[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (16 page)

“You have a passport?” I asked.

“I do. What time should I be at hotel?”

“We’ll pick you up at the restaurant,” I said. “Be ready to leave a half hour before dawn.”

“I will not sleep until then.”

*   *   *

The next few hours were filled with phone calls and computer sessions, trying to gather more information on Shire Jama and Allah’s Rule on Earth. What we came up with can be summarized with one word:
bupkis.
This is a Yiddish expression meaning
.
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Shunt had temporarily run out of places to look for new information, and his various methods of drumming analysis—from standard data mining to something he calls context analysis—weren’t feeding him any new ideas. The bank’s new security measures had so far kept him out.

We were now pretty sure that the bank had hosted accounts for Allah’s Rule. But without proof that they knew the accounts were connected to terrorists, there was no crime involved. On the contrary, the bank could point out that they had hired me to investigate the matter, and therefore done their civic and lawful duty.

As for the connection to Veep—the more I thought about it, the more tenuous it seemed. I relish biting the hand that feeds me, but I needed more to go on.

All of this meant that I put off updating Veep in New York. Telling him about the accounts we had found would shut them down; once that happened, we’d have an even harder time investigating.

Was Veep stealing money from the bank, or involved with the terrorists? Both? Or neither?

Both was best for me—it meant a much higher fee. I tried not to let that prejudice my thinking.

Even talking to Karen was frustrating.

“Your meeting in Mumbai has been pushed up. They need you there the day after tomorrow,” she said. “And there’s a reception tomorrow evening being held in your honor. They want to thank you for saving the Commonwealth Games.”
15

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“I told them that.”

I can always count on Karen to keep my ego in check.

“Junior volunteered to go in your place,” she added. “To the meeting, not the reception.”

“I’d rather he went to the reception.”

“He’ll do fine at the meeting, Dick.”

I trust Junior, but I wasn’t ready to let him represent me at a business meeting, especially in India. And despite the reception, not everyone there was appreciative of how I had handled the terrorist plots at the Games.

“Can you get a plane from Djibouti?” I asked Karen.

“It will cost you.”

“I’ll pay your fee any time.”

“I meant that the airline connections are outrageously expensive. I’ll figure it out. Junior will pick you up at the airport in Mumbai.”

We spent the next ten minutes saying how much we missed each other. Since I’m not writing
Fifty Shades of Rogue Grey,
I’ll spare you the gory details. Suffice to say I needed a cold shower when I hung up.

*   *   *

The team was suitably grumpy when we assembled at four the next morning and piled into the hired car. We drove over to Taban’s restaurant, where, true to his word, Abdi was waiting when we arrived.

So was a crowd that looked like half of Mogadishu.

“Not good,” said the driver, stopping halfway down the block.

“Put it in reverse. Fast,” said Trace.

“Whoa, whoa,” I said, grabbing the driver’s hand as he reached for the shifter. “Let me see what’s going on.”

There was a general murmur of disapproval as I got out of the car. Then the others jumped out to cover my butt.

One or two people in the crowd had what looked like early-model M16s. The rest had AK47s. “Abdi, what’s going on?” I said, walking past the outer ring.

“Sorry, Mr. Dick,” he said. He had a small cloth bag with him. Three or four women trailed close behind. I recognized one as his uncle’s wife.

“What’s with all the people?”

“Family matter.”

I gave him the hairy eyeball.

Abdi sighed, then pointed to a girl over by the doorway. “It is about Rose.
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She is to get married, but she doesn’t wish it.”

I glanced over. A long, flowing scarf partly hid the young woman’s face. Even in the bulky dress she was wearing, Rose looked like a scarecrow of a thing, little more than a stick figure, except for a suspiciously round belly.

“How old is she?” I would have guessed twelve.

“Fourteen,” said Abdi. “In a few days.”

“She’s getting married?”

“It is the families’ wish. Because … of circumstances…”

“Which are what?”

Rose had been raped by a cousin some months before. She’d kept it a secret from her family because of her shame—as in much of the Muslim world, such events are considered the woman’s fault. Worse, if it becomes known that the girl has been raped, it’s impossible for her to marry. In Somalia, that’s a death sentence, since a woman without a family is a) an easy target and b) unlikely to find a way to support herself.

Rape is not particularly rare here, and by common agreement such matters are handled by looking the other way—something that perversely is in the woman’s interests. But the girl had become pregnant, and as I had seen, there was no way to hide it.

There was quite a bit of consternation, especially since the rapist was in the extended family. Eventually, the matter was brought to the local imam and a tribal council suggested that the matter be handled by marriage, proscriptions against cousins marrying notwithstanding.

Otherwise, the rapist would be turned over to the government for punishment, with the expected sentence to be five years in jail. That would probably equate to death, though I suppose the unpredictability of when and how it would come added a certain entertainment value for the prisoner.

“So why are all these people here?” I asked Abdi.

“They have spent the night trying to convince her to marry. And now they want me to order her.”

“Order her?”

“Yes.”

“And she doesn’t want to?”

Duh.

Abdi didn’t say that, but his expression made it clear that’s what he was thinking. And he was right: why would
anyone
want to marry their rapist?

Even if it is sanctioned by the Koran.

“Why did they come to you?” I asked.

“Because my uncle is dead.”

“The rapist was related?”

“No, no, no. But he would have helped settle the matter. With him gone, they look to me.”

“What would he have done?”

Abdi sighed. “The solution would not be easy. I don’t know what he would do, but Taban ali Mohammad always thought of something.”

