Terminal Justice (9 page)

Turning from the window, he walked across the small hotel room to the bathroom and splashed cool water on his face.
At least the water is running again
. He thought he heard something. Turning the tap off, he listened intently. This time he heard it clearly, a knock on the door. Grabbing a towel, Roger patted his face dry as he walked to the door and opened it.

“I was hoping it was you,” Roger said as he stepped aside to let his guest in. “I’m going crazy here. What took you so long?”

“Somalia is not an easy place to move around these days,” Mohammed Aden replied. “Only 15 percent of my country’s roads are paved. That and the fear of being killed by rogue clan members make travel unpleasant.” Aden, like many Somalis, was relatively short. His hair was cut close to the scalp, and he had a pleasant way about him. Fluent in English, the former professor at the Somali National University in Mogadishu was an important cog in the Barringston Relief work in Somalia. He was a bright man who worked with both the local and the nearly nonexistent national government to expedite food shipment. In many ways he was a diplomat who walked the narrow path of negotiation. He was a vital source of information on Somali activities that might affect relief efforts. He had more than once been accused of being a spy for the CIA, and he had more than once been just that.

“Since you’re smiling, I assume you have had some success.”

“I have,” Aden admitted. “But we will need to travel, so pack your bags.”

“We won’t be coming back?” Roger asked suspiciously.

“Probably, but take your things anyway. You don’t want them stolen, do you?”

“They won’t be safe here?” Roger asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“Nothing is safe in Somalia,” Aden replied coldly. “We will be
traveling to the north via airplane, but we won’t be going to the airport. An acquaintance of mine has a small private plane near here. He will fly us to Bohotleh Wein in the north.”

“This friend is trustworthy?”

“As trustworthy as anyone can be during these times,” Aden said. “You’re paying him enough to be loyal. He flies anyone who can pay him, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut. We will take a car to Johar which is two hours north of here, then we will wait with my friend until well after dark. After that we fly to Bohotleh.”

“Bohotleh?”

“It’s a small town on the northeastern border of Ethiopia. One of your relief camps is nearby, so you can visit it if you want.” Aden pointed at the small leather suitcase and briefcase near the wall next to the window and said, “We shouldn’t waste any time. The drive could take longer than I planned.”

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Roger said.

“Knowing is the only way to survive in Somalia,” Aden replied seriously.

Ten minutes later they were in a vintage Toyota Land Rover, bouncing over damaged pavement and dirt roads. Dust and heat poured in through the open windows. When Roger first entered the vehicle he instinctively reached for the seat belts; there were none. Aden caught the habitual act and smiled. “Seat belts are good in an automobile accident, but they slow you down if you must run for your life. Besides, the belt would only leave you bruised after the drive we are taking.”

“Swell,” was all Roger said.

The drive to Johar was easier than Roger thought it might be, but it did have short spans where the road had deteriorated to a series of oddly shaped potholes of various depths. Aden managed to steer around the worst of them, but he hit a few with sufficient force that smacked Roger’s head on the ceiling and passenger door, causing him to spew a string of obscenities. Aden took it all stoically.

Two hours fifteen minutes and one flat tire later they arrived at their destination, an old barnlike structure on the outskirts of Johar. They were greeted by a tall, lanky Somali who shook hands with Aden first and then Roger. Aden and the man spoke in Somali for a moment, then Aden turned to Roger. “This is our host and pilot, Mohammed Arteh.”

“Another Mohammed,” Roger said, smiling at the somber-looking Somali.

Aden shrugged, “It is a popular name in an Islamic country. Come, I’ll show you the plane.” Aden walked toward the dilapidated barn and pushed back a large sliding door that groaned each inch of the way. In the barn was an old six-seat Cessna. That was all Roger could tell about the plane. Oil streaks stained the area around the engine cowling, and rust was visible on the wings and the body. Roger frowned.

“It will fly,” Arteh said, noticing the look of consternation on Roger’s face.

“You speak English,” Roger said, a little embarrassed at his display of dissatisfaction.

“Yes,” was all the pilot said.

“It looks like your bird here has been around the block a few times,” Roger commented as he slowly inspected the craft. Not receiving a response, he looked at Arteh, whose face displayed a puzzled look. Roger realized that his colloquialisms confused the two Somalis. “Your plane, you’ve flown it a lot.”

“Yes, many years,” Arteh said, nodding. “It is a good plane. It will fly you to Bohotleh Wein.”

Roger wasn’t so sure, but it made no sense to offend his host and his only source of transportation. “I’m sure it will,” he lied. “When do we leave?”

“We must wait until the moon is high,” Arteh answered. “We will arrive at dawn. Landing in the dark is not good.”

Roger chuckled nervously and looked at the ancient aircraft. “I don’t imagine that it is.”

It took just under five hours for the Cessna to cross the central desert region and approach the mountainous lands of the north. Wanting to make the best possible time to maintain the cover of darkness, Arteh crossed the Ogaden region of Ethiopia—a dangerous course. Roger felt fortunate that their trip went unchallenged by gunfire, something he attributed to Arteh’s insistence that they fly under cover of darkness.

Now darkness was giving way to the rising August sun as it steadily scaled the sky over the Indian Ocean and cast long shadows from the mountains. Bohotleh Wein lay one thousand feet below them. Arteh circled the small and impoverished town looking for a place to land. Aden pointed out the pilot’s window and said something in Somali. Arteh grunted and banked the plane in the direction indicated by Aden, all the while descending with stomach-churning speed.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Arteh,” Roger said as he leaned back in his seat in a futile gesture to reduce the precipitous descent angle chosen by the bush pilot. “Who taught you to fly?”

“I taught myself,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Why?”

