Otherwise, the rapist would be turned over to the government for punishment, with the expected sentence to be five years in jail. That would probably equate to death, though I suppose the unpredictability of when and how it would come added a certain entertainment value for the prisoner.
“So why are all these people here?” I asked Abdi.
“They have spent the night trying to convince her to marry. And now they want me to order her.”
“Order her?”
“Yes.”
“And she doesn’t want to?”
Duh.
Abdi didn’t say that, but his expression made it clear that’s what he was thinking. And he was right: why would anyone want to marry their rapist?
Even if it is sanctioned by the Koran.
“Why did they come to you?” I asked.
“Because my uncle is dead.”
“The rapist was related?”
“No, no, no. But he would have helped settle the matter. With him gone, they look to me.”
“What would he have done?”
Abdi sighed. “The solution would not be easy. I don’t know what he would do, but Taban ali Mohammad always thought of something.”
“We have to get going. If you’re coming, come.”
“I am.” He turned and said something in Somali. The women wrung their hands together and begged him; Abdi repeated whatever it was he said, then turned and started for the car.
“What did you say?” I asked, falling in beside him.
“I told them I am going north. I said I will be back tomorrow.”
“I don’t know about tomorrow,” I said.
“Yes, but please don’t tell them.” He turned quickly and said something in Somali to the crowd, which was still trailing. They pressed close to us, trying to touch him. It was like being with a rock star.
Things were so tight in the car that Abdi volunteered to run behind. Not only did he keep up, he barely seemed winded. I have a feeling he could have beaten us to the airport.
* * *
Getting our weapons aboard the aircraft would have entailed paperwork and a large bribe, and given that I could make adequate (and cheaper) arrangements if necessary in Djibouti, I decided not to bother. A five-minute phone call to Djibouti resulted in a promise that a set of pistols and ammo would be in the cars that met us at the airport. To keep our weapons in Somalia safe until they could be retrieved, I arranged to store them in a lockbox owned by a French company that had a contract with the African Congress security force. The French company was actually a front for the French military intelligence agency, Direction du renseignement militaire, similar to our DIA17 with fancy accents and a hankering for wine instead of beer.
The arrangements had been made with the day shift; the sole person at the hangar when we arrived was a thirty-year-old Senegal native whose French was turgid and his English worse.
He was sleeping inside when we arrived. After picking the door lock, we went in and woke him by shaking his desk chair. He opened his eyes and saw us standing there with our guns; a puddle appeared beneath his chair.
“I need to use one of your lockboxes,” I told him. The large metal boxes looked like slightly downsized shipping containers, which is basically what they were.
“Who you?” asked the guard.
“Dick Marcinko. I’m with Red Cell International.”
“Who to sell?”
The word play might have been amusing had the airplane we were supposed to catch not been on final approach. I managed to straighten out the misunderstanding and we made the plane just as the ground crew was about to button up the cabin.
If you think flying on an American airline is a joy, try flying on African planes sometime. The plane we were on—a British-built Viscount four-engined turboprop—dated from the early 1950s. Some of my friends claim propeller-driven aircraft are romantic; I say they’re loud. The seats were as comfortable as a concrete garden bench, and had half the flexibility. The cabin smelled like a donkey barn.
There was one similarity with Western airlines—it was full. We held our noses and our breath the whole flight.
* * *
We pause the narrative to bring you an unpaid public service announcement on behalf of the Djibouti chamber of commerce and tourist boards:
AMERICANS!
Djibouti is not like other places on the Horn of Africa or bordering on the Gulf of Aden. Djibouti is a peaceful place. Djibouti has kick-ass sand beaches, nice port facilities, and people who want your money, not your blood!
We speak French, but we really don’t mean it!
Come! COME!
Djibouti is a small country on the coast, sandwiched between Eritrea, Ethiopia, and Somalia. With neighbors like that, most people would assume it’s well down the staircase to Hell. But for various reasons—including those neighbors—it’s an island of hospitality toward Westerners. Odds are against your vacationing there any time soon (unless you’re French), but if you happen to have business there, you won’t have to go around with armed guards.
It’s estimated that somewhere around half of the country’s population lives in or around the capital city, which is conveniently named Djibouti as well. The city is located right on the water about twelve miles from the Somali border; the location is strategic and convenient for ships transiting the Suez Canal to the north. It’s also a good place to be a spy.
Did I mention there’s also a decent large-sized U.S. military base next to the city airport, Camp Lemonnier? Its proximity to Somalia is not a coincidence, but you should forget about those Predators you see on the runway, and pay absolutely no attention to the U-2s at the far end of the field. Those are just weather observation aircraft.
We had two sets of reservations, one at the Sheraton and the other at Palace Kempinski, both highly rated hotels. Of course, we planned to stay at neither, since they were the first places anyone trying to check on us would look. Instead, we split up and took two separate taxis to a hotel about four blocks from the water called the Eastern Gate—a strange name given that it was on the west side of the city.
But the strangest thing was the man waiting in the lobby for us when we arrived: Garrett Taylor, erstwhile Christian in Action.
