by Bill Brewer
“Of course, I know that, and we will continue to occupy the majority role in the US just like we have for the past two decades, but now we’ll be supplying the currency. The old saying goes, ‘Those who control the dollars control the men.’ Please excuse the gender bias, but the new saying will be, ‘Those who control the currency will control the world.’”
Patel, returning her glasses to the bridge of her nose, tilted her head forward, looking over them at Panzer, whom she considered brilliant, but this time she knew he was out of control.
The world’s most powerful man hoped his words would get her to yield to his passion. Uncertain he had done so, Panzer made it plain. “Omnisphere will be the organization, Digival will be the mechanism, and you will be the competent, capable, trustworthy CEO orchestrating it all.”
“And you will be back in the shadows calling the shots.”
“I will remain discreet, but I have great faith that you will oversee the successful launch and eventual globalization of Digival.”
“How is it that you are so certain the dollar will collapse?”
“The Crepusculous Board has a plan, which is being conducted on a need-to-know basis; therefore, I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything more.”
“So I should just have faith that the four of you are doing the right thing?”
“Absolutely.” Standing up and checking his Rolex, Panzer was ready to conclude the meeting. “I’ll have finance get in touch with you, and I’m sure your associates are ready for your departure now.”
Patel, realizing her audience with Panzer had just ended, stood and, after shaking his hand, headed toward the door. Her gaze caught the gleam of green eyes in the jet-black face of a snarling panther. The big black cat’s sinewy body slunk around the leg of an overstuffed wingback chair. Gasping with a start, she reflexively pulled her hand to her mouth as a slight screech escaped. Turning, she saw a devilish grin on Panzer’s face, who was so pleased to have frightened her with the unexpected placement of the rare and deadly panther. Patel, annoyed at being the source of his amusement, straightened herself as she exited the room.
14
After four more hours of flying, Diegert’s plane made a gradual descent and his phone alerted him to prepare for the drop. He secured the duffel bag in front of him and the parachute on his back. Dressed in tactical clothing, he put on the helmet and stepped to the door. He thought about the fact that thirty seconds after the door opened was all he had to make his jump.
He pulled up on the latch, the door popped open, and the force of the slipstream sucked him out of the airplane. He tumbled and rolled while falling ten thousand feet above the most poorly governed country in Africa. The darkness and the rush of the wind disoriented him, but he was able to stabilize himself by extending his arms and legs. It was a strain against the force of gravity, but the extra surface area slowed his fall and stopped his rolling. With his right hand, he grabbed the release and pulled the cord. The chute unfolded and yanked him forty feet up in the air, or at least that’s how it felt. He grabbed the lines above him, stabilizing his movements as he began descending at a gradual pace.
From his skyborne position, he saw a very dark earth below. In fact, he could see nothing below him at all. It was disorienting, because the lack of any distinguishing characteristics in any visual plane left him with only his internal balance system for an indication of which way was up.
As he struggled with his lack of orientation, a cold, wet mist plastered his face. Droplets of water condensed on his warm skin and clung to his hair and clothes. He was passing through a cloud.
When he emerged from under the bank of suspended vapor, his sense of orientation to the world returned. Although he still had eight thousand feet to fall, he could now see lights below, and every minute he was able to see more and more distinguishing features of the earth’s surface.
Soon the shoreline was clear, and the intermittent lights of Mogadishu twinkled, evidence of an urban population. Certainly nothing compared to the city lights of an American or European city, but it was his target from the sky. As he floated past Mogadishu, Diegert realized he would land in the desert northwest of the city.
Darkness distorted Diegert’s sense of both speed and distance. He hit the rocky ground hard with both feet, and a gusty surface wind filled his chute and yanked him farther north. He struggled to pull the parachute down, but instead it dragged him through the scrub brush and thickets that dotted the sand and rock surface of this little piece of Africa.
While being dragged, Diegert undid the buckles of the parachute pack, and the wind ripped off the cloth attachment, sending him tumbling into a patch of thorny bushes. Watching his chute blow across the scrubland, Diegert was grateful he still had his duffel bag. He changed out of his tactical suit and put on his khaki relief worker costume. Following his compass, he hiked into town.
