It belonged to Excalibur Enterprises, the London-based global business of which Kyle Swanson was now in the process of becoming executive vice president. The only passengers aboard were Kyle and Lucky and the quiet CIA communications guy simply known as “Bob,” who had been yanked out of Quantico for this mission.
All of them had watched the Cobra’s self-serving announcement so many times that they could almost recite it from memory. It disgusted Kyle, and he went on deck to let the fresh air clear the cobwebs. Bob was already at the rail, drinking a cold beer with his sunglasses pushed atop his shaved head, and he spit overboard.
“Don’t let that bastard get to you,” said the quiet spook. “We were expecting him to sound off.”
“It’s all such bullshit, like he was just some innocent little guy that was swept up and horribly mistreated by the big, bad American military. Like he didn’t do anything to deserve even being arrested.”
Lucky Sharif joined them in midconversation. “A lot of people are buying his crap version of history. A terrorist gets a worldwide following with the click of a DOWNLOAD button. That just ain’t right.”
Bob turned and gathered his thoughts. He was a tall, thin man who was about thirty years old and had been drafted by the CIA out of Silicon Valley, where he had made a lot of money but had become bored. “From what I’ve seen, this Cobra is a smart dude, Kyle. Best not underestimate him. He has spent a lot of years figuring this out.”
Kyle decided to bring Bob in on the background. “Twenty years ago, he murdered the girl I loved by sticking a machete through her chest. He murdered Lucky’s grandfather that same night. We took him down hard, and I beat the crap out of him. Now he pops up again like a bad dream with all of these lies.”
Swanson had spent a lot of alone time on the voyage thinking about that encounter in the Mog and the terrible death of Molly Egan. It had happened back in 1992. That was ancient history for many people of today, including Bob, who was about ten years old when the savage chapter of the Somalia relief mission was written in blood.
The Cobra was reaching out to the young generations and filling their brains with distortions they would never challenge. The official denials from Washington rang hollow. The Cobra had created a web of fiction about the past, and people were falling for it.
“Social media can be a bitch,” agreed Bob. “The bottom line is that he really doesn’t like you.” Bob tipped back his beer, crushed the can, and tossed it overboard.
Swanson watched the little container sink in the water, and his mind was pulled away from the pit of helpless anger by the distant beat of an approaching helicopter. The white aircraft bearing the golden logo of Excalibur Enterprises was returning. It had left the yacht several hours ago to fetch some supplies and a team of CIA shooters that had been assigned by Marty Atkins. Kyle knew both of them from other assignments—Ingmar Thompson and Bruce Brandt. They had been killing terrorists in the Afghanistan badlands when they were tapped for this temporary assignment.
The helo flared to a stop over the stern helipad, matched up with the moving deck as the vessel crested a rolling wave, and touched down without a bounce. Crewmen immediately tied it down fast, the pilot cut the engine, and the door slid open. Kyle recognized the big frame of Ingmar Thompson as soon as he appeared in the hatch. Thompson jumped easily to the deck, where he dumped his travel packs. Brandt, smooth as a shadow, came out next.
Thompson spotted Kyle and shouted, “Where’s the bar?”
31
THE RETURN
IN THE WARPED MIND of the Cobra, there remained no doubt that he would soon be hailed as the newest hero for Islam. His recorded manifesto and the startling image of his damaged face would inspire Muslims worldwide to rise up in righteous anger and anoint him as their leader. That he could not now make a move without worrying about being tracked by the United States government did not register as a liability to him. Once he reached Somalia and was back among his own people, the Cobra would no longer be alone but protected by his Habar Gidir clan and also by the ragged army known as al Shabaab. The uprising could begin. He would crush the weak government and execute General Mohammed Ahmed in the middle of Bakara Market, for all to see.
However, he was not back in Somalia yet. Despite the hurrahs pouring in from sympathizers who had viewed his video, Omar Jama had to be slow and cautious in his movements. He had pulled the tail of the tiger, and he could almost feel the hot breath of the deadly beast that was stalking him.
