Janson glanced back at Ahmed.
Ahmed nodded. “I think Jess is right. He’s jerking you around. It sounded like he’s having fun with it. Which is funny ’cause he’s real short in the sense-of-humor department.”
Janson said, “It would be great if you could find him. We’ll cover any business losses the time takes.”
“It’s a big city, Paul.”
“Start with Internet Cafés. If he’s blogging, he probably has to use one.”
He peeled five bills off a roll of fifties and handed them to Ahmed. “Hire your friends to help.”
“I can do that.”
Janson peeled off another five hundred dollars. “And get cracking on Cousin Saakin. We need a pirate.”
THIRTY-THREE
32°18' N, 34°53' E
Nordiya, Israel
Miles Donner, an eighty-five-year-old English gentleman dressed like a throwback to pre-Beatles Britain in a straw-boater, creamy linen suit, and what his friends called the only ascot in Israel, hauled himself up the steps of the Tel Aviv bus when it stopped near his nursing home in suburban Nordia. He was frail, with a bald head fringed by thin white hair. His ears were big, his nose enormous. Straddling it were glasses with black frames. His eyes hardened with determination when he had to muster the strength to stand up to change buses. He changed buses twice—thinking he would probably practice habits of stealth at his own funeral. The third bus was a hotel shuttle bound for Sde Dov Airport.
Terminal security stopped him when they discovered the Beretta holstered under his sock, and he was hustled into an interrogation room, where he uttered a single name. In less than thirty minutes, a hard-faced major strode into the room and ordered the guards out. When they were gone, he threw his arms around the old man.
“What are you doing here? What do you need?”
Miles Donner’s Hebrew had gotten worse, not better, living full-time in Israel, and he answered in an upper-crust English accent, “Take me to Wing R.”
The hard-faced major gaped. “How in hell, retired twenty years, living in a nursing home, did you hear about Wing R?”
The old man answered with a straight face, “I don’t sleep much anymore, so I surf the net.”
“Shame on me for asking.”
“May I have my gun back?”
“Are you aware it was loaded?”
“Why would I carry an unloaded gun?”
The major did not bother asking why he would carry one at all, but summoned up an electric baggage tractor and airport-worker overalls for both of them and drove a circuitous route to one of the sprawling warehouses that edged the airfield. Inside, he drove through several unmarked checkpoints and helped Donner out of his overalls and into an elevator that took them down to a bunker. It was below sea level, and as large as the warehouse that concealed it.
The Mossad had had its ups and downs in the previous decade. The worst had resulted in public scrutiny of infamous failures. But the uproar had provided a smokescreen to shield building anew. Wing R was led by a brilliant chief who was less than half Donner’s age—the best, brightest, and most ruthless of his generation.
“What do you want?”
“Saul made contact.”
The chief looked at him sharply. “I will assume for your sake that you are referring to Saul who fell on his sword three thousand years ago on Mount Gilboa to prevent Philistines from torturing him.”
“Our Saul.”
“I warn you, do not enter that maze.”
“Our Saul,” the old man repeated blandly. “Who served us in South Africa.”
The chief pressed his hands together and sighted over them like a pistol. “Dementia among ordinary citizens is a tragic plague. Dementia among former agents with secrets to spill is cause for immediate removal from the community.”
Donner removed his glasses. “Don’t threaten me.”
“We took blood oaths.”
“I took a blood oath. You were in kindergarten.”
“You took a blood oath that that name should never pass your lips. Even in the confines of this office.”
The old man took a chair, without asking, and folded his wrinkled hands in his lap, the picture of patience, and it was a good bet, looking at him, that he would not speak again until the chief asked the correct question.
“What is Saul up to?”
“Playing Santa Claus.”
“Giving what?”
“A Russian oligarch.”
“Which Russian oligarch?”
“The one you would most enjoy interrogating.”
“Which, goddammit!”
“Garik Tannenbaum.”
The chief shook his head in disgust. “I don’t have time for silliness.”
“You would turn down the opportunity to interrogate Garik Tannenbaum, the man who knows more about Russian exports of fissionable material than anyone alive?”
“Garik Tannenbaum is already being interrogated. To death! Putin caught him.” He stabbed a speaker button and shouted, “Get this old man out of my office.”
“Putin almost caught him.”
“What? No. No one’s told me this.”
“The FSB laid a trap in Dubai, where Tannenbaum’s jet was to refuel to take him to his yacht, which was waiting in Socotra. Tannenbaum caught wind of the trap.”
“No one’s told me this,” the chief repeated stubbornly.
“No one knows. Except for the poor devil employed as Tannenbaum’s body double. Sadly for him, not even the FSB knows yet.”
“How do you know?”
“Saul.”
“How does Saul know?”
That did not deserve an answer and received none.
“How did Tannenbaum catch wind?”
“Saul would not say,” the old man answered with a smile.
“Garik Tannenbaum is the greediest crook of all the crooks spawned by the new Russia. A traitor to his country. And a vicious thug.”
