15
Borama
Wasir Osman Hassan stood lost in his thoughts waiting in the VIP waiting room in the new terminal at Aden Isaaq International Airport in Borama as he watched his guest arrive from Dubai on in his private jet.
With the landing strip now operational and able to land aircraft of the size of an Airbus A300 and Boeing 737, he inwardly reflected that until the Englishman's group had built this new runway, the city, served only by a small dirt runway, would never have investors like this arriving keen to explore the opportunities his country offered.
When his Iranian banker from Dubai rang him yesterday and asked whether he could look after a major Indian client and his team who were arriving today looking to invest in natural resources in Awdalland, the ex-pirate had immediately jumped at the chance.
"Of course Reza, I would be delighted to host and assist them in any way," he had said, mentally rubbing his hands in glee.
"You're most kind, Minister," Reza had replied. "Mr. Singh is a powerful man, worth well over a billion U.S. dollars and is very keen to have good relationships with a partner?how do you say?" he paused for effect. "That understands the ways of Africa."
A carrot that said everything as far as Wasir was concerned.
"I understand, Mr. Reza," Wasir had replied.
"Excellent, Minister, I think you will both get on well together," The banker had warmly said before sending him the flight details.
For Wasir, this visit represented a unique opportunity to build his own international network away from the grip of the Russians who had been flooding into the country.
Experience told him that the minute work began to build the port to take large containers ships and naval ships, the President's grip over the tribes would be complete and with the President's Russian Military advisers at his side the end result would be the erosion of his influence. Something he was determined to prevent.
What the former pirate didn't know was that the billionaire that Reza had arranged for him to meet was, in fact, a forty-eight year-old British-born and educated Sikh SAD Operative from Austin, Texas called Navjot Sidhu, known in the diamond trade by his alias, Gouramangi Singh.
When the world of the Internet and mobile communications started to make it harder to create and protect its assets' cover identities, SAD recognized they needed to become more robust and charismatic to enable them to fit into the money laundering world of the terrorists. That meant the operatives needed to have genuine operations and not just on paper.
To solve the problem they created legitimate private equity houses in New York and London as fronts with a brief to invest and set up physical companies engaged in their foes' traditional areas of operations, like banking, gem trading, and foreign exchange shops.
For last ten years, the GSG Company and Navjot's aliases had been painstakingly established through the smart use of sponsorships and carefully placed media management to create his persona into a successful billionaire British-Indian diamond retailer based in London, Mumbai, Dubai, and Antwerp. The alias originally developed for catching terrorists, Mr. Singh's latest role was now to be used for something completely different.
16
Washington D.C
Five days ago when Ali had briefed Navjot at a diner near his house why the mission was taking place, Navjot, like the rest of the team at SAD, thought the Director had lost the plot. For although he had used his various identities over the last ten years to trap and take down numerous terrorist operations since joining the service, this was to be the first time one would be used in an old-style covert operation designed to disable a major business investment in another country. It was something as he listened Navjot found he wasn't entirely comfortable with either.
"Jesus he's only been in the job a couple of months!" Navjot had said to Ali, referring to the director's unspoken crusade and rapid dislike of anything Putin.
"It's got a Presidential Authorization," Ali had replied as he drank his coffee.
"So this State led?" Navjot had referred to the State Department as he continued to shake his head in disbelief. "Are they really that pissed off at them over Syria and Ukraine? I mean it's going to take years for the Russians to build the damned port!" He had countered having been told by Ali the deal needed to be scuttled as soon as possible.
"I know, but the Director convinced the Administration that if the Russians gained a foothold in this country less than hundred and twenty miles away from Djibouti then we will be facing a potential flood of other nations around the world inviting in the Russians as a security buffer right under our noses and we will be back in the Cold War again," Ali had answered.
"Essentially what you're saying is he is advising, via the Langley hawks, that if we don't do something then we're facing another Cuba or Ukraine situation with the Russians sticking it to us again only this time in Africa," Navjot had responded with his own internal analysis on the 'Clear Present and Danger' recommendation touted by his ass-kissing colleagues to their Commander-in-Chief who had, to his utter disbelief, had approved it. "Except this time there are no evil Reds under the bed to fall back on, and our interference makes us look like the bad guy if we get caught!" Navjot had offered, considering the worst-case scenario as an additional supporting argument to his objections.