And his boss, Mr. Magoo, who looked about as happy to be in Djibouti as a SEAL at a church picnic, and twice as ornery.
The marines behind him were just window dressing. What I couldn’t figure out was who the man in the gray suit was.
It soon became obvious.
“That’s him,” said Magoo, pointing at me.
Gray Suit stepped up, and pulled a small wallet from the pocket of his jacket. He flipped it open, revealing an FBI badge.
“Richard Marcinko,” he said, in a voice that boomed through the lobby, “you are under arrest for illegal gun dealing in a foreign state. Take him, men.”
(II)
The marines came forward quicker than you can say “bullshit.” Ditto for Shotgun, Trace, and Mongoose, who had just entered behind me. We were about ten seconds from a whole lot of blood.
I put up my hands to calm everyone down.
“Relax,” I said. “What’s this about Magoo?”
I may have added a few other tender words of endearment when I addressed him, since Magoo’s face flushed.
“You heard the man,” he told me, sticking out his jaw even as he took a step back to make sure he was out of arm’s reach. “You’re an international gun smuggler. We have the evidence in Mogadishu. AK47s, grenade launchers, even an MP5 submachine.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your instructions were to clear the arrangements with me beforehand,” said Magoo. “You weren’t to take the meeting yourself. Or is that part of your plan—you’re going to make a little money on the side, right?”
Magoo had decided that, because I didn’t give him a minute-by-minute rundown of what I was doing, I was conspiring to cheat the government—trying to skim some of the money I
claimed was for the smuggling operation. He made some other accusations as well, accusing me of everything from breaking international gun laws to withholding information from him.
Granted, I had done both of those things. But I had my reasons. And skimming money off Uncle Sugar wasn’t one of them.
I’m not convinced that Magoo thought that was really the case. More likely, he saw me as an impediment to his claiming the glory of nailing Allah’s Rule and closing down its drug-smuggling operation. The French had gotten the glory for the earlier bust; he wanted no more competition.
Not that he was going to admit anything close to that, or even concede that I had done everything he’d asked and then some. Hell, I was about to hand him a connection twenty times more valuable than any he’d managed.
Our discussion attracted more than a few stares from the desk. I agreed to continue the discussion at Gray Suit’s office, which happened to be on the military base back on the other side of the airport we’d just left. Gray Suit wasn’t a particularly bad sort for an FBI (Fornication & Butt Implants) agent, even one of the overseas variety. He and I drove to the base with Trace and a pair of marines. By the time we got there, he understood what Magoo was up to and was fishing for a date with Trace.
The car ride took some of Magoo’s venom away, but he really didn’t start to backpedal until I suggested we call the admiral to straighten things out.
“Maybe we can ignore the charges if you start cooperating,” he said finally, glancing at Gray Suit.
Gray Suit looked at me and smirked.
“Listen, Marcinko, I want to impress on you that this is an agency operation,” continued Magoo. “Agency. I want you to understand that we’re the ones who are doing the job here. We’re tracking down the terrorists. That’s our job.”
“I’m glad you understand that,” I told him.
Magoo got a confused look on his face.
Garrett Taylor, who’d been standing at the side of the room the whole time, stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“I think Mr. Mar-Marcinko is right. I think he’s absolutely, uh, just uh, on board here.”
As these were the first words he’d said since Saudi Arabia, it was a bit of a shame that he stuttered. But Trace’s death stare has that effect on people.
Magoo said something that might generously be interpreted as agreement. I convinced him that it would be foolish to do anything to make our contacts suspicious, like handing over the phones and changing the arrangements. He agreed, reluctantly, then assigned young Mr. Garrett as our “liaison.”
And money holder. He handed over a small attaché case with ten thousand in euros, the down payment.
“I have other business, Dick,” he said, as if I’d been the one wasting his time. “Don’t make a move without clearing it first.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” I sealed my promise with a one-finger salute.
Aside from having to babysit Garrett, the biggest practical effect of Magoo’s intervention was the need to find a new hotel, since our cover had been blown. While Trace and I had been listening to Magoo’s harangue, Shotgun and Mongoose had spent their time more productively, first by locating another nondescript hotel, and then by meeting the supplier who’d arranged some gear and additional weapons for us. The latter was not a particularly honest man, as it turned out; when he tried to double the agreed-upon price, Mongoose instead demonstrated how an MMA-style punch could break a rib. The supplier was so impressed he went back to the original price, and threw a few extra mags in gratis.
The hotel sat on the outskirts of the tourist area. The French-run place dated from the colonial days but now catered mostly to businesspeople from other parts of Africa; the desk clerk told us cheerfully that we were the first white people he’d seen in months.
We were just getting rooms when cell phone Number 1 began to buzz. I took out a voice recorder and held it close to the phone. Then I unwrapped the tape with great ceremony and unlocked the mobile so I could answer. “Yes?”
“Go to Banque La Monarch. De-posit ten thousand euros in a-count 1-0-9-7-7-6-5-5-5.”
