The Nairobi Paper

by Tom MacFarland

The train stops at the Brussels recruitment center for mercenaries. Foreign security companies, along with independents, are here. Ex-military and ex-law enforcement men and some women. Fighters from Britain, India, France, and America. The new Foreign Legion. A different world. The men he had seen closely in the building were tough-looking, tightly wound, lean professionals. It was natural that such highly trained, well-paid assassins would migrate to the closest trouble. This time was Africa’s. Being hired at the Place Rogier train station was a ticket south. Brock had occasionally caught their eyes, and he wondered what their eyes had seen in the past.

His territory included Africa, where he knew the U.S. was training militaries to oust civilian governments in coups. Insurrections were disrupting American security strategy in large sectors of the region. Or were they? Russia and China were watching to take their openings. Russia had its claws in resources, their Wagner Group getting rich. Rewards for work in Mozambique, Sudan, Central African Republic, and Mali were cash profits from mineral development. The Chinese thinly hid their greed behind the spread of their ideology. Brock was commercial, not yet an agent for force. That was his daydream.  

The world was changing, and not for the better from America’s perspective. China was building a naval base in Equatorial Guinea, giving the U.S. Navy fits—a new arch-rival having a resupply depot and a launching pad for ships and planes close to North America. The Russians were active in another piece of his territory—neighboring Middle Eastern countries—slowly gravitating southwest to Africa. It would get worse.

As no one can predict the future, he hadn’t given any thought to becoming an Intelligence recruit. He wasn’t aware that the CIA had shifted hiring to economic espionage, away from language skills and military experience. His unseen future would be full of training, education, coaching, practicing covering his tracks, and gaining access to corporate activity. It wasn’t that different from actual spying on foreigners.  

Like most people, he had no serious vision of what he wanted to do—bumping along, searching for guidance to a path, with his planning skills—his passion. It made perfect sense for national intelligence to pick from the ranks of people already in foreign roles. It also made sense that the Agency used loyal citizens to help, while temporarily undercover, in jobs that regularly took them overseas. Most part-time, valuable contributors could go deeply where CIA ‘regulars’ could not. Many of the recruits (himself included) would be sent out for economic espionage—the more trade secrets secured the better. This intersected nicely with threats focused from terrorist groups. Enter The Nairobi Paper.

Everyone’s’ enemy in Africa frightened his Belgian co-workers. Belgium had a long and not-so-distinguished history on the continent. Now, the past’s colonial subjects came calling on the little, gloomy country and stayed. Al–Shabaab Mujahideen Youth Movement, a Somalia-based, terrorist, jihadist, fundamentalist organization, operated out of Brussels. These role models had become active in their neighboring East African nations, and bustling Yemen. Founded in 2006, its 12,000 members hated Christians and Semites, alike. The unfriendly terrorist organization in northeast Nigeria, Boko Haram, allied with them. Then, the group (not exactly a church social) split and joined with Islamic State’s West Africa province, becoming part of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant. Brock was a fan of geography and history, or he would not have known this. History explained challenges an otherwise innocent business visitor to the region faced —were they an aid worker, tourist, or businessperson. Prospects of multiple, painful medical shots (four corners) required for anyone going into these countries paled in comparison to the fate of possible, unfortunate captives.

Complicating America’s best intentions were batches of coups by militaries enlisted in the fight against Islamist extremists’ threats. Significant man hours and expenditures were devoted to training infantrymen in counterterrorism raids, and even hosting local senior commanders at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. These attempts were designed to make professionals out of amateur fighters to defend against domestic and foreign aggressors.

Some programs backfired as trained personnel overthrew civilian governments and took power for themselves, notably in Mali and Burkina Faso. Burkina Faso had been fighting against the Islamic State and a combination of al Qaeda converts known as Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal Muslimin (JNIM). Both nations had been fighting Al Qaeda and the Islamic State. Guinea suffered a takeover by its own soldiers. Sudan and Ethiopia reversed the best efforts of U.S.-led training and went against attempts to set up democratic processes. America’s absence was too tempting for its major power rivals to ignore. The Malian power group accepted the security of the Kremlin-linked Wagner Group. France withdrew its troops from Mali. Russia and their Malian partners killed hundreds of civilian men claimed to be militant insurgents. Brock was up to speed. The territory wasn’t going to be the death of him if he could help it.

