“YOU WATCH FOR A WHILE,” ROGER SAID AS HE rolled over on his back, extended his legs and pointed his toes, stretching until every muscle in his neck, back, and legs was taut. He held the position for ten seconds then relaxed. He sat up and moved his head in easy circles, working out the kinks in his neck. “The roof of this warehouse may be the ideal surveillance spot, but it sure is uncomfortable.”
“I don’t think it was designed for humans,” Aden said seriously. “Personally, I’d rather be in my bed at home instead of watching for a man who may or may not be in the building across the street.”
“He’s there,” Roger said resolutely, “and if he’s not, he will be.” He rolled over on his belly again and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Slowly he scanned each window as he had done a hundred times before, but he saw nothing. “We know he has offices in the basement. At least that’s what your informant said.”
“Maybe he was lying,” Aden said as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You were pretty rough on him. He may have been lying to save his own skin.”
Roger shook his head. “I believe him. There are too many guards posted around here. I’m surprised there’s not one on this roof. They’re either careless or comfortable.”
“But we haven’t seen him in days,” Aden replied tiredly. “Perhaps he went back to Mogadishu.”
“Maybe. I suppose it’s possible that he has an underground entrance to the place. He’ll make a mistake, and when he does I’ll be there to … wait a minute.” Aden brought his own pair of binoculars up. “The front door, someone’s coming out. Is that … him?”
Aden studied the dark figure closely before he answered. “Close. It’s his brother, Mukatu.”
“Judging by the bag he’s carrying, it looks like he’s planning on going somewhere.” Roger watched as a blue Jeep Cherokee pulled up in front of the warehouse. “Are he and his brother close?”
“Yes. Both are sadistic, but Mukatu is more so.”
“I wonder …,” Roger said, his voice trailing off as he watched the car pull away. “Come on,” he snapped as he got to his feet while remaining in a crouch. “Let’s go.”
“Go where? But what about Mahli—”
“Come on! I don’t want to lose him.” The two men moved quickly along the roof to the back of the building where a rope ladder had been neatly coiled. After a quick glance over the low parapet to be sure no one was in the alley below, Roger threw the ladder over the side. Without hesitancy, he sat on the parapet and swung his legs around so that they dangled over the alley. In an easy fluid motion, Roger was on the ladder and racing toward the ground. A moment later Aden, who was more accustomed to discussing matters over a table than to scaling the sides of buildings, fumbled awkwardly as he searched for the first rung of the rope ladder. Finding it, he eased himself over the side and cautiously climbed down the ladder. “Couldn’t you take a little bit longer?” Roger said sarcastically. “Now we might actually catch up to him.”
“Look,” Aden snapped, “you’re the former army ranger; I’m the misplaced teacher, remember?”
Roger ignored the comment as he reached for nylon ropes that hung on each side of the ladder. With a firm pull on each cord, the knots that secured the ladder to vent pipes on the roof slipped their grasp and the ladder fell to the ground, folding in on itself. Roger grabbed it and began to run down the alley with Aden close behind. They wove their way through the small maze of passageways formed by the various buildings and warehouses. Three minutes later they stopped at the side of an old Peugeot sedan.
“I’ll drive,” Roger said bluntly.
“Won’t they see us following them?” Aden asked apprehensively.
“Not if I can help it,” Roger replied. The vehicle pulled away from its resting place. Roger turned the lights on and drove slowly through the back streets until he was sure he was at least a half-mile from Mahli’s building. Then, as he steered onto the main street to follow Mukatu’s car he switched off the lights and pressed the accelerator. The little car’s engine responded accordingly, and soon Roger and Aden were bouncing down the rough road in pursuit.
“Isn’t it a little dangerous to be driving without lights?” Aden asked as he attempted to catch his breath after their little jog.
“It’s a lot less dangerous than driving with them on,” Roger replied easily. He, unlike Aden, was not winded by the run to the car. “Unless you want to meet Mukatu face to face.”
“No thanks. He’s a piranha. I have no desire to meet him.”
“That’s odd, I think I would enjoy meeting him—alone and in a locked room.”
Aden looked puzzled. “I thought you were after Mahli, not his brother.”
“I’m after all of their kind.”
