“My friend says that you can use the jet. He can have a pilot here within the hour.”
Emma kept her eyes on the schedules. The flights to Mumbai were scrolling by. “How much?”
Roducci held another conference. He lowered the phone. “Two hundred thousand dollars. American.”
Emma gave him an incredulous look. “Are you joking?”
Roducci seemed offended. “It is a two-hour flight from Nairobi, and the cost of fuel is astronomical at the moment. The fee is for a round-trip, because once you are delivered there, the plane must be flown back here, and that is assuming you don’t get shot down on approach. The insurgents are firing upon aircraft.”
Emma raised her eyebrows at him. “What a lovely thought,” she said. “But that’s in Mogadishu, not Hargeisa.”
Roducci gave a dismissive wave. “Nonetheless, we are discussing Somalia, so anything is possible. My friend would like to receive his jet back in one piece. And by the way, the jet you are paying for is the top of the line. A Gulfstream of the latest model. My friend assures me that it has all the comforts of home. He bought it from a very extravagant Russian billionaire who is now dead.”
The screen completed its circuit. There were no flights to any destination in Somalia.
“Tell him thank you very much, but the cost is too high.”
“Major Stromeyer will perhaps assist you in paying for part or perhaps all of it.”
“I doubt that.”
“I can arrange it very quickly. I am able to procure whatever you desire. I have a corresponding agent in Africa who is quite good at this.”
Emma had no doubt that Roducci could arrange anything in any part of the world, but now she was much more concerned about his prices. “Who would pay for the procurement?”
“Why, the American government, of course. Major Stromeyer sees to it that my invoices are paid. She is not as generous as some contractors who hire me, but she is fair.”
“I would have to run any charges past her and Mr. Banner first.”
Roducci grimaced. “Mr. Banner and I do not always see with the same eye. I prefer to negotiate with Major Stromeyer.” A smile creased his face. “She is a beautiful woman, is she not?”
“Major Stromeyer is very nice. As is Mr. Banner, once you get to know him. I’m sorry you don’t always see eye to eye.”
Roducci shrugged again. “It’s no problem as long as Major Stromeyer is there.”
Emma stepped up to one of the women behind the customer-service desk. “I need a flight to Hargeisa.”
The woman shook her head. “All flights from Nairobi have been suspended. Ethiopian Airlines maintains flights, but you will need to connect in Addis Ababa.” She tapped on her keyboard. “A flight there leaves in two days. You’ll have a twelve-hour layover, and you will arrive in Hargeisa late that evening.”
“Is there no other way? It’s very important that I get there.”
The woman paused. “The United Nations relief organizations fly their personnel into Hargeisa. Go back to the main ticketing counter in Terminal One and look for this sign.” She wrote on a small notepad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Emma. It bore the letters UNHAS.
“What does it stand for?” Emma said.
“United Nations Humanitarian Air Services.”
Emma headed to the main terminal, Roducci hot on her heels.
“I don’t think the UN air services will allow you to fly. You should take my friend’s aircraft.”
“Too expensive,” Emma said.
Roducci nodded. “I see your point. Exactly.” He began another conversation with his friend on the phone.
Emma found the UNHAS sign prominently displayed on a counter next to a long line of passengers waiting for ticketing on a commercial jet. The UNHAS agent had no takers. He looked European, with short-cut hair and wearing a dark polo shirt. He watched Emma walk toward him and flicked a look at Roducci, who was still chattering on his cell phone. The man glanced back at Emma, a question in his eyes and a smile on his face. She responded with her own smile.
“I need to get to Hargeisa, and I understand that UNHAS flies that route. Is there a way I can pay for a seat?”
The man nodded. “Are you a journalist?”
“Unfortunately not.”
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. We’re only allowed to fly UN personnel and journalists with proper press identification and advance clearance.”
Emma hesitated. “If I can arrange for the identification, would I be able to go?”
“If so, then yes.”
She pulled Roducci aside. “Can you get me some forged press identification?”