‘Insurgent’ was a puzzling word to Brock. Resurgents lived in their own country. His American Revolutionary heroes were insurgents to the English. Not an original thought but conflicting, nonetheless. Perhaps ‘terrorists’ was a better choice. Recently, Europe and Africa had become linked by refugee flows north out of the continent, the result of extremist ideologies’ spread. Unfortunately, bad people were spreading south in West Africa toward the region’s most prosperous and stable states.

A proposed trip to Kenya and the Central African Road Conference in Nairobi from his boss came as a true surprise. The Nairobi Paper had to be delivered. The white paper presentation on the virtues of his firm’s construction equipment was sabotaged. Why any European (his colleague) would choose to side with “freedom fighters” was beyond him. He didn’t want to think like them, to see into their minds. For him, exposure to Somali evil was a week away.

On Monday, after a weekend exploring Brussels, their recently adopted city, he left the fifth-floor apartment on Rue Emile Claus in the city center. He was in his favorite suit—a light chocolate pinstripe blend (in style with the Belgians), sporting a big collar, canary yellow shirt. Intent on quickly catching the train, slightly slinging his new leather briefcase (which was sneakily empty, but looked good for show), his strides left his collar and suit coat open enough for a pesky pigeon to land its load squarely on his head and down the back of the material with enough perfect gravity to make it clear to his waist. Rows of the filthy bastards were silently perched like gray gargoyles on the roofs’ edges. What a start to a Monday. No choice but to turn around unhappily, go back up the maddeningly slow elevator for a quick, second shower, and change in front of his startled—and laughing—wife. “Nice look” she volunteered cheerily. That coat needed cleaning anyway.

A bit later, embarrassed and sweating, he hopped onto the surface transit that made its way to the basement floor of the Place Roget Manhattan Center downtown. Every pass through the train stops, coming and going on Emile Claus, was a reminder of the efficiency of Belgian security authorities. Automatic weapons were public on the neighborhood street corners and at Zaventem, the city airport. These were put to use, he saw, during a hostage-taking bank robbery incident (he nearly witnessed) ending in the unfortunate deaths of not only the criminals but also the bank tellers. The aftermath display—an overturned armored van with a shattered windscreen and pools of blood on asphalt. No police causalities.

One year earlier, ten men conducted a suicide bombing ‘special operation’ at Zaventem and a central commuter line. Islamic State’s Salah Abdeslam masterminded his extremists to conduct a murderous terrorist act. Many people were killed, hurt, or suffered mental traumas.

That same favorite, soft leather briefcase of Brock’s would find its way to parts unknown when he trustingly packed it inside a suitcase on a return trip to the U.S. It was lost. Lesson learned. A future fiasco caused by travel with too much luggage—never again.

Brock loved building businesses from nothing. He was a long-term planner by nature, although much of what happened—as with most people—wasn’t planned, but spontaneous. 

They both liked their city apartment set of rooms— a decent view of clay-colored roofs (stretched to the usually gray horizon) and scattered trees, overlooking the Vois de la Cambra Park. It was an adjustment, getting used to having a freezer-less midget refrigerator. Almost daily trips to the fromagerie, boulangerie, butcher, and other special shops (fun at first) became tedious. The closest grocery store was on the second and third stories of a clothing/jewelry retail complex—not convenient. The lifts were a mechanical trip and a leap of faith to use. The rooms came furnished (with odd but sturdy antiques), and they indulged and personalized it. Amanda, his wife, was an improvisational decorator.

This trip to the office was too short for any serious thinking, much less reading, although he had none. Being late wasn’t a concern since no one kept track of his comings and goings. Besides, no one would have believed such a dumb morning pigeon story anyway, considering it to be a farfetched excuse. Except for Amanda, no one cared if he lived or died truthfully. He could have been one of those bank hostages for all anyone cared.  

