Each new demand, reservation, or evasion out of Hargeisa forced the executives on the London board to add stipulations—provisos to the agreement. That was diplomacy. The real dilemma was that in juggling the general’s latest round of spectacularly pretentious demands, Hugh couldn’t stop imagining conclusions to the upcoming meeting. Given the tenor of previous negotiating sessions, “surreal” was the best word he could come up with. Most of his current projections ended with lots of shouting, gunshots and severed limbs.
He looked up at the driver. “Stay close. This could turn sour. A rapid egress might be in order.”
The small man caught his passenger’s eye in the rearview mirror and nodded.
Vaguely satisfied, Hugh turned back to watch emerald-green lawns slide by, all as meticulous and flat as a billiard table. There were soldierly rows of exotic trees. Flowerbeds pruned with digital precision. A giant shrub was shaped like an elephant. Another like a unicorn. He swore he saw a giraffe’s head bobbing among the palms for a second. Hugh calculated he was looking at a double-digit percentage of his company’s investment right now.
No wonder they’re losing the war, he thought. Rebels are on the doorstep, and he’s spending good money on Belgian landscape architects. Brenton imagined the grounds pocked with shell holes, the trees smoldering, chopped down by machinegun fire, but it only made it worse.
Another moment, a clever S-curve in the road, and the Presidential Palace came into view.
Dubbed Qasr al-Salam, the “Palace of Peace” looked like a colonial fortress with delusions of opulence. Stretching up and back, the rising rooflines, bay windows and iron balconies sat smugly behind thick duracrete walls that were blistered with surveillance nodes.
The Audi glided to a stop, and as Hugh stepped into the protective cordon of bodyguards, a grand fountain on his right sprang to life. The water began spurting in time to the Dawson-Hull anthem. One of Penderecki’s more dreary neoclassical pieces, Hugh recalled. A waste of perfectly good notes. The musical fountain struck him as odd though; General Dhul-Fiqaar seemed more of the type who’d keep a swimming pool filled with sharks.
A triple-row of Palace Guards waited at rigid attention. Except for the gold-plated M-19 assault rifles, the sight of their tall, plumed hats and purple uniforms made Hugh think of a marching band. The fountain music didn’t help matters.
Hugh waited as a flock of presidential secretaries rushed down the red carpet.
Christ almighty, he thought as he plastered a smile on his face. Dhul-Fiqaar isn’t here. The gauge on his likely scenarios trembled toward “hazardous.”
The oldest of the secretaries, Jalambie? Jalemdie? started gushing. “Greetings, Mr. Brenton. How wonderful to see you again so soon. The general extends his best wishes and regrets being unable to greet you personally. Affairs of state are pressing. He is prosecuting the war most vigorously.”
“I understand perfectly.” Brenton nodded gravely. “Weighty matters on broad shoulders.” More like, he guessed, I’m not bringing an approval for more money. But if he’s displeased now, just wait until the meeting is over.
As they mounted the broad marble steps, the Palace Guards snapped to and began firing a twenty-one-gun salute. The four British bodyguards tightened around Hugh in a blur of neural fibered speed, machine pistols materializing in their fists like magic tricks.
The secretaries all tittered nervously. “No worries, gentlemen. No worries. The general honors you with the salute. It’s not aimed at you.”
He hasn’t heard my proposal, Brenton reflected. The group entered the villa.
No one paid any attention to the driver of the second Dawson-Hull limo. Staff security waved him up the driveway, and the man called Hester touched the brim of his cap in thanks. He pulled the limo off to the side in front of a six-car garage and disappeared out the passenger door.
***
The general’s ‘war room’ occupied the entire second floor of the main house. Filled with spindly French antiques and floor-to-ceiling mirrors studded with gilded sconces, Hugh took it for a casino—until he spotted the dais.
A giant, carved wood and ivory chair sat on a raised platform in the middle of the room. In it, General Goma Dhul-Fiqaar, the current President-for-Life of the Republic of Somaliland, was holding court with a bevy of servants and advisors and looking on the wrathful side of regally displeased.
