Blood Before Dawn

CHAPTER 2 WINSTON-1

CHAPTER 2WINSTON

Shortly after, President Tolbert did, in fact, lower the rice tax but it made little difference in his public image, and though he was an ordained Baptist minister and reputed to be a “decent” man, he was universally hated by all but the Americo-Liberians.

The Liberian Army had, indeed, refused to fire on the rioters, so Tolbert had their ammunition withdrawn and placed in storage, guarded by the police and his personal bodyguards, the SSS. Gradually, life in Monrovia got back to normal, or as normal as it could be in difficult times. There were occasional pockets of unrest, indicated by an explosion or two, but these were quickly suppressed by the police. The press was silent except for its praise of Tolbert’s Government and its admiration of his ceremonies and state banquets.

During this time, Sam and I went about the serious business of diamond hunting.

There are many ways to acquire diamonds in Liberia, but Sam and I knew that the best way was to have an agent who was in contact with a reliable source and, if possible, actually get to the diamond mines. This was very difficult, especially in the rainy season. The mines were typically far inside the bush and there were virtually no roads to access them. Iron and ore mining pits, typically owned by foreign countries, had roads leading to them, but these were generally built by the companies themselves.

The De Beers Company did not have a stranglehold on the Liberian mines like they did in South Africa or even Sierra Leone. The Liberian mines simply did not produce enough diamonds to interest them, and the quality, for the most part, was said to be not as high. Even so, with only a few small bags of these diamonds, one could easily clear over a 100,000 USD. And that was what I needed.

I had cleared out my savings for this trip. There would be costs, I knew that. I needed an airplane and something for ground transportation. Sam suggested a motorcycle. She used to ride one to her teaching job in Virginia Beach before she joined the Peace Corps. Despite the wonderful simplicity of it, there just wasn’t enough carrying room and I didn’t relish the idea of using it on muddy roads in the rain.

After a hotel breakfast of scrambled eggs and some kind of unidentifiable meat, Sam and I went searching for a cab. We found one, as I thought we would, a few steps from the hotel entrance.

“Can you take us to Spriggs-Payne airport?” I asked the driver as we got into the back seat.

“Boss, I take you anywhere you wan’ go, oh.”

“Good.”

He was a man in his thirties, clean shaven and wearing a stained but clean New York Yankees T-shirt and a New York Yankees baseball hat. I liked the way he drove—carefully, cautiously, and with situational awareness—good piloting technique.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Winston, boss. Like da great Winston Churchill. Only I still don’ like cigars!” He laughed.

“That’s a good name,” I said. “Tell me, Winston, do you know where I can buy a good car?”

“How much you pay, boss?”

“I was thinking as much as a hundred and fifty US”

“A hunded and fitty US! Damn! Boss, I drive you anywhere you wan’ till de second comin o’ de Lord Jesus Christ fo’ a hunded an’ fitty.”

This sounded like a good offer. It would free me from legal entanglements with the Liberian Government. A vehicle of my own would require maintenance, and expense.

“Okay, Winston, you’ve got a deal. A hundred and fifty US. I’ll pay you half now and the rest when the job is finished. That should be in a few weeks, when we head home.”

Winston hesitated. “Why can you not pay me all now? I ha’ chillen to feed, a wife to please. I ha’ to buy petrol.”

“That would not be good business, Winston. You are a man of business. Would you pay all up front before the job is finished?”

“You right, boss. Dhat is da good way o’ bidness, oh.”

Winston started off on the familiar road to Spriggs-Payne airfield, and right away, I recognized the dilapidated buildings that still had not been improved, the women walking slowly but steadily along the sides of the road, most shabbily dressed, and carrying bundles on their heads. As we arrived, I asked him to stop by the airport bar.

The small building by the side of the orange dirt airstrip was much the same as it was when I worked for Monrovia Airlines. Had I not recognized the dirty concrete structure from my many hours of drinking there in the ’60s, I wouldn’t have known it was an actual bar open for business. I asked Winston to pull up next to the small doorway on the far side of the building.

“Come in with us, Winston. I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Da be fine, boss, so fine.”

Sam, Winston, and I strode into the airport bar like a trio of successful big game hunters. The place had changed very little, if at all—dimly lit and smelling of stale beer and cigarette smoke. There were fewer patrons than I remembered for the time of day, but my memory of the place gave me a friendly, welcoming feeling.

The reinforcing steel bars protecting the window openings in the shapes of tropical birds and plants were still there, but dusty and in need of repainting. And as evidenced by the amount of guano on them, birds were still happy to fly in and out of the room at will.

“Monsieur Ken! Monsieur Ken!” Madeleine shouted from the opposite end of the bar. She came toward me with her arms outstretched. “How handsome you are, mon chéri. You haven’t changed at all!”

“And you haven’t either,” I said, noticing the unfamiliar lines around her eyes and the slightly grayish tint of her hair. “Still as beautiful as ever.”

“And this lovely lady? She your latest, mon ami?”

Sam glared at me for a second. Then I introduced Sam and made it clear that she was my wife and that Winston was our driver.

