Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (13 page)

The truck was one of the few vehicles they had seen since they left Wajir. Kenya Defense Forces were manning heavily reinforced roadblocks at the northern entrance into town. They had armored jeeps and bulletproof vests, machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenades. The checkpoints, the ethnic violence, and the fear of another attack from al-Shabaab fighters had emptied the roads, halting almost all traffic. KDF soldiers searched their Nissan and rummaged through their belongings, but waved the two “Italian journalists”—Justin and Carrie’s cover in Kenya—through without too much hassle.

Justin and Carrie were not that lucky at the next checkpoint. The captain of a small unit—seven, maybe eight soldiers holed in two armored transporters—insisted he could not allow any one, journalists included, to continue further north. After a couple of minutes of negotiating, Justin dug into his wallet to produce his fail-safe pass: five one-hundred dollar bills. The captain pocketed the bribe discreetly and ordered two soldiers to move to the side the coils of barbed wire forming the roadblock. He even offered to provide them with a military escort, hoping for another windfall. Justin politely declined his request, and they were on their way.

“How far are we from the border?” Justin asked.

Carrie consulted her GPS receiver. “About seven miles.”

“We’ll soon leave the road and head toward the border.”

Justin drove for another mile. Carrie reached for a water bottle from their mini-cooler. The temperature had climbed five degrees over the last hour, reaching eighty-seven. The Nissan’s air conditioner supposedly worked, but the sweat on her forehead proved otherwise. She took a sip, then asked Justin, “Water?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

She handed him a one-liter bottle. Justin gulped down half of it. He kept his gaze to his right, searching for a dirt trail among the shrubs stretching alongside the road. The “taxi” truck was long gone, and there was no other traffic on the road and no goat or camel herders on the flatlands.

“Right here.” He pointed to a spot on his right. “We’ll turn here.”

The mouth of a trail appeared a few yards ahead. The blackened hulk of a burned truck—similar in shape and size to theirs—marked the detour. Justin slowed down, then steered through the bushes.

He picked up speed as they entered the trail. It was a few inches wider than the Nissan, but cleared of all shrubs. Visible tracks in the hardened soil provided evidence of recent use. Some were wider and deeper than the rest. This was one of many smugglers’ routes piercing the porous border. Al-Shabaab was also known to routinely use them to launch incursions into the Kenyan villages and towns.

“Large trucks. I wonder what they were carrying,” Carrie said.

“Hostages. Guns. Cattle.”

He pointed to a couple of cow carcasses baking in the scorching sun a few feet away from the trail. A flock of vultures pecked at one, their curved beaks tearing chunks of flesh. They had already picked clean the other carcass, its white bones the only thing remaining from the animal.

Carrie nodded. She glanced at her wristwatch, then picked a pair of binoculars from her knapsack lying at her feet. She observed the horizon, looking first to her right, then straight ahead and to her left. “No movement anywhere,” she said when she finished her reconnaissance.

“We’ll be in Somalia in a few minutes.” Justin calculated the time based on the Nissan’s speedometer. “We’ve got to ditch the truck and walk the last few miles.”

Carrie gestured with her head to the left. A cluster of acacia trees—which had somehow survived the sweltering temperatures—rose up about half a mile away. “In case we need the truck on our way out.”

Justin grinned. “You really think it will still be there?”

Carrie shrugged. “Probably not. But it doesn’t hurt. Maybe no one will cross this way over the next four hours.”

Justin slowed down, then maneuvered the Nissan in that direction. He stopped when they arrived under the trees, and the stepped out of the truck. Glancing at the trail, he said, “It’s quite visible to anyone driving or walking there.”

“Well, maybe they’ll be in a hurry or maybe they’ll have no more room for plunder. Or they’ll think it’s a piece of junk.”

Justin looked at the Nissan. Its rusty doors and cracked windshield were evidence of its long use and abuse through these rugged roads. The tires had lost almost all their tread. The interior was in a better shape, with newer seats, the owner obviously interested more in the comfort of his own ass than the overall conditions of his vehicle.

“Hmmm, I don’t know. I saw an old Kia in Wajir that seemed to be held together by duct tape. But I’ll take the keys,” Justin said.

