Streib could just make out the large heavily padded red leather chair that was built inside the APC so that the general could ride in relative comfort. Streib thought it was a designer piece but had no idea who would make such a thing for an armored vehicle. A massive vanity piece for a massive man. Some of Streib’s men had taken to calling him General Jabba, something Streib had quickly ended in case one of the trainees caught wind of it and reported it. Not that he really thought they would catch the Star Wars reference. Krulak had commented in private that if the general were to die, then the entire population could feed on his carcass for a month.
Streib eyed General Bouh with disgust. There was no way that any man would let himself go in such a manner in any army of the Western world. Or give himself so many medals. The general’s chest was covered with ribbons, most of them self-awarded, of that he was sure. He was careful to keep his face neutral as the general approached, accompanied by the driver, a man who worried both Streib and Krulak. Driver, bodyguard and killer rolled into one, the guy was the general’s attack dog. He was no taller than Krulak, but thinner, wiry. Light brown in skin color and bald, the man was covered in scars, including a particularly vicious one across his throat. Somebody had gotten close but not close enough. He sensed Krulak’s hand hovering near his French pistol.
“At ease, Krulak,” he whispered.
Both Streib and Krulak saluted the general, who returned it. A wolfish grin spread across Bouh’s face and he slapped Streib on the shoulder.
“So, you have been playing with my little gift.” Bouh indicated the rifle that Streib held in his left hand. “How did you like it?”
“Not bad for World War II vintage. Throws a little to the left, but it is still a good rifle. What brings you back to us so soon, General?”
Bouh’s smile fell. He took half a step back and Streib tensed, ready to bring the rifle up and shoot the scarred bodyguard before shooting Bouh. But the smile returned.
“The schedule has been moved up. My men must be ready for action in two days.”
“Two days?” Streib didn’t allow the concern to show on his face. The rendezvous with the freighter wasn’t for another four. If Bouh were to betray them, then they would be trapped in the country with nowhere to go. “Why so soon? Your men are not yet ready for extended street operations.”
Bouh waved his gold-ringed fingers, dismissing the observation. “It matters not. The attack on the Frenchman did not go as planned. Many were injured, including two American spies. I do not want American spies walking around. Spying.”
A few days before, Streib had been informed by the general of the Frenchman’s inquiries. Did the general know the Frenchman? No. So he would not object if the Frenchman were to have an accident. But wasn’t that drastic? The general had laughed, then boasted about a car bomb being placed and detonated after the Frenchman left his home. Streib had argued against the plan, saying that others could be killed. The general didn’t care. It would be blamed on the radicals, on the ineffective government. The Frenchman’s death would serve its purpose. But Streib wasn’t happy. Car bombs were the work of insurgents like those who had attacked his checkpoint.
“I did warn you against it, General. So, what is the condition of the two CIA agents?”
The Djiboutian general gave Streib a hard, cold look, a warning not to push too hard or criticize too much. “The man who made the bomb explode too late is no longer with us, Major Streib. Xiblinti,” Bouh said, pointing at the scarred bodyguard, “opened him up, displaying his insides to the sun. The one spy is in the hospital in Lemonnier. He may yet die. The other is, how do you say, walking wounded? It concerns me that he may begin to spy again. He will have to meet with an accident, as well. I am moving up my schedule so that no other spies can interfere with my plans.”
Streib openly grimaced at the way Bouh casually spoke about assassinating a CIA agent. It could create a hornet’s nest, with the CIA and other agencies investigating, something that could very easily expose his team. He took a deep breath.
“General, sir, I think that would be a mistake. The CIA will not have enough time to investigate. Killing one of their men will, however, attract a lot of attention. It’s something that you may regret in the future.”
Bouh stared at Streib in silence. A silence that lasted much too long, during which a cruel smile grew on Xiblinti’s face. Streib wondered if the man was thinking about gutting him, as well. After a full ten seconds Bouh spoke, low and menacing, fire burning in his eyes.
