file. He took in the full face, thick lips, small, cat-like eyes and breathed deeply. He handed the file back to his boss and stood up.
‘‘For America; for the U S of A; the greatest country on earth.’’ He did not say the words aloud but they were what motivated him and stilled any pangs of conscience.
The Deputy Director had already activated the door by simply shifting his left leg under the desk. Once it closed noiselessly behind Axelworth he reached inside his jacket and took out a tiny device that had fully recorded their discussion. It was high-powered and encrypted. Only a fool believed in trust in the Great Game. Director Blaise Blake would want to hear the Africa chief’s crazy but feasible plan. A concise but sanitized version would get to the president: for all his gung-hoism there were certain details the occupant of the Oval Office should not hear. For the sake of the country, but above all, for the political fortunes of the POTUS and the Establishment he embodied.
An involuntary shudder ran down Dwight’s spine. God help the West African republic of Giberia, he thought. God help you with the type of president you will soon get. Perhaps it would have been better if you had remained as distinct tribes under the reign of savage, animal-skin wearing kings.
He locked up the file in his safe and called the director on his office phone. It was time they got Operation Lucifer on the road.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Henry Chukwuemeka Onyema is a Lagos- based writer and historian. His unpublished novel was longlisted for the 2024 Quramo Writer’s Prize. He looks forward to popular fiction taking pride of place on the African literary scene. Email:[email protected]