The Aden Effect (7 page)

“Can I take my son home, now?”

“The coroner's office has been directed to release your son. Someone from State is standing by to help you.”

Leaving his first benefactor to mourn alone for his son until the boy's mother arrived from Washington, Golzari joined Hertz outside at the squad car.

“It's never easy to talk with the family after something like this, is it, Damien?”

Golzari shook his head. “Never. I thought I was done with it when I left the police force.” Then he switched the subject. “Did you make the call to Customs?”

“The only ship at the pier Johnny went to that day was a freighter—the
Mukalla Hassan
out of Mukalla, Yemen, with one stop in Southampton, England. She left Boston yesterday for Nigeria. Does that help? Where are you going next?”

“England,” Golzari said decisively, “the ship's last port of call. I'm going to London to talk to a friend who might be able to help.”

“Can I do anything on this end?”

“No, I'll take it from here, Tom. You've been a big help. Here's my card. Let me know if you hear anything from your liaison about this Abdi Mohammed Asha.”

“You'll be the first to know, Damien.”

Golzari took the first flight he could find, which happened to be a military flight on its way to RAF Lakenheath, a short way from London.

The domestic dispute call in Little Mogadishu was routine. Hertz was sure it would amount to nothing. They never did. Sure enough, by the time he reached the fourth-floor walkup in the riverside tenement the couple had resolved their argument. As he began walking back down the stairs, he saw Khalid on the second-floor landing below him.

“Any word about that name I gave you, Khalid?” Hertz tucked his pen and notepad into the front pocket of his shirt as he descended toward the tall Somali.

“I may be able to help you and your friend from the college. He was police, too?”

“Federal agent,” Hertz replied importantly.

“Ah, I don't think I caught his name, my friend.” The wet smacks from Khalid's steady chewing echoed in the stairwell.

“No problem. I can reach him if you have some information.” Interference screeched on his radio.

“Is he still here?” asked the Somali.

“No, he left for London.” Hertz reached for his radio and adjusted the squelch.

“Ah, well, no matter. I can start with you, Officer.” The Somali swiftly pulled out a switchblade and jammed it into the surprised policeman's stomach. Hertz froze just long enough for Khalid to pull out the knife and reach up to slash his throat with it. As Hertz brought his hands instinctively to his bloody neck, Khalid stabbed him again in the abdomen and then pushed his body effortlessly down the stairs.

W
hile waiting for the delayed embassy car that would drive him the seventy miles from Lakenheath to London, Damien Golzari examined the three well-thumbed paperbacks he had just pulled out of his bag, trying to decide whether he would read Plato's
Timaeus
, Euripides'
Daughters of Troy
, or a text on Iranian archaeological sites. He was well prepared for the inevitable delays world travel involved. He had become used to them during his decade as a Diplomatic Security Service agent. DS hadn't been a bad life so far; well, except for the two marriages it had destroyed, though he seriously doubted they would have survived regardless of his profession. He was already an experienced traveler when he came into the Service, having lived abroad during much of his youth.

The job gave him access to some of the best locations in the world—as well as, unfortunately, some of the worst. In working for the government Golzari felt that he was working for stability, something lacking in his childhood in Iran. That appreciation for stability was one of the things that had attracted him to law enforcement. He had started as many of those in his field had done, working for a local police department—in his case, Boston. But the job had proved too confining, too parochial for his thirst to see and know the world. The Diplomatic Security Service gave him a much broader purview. He had protected diplomats and investigated crimes from Paris to Riyadh. London was very familiar ground.

This trip was hardly going to be a holiday, but Golzari was happy to be back in England. Although his father had settled the family in the United States after fleeing the 1979 Iranian Revolution—with the help of then-Ambassador
Dunner—he had insisted on a proper British education for his son. Golzari had always been grateful to the old man for that.

His Blackberry vibrated just as he decided on
The Daughters of Troy
. The message from the Antioch Police Department was terse: Officer Hertz had been attacked and killed by an unknown assailant while making a routine call in the Somali refugee community.

“Son of a bitch,” he said aloud. He should have stayed in Antioch and tried to find this Abdi Mohammed Asha. He might have to return. Since he was already here, though, he'd check with his source.

The Somali emerged from the washroom refreshed. Most men would have found the past few hours harrowing—murdering a police officer, clearing out his living space, and making quick arrangements to flee the country. Abdi Mohammed Asha did not. He had been bullying, intimidating, maiming, killing, and evading the civilized rule of law since he became a soldier at the age of eight. He made his way toward the center of the Brazilian-made Embraer Lineage 1000 business jet and smiled as he sank his lanky frame into one of the comfortable leather seats.

“Why are you smiling?” asked the Chinese businessman seated across from him.

“Because I am no longer freezing in America and living among pigs,” he said with his eyes closed, enjoying the scent of the freshly applied Euphoria cologne—his new signature scent. One of his most recent victims in the United States had been holding a full bottle of it when he died.