Carrie had already loaded her knapsack on her shoulders. “Ready?”

“Yes, ready.”

Justin swung his knapsack around his back.

“Two miles northeast, then two miles east,” Carrie read her GPS. “If everything’s OK, Birgit should be waiting for us.”

* * *

They marched in silence, preserving their energy. Justin was wearing a beige long-sleeved shirt, a multi-pocket vest and light khaki pants. Carrie had a white polo shirt and navy blue pants. She had applied sunscreen over her face and her neck and had offered some to Justin, but he had shrugged away the possibility of sunburn. His skin had a nice bronze tan.

Their khaki travel hats protected them well from the blazing sun for the first five minutes. Then their heads began to melt, streams of sweat trailing down their faces and their necks. Under the weight of their twenty-pound knapsacks, even their regular steady pace caused their bodies to break out in sweat.

“We’re leaving Kenya,” Carrie said.

She followed two steps behind Justin. He stopped, then glanced right and left, as if crossing an intersection. No signs of a border. The same red sand, the same thorny shrubs, the same scorching heat. He continued his march. Three more steps and Carrie said, “Welcome to Somalia.”

Justin slowed down.
Another two miles to our rendezvous point.
He glanced at his wristwatch.
Right on time. I hope Birgit has some cold water.

About half an hour later, he said, “We’re here.”

He pointed to their right. A white Toyota Land Cruiser was visible in the distance. UNHCR was stamped in large blue letters on its side.

“Thank God.” Carrie removed her hat and used it to fan her face. She used the back of her hand to wipe a few sweat drops blinding her eyes.

A black man in an olive drab uniform jumped out the Toyota’s front passenger door. He was carrying an assault rifle, which Justin recognized as the American-made M16. He knelt in a firing position by the hood of the Toyota, pointing his rifle at them.

“Quite the welcome,” Carrie muttered, placing her hat back on her head.

“They’re being careful. That’s good.”

Justin continued advancing toward the Toyota. He kept the same pace, making no sudden moves or doing anything the man with the gun might interpret as a threat. As they drew nearer, he noticed the slender silhouette of the blonde driver. Another black man was sitting behind the driver. The barrel of an assault rifle was sticking out of the window on his side.

When they were a few feet away from the Toyota, the driver pushed open her door. “You must have friends in some very high places, Mr. Jacob Tanner,” she said in English as she stepped out and slammed the door behind her. Her terse voice dripped with scorn.

Justin looked at Birgit. Her face showed her displeasure at being here and serving as their guide. She was measuring them up, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her light blue t-shirt revealed nice biceps, neatly covered in a golden suntan.
The benefits of working long hours outdoors,
Justin thought. A pair of sand khaki pants and brown work boots completed her attire.

“We appreciate this favor, Ms. Fredriksen and we regret any—”

“I don’t need your regrets,” Birgit interrupted him. She took a couple of steps forward.

Justin realized she stood at least three inches taller than him.
I was hoping for some cold water, not cold shoulder.
He braced for her lecture.

“I’ve been working in Somalia for ten years, and I’ve never talked to any of our director generals. Ever. But this week I get not one, but two, two phone calls, from two different DGs. Both concerned, very concerned, to make sure I serve as your driver for the day. As if I have nothing better to do.”

Justin’s face remained calm and expressionless.

“Who are you, Mr. Tanner? Is Tanner even your name? Your real name?”

Justin exchanged a quick glance with Carrie. She gave him a stoic grin, which Justin translated as “just let her vent.” Then the corner of his eye caught Birgit’s security guard movements. The guard adjusted his position, re-aiming his M16 at Justin’s chest.

“Ms. Fredriksen, we thank you for agreeing to help us. My colleague and I, we’re journalists, in the area to—”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Birgit took another step toward him. She was now standing three feet away. “There are no journalists in this Godforsaken land. Men, women, and children are dropping like flies and nobody gives a damn. This land sees only refugees, terrorists, and terrorist hunters.” Birgit pointed a finger at Justin. “You’re not a refugee, and you don’t look like a terrorist.”

Justin let out a deep sigh. “The less you know, the better it is for everyone,” he said, slowly gesturing toward the guard. “Please take us to the village. In an hour, we’ll be out of your life. For good.”

