Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2

by Patrick Todoroff

  Abdi dug into his pocket and handed me a scrap of paper. On it, Poet9 had scratched out GPS coordinates. “He says you must meet him there tonight after the moon is up. Then he told me to say ‘catfood.’ Made me repeat it many times. Then he tell me where to meet you.”

  He pointed up to the sky. “He say Falcos watch us. Many men make search, but he will make sure them no ambush.” Abdi suddenly looked worried. “Where are the three brothers? They hurt?”

  “No. They’re fine. They’re at their own camp, Abdi.”

  The boy nodded, satisfied.

  In the year since they’d met the boy Gibson in Barcelona, the Triplets had developed an affinity with kids. Or maybe it was always there and I’d never seen it. Either way, if Deer Voort had his knickers in a twist enough to seize our gear and beat our local guides, the safest place for Abdi was at their side.

  I scribbled something on my own piece of paper and gave the boy a small GPS handheld. “You understand this, yes? Follow it until you see these numbers.”

  Abdi palmed the tracker like an egg, brow knit as he studied the LCD screen.

  “You move, the numbers change up or down. The bigger the difference in numbers, the farther away you are. The arrow points the way. Walk until you see them match. Understand?”

  Abdi nodded again, big-eyed.

  “Don’t worry,” Tam said. “That will take you to the Triplets.”

  “Where you going?” he asked.

  I thumbed the ignition on my ATV. “To see the white colonel.”

  “What is ‘catfood’ please?” Abdi asked.

  “Nothing,” Tam lied. “We’ll take care of it. Now go.”

  I watched the boy trot off, his arm outstretched with the tracker leading him on like a dowsing fetish.

  Tam and I drove in silence. ‘Catfood’ was an Eshu emergency code. We used it when things turned unexpectedly ugly. It stood for CATFU—Completely and Totally Fucked Up.

  ***

  We were arrested at the gate. Captain Sparrow-ski and his Moscow Steroid Boys Choir watched in silence as SPLM men relieved us of our weapons and led us away. He raised a vodka bottle in silent salute.

  I could see Tam turning over the events of the last three weeks in his head. Looking for loose ends, some evidence or clue as to our real mission we might have let slip or left lying around. If Deer Voort found out we’d been hired to kill the Professor and throw the revolution—Bowna or not—he’d string us up by the balls and make a messy example of us for everyone’s benefit.

  Zip-cuffed, flanked by angry looking Somalis, I tried to not think about interrogation, physical or pharmacological persuasion. I imagined Poet9, Curro and the Triplets blasting to our rescue. A Dawson-Hull VTOL lifting us away to safety.

  I shook those fantasies away. We were surrounded by the entire SPLM army. London wasn’t going to risk a swift-ship to come and get us in the middle of a civil war. They’d make a note of our demise and move to Plan B. Or C. Multinational corporate strategists were far too calculating to use us as their last resort, ace up the sleeve. They probably had that Doberman Pinscher Eames and her Rapid Reaction Force on standby at Aldershot.

  Hopefully, Corporate Security Services would be able to identify our remains when it was all over.

  We entered the command bunker. Achmed the Acne-Scarred had a nasty grin smeared across his face, practically orgasmic at the thought of finally getting his hands on us.

  Colonel Deer Voort was inside with Professor Hamid and the SPLM second-in-command, Tokpah Sajiid. The three of them turned as we entered.

  “Where are your schim?” Deer Voort demanded without preamble. Tam and I blinked. “Schim” was Dutch for ‘ghosts’. “I warned you about those clones. Where are they?”

  I was relieved and anxious all at once. No one had dimed us out, but what did Deer Voort and the Professor want with the Triplets?

  “What?” Tam exclaimed. “You snatch us up to ask about our gun boys? This some kind of prank?”

  “All you had to do was ask nicely,” I added.

  Deer Voort turned on me, acid dripping off every word. “You think this is funny? Those things of yours got loose. Killed some of my men.”

  “Killed your men?” I asked.

  Professor Hamid spoke up. “My men, actually.”

  Tam interrupted, “Colonel, what the hell are you talking about?”

