The Aden Effect

by Claude G. Berube

  “My defense attaché, Commander Stark,” C. J. said, motioning to Stark. “You know Mr. Maddox. Shall we sit?” C. J. took her place at the head of the table and placed Stark and Maddox to her right and Gavaskar and Dasgupta to her left.

  “We know you are very busy, Madam Ambassador,” Gavaskar said, “but we wish to convey concern about the unfortunate attack on Mr. Maddox’s ships as well. We have a warship approaching the Gulf of Aden, but it was too far away to render aid last night. Had we been closer we most certainly would have provided assistance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. Your kindness is greatly appreciated by my government.”

  “As you of course know, we are also concerned about the pirates. We have citizens working for Mr. Maddox. We know that he has been a good and generous employer, and we have always had a good relationship, but our primary concern must be the safety of our citizens. We must consider options.”

  “Would you like to share those options?” C. J. asked with a smile.

  “Yes, I would indeed; however, as you are no doubt aware, I require authorization from my government before discussing such confidential matters,” he responded, returning her smile.

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “I can say that we value America’s friendship . . . particularly when the security of both our nation and yours off Socotra and throughout the region is being challenged.”

  “Then, Mr. Ambassador, may I propose that we continue to meet and identify common ground—or common water, as it were—where we can work together to achieve positive ends for both our peoples?”

  “We would be pleased.”

  A visit to the gym for a light workout might have seemed counterintuitive for most people in his situation, but Connor Stark didn’t look at it that way. This place offered a temporary respite from the madness that had surrounded him, or perhaps more accurately had come from him, over the past few days.

  The deaths on the Kirkwall and the near-death of its captain were never far from his thoughts. As for Golzari, Stark was surprised at himself. He had never been a bully, but his recent behavior made him realize that he wasn’t the naval officer he had once been, either—a man who sought to establish peace through strength. C. J. had seen Connor in action in Canada, but that had been a case of justified force to stop terrorists. The attack on Golzari had been an unnecessary act of violence.

  Connor considered the high-tech machines dotting the gym, most of which he had no idea how to operate, and opted instead for the free weights along the far wall where two of the younger Marines were doing arm curls with dumbbells. He joined them for small talk, jokes, and a friendly competition on the bench press. They were half his age and accustomed to daily workouts. Stark struggled to match their weights until the previous night and his age finally caught up with him. “I give up, gentlemen. Thanks for letting me join you.” He shook their hands, and they congratulated the “old man” for putting on a good show.

  He envied their youth. The injuries his body had sustained in the course of several violent incidents had long ago ended his days as a competitive athlete. He envied their innocence, too. They were young, still unstoppable, unaware of their limitations. But they were Marines. They would learn about battle and death.

  As he pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt he thought again of the moments before the attack on the Kirkwall. He had stepped outside the pilothouse a mere second before it exploded. Not for the first time in his life Fate had intervened to save him but had taken others around him. He had never been one to believe that an outside force was controlling his life. But if Fate really existed, he planned to challenge it.

  For the first time in his life, exercising failed to clear his mind.

  Few people used the sauna attached to the locker rooms. Embassy staff could get plenty of heat by just stepping outside. Stark was glad for the solitude. He poured water on the heated rocks and leaned back against the paneled wall to soak in the steam and think. Maddox’s mention of Canada earlier in C. J.’s office had brought back unwelcome memories of his second experience with terrorists.

  Most Americans would consider Canada an unlikely place for terrorism, if they thought about it at all. He had stumbled on a terrorist cell by accident there when he was working on Capitol Hill as a military fellow to Senator Padraic O’Rourke. And when friends were murdered and the U.S. government refused to act even after he had presented irrefutable evidence to his chain of command, Connor had taken action on his own to prevent the deaths of other innocent people. He paid a high price for doing it. The Navy had charged him with violating just about every rule in the Uniform Code of Military Justice: conduct unbecoming an officer, being absent without leave, failing to obey orders or regulations, disobeying orders, reckless endangerment, and murder. He avoided a long jail sentence only because people in Washington wanted the incident kept quiet. He still didn’t know who those people were.

  He poured more water on the rocks and inhaled deeply as they hissed at him. He massaged his stiff shoulder and arm, the arm that had held Jaime Johnson upright for hours until the helicopter arrived.

  Bill Maddox had said that the pirates released the Mukalla Ismael within a few hours of its capture. Why? Mutahar’s offices wouldn’t have opened until midmorning, and that was the earliest an intermediary could have called with a ransom demand. He shook his head and dismissed the matter. He had enough to do without trying to figure it out. The pirates simply must have realized it was a locally owned ship and turned it back.

  He needed sleep to clear his head and heal his wounds. The events of the previous night had left him exhausted, and Bill’s reopening of the Canada affair added to the confusion whirling in his head. Of one thing he was certain: his actions back then were still generating consequences. They had nearly cost Jaime Johnson her life. If he hadn’t bypassed his chain of command and his government ten years ago, he’d still be in the Navy, and Jaime Johnson might have been as well. And the Kirkwall’s crew would still be alive today because Highland Maritime Defense wouldn’t exist.

