Near the Somalia-Kenya border
The irony was not lost on the Falcon.
Speeding across an empty desert at night in a nation where half of its ten million residents survived on less than one U.S. dollar per day, he had excellent cell phone service.
Since the collapse of the twenty-two-year-old dictatorship of Mohamed Siad Barre in 1991, Somalia had been ravaged by what its few remaining poets called “the endless wars.” U.S. foreign policy experts were more blunt, describing Somalia as “the most dangerous place in the world.” It was ruled by anarchy and best known for piracy, kidnappings for ransom, harboring radical Islamists, corrupt leaders, more guns per resident than could be found in nearly any other nation, and widespread abuse by its citizens of a local drug called khat. Yet in this oasis of poverty, filth, depression, decay, and death, the Somali telecommunications industry flourished. It was the best in Africa.
The Falcon had watched Brooke Grant and her teenage protégée on the Al Arabic nightly newscast fleeing from reporter Ebio Kattan. He rarely missed watching the news and, like all narcissists, he’d been delighted when Kattan told viewers that he was responsible for the murder of the CIA’s Gunter Conner in Germany and that he was now causing terror in America.
But there was another reason in addition to his ego for why he welcomed worldwide attention. He was waging two wars: one with terror, the other with publicity. Social media had made Major Brooke Grant a larger-than-life hero. She had outsmarted Al-Shabaab in Mogadishu and had helped kill its number two leader, Abdul Hafeez. The Al Arabic network had cast her as an avenger, taking revenge for her parents’ death during 9/11. A popular Syrian blogger had compared her to Zenobia, an Arab warrior queen who had ruled the Palmyrene Empire (present-day Syria) in 267 after her husband and stepson had been murdered. Zenobia had been beloved by her subjects because she’d walked beside her foot soldiers rather than riding a stallion into battle. She’d spilled blood. So had Major Brooke Grant.
Like her, the Falcon had become a social media icon. He was described in the West as the world’s master terrorist and in the Arab world revered by many as a faceless, ageless, unyielding sword of Allah.
The conflict between the United States and radical Islam now bore two human faces: hers and his. For this reason alone, he was obligated to kill her.
His contempt for Brooke ran deeper than their symbolic rivalry. Allah had created women to be lesser than men, and any female who challenged those divinely inspired roles disrespected Allah and deserved death.
The Falcon’s cell phone rang. “Are you near?” a voice asked.
“Expect us in thirty minutes.”
Shortly after midnight, the Falcon’s four-vehicle motorcade entered the town of El Wak, a city of 16,000 that is divided by the Somalia and Kenya border. As was the case in many villages in Kenya’s North Eastern Province, El Wak’s residents were mostly Somalis. After passing through the slumbering hamlet, the convoy arrived at a walled estate about a mile outside the city’s western edge.
Uniformed guards opened a heavy, motorized, ornate gate, allowing the vehicles to enter and continue forward to a Moroccan-style mansion where a dozen servants waited under a brightly lighted portico. The house’s chief butler, a white man dressed in a white tunic, greeted the Falcon.
“Welcome to the home of Umoja Owiti,” the butler declared in a heavy English accent. “Everything has been prepared for you and your fellow travelers. Please permit me to escort you inside to be personally welcomed by Mr. Umoja Owiti, the master of this estate, while the staff delivers your men to their sleeping quarters.”
“Our vehicles?”
“The staff will park them out of sight in Mr. Owiti’s private garage.”
The Falcon followed the butler up four wide polished marble steps to the mansion’s front entrance, where two armed guards in blue uniforms emblazoned with a bright gold insignia that contained the initials UO were stationed. The house’s open foyer was three stories tall and had walls covered with gold leaf with shimmering black-and-white floor tiles.
“Sir, you might wish to remove your shoes,” the butler said. “I can offer you silk slippers that are most comfortable, or if you would prefer, you may wish to walk barefoot.”
The Falcon glanced down at the tiny sparkles around his feet.