“You were fortunate that I could extract you.”

The Somali shrugged. “I would have escaped. I have several passports. And they still do not know who I am.”

“Perhaps.” The Chinese man leaned back into the comfortable seat.

“Only three matter,” the Somali continued, “and two of them are dead. I killed the Dunner boy and the policeman. When I kill the federal agent there will be no one left who can tie ‘Khalid' to anything.”

Hu was unconvinced. “How did they discover your real name?”

“I don't know. When the boy returned from picking up the last khat shipment he asked if I knew who Abdi Mohammed Asha was. I told him the name
was unfamiliar to me, just as I told the police. When he said that he planned to ask his father, I had to kill him.”

“And the police said nothing else?”

“No. But you were right about the boy,” Khalid conceded.

“Of course I was,” Hu said. “Look at me.”

Asha obeyed.

“We invested heavily in Suldaan Yaxye Abokor. It was only luck that saved you when he was killed by a rival. You were to have been killed as well. We sent you to the United States intending for you to stay there until we were ready to send you back to Somalia.”

“I know this, Hu.”

“I'm not finished. The boy served his purpose, yes. Family members observe and overhear things, and the information you extracted from him will help to expand my country's intelligence network. But we were not yet ready for you to leave the United States,” he repeated.

Asha shrugged, deciding to accept the praise and ignore the rebuke. “Yes, it helped that you knew the boy already had a problem with drugs. It was easy to get him to talk.”

“But that he discovered your name is worrisome, Asha.”

“I cannot explain it, Hu, but I don't think it is a problem. The police had only a name. The man who belonged to that name is gone. If they had anything else, I would know.”

“Then why is the agent going to England?” Hu summoned an attendant and held up his glass to be refilled.

“I don't know, unless . . . the ship? The ship stopped in England before Boston. If the Americans know the ship's name and who owns it, then . . .”

“Then the Americans have nothing. When they learn who the owner is, their investigation will stop. They can't afford to accuse him or his family.” He reached up to take the glass of Perrier from the flight attendant.

“Of course.”

“Follow this agent. Take care not to be recognized.” Hu kicked off his loafers and held out his feet as the attendant replaced them with slippers.

“Of course I will. But we only spoke for a minute. He isn't likely to recognize me.”

“I want a full report of his activities in London. We will have one of our operatives there to assist you.”

“And after that?”

“After that, Faisal wants you to report to him.”

“It is time?”

“Almost. Abokor's killer is dead. Soon you will return to Somalia, as we all agreed.”

Asha closed his eyes in satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that his exile was nearly at an end. Soon he would become the greatest Somali warlord of them all.

Stark had never been able to relax in airports, but this time was much worse than usual. Still agitated at having been dragged from his adopted village, his boat, his pub, and Maggie, he tried to sit quietly and wait. Two dozen people were interspersed throughout the lounge. Some slept; others texted on various handheld devices. A couple watched a cable news program on the overhead screen. Half were uniformed, mostly Air Force enlisted. The other half wore civilian clothing but were probably military given their short haircuts and youth.

One person among all the others stood out to Stark. His black hair was short and neatly trimmed, though longer than a military man would wear it, but it was the goatee that clearly distinguished him as a civilian. There were dark bags under his equally dark eyes. He was in his early thirties and about Stark's own height of six feet, but he was far trimmer looking, and his head seemed oversized for his frame. He had hardly moved since arriving at the lounge, but his darting eyes continually surveyed his surroundings. His bearing reminded Stark of a jaguar preparing to pounce at the right opportunity.

The man's well-tailored suit almost hid the bulge at mid-torso beneath his left armpit. The suit, the shirt, the tie, even the cordovan shoes—which shone like the corfams military personnel wore for formal dress or inspection—all indicated that the man had enough money to pay for quality clothing. The only thing missing were cufflinks, but perhaps the man was going for understated elegance; and anyway, jaguars don't wear collars and tags. Stark had also spent enough time in the Middle East to recognize someone likely to be indigenous to the region. The man's face and skin color suggested Arab or Persian, with the latter more likely.

In sum, here was a nonmilitary man at a military airfield with a gun concealed beneath his coat. Stark figured him for an agent. Probably not Secret
Service because the man didn't have an earpiece; nor were there any other agents apparent, and advance men rarely worked alone. Probably a military investigator, then, with one of the Department of Defense outfits. Maybe the Navy's NCIS, or perhaps AFOSI, the Air Force counterpart. But DoD agents weren't known for their expensive clothing, and in any case weren't paid enough to indulge in it. That left open the possibility of a Diplomatic Security Service agent. They were everywhere around the world, and as often as not they worked alone.

This guy looked to Stark like someone who worked better alone. His stiff posture and aloof air, plus the thick books at his side, gave him an aristocratic air, as though he had been born into money or had at least gone to school with the rich and knew how to emulate them.