The instructions were made by a voice that sounded a lot like the auto-reader in the Kindle, assuming the Kindle had been dropped in a few swimming pools. The message repeated once—I grabbed a pen from Trace and jotted down the numbers—then cut off.
I checked my watch. If things went quickly at the bank, I could just make the flight to India.
* * *
As the name suggests, Banque La Monarch was a French-owned bank. Located not far from the central market, Banque La Monarch was small in international finance terms, but it had the ability to wire funds anywhere in the world, which was undoubtedly the only thing Shire Jama was interested in.
We had fifteen minutes. I sent Mongoose and Shotgun out ahead to take a look at the place and report back. I told Trace and Garrett to pose as a pair of tourists and shadow me and Abdi while we took our time walking over.
Garrett was very much up for the job.
“We could pose as a honeymooning couple,” he said.
“I don’t think we have to be on our honeymoon,” said Trace. “Just a married couple.”
Garrett was slightly younger than she was—if I say how many years, she might kill me. But aside from his affiliation with the Christians in Action, he didn’t look like a bad catch. He’d already started to recover from the Saudi prison, and while still a bit underweight he had an athletic frame at six-three or so. He knew a couple of languages, spoke well, and seemed genuinely embarrassed by Magoo. Plus he came from good stock.
Garrett put his arm around Trace’s waist. She removed it swiftly, though without violence—clearly a sign that she was attracted to him. I’ve seen her toss people through windows for less.
They left first. I gave them a three-minute head start, then Abdi and I left the building.
“What do you think I should do, Mr. Dick?” he asked.
“Just keep up with me,” I told him. “Most likely you won’t need to do anything.”
“I meant with my cousin. Rose.”
“Oh.” I’d forgotten about the girl. “What would your uncle do?”
“I have thought about it the whole flight. He would have a solution, but I don’t know what it would be. I don’t think I can take her with me to America.”
“Probably not.”
“She should marry her cousin,” he said. “That is the best solution for all.”
I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t my job to be the kid’s conscience.
Like a lot of the Third World, Djibouti City combines the modern with the colonial. The port area has machinery that would put American ports to shame, while for tourists there’s a nice selection of fancy resort hotels along the beach. But the bulk of the city wears its poverty openly. Pick a street away from the port and downtown, and you’re likely to find a narrow, dirt-packed thoroughfare littered with garbage and lined with rubble. It’s as if the original buildings fell fifty or sixty years before, were pushed into a pile, and then forgotten. More often than not, their replacements are steel panels joined together slightly off-kilter.
Assuming you’re in the high-rent district. Elsewhere, crates and discarded boxes are the popular building material.
Even though it was midmorning, the streets were mostly empty, everyone either off to work or doing their chores inside. Abdi had been here before, and took to playing tour guide as we walked toward the bank. The street opened into a wide field, and we passed what looked like a car junkyard. He assured me it wasn’t a junkyard at all; the cars surely belonged to workers in the buildings just beyond.
“No one would abandon something worth that much here,” he said. “And no one would steal it either.”
“I’m surprised at that.”
“Very honest place, Mr. Dick. Africa is like that.”
“Somalia is not.”
“Yes, it is. If you are one of us, it is very honest.”
“But not if you’re no
t.”
“If you are not of the tribe, then you are not us. The rules are different.”
“We don’t think that way in America, Abdi. You should remember that.”
“Yes, yes, I know. That is one thing I like. That and to make money.”
We passed back onto a paved road, ignoring a pair of stray goats as we headed near the market, a square with various booths selling different items. Think Wal*Mart au naturel. If that image is too jarring, then conjure up a flea market and chill.
I was the only white man around. I got a few stares, but not as many as I thought I would. I stopped to sample some fruits, discreetly checking to see if I could find anyone watching us. I was sure that there would be surveillance, but if so I couldn’t find it.
Abdi stepped in to negotiate the price. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to get any of the local money—aside from the money to make the down payment for the drugs, all I had were the few euros I’d been carrying, and the worthless Somali script. I ended up giving the proprietor a one-euro note, about a 3,000 percent markup, according to Abdi.
“Now many people will want to do business with you. Watch.”
“We’re not going to hang around to let them.”
I set a good pace over to the bank, a block and a half away. There was a guard inside the foyer, dressed in a brown uniform with what looked like a police cap from the 1950s practically covering his eyes. He had a wad of khat in his mouth, and chewed it with great purpose and deliberation as he watched us walk past and look around. Ordinarily, I would have chosen the cutest teller and explained my business. The tellers here were all men, though, so I went to the one in the middle.
“I need to make a large dépôt bancaire.”
“Il ne s’agit pas d’un problème, monsieur,” he assured me in French. “Not a problem at all. What is the account?”
I told him. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled over a pen and asked me to repeat it. “How much euro?”
“Ten thousand.” I glanced at Abdi and he popped open the briefcase on cue, setting it on the counter.
“Just a minute and I get the form,” said the teller, practically hopping toward the office at the back.
[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel Page 13