  The colonel ignored Tam’s question. “You are going to hand them over so I can take care of what you failed to. Tell me now, and I’ll make it quick. If not, I’ll find them anyway. Either way, they’re dead.”

  I held the colonel’s gaze and asked Tam’s question again. By way of an answer, the colonel brought up images on a monitor. Gruesome black and whites of six bodies burnt black, curled up small like cindered children. Their hands and feet had been bound, the remains of tires slumped around their torsos and heads. They’d been tied with wire and necklaced—an ugly form of execution last seen in Africa from the years 2050 to 2052, during the African Bush Wars.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Tam scoffed. “Except that there are some sick bastards in the bush. And all kinds crawl out of the woodwork when there’s a war on. Can we go now?”

  The Professor stepped up and looked Tam and me in the face. “A militia patrol failed to return last night. At first, we thought they’d slipped away, afraid to fight. Such things happen before a battle. Or it was a radio failure. Perhaps they ran into enemy deep recon. But then we found them in a clearing north of here called Al-Kuul.” He expanded one of the images. “They’d been executed. Like this.”

  The image panned up and out; the six charred bodies were spread out on the ground in a star pattern, the six-pointed star of the Kimungu Hasira.

  Silence reigned. The Professor peered intently into our eyes. Behind him, Deer Voort glared. Tokpah Sajiid stood by, looking down at his boots. The faces of rest of the men in the bunker were a storm of rage, dread, and contempt. The Triplets were monsters come to life, boogey-men who’d murdered thousands. Revenge and fear die hard, if ever.

  The Dutch colonel spoke up. “Tell me where they are.”

  “No,” Tam said. “It wasn’t them.”

  “Couldn’t have been,” I added. “They were with us.”

  “Then bring them in and prove it,” Professor Hamid said.

  “Those things cannot jeopardize this campaign, sir,” the colonel said. “They’re too dangerous. Unpredictable.”

  Tam looked past the Professor at Colonel Deer Voort. The Dutch officer was barely restraining his anger. There would be no investigation, no benefit of the doubt. There was an entire war to fight, and the man loathed clones. Everyone else was scared shitless of them. They’d shoot first and not think twice. They’d ask questions later. Maybe.

  “One last time. Where are they?” Deer Voort demanded.

  Tam and I shook our heads.

  “Take them away,” he motioned for guards, who grabbed our arms and led us toward the door.

  “I’m going to find them,” the colonel called after us. “I’m going to shoot them. Burn the bodies and piss on the ashes.”

  Don’t count on it, I thought.

  The Professor watched us leave and said nothing.

  We marched past the Sia-qa guard. The Egyptian major’s face dropped like a thug denied a mugging. Outside, Dratshev and the Juggler stood to one side of the path, arms folded across their chests.

  They looked mighty pleased with themselves.

  PART THREE: ANGELS

  "If you give a man a fire, he'll stay warm for a day. If you light a man on fire he'll be warm the rest of his life."

  – Unknown US Marine sergeant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – Götterdämmerung on Full Volume

  Presidential Palace, Hargeisa, Somaliland

  Hugh Brenton was getting more irritated by the second.

  His presence had been requested at the Presidential Palace for an 'extremely urgent' discussion on the progress of the war, but forty mi
nutes later, the only urgency he'd seen was in the liveried servants scurrying in and out of General Dhul-Fiqaar's 'War Room'. It seemed braised salmon belly in miso sauce trumped national security.

  Legend had it Nero fiddled as Rome burned, and Adolf Hitler attended the Berlin Philharmonic's performance of Wagner's Twilight of the Gods the night before Russian T-34s rolled down the Friedrichstrasse. Hugh Brenton wondered if Dhul-Fiqaar would be sipping cocktails on the veranda with his own Somali Götterdämmerung on full volume when Professor Hamid kicked in the front door.

  Secretary Jalemdie and three other government functionaries fidgeted nearby. Standing beneath a massive portrait of their glorious leader, Brenton watched them straighten their ties and rehearse bright, confident faces for the hundredth time. A warm-up for yet another sycophantic, stroking session… Still, Brenton was vaguely hopeful; the gilded thug had summoned an audience, so there must be something substantive on the table.