Stepping out of the car, he was amazed (but not shocked), as always, to gaze directly into a tassel-lined window, housing a woman with few clothes—this time with a beautiful cat perched on her lap, and a bored smile. They seemed to rotate from spot to spot within a small complex of tiny, interconnected rooms. Most Europeans had a mature outlook on life and were not saddled with sentiments of an antiquated Victorian era, as was the U.S. Unlike most men, he tried to put himself in the other person’s mind. In this case, he knew what he saw was probably wrong for the woman. And he asked himself to consider what if it was him in the window instead—no one would be remotely interested. And the mercenaries were there, too.

Modest restaurants lined nearby streets, and cubby holes with similar windows offered ladies’ company in a boggling variety of ages, nationalities, and appearances (along with lap cats, dogs, and an occasional bunny rabbit), interspersed with Keno parlors, offering ample opportunities for mischief or fun, depending on one’s perspective. For one of his visiting colleagues— the haughty all-knowing headquarters lawyer—this was too great a temptation. Brock found him his first morning on arriving in the city—semi-conscious—completely soused and beaten. As he recalled earlier, this spot boasted being the meeting place for mercenaries finding employment—destination Africa. He imagined, again, looking into their eyes. Would he see what they had seen? Atrocities? Coups? Nature’s beauty?

The architecture of The Place Roget was an anomaly, with its architecture—tall and new—surrounded by ancient, decaying, drab buildings with silent stone walls of no particular color. Without a doubt, this place was a fine venue for intrigue and schemes, even for someone with little imagination.

The steel frame skyscraper was standard construction from the ‘60s—black metal and pale green tinted glass. The building plan incorporated the subway stop with elevators up.

Well-constructed (and to approved European code), the office building overlooked the Grande Place (pronounced ‘Plaas’) in downtown Brussels. The city was named ‘Europe’s Kitchen’ for its vast array of restaurants (primarily in the Place) from every corner of the globe.

His firm’s open floor plan was noisy—numerous languages being clearly spoken—a racketing acoustic bombardment from twelve shouting salesmen, each attached to phones with eternally twisted cords. Annoying drivel— their twisting lines constantly pulled handpieces away from their mouths, closer to the cheap plastic desktop receivers. Cell phones weren’t affordable. 

Brock said hello to Rosie and Hillary, two British sales assistants (chosen by the hiring Managing Director). It was a bit of amorous overkill on his part—there was only enough work for one person in the role. The women were well appreciated. Both offered him a combination of mothering and mildly disguised flirting—depending upon their mood. Wise beyond their years, they refrained from office romance since the potential was nil and uninspiring anyway. Brock, the American, was scheduled to go to Singapore after several years in Belgium. Hilary was searching for a ticket to Hong Kong, being thoroughly bored already with Brussels. But Singapore (his next stop), or Hong Kong (at a time before the Communists removed freedom), would have been fine had he not been married to a kind, attractive, and adventurous woman. Each woman in his gaze, in the room, possessed an independent spirit, and their youthfulness was contagious. Antonio, Sales Director, a charming and well-dressed Italian, openly worshiped Hilary, though she never accepted his advances (as far as could be told), mostly because he was married. She favored fashionable, but surprisingly short, skirts that somehow accentuated her large breasts, or maybe it was his imagination. He never knew what to look at first—but it was usually her legs, then up (unless there was no short skirt). There was no mistaking her British accent, no matter which language was pouring out of her mouth, which was amazing. All the men in the sales group liked Rosie, too, since she was nicer and not a blatant schemer like her friend, Hilary. They were very interesting women.    

Brock made way to a non-descript desk, identical to the others. It said nothing about him— there being no pictures or visible name plaque. Impermanent, transient, impersonal. Open and ready for the next short-term occupant. The telecom system was excellent, sending and receiving messages to and from the world. The men were minimalists with scant visible files. The room’s densely packed group‘s sole bit of anti-Belgian humor was actually funny, usually (JJ was the only native). When picking up a line from Yugoslavia, they knew to tell the caller, “Yes, the charges will be accepted.” Belgians needed someone to look down on. The thrifty, Yugoslav salesman liked to make a big shouting show whenever one of his compatriots (fellow skinflints) came his way over the wire.  Of course, attention received was his reward. Always smiling. Voytec liked everyone and was especially curious about the visiting American transplant.