“Kind?”
“Guys like that have kept your country in poverty and forced children to die on the streets. They kill people who come to help. They are the worst kind of human being. They are cancers, and the best thing that could happen to your country is to have those cancers removed.” Roger spat his words with vehemence. “I want Mahli, and I’ll get him. I may have to go through his brother first. Consider it a bonus.”
Within five minutes they spotted the red taillights of Mukatu’s car. Roger slowed to follow at a discreet distance, unnoticed by the vehicle in front of them. The disjointed two-car caravan traveled north toward Mogadishu but soon turned off onto a side road. Roger let his Peugeot fall even farther back so that the taillights ahead of them were barely discernible.
“How far from Mogadishu do you think we are?” Roger asked.
“Not far,” Aden replied, “maybe thirty kilometers.”
“Any idea where he’s going?”
Aden thought for a moment. “There are some large oceanfront homes nearby. Some business owners and government officials live there. Maybe that’s where he’s headed.”
“Follow them with your binoculars,” Roger ordered. “I want to know how many people are in the car with him.” Aden brought the glasses up to his eyes and struggled to keep the Jeep in sight, a task made difficult by the bouncing of the car. “See anything?”
“It’s hard to see much in the dark and at this distance, but it looks like there are four occupants,” Aden said as the car hit a pothole with a jarring impact. “That doesn’t make it any easier,” he snapped. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“You want me to pull over and let you out?” Roger quipped.
“No thank you. I’ll see it through, although I don’t know why.”
“You know why,” Roger said firmly. “You’re involved because you are a man of principles and because you believe that people in your country have a right to live without fear from guys like Mahli and Mukatu. Besides, Barringston Relief has been good to you. You have food, money, and a place to stay. That’s better than 90 percent of your people. You don’t want to give that up, do you?”
Aden ignored the remark and kept his binoculars on the Jeep Cherokee. “They’re slowing,” he said loudly.
“Don’t shout! I’m in the same car as you.”
“Sorry. They’re pulling off the road. We had better slow down.” Rather than step on the brake, which would activate the brake lights and increase the possibility of being noticed, Roger dropped into a lower gear. The car slowed immediately with a lurch. Ahead they could see the taillights of the Jeep glow brighter as the driver stepped on the brakes. The car was slowing and turning. Roger dropped to the lowest gear and let the car coast to a near stop. He then pulled up on the parking-brake handle until the car ceased moving.
“Looks like they’re done for the night,” Roger said quietly.
“What do we do now?”
Roger looked around. In the dim, moonlit night he could see the ocean to the east and a set of small rolling hills to the west. “We’ll hide in those hills. Maybe Mahli is here, too, and if so, then we can take our next step.”
“And just what is our next step?” Aden asked seriously.
Roger looked at the man for a few seconds. “I don’t know yet. But I will.”
Seated at the small desk in his hotel room, A.J. listened patiently to the ringing that was coming over the handset of his phone. Three rings later the Barringston Relief automated voice mail answered. A.J. punched three-two-two-three. A moment later a voice made tinny by the overseas satellite link answered.
“Yes?” The voice was slow and groggy.
“Good morning, Eileen,” A.J. said cheerfully. “You sound positively radiant.”
“I don’t radiate until after noon,” she said gloomily. “I hate mornings. What time is it?”
“It’s nearly midnight, which means that it’s almost eleven in the morning there, so wake up. The morning’s almost gone.”
“It’s still before noon, and I didn’t go to bed until six this morning.”
“Been busy, I take it?” A.J. said with a chortle.
“Enough to keep me off the streets.”
“Let me get to the point, so that you can have breakfast or lunch or whatever. Have you heard from Roger?”
“Last night. Is your phone working okay?” Eileen asked. It was a code to determine the security of the line.
“I have the encoder on,” A.J. said as he looked at the small black plastic device that had been designed to look like a CD player. “I assume your outgoing line is secured.”
“I turned it on last night. I had a feeling you’d be calling,” Eileen said nonchalantly. “Anyway, Roger made his usual contact through the satellite, but this time he had news. First, the bad news. He hasn’t seen our man yet, but—and here’s the good news—he has found a new location. The old one is still a valid place to watch, but the new place may be even better. Roger was maintaining surveillance on the warehouse when he saw Mahli’s brother leaving. Apparently, he travels more than Mahli.”