“Each floor tile contains seventy-five slightly raised diamonds,” the butler explained. “Mr. Owiti believes walking on diamonds helps increase blood flow in the feet. He will be barefoot.”
The butler replaced his shoes with slippers.
A knee-high basin for foot washing was near the front doorway. The Falcon removed his shoes and a woman instantly appeared with a cloth and motioned him toward the basin. She washed and massaged his feet while on her knees, gently dried them, and then disappeared.
From the foyer, the butler led him through a series of hallways until they reached another pair of uniformed guards stationed outside two oversize ornately carved walnut doors. The room that the Falcon entered behind those doors was cavernous with a domed roof that rose from the center of the mansion. Water tumbled down from boulders stacked thirty feet high inside this massive chamber. The pool beneath the stone was big enough to accommodate eight adult bathers. Across from it was a larger-than-life statue of a Masai warrior made of black opal, which was more rare and expensive than diamonds. The Masai, a semi-nomadic tribe in southern Kenya, were feared fighters, and the muscular figure—dressed in a bloodred short skirt and flowing cape—clutched a gold-plated spear in his right hand and an oblong white shield in his left. He stared straight ahead. The Falcon gazed up at the dome ceiling and realized it was a programmable digital screen that was showing a cloudless African blue sky. The floor was cream-colored marble, cool to the touch. A half dozen settees, all covered with animal skins—giraffe, zebra, and leopard—were placed in a semicircle, facing a larger settee upholstered with the hide of a white rhino.
“As-salamn Alaykum,” Umoja Owiti said, rising from the largest settee. He opened his arms as he stepped forward to embrace his hooded guest. “Please, come sit, eat some dates, you must be hungry.”
Seeing the Falcon’s bare feet, Owiti exclaimed, “You have walked across my floor of diamonds! A bit outlandish, but my African wife insisted our home pay homage to our continent’s natural resources. Come, come and sit with me.”
Owiti ordered his English butler to bring slippers for the Falcon. “We can’t have you getting cold feet,” he said, laughing. “I keep this room cooler than many of my guests desire. My love of air-conditioning is an unfortunate habit developed while living in America.” Placing his hands on his watermelon-shaped belly, he added, “Another unfortunate gift from the West. Their foods are much too fattening.” Owiti was a tall man with a round face and thick black glasses. He pointed at the domed ceiling above them.
“I can create any climate in this chamber,” he bragged. “Even snow—and make it appear to be any time of the day that I wish.” Picking up an iPad next to his settee, Owiti dimmed the ceiling until it became pitch black and there were only stars above them. Clearly pleased, he returned the scene to its noonday appearance. “I arrived this morning from a different time zone, so while it is currently after midnight outside, inside this chamber it is only a few minutes before noon.”
“Tell me, my friend,” the Falcon replied, “at what times do you pray in your computer-controlled world?”
In a slightly irritated tone, Owiti replied, “I pray five times daily, as required by the Holy Quran and, as you can see, Allah has blessed me.”
Owiti was wearing white cotton slacks and a white collared shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He motioned toward a zebra-covered chaise near his own where trays of dates had been placed on knee-high tables.
“Would you prefer tea or coffee?” he asked.
“Neither.”
Owiti pressed a button on an iPad and within moments, a woman brought him hot tea. “How do you eat and drink when you are wearing a mask?” the billionaire asked. “When you have sex with a woman, do you still hide your face? Is there no one you trust?”
“Allah sees my true face, as He does the faces and hearts of all men.”
Owiti frowned and said, “You don’t have to convince me of your piety.” He nodded toward the oversize statue across the room from them. “Did you know my grandfather’s people were Masai warriors? I will tell you a story. One day my grandfather saw a beautiful Somali woman and he took her and afterwards demanded she become one of his wives. She refused, so my grandfather threatened to kill her family. My grandmother was a Muslim who could read and one day my grandfather asked her about the Quran. Rather than teaching him how to read, she read to him every night, but she was a clever woman and because he was illiterate, my grandfather didn’t realize she was inserting her own words into the holy book.”
