After the Monsoon

by Robert Karjel

  “. . . was stabbed in the marketplace, of course I know that. And the one behind this thing was Sergeant Hansson?”

  Grip nodded. There was silence. Then he said, “Ayanna almost managed to convince me that she wouldn’t run to you with my little troubles.”

  “Oh, it’s harmless. You fill her time with your cases, and I’m convinced that we both win. All I noticed was that her piano at the Kempinski stood empty. Then she said you were interested in this Hansson, and it’s only a matter of loyalty, of course she has to feed me things now and then. And actually, that was all she said. So this sergeant, he is and has done what?”

  “He’s behind everything: the murder, the smuggled money, my partner getting stabbed.”

  “And now he’s gone.”

  “Ayanna is on her way to Mombasa on my behalf. She doesn’t know that Hansson has disappeared.”

  “She wasn’t the one who told me.”

  What did he expect? Judy Drexler had a whole intelligence service working for her. It was quiet for a moment before Grip said: “One thing struck me early, here in Djibouti. At hotels, people are always sitting with drinks. And out in the barracks and hangars, no one ever seems to get enough bottled water—they’re always holding a cup of mountain spring in their hands.”

  “Thirst unites us, that’s old news. And you believe this has an effect?”

  “Yes, it leads to all the damn talking. I do it too.”

  “Can I get you something?” she asked, seeming to mean it.

  “That said, I’m always thirsty.” She reached for the phone.

  Grip continued. “You made the first move, but so far, I’m the only one who’s talked about my situation.”

  “I couldn’t stop you,” she replied, with her eyes on the phone.

  “Hansson, MovCon, the tips you received that someone there was Al-Qaeda. It’s obvious that something is going on. Something you’re involved in, and that’s why I’m here. No matter which one of us called first.”

  Drexler raised a finger, to pause him. “Send up a tray, with ice and glasses.” She hung up the phone and drummed on the desk pad with her fingers. “Drones, do you have those in Sweden?”

  “The ones that fire missiles? As far as I know, we’ve stayed away from them.”

  “In western Europe, you seem to put drones in the same category as dumdum bullets and nerve gas.”

  “Obviously, you’ve seen that on the signs of people marching outside your embassies.”

  “Your protesters can yell and scream, but for us the drones are the logical consequence of what had stumped us before.”

  “Because no one sits in them?”

  “Because we were faced with an enemy willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. Our mind-set was based on the idea that human life is sacred and on the premise that everyone has a fundamental desire to live.”

  “But you have the death penalty.”

  “Exactly. The very worst crimes, we punish with death. You can say what you will, but it’s based on the idea that the state instills fear, to discourage people from committing terrible crimes. But how do you deal with people who use themselves as human missiles, or who wrap themselves in layer upon layer of explosives and nails? Sometimes, there are hardly molecules of them left afterward. As a consequence, it makes no sense to threaten a suicide bomber with death. We still had the mind-set that no person chooses to die voluntarily, so when we were subjected to this—we were perplexed.”

  “We were all perplexed. Even in Sweden, people at airports have to take off their shoes and hand over their toothpaste.”

  “And then you waited, wondering what we were going to do next?”

  “It’s always that way. We always wait for the US reaction. So the countermove was the drone?”

  “Yes, if terrorists are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, our drones can reach them everywhere without any risk. Their willingness to sacrifice themselves was met by us attacking without risking our lives. It wasn’t the answer they’d imagined. The battle has been taken to their backyard, and now we don’t even need to be there. Before, they could randomly detonate a bomb in a subway or a shopping mall, and now they’re the ones who can’t feel secure, no matter where they are. They have to be on the alert around the clock. It has made Al-Qaeda and ISIS both frustrated and furious; it leads to lots of rash actions and mistakes.”

  “The drones gave you back the advantage.”

  “Absolutely. Not so many jihadist bombs exploding in American squares and subway stations. And let’s be real, we’ve even targeted bomb-makers who were eyeing you northern Europeans. With our pilotless aircraft and good intelligence, they barely have time to think about attacks on us anymore.”

  There was a knock on the door, and a young man wearing a button-down shirt and chinos brought in glasses and a pitcher on a tray.

  “Just put it there,” Drexler said, pointing to the corner of the desk. She began to pour, and he went out again. “I grew up in Georgia,” she said then, “in the interior, a place where we didn’t have an ocean or a river to cool off in during the summer. Here, the desert’s dry heat burns everything in its path. There, the humid heat eats the soul. Here, people die of thirst. There, they go insane first. That’s why in Georgia you don’t just drink water but iced tea. You need something for body and soul. Here you go. I’ve even taught them to make it right, slightly sweet but not cloying.”

  “Is that one way to define a person—those who drink water versus those who drink iced tea?”

  “That’s how you recognize the ones who can really stand the heat. But where was I?”

  “You were probably about to say something about pilotless aircraft and intelligence.”

  “Right. We can hit precisely what and who we want, but the ones who control the drones are not the people who identify the targets. Others do the painstaking work of figuring out who’s actually sitting in the car. From an infrared camera a thousand meters high, we all look pretty much the same, regardless of our intentions.”