  Two of the general's Duub Cas flanked the doorway to the war room. Obviously picked for their Gadabuursi-clan ties more than their intelligence, they wore their trademark red berets and repulsive attitudes. Having cowed Jalemdie's group to their satisfaction, they now aimed their glares at Brenton and his two aides.

  Their arrogance would be amusing if it weren't so annoying. For a split second, Hugh Brenton envisioned ordering his two neural-fibered guards to kill them—messily. To hell with General Dhul-Fiqaar and his coltan. Brenton could climb aboard a Lear suborbital in twenty minutes and leave this repulsive little semi-nation to fate and Professor Hamid's SPLM.

  Then Dawson-Hull would have to let slip that chilly bitch Eames and her Rapid Reaction Force; nothing like a full-scale military intervention to get the world media screaming. Protests would erupt, the tarnish of U.N. censure on his corporation's reputation, overtime for the legal department… The consequences would run into the millions.

  But would they get the mines in the end? That was the question.

  A smile twitched on Brenton's lips. Death is a feather, the Asians say. "Duty a mountain."

  Ah well.

  Brenton couldn't fathom how Dhul-Fiqaar could continue to ignore the SPLM. Rebel forces grew bolder by the day. Small arms fire had been a nightly occurrence in the capital's suburbs for the past week. Literally tons of munitions and materiel had been pouring in from Egypt each month, the has-been Muslim Brotherhood supporting their fanatical brethren here in Somaliland. Dawson-Hull's own satellites had collected hundreds of images of the massive build up at the Ethiopian border. Brenton made sure the president-general and the SAF staff received copies. Anyone with the common sense of a houseplant could see the barometer was plummeting: all signs indicated a tsunami-sized shit-storm was about to roll over this country. Hamid's SPLM was several orders of magnitude above "roving gangs of criminals and malcontents."

  At some point, the sheer weight of facts had to penetrate Dhul-Fiqaar's megalomania, didn't it?

  Failure was the specter Brenton found most disturbing. He realized it was very possible even if the general ordered his forces to engage today, his sordid little fiefdom might still collapse from sheer ineptitude. And after Dawson-Hull's investment in this regime, losing those mines was simply unacceptable. Profit projections for the Ballard United subsidiary and the Nemesis tactical series were too large, too vital, too close to trifle with.

  Hugh Brenton gazed at the doors to Dhul-Fiqaar's 'War Room' once more. The guards' thick-witted sneers decided the issue; ignorance may be bliss but didn't win wars. Brenton would order the Nemesis drone detachment at Hargeisa International into active combat. Let the dogs bark. Those twenty-four prototypes were the deadliest single combat force in the region, even without the tactical A.I. network. It would not be said that Hugh Brenton failed the Dawson-Hull Conglomerate.

  Between those drones and Eshu International's decapitation mission, it might just be enough to stave off ruin in this shithole Shangri-La.

  Brenton checked the date on his vintage Movado. Apropos those mercenaries… regardless of this morning's circus act, he would have Hester contact them. He needed to know how they were getting on.

  The door opened.

  The red beret guards snapped to attention. A tuxedoed servant beckoned Brenton to enter first, then Jalemdie and the Somali officials.

  The 'War Room' hadn't changed since Brenton's earlier visit: Rococo French casino. Like Monaco with exceptionally bad taste and a vast budget. The large holo-table and a wall screen were still present, but there wasn't the slightest hint that Somaliland's leader was mindful of the civil war, let alone an impending battle.

  In fact, the general was seated on his giant teak and ivory throne watching what appeared to Brenton to be footage of an execution. A naked man, bound at the wrists and feet, knelt in front of a red beret soldier in a large tiled room. Tinny screams rang out from speakers, cut off by a single gunshot. The screen went dark.

  Beside him, Jalemdie's face went pale, and Brenton wondered if he had recognized the victim.

  As they drew near, Hugh Brenton saw General Dhul-Fiqaar's eyes were half-closed with pleasure, his nostrils flared.

  Dear Christ, the man is actually aroused by this. What a sad little trope. The urge to order his men to kill them all returned—much stronger.

  Hugh Brenton smiled. "General Dhul-Fiqaar. Thank you for seeing us."