Roducci snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
Emma stepped back up to the agent. “How much?”
“Today Hargeisa costs twenty-six hundred dollars round-trip, but the price can fluctuate as the situation there changes. Check-in is tomorrow, five-thirty A.M. I warn you, the flight is a bit rough. We fly small planes with no catering service and no toilets. It’s five hours, with a touchdown in Jowhar.” Emma calculated the time. Even with the overnight stay, she would cut twenty-four hours off the commercial flight to Ethiopia.
“Do I bring you the ID and clearances?”
The man shook his head again. “That needs to go through the main office, and it will take fourteen days for a security check.”
Roducci snorted. “Fourteen days is far too long. And twenty-six hundred dollars for no beverages, no toilets, and in a small plane? That’s banditry!” He turned to Emma. “My friend believes he can arrange to have someone rent the plane for its flight back here. He will accept fifty thousand dollars for your leg of the journey. Really, Ms. Caldridge, this is a very good deal for a private flight with all the comforts of a private jet. I believe you should accept this offer.”
The UNHAS agent looked taken aback. “Somalia is an extremely dangerous place. The insurgents target any planes that fly there. There’s no guarantee that a private jet won’t be shot down. Even our jets are fired upon despite their UN affiliation. Your only other option is to take a khat flight out of Wilson Airport.”
Emma perked up. “Khat flight?” She was familiar with khat, a twiggy plant popular throughout Africa. When chewed, it provided feelings of euphoria and led to long periods of chattiness interrupted by bouts of stupor.
“We don’t recommend the flights, but they make the trip daily and the insurgents don’t interfere. Khat is very important to them.” The agent’s voice was dry.
Emma turned to Roducci. “Can you take me to Wilson Airport?”
Roducci sighed and clicked off his phone. “So much for promises to stay inside the terminal. Should the immigration authorities stop us, I will charge Major Stromeyer for the inconvenience.” He waved her out of the terminal and cut across several lanes of traffic to a nearby parking lot. Once there he marched to a hulking black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows and a satellite radio antenna. He reached around her to open the passenger side. As the door swung open, Emma noticed that the panel was thicker than most.
“Armored?” she said.
Roducci nodded. “I work in many dangerous areas of the world. Nairobi is not nearly the worst by far. However, even I have not been to Somalia in three years. Whatever business takes you there, I would suggest you reconsider.” He closed the door with a heavy thud, jogged around, and slid into the driver’s seat. As he snapped the seat belt, he cast a glance at her.
“I’m going,” Emma said.
“Yes, I can see that you are determined.” He sighed and started the car.
Half an hour later, Emma stood next to Roducci and stared at an ancient Fokker airplane being loaded with burlap sacks.
“That tall man in shirtsleeves is the pilot,” Roducci said.
The pilot, a deeply tanned, rugged-looking white man with brown hair in a ponytail that brushed his collarbones, oversaw the loading. He wore faded navy blue chinos, combat boots that might have been black but were covered
in dust, and a sand-colored short-sleeved shirt with the tails out. He appeared to have skipped his morning shave. Emma guessed he was nearing forty. He nodded at Roducci and made a comment to one of the workers before walking over to greet them. He walked with a smooth, loose-limbed gait that telegraphed confidence. Emma adjusted his age downward five years based on his stride alone.
“Roducci. What brings you here?” The man spoke English with a slight South African accent.
Roducci shook his hand. “May I introduce Ms. Emma Caldridge? Ms. Caldridge, this is Wilson Vanderlock. He owns that rusting plane you see being loaded.”
Vanderlock ignored Roducci’s insult to his aircraft and gave Emma a considering look and then a slight smile. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to hitch a ride to Hargeisa.”
“Are you an aid worker?”
“She’s working for Edward Banner,” Roducci said. For some reason Emma was glad when she saw surprise enter Vanderlock’s brown eyes. Something about his manner made her think he had a conventional view of women, and her working for Banner conflicted with that view.
