Task Force Desperate (23 page)

It was a short drive, up a shallow, rocky incline, across the main paved road, and turning onto a dirt road that led to a limestone building with a hand-painted tin sign out front that read “Taj Socotra Hotel” in English and Arabic, with a royal crown in the background. The courtyard was walled, with an arched gate overshadowed by the stepped, blocky main buildings. It looked like effort had been made to make it look like classic Arabic architecture, with arched windows on the second floor.

Our escort pulled up beside the outer wall, and we piled out. The half-Arab looking guy, Ibrahim, waved at us to follow him again, and led the way through the gate and into the courtyard. Danny waved away an inquisitive goat that trotted up to us as we went in.

There was actual grass on the ground inside the courtyard, and it looked like the staff actually worked to keep it growing. The yard wasn’t very large, with a sizeable amount of it taken up by the steps leading up to the front door. We ventured into the dark, cool shade of the lobby.

Once we were inside, it really wasn’t that dark. The walls were plastered and whitewashed, the floor was tiled in shades of orange and beige, and the windows had white and blue curtains over them. It actually was rather pleasant, considering that a Somali pirate godfather was staying here. But then, I suppose even bad guys would choose pleasant places over shitholes if they could.

Our guide waved at the single receptionist, who had a stockless AK variant sitting next to his chair, and led the way up the stairs to the second floor, and stopped at the first room. There were two men outside the door, with pistols stuck in their waistbands much like his, and one of them was chewing what could only be khat. Which meant he was likely to turn aggressive and dangerous at the drop of a hat. Ibrahim turned to us and said, almost apologetically, “Please hand over all weapons, and hold your arms out at your sides.” We complied, at least with our overt pistols, and at least one knife. I waited to see if they’d find my backup. The frisking was short and sloppy. They didn’t find the titanium knife at my ankle, and I didn’t feel like letting them know, either. A quick glance at Alek and Larry confirmed that both of them still had at least one weapon still stashed away. Knowing Larry, he probably had a .357 somewhere.

With the search complete, and all of us nominally disarmed, Ibrahim knocked on the door, and a Somali answered, with another AK slung across his chest. They spoke quietly in fast Somali for a moment, then the doorman opened the door fully, and let us in.

The room reminded me of the lobby, with the brightly painted walls and light-colored drapes on the windows, which were topped by colorful half-moon designs in stained glass. There was a single bed, and several cushions on the floor, which was covered by a dark green and black patterned rug. A bookshelf against the wall held a small TV, which was presently tuned in to what I took to be Al-Jazeera. An air conditioner, set into a plywood frame, hummed on the wall above the bed.

The man sitting on the bed reminded me of a description I’d read of a Somali warlord in the south in the ‘90s. “A black Stonewall Jackson,” had been the term, and this guy seemed to fit it. He had a high forehead, his otherwise full head of salt-and-pepper hair receding slightly at the temples. His beard was long, bushy, and full. His eyes held an easy good humor, but behind it, I could see the signs of a sharp and ruthless intellect that missed little. Which only made sense. Pirates on the Horn of Africa tended to be a pretty anarchic bunch. It would take a hard-nosed, canny son of a bitch to become a “godfather” out here.

Al-Jabarti smiled a shark smile of even white teeth, and spread his arms in greeting, though he did not get up. “Ah, our American friends are here,” he said. “Welcome to my little vacation home.” He motioned to the cushions on the floor. “Please, sit down. Ibrahim, can you have some tea sent up?” His English was flawless; hell, the guy spoke it better than I do. Ibrahim nodded and left, and the doorman stepped out into the hall. He kept the door open, though.

We crowded into the relatively small hotel room, and took seats on the cushions. While we waited for the tea, there was some inconsequential small talk, as is usual in Africa and South Asia. It is considered rude to get straight down to business, and even pirate godfathers are concerned with the niceties, apparently.

Ibrahim came back with a battered silver tray, five small glasses, and a silver teapot. He set the tray on the floor in the center of the room, and poured the tea, then stepped out. Al-Jabarti motioned for us to go ahead, so we each took a glass. He waited for us, then took his own and sipped it. I noticed that none of us touched any of the tea until he had drunk it, and a flicker in his eyes told me he’d noticed, as well. A quick grin momentarily dispelled any fears of an angry reaction to our lack of trust.

