“Take it, I’m done.”
“It’s just as well. Hargeisa’s right ahead. Close it, can you?”
Emma capped the flask and tossed it into the open duffel.
“What the hell is that?” Vanderlock said.
Emma glanced out the windshield. In front of them, a huge column of black smoke billowed into the sky. At its base Emma could see flames. Whatever was burning, it was big.
“Is that Hargeisa?” Emma asked.
“That’s not only Hargeisa, that’s the airport.” Vanderlock flicked a switch and started speaking into his headset. He finished and turned to her. “It’s a private jet flying out of Nairobi. Blew up after landing. They want us to divert. I’m going to head to a small runway that I know of between here and Berbera.”
“Blew up? That doesn’t sound right. I thought you told me Hargeisa was peaceful,” Emma said. As they drew closer, she could begin to make out a cluster of cars surrounding the conflagration.
“It is by Somali standards. This is unusual.”
“Do they know whose jet it is?” Emma asked.
Vanderlock nodded. “It’s owned by a company called Price Pharmaceuticals.”
26
EMMA SAT IN STUNNED SILENCE WHILE VANDERLOCK MANEUVERED the plane lower. They’d flown thirty minutes farther, and now he aimed for yet another dirt runway in the middle of nowhere. They landed with one bounce and rolled to a stop. Vanderlock stayed still. Neither of them spoke. Outside the jet, clouds of dust kicked up by the landing hung in the air, turning it an amber color. After another moment he stood and stretched. Emma stayed put while she did her best to gather her thoughts and push down the combination of sadness underlain with fear.
Vanderlock gave her a searching look. “Did the bombed jet rattle you?”
Emma dragged herself out of the chair. The simple movement broke the fright that had kept her paralyzed for the last half hour. She nodded.
“My lab did work for Price. I flew on that plane from South Africa to Nairobi. I met the pilot and the copilot.”
He gave a small whistle. “What made you bail from that plane to mine?”
“I didn’t know it was going to Hargeisa. The president of the company was flying with me, and he said Nairobi was his last stop.”
“I guess he was right, in a sick sort of way. Again, it’s none of my business, but if I were you, I’d get on the next flight home. Whatever Banner has you involved in, it sounds as though it’s escalating out of control.”
For the first time, Emma wavered. Vanderlock’s face was set, and she knew he was right. But if things were escalating on land, she could only imagine what was happening at sea. She shook herself out of her stupor. She hadn’t come this far just to quit.
“I need to keep moving,” she said.
Vanderlock put a hand on her arm. His palm felt warm. “Where are you going?”
Emma rubbed her forehead, where a headache was forming. She no longer felt buzzed, just depressed and tired. “I should get back to the Hargeisa airport.”
“That’s thirty miles away.”
She thought a minute. “What about the khat? Weren’t you supposed to deliver it to Hargeisa? How will you get it there now?”
“I called the missiles and rerouted them here. I expect to see them in half an hour or so.”
“The missiles?”
Vanderlock nodded. “It’s what we call the khat trucks, because they travel so fast.”
“Will they take me with them to Hargeisa?”
He kept his hand on her arm and cocked his head to one side. “Not giving up?”
“Not giving up,” she said.
He made a sound of pure frustration. “I’m afraid I’m talking to a dead woman. Somalia has a way of devouring whatever falls in its path. Listen, I’ll even fly you back with me to Kenya. I’ll talk them into letting you into the country. If you’d like, I’ll take you to Dubai. We’ll have fun, I promise you.” He gave her a smile that left no question as to the nature of the fun they’d have.
Emma believed that his concern was real, but mixed with it was a hint of swagger, as though he were confident that he could sway her with his charm. For a brief moment, she considered what it would be like with him. His freewheeling attitude was different from the straightforward friendliness that had been Patrick’s approach to life, and as opposite from Sumner’s brooding intensity as she could imagine. She didn’t doubt that she’d enjoy being with him, but she wouldn’t abandon Sumner to whatever fate he was facing in order to fly to Dubai with a man she’d just met. The decision was no contest.