  “So who identifies your enemies around here? Not you. You’re mostly behind these walls and fences all day.”

  “Exactly. The world hasn’t become as cosmopolitan and interconnected as many would like to think. On the contrary, it’s more and more ‘us and them.’ Thirty years ago, I was able to move freely in Kabul, Mogadishu, and Aden, on the other side of the bay here. That’s impossible today.”

  “On the other hand, now you can put a reconnaissance satellite on any building on earth, and there’s not a cell phone call that you can’t listen in on.”

  “Sure, but somebody has to say whose house we should be interested in, and whose phone is worth listening to. It’s impossible otherwise.”

  “Having someone on the inside has always been priceless.”

  “Now you’re getting warmer. More tea?”

  “I’m fine for now,” Grip said. “First, I should find out a little more about that shot fired at the shooting range.”

  “We have an excellent source for Al-Shabaab and Al-Qaeda, in and around Somalia. Three weeks ago, we were able to eliminate five men from Al-Shabaab’s top leadership. A single missile—poof—all thanks to information from him. And through this same source, we’ve found out about many others who’ve marked world destruction on the calendars. He’s very reliable, he knows who’s who in the organizations we are looking for, and where they are, and when. The opposite applies to himself. Due to his extreme caution, we don’t know much about him as a person. Through intercepted telephone calls, we’ve learned that other Somalis call him the Jew.”

  “Go on” was Grip’s only reaction, even though the synapses in his head had begun to flash.

  “The Jew, if we can call him that, gave us a tip about a Djiboutian with the wrong ideas, who worked for you in MovCon. I told you about him, it was Abdoul Ghermat. We checked him out, it didn’t lead anywhere, so we let him go.”

  “Your source tipped you off, and you released him. Fredrik Hansson did the
job for him instead.”

  “I’m missing some of the steps here, Jew—Hansson?”

  “Your source is named Khalid Delmar. Born in Somalia but a Swedish citizen. He and Hansson have some kind of business together, God knows what, but they use our military transport to move their money around, in cash. How do you pay him?”

  “In cash.”

  “And how much is it, roughly?”

  “Not more than ten thousand dollars a month.”

  “I thought he was priceless.”

  “It’s easy to overpay. But we’ve learned that the informants most likely to survive over time are driven by conviction as much as by greed. Those who are only ideological tend to take too many risks, and those who are too greedy start reporting anyone and everyone. So we’re happy to keep the banknotes flowing.”

  “I intercepted one shipment of fifty thousand dollars that reached Sweden, and then I came across a stash down here of more than one hundred and forty. I’d say that, all told, they’re sending a hundred thousand a month, probably more.”

  “Nope. Obviously they’re not just working for us.”

  “My guess is that it’s Khalid who makes the money, and he uses Hansson to make sure that it gets out of here.” Judy Drexler shrugged. Grip wanted to get everything out on the table and continued: “And Abdoul Ghermat, he and his friend the lieutenant figured out what Hansson was sending along with the spare parts, and pressured him to get a cut. Hansson talked to Khalid, they’re used to playing in the big leagues, and they don’t just start paying the first guy who asks. Khalid did his part by giving Ghermat’s name to you. The idea was that when he suddenly disappeared one morning, it would scare the lieutenant into silence. But you didn’t buy it, and the lieutenant threatened to expose Hansson and get him sent home. Had that happened, he’d never have gotten a job with the international forces again. So instead—bam.” Grip nodded and then looked down at his empty glass. “Now I’ll have a little more.”

  “You see,” said Judy Drexler as she lifted the pitcher, “it was just like I said.” She went on, as the ice cubes and tea poured into the glass, “That Djiboutian wasn’t completely innocent after all.”

  “Everyone’s trying to get a piece of the business here.”

  “That sounds like something Ayanna often says,” Judy said. “But we shouldn’t lose the thread. You need to understand that Khalid Delmar has become key to US security interests. Neither you nor I can identify the next generation of leaders in Al-Qaeda or Al-Shabaab, but he can. And I’ll make sure that he’s protected, no matter what. He shouldn’t be alarmed or threatened. He should just continue to do what he does so well.”

  “But his wingman murdered someone,” Grip objected. “And of course, he tried to make Ghermat disappear.”

  Drexler leaned forward from her desk. “We didn’t do anything to that Djiboutian. It takes more than a scribbled-down name for us to send the drone out into the night. It was this Hansson who stepped out of line.”

  “So you’re saying that you don’t mind if I go after him?”

  “I guess it’s inevitable. And I might have information that can help.”

  “In exchange for Khalid remaining untouchable?”

  “He is not just any informant, he’s my main source and essential to my work here. How he earns the rest of his money, and how he sends it out, I don’t care. In any case, my bosses don’t want to know anything about it.”

  “And I’d like to get Hansson. That’s enough for me.”

  “Well then, we agree. Sergeant Hansson left Djibouti on the Ethiopian Air flight down to Mombasa this morning.”

  “You keep track of him?”

  “Once it became clear that you’d gotten interested in him, then I did too. Ethiopian Air is one of the few lifelines in and out of this country, so naturally we check the names listed on the departures.”