Local management had no choice but to accept a headquarters transfer—the first, only, and last—while his expenses were borne by the U.S. payroll. The dream of the parent company, Daimler Benz, his reason for being there, was to create an entire broad family of on/off-highway vehicles that eventually would have no industry rival. The fleet was to be tacked on to the company’s massive on-road lineup. An intriguing strategy, but not to be.  

Belgium’s operations represented a logical springboard for researching and adding new products, building on the base of off-highway products manufactured in North America, and nearby in Bruges, a charming nearby coastal city. The premature death of the young, hard-driving Mercedes chairman put an end to that plan. At the moment, though, there was ample funding for the strategy.  Hence, Brock’s travels weren’t local (except for weekend trips with his wife for fun) but scattered throughout Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. He was expected to mastermind the research and acquisitions in the region—with little thought to funding spared, with the full support of an expensive consulting firm in San Francisco.   

Two couples in the office group exchanged apartment dinner invitations with him: Rene, a pompous Frenchman who enjoyed poking fun at Belgians, along with his Dutch wife, a Scandinavian flight attendant; and Wassong and his common-law spouse. Wassong kept a wall chart in the den that listed his love sessions with his partner, the lovely Ann Marie. Only the Managing Director could afford a true house. Staff lived in apartments. JJ, 40 years old, lived uncontentedly with his parents. This grumpy, frumpy dead soul received odd jobs. He wasn’t thrilled to present The Nairobi Paper the following week at the African Road Construction Congress—a very official bureaucratic organization, apparently good government in action.

JJ’s odd behavior was unfamiliar and unexpected to the American newbie.  But Brock, of course, didn’t know him at all, even though there were many lunches eaten together in Brussels outside the office. It left him annoyed and wondering—not good. He had experienced outright resentment from JJ from the start, for reasons unknown, since moving into the position. He probably felt passed over.  

Although Brock prided himself on winning people over to his side, this guy was a challenge, one he seriously doubted he would win. JJ, self-centered and oddly egotistical, considering his lack of ability, didn’t let anyone know him. Usually, the American found rejection to be an incentive, but it was becoming pointless to see this as even worthwhile. Viewed as a ‘weak sister’ within the office, and a prevaricator, JJ was universally argumentative, always going against the tide with no regard for the wishes of the crowd. Standing out amongst the others—in no good way—it was sad, but obvious, that his loser label fit. He was part of an anti-U. S nationals and U.S. corporations grudge fest, and it made for hard feelings as well as dealings. Too bad.

Natural resentment of Americans lingered. Foreign-based firms, with their local subsidiaries and ownership, represented a dominant force in Brussels. NATO’s presence—foreign civilian and commercial working people, as well as diplomats and bureaucrats—made for a melting pot of hard feelings among native Belgians. Brussels was a city teeming with every imaginable nationality, much like New York.

These residents were challenged with learning not only guttural Flemish (their first language) and French, but also what they complained as being the hardest—English. Cause for friction and annoyance right there. After all, Americans swooping over their cherished country (although to him it seemed sad and worn out) didn’t have to learn anything, except bossiness.

Belgians in positions of influence, authority, and decision-making capacity already spoke English—all teed up for Americans at their convenience. Pretty special. Although, to his credit, he had, in curiosity, accepted his company’s challenge to learn French (actually a helpful requirement) through intense, three-week Berlitz total immersion prior to moving over.

It seemed odd to spend that much time devoted to only one course of action then (learning French) and do nothing else in the meantime. Though mentally worthwhile, Brock came to find on the ground there that English was good enough. The experience was enjoyable though—actually dreaming in French became fun. Engaging Belgians in his best French (or so he thought) without revealing the dreaded American accent (of which he was told he had none). Speaking French in France, though, was another story. Those folks could haughtily see right through it. Trying hard to wear decent Western (American) clothes—not the forlorn, Belgian barnyard brown and putrid green, thick fabrics that were so prevalent. This was natural for him under his wife’s keen eye. Comical polyester, garish plaid slacks that stateside visitors actually wore were common and weren’t a joke.

Much was written on how and why younger Europeans were bitter about their circumstances. America was a convenient target along with European autocracies. Yet the disaffected radicals had not experienced deadly repression of any true sort. Boredom and eventual fanaticism would turn JJ and others secretly against their countries. Some trained at remote desert camps in weapons, in planning for terror. 