“Probably to protect him. Where did he go?”
“A seaside villa between Marka and Mogadishu. It’s heavily guarded, so sneaking in is out of the question, but Roger feels that Mahli is either there or will arrive there over the next few days. He has set up a surveillance spot with Aden. He feels secure, but he’s complaining about the heat. There’s nothing to do but wait. How are you doing?”
“We’re all okay. Anything else I need to know?”
Eileen didn’t answer at first.
“What is it, Eileen?”
An audible sigh preceded Eileen’s words. “The president of the Americas Bank was found dead a few days ago. He had been shot in the head. A story ran in the New York Times and on the AP service.”
A.J. felt his heart race and his stomach turn. “Do you think it had anything to do with the … the money transfer?”
“Yes, but don’t take this too hard. It’s not your fault. It’s his for being involved with terrorist groups. He knew that he was dancing with the devil.”
A.J. said nothing for a long time.
“You still there, A.J.?” Eileen’s voice was laced with concern.
“Did he have family?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose so, he was the president of the bank, and we know that he skimmed money.”
“Check it out,” A.J. said sharply. “His family shouldn’t have to pay the price for his sin or ours. Also tell Roger to keep it up, but to use his best judgment. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Will do. Are you going to be all right?”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.” A.J. hung up the phone, disconnected the electronic scrambler, and returned it to its compartment in his luggage bag. His mind raced with the image of a man with a bullet in his brain. It was true that Ian Booth was far from an ethical man, but he was neither violent nor vindictive. He didn’t deserve to die at the hands of terrorists. A.J. felt remorse and guilt. It wasn’t the first time that he had ordered the appropriation of someone else’s funds to finance Barringston’s work around the world. But he had always been careful to steal only from those who were outside the reach of the law, from those who made the world more violent and dangerous. He had no qualms about electronically stealing funds from the Mafia, terrorist groups, and oppressive dictators, but only if he was sure that the ramifications would never affect the innocent. Booth’s death was a failure, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Life was neither simple nor predictable. He himself was a complex stew of intellect, desire, motivation, and emotion. He felt no remorse when the evil leeches of the world died, even if they died at his bidding. There were men who deserved death and for whom A.J. wouldn’t waste a second thought. There were people like Mahli and Mukatu who killed the brave and noble Dr. Rhodes in the middle of the work to which she had so unselfishly dedicated herself. Adding insult to that act was the sinking of the Sea Maid. Mahli and men like him deserved to be planted in the ground where they belonged—their dead bodies fertilizing the earth. But the innocent were another matter. They deserved life, a reasonable life that A.J. struggled to provide. Now, because of his decision, a family mourned a lost loved one, a father, a husband, a brother, a son. It was not for Booth that he mourned, but for his family.
This knowledge caused A.J.’s adrenaline to kick in. Sleep was out of the question. He paced back and forth between his bed and the small desk at which he had been sitting. He had been pent-up too long. He missed the physical release of jogging, racquetball, and working out. It was the inability to exercise as he wished that bothered him most about traveling in difficult lands.
Stripping his shirt off, A.J. lowered himself to the floor and began doing push-ups, lowering and raising himself time after time in a slow steady rhythm. At first his muscles protested the strain, but soon they were loose, and he was feeling the exhilaration of his power. With each push-up, he withdrew further and further into himself. His eyes were fixed on a tiny spot on the dirty green carpet between his hands. Soon he saw nothing but that spot, heard nothing but the beating of his heart, and felt nothing but the stretching of his muscles. One push-up was followed by another. He didn’t count. The number of push-ups didn’t matter, only the mind-numbing work, only the searing muscular heat to be conquered. This would clear his mind. This would ease his tension. This would allow him to face one more day and to do those things that no one else in the world was willing to do.
The late afternoon sun reflected off the tinted, double-pane windows of Mahli’s seaside manor, leaving the interior protected from the unrelenting and stagnant August heat, a heat the locals called tangambili, a Somali word that meant “two sails.” It is said that during the hot months a boatman needed two sails to catch enough breeze to move forward. Mahli stood by the window gazing introspectively out at the rolling surf. Behind him, seated at a large dining-room table, was his brother, Mukatu, who unlike Mahli was still eating. Before him was spread an array of fruits, lamb, and sweet bread.