"It going to take at least three months, you know!" he had said finally signaling his acceptance of his job by a further shake his head resigned to the fact that as nobody was going to be interested in what Ali or him had to say anyway, it was pointless to go on about it and just get on with the work.
"Well, you'd better get going," Ali had countered relieved that his experienced officer had now accepted his job if somewhat reluctantly.
He knew his friend had been receiving counseling. The mental scars of recent operations mixed with the fact that his wife was making noises about him retiring from fieldwork were taking its toll on his best agent. Unfortunately, the fact was Ali needed him because the SAD had very few field agents with his natural resources related experience to hit ground running for this new operation.
"Reza will be setting up a meeting with the Chief of the Interior Ministry in three days' time in Borama for you," he had added.
"What's his background?" Navjot had asked due to the fact that he hadn't read the briefing file yet that was waiting for him back at the office because he had been on leave in an effort to save his marriage and get his head back in order.
"Ex-pirate, slavery, prostitution, and murder," Ali had simply stated.
"Sounds peachy!" Navjot had said just as the waitress delivered their eggs.
As the young lady placed the breakfast on the table, Navjot had wondered how he was going to tell his wife Lori that he was about to go back on operations again. It was a prospect he wasn't looking forward to.
17
Borama
"Minister, it is a fabulous pleasure to meet you," Navjot offered in a crisp educated British accent as he proffered his hand having been taken into the lounge by the ex-pirate's entourage to meet him.
"Welcome to my country, Mr. Singh, we are extremely honored to have you here," Wasir replied, taking the Indian's hand in the process.
"Our mutual friend Reza speaks very highly of you," the ex-pirate continued as he gestured to a young boy to give the?party?welcome juices and teas.
"Likewise, Minister. And may I say I am particularly looking forward to exploring the opportunities your country has to offer," Navjot said politely, acknowledging the small talk.
"My team will take you to my hotel so you can rest," stated Wasir with authority. "Then I suggest that we meet for dinner this evening?" he offered or ordered, depending on an observer's point of view.
"Why that sounds wonderful!" replied the billionaire businessman with a beaming smile as he took a glass of Mango juice.
18
Washington D.C.
Back in Washington three days later, Navjot and his team sat down to de
brief Ali in the Cube.
As Wasir Osman Hassan's face appeared on the screen, Navjot commenced the briefing.
"The baseline with Hassan is now in place. Over the next two months, we will court him, increase his profile and allow him the opportunity to 'step up' in the tribal politics by offering a deal as a counterpoint to the Russian influence in the country," he said and then continued. "He is purely motivated by money and power despite the promotion of himself as a trusted militia leader to the Clan chiefs."
"Our assessment of him is he only did this to eradicate rival pirate competitors despite him saying he did it to counter the growth of Al Shaahab Islamists in line with the wishes of tribal elders," he said before pausing for a moment while one of the team changed the PowerPoint slide, he then pressed on.
"Since giving up piracy he has used his wealth to take control of money lending, Hawala, general trading, prostitution, and slavery in Adwalland, ruthlessly taking out any competitors in the process." Again Navjot paused for the next slide, which showed an organization chart.
"Using his wealth as a tool enables him to recruit former pirates from all the Clans then with their placement into the Interior Ministry he ensures their loyalty by providing members of his Clan with loans or equipment to make money themselves, much in the same way a classic Mafia Mob boss does. In so doing he successfully took them outside their traditional Clans."
"This means he has created in effect his own Clan?" Ali offered.
"Yes," answered Navjot.
"Don Osman doesn't have the same ring though!" thought Ali silently as Navjot continued to brief him on his various family connections and their organization within his Clan.
Inwardly Ali was pleased that their initial synopsis of the Minister was proving correct because until Navjot's team met him they had no intelligence on the ground in Adwalland to give them a full profile, only the bullshit peddled by Somalis from Mogadishu.
The next PowerPoint slide arrived with a pie chart.
"In terms of assets, Reza advises he currently holds approximately ten million U.S. dollars in cash assets in Dubai with him at the bank and a number of properties including a large villa in the salubrious Emirates Hills area of Dubai."
"In Adwalland, Wasir owns a hotel and offices that are rented out to NGOs; An exchange shop, a couple of Petrol Stations, a fleet of tanker trucks all rented out to members of his Clan, and an IL-76 cargo plane which is owned in partnership with a Turkmen based in Dubai."