It was confusing and odd that both JJ and Brock received the assignment to present the same paper. Antonio told JJ to give the paper and for Brock to be his backup. A decision was made that JJ would write the presentation in any way he chose. Brock knew it made sense for one person to do the job but felt uncomfortable not contributing to the creation (JJ’s call).

Two weeks later. Sunday. Travel day—the best way to get a jump on the week and on unseen competitors. Flying on an old Air Afrique 707—Brussels to Nairobi. Never having been to Kenya, he had no idea what to expect. What made his job so adventurous was being unable to anticipate the next destination. There was no true budget since the Daimler Benz chairman was pulling the strings.

Not knowing the flight plan of the other traveler, besides ‘I’ll let you know,’ he wasn’t surprised at not spotting JJ on the 9:00 AM plane, or at the airport. Thinking, Although you missed your plane, you can still make it in time for the opening of the conference. He’d read Boko Haram and Al Shabaab were notorious for phoned-in, lethal threats on passengers in the Nairobi terminals. How did Security see a man and guess his intent?

This airline (Air Afrique), a joint venture of Air France, UAT (Union Aeromaritime de Transport), and eleven French-speaking colonies in Western and Central Africa, was efficient and reasonably priced. It was surprising to see the Libyan Desert from the air—sprinkled with billowing, blazing oil refineries in near total isolation. These had been nationalized from Exxon, doing poorly.

Taxi cabs in the Middle East and Africa were a visual riot. Mercedes sedans priced right for volume fleet sales in colors intentionally unique to the region – canary yellow, pale lime, military green shades, and tanager orange—his pick, the latter. Carpet remnants covering the dash, stickers, hanging tassels surrounding the inner windscreen, intricately woven wooden bead stress-relieving seat liners. No money meter—just a verbal approximation of price. Who knew if drivers chose the long way even if there was a meter? All of the tricks were fair game in a boring, challenging dangerous job.  

Earlier, having had the painful, sorely lingering ‘four corners’ (each upper arm and buttock cheek) shots against parasitic diseases for travel to Africa/Middle East, he was ready. There had been bouts of careless eating on trips to Mexico and Jordan. Experience gained and noted. Not fun. It was amazing how sick the body can be for a short period of time.

Visiting the City Center Marketplace stalls on Muindi Mbingu Street wasn’t dangerous. After checking in for tips with the friendly desk staff at City Hall Way Intercontinental Nairobi, a short walk past fragrant full hibiscus, Cape ornamental honeysuckle, and hydrangea. Having company, walking and eating, would have been preferable (with a less aloof and hostile compatriot than JJ to whom he was shackled). Being a suspicious person by nature, he couldn’t help feeling in his subconscious that perhaps a conspiracy involving his absent colleague was somehow afoot. Not trained in recognizing a tail, or a terrorist for that matter, he experienced nagging anxiety anyway.

He saw nothing to buy that interested him when walking the market, but he hadn’t gotten to a souvenir-hunting stage of life (yet). The limited space afforded by apartment living denied that. What he did see, he was not prepared for.  

Deformed dwarfs. In the best location for their mission—to beg. These unfortunates looked like matured, walking thalidomide babies. Their challenge being the severity and extent of their crippled forms—off-putting to an extreme. He was well-intentioned, as a charitable sympathetic person, but there were too many. Handling currency or coin in the burning heat seemed onerous. Shabby, dirty rags for clothing. Flipper feet. Deformed hands. Cauliflower ears. Cleft palates. Empathy, sorrow, and horror in his brain left an indelible memory. Poor wretches in cities such as Brussels, Paris, and NYC, that he had seen, were no visual rivals to here.

Stopping at a stall, he sampled a Tusker brand beer on the stifling street. Unique wheat taste—cold and satisfying under the equatorial punishing heat. He hadn’t remembered to pack sunscreen, regretting it.

Returning to have a solitary meal in the boring safety of the hotel’s restaurant, there was still no word at the desk from any familiar voice or a note. With the conference opening the next day, it was looking doubtful that he would have any company. Checking again later that evening, there still was no note at the front desk and no evidence of check-in. The hell. He left a general note: Even though you missed your plane, you can still make the opening of the conference. He didn’t expect any activity except sleep. Thankfully, he was in the same time zone he had left.