Diegert had never seen a place more chaotic and dangerous than Mogadishu. All the men and boys were armed, and his white skin attracted unsettling curiosity. Even the stray dogs were threatening. This city, which had endured decades of warfare and civil strife, was on the rebound—at least parts of it. Coastal areas of the southern section of the city were benefitting from foreign investment, with several new hotels being built by the beaches. The north, though, was under the control of al-Shabaab, an Islamic organization that was at odds with the Somalian federal government and used terrorism to advance its agenda. The northern part of Mogadishu hadn’t changed much in the past twenty years, and Diegert’s mission took him deep into an area known as Shibis, where conflict and tension hung in the air along with the stench of rotting garbage.
Although it was past ten p.m., he was to meet his contact in the dusty bar of the Hotel Curuba. This establishment catered more to the locals than international travelers, so Diegert’s light-mocha skin, often the darkest in the room in Minnesota, looked as pale as the dingy white tablecloth in front of him. He was seriously questioning the wisdom of his contact in selecting this bar as their meeting place.
The contact’s name was Charles, or at least that was his English name. Charles approached Diegert cautiously but quickly sat down and informed him that Arindi lived in the old Hotel Duprie, which, on the outside, looked dilapidated and uninhabited but inside was well appointed and comfortable. The structure had an enclosed inner courtyard, and every morning Arindi spent fifteen to thirty minutes quietly secluded in a private retreat enclosed by large palm fronds and tropical ferns. This is where he would be most vulnerable. Charles gave Diegert the address where he would meet him for extraction when the job was done. Their business concluded, Charles took a quick exit, leaving Diegert to the uncomfortable stares of the well-armed men chewing khat in the Hotel Curuba. Within minutes he realized it was time to leave.
The Hotel Duprie was heavily guarded in spite of its decrepit appearance. At night, though, so many of the men in Mogadishu were spent from chewing khat, that as guards they were worthless.
Diegert climbed the farthest outside wall of the four-story building, using the foldout grappling hook and strong paracord from his kit. On top of the roof, he changed into his tactical suit, ate a beef burrito MRE, and prepared to lay low for the night. The desert night was clear and surprisingly cold. Diegert put on a black tactical jacket and a dark knit hat. As he lay on an eight-foot slab of concrete set within the stone-covered rooftop, he could hear the barking of a distant dog, the crying of a hungry baby, and frequent bursts of automatic gunfire from guys he figured had more bullets than brains. In the short time he had been in this strained urban part of Africa, he had seen more abject poverty than he ever imagined existed. It made his American life, with its solid roof, public school, and clean running water seem like more than one should expect to be granted. To the west he could see the illuminated concrete skeletons of coastal hotels under construction. They represented a glimmer of hope for the future and a reminder that many would continue to be ignored in this tropically attractive yet tragic place
. He never really slept but rested with his MK 23 pistol in his hand in case others sought to take in the depressing view from atop the Hotel Duprie.
In the morning, with his pistol holstered on his right and the Ojibwa knife on his left hip, Diegert crept to a position where he could see down into the courtyard. Arindi had women and children living with him. They talked and played on the balconies facing into the courtyard as the day began. Suddenly, the children were pulled back into rooms and the women cleared the balconies. Arindi emerged on the ground floor and strode around the courtyard, stretching his arms and legs. He followed a little path into the grotto of large green plants. Diegert seized his opportunity.
Dropping a rope into the courtyard, Diegert descended to the ground floor. Withdrawing his silenced pistol, he walked quickly down the little path. Inside the grotto Arindi had a water fountain making a peaceful bubbling sound. Where Diegert expected to find the financier of thieves sitting like a cross-legged Buddha, he found only empty space.