When he read the final list of names of the hundreds of people killed in his Mall USA attack, he did not see the Swanson Marine, nor the woman Deqo Sharif or her policeman relative. Too bad, he thought. They still lived? So what? Burning the house in California was the Cobra’s final gift, and he had more important issues with which to deal than a washed-up Marine, an old woman, and a single cop.
From Havana, he had fled easily down to Argentina, where getting around the facial-recognition software of the authorities in Rio had been dangerous, but was defeated long ago in the planning. A diamond-and-oil-millionaire relative of the president of Angola had been persuaded to buy a pair of thoroughbred polo ponies, a black and a strawberry roan, from an exclusive criollo breeder outside Buenos Aires. Omar Jama and Hassan were hardly given a glance by airport authorities as they boarded the spacious plane that smelled of grass and hay, invisible among the grooms that tended the celebrity horses all the way from Rio, across the South Atlantic to Luanda.
Upon landing in Luanda, the Cobra was still 2,300 miles from Somalia. His enthusiasm surged. At last he was back in Africa, and Hassan’s skills worked wonders in a land where money and bribes provided a common language. Getting through the Congo, Tanzania, and Ethiopia was just a matter of time. Each day, he was one day closer to his destiny. He was impatient.
* * *
THE MOG WAS RIGHT over there. Swanson could feel the ominous presence of Mogadishu like a weight on his shoulders. He had hoped never to return to Somalia, and memories of Molly Egan swept through his mind—it had been twenty years ago but seemed like only yesterday when he would drive from the stadium to the Irish clinic to be with her. Now Kyle was going back into that place of nightmares.
The thought of killing the Cobra fueled him. If anyone ever deserved to die, it was Omar Jama, for killing Molly and Doctor Sharif with the long, sharp blade of a machete, and forever altering the arc of Swanson’s life. Payback was long overdue. He would end it in Somalia.
Kyle needed patience, but he was good at waiting. Snipers could wait forever to let things unfold around them. Bob was belowdecks with his computers linked back to the giant machines of the National Security Agency. Lucky was in the gym, powering through PT programs. The CIA snipers Thompson and Brandt were on the stern, skeet shooting with remarkable accuracy.
Kyle was aboard the Excalibur helicopter, riding with the door open over the Indian Ocean as the outline of Mogadishu clarified into individual structures. The very sight of the long beach made him stomp down hard on his emotions, and he mentally scrubbed them out by remembering that Somalia was a lot different than when he had first served there. Old attitudes and prejudices could not overrule the situation on the ground today. When he was in the dirt on this mission, he would have no time for personal feelings of any sort, because they only complicated things.
The CIA’s World Factbook showed that the country actually had developed a functioning government, although outside the cities, lawlessness still prevailed in the form of the Islamic extremist group al Shabaab. Those militants still staged occasional hit-and-run attacks inside the Mog, but the army apparently was a coherent force and held their ground. African Union peacekeepers backed the army up. According to Bob, who had demonstrated a fantastic memory for details, the Mog was going to be a tough nut for the Cobra to crack. Not everyone in Somalia believed he was a hero.
* * *
THE HELO BUZZED IN from the east over the gently rolling waves, putting Mogadishu on the starboard side. The city wasn’t
on fire, and from this height and speed, it looked just like a hundred other coastal cities in the third world. Kyle wondered briefly if it was really the same place—the place that had earned a special niche in Marine Corps lore, that had the taste of a job unfinished. A tenuous peace had been in place when the marines pulled out so many years ago and turned the job over to other armed forces, both American and international. Around the clubs and bars for many years thereafter, there was a debate over beers about what would have happened if they had stayed. How long could a thirty-thousand-man footprint be sustained? Stop doing that. This was an entirely different mission and an entirely different day, and he brought his mind back to the problem.