“I’m not doing this lightly, I promise you. I need to go. But I thank you for the offer,” Emma said.
Vanderlock sighed. “They’ll take you to Hargeisa if I ask them to.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
He snorted. “Don’t thank me. To ride in a missile is to flirt with death at one hundred miles per hour.” He gave the slightest shake of his head and moved around her. He bent down and opened the toolbox.
“Come on. I’ll give you a shooting lesson while we wait. I’m not sending you out there without one.”
Vanderlock put aside the AK-47 and reached in to get the rocket launcher.
“Are we going to shoot that?” Emma said.
He nodded. “It’s the weapon of choice in Somalia. You’d better know how to use it.”
They stepped into heat ten times worse than anything she’d experienced in Nairobi. She pulled an elastic band out of her pocket and tied her hair in a ponytail. It did little to make her feel cooler, but at least it stopped pieces of her hair from sticking to her face. The airstrip was nothing more than a dirt path carved into the road. Vanderlock waved her over to the far side of it. He dumped a dark green canvas bag onto the ground.
“This”—he showed her the tube—“is your basic rocket-propelled-grenade launcher.” The launcher consisted of a two-foot metal tube attached to a long wooden stock that ended in what looked like a steel funnel attached to the bottom and facing backward. “Muzzle, stock”—he patted the wooden section—“and breech”—he pointed to the funnel. “You put the stock on your shoulder, hold the handle here, and pull the trigger. The rocket shoots out the front. Try it.” He handed it to her.
She balanced it on her shoulder. A basic iron sight stuck out from the top. The wooden stock was worn smooth from age and use. Emma noted the wear and tried not to think about the destruction the weapon had wrought over the years. She lifted it up to test the weight. It wasn’t heavy, but it was awkward. She wrapped her hand around the grip near the trigger.
“There’s only one thing you need to know when firing. A stream of smoke and fire will shoot out of the back. That’s called ‘back blast.’ You always need to check behind you before you shoot, because you don’t want to hit a friendly with your back blast.”
Emma sighted a tree in the distance. “What’s my range?”
“Nine hundred feet, tops. Think less until you get proficient. And never, ever stand still after shooting. The back blast will reveal your position both in the day and at night. You shoot and run like hell for cover, because the other guy’s going to target your blast to kill you.”
Emma frowned. “So I only get one shot and then have to run? Not very efficient.”
Vanderlock shook his head. “Not true. One shot is all you need, as long as it’s a good one. These things took down the Black Hawks during the firefight in Mogadishu back in the nineties. The grenade is powerful.” He reached into the canvas bag and pulled out a pointed metallic warhead and a pipe that looked like a toilet-paper tube, only thinner. “This is the grenade.” He showed her the warhead. “You screw the booster on the back”—he attached the pipe—“and load it on the muzzle. Follow the guides.”
Emma lowered the launcher to give him better access to the front. He put the warhead in place. When he was done, he shook out a cigarette, lit it with the stick lighter, took a drag, and scanned the area around them. He pointe
d into the distance while facing away from the airplane. “Aim toward that gnarled tree over there.”
Emma adjusted her angle. “What if there’s someone out there?”
“Highly unlikely. This area is remote, and even if it wasn’t, we’re in Somalia at one in the afternoon. The only people fool enough to be out in the noonday sun are us.”
“What about the missiles? What if I hit them?”
He waved the hand holding the cigarette. “That would be bad, but they’re coming from behind us, so I wouldn’t worry. Also, I used a type of warhead that will explode after a set amount of time without impact. If you aim above the treetops, it’ll explode up there.”
“Good thinking,” Emma said.
Vanderlock inhaled, blew out the smoke, and gave her a little bow. “Well, thank you. High praise coming from a scientist.”
Emma smiled back before getting down to business. “Should I be prepared for a lot of recoil?”
“It’s not bad at all, because the explosive pressure discharges out the breech.”
She peered down the metal sight at a location twenty feet above the treetops, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. The warhead exploded out of the launcher with a blast that assailed her ears and a recoil that made her body jerk. She stumbled back a step, feeling the plume of heated air and fire run through the stock and exit the breech. Seconds later the warhead detonated, raining bits of shrapnel down on the trees.