“And what brings you back to Liberia? Are you going to fly again?”

“I am looking for an airplane,” I said, “but it’s for my own use.”

“Then you have come to the right place. So many operators are giving up; so much disturbance and unrest. Not like the old days when you were here, mon cher, when things were— how do you say—’‘booming.’ My business is no good too—not as many pilots. André is gone, dead, I think. The Germans are mostly gone. There are still a few around but they are too old, or too young, to remember the war. A few Spanish and English—there will always be English everywhere you go.”

“Don’t people still need to get to the interior? It doesn’t look like the roads have improved.”

Madeleine shrugged in that special French way as if to say, “I don’t know and I don’t give a damn.”

“The Mandingos, oui, the merchants, oui, the Peace Corps, oui, but the mining companies and most of the other foreign companies have their own aircraft—big helicopters that carry six, maybe ten people. They don’t come in here very much.”

“Is Honorable Williams still around?” I asked.

“Oh yes. He comes often, like before. All smiles and talks forever about starting an international airline in Liberia, but never seems to get around to doing it.”

A very young bartender brought our beers. He set one bottle in front of each of us, opened the cap, and wiped the top with a clean paper towel. I knew from living here before that this was an absolute must—to be sure it was a sealed bottle. By the same token, I never had a gin and tonic with ice. Public water was toxic with bacteria.

“As I said, Madeleine, I need an airplane. Do you know of one for sale?”

“Oh, mon cher, everything is for sale here. You know that. For the right price you can have anything you want. But there is a Dutchman at the other end of the field. I hear he’s not doing so well. Name of the operation is Omnibus.”

I took her hand and kissed it. She smiled and slowly withdrew it.

We finished our drinks and Winston drove us to the far side of the airfield where Omnibus was located. It looked like two outbuildings nailed together with barely room inside for a desk and chair. There were two airplanes parked on what could be considered a dirt ramp next to the shacks. Inside there was a man, red faced with gray stubble on his chin and upper lip. He was sitting in the only chair, smoking a long cigarette. He glanced up at me with indifference.

I asked, “Are you Mr. Van d**k, the owner of this operation?”

He smirked, blowing cigarette smoke and the ash in front of him. “Van Dijk. Please. Pronounced Fan Dyke! De owner? Und yah, yo might could say dat.”

“I’m told you have an airplane for sale.”

“Yah, yo might could say dat too. Yo might could say de whole damn place is for sale.”

“I see you’ve got a 170A.”

“Yah, yah. Ich let you have it for five towsand US.”

“I want to look at it first. Where are the logbooks?”

He pointed to a box of cubby shelves nailed to the wall. “De books und keys are in dare.”

The logbooks had a thin layer of dust on them, and the pages stuck loosely together as I flipped through them. No recent entries had been made. I asked to look at the airplane. Mr. Van Dijk waved me on.

The airplane was well used, and like most well-used airplanes, it smelled of fuel and burnt oil. However, it was cleaner than I expected and, surprisingly, the engine looked clean and well maintained. I checked to make sure the plane was tied down securely and that the main switch was off, then pulled the propeller through several times. The compression wasn’t the greatest but it wasn’t bad either.

I walked back into the outhouse of an office. Mr. Van Dijk was there, still chain-smoking.

“I’d like to start the engine,” I said.

“Und ich suppose yo vant to fly it too?”

“That would be the usual procedure,” I said.

“Goot, den leave a deposit of five towsand US.”

I tried not to look surprised.

“I’ll leave 2,000 US. If that isn’t good enough, then thank you for your time.”

After a significant pause, I turned and started to walk out.

“Vate! Vate!” he said, seeming to chew on his tongue slightly.

I stopped and turned back to face him.

“Ya, ya, okay. Leave da money on da desk.”

“I’ll take the logbooks too,” I said.

He nodded, then lit another cigarette from the stub of the previous one. I walked out to the taxi and told Winston and Sam that I would probably take the airplane around the field for a few minutes. Winston had found a shadier place to park, so Sam went back to reading her book and Winston continued humming a plaintive West African song.

I checked the fuel tanks and strainer for contamination. All were clear. The oil was up to the line and reasonably clean. All wires were connected, and nothing was broken, frayed, dripping, or hanging. I untied the airplane, pushed it around to face the runway, and climbed in. I started the engine and all engine gauges jumped into the green arcs, which was very encouraging. The engine ran smoothly with no excessive vibration. I went through the taxi check list, then pushed the throttle in slightly and felt the familiar tremble of the aircraft fuselage. A little more power and the airplane started rolling forward. I held the yoke back against my belt buckle and pushed the rudder pedal, pointing the nose to the end of the runway. Once there, I performed the pre-takeoff check carefully and methodically. I felt a little like a test pilot. The airplane checked out okay, but with an old machine in Liberia one could never be sure. When I convinced myself that the airplane was ready to go, I keyed the mic of the transceiver and asked the tower for permission to take off. The scratchy voice of the air traffic controller, although they were air traffic controller in name only, cackled in the headset. “Yah, yah, go,” said the sleepy voice.