From the right a tremendous force cross-chopped Diegert’s forearm, knocking his pistol to the ground. Diegert was struck in the face with a powerful punch. Dazed and off balance, he was kneed in the gut, doubling him over. Arindi was strong and hit hard. Diegert anticipated the next strike and blocked it with his right arm. Using his left hand, Diegert grabbed Arindi’s throat and squeezed with all his might. Diegert wanted to disable him, but he also wanted to keep him from calling for help. Grasping the antler handle, he drew his knife. Arindi grabbed Diegert’s right arm with his left hand, and the struggle became a stalemate. Unable to fully ventilate, Arindi surprised Diegert at how powerful he remained. Diegert kneed him in the groin, and although the pain shone in his eyes, the African hung on to Diegert’s arm. Diegert drove him back through the plants until he collided with the wall. Diegert smacked Arindi’s head repeatedly against the concrete wall until the African’s grip on the assassin’s arm slackened. Yanking his right arm free, Diegert plunged the knife into Arindi’s chest, forcing the inscribed blade up and dissecting the aorta from the heart. Blood poured out of the African financier’s chest as he slumped forward into Diegert’s arms. Arindi looked at Diegert as he was laid down, but the expression was so bewildering that the assassin had no idea of the dying man’s final thoughts. Diegert made a quick video of the corpse and sent it to his employer.
Covered in blood, he went over to the water fountain to wash his hands and arms as well as rinse some of the blood off his sleeves. The water turned dull crimson as it mixed with the blood in the recirculating fountain. Diegert had picked up his pistol, put on his dark-brown facial distortion mask, and adjusted his dark knit hat when a piercing shriek blasted down from the balcony. He instinctively turned to the sound, seeing two women at the rail of the second floor overlook screaming and pointing.
Turning his face away, he quickly walked out the front door of the old hotel. Two lazy guards were surprised when this man in black walked out of the building they were supposedly protecting. The mask made his face look weird, confusing the two guards. Diegert shot the first one in the forehead. The second tried to raise his AK but failed when Diegert shot him in the chest and then in the face. Rounding the corner of the building, he moved briskly down the street. He grabbed a large white sheet off a laundry line, wrapping it around him in Mogadishu fashion.
At the address Charles had given him, Diegert found the door open. He knocked and stepped down the hall, expecting Charles to greet him. At the end of the hall, he turned the corner to see Charles’s body seated in a chair with his severed head on the floor.
The hallway darkened as a figure blocked the light. Diegert didn’t hesitate, firing two rounds down the hallway, which dropped a body at the door. The hallway lit up with automatic gunfire as Diegert backed into the opposite room hoping to find another door. Charles’s wife and two children were huddled in the room. She looked at him with dread and simply pointed at the window. It had no glass but was a large square hole in the wall covered by a curtain. He climbed out the window, knowing the next men to enter that room would be getting the same directions. He ran down the alley, tucking in behind a large rain barrel. Peering down the alley, he saw three men exit the window. One turned and went in the opposite direction. The other two came his way. Placing a fresh magazine in his pistol, he racked the slide as he pulled back against the wall. He could see their long shadows preceding them as the morning sun shone from behind. When the head of the shadow crossed the plane of the barrel, Diegert rose up and fired into the face of the first man. The second was surprised, but he had been carrying his AK-47 at the ready and immediately pulled the trigger. The shots whizzed past Diegert, ricocheting off the barrel and pockmarking the walls. Squatting behind the barrel, Diegert fired his pistol low, shattering the Somali man’s legs. As the thin, dark man crumpled to the ground, Diegert rose up and killed his attacker with a lethal shot.
With both men down and the whole neighborhood awake, he sprinted out the alley and onto the street. He had no idea where he was except that the ocean was to the east.
Everyone on the street was an informant, and Diegert knew he needed a safe place to hole up. He just kept moving, knowing that very shortly the whole town would be looking for him. Fortunately, the northern part of “The World’s Most Dangerous City” had a lot of dilapidated buildings where a hiding place could be found. The trick was that each bombed-out building was fully occupied by the desperate residents of this city of despair.
The façade of the building Diegert finally found said only “OTEL” in sandblasted letters. He climbed to the second floor and found an unoccupied room. The sparse furnishings included an old couch and nothing else. He took some cord from a utility pouch and tied it to the door, running it around a bare water pipe in the corner of the room. He positioned himself behind the couch, removed his mask and the sheet he’d been wearing, and waited to see if his location had gone unnoticed.