The busy port passed beneath the bird, and the chopper danced lower to land at the adjacent airport. A Land Rover with tinted windows drove up close, and the driver, a youngster who looked like he should be in high school, dismounted. “Mr. Swanson?” he asked. The voice was sharp. Not a high school kid.
Kyle nodded. “Let’s go.”
The Land Rover ran along the side of the airport to a separate compound with a sentry out front and with rolled-out concertina wire but little other protection. The antenna farm on the roof marked it as unique. Good God, this is the same place the CIA was located back in the day. The guard opened the door, and Kyle and the driver entered an air-conditioned office complex.
Mark Preston was the chief of station, and the only other person in the room. His face and forearms were bronzed, the badges of having spent a lot of time in places where the sun shone bright and hot. The sandy hair was cut short but remained long enough to comb. The brown eyes and the lines in the face showed his experience. “Mr. Swanson. I’ve been expecting you.”
They shook hands, and Kyle grinned when he saw a weathered wood placard on the wall. It said, STAY THE HELL AWAY. “That was on the gate outside the last time I was here. Nick Hamilton was the station chief back then.”
“It’s a reminder of bygone days,” said Preston. “Let’s do first names. Something to drink?” As if by magic, two beers appeared on the chipped rectangular table, and the driver then left the room.
“I understand Thompson and Brandt are with you on the big white boat? Behaving themselves?”
“Gentlemen and scholars in every way.”
Preston took a drink, and his face was unreadable. “We have the whole place to ourselves, Kyle. My instructions are simply to assist you.”
“You don’t know why?”
“They didn’t say, but it ain’t hard to figure that you’re looking for the Cobra.”
“People back in Washington who are smarter than me think he’s going to show up here and try to take over.”
“My sources around here say the same. We’ve seen no sign of him.”
“We have a guy out on the Vagabond who manages our secret comms linkup, and he told me as of fifteen minutes ago that the Cobra is still off the grid.”
“Is that Bob?” Now it was Preston’s turn to grin.
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Everybody in the agency knows Bob, and nobody is ever told his last name. He’s great at the job, which is the only thing that counts.”
“Anyway, Bob says the target is using back routes and taking his time to avoid detection.”
Preston leaned back and stretched languidly. “How can we help?”
“I need a name, Mark. Is there an officer in the Somali military structure over here whom you really trust, or is the whole thing still tribal and corrupt?”
Preston thought for a minute. “There are a lot of politics and clan loyalty involved, but there are some up-and-comers who show promise. Best of the bunch, my opinion, is Brigadier General Yusuf Dahir Hamud. He’s not afraid to get dust on his boots and is a former commander of the presidential guard. He’s pretty plugged in. Father was minister of defense for a while.”
“Commander of the presidential guard? Sounds like a pretty job,” replied Kyle.
“No. This guy doesn’t fuck around. He trained at Fort Bragg, graduated from the U.S. Army’s Command and General Staff College and the Army War College. Smart and fearless. If the Cobra wants power, he has to go through General Hamud, and that’s not likely. My opinion.”
Preston and Kyle finished their beer in silence, giving Swanson some time to think.
“Okay. You say so. He does sound good. Can you set up a private meeting? We have a native Somali with us who is now a special agent with the FBI, and he can be our liaison with the general when the feces hits the fan. Things will move fast.”
“I’ll try to set it up and get an answer out to Bob for you. You want to stay for dinner? They have some pretty exotic African dishes on the menu this week. Yum.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Pretty good chow out on the barge, too.”
Major Preston took him to the door. The driver was waiting, spinning a ring of keys, and then they were gone.
32
THE VILLA
THE COBRA STOPPED RUNNING. He had made it through all the nets and traps that had been thrown out by the United States hunters, and once again he was in his homeland. Hassan Abdi had arranged an interim rest stop not far outside the city of Kismaayo in the Juba Valley, beside the winding banks of an untamed river. The area was controlled by a two-hundred-man force that soon would be the spearhead for the coming thrust into Mogadishu. However, the revolution would have to wait just a little while longer, for Omar Jama was exhausted. While a contingent of young al Shabaab rebels stood watch, he collapsed onto a wide and comfortable bed and slept for fourteen hours straight.