For a few more minutes, we sipped tea, and Al-Jabarti talked about the weather, the fishing, and how the tourism had died down in the last couple of years. It was a shame, really. It had brought plenty of money to the people of this isolated island. The fact that his activities probably had had something to do with it he blithely ignored.

Finally, Danny set his tea glass down. “Mr. Al-Jabarti,” he said, “I am curious as to why you brought us here. I was assured that your fee was paid in full.”

Al-Jabarti smiled as he leaned back and spread his hands expansively. “This is not about money, my friend,” he said jovially. “I wished to meet the men I am doing business with.”

“Except we’re not doing business,” Danny said flatly. “The CIA is paying you to get us into Somalia, and equipped with ground transportation. That’s it.”

“That is still business, my friend,” Al-Jabarti pointed out, smiling. I was getting the impression that he was enjoying the hell out of the CIA doing business with pirates. “Besides, I did not want it to be said that I let my clients go into the situation in Somalia without all the facts.”

That rung some warning bells. Danny was watching Al-Jabarti very closely, and, while I’m pretty sure it wasn’t abundantly obvious to the pirate, the rest of us tensed, just a little.

“What facts?” Danny asked levelly.

Al-Jabarti motioned toward the TV. “It seems that your escapades in Djibouti have not gone unnoticed.”

I looked at the TV, which had been muted, and which I had been ignoring since entering the room. But now I saw that a man with his face masked by a shemaugh, who was gesturing as he spoke into the camera. I didn’t read much Arabic, but I could make out “Masri” in the subtitle at the bottom of the screen. My blood went cold. I looked over at Alek, who had gone pale, or at least as pale as a Samoan could.

“What happened?” Alek asked, quietly and calmly. I doubted Al-Jabarti understood just how dangerous Alek was when he got that quiet and calm. Larry flexed his gun hand, and I already had mine resting on the knife hilt above my boot. Yes, we were being paranoid; there was no real reason to assume that whatever had happened would necessarily lead to our being attacked on Al-Jabarti’s own turf, but what had been going on for the last couple of weeks was not calculated toward making us the trusting sort. If this was a double-cross, Al-Jabarti would die, it was that simple.

Al-Jabarti grew more somber, but there was still a glint of what looked like humor in his eyes as he announced, “Al Masri has executed twenty-five of his prisoners in response to your raid on his friends in Balbala.”

He paused for dramatic effect, doubtless wanting to see our reaction. Larry obliged him.

“I’m going to take him apart,” the big man said, grinding his teeth as he stared at the screen. “I’ll kill him one piece at a time.”

Al-Jabarti raised his eyebrows in some surprise, and actually smiled, then called out something to Ibrahim outside the open door in rapid-fire Arabic.

“What is it?” I demanded. Danny was staring at the TV stony-faced, and Alek was giving Al-Jabarti the gimlet-eye.

“I was telling my friend Ibrahim what your man said,” he replied. “It seems that Americans understand revenge, after all. After many of your operations in our part of the world, I had begun to think that you did not.”

“Never mind differing philosophies of revenge,” Danny said. “How does this change our contract?”

“You have much less time than you may have thought,” Al-Jabarti said. “This of course increases the risk for my people, and drives up our price. If you want to get into Somalia, with the vehicles you have asked for, we will need five million dollars, in the next twenty-four hours.”

I almost got up and stabbed him in the throat right then and there. How the fuck were we supposed to get another two mil in cash in a day, out here in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere?

But Danny didn’t move, or bat an eye. He stared down Al-Jabarti and simply said, “Let me see what I can do.”

Al-Jabarti gave another of his expansive gestures, and said, “Of course, of course. Ibrahim can show you to a room where you can stay for now. I will be here for another three days, but, as I said, you need the money in one if we are to do business.” He smiled again, as if this was all just friendly haggling.

Danny nodded again, and thanked him politely, then got up and ushered us out to Ibrahim. None of us spoke as the pirate’s right-hand-man escorted us down the hall two more rooms and let us in to another that was functionally identical to Al-Jabarti’s but with two narrow beds instead of one. Alek, Larry, and I sat down on the beds, while Danny pulled out his sat-phone from its waterproof case and started dialing a number.