“A fair assessment,” Miles Donner conceded. “Although Tannenbaum’s mother might not agree on every count. But as I said, Tannenbaum knows more about Russian exports of fissionable material than anyone alive. Including Wing R’s analysts. Especially Wing R’s analysts. The sources. The routes. The recipients. The orders pending.”
“The son of a bitch knows because he did the exporting.”
“Saul is offering to make him our son of a bitch.”
Wing R’s chief put his head in his hands. “What does Saul want in return?”
“Tannenbaum’s yacht.”
“Yacht?” The chief looked up, incredulity mingling with relief. “That’s all?”
Donner said, “You could not look happier if Saul’s price was a weekend in Cairo with a belly dancer.”
“What does he want a yacht for?”
“If I knew, which I don’t, it would never pass my lips. Even in the confines of this office.”
* * *
ALLEGRA HELMS OBSERVED a sudden change in the volatile Maxammed. They were alone on Tarantula’s bridge, except for a couple of boy fighters fast asleep on the deck, cradling their guns like dolls or teddy bears, and the old man huddled in a corner. Suddenly the old man cried out. He had not spoken a word since they spoke of Treasure Island the night Adolfo was killed.
She went to see if he was all right, but Maxammed pushed her aside. The pirate knelt and quickly loosened the necktie that the old man hadn’t removed since they were hijacked.
“His face is blue,” said Allegra.
“He’s dead,” said Maxammed. And to Allegra’s astonishment, the pirate gathered him in his arms and crooned. “It’s not your fault, old man. You were just where you should not have been.”
Allegra could not believe her ears. Maxammed actually felt something for his hostage. She seized the moment. It was a better gift than Adolfo’s gun.
“Please let me go.”
“What?”
“Would you let me go? You’ll get millions for the yacht.”
“I am a dead man without you. You are the last. I can never let you go.”
THIRTY-FOUR
The dervishes escorted Isse to the Italian’s private rooms in a villa not far from Gutaale’s on the Lido. Isse stood before him with his hands folded across his stomach. Like a pregnant woman, thought the Italian.
“How did you come to Somalia?”
“Somalia is my homeland.”
“I mean, how did you travel here?”
“I flew commercial from New York, through Turkey, where we changed planes for Mogadishu.” He removed his hands from his stomach and straightened his shoulders. “But to New York we flew private.”
The Italian’s Arab head garb concealed his smile. Americans had an expression: Kids say the darnedest things. With four hundred grams of high explosive in his stomach, and the bravery to detonate it for his cause, the young man seemed most excited about a free ride on a private jet. The jet was owned by some helpful sheik, he thought, curious as to which one it was. “What were the markings on the plane?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“No logo? No crest?”
“No. It was weird. There was nothing written on it inside. Outside, it was night.”
“It must have had numbers on the tail.”
“You couldn’t see the tail. There were no lights.”
“In an airport.”
“It was a private airport.”
“Did you meet the sheik who owned the plane?”
“No way a sheik owned it.”
“Why not?”
“The pilots were women.”
“Women?”
The Italian sat up straight. When he spotted the young fanatic in Mullah Amriki’s encampment, he had naturally assumed that the boy had been recruited by one of the many Gulf sheiks who ferried fresh fighters into war zones for al-Qaeda and al-Shabaab.
“Then whose plane was it?”
“A guy named Paul. And he had a woman with him named Jess.”
The Italian nodded and murmured, “Oh yes.”
“Do you know them?”
The Italian said, “Tell me. I don’t fully understand. How did you happen to be on their private jet?”
“They’re being paid to rescue a woman captured by pirates.”
“Of course. Of course…”
“Do you know them?” the boy asked again.
“What did they want of you?”
“Information. Stuff about Somalia. They were researching.”
“You were like a consultant?”
“Yes.”
“Doing their homework,” the Italian mused. He stood up and circled the room, wondering how to use this.
* * *
KIN POY LAM’S bodyguards did a sloppy job of frisking Doug Case when he rolled into Kin’s suite in the Red Hotel. They took his Glock from his shoulder holster, as before, and granted him indulgent smiles at “Don’t forget the laser obliterator.” Maybe they figured the wheelchair made him harmless. Maybe they were lulled by the Red Hotel, which had brought to war-battered Mogadishu the security and opulence they would expect in Beijing, minus large rooms and sheets of glass. Maybe they thought the addition of a new guy made them invincible. Four of them to one of him. They should feel invincible.
Kin Poy Lam introduced the new guy—a big, broad-shouldered northern Chinese—as Jack Yee and said, “Mr. Yee has come to apologize for failing to kill Paul Janson in Beirut.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Doug Case.
“What do you mean?”
“The only reason to bring your assassin into this room is to assassinate me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you believe that you don’t need me or ASC anymore now that you are deeply entrenched in Somalia.”
“But I am not firmly entrenched,” Kin protested. “I need you very much, Mr. Case. I know that your roots are much deeper here than mine. I know the Somalis do not trust Chinese businessmen, whereas you have made friends. A partnership, a secret partnership, is more valuable than ever to me.”