A holo-projector displayed a 3D map of Hargeisa and the surrounding countryside onto the surface of a huge Rococo desk. Before it winked out, Hugh Brenton spied a lot of little red flags.
Seeing him, the general’s entire visage transformed from an ominous frown to a beatific smile. All in a mercurial instant. “Welcome! Welcome, my dear friend, Director Brenton.” The general snapped something in Somali, and liveried servants scurried across the room.
Satan to Santa in under a second, Hugh thought as he approached the desk.
Thickly built, wearing a sporty Brutini-designed field marshal’s uniform with a color-coordinated mosaic of chest medals, the President of Somaliland didn’t bother to rise in greeting; he simply leaned forward and shook Hugh’s hand.
It took thirty minutes to wade through the usual opening barrage of inane pleasantries and flattery. When the conversation finally turned toward business, it took less than three minutes for the general to shift from effervescent to petulant. The servants and secretaries stood to one side, silent and skittish. Hugh Brenton felt his bodyguards move a half step closer.
“How can my gracious business partners deny me such a small request? A few million more. What is such an amount between friends?” The general wagged a thick finger.
“The Board isn’t denying support, General. Fifteen million in weapons and munitions will be delivered directly to the bases in Berbera, Hargeisa and Burco. We understand as the revered leader of this nation, there are incredible demands on your time. You don’t want to be bothered by trivialities, which is why we’ll undertake transportation costs as well. Your commanders will have immediate access to the supplies.”
Jowls twitched. Dhul-Fiqaar sat not listening, not speaking.
Brenton spread his hands. “Don’t forget, this is in addition to a wing of Nemesis prototypes with full support personnel.”
“I don’t need your new machines!” A scowl darkened the man’s face and spread. “My soldiers have this skirmish well in hand. We are rounding them up all across the countryside even as we speak.”
“But you requested additional money, citing field reports of enemy units near Burco and Berbera. Satellite imagery shows them seventy kilometers from the capital itself. You stated emphatically that your field commanders needed more materiel to prosecute the war.”
“Units? What units?” the general raged. “They are gangs of bandits. Nothing more. Roving thugs who cause this trouble. Your BBC always exaggerates, sensationalizes the trials of my nation. It is demeaning, I tell you, your patronizing, colonial mindset. You must speak to those newscasters not to do that anymore. We Africans run our countries just as good as you Europeans. Better, in fact. Am I not right?” He looked at his secretaries, who nodded vigorously. “You see? My government is very capable. The people of Somaliland themselves rise against this criminal element. Is it too much to ask for money to reward their loyalty?”
Hugh Brenton answered carefully. “Loyalty is a prized virtue these days, General. One which should be rewarded. I assure you the Dawson-Hull Conglomerate has the utmost respect for the citizens of Somaliland. Professor Hamid’s forces—”
“Professor Hamid is a fraud. He has no forces—no army. He is a malcontent propped up by my enemies to discredit me. Always they spread rumors, vicious lies everywhere. A bit more money and we will flush this professor away.” General Dhul-Fiqaar banged a meaty fist on the marble top. “Flush. Him. Down. The. Toilet! Do you understand?”
Hugh Brenton sensed his bodyguards shift their balance ever so subtly. He inclined his head, keeping his gaze on the general’s shoes. “I understa
nd perfectly, your Excellency.”
Like an accidental magic trick, the sound of that title worked like flipping a switch. General Dhul-Fiqaar’s plump features broke into a wide grin, and Hugh felt the tension leak out of the air like a ruptured balloon.
An African Santa Claus on his French Renaissance throne, the general chortled, then winked slowly at Hugh Brenton as if he’d caught on to some practical joke. “You test my resolve. I see this now.” The dictator steepled his fingers into a pudgy little tent. “This… This is something only a true friend would do. I am humbled by your faith in me, Director Brenton.” Glancing at the cluster of servants and secretaries, he gestured toward the corporate director and his bodyguards. “Not only is this man a comrade in arms in our struggle, but he is a friend to all Somaliland. Let us recognize him as a boon companion to our great nation.”