“Damn it,” Alek muttered. “Goddamnit.” Larry sat back against the wall, the bed groaning under his weight, and stared stonily at nothing. I just watched the door and thought of horrifying and bloody ways to end Al Masri’s life.

Chapter 17

W
e didn’t see Danny much for the next few hours. We had our weapons back, and kept them close at hand, just in case, but none of the pirates made any threatening moves, or even tried to talk to us.

For the most part, we stayed in the rooms they had showed us to, but as night fell, and the temperature dropped, Larry, Alek, and I moved out into the courtyard. The clouds that had draped the mountains inland were spreading over the town, and a cool breeze was coming in off the ocean.

The conversation, while quiet, was not nearly as cool as the weather. We had spent most of the last couple of hours brainstorming what amounted to increasingly unlikely and violent ways of getting off the island and into Somalia. Trouble was, none of them looked like they were going to work, short of trying to hijack Al-Jabarti’s entire organization. Yeah, I know. Not exactly feasible, especially given that our assets were pretty much limited at the moment to four men with about eight pistols and probably around sixteen knives.

The worst part, the part that had us all paranoid as hell and watching every doorway, corner, and window, was that if this was a complete double-cross, we were pretty well fucked. Alone, on an island that, if it wasn’t completely run by the bad guys, was at least generally friendly to them, we wouldn’t have a chance if they turned on us. Oh, we’d take down plenty of them in the process, but we’d go down, even so.

It was in the midst of this murmured conversation, sitting in plastic chairs around a dusty folding table, lit by a couple of naked light bulbs overhead as night descended, that Danny came back to join us. The conversation cut off, and three pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

Danny pulled up one of the blue plastic lawn chairs and sat down without a word. He propped his elbows on the table and looked around at us. “So,” he began. “What did I miss?”

“Contingencies,” was Alek’s laconic reply. Larry and I didn’t see fit to add anything more.

Danny took a deep breath. “Mind filling me in a little more? If this is going to go sideways, I’d like a little warning.”

“How about you fill us in on the situation first,” Alek replied. “That’s going to kind of color which contingencies we end up going with.”

“I’m working on getting the money to pay Al-Jabarti,” Danny replied. “It’s not easy to get my hands on five million dollars on short notice, even black funds. Hell, especially black funds. The money just isn’t there anymore.”

“That’s just fucking awesome,” I put in. “Let’s try to do business with a pirate, who, just for the sake of argument might be a little greedy, since he’s, oh hey, a fucking
pirate
, without having either enough cash to pay him off, enough force to intimidate him, or enough dirt to blackmail him. That sounds like a
great
idea.”

Danny looked around at us again, and got hard, angry stares in response. He held up his hands. “Look, guys, I’ll get us into Somalia. I just need a little more time.”

“We’re running out of time, Danny,” Larry said quietly. “And so are the guys we’re trying to find.”

Danny put his head in his hands. “I know, I know.” He jerked back up and looked around at us, something close to despair in his eyes. “What do you guys want me to do? I haven’t got a bottomless supply of cash. I haven’t got the backup you guys want. I can’t just wave my hand and make this all better. I’m stuck in the same shit-sandwich with the rest of you.”

There was a long silence after that. We had mostly come to like Danny in the last couple of weeks, but the problems with the people he answered to were starting to spill over into our working relationship. For several minutes nobody said anything, mostly staring at the table or the bugs swarming around the light bulbs hanging precariously on the sides of the hotel.

Then Alek raised his head and looked around, catching our attention. He just said, “The Nogales job.”

I traded glances with Larry. None of us had ever said much about the Nogales job. Suffice it to say that in the course of securing a client’s property against a particularly vicious smuggling arm of one of the cartels, we had come into possession of a considerable sum of drug money, destined to be used for who knows what north of the border. We hadn’t turned it over. For one thing, there wasn’t anybody down there to turn it over to. Half of Arizona had been effectively turned over to the Cartels. Aside from Phoenix, which was an ever-shrinking island of American control, there really weren’t any effective authorities south of Sedona. We hadn’t even been supposed to be there; Americans were told that if they went south of the demarcation line, which of course the Cartels ignored, they were on their own. So we’d kept the money, stashed it against when we might need a large amount of liquid capital.