  The preset twenty-minute timer rang.

  Damien Golzari changed into a T-shirt and shorts as he prepared for a run on one of the gym’s treadmills. When the man emerged from the mists of the sauna, Golzari had only one thought: what kind of idiot uses a sauna in the Middle East during the height of summer? Of course. He should have known—an idiot like the mercenary commander.

  Stark saw him but said nothing as he opened the locker two down from Golzari’s and reached inside. Taking care not to stare, Golzari took in the commander’s physique. Stark was surprisingly solid for someone who hadn’t been in the military for a decade. He didn’t have the lithe figure of a runner. He looked more like a quarterback who had played fifteen long seasons and had been knocked around a fair share. The long, deep scar on Stark’s forearm and a longer one across his chest were clearly the result of knife wounds. His knee bore the scar of an operation. Also conspicuous and unmistakable were the old bullet scars—four of them. Golzari had seen them often in his career. One appeared to be no more than a year or two old. The criminal investigator in him judged that the three others—one on his arm, another on his abdomen, and a third on his buttocks—were more than a decade old. So Stark hadn’t spent his Navy career on the water far from the hazards of land-based operations; clearly he had experienced battle conditions firsthand.

  A decade or so would coincide with the court-martial date in Stark’s personnel file and, based on what he heard in the ambassador’s office, would tie Stark, Maddox, and Sumner to something that happened in Canada. Damien was in school in England at the time, but he had certainly heard about the very brief period in the mid-1990s when Canada almost had a civil war. It had something to do with elections and a Quebec independence movement. He couldn’t remember much about it, but there had been some violence before the disturbance ended with a deposed provincial leader. Canada had never held much interest for Golzari, until now.

  As Stark walk
ed toward the showers, Golzari went into the main workout room to the treadmills. The two young Marines working out with weights came over to congratulate him on the foiled attack that morning. They wished Commander Stark had been there too.

  “The ‘old man’ has heart,” one of them said, describing his bench press competition with them.

  Golzari didn’t want to hear any more about Stark. He still had to find Asha.

  The White House, Washington, D.C., 1631 (GMT)

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, my fellow Americans. It is with deep regret and great sadness that I report the deaths of our ambassador to Yemen, Caroline Jaha Sumner; the U.S. embassy’s defense attaché; several courageous Marines; and individuals employed by an American firm. In what appears to be two coordinated attacks, our ambassador and Marines were killed by a car bomb near the U.S. embassy; the defense attaché and private individuals were killed by pirates in the Gulf of Aden. I have known Ambassador Sumner since she was a young staffer on Capitol Hill, and I can say unequivocally that America has lost one of its finest public servants.

  “These attacks represent an unexpected and unwarranted escalation in regional violence. This also appears to be the first time that terrorists and pirates have coordinated their attacks on U.S. interests. Because of this, I have ordered a carrier strike group to the Gulf of Aden to protect U.S. citizens in the area and to seize and safeguard the oil platforms off Socotra. It is imperative that we ensure that no terrorist or pirate organization has access to these platforms, from which they could cause incalculable environmental damage if left unchecked.

  “I have also directed the secretary of state to issue a formal protest to the government of Yemen and . . .”

  Eliot Green shredded the lousy first draft of the speech he had written by hand two days ago. He tapped his thick lips with his forefinger. The terrorists and pirates had just missed two good opportunities. More important, the foreign policy plans of the Becker administration had taken a hit. Still, he could work with this. C. J. might still be alive, but other Americans were dead. As one of his predecessors used to say, “Never let a good crisis go to waste.”

  U.S. Ambassador’s Residence, Sana’a, 1640 (GMT)

  “This is a surprise,” C. J. said when she opened the door. “I was sure that you and Agent Golzari would be walking ten paces on a dueling field by now.”

  “Dueling is antiquated.”

  “Didn’t you fence in the Olympics?”

  “I’m antiquated. I come bearing a gift.” He nodded toward a decorative box under his left arm.

  “Well c’mon in.”

  The residence was surprisingly sparse for someone of C. J.’s tastes, though the labeled boxes stacked along one wall suggested that she still hadn’t unpacked some of her personal belongings. Stark knew that someone with an ambassador’s rank would have an aide to do that kind of thing, but he also knew that C. J. was too independent and meticulous to let anyone else unpack for her.

  The three candles scattered around the apartment—one in the kitchen, one on the dining room table, and another on the coffee table—provided sufficient light to see, but he suspected they served another purpose. Their scent provided aromatherapy that gave C. J. some mental respite.

  The walls above the stacked boxes were bare except for a large print of her father conducting an orchestra while her mother played the cello as featured soloist. This wasn’t a place C. J. would entertain guests, Stark decided. She was too private for that. He wondered if even he should be here.

  She sat at the end of the sofa and curled her legs beneath her, as she always did when she was relaxed.

  “Sit your antiquated ass down here, Stark.” She loudly patted the cushion, allaying his concern about intruding.