“What do you see out that window, brother?” Mukatu asked, his mouth full of meat.
Mahli turned for a moment and regarded his brother. They were as close as any brothers had ever been, but they were so different. Mukatu lived for the moment, for the present enjoyment or thrill, but Mahli lived for what the future held—the future he would help mold.
“I see the past and the future.”
“You see all that in the waves? You are a wise man.”
“I was thinking about our country’s past,” Mahli said, returning his attention to the rolling, blue Indian Ocean. “The ancient Egyptians call this the Land of Punt, and they sailed here in their ancient vessels and returned home with incense and myrrh to use in their temples. Then came the Phoenician traders, followed by the Greeks and Romans. Then Arabs and Persians joined the parade. The Arabs took our resources for their homes and gave us Islam for our souls. The Portuguese came and conquered until they gave way to the Italians who built the triumphal arches, but they too left in defeat. Then the British arrived, but they left three decades ago. Somalia always comes back to Somalis. Allah gave us this land, barren as it is, and no matter who takes it, it returns to us.”
“You are indeed a philosopher, my dear brother,” Mukatu said as he reached across the table and took a large pinch of leaves from a bowl and placed them in his mouth. “There is no doubt that Allah gave you the brains of our clan. Care for some kat?”
Mahli again turned to his brother and watched him chew the mind-altering plant. He knew the cathinone in the leaves would soon make his brother feel relaxed and blissful. This was good, he thought, because his brother would be easier to control. “No thank you. I prefer to leave my mind the way it is. You do know that kat is addictive, don’t you?”
“As you have told me many times, brother, but as Father always said, ‘Kat is not a luxury; it is a necessity.’ ”
Nodding his understanding, Mahli turned again to his pondering. His father had been right. The hardship of living in Somalia required a release. There was so little water, so little farmland, so little education, so few resources. Somalia was always the last to receive what every other country took for granted. The nomads still wandered the wilderness as they always had, despite the efforts of the Marxist government of President Mohammed Said Barre, who tried to settle the nomads into farming communities. But the nomadic life was too deeply rooted in their genes to surrender to a more anchored existence.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? Mahli thought to himself. Change was difficult to make. Change, real and abiding change, could not be legislated. That had been tried many times, but always to no avail. Camel herders still herded their camels as their great-grandparents did; children still learned the Koran from their long, wooden prayer boards; famine still came; drought still came; and the desert still advanced. Some change had occurred. Somali families knew how to hide from Ethiopian military aircraft. They learned that during their two-year war with Ethiopia in 1977 and 1978. It was that war that had taken Mahli’s father, and since they lost, also stole a good deal of Somali pride. During that war men learned to use more than knives to defend themselves; they learned to fire Russian-made weapons at their enemy. Ironically, they fought Russian-led troops from Cuba. They graduated to missile launchers and artillery, which came from the United States. But those were small changes. The heart of the people remained the same.
More needed to be done. Somalia could no longer remain the doormat for other countries. Somalia had to learn to stand on its own. But rival clans, lack of education, and lack of resources had kept the country mired in the past. I will change that, Mahli thought. I will bring a new day, not only for Somalia but for all of East Africa.
“May I ask a question, brother?” Mukatu asked.
“You just did,” Mahli replied with a grin.
Mukatu giggled, and Mahli could see the kat was already working on Mukatu’s mind, dropping its mist of euphoria on every brain cell. “You’re right. Now may I ask another question?” Mahli started to tell him that he had once again asked a question, but thought better of it. It was clearly a joke with no end.
“Certainly.”
“Why sink the ship?” Mukatu asked, shoving more kat into his mouth. “It makes no sense to sink a ship filled with food.”
It was a sensible question, but the answer might not seem sensible to Mukatu, whose mind was still alert but definitely clouded.