  “Thanks.”

  Drexler looked at Grip as if she expected something more. “I understand that Sergeant Hansson had been missing without a trace for some time,” she continued, “but since he showed up at the Sheraton yesterday morning, he has called the same number nine times from his private cell phone. But no one picked up.”

  “Who did he call?”

  “The number is unknown to us, but we can safely assume he was trying to reach Delmar.”

  “I think it’s time for you to contact Khalid Delmar and tell him that he has to give up Hansson.”

  Judy Drexler jiggled her glass. “That’s not the way our partnership works. He’s the one who contacts me about things I need. I can reach him, but only in an emergency, to protect him. Not to make demands.”

  “Is that his explicit privilege?”

  “More, that our relationship is fragile. He has to decide what the personal price for his actions will be.”

  “Then we’ll draw a line, and leave Khalid Delmar on the other side of it.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Am I right in believing that now you owe me a favor?”

  “We’re doing more for each other than just an even exchange. What else have you got?”

  “You’ve probably read about them—the sailing family that got kidnapped?”

  “Of course. What a nightmare.”

  “The pirates have a negotiator, and my government won’t deal directly with him, so now he’s going through me.”

  “This has become quite a cottage industry along the Somali coast, all these innocent negotiators filled with goodwill.”

  “Anyway . . . you have access to different resources than I do.” Grip held out a piece of paper. “This is the cell phone number he uses, probably with just a prepaid card. Maybe you can find out where he goes, who the other callers are, even who he is.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “I haven’t, but because you’re keeping an eye on the passenger lists, you already know that Ayanna is on the same flight as Hansson to Mombasa.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s going down there to meet with this negotiator.”

  “Is there a risk that they’ll recognize each other on the flight, Ayanna and Hansson?”

  “As far as I know, they’ve never met.”

  “Good!” said Drexler and continued. “You should know that she’s important to me. You have to be careful with her.”

  “Of course.”

  “No, not just of course. I put you two in contact not only because she knows a lot of people.”

  “It’s obvious that there’s more to her. She’s good.”

  “Good—she’s more than damn good at what she does. You’ve seen for yourself, with her background, her looks, the way she carries herself, outward grace combined with inward talent. And I don’t mean playing the piano, but the fact that people confide in her. People see her as harmless yet interesting, and so they talk to her openly, thinking they can get close to her. Too close, that’s where they want to get.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “Of course you have. There are things that can’t be taught by any program in intelligence work. But it also means that she’s outside the system, and she’s unschooled. She’s useful in many ways, but she also misses a lot. Think about it.”

  “So what drives her?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. She wants to find a way to get out of Africa on her own terms.”

  “And you haven’t given her that?”

  “I’ve given her a lot, but obviously not that.”

  “And you never will.”

  “I want to keep her with me.” Drexler thought for a moment, then said: “I am a woman, you are a man. Ayanna’s way of working requires certain reins. Watch out.”

  “I’d say, I’m the right man for the job.”

  “Well, now it’s been said. Take my gentle advice, and I’ll do what I can with this negotiator.” She looked down at the note Grip had handed to her. “And this?” She pointed. “What’s this—Darwiish?”

  “Apparently, it’s the pirate leader, and th
at’s his name. I wondered if you had anything?”

  “There’s a name I don’t even have to look up. The French sent some missionaries down here, maybe, what, five or six years ago. Religious fools who thought salvation would solve the Somali chaos. They were taken hostage as soon as they got to shore. Colonel Frères let me read the report. Darwiish, that’s an easy name to remember—the French reported that he was the leader of the kidnappers. There were never any negotiations, time just went by, and Darwiish didn’t want to be seen as weak, so it seems he shot them all. They never had the chance to save a single soul.”

  “Well, now his hostages are bored rich people without a real reason to be here.”

  “If they haven’t prayed to God before, they’d better start now.”

  43

  “On behalf of the government, the Swedish military mission off the coast of Somalia has today carried out operations to bring Sebastian Bergenskjöld lifesaving drugs. The hospital aboard the HMS Sveaborg has . . .”

  The press officers at Rosenbad had inflated a bulletin about the prescription being sent from the ship to the French hospital into something newsworthy. Grip surfed the online headlines. The prime minister sounded impressive, and even the tabloids took note of the long-awaited victory. It was as if they’d beaten an African epidemic that threatened the whole world.

  The French hospital—Grip—Ayanna—Mombasa: a few packets of pills had leapfrogged for more than a day, on their way out to the desert. “Delivered,” Ayanna had texted. And as a kind of acknowledgment: “I’ll get back to you in a few days,” from the negotiator.

  Some of Jenny Bergenskjöld’s childhood friends had started a private fund to collect ransom money for the family. It was now up to $350,000; it was, in other words, still more than $9.5 million short. Two of Scandinavian Capital’s senior partners issued a statement from a board meeting: “We are hereby pleased to announce that we will match all donations to the Bergenskjöld Rescue Fund.” With that, Scandinavian Capital succeeded, for the first time since all the publicity began, in getting a few positive comments from journalists.