Case glanced at Yee, who was listening with a benign smile. Maybe the assassin didn’t understand English. Maybe Kin Poy Lam was telling the truth.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Case. I need you and ASC very much. We are quite prepared to share.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Doug Case. He reached under his jacket into the narrow space between his chest and his empty shoulder holster, where he had hidden a cocked and loaded .22 automatic Jetfire. He lifted it up and out by the suppressor screwed into its stubby muzzle, clamped his left hand around the butt, and thumbed off the safety.
He fired three double bursts in a single breath, killed Kin Poy Lam’s bodyguards before their own guns cleared their holsters, drilled two holes between the assassin Yee’s eyes, and leveled the weapon at Kin Poy Lam’s face.
“Come closer.” Case gestured with his right hand.
“What do you want?” Kin whispered.
“I want you closer, Mr. Kin.”
“I’ll give you anything.”
“I want China National Petroleum out of Somalia.”
“I’m only one man,” Kin protested, gathering himself to jump Case in the hope, probably, that he had either emptied his gun or stopped firing because it had jammed.
“No,” said Case. “At the moment you are China’s only man. You just this minute told me yourself, you’re boss in Somalia. That makes you the last Chinese standing, for the moment.”
“They’ll send more.”
“Who?”
Kin hesitated. Then he said, “Many are ready, they—”
“They’ll send engineers and businessmen. Right?”
“Yes, yes, that’s what I’m saying. Many.”
“But no more spies and killers. Besides, by the time they set up shop, it will be way too late.”
Kin grabbed for the gun. Way too late.
THIRTY-FIVE
Paul Janson found Ahmed inside the Bakaara Market Internet Café. At some of the booths staff were helping old people type e-mails, but most of the customers were young. They gathered in late evening, when the broadband was faster, to download YouTube videos and music. Ahmed was wandering around, backslapping friends.
“Nothing more from Isse. Sorry, Paul.”
“How you doing with Cousin Saakin?”
“Still making contact.”
“But you saw him when you got here?”
“Sure. He’s the one who took me to the dhow harbor. And he fronted me the dough that my folks are sending. The banks are kind of slow here.”
“I know that. How badly crippled is Saakin?”
“Not bad.”
“Still on a walker?”
“Mostly for show. They were going to put him on trial. But they changed their mind when they saw the walker.”
“Can he still go to sea?”
“Yeah, but just bringing food and stuff to his friends. He’s not hijacking anymore. Like I told you, he’s through with getting shot.”
“Is he friends with Mad Max Maxammed?”
“No way.”
“Would he do a job for me?”
Ahmed looked doubtful. “He’s not going to rat out his own people. Even Maxammed. He may not like Max, but he won’t turn on him. You know, the pirates have a kind of brotherhood.”
“I don’t need him to rat out Mad Max.”
“What kind of job?”
“A pirate job.”
Ahmed’s animated features gathered like a big question mark. “A pirate job?”
“Get hold of him immediately. Tell him it’ll be low risk, high profit.”
* * *
DOUG CASE WAS cleaning his Jetfire back in his own suite in the Red Hotel when his sat phone rang.
“Good evening, Douglas,” said the voice, digitally disguised tonight as a breathy Justin Bieber.
Nice timing, Case thought, wondering not fo
r the first time why he chose such inane disguises and reminding himself, again not for the first time, that the Buddha hadn’t climbed as high as he had on silly decisions.
“Hello, sir. What a wonderful coincidence.”
“How so?” the voice asked warily.
“I was about to call you.”
“But you can’t call me. You don’t know my name. You don’t have my number.”
“Hang up and I’ll surprise you.” Case broke the connection and immediately dialed the number for the Buddha’s encrypted sat phone.
The Buddha answered on the first ring. He did not bother pretending ignorance, and he was mad as hell. “I need an explanation or you are out of a job. To what do I ascribe this sudden uninvited intimacy?”
“I have good news for you,” Case said. “The best you’ve had since you bought those gas drillers.”
“It better be.”
“China National Petroleum has withdrawn from Somalia.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure?”
“China National Petroleum’s point man has taken early retirement. Word is he wanted to spend quality time with his ancestors.”
“What about the Ministry of State Security? The East Africa Bureau is hardly a one-man operation.”
“MSS’s East Africa Bureau will have to start over from scratch in Somalia before they can make another move, which ought to give Mr. Helms time to finish whatever he started.”
“I am deeply impressed,” said the Buddha. “Well done, Douglas. Very well done—What’s your next move?”
“A bit of creative destruction.”
“What sort?”
“If you wait to see it on CNN you’ll have total deniability.” Case waited while the Buddha chewed on that and concluded that it was the only way to go. He asked, “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Wait. You’ve surprised me twice and now you surprise me again.”
Good, thought Case, and asked, “How?”
“By not demanding to replace Helms.”
Case laughed. “I’m waiting to see how far he gets.”
* * *
DOUG CASE DECIDED it had been a hell of a day, and he deserved a celebration. He had told Paul Janson that his spinal-cord stimulator beat heroin, which was not entirely true. The stimulator was a substitute at best, and certainly no fun.
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