“It seems confusing, doesn’t it?” Mahli said as he strolled from the window to the table. “The answer is in our goal. We wish to change our corner of the world. But change is difficult. That is what I was thinking a moment ago. Change must be forced. The world looks at us as unloved and ignorant stepchildren; as backward people who don’t know enough to take care of ourselves. They don’t think that we can feed our own or educate our children. We seem stupid and impotent to them. Some of our own people think that way too. But we will change all that, you and I.” Mahli began to pace around the table, his hands folded behind him, his head bowed in thought like one of his professors in college. “We provided food not only to our own people but to Ethiopians. The world sees this, and they think that at last someone is in control. The Ethiopians see that we help them of our own free will and with no strings attached. We ask for nothing in return—at first.”
“Do you really think Ethiopia will join the alliance?”
“Yes. The world thinks we are a vicious and ungrateful people who turn weapons on those who lend us help. Mohammed Farah Aidid saw to that when he killed Pakistani and American soldiers when they brought food and medicine.”
“You’ve not had any problem with killing,” Mukatu said firmly.
“You do not understand, brother. Perhaps you chew too much kat,” Mahli said. “Death is required to make these noble changes. The difference between Aidid and me is that I see to it that those deaths are not attributed to me. The world follows heroes, not monsters.”
“So if the world knew …”
“It won’t,” Mahli snapped. “This plan will work as long as each of us does his job and we don’t make any mistakes.”
“I haven’t made any mistakes,” Mukatu said defensively.
“No, you haven’t, and if you will let me do the planning, you won’t make any in the future either.” Mahli softened his tone. “There’s a great deal in this for you, my brother. A great deal of power and a great deal of money.”
“Here’s to power and money,” Mukatu said with a broad, leaf-stained grin.
Mahli picked up a glass of water, raised it in a toast, and said, “To our power and money.”
“What are they doing now?” Aden asked as he lay on his back in the dried grass under an acacia tree.
“They’re toasting their soon-to-be-success,” Roger said, stretching his back. “I wish I had thought to bring a tripod for this dish; I’m getting tired of holding it. At least I thought far enough ahead to pack it in the car.”
“You’ve been holding it on and off for hours,” Aden said wearily. “Don’t you think you have listened enough?”
Roger laid the parabolic listening dish down and switched off the electronics. “For now. But I still don’t know their next move.”
“Did they admit to downing the ship?” Aden was incredulous.
“That they did,” Roger said. “And they don’t feel the least bit of remorse. It’s all part of their plan.”
“Plan? What plan?”
Roger explained everything that he just heard through the advanced listening device.
“Unbelievable,” Aden said. “I doubt it will work. There are too many variables, too many personalities to consider. He’ll never be able to convince Ethiopia to be part of an alliance. Our country has never been on good terms with them. The whole idea is absurd.”
“The most effective ideas in the world are absurd. That’s why they work; no one has ever thought of them. Besides, it doesn’t matter if the plan is possible or not. Mahli thinks it is, and he’s killed to make his dream a reality. That makes the validity of the plan secondary, don’t you agree?”
Aden sat silently for a moment then said, “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Review your history, Aden,” Roger said, sitting up and twisting his head around to loosen the muscles in his neck. “If you were to outline Hitler’s plan on paper it would be laughable, but he pulled it off. If, in the thirties, you asked if Japan might attempt to conquer China and surrounding regions as well as to attack the United States, you would dismiss the whole concept. But it happened. Think of the most vicious dictators in the world. Did they arrive at their power because they were geniuses? No, but they believed they were. That’s all it takes. Mahli and his no-good brother are no different. His plan may not be feasible, but I’m betting that he’s willing to kill an awful lot of people to prove that it is.”
“Your point is well taken,” Aden acquiesced. “So what do we do now?”
“Wait. Listen some more. I’ll report back to my people later, but until then we wait for opportunity to come knocking.”
“What will opportunity look like?” Aden asked seriously.
“I have no idea, but I’ll recognize it when I see it. No doubt about that. And when I do … that’s when I act.”
“I feel that I should tell someone in my government.”
“What government? The last vestiges of corporate leadership fell twelve months ago when this famine started.” Roger was animated. “You’ll tell no one. This is something I can take care of, something I will take care of.” Having said that, Roger rolled over on his stomach, picked up the listening dish, and aimed it at Mahli’s compound again.