  Dhul-Fiqaar's jowly face broke into a broad grin. "I am always pleased to see my British friends." He waved toward Secretary Jalemdie. "I have called you here so my secretary can tell you the good news about the Professor's criminal gangs."

  Like a shattered vase, hope drains eternal. Brenton thought. Such a fool was I. He put an attentive, expectant look on his face and turned toward the secretary.

  A single bead of sweat ran behind Jalemdie's ear.

  You poor, poor bastard—you'll be fertilizing the flowerbeds before the week's out.

  The Somali licked his lips and began to speak. "As you know, your Excellency, I have been forwarding reports of increased activity … er… criminal activity around Burco, Berbera, Ceerigaabo and Hargeisa."

  "Isaaq hooligans protesting my government no doubt," the general commented.

  "Of course, your Excellency, "Jalemdie agreed. "But, ah, thanks to your generous British friends, satellite imagery shows it started at the same time as four very large groups of men and vehicles appeared twenty kilometers inside the Ethiopian border."

  He flicked a glance at the general's face before speaking again. "Ummm… The army commanders—your army commanders—believe those concentrations are staging areas for troops. And they're coordinating with the criminals in the cities. This situation has all the signs of an impending attack. A very large attack."

  "Are you saying our Ethiopian neighbors are preparing to invade?" General Dhal-Fiqaar waved the thought away like a bad odor. "Prime Minister Oromo is a close personal friend, and I have his assurance he has no designs on our territory."

  Secretary Jalemdie swallowed. "No. No, your Excellency. Never in a thousand years would I accuse Prime Minister Oromo." He glanced desperately between Hugh Brenton and General Dhul-Fiqaar. "Your army commanders… they don't believe it's an Ethiopian force."

  "Then who is it?" the general demanded.

  "The SPLM," Jalemdie whispered hoarsely.

  A meaty hand slapped an armrest. "Rubbish! That Isaaq cockroach doesn't have an army!"

  Secretary Jalemdie opened his mouth to speak, but fear caught his tongue.

  The general shifted his bulk forward and peered down at the Somali minister. "Many are jealous of my greatness—my vision. It is to be expected. You say an enemy is massing against me?"

  Jalemdie nodded.

  Brenton watched Dhul-Fiqaar's eyes narrow in what he must imagine was an appearance of deep thought. After a tense silence, the general chuckled. "Ah ha. I know what it is… Our Ethiopian cousins have finally heeded my warnings about the Isaaq. The vermin have been spreading their weakness, slipping across the border.
Oromo has put his military on alert. That is what it is."

  General Dhul-Fiqaar sat back in his throne, daring the bureaucrats to disagree with his assessment. The two Duub Cas guards stared at them until, one by one, they nodded.

  Brenton barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Your Excellency, if I may?"

  The general frowned but waved him forward.

  "With all due respect to your tactical brilliance," Brenton said. "My company's satellite reconnaissance corroborates the secretary's reports."

  A look of pathetic gratitude flashed across Secretary Jalemdie’s face.

  The corporate consul continued, choosing his next words carefully. "Your discernment is a source of continual astonishment, General. However, my company's intelligence and support detachment at Hargeisa International have identified specific military vehicles on your border. Three-quarters of them are third-generation surplus—none of them standard issue for the Ethiopian military. They've also confirmed that the SPLM hired over a thousand soldiers from a dozen private military firms across the globe. As difficult as this is to hear, General, the evidence is clear: Professor Hamid is preparing militia and foreign mercenaries for a major offensive."

  “Impossible!” Dhul-Fiqaar scoffed. “That little teacher and his bandits don’t have the strength. They are Isaaq. My Hangash police have questioned two thousand suspects, and they say nothing about a ‘rebel invasion’.”

  Brenton began. “Your Excellency—”

  “Really Mr. Brenton,” the general said over him. “Do you think you can barge in here with flimsy evidence, exaggerate the dangers, then turn my own staff against me?”

  Secretary Jalemdie blanched.

  The Somaliland leader thumped his chest. Rows of medals jingled. “I am the heart and soul of my country! I know my country, and I tell you the problem is not one exiled teacher and his gang of malcontents. Oh no, he is only a boil—a symptom of a much greater disease: the Isaaq.”

  Hugh Brenton bit his tongue and thought about the coltan.