“That is blasphemy. Punishable by death,” the Falcon said.
“Please,” Owiti replied in a sarcastic tone. “Do not all men use the scriptures for their own purposes?” Continuing, he said, “My grandmother manipulated my grandfather. So you see the Masai blood of a warrior is in my veins, but so is the Somali blood of my wise manipulator, and the mixing of both makes me who I am.”
The Falcon noted that he clearly enjoyed telling that story.
“Now let’s talk business and why you have come to my home,” Owiti said. “Tell me, did you encounter any soldiers from AMISOM near the border?” The billionaire was referring to troops from the African Union Mission to Somalia, a military force composed of soldiers sent by other African nations into Somalia to prop up its fragile, pro-Western government. A large percentage came from Kenya.
“No, they were snoring in their beds,” the Falcon answered.
“I want to punish Kenya,” Owiti declared. “The Americans will never fight us in Somalia after being embarrassed by what they call Black Hawk Down. They will use Ethiopians, who are believers in the Book of Lies, and Kenyans. The only way to reclaim Somalia is by driving out AMISOM.”
“Yes, as you say, AMISOM is a puppet. The fingers inside belong to Americans. They are using their money to avoid spilling their own blood. I need your money to spill American blood on American soil,” the Falcon said. “You are both a servant of Allah and a wealthy man, are you not?”
Owiti laughed. He often was described as the world’s richest African. His first fortune had come from diamond and uranium mines. Later, he’d expanded into oil and natural gas production, telecommunication and Internet services, as well as traditional publishing. He owned businesses in Eastern Europe and had his toe in China. His Kenyan home was one of ten mansions scattered across the globe, including a multimillion-dollar Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park. Each house came with a separate wife.
“Allah has smiled on me but I am a businessman as well as a devout Muslim,” Owiti replied, “and I trust the actions of men, not their rhetoric or dreams. Helping you will put my family, my fortune, and myself at great risk. What will I gain from taking these risks?”
“The glory of serving Allah,” the Falcon replied.
Owiti took a sip from his drink without replying, making it clear by his silence that he expected more.
“You want to punish Kenya for supporting AMISOM,” the Falcon continued. “I will do that for you. But that is nothing compared to how I will use your money to create chaos in America. A shrewd businessman should be clever enough to benefit financially from what I will do.”
“Knowing in advance that another 9/11 attack is coming could be profitable.”
“What I am planning eclipses the Twin Towers. With your financial assistance, I will destroy three of America’s most important cities in one glorious act, striking a blow for Allah.”
“You will destroy three cities simultaneously? An ambitious task, but ambition sometimes surpasses a man’s ability.”
“I am not a man who proposes the impossible. I have people in place in America, including one at the highest possible level. He tells me what the American president eats each morning, who she meets, and when she goes to bed at night.”
“You have a spy inside the White House?”
“My friend, how else do you expect me to destroy it? If you help me, I will kill their president and destroy that city. I will wipe this abomination called Washington from earth’s face. This is not a threat, it is a promise that I swear to you.”
“And how will you accomplish this?” Owiti asked.
“I will share details of my plan with you, but not now. First, I will present you with a gift of blood. I will punish the Kenyans for supporting AMISOM. That should please you.”
“Yes, it would greatly please me.”
“Two hundred kilometers from here is the town of Mandera. My gift of blood to you will happen there. I will leave at first light. I already have men waiting there for me to join them.”
“That is a seven-hour drive from here,” Owiti said. “It will be faster and more comfortable for you in one of my helicopters. But it would be best if you landed outside the city. I do not want the Americans to discover my role. Now tell me more about your plan to destroy Washington.”
“After Mandera,” the Falcon replied, rising from the settee. “I must rest before morning prayers. Then I will fly to Mandera to instruct my men.”
“Please, this is exciting to me. How many men are waiting in Mandera?”
“Six servants of Allah.”
“Only six?”
“Allah will be with them. They will not fail.”
“How many of them will be returning here with you on my helicopter after the attack?”
“None.”