The group broke out in spontaneous, almost frantic, applause, large smiles etched over wide eyes. Hugh Brenton released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and as he waved off their acknowledgments, he saw the shadow of a small man flit past outside the window across the room.
The general’s chuckling erupted into a rumbling laughter. “Ho ho, my friend. Now that I have passed your test, we can get down to business. Fifteen million is such a paltry amount—”
CHAPTER FIVE – A Few Genes Shy of a Midget
Belfast Metro Zone
I palmed the lock’s biometric pad and heard the bolts thunk back in their housings. The steel doors hissed open. Eshu Export. We were home.
The Americans had picked up Gratsev’s wife and daughter—and their boat—three hours earlier. They’d met us on the shore and bundled the ladies into a straight-out-of-Hollywood black van with tinted windows, while one very Borg-ed Microsoftie patched into the Code X consol and piloted it away handless. CIA posers left us in the dark on the beach at Donaghadee, well outside Belfast, and five kilometers from our truck. They threw our gear in a pile and motored off without a word of thanks.
Poet9 gave them the ‘you’re number one’ hand gesture as they drove away. “Wankers.”
Dawn was leaking into the sky when we finally reached Belfast. The city was waking up. The seven of us were pissed and twitchy on adrenaline and Dex patches. The bumpy ride back from the coast hadn’t helped. Mission memories flitting in my brain like muzzle flashes. Poet9 almost shot up an automated street sweeper when it rumbled by, swishing broken glass across the cobblestones. New job in the queue or not, there was an obvious need to ramp down.
Inside, warm lights blinked on. The smell of mint disinfectant, dirty socks and Hoppes No. 9 greeted my nostrils.
Die Nerdschanze.
A sigh of relief. We safetied our weapons, set them aside, and began unstrapping our body armor.
Curro was with the Triplets, grinning. “Another job well done, eh, boss?”
Tam turned around. “Just because I let you tag along on a mission doesn’t mean you’re on the payroll.”
“Third mission.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
“That security door trick at the apartment was smooth.” Poet9 looked at Tam. “You gotta agree. I mean, I’d have spent two, three minutes mugging the alarm system.”
Curro shrugged. “It’s an old delivery-boy trick. The door thinks it’s locked.”
“Now I know a hundred and one uses for duct tape,” I said.
“He’s still not hired,” Tam called from across the room.
Cottontail spoke up in a soft, even voice like satin. “But he did good. A simple, direct solution increased our time window. He even went in and retrieved the mother and daughter himself.”
“Yes,” Tam said. “He did very good. But if his mom and dad ever found out he pulled that kind of stunt, they’d get very upset.”
Flopsy’s pale, thick face furrowed with concern. “We won’t tell them then. I don’t want Mr. Alejo or Ms. Carmen to be mad.”
“Me neither,” Poet whistled.
A door opened behind us and Jaithirth walked in, a bright smile on his tan face. “The wife and daughter are on their way to the States to join the husband. London sends their regards for a job well done. Gratsev’s defection sets the Russians back a year to eighteen months, and now Microsoft owes D-H a big favor. MacKinnon was so pleased I thought he might actually smile.”
“And the balance?” Tam asked.
“Transfer went through ten minutes after Microsoft confirmed they had the wife and daughter in their corporate embassy. If nothing else, Dawson-Hull is very prompt about bookkeeping.”
“Keep the hired help happy,” Tam said.
“Keep the hounds fed,” Poet9 countered.
Jaithirth ignored him. “There was a message with the transfer: ‘Don’t get too comfortable. The next job is in the queue. Full deployment, deep cover.’”
“They say where?”
“Somewhere warm.”
Tam looked at me. “Careful what you ask for.”
“What did he ask for?” Jaithirth was puzzled.
“Nothing,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Hester will be here tomorrow with specifics.”
“Oooh! The leprechaun is really coming to visit?” Poet9 snickered. “Think I’ll set some spider mines; keep the little bastard on his toes.”
“Devante…” Tam used Poet9’s real name. “Just don’t. Let it go.”
“Sure thing, boss. After all, it’s nothing personal—”
“—it’s just business,” Curro finished.
