Rebel Trade

And if the man was not a rogue, was not alone, so much the worse for Boavida.

In that case, he would be forced to go out hunting for another enemy.

And crush him like a piece of garbage when he found the man.

* * *

HEADQUARTERS FOR THE Mayombe Liberation Front occupied a two-story cinder-block building on Bloekom Street, on the borderline between Windhoek’s Southern Industrial District and the neighboring Suiderhof suburb. The surrounding shops and housing blocks were lower-middle-class, at best, leaning toward poor, despite their close proximity to aptly named Luxury Hill.

Bolan had swapped his digicam field uniform for urban casual, a navy T-shirt over jeans and running shoes with Velcro tabs in place of dangling laces that could trip him when being sure-footed was essential to survival. On the VW Jetta’s shotgun seat, a khaki windbreaker covered the duffel bag that held his AK-47 and grenades. The loose shirt worn outside his jeans hid the Beretta tucked inside his waistband.

Watching. Waiting.

Bolan made a point of never rushing into anything if there were time and opportunity to scope a target and evaluate the best approach. That didn’t always work, of course, but in the present case he had some time to spare.

Not much, but some.

The MLF made no attempt to hide in Windhoek, proud to sport a flag outside its rundown headquarters. From all appearances, the setup was on ordinary office not unlike those operated by the ruling SWAPO party—short for the South West Africa People’s Organization, which has carried each election since Namibia secured independence in 1990—or its smaller rivals: the Congress of Democrats, the All People’s Party, Democratic Turnhalle Alliance or the South West Africa National Union. MLF Central was smaller and shabbier, true, as befit an exiled band committed to opposing government activities in neighboring Angola, but a passerby would have no reason to suspect that anyone inside was a conspirator in murder, piracy or terrorism.

Not unless they knew the MLF’s peculiar bloody history.

Bolan had studied up on that, via the internet, while he was airborne over the Atlantic and while flying down from Lisbon to Windhoek. The short version was a familiar story. Rebels in Angola had joined forces to defeat and oust the Portuguese during a war for independence that had raged for fourteen years. Then, as so often happened in the grim affairs of humankind, the native victors had almost immediately set to fighting one another for supremacy, sparking a civil war that bled the new republic white across a quarter century. The main contestants, backed by smaller allied groups, had been UNITA (the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola) and the MPLA (People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola). During the worst of it, when one-third of Angola’s population was displaced, Russia and Cuba backed the MPLA’s cause, while the U.S. had joined Red China and South Africa to aid UNITA. Today, the MPLA was Angola’s dominant party, claiming eighty-odd percent of the popular vote, and the losers were predictably dissatisfied. Unused to anything but bloodshed, they fought on—some of them from Namibia.

Which was where Bolan came in.

In most cases, he would not be assigned to tip the scales of any civil war in one direction or the other. While the CIA still fought its share of proxy wars, with mixed results, The Executioner preferred to target individuals or groups that led an unapologetic life of crime, more often killing for their own amusement or for profit than for any cause. He’d started out with mobsters who had crushed his family, and Bolan’s war had grown from there, encompassing the terrorists, drug barons, human traffickers and other parasites who thrived on human misery.

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