Several hours passed, and Diegert’s hopes to escape in the darkness grew. As he formulated a plan to exit the city at night, there was a delicate knock on the door. He pulled the string, opening the door and revealing a small boy with a bottle of water to sell. The boy was small and undernourished. Diegert could see he had recently skinned one of his knobby knees. He was dressed in baggy gym shorts and a T-shirt that read, “Denver Broncos, Super Bowl Champions.” When the boy smiled, his lips revealed a pair of buckteeth and a lack of oral hygiene. Diegert smiled, though, to see the friendly little water merchant whose bright eyes expressed his hopeful anticipation of making a sale. As the boy stepped inside, a metal canister was tossed in. The explosion ripped through the room, tearing the door off its hinges and vaporizing the poor little boy. Automatic gunfire followed the explosion, and the room became a maze of flying bullets. The couch offered minimal protection as it was being torn to shreds.
Men entered the room, and Diegert took two of them down. He had to fight, or they would overwhelm him. Rolling across the floor, he grabbed one of the AKs. He fired out the doorway, driving back the attackers. From the window, he looked outside to see a Somali man on the back of a pickup truck with a mounted machine gun, known in Mogadishu as a “technical.” The driver of the armed vehicle pointed to the window, shouting at the other man to fire his weapon. The man with the gun fired a series of staccato rounds through the open window and into the surrounding walls. Diegert ducked down as splinters of wood and chunks of plaster flew through the room. Suddenly, the rounds from the truck ceased, and gunfire again filled the doorway. Diegert returned fire at the room’s entrance, looked out the window, and realized the gun on the truck had jammed. He quickly shot the man who struggled with the incapacitated weapon. Diegert leapt out the window onto a heap of garbage. The truck’s driver struggled to get a pistol out of his pants pocket. Diegert struck the man in the face with the butt of the AK, grabbed him by his flimsy shirt, and dragged him out of the truck, tossing him to the ground. In the dusty road, the driver managed to extract his pistol, but not
before Diegert perforated his chest with a spate of bullets. Off the dead man’s belt, Diegert unpinned a grenade and tossed it into the second-floor room. Jumping into the technical, he sped down the street as flames and smoke exploded out the second-floor window.
15
Diegert drove the pickup truck, dodging donkeys, goats, merchant stalls, old men, and young kids. The lack of signage forced navigation by landmarks, Diegert using the ones that oriented him to the sea. Soon he was at a northern seaport in an area known as Abdiaziz. Decades ago, this port had welcomed Europeans coming to enjoy the fabulous beaches, tropical temperatures, and the beauty of the Indian Ocean. Today the port was home only to vessels that had been captured by pirates and brought there to be held for ransom.
Diegert drove along the packed sand track that ran parallel to the waterfront, then brought his vehicle to a stop. Doing a quick self-assessment, he wiped blood from a gash on his forehead, his ears ringing, and from a wound on his forearm, he extracted a small piece of white shrapnel. Inspecting the curious object drew the buck-toothed smile of the small water merchant across his mind as he realized he held in his fingers one of the little boy’s front teeth. Diegert’s stomach turned as he tossed the tooth out the window.
He was surprised at the variety of boats secured to the aging docks: cabin cruisers, fishing vessels, and sailboats with their masts removed. The boats and the entrances to the docks were occupied by thin Somali men with large weapons. Their hard stares made Diegert anxious, especially when they leaned toward one another, exchanging questioning gestures. As a white man driving a technical, he knew any interaction with these AK-47-wielding land pirates would be fatal.
Diegert continued along the waterfront until he came upon a sailing yacht with its mast still in place, beach headed away from the other boats. Two Somalis guarded the vessel. One was asleep on the sand. The other was grooving to the music in his earbuds. Diegert exited the truck and used his silenced pistol to allow the sleeping guard to enjoy permanent slumber. He stepped onto the yacht. The second guard was on the deck of the stern, dancing and singing as if the whole ocean was his audience. Diegert stood behind him, raised his pistol, and quietly used a bullet to end the distracted guard’s career as an entertainer. The body landed with a splash.