“We have to get going. If you’re coming, come.”

“I am.” He turned and said something in Somali. The women wrung their hands together and begged him; Abdi repeated whatever it was he said, then turned and started for the car.

“What did you say?” I asked, falling in beside him.

“I told them I am going north. I said I will be back tomorrow.”

“I don’t know about tomorrow,” I said.

“Yes, but please don’t tell them.” He turned quickly and said something in Somali to the crowd, which was still trailing. They pressed close to us, trying to touch him. It was like being with a rock star.

Things were so tight in the car that Abdi volunteered to run behind. Not only did he keep up, he barely seemed winded. I have a feeling he could have beaten us to the airport.

*   *   *

Getting our weapons aboard the aircraft would have entailed paperwork and a large bribe, and given that I could make adequate (and cheaper) arrangements if necessary in Djibouti, I decided not to bother. A five-minute phone call to Djibouti resulted in a promise that a set of pistols and ammo would be in the cars that met us at the airport. To keep our weapons in Somalia safe until they could be retrieved, I arranged to store them in a lockbox owned by a French company that had a contract with the African Congress security force. The French company was actually a front for the French military intelligence agency, Direction du renseignement militaire, similar to our DIA
17
with fancy accents and a hankering for wine instead of beer.

The arrangements had been made with the day shift; the sole person at the hangar when we arrived was a thirty-year-old Senegal native whose French was turgid and his English worse.

He was sleeping inside when we arrived. After picking the door lock, we went in and woke him by shaking his desk chair. He opened his eyes and saw us standing there with our guns; a puddle appeared beneath his chair.

“I need to use one of your lockboxes,” I told him. The large metal boxes looked like slightly downsized shipping containers, which is basically what they were.

“Who you?” asked the guard.

“Dick Marcinko. I’m with Red Cell International.”

“Who to sell?”

The word play might have been amusing had the airplane we were supposed to catch not been on final approach. I managed to straighten out the misunderstanding and we made the plane just as the ground crew was about to button up the cabin.

If you think flying on an American airline is a joy, try flying on African planes sometime. The plane we were on—a British-built Viscount four-engined turboprop—dated from the early 1950s. Some of my friends claim propeller-driven aircraft are romantic; I say they’re loud. The seats were as comfortable as a concrete garden bench, and had half the flexibility. The cabin smelled like a donkey barn.

There was one similarity with Western airlines—it was full. We held our noses and our breath the whole flight.

*   *   *

We pause the narrative to bring you an unpaid public service announcement on behalf of the Djibouti chamber of commerce and tourist boards:

AMERICANS!

Djibouti is not like other places on the Horn of Africa or bordering on the Gulf of Aden. Djibouti is a peaceful place. Djibouti has kick-ass sand beaches, nice port facilities, and people who want your money, not your blood!

We speak French, but we really don’t mean it!

Come! COME!

Djibouti is a small country on the coast, sandwiched between Eritrea, Ethiopia, and Somalia. With neighbors like that, most people would assume it’s well down the staircase to Hell. But for various reasons—including those neighbors—it’s an island of hospitality toward Westerners. Odds are against your vacationing there any time soon (unless you’re French), but if you happen to have business there, you won’t have to go around with armed guards.

It’s estimated that somewhere around half of the country’s population lives in or around the capital city, which is conveniently named Djibouti as well. The city is located right on the water about twelve miles from the Somali border; the location is strategic and convenient for ships transiting the Suez Canal to the north. It’s also a good place to be a spy.

Did I mention there’s also a decent large-sized U.S. military base next to the city airport, Camp Lemonnier? Its proximity to Somalia is not a coincidence, but you should forget about those Predators you see on the runway, and pay absolutely no attention to the U-2s at the far end of the field. Those are just weather observation aircraft.

We had two sets of reservations, one at the Sheraton and the other at Palace Kempinski, both highly rated hotels. Of course, we planned to stay at neither, since they were the first places anyone trying to check on us would look. Instead, we split up and took two separate taxis to a hotel about four blocks from the water called the Eastern Gate—a strange name given that it was on the west side of the city.

But the strangest thing was the man waiting in the lobby for us when we arrived: Garrett Taylor, erstwhile Christian in Action.

And his boss, Mr. Magoo, who looked about as happy to be in Djibouti as a SEAL at a church picnic, and twice as ornery.

The marines behind him were just window dressing. What I couldn’t figure out was who the man in the gray suit was.

It soon became obvious.

“That’s him,” said Magoo, pointing at me.

Gray Suit stepped up, and pulled a small wallet from the pocket of his jacket. He flipped it open, revealing an FBI badge.

“Richard Marcinko,” he said, in a voice that boomed through the lobby, “you are under arrest for illegal gun dealing in a foreign state. Take him, men.”

(II)

The marines came forward quicker than you can say “bullshit.” Ditto for Shotgun, Trace, and Mongoose, who had just entered behind me. We were about ten seconds from a whole lot of blood.

I put up my hands to calm everyone down.

“Relax,” I said. “What’s this about Magoo?”

I may have added a few other tender words of endearment when I addressed him, since Magoo’s face flushed.

“You heard the man,” he told me, sticking out his jaw even as he took a step back to make sure he was out of arm’s reach. “You’re an international gun smuggler. We have the evidence in Mogadishu. AK47s, grenade launchers, even an MP5 submachine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your instructions were to clear the arrangements with me beforehand,” said Magoo. “You weren’t to take the meeting yourself. Or is that part of your plan—you’re going to make a little money on the side, right?”