Roger looked at the rapidly approaching ground. “No reason, just curious.” He swallowed hard.

At about two hundred feet, Arteh pulled back on the yoke and eased the creaking Cessna into an easy glide path. He had found what Aden had been pointing at: a small cluster of unpainted wood buildings about two miles from the heart of Bohotleh Wein that had a flat piece of ground that looked suitable for landing.

“That looks pretty smooth,” Roger said, eager to be back on the ground.

“Maybe,” replied Arteh.

“Maybe?”

“If there’re no holes, soft spots, rocks, or animals in the way, we’ll be fine.”

“And if there is a hole, soft spot, rock, or animal, then what?” Roger asked. Arteh just shrugged and continued his descent.

The plane touched down and bounced back into the air. Seconds later it touched down again, this time rebounding only a few feet. The next time the wheels made contact they rolled freely along the hard earth surface. Arteh quickly stepped on the brake pedals, slowing the craft to a suitable taxiing speed. Turning the plane around, he taxied back to the buildings and switched off the engine, which coughed harshly and ejected thick oily smoke.

Roger took a deep breath and looked at the intrepid pilot. For the first time since meeting the enigmatic man he saw Arteh smile as he said, “Thanks for flying Air Somalia.”

“AH, THE DEDICATED WORKER.” DAVID LOOKED UP from the briefing he was reading and saw Kristen standing in the doorway to his office. “Hard at work, and you’ve only been here a week.”

“It’s an old trick really,” David replied with a smile. “Simply spread out a few papers on the desk, rub your eyes until they’re red, move a little more slowly than normal, and everyone will think you’ve been burning the midnight oil.”

“What? Trickery from a man of your caliber?” Kristen returned the grin. “Somehow I don’t think you’re faking it.”

“See, it works,” David said. He was glad for the distraction. “Come in and have a seat.”

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Her voice was sweet and melodious, yet filled with confidence. David watched as she stepped into the office and made her way to a chair opposite his desk.

“Actually, I could use a break. How have you been?”

“I’m well, thank you, but like you I’m buried in work,” she said looking at the papers strewn across his desk. “What are you working on?”

“A.J. has asked that I prepare a speech for the Washington Press Club and one for a fund-raiser here in San Diego. They’re the first ones I’ll have written for him, and I want them to be right.”

“The press club is an important speech,” Kristen said leaning back in her chair. “He speaks there about once a year. Sort of a standing engagement. He briefs the reporters and news executives
on the hot spots of the world and hopes that it’ll inspire them to keep the issue before the public.”

“I’ve read the last two speeches,” David said, pushing his chair back from the desk, “and that’s the approach he’s used each time. I think we can do better.”

“Oh?”

“Sure. These reporters are some of the best. They can get whatever information they want. They need more than an update on world conditions, and they certainly need more than a reminder of how bad things are. They write about danger, evil, and the worst that life can deliver. I think we need to punch their buttons another way.”

Kristen stared at David for moment and then said, “I wrote those speeches.”

David returned her gaze and wondered how clearly his embarrassment showed. “I didn’t mean to say the speeches were bad, I just meant …”

“Don’t apologize,” Kristen said laughing. “I’m no speechwriter, and I know it. Press releases, I understand, but speechwriting is beyond me. If the truth be told, I hated writing those things. In fact, I’m the one who pushed for a professional writer. It seems I was right.”

“I really wasn’t meaning to belittle your work; they are fine speeches.” David felt the warmth of embarrassment touch his cheeks. “I tend to get a little overenthusiastic about these things.”

“That’s good. Enthusiasm is what we need. So what approach do you think the speech needs to take?”

David shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. It needs a strong emotional angle that the audience won’t expect, but I don’t know what that is.”

“I’m sure it will come to you.”

“It will, and when it does, I’ll recognize it.”

“How are you fitting in otherwise,” Kristen asked.

“Fine. The hard part is the learning curve. I’ve been trying to
get a feel for all the work that Barringston Relief does, but there’s so much of it I feel a little overwhelmed. The statistics alone are intimidating, as are all the different countries where the work goes on. I don’t know how you keep up.”

“I’ve been at it longer. As time passes you’ll get a better grasp on it all.”

“I hope so. I really want to do a good job.”

“Well, you’ve impressed A.J.,” Kristen said, shifting her weight in the chair.

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“Sure you have. You spoke the truth to him.”

“Truth?”

“He told me about his visit with you the other day. He said you were candid with him, and he appreciated that.”

“That’s good. I was worried that I had offended him. Like I said, I tend to get excited about these things.”

“You not only didn’t offend A.J., you dazzled him. He said you saw things he would never have noticed, but more importantly, you corrected him. A.J. likes that sort of thing. He hates yes-men who only tell him what they think he wants to hear. Shoot straight with him, and you’ll have a friend forever. He likes you, David, and thanked me for pushing for a speechwriter.”

“That’s a relief. I like him too. I’ve never met anyone like him, so filled with passion and devotion to others. He seems to be quite a man.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Kristen replied. “Wait until you see him in action. You’ll have to run to keep up with him.” She paused for a moment and contemplated the red polish on her fingernails. David noticed that the nail polish matched her hair almost exactly. “He’s a hero, David. I hope you can help the world see that.”

David said nothing but nodded his head. He watched Kristen closely. Was she in love with A.J. or simply an ardent admirer? In
either case, she was right: A.J. Barringston was a hero, something the world needed.

“Well,” she said, rising from the chair. “I just wanted you to know how pleased A.J. was with your meeting.”

“I appreciate your coming by,” David said as he, too, rose from his chair.

“You know,” Kristen stated, “you do look tired. How about a break? Do you like European coffee?”