“Wow,” Emma said. Her ears rang. “That’s an amazing amount of force.”
Vanderlock watched her reaction with a sideways look and a slight smile as he pulled on the cigarette. “Yes it is,” he said.
She heard the sound of an engine coming straight at them from the direction she had just anointed with her RPG. An ancient, dusty army-green jeep with no top appeared out of the trees. The driver aimed the vehicle toward them, pulling within ten feet before swinging it around and stopping.
The man killed the engine, hoisted himself out of the driver’s seat, and jumped over the door. He was tall and slender, with beautiful dark skin and eyes, hair cropped close to his head. He wore khaki pants and a crisp white short-sleeved shirt and seemed unaffected by the heat. No sweat marred his forehead, and the shirt appeared fresh. In contrast, Emma already felt like a limp rag. Her damp shirt clung to her and a fine layer of dust covered her shoulder where the RPG still rested. The man stopped in front of her.
“Ms. Emma Caldridge?”
She nodded, too surprised to speak.
“I am Hassim. Major Stromeyer asked me to escort you to Berbera. I’m very surprised to see you here.” He spoke in the singsong cadence of Africa, and his word choice seemed formal, as if English were not his native language.
Hassim put a hand out to Vanderlock. “Lock, how are you?”
Vanderlock put his cigarette between his lips and reached out to greet Hassim. “I’m good. Just giving Emma a shooting lesson.”
“And me a heart attack,” Hassim said.
Vanderlock grinned. “Sorry. Didn’t think anyone would be out this time of day.”
“You two know each other,” Emma said.
Hassim nodded. “For five years now.”
“Were you the one who was supposed to meet me in Nairobi?” Emma asked.
“That was Ahmed.”
“What happened to him?”
Hassim’s expression hardened. “He’s dead. I found him lying in his kitchen.”
Emma took a deep, shaky breath.
“I can’t believe Ahmed would let anyone get that close,” Vanderlock said.
“Whoever killed him was a professional. It would take nothing less to overcome Ahmed.”
Emma lowered the RPG, which now felt heavy and hot and reeked of evil. Vanderlock took it from her. As he did, his eyes met hers. He wore a grim expression. Emma didn’t have to guess what he was thinking. He wanted her to abort the mission and go back with him. She thought he was struggling to keep from speaking his thoughts. He put the RPG on the ground next to the canvas bag. She looked back at Hassim.
“How was he killed?” Emma asked.
“No one knows yet. There were no signs of a struggle, no visible wounds, and no poison in the food in his pantry. The authorities think it was an aneurysm.”
“Well, that’s wrong. Ahmed was as strong as an ox,” Vanderlock said.
“I agree. They’re doing an autopsy, so we’ll know more in a few days. Ms. Caldridge, are you ready? I’m to drive you to Berbera.” He turned and walked back to the jeep.
Vanderlock stepped up next to her. “You’ll be careful?”
Emma did her best to smile through the strain. “Now that I know how to shoot, I’ll be safe.”
He moved closer, his chest nearly touching hers. She looked up at him, read the speculation in his eyes, and waited. As she thought he might, he bent his head and kissed her. His lips were smooth and soft, and he slanted his head to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue inside her mouth. When he was done, Emma was convinced that they would have had an excellent time in Dubai. She moved back a bit.
“If you find yourself in a tough spot, get a message to me through Roducci. He knows how to find me.” He followed her to the jeep, where Hassim was sitting in the driver’s seat, watching them with a serious expression.
“The doors are welded shut,” Hassim said. Emma went around, stepped on the wheel well, and swung her leg onto the passenger side. She grabbed the edge of the windshield to lower herself into the seat. Hassim put on aviator sunglasses with a silver rim and handed Emma an identical pair. She checked out the maker’s name stamped on the frame.
“Ray-Bans in Somalia?”