“Banner’s creating a stir in Hargeisa. His company arrested some pirates and dragged them there to be tried.”
“Why would that cause a stir? Aren’t the authorities happy to see a pirate captured?” Emma said.
Vanderlock shook his head. “Half the authorities in the Puntland region have a hand in piracy. Darkview is seen as a danger to the trade. I’m not sure I want to be associated with Banner or his company.”
Roducci stepped forward. “Since when are you against Banner?”
“I’m against trouble, and that’s what Banner has right now,” Vanderlock said. He cocked his head to one side as he gazed at Emma. “Where’s your entourage? Banner’s people rarely travel without one. Not if they want to live.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. She ignored the fear trying to make its way through her system. Since Colombia she’d become an expert at ignoring the fear. She extended her hands, palms out. “It’s just me. If it makes you feel any better, Banner has no idea that I’m here, talking to you.”
Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you?”
“Because I need to get to Berbera. Fast. And the flights through Addis Ababa will take time, which is something in short supply for me.”
“What’s causing the rush?” A look of keen interest entered Vanderlock’s eyes.
“Private business” was all Emma said.
He nodded, accepting the fact that she wouldn’t tell him. “Better I don’t know, actually. I’ll take you. It will cost you a thousand dollars American.”
Roducci made a surprised noise. “Out of the question! I know for a fact that your usual rate is one hundred dollars.”
Vanderlock shook his head. “She’s not usual. If anyone gets wind of her connection to Darkview, I’m going to be in hot water.”
“She just told you no one knows, except us three. And discretion is my business, so I will never speak of it,” Roducci said.
Emma wanted to strangle Roducci. Even if Vanderlock’s price was inflated, it was hundreds of times less than that of the private jet he’d just tried to foist on her. She interrupted the men.
“I’ll pay you five hundred,” she told Vanderlock. Roducci took a breath to say something, but she cut him off. “You tried to bamboozle a Russian’s jet on me for fifty grand when you knew not only that khat flights were cheap but even a pilot who flies the route?”
Roducci gave one of his expressive shrugs. “A lovely woman such as yourself should travel in style.”
Vanderlock laughed. “You tried to unload Sergei’s jet on her, didn’t you?”
Roducci’s look went sour. “I simply tried to keep her safe.” He jerked his chin at the Fokker. “You’ve kept that thing flying with duct tape and rubber bands.”
“It hasn’t let me down yet.” Vanderlock turned to Emma. “Seven-fifty and it’s a deal. But know that I won’t be able to fly you back here. Kenya doesn’t care who I fly out of the country, but I’m no longer allowed to fly anyone in.”
Roducci snorted. “That’s never stopped you before.”
“Well, it will in her case.” He looked at Emma. “You’ll have to return through normal channels.”
“And Somalia? Do they care who arrives?”
“Not on the route we’re taking. And keep your association with Darkview quiet.”
She nodded. “Can you take me to Berbera?”
“Sorry, but no. After Hargeisa I return here. The khat is driven to Berbera. You might be able to ride with it all the way, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“You go straight to Hargeisa?” Roducci sounded surprised.
“First to K50, then Hargeisa,” Vanderlock said. Roducci gave a small groan.
Emma didn’t like the sound of that. “Where’s K50?”
“Mogadishu.” Roducci supplied the information, a grim sound in his voice. “It’s an alternate runway just outside of the capital. The main airport is too dangerous to use.”
Tension curled through her. The immense danger of what she was trying to do hit her.
Roducci touched her arm. “You should wait to fly to Hargeisa directly. Surely whatever Banner needs you to accomplish can wait for a safer flight.”
Vanderlock took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He put one to his lips and held the box out to her. She waved it away without a word. She needed to think. Vanderlock returned the pack to his pocket, extracted a blue plastic lighter, lit the cigarette, inhaled, and watched her. She noted that he neither confirmed Roducci’s opinion that she should wait nor disputed it.
“Mr. Vanderlock—”
“Call me Lock. Everyone else does.”
