The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [2]
Suddenly Willy held up the pages he’d taken from the envelope and one by one opened them. They were color photographs printed on computer paper with an electronic date stamp in the lower right-hand corner. The first showed the main entry to a large oil exploration work area. The grounds were enclosed by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Armed, uniformed men stood guard at the entry gate.
“These are local men, lucky enough to have been hired and trained to guard the compound by the mercenaries. If you look carefully”—Willy slid a thin forefinger across the photograph to pinpoint two muscular Caucasian men with buzz-cut hair, wearing tight black T-shirts, camouflage pants, and wraparound sunglasses standing in the background—“these are two of the SimCo men who trained them. Here is a computer-enhanced closer look at them.” Willy showed Marten the second page.
The two men were seen clearly. The first was big and brawny and had singularly flat ears that barely stuck out from his head. The second was thin and wiry and noticeably taller.
“I have been an amateur photographer for more than seventy years. In that time I have eagerly stayed abreast of the most current technology. My camera is digital. When the electricity comes I transfer the images to my computer and make prints like these. I have taught many in the local community about photography.”
“I don’t understand.”
“One night a young native boy asked to borrow my camera. He had done it before, and so I let him take it again. Then I became curious about what he was doing and asked him. ‘Big bird in jungle,’ he said, ‘come very early almost every day to different places. Tomorrow I know where it come.’ What kind of big bird? I asked. He said, ‘Come and see,’ and I went with him.”
Now Willy opened the third folded page. It was a photograph of a jungle-green, unmarked helicopter set down in a forest clearing at daybreak. Several men were in the doorway helping unload crates to a half-dozen natives who, in turn, were loading them into an old open-bed truck.
Willy showed Marten the next photograph. A close-up of two of the men in the helicopter doorway.
“Same men guarding the oil interests,” Marten said.
“Yes.”
Willy’s fingers slid open the next photograph: an enhanced close-up of the truck revealing supplies that had been opened for inspection. Clearly seen was a case of assault rifles, another with ammunition, another with a dozen or more three-to four-foot-long tubular pieces that looked like handheld rocket grenade launchers, and several cases of what appeared to be the rockets themselves. In the upper right-hand corner, another man, a third Caucasian in black T-shirt and camouflage fatigues, was clearly seen. He was tall with short hair and chiseled features and was a good ten years older than the first two.
“The guns are AK-47s. The natives are Fang and Bubi tribesmen involved in a growing, organized insurrection against the government. Already more than six hundred people have been killed, mostly natives but also a small number of oil people.”
“You mean the same men hired to protect the oil workers are arming a revolt against them?” Marten was astonished.
“So it seems.”
“Why?”
“It’s not for me to say, Mr. Marten. But I would assume it is the reason you have come. To find out.” Suddenly Willy took a cigarette lighter from his jacket. “I gave up smoking thirty-two years, four months, and seven days