“You’re still not hired,” Tam said.
Jaithirth was totally confused now. “Why do you call him the leprechaun?” he finally asked.
“Because he’s Irish and he’s short,” Poet9 explained.
“He’s not that short,” I said.
“You kidding me? He’s a few genes shy of a midget.” He looked at Tam. “One mine?”
“No.”
‘Gas capsule?”
“No.”
Jaithirth glanced at his watch. “I’m getting out of here. It’s nearly seven now. Get some breakfast. Sleep. I’ll come back and help with the weapons and gear post-haste.”
“Post Hester,” Poet9 quipped.
Jaithirth looked at the little Mexican and shook his head. “You are deeply strange.”
Poet9 looked up, beaming. “I know, right?”
CHAPTER SIX – In for a Penny
UNHCR IDP Camp, Dhubbato, Somaliland
Alejo Garcia hoisted the young Somali boy off the exam table and watched him toddle away. Big eyes, mahogany skin, knobby knees, he held up his bandaged wrist to his mother, who scooped him up in a sweep of bright cloth and kisses. She turned to Alejo and chattered singsong thanks in Benadiri, then backed out of the tent holding her son to her chest. The boy, shy but smiling, peeked out and waved good-bye with his good hand.
Alejo flashed a big grin and waved back.
The mother is still a child herself, he thought. Young enough to be his sister. But that was par for the course when sixteen percent of the population didn’t live past middle age.
It had taken a week for him and his wife Carmen to realize life was stuck on fast-forward in Somaliland. Three generations of violence and starvation had honed an edge into the people, made them leap into life earlier. They blossomed with a fast, almost feverish beauty. But the hard scrabble also made them brittle, fragile, so that they vanished like frost in the high desert.
Seeing as Somaliland’s current state of affairs was a nationwide train wreck, Alejo figured the odds were dead even that the little boy would be dead from malnutrition, disease, or war by this time next year.
He let out a long sigh. Best not to go there. “Sufficient unto the day is the trouble thereof.” Leave tomorrow in God’s hands, he reminded himself. Do the next right thing.
He looked up at the next face in line. The day’s queue of sick and injured stretched out of the tent, so his little slice of today had enough trouble already. He and his wife had sta
rted taking patients at sunrise. They’d tended sixty so far. Another two hundred waited, and it wasn’t even noon.
The next right thing, he said to himself again. He motioned to the next refugee, an elderly man with an old skullcap and a bright beard dyed carrot-orange from henna. He hobbled forward, holding a dirty bandage on one knee.
Carmen sat next to Alejo at the medical station. She was checking an older woman’s teeth with a tactical flashlight. She flourished it towards the line. “They saw the plane land. They’re queuing up for whatever they can get.”
“I don’t know if they’ve even unloaded it yet, Carmencita,” Alejo replied.
“That was two days ago. Colonel Chutani promised he’d push the next medical drop straight through to us.”
“Did he now?” Alejo cut away the old gauze and swabbed at a deep cut on the old man’s knee. “That’s new. Half the time, I’d swear our favorite U.N. commander doesn’t know whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt.”
“You insult him; it’s no wonder he isn’t helpful.”
“The truth will set you free,” Alejo intoned solemnly, “but it does hurt sometimes.”
A roll of Kerlix bounced off his head. He grunted and winked back at her.
A year ago, he and Carmen had been forced to flee their home in Barcelona during a messy episode with some old friends over a cloned child; an incident that had added another chapter to their already interesting lives. When it was over, he and his family had found themselves in the Belfast Metro Zone, United Kingdom citizens sponsored by the massive British multi-national, Dawson-Hull. No worries, the smiling corporate reps had said. All part of a package deal.
Carmen lasted nine months in the D-H Lisbum housing campus. They had a clean flat, well-stocked shops, quiet neighbors, knitting circles, monthly stipend and transport pass. To be honest, Alejo was surprised she’d put up with it that long. But with their son Curro out of the house and their girls safe at corporate boarding schools, he’d watched her grow increasingly restless. Everybody was so white, she complained. So safe, so homogenized.
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 4