Terminal Justice (29 page)

“And what plan is that?” Roger asked.

Sheila explained in detail.

The plan worked perfectly. Raines and Wu kept vigil over the compound day and night, pulling back when guard patrols came near. Two days later they were rewarded when the Jeep suddenly appeared on the dirt road that led from the spacious walled retreat. A short radio message later, Roger, Wu, Raines, and Sheila sprang
into action. Positioning a stolen, slightly battered Mercedes along the road fifteen miles from the compound, Sheila raised the hood and waited until she could see the Jeep’s dust trail. As the Jeep approached, she squatted by the car and stuck a knife in the front left tire, making a long, jagged gash. Air rushed out noisily, but Sheila ignored it. She remained stooped over as she pretended to struggle with the car’s jack. As the Jeep approached, she stood abruptly, flashed a toothy smile, and waved. The car stopped a few meters in front of the Mercedes, and four men exited. Three of the men carried AK-47s at the ready, and their eyes scanned the surrounding area. Seeing nothing, they relaxed somewhat and pointed their weapons at the ground. Mukatu walked toward Sheila with the three men in tow.

“My tire’s flat,” Sheila said sweetly in Arabic. “I can’t get the jack to work.”

Mukatu approached her brazenly. “How is it that a white woman like you speaks Arabic?” he asked tersely.

“Diplomatic corps,” she replied softly and stepped back from him, averting her eyes in feigned fear.

Mukatu looked at the tire, the raised hood, and then back at Sheila. The fact that she was the tallest woman he had ever seen did not intimidate him. Instead, his face revealed that he found her strangely erotic. He stepped closer and inhaled deeply, taking in her fragrance. Slowly he reached up and wiped away a trickle of perspiration from her cheek. In response, she parted her lips seductively.

“I need help,” she said softly. “I would be as grateful as a woman can be if one of you could lift that heavy spare tire out of the trunk.”

Mukatu eyed her warily but found himself staring at her lips. “Go,” he ordered. “Get the tire.” One of the men shouldered his weapon and walked to the back of the car. The trunk lid was ajar, and he opened it quickly. He saw neither the man in the trunk nor the 9mm pistol aimed at his chest. A whisper of a sound was
emitted as the pistol fired. The silencer stifled the sound of the shot, but it couldn’t diminish the thud of the bullet crashing into the guard’s sternum and forcing all the air from his lungs, nor could it quiet the sound of the man’s body striking the hard dirt road.

Mukatu and his men snapped their heads toward the back of the Mercedes and then back to Sheila, who had already reached under the hood of the car and snatched up her own 9mm pistol from underneath a rag. Both guards raised their automatics, but both died instantly as rounds from Sheila’s gun struck them in the forehead. Mukatu feebly turned to run, but he could not evade being pistol-whipped. He fell face first to the ground with a scream of pain. With astonishing speed and strength, Sheila flipped Mukatu from prone to supine. She sat on his chest. He screamed obscenities in Arabic until she placed the hot barrel of the gun between his eyes.

“Shoot! Shoot!” he screamed. “I’m not afraid to die.”

“I have something better planned for you,” she said calmly.

Roger, who had climbed out of the trunk, suddenly appeared and looked at the dead men on the ground. “You are one tough date,” he said coolly.

“Just tape the little man’s mouth,” she replied curtly. “I don’t know how much longer I can listen to his pathetic whining.” Roger complied quickly, slapping a nine-inch-long strip of three-inch-wide gray duct tape across Mukatu’s mouth, silencing the steady stream of obscenities. He twisted and pulled the African’s hands, sending a scorching pain down the man’s arm. Sheila stood and stepped back. With her weight removed, Mukatu screamed a muted cry through his taped mouth and kicked viciously at Roger’s arm in a desperate effort to free himself, but Roger was prepared. He cranked Mukatu’s arm farther until pain forced the African to roll on his stomach. Roger quickly dropped a knee on Mukatu’s neck and pulled his arms behind his back. With Sheila’s help, Roger bound his hands with nylon cord.

Sheila and Roger gazed at their captive as he lay facedown in
the warm dust of the dirt road. Their disappointment required no words. Mukatu was a catch to be sure, but he was not Mahli. That fact complicated matters.

“We should have known,” Roger said. “Mahli would have traveled with more of an escort, not just three guards.”

“Well, we can’t throw him back,” Sheila said severely. “What shall we do with him? Kill him and leave him for the buzzards?”

Roger thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally, “I have a better idea. Let’s take him home.”

“What?! After all we went through?”

“Trust me,” Roger said with a smile. “If we can’t get to Mahli, then maybe his brother can deliver a message for us. Let’s take his Jeep. I’ll explain on the way.” Five minutes later they were headed to Mogadishu.

The helicopter had been rented in advance as a contingency escape vehicle should one be needed. Now Wu, seated in the pilot’s seat, worked the controls to keep the craft hovering in position. Roger kept an eye on the crowd gathering below through powerful binoculars. Raines sat in the jump seat, a sniper’s rifle held firmly in his right hand, waiting for Mahli to step into the courtyard. Sheila sat next to him. Each wore a headset that allowed them to communicate over the pounding of the rotor and the whine of the engine.

“Do you think he’ll show?” Wu asked. As if on cue, Mahli stepped from the building.

“Target!” Roger shouted. “Doorway. Doorway.”