“I do not make mistakes, Major Streib. Other men do. Be sure to remember it.” Bouh’s smile returned to his pendulous face. “Do not concern yourself about the CIA man. We know how to find him. He will meet his fate in the morning. The other man is not a concern. Just be sure to have my men ready to leave in two days. That’s all, Major.”
Streib and Bouh saluted each other and the general was escorted back to his APC and pulled inside by two of his soldiers. The side door slammed shut as Bouh squeezed himself into the red chair. Xiblinti stood for a moment, staring at Streib and Krulak, before mounting the cab. The engine bellowed to life, its exhaust fumes pouring from the pipes. The APC turned and departed the way it had come. Streib waited until it was out of sight before speaking.
“Sergeant, make the preparations to leave, not for the Africans but for us. We’ll be using the Renaults. I have the nasty feeling that Bouh is planning a little accident for us, as well. I don’t want to wait around to see if I’m correct or not.”
“Yes, sir.” Krulak turned and left Streib staring at the dust trail the APC had left in its wake.
CHAPTER TEN
Djibouti City, Djibouti
Bolan didn’t get his good night’s rest as he had hoped. The bunk was too small, the mattress was tired, thin and mean, and his bunk mate gave him the cold shoulder for the rest of the evening. Eventually he got up, gathered his belongings and joined the two SEALs on deck. Little was said between the men. Bolan couldn’t tell them much without revealing his knowledge of Special Forces, and the SEALs did not trust a CIA man enough to tell him anything interesting, other than that the surviving terrorist had surrendered and been picked up and that Buzzard One had made it safely back to shore. Bolan intended to make contact with Stony Man in the morning, learn what had happened to the remaining terrorist and hear if there was anything that he could follow up on. He lay on the hard, rusty deck, using the sports bag as a pillow, the ship’s irregular vibrations eventually lulling him to sleep.
The MV Cape Faith entered the harbor as dawn was breaking, passing several larger vessels that were anchored in the bay awaiting their turn at the docks. The Cape Faith would have no problem berthing at a smaller wharf, and in all likelihood, arrangements would have been made to get her docked as swiftly as possible. The freighter passed within three hundred yards of the frigate USS Ford. Bolan could see several of the crew standing on deck, waving. Obviously the good news had been passed on. Now Bolan had to get off before television and news crews showed up wanting a scoop on the previous day’s activities.
The harbor was bustling even at that early hour. Several large cargo ships were in the process of being unloaded, bright containers being lifted off by large blue cranes or the ship’s own derricks. The Cape Faith made a lazy turn to port, slowly moving toward an empty section of the dock. A harbor pilot had come on board an hour before. If he had been surprised at the presence of the two black-clad SEALs, he gave no sign of it. Bolan decided to go below, find something for breakfast. He had seen Djibouti harbor before and wouldn’t be in country long enough to see it again.
Within the hour the ship was moored. Bolan had grabbed a quick bite and was wearing his black sunglasses and baseball cap. He said a quick goodbye to Abu, nodded at Grubby, realizing that he didn’t even know the man’s real name, and went to the gangway, which was being lowered. Of the SEALs, there was no sign. Bolan wondered if they had already slipped off the ship or were sequestered below out of sight. He saw nothing
of Nancy Clayton and decided there was no need to bother her anymore. With his sports bag slung over his shoulder, he disembarked the freighter, passing several uniformed Djiboutian men at the bottom of the gangway. They glowered at Bolan but did not demand to see a passport. Bolan assumed they had been given instructions not to interfere with any Ameri cans on board. As soon as he was off, they jogged up the gangway.
Looking for his contact, Bolan dodged around a few forklifts, around a couple of battered trucks that had seen better days. Men were shouting instructions at one another, diesel engines of vehicles throbbed and the containers boomed as a massive crane piled them alongside a towering ship moored behind the Cape Faith. Bolan would be unable to hear his name being called above the cacophony of the docks. Two stevedores jogged past Bolan on their way to who knew where. Where was the contact? The soldier jumped to one side as a forklift almost ran him down, its driver’s attention taken up by looking in the wrong direction.