The paper to be delivered, of which he had no copy, was to pitch the company’s products for moving earth: enormous 25-ton capacity (and larger) off-road hauling rear tipping trucks and bottom dump trailers. Marvelous expensive machines that were fun to watch and help sell.

On the morning of the conference, starting to get just a bit nervous, he mumbled to himself. “What to tell the organizers in an hour?”  As far as he knew, they had no advance copy for a stand-in to possibly briefly practice and then read to an audience of over 1,000 likely interested attendees. He had never gotten stage fright, but there was always a first time. And once he had actually tripped on stage! The phone rang as he was leaving the room. No “Bon jour,” just a threatening “…I’m not giving the paper, and neither are you” (JJ could have had the wrong room or even been connected with the maid if he were out). No explanation. No further conversation. Just strange yells in the background. One big red flag unfurled in Brock’s mind. Then, the hang up. This guy was just afraid and covering his tracks. But the strange noises in the background gave Brock pause.

JJ had a fear of public speaking, but more than that, a fear of his new colleague. He could not imagine the bizarre mental gymnastics this guy had to accomplish to avoid this Nairobi task. Brock would have presented it if he had a copy. He scooted over to the conference to find out if, in fact, one had been submitted. His company couldn’t even have the benefit of entering it in the ‘papers submitted’ files due to their deadline. Not that he wanted to read a technical document (without accompanying color slides, if there were any) to a thousand people while pretending not to—an actual possibility with a bit of preparation, practice, and semi-memorization. He usually practiced seven times to memorize a speech, though they were not always delivered particularly well. But he had been told that he was an effective speaker. Sometimes, he actually got into it if his audience was enthusiastic. Brock wondered from where, exactly, JJ had called.

What a waste of time and corporate resources. Not wanting to make more of an enemy than he had already, through no fault of his own, he decided not to make a case out of the disaster. The Belgian had decided that he was his enemy. Done. In the brief exchange, Brock did not get a chance to say that he wouldn’t inform their Brussels colleagues upon his return. Surprisingly, no one inquired of him later, back in the office, about the trip. Specifically, how the paper was received, and if follow-up was required? Not even about questions from attendees of interest, a trip report, or any such items of importance that he was used to fielding.

Of course, his dream conclusion to such a trip would be to bring home a future order—a low priority with management, apparently. They were, understandably, much more concerned with meeting an immediate payroll. No questions of JJ or lack of hotel and related expenses. Not to mention an airfare receipt. Then, of course, travel originating and staying within the region was reasonable. It was a different time when frequent travel was expected and usually paid for itself for face-to-face business. He would be told later by a new friend where JJ had been. His Accounting friend covered for him. He was months behind in his expense reports anyway.

Brock was there as backup for a body that never materialized. He was treading water for a time in a loosely and poorly run office of coddling—European-style looking the other way. But the experience left him unsettled for the remainder of his assignment in Europe, not being accustomed to not telling truths or leaving unsaid concerns of disturbing behavior. If his temporary bosses were looking for something to keep him busy, it was unproductive and unnecessary. Nice job missing JJ. So went his first exposure to bad guys who thoroughly hated Americans and Europeans, disgruntled European youth.

The next week, Brock found out at the American Club that JJ might be working for a terror group. Two weeks past the failure of The Nairobi Paper, 200 people were killed in simultaneous truck bomb explosions at U.S. embassies. One in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. One in Nairobi. The killers were al-Qaeda and Egyptian Islamic Jihad.

So went his first exposure to bad guys who thoroughly hate Americans, including disgruntled misguided spoiled European youth.

BIO: Tom MacFarland has an MBA from Xavier University with a concentration in Marketing, and a BA in English from the University of Virginia. He has made my career in industrial marketing/sales management. He is best suited helping out on marketing plans for any publication, if desired. His most challenging job has been a posting to work in Belgium, covering Europe, Africa and the Middle East for The Daimler Benz Group. Tom is  married with grandchildren, was born and raised in Virginia, and now lives in North East Ohio.  He is a published author - accessible through Amazon Kindle as well as tommacfarland.com.