Instantly Raines snapped the rifle to his shoulder and brought the sights to bear on the small group of men clustered in the plaster-covered doorway.

“Got ’em,” Raines said calmly. Expelling his breath slowly, he positioned the rifle’s crosshairs over the right ear of Mahli. The distance and the uncertain platform of the slightly swaying helicopter made the shot nearly impossible, but worth a try. Slowly squeezing the trigger, Raines waited for the sharp report of the weapon. Then
he saw a man push Mahli back into the building. Raines swore. “His guard dogs pushed him back in the house. I’ve lost my shot.”

“I don’t think they’re going to let him out,” Wu said. “And we can’t stay up here forever.”

Roger slammed his fist into his hand. “We had him, and he got away. This guy leads a charmed life.”

“He’s luckier than his brother,” Wu replied.

“I’m going to get him, you know,” Roger said distantly. “Not today, maybe. But someday soon, I’ll cut that little man’s throat.”

“What do we do now?” Raines asked, still looking through the scope. “I think he’s watching through a window, but two people are shielding him with their bodies. It’s a risky shot, but I can get one of them before they scatter. I can’t guarantee that it’ll be Mahli. Not at this distance.”

“He’s going to come looking for his brother, you know,” Sheila said. “It won’t take long for Mahli to put two and two together. That will change the rules of the game. We’ll be the hunted instead of him. He knows about us now, and he has hundreds of fol lowers.”

Roger stared out the window, thinking. He turned to face Sheila and gave a two-word order: “Drop him.”

There was no hesitancy in Sheila’s action, no pause for thought. In a quick, effortless motion, she withdrew a switchblade from her pocket, sprang the blade into its locked position, and cut the rope. Roger watched Mukatu twist and turn as he dropped to the ground. Dust swirled around the body.

“Go, go, go!” Roger shouted into his mouthpiece. Wu banked the craft and forced the controls to the stops. The helicopter roared to life and headed over the blue ocean. Raines leaned forward to look out the open side. The stunned crowd stared at the body. Then, as if they shared a corporate conscience, realized that the helicopter was now a viable target. A roar of gunfire erupted in a futile attempt to shoot the craft from the air. Roger turned in his seat
and looked out the open door in time to see the bright dischargeflash of a rocket-propelled grenade being launched.

“Hard right! Hard right!” Roger shouted.

Wu responded immediately, pressing the right pedal hard and simultaneously jerking the control stick to the right. The helicopter lurched right. A half-second later the grenade shot by them. Wu righted the craft, began a zigzag course, and rapidly changed the craft’s altitude.

Five minutes later Roger knew they were out of firing range from the compound. He imagined the scene they had left behind: Mahli standing over the bloody crushed body of his brother and swearing at the unknown men who had killed him.

“That’s for Judith Rhodes and the
Sea Maid
,” he said.

Mahli paced methodically along the perimeter of the warehouse office in Marka. His supporters had insisted that he leave the compound for the more easily defended commercial building. After watching his brother fall to his death from the helicopter, he had burst into a frenzy of emotion, rushing from the building, seizing a weapon from one of his guards and firing wildly at the rapidly fleeing helicopter. When he saw that the craft would make a safe exit, he fired the weapon into the walls of the compound until every round had been expended. He then turned to look at Mukatu’s crushed and lifeless body. He had seen death, indeed he had caused death, not of just a few, but of countless people. This corpse was different from all the others he had seen. Different not because every bone had been broken, nor because the torso was flattened beyond recognition by the fall, nor because the grotesque sight crushed Mahli’s resolve and stripped away his fearlessness. It was different because Mahli knew that the one person for whom he actually had feelings was gone. Irritating and self-serving as Mukatu could be, he was still his brother, and no one had the right to take him away.

Later, in safer quarters, Mahli could think of nothing but revenge.

“I want them,” he said again, and his words echoed off the hardwood walls of the warehouse. He had uttered those words many times over the last two days. “I don’t know who they are, but I want them. They will pay with their blood. Their screams will be heard all over Somalia.” He paused to look out an ocean-facing window. The pause lasted only long enough for Mahli to replay the haunting image of his brother plummeting to earth, his body twisting futilely against the air. Mahli had seen the terror on his face, his eyes wide. Each time the image played in his mind, the fire in his blood flared to a seething, searing caldron of bitterness and hatred. And each time the scene increased his resolve and commitment—a commitment to revenge. Two clarion truths rang through his tormented mind: He would make his plan work, and more people would die.

FALL ARRIVED EARLY IN WASHINGTON, D.C., TO THE great relief of the population who had quickly grown weary of the late summer’s sweltering heat. The brisk night air followed by moderate daytime temperatures had alleviated the corporate crankiness of the city. Taxi drivers were more patient, policemen smiled occasionally, and power-company engineers worried less about brownouts. Children started back to school and counted the days until the Christmas break. Woody Summers and Stephanie Cooper sat in stylish leather chairs and stared out the window at the grass plaza that framed one of the landscaped areas of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Woody drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, and Stephanie rubbed her hands together.

“How long has it been?” Woody asked, twisting in his chair. “It seems like hours.”

Stephanie looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes. Stop squirming, will you? It’s not like meeting the pope, you know.”

“How many times have you met with the director of the CIA?”

“I met him once,” she replied coolly.

“When was the last time you met with the director of the CIA and the director of the FBI—together—at the same time?”