“How long will you stay on the ground in Mogadishu before taking off for Hargeisa?”
Vanderlock blew out a stream of smoke. “Thirty minutes. Just long enough to offload the first half of the shipment.” He took another drag off the cigarette.
Thirty minutes could be a lifetime in Mogadishu, but Emma thought the UN agent might have it right. She doubted that the insurgents would mess with them when they still had half a planeload of khat to deliver. She offered a hand to Roducci.
“Thank you for your help.” She transferred her travel toothbrush from the side of her duffel to the pocket of her jacket and handed her bag to him. “Do you mind throwing this away? It’s just going to weigh me down.”
Roducci looked at her and frowned. After a short pause, he took her hand between both of his.
“I see that you have made up your mind. Lock will keep you as safe as is possible, given the area to which you travel, but should you need anything, please call me.” He produced a business card. “My number. Contact me anytime, day or night. I will see to whatever you may need.” Emma took the card. It didn’t contain a name, just a series of different phone numbers and two e-mail addresses.
“No name?” Emma said.
Roducci smiled. “Just numbers. But they all work. And when they don’t, they will direct you to another. Do not worry. My business depends on people who need items quicker than can be found through the usual channels. My customers know how responsive I am. And they also know that I can get them anything. But my specialty is arms.”
22
“I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOUR FATHER,” SUMNER SAID. “CAN YOU take me to him?”
“Of course,” Marina said. “But why?”
“I have some questions.” Sumner handed Block the Dragunov.
“Oh, yeah, now, this is what I need!” Block’s eyes lit up. “Those pirates come back and they’re history.” Block was like a child with a new toy. He pretended to sight something in the distance. Sumner reached out and gently pulled the scope away from Block’s eye. He bent the gun on its side and flipped a small switch near the trigger.
“What did you do?” Block said.
“Switched it from automatic to semiautomatic. I don’t have a lot of ammunition. You ha
ve to make every shot count.”
“I just switch it back if I need automatic?”
“Don’t.”
“But if I need it? The switch will set it back?”
Sumner had a terrifying vision of Block spraying the water with ammunition, all of it falling far short of its mark.
“No. The switch sets it back to auto or semiauto depending on how you depress the trigger. One pull will give you one shot. Hold it down and the gun will continue to fire until you release it.”
“Hell, put that back. Saves me a step. I promise to use it semi until I need it auto.”
Sumner shook his head. “Under stress you are far more likely to hold the trigger down out of sheer panic. Kind of like the way a new driver hammers the gas pedal instead of the brake when an accident looms.”
“I’m no new driver.”
Sumner reached out to take the gun.
Block danced backward, out of his reach. “Okay, okay. You win. I’ll leave it on semi for now. Don’t worry.”
Sumner had a lot of concerns, but he kept them to himself. He turned to Marina. “After you.” They headed to the lower decks. Marina took a hallway that wound toward the casino.
“He’s gambling right now,” she said.
“So he’s not worried about the pirates?”
Marina seemed to consider the question a moment before responding. “He likely is anxious about them, but he greatly enjoys gambling, so that’s where we will find him.”
Sumner thought it best not to comment on Herr Schullmann’s habits. In fact, when they reached the casino entrance, it became clear that many of the ship’s passengers were escaping reality by losing their money. The casino hummed with activity. Bells dinged from the slot machines, dice landed on green felt with muffled thuds, and the dealers murmured in low tones as they ran the games. The area was surprisingly full, mostly with men. Sumner didn’t see one woman gambling. Even the bartender who’d poured him a whiskey hours ago was gone. One lone female croupier dealt a hand of blackjack to the French businessmen. Sumner spied the Russian at a roulette wheel, sans mistress, and Herr Schullmann leaned against a craps table watching the thrower fling the dice. Marina made her way through the stations. She slid up against the rail next to her father. Sumner remained a step behind her. Herr Schullmann flicked a glance at his daughter, then returned his gaze to the game.
Running Dark Page 11