When he was rested and eager, Omar Jama made the final jump of three hundred miles into Mogadishu, accompanied by a select handful of veteran fighters. The reinforcements would arrive later after picking up more fighters along the way. Many young men wanted to follow the Cobra.
He moved into a well-protected villa off of the 21 October Road, a building that was originally the home of a rich Italian merchant. Perfect. The respectable home of a leader. From this comfortable base, he could launch his campaign of insurrection.
* * *
“GOTCHA!” BOB, THE CIA officer in charge of communications, barely breathed the word, as if saying it aloud might bring bad luck. He rechecked his data once again. No question. Bob called for the rest of the team to join him in the secure Vagabond conference cabin that had transformed into a dim electronic wonder-world. His own CIA-tuned computer system blended in real time with the big hog back at the National Security Agency in Virginia, which fed on the world’s data. The job consumed him. Since coming aboard, Bob had hardly noticed the difference between day and night, other than that sometimes the sky was dark. The powerful intellect did not shut down when he was on the hunt.
Bob had felt violated by the savagery shown in the Cobra’s senseless slaughter at the Mall USA. It could just as easily have been any mall in the States, and his own wife and family could have been out shopping and caught in the trap. Bob had donned a war face after the attacks, using as his weapon the keyboards that plugged him into trillion-dollar computers. It had always been just a matter of time. He knew that the clever Cobra would eventually surface, and then Bob would find him and give him over to the shooters. Kyle, Lucky, Ingmar, and Bruce would take it from there, and the devil would take the bastard’s soul.
“I’ll start back at the beginning so this will make sense,” he said. “The Cobra’s entire operation has been relatively inexpensive, but obviously money had to change hands to make it work. We know now from the FBI and police investigation in Minnesota, Lucky, that he paid some of those assassins in gold. Now, nobody carries around heavy sacks of gold coins. The gold was just for flash, perhaps a personal preference of someone he was paying, but this guy needed a more reliable source of funds. And he had a source, because he kept getting what he needed. With me so far?”
“Where is he?” asked Swanson.
“Soon enough, Kyle. Soon enough. Stick with me.” Bob hit a key, and the picture of a ski
nny, well-dressed black man slid onto the big screen mounted on the bulkhead.
“Hassan Abdi,” Lucky Sharif said, with instant identification. “He ran the Hassan Investments storefront in Minneapolis, then ran before we could bust him.”
“Right. Who better to handle the Cobra’s money than someone who understands money? So instead of following each of Omar Jama’s footprints, I concentrated on Hassan.”
Ingmar spoke up. “Even looks like a bag man. Do you have proof?”
Bob replaced the picture with a screen of numbers. “Hassan was not a passive observer; he was a player. He was the advance man for the Cobra, and I discovered some of his transactions through the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication. That organization is headquartered in Brussels and is used by more than seven thousand banks in some two hundred countries and promises secrecy. All of those SWIFT banks got very upset when that asshole Edward Snowden leaked that the NSA was stealing their data.”
Brandt said, “My tax dollars at work. Where’s this going, Bob?”
The electronics analyst held up a palm for patience. “Using that encrypted data, I constructed a virtual fingerprint of Hassan and dug out more information through the Terrorist Finance Tracking Program. Enough of the nerd stuff. In plain English, Mr. Abdi washed his money back and forth between Banque Suisse Kanton Group in Switzerland and a bank in Singapore that is owned by investors from nations all over the Middle East, and it boasts a substantial reserve of available cash and credit. Both of these banks pride themselves on having impenetrable walls of secrecy. It ain’t exactly true, but their depositors and customers don’t know that.”
Night of the Cobra Page 25