It was then that he saw the man staring straight at him from under the shelter of an overhanging warehouse roof.
The guy was Caucasian, his skin now reddish brown from exposure to the African sun. There were several cuts on his face, and his hands were lightly bandaged. The guy was wearing a whitish sweat-stained T-shirt that appeared to be a size too large for him, along with tatty light green trousers. The man’s eyes were behind sunglasses, but he raised a hand when he saw Bolan looking at him. Bolan was naturally wary. The stranger appeared nervous, apprehensive as if expecting something to happen at any moment. The way he licked his lips and looked around at his surroundings… Something didn’t add up.
Bolan surveyed the docks, watching for suspicious activity. Nothing. Nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention. There could be a sniper hidden on a roof or up on a derrick, but Bolan didn’t sense an ambush. He turned back to the man, who hadn’t moved. Bolan approached cautiously until he stood directly in front of the stranger, towering over him by several inches. He said nothing. The man seemed to recognize him, which could mean that Stony Man had passed on a description.
The stranger licked his lips again before asking “Are you, um, are you Blanski?”
Bolan nodded.
“Okay. I’m Peter Douglas. I’ve been sent to pick you up. Take you to the base. Get you on a flight out of here.” Douglas offered a bandaged hand, then withdrew it. “Um, better not. My hands are not in the best of shape. Hurt like hell just driving over here.”
“What happened?” Bolan scanned the dock again, looking for anything that resembled trouble.
“Got caught in a bomb blast. I was in a hotel when somebody decided to blow it up. Can’t tell you more than that. Shall we go? I expect that you want to leave as soon as possible.”
Another lick of the lips. The man seemed in a hurry to get Bolan out of Djibouti as fast as possible. Was he up to something, or was it trauma from the bomb blast? He meant to keep an eye on Douglas until he was out of the country.
“I heard about that. A car bomb. You were one of the two caught in the blast?”
“Uh, yeah. My vehicle is around the other side of the warehouse. They wouldn’t let me park any closer. Too afraid I might steal something. Like it matters. A third of what you see around here will go to the black market, if not more. Shall we?” Douglas indicated the direction, and Bolan followed him.
“Yeah, I was there. I got off lightly. Even my eardrums survived. Just cuts and bruises. Go figure. But a friend was killed and my colleague is still in medical in Lemonnier. They may fly him out at the end of the day. Depends. He might make it. He might not. They don’t know.”
Bolan merely nodded. Words from a stranger would never ease the pain of those who’d survived a terrorist strike. They walked around the massive warehouse, dodging workers and forklifts until they arrived at a rusting, dented red Nissan pickup. Douglas unlocked the passenger door for Bolan, then unlocked his own. Both men climbed in, Douglas gasping at the imprisoned heat inside the vehicle. Bolan sat on the sagging passenger seat, which had rips in various places, the foam pushing its way out. He shoved his sports bag into the foot well and attempted to wind the window down, but the glass became stuck halfway. Douglas wound his down as well, wincing every time he squeezed his hand too hard. The engine, however, started on the first try. Douglas put the pickup into gear and drove away, heading toward the dock exit.
“No air-conditioning. Sorry. And it isn’t fancy, either. The engine is okay, though. I get it tuned up over at Lemonnier, let the Marine mechanics have a go with it. Thing is, if you drive anything half-decent around here, then you won’t be driving it for very long.” Douglas went silent for a few minutes as he navigated his way out of the port facilities. Bolan still wanted to know why Douglas was so edgy. He looked over his shoulder, peering through the grimy rear window, but he couldn’t make out anybody following. Several tractor-trailer trucks were pulling in behind them, all of which had the light blue–colored Maersk containers on their loads. Bolan turned his attention back to the road ahead.