  “I will, but I’m on a mission first.” He headed straight for the small kitchen, found two glasses, and filled them with ice. Only when he had handed her one of them did he accept her invitation.

  “Why do I sense this is trouble?” she asked.

  “Trouble? Not at all, Madam Ambassador.” He opened the box. “Cask-strength Highland Park,” he boasted. He filled her glass and then his own. The rich golden liquid danced in the candlelight. “How could this elixir be trouble?”

  “Maybe because alcohol is illegal in this country?”

  “Stupid rule.”

  “How the hell did you get that into Yemen?”

  “I didn’t. It was waiting for me. I have friends here, remember? Namely, one very special friend.”

  “How special?”

  “Special enough that I’ve been sending him a case of whiskey every month for nearly a year. Every month he gets one from a different distillery.”

  “Are you bribing him?”

  “Certainly not. I’m just maintaining a friendship. When I got here a few days ago he was kind enough to regift me with a bottle.”

  She raised her glass. “Then, Connor, a toast: May all Connor Stark’s Yemeni friends be as generous.”

  He raised his own glass. “And may we never forget the sacrifices of the fallen.”

  “Amen.” They drank simultaneously and then sank back together against the couch. Connor closed his eyes, savoring the distinct smokiness associated with the island malts.

  C. J. moaned in pleasure. “So this is what good stuff tastes like.”

  “It’s been a long day for both of us. I thought we deserved it.”

  “Again I say ‘amen.’” She knocked back the rest of the drink as he did the same and then poured them both another.

  “I’m surprised at your music selection,” he said of the smooth jazz playing in the background, a trumpeter and singer.

  “Why?”

  “You were always partial to classical music.”

  She smiled and sipped her whiskey. “I like to mix it up.”

  “That’s Chet Baker playing.”

  “You introduced me to his music,” she said. “Remember?”

  “Oh, yes.” A single whiff of her perfume brought it all rushing back. The years hadn’t tempered his memory of this particular fragrance, with its hints of roses, vanilla, and honey. He remembered the lavender dress that left her arms bare and exposed most of her back. Her hair was up, back in the days before she had started cutting it close to her head. They had danced to Chet Baker that night. C. J.’s perfume lingered in his nose then and long after.

  “Are you awake?”

  He quickly opened his eyes at her question. “I was just appreciating the aroma . . . of the Highland Park.”

  “You must miss Scotland.”

  “It’s my home now.”

  “Did this assignment take you away from anything? A job?” She hesitated. “A relationship?”

  “I made enough money working for Bill not to have to worry about a job. As for relationships, there is someone, but this Navy business may be too much for her. I’ve called her three times since I was yanked away, but she keeps hanging up on me. She’s a strong-willed woman, and she isn’t happy about this. How about you?” he asked. “Being an ambassador in Yemen can’t be easy on a woman’s private social life.”

  “Same as the old days. I work long hours.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her short hair. “There is someone, sort of. He travels a lot, works a lot too. We rarely see each other. I don’t even know what to call it. He’s in Washington. I’m not.”

  “You could have stayed there.”

  “I wanted to do something more than . . . than . . . just being there. I really want to do this humanitarian operation, Connor.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? That’s not what I expected to hear.”

  “I’ll save the security objections for Golzari. I’m not going to fight you, C. J. If this is what you think should be done, we’ll figure out how to do it.”

  She hugged his arm. “Thanks.”

  “Will you give me some flexibility?”

  “With what?”

  “I spoke with my friend.”

  “T
he mystery friend.”

  “His name’s Mutahar. One of his brothers is head of the Yemeni Navy.”

  “Oh.”

  “An uncle is the foreign minister you’ve been trying to get an appointment with.”

  “Wait, the foreign minister’s nephew is the president of Yemen. That would make your friend one of the president’s brothers.” She leaned away and sized him up. “My, my, you do have friends in high places,” she said, finally recognizing the extent of Connor’s influence with the Yemenis. She finished her second drink and poured the next one herself. “Should I ask how you know him?”

  Stark realized he was already one drink behind C. J. Nothing ever changed. He had lost count of the Capitol Hill bars they had closed together. “It was over two years ago. I was here commanding the Kirkwall. We were off the west coast of Socotra when we heard a distress call. Two skiffs were closing in on a dhow when we intercepted them. They had already done a lot of damage. The dhow was sinking. We took out one of the skiffs. The other one escaped. A couple of us were hit. We took the three survivors of the dhow aboard, including its captain—who was Mutahar’s older son.”

  “So that’s how it is.”

  “It’s as simple as that. Mutahar and the family were grateful. They took me in as one of their own. We enjoyed one another’s company and became friends. They trust me. I can work through them, but I need to know what I’m authorized to do and say. I’d take you along, but . . .”

  “ . . . but they don’t even let female family members eat with them. I know.” She paused to reassess her strategy. C. J. couldn’t waste words with the Yemenis. Whatever Stark said, the request had to be simple, direct, and achievable.

  “Their boats have to come out of the port, just to make a small show of force. I want the pirates to think twice, and I want other governments to think we’re finally making inroads here. And I want a meeting to discuss an agreement about the oil.”