“Counterfeit,” Hassim said. “There are two hats in the backpack. Can you give me the black one?” Emma fished out two bush hats. One black and one tan. She handed Hassim the black one and wore the tan.
“Later, Hassim.” Vanderlock tapped the side of the jeep.
Hassim nodded, threw the jeep into first, and drove down the runway. When Emma looked behind them, she saw Vanderlock’s back as he climbed into the Fokker.
They drove for about fifteen minutes, bouncing on a rutted single-lane road, before Hassim spoke.
“How long have you known Lock?”
“About seven hours,” Emma said.
She couldn’t see Hassim’s eyes through his sunglasses, but she thought his lips twitched in amusement. He said nothing, keeping his focus on the road.
27
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES INTO THE RIDE, THEY CAME UPON A PICKUP truck parked on the shoulder. The cabin doors hung open on either side, and two men lounged on the bench seat, facing out with their feet on the running boards. One had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, the other a rifle in his lap. They kept their bodies at right angles to the dash and watched the road. Hassim pulled into the shade of a nearby tree and waved them forward.
“Is this trouble?” Emma asked.
“No, they’re with us. The government in Hargeisa requires that visitors wishing to take the Hargeisa-Berbera road hire SPUs, or special protection units, to accompany them. I picked these guys because they can speak rudimentary English.”
“The road is dangerous, then?” Emma said.
“It can be, but it’s the only road between the two cities, so we are required to use it. We’ll spend the night in Berbera. They’ll guard you while you sleep.”
Hassim pointed at the dilapidated truck. “It can make it?” he asked.
The men nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
Two hot and dry hours later, they pulled into Berbera. Dust covered Emma from the neck down to her waist and encrusted her lips and face below the glasses. Berbera itself seemed devoid of people. Cinder-block buildings lined empty roads. Skinny mongrel dogs slunk into whatever shade was available. From somewhere in the distance came the howl of an animal, along with the tinny sound of Indian music. They drove along the outskirts of town to a rotting dock where the rusted hull of a speedboat without an engine
bobbed in the waves. A floating houseboat was tied to the far end of the pier. Its flat, wide bottom made it look like a barge with three masts, spaced evenly apart. The back was open to the air but covered by a canvas roof that connected to the cabin area. Paper lanterns in bright colors hung from the roof supports in a line. Hassim jerked his head at it.
“It’s a dahabeeyah. Egyptian, really. The lights are plugged into the dock’s power supply. They’re off now but will turn on with a timer. The windows are mesh, so you should get some relief from the mosquitoes.” He pointed to a small wooden structure twenty feet off the dock. “There’s the outhouse, and you’ll find paper in the boat. Sorry, no running water to speak of, but there is an outdoor showerhead on the side that is fed from an overhead tub, a rain barrel for washing up, and a jug of drinking water.”
Emma nodded. The dahabeeyah charmed her, with its paper lanterns. She remained silent, though.
Hassim peered at her. “You are quiet. I hope you’re not upset. Unfortunately, there is no hotel. I promise you, this is somewhat better than sleeping outdoors. We won’t leave until dawn, so it was important I find you a safe place. It’s clean, and the SPUs will watch you through the night.”
Emma shook her head. “I’m not upset. I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s perfect.”
Hassim looked relieved at that. He reached behind her and into the black bag in the back of the jeep. He pulled out a teardrop-shaped backpack and a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“I’ll show you the inside,” he said.
True to his word, the boat was clean. A hanging curtain separated the outdoor section from the cabin. To the right of the entrance, against the far deck railing, sat the rain barrel. Its top was open to the sky but covered with a wide mesh screen to keep out larger animals. Next to it was a tin tub, presumably for washing. Above the rain barrel rested another collection keg on a small platform bolted high up near the boat’s roof. A rusted showerhead jutted out from the bucket’s side, and a string hung down.
Hassim waved at the bucket. “It’s a crude shower, but it works. Pull the string to release the water. Use it sparingly, though. The barrel empties fast and is filled only when it rains. We’re entering the dry season, so what you use will not be replaced soon. Whatever’s left is likely to be lost in evaporation.”
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