Birgit tapped her left foot, kicking up a small puff of dust. “What’s in the bags?”

“Equipment. Satphones. Cameras. Binoculars and such.”

“Guns?”

“No, no guns.”

“Open them up.”

Justin lowered his brown knapsack slowly to the ground. He undid some of the straps, opening up the main compartment. He had no reason to worry Birgit would find anything objectionable inside. They were carrying nothing illegal. But it seemed she was looking for a reason not to take them with her.

Birgit gave Justin’s knapsack a meticulous search, then proceeded to do the same with Carrie’s. She opened all side compartments and inside pockets. Finally, she picked up the knapsacks, weighing them in her hand.

“We’re good to go?” asked Justin.

Birgit bit her lips, clenched her jaw, then opened her mouth, ready to continue her tirade. But she changed her mind, dropped the knapsacks and turned around. “You’re riding in the back,” she said without turning her head and walked toward the Toyota.

The guard lowered his weapon and stood up, but kept a stern face. His eyes were following Justin’s every move. Carrie nodded at Justin, then whispered, “Well done, terrorist hunter.”

“Thanks, Ms. Fredriksen,” Justin said. He zipped up his knapsack and hastened behind her.

* * *

The left side of the back of the Toyota was filled with medical supplies packed in gray metallic boxes of all sizes. UNHCR and a red cross were stenciled on their sides. Justin and Carrie sat across from the supplies, on the well-worn vinyl upholstery full of tears and stains.

As soon as they closed the back door, Birgit gunned the engine. The Toyota shook, then launched forward. They looped around a few burned acacias. Someone had stopped here and had decided to make a big bonfire. Most of the other trees and the shrubs had been cut down and picked clean, leaving the landscape even more barren and depressing than on the Kenyan side.

Two minutes later, they drove into a wider, dustier road, which seemed to run parallel to the border. Heavily used by militants and government troops of Kenya and Somalia, the road was in a rough shape. It was high at the center and tapered very steeply to the sides. The rear suspensions of the Toyota might have been sufficient for the harsh terrain during the vehicle’s first year in use. But now Justin could feel every bump in the road. At least they had air conditioning, but Birgit still had not offered them a cold drink.

Justin glanced at Birgit. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. She still had a dark look on her face. “You’re CIA?” she asked.

Her tone told Justin she was certain of his positive answer. He felt sorry to disappoint her yet again. “No, we don’t work for CIA”

Birgit’s eyes narrowed, the look of surprise replacing that of anger.

“MI6?”

“Sorry, we’re just journalists,” Carrie said.

Birgit titled her head to look directly at Carrie. Her amused facial expression was telling the other woman she was not talking to her. “Journalists or not, you’ve already cost me two grand. Al-Shabaab’s men at checkpoints make no exceptions for humanitarian vehicles.”

“You pay them off?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, and a journalist would know that. Why do you think pickup trucks mounted with machine guns and rockets are called ‘technicals’? Because we pay them off to leave us alone, so we can do our job and help save a few good people. And we write off those sums as ‘technical assistance.’”

Carrie nodded. “Thanks for the explanation.”

Birgit pondered Carrie’s reply for a second and decided it was genuine. Justin knew better, but kept his mouth shut.

“Here, have some water,” Birgit said. “You’re dying of sweat.” She gestured to the guard in the back seat. He handed them two bottles of water.

Justin and Carrie gulped down their water in a matter of seconds.

“So, what’s in Barjaare?” asked Birgit.

“What?” replied Justin.

“What’s going on in Barjaare that deserves the arrival of two
journalists?
The place hardly has two hundred souls.”

“We’re just working on a report about the recent clashes between al-Shabaab and Kenyan forces,” Justin gave her the rehearsed reply.

“Hmmm, interesting.”

Justin glanced sideways at Birgit. “Why is that, Ms. Fredriksen?”

“Oh, call me Birgit, will you? And it’s interesting because it’s very obvious when al-Shabaab leaders visit the area. There are reinforcements, curfews in villages, a show of force. There hasn’t been anything like that at all in the area. So I don’t know whom you’ll interview in that village, since it has no al-Shabaab fighters.”