“It’s busy here,” Bolan commented. “Busier than I expected it to be. I was under the impression that everybody was starving.”
“Huh! Everybody is starving. Unless you happen to be in government, be in the army, have a good job here at the docks or be a gangster. You can easily tell who is who by their cars. The government guys like to roll around in black Beemers. Guys here at the docks have Korean or Japanese cars like this or Hyundai. The gangsters drive around in shiny silver Mercedes-Benz. They wash the things every day, using enough water to keep a refugee family going for two weeks. Then they drive around, letting the poor know where the power is. If you touch a silver Mercedes-Benz, then you’re dead. They lean out of the windows and gun you down. If you’re in a fender bender with one, then you’re dead, along with anybody else in the car at the time. Everybody on the roads avoids them, pulling over to the sides. Unless it’s the military. Their guns are bigger and their trucks better armored. Welcome to life in Djibouti, where life is worth nothing at all. Yeah, it’s busy here. Business still goes on. That railroad over there—” he indicated a poorly maintained locomotive and its train “—goes all the way into Ethiopia. Chinese money rebuilt it after EU money vanished into thin air. Nobody bothered to find out where it went.”
They stopped at the docks checkpoint. Douglas showed a card to an official along with a ten-dollar bill, which promptly disappeared into a pocket. They were waved through without any further delay.
“Yeah, corruption is everywhere. US dollars are the favorite, the only currency the black marketers accept.”
They merged into the early-morning traffic. Green-and-white-colored taxis were joined by pickups similar to their own, one of which had a scraggy-looking camel standing in the back of it. Motorbikes and scooters of unknown makes zipped by, overloaded with passengers. Up ahead somebody tooted, a signal for everybody else to start using their horns, as well. Douglas turned down a litter-filled side street.
“Hunger and poverty are everywhere,” he continued. “There are refugee camps outside the city, while here there is very little to buy, except by the black marketers, who overcharge for everything. There’s also a lot of unrest. People are fed up with going hungry while the top tier of government and the military need to go on a diet. Something is going to give soon. I can feel it.” He braked suddenly as an African woman stepped into the road, looking neither left nor right as she ambled across. Several other cars honked, but she paid no attention. Douglas beeped as well, wincing as he used his hand. She was past, and they continued on their journey. The roads were getting busier. It reminded Bolan a little of New York, except here it was a lot dirtier—piles of trash lay in the gutters, being poked through by urchins looking for something useful—and the cars and minibuses a lot rustier and more faded.
“Morning rush hour,” Douglas said apologetically. “We should be out of it soon.”
Bolan could feel the man’s agitation, almost as if he were on the verge o
f saying something but choking it back. The soldier looked around again for people too interested in them, but saw nothing. He removed his sunglasses and stared at Douglas, hard, his blue eyes boring into the CIA agent. Something wasn’t adding up, and Bolan wanted to know what it was.
“Spit it out.”
“What! What? Spit what out?” Douglas gave Bolan a glance, then looked quickly away.
“You’ve been antsy since you picked me up, no, before you picked me up. So what is it? I don’t like surprises.” Bolan’s ice-cold gaze remained fixed on Douglas, who was sweating, and it wasn’t just from the heat. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I’m waiting.”
Douglas became quiet, weighing his words. He turned past a green-and-white taxi parked on the corner of a road and found a street that was less congested.
“Still waiting.”
“Well, I, well, I…I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering on whether you were staying here for a while. If going to the airport was a ruse or something.” A motorbike burped past, overtaking them, four passengers on the seat.
“And why would it be a ruse?”
“Well, I thought maybe you had been sent over to look into the bombing, the one that killed the Frenchman and injured Davies. That’s all.” Douglas kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead, avoiding Bolan’s penetrating gaze. The soldier sat back a little in his seat.
“I haven’t been sent to do anything. I’m leaving. Next flight out. Unless you’ve heard something to the contrary. Have there been new instructions?”
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