"On the coast, he owns a fleet of about hundred fishing boats all conversions from his pirate days when the Pirates would rent the boats from him for a share of the spoils and finally a fish cannery that exports through Mogadishu onto Jebel Ali in Dubai then onwards to Iran." Navjot briefed as he explained the charts.
"This explains, incidentally, why he survived the international efforts to round up the pirate leaders and how he stayed under the radar," Ali offered with his own review.
"Yep, he's a string puller," Navjot answered in agreement.
"I bet you enjoyed your tour of all them!" offered Ali deadpan, earning smirks from his team around the table if not Navjot, before asking, "Education?"
"That's the interesting bit actually, as his father before the war was a manager at Italian Oil Company; he was able to gain an education at the school provided by them."
"So he speaks Italian, not just English"
"Although he has had no formal university education he's street smart and knows his way around a bookkeeping ledger," responded the behavioral science expert.
"If Reza is right then he's our man!" Ali stated, pleased with his young prot?g?. When he had called him initially for a possible lead he had instantly said he had just the man for him.
"He's turning into a real asset that young man!" he thought to himself with pride as Navjot for the third time agreed with Ali's study.
19
Cote d'Azur
Climbing onboard the yacht, Thomas was met by Nara who had dressed for dinner in a black Abaya finished with gold trim and a silk one-off Hermes headscarf on her head because they were hosting a Minister of a Muslim country. Fitz was dressed in his Captain's uniform, just in case he were required if Thomas was delayed.
He quickly apologized to the both of them for being late due to the missing of his slot out of Farnborough following his unexpected not to mention very surprising afternoon tea with Rebecca over the fact by way she had indicated to him just how much an expert she was on the subjects of Oligarchs, but more importantly, him.
Greetings out of the way, Thomas asked if everybody were settled in.
"Yes, darling everybody is in the dining room," Nara answered with a look of distaste on her face something he quickly picked up on.
"What's wrong?" he asked automatically.
"The Minister seems to be under the impression I am part of his entertainment!" Nara answered with disgust at the way he had mentally undressed her on the occasion she had greeted him initially onboard and for drinks earlier.
"Well, I will soon put him right" he responded as he kissed her gently to put her ease. "Thank you, by the way," he said.
"For what, Thomas?" she replied confused.
"For your respect towards the position of our guest my darling despite his lack of manners," he answered as he kissed her again.
"Always, my love," she replied after their quick kiss was over, pleased at his acknowledgement at her form of dress.
Having decided not to change being so late, he followed Nara through the yacht up into the dining room.
As they entered the room, the President's advisor Hussein Ali Yusuf greeted him warmly with a kiss on both cheeks followed by a similar greeting from Wasir, except in his case it was more of a formality and without warmth.
As Wasir wasn't going to introduce his young female companions who in direct contrast to Nara had dressed in a manner that left little to the imagination, it was left to her to do so politely. By their Slavic looks and accented English, Thomas guessed they were Ukrainian. They were blonde, blue eyed, plus had large enhanced breasts finished off with rounded bottoms. They were typical of the type of girls that worked the Cote D'Azur servicing the wealthy Arabs who tended to prefer the "curvy" look. It was a look it appeared Wasir went for as well, he mused.
Introductions out of the way they quickly sat down to dinner.
As the champagne arrived, knowing Hussein did not drink the staff, having been briefed by Nara earlier offered him a fresh watermelon juice. Wasir, having no such qualms waved the juice away and instead said "champagne," with no please nor thank you. Hussein, being ever the diplomat, started the conversation.
"My friend, I must say your Yacht is absolutely incredible! Madam Nara has made us most welcome," he said warmly with a nod of his head towards her, aware of her standing in his friend's life whilst Wasir lustfully eyed her up just as Nara had said he had done earlier.
When his partner in his cargo business from Turkmenistan had told him that Litchfield had one of the most famous and beautiful women from his country as a concubine he had incorrectly assumed she would be offered to him as part of his hospitality. However it wasn't until she greeted them formally with a slight bow did he realize just how beautiful she was, so much so he quickly had lost interest in the two blonde companions who had accompanied him.
"If her body were as beautiful as her face then I am really going enjoy her!" he had thought to himself at the time.
"What a treasure!" He said in Somali, eyes roaming all over her as Hussein introduced them enjoying the sight of her as she nervously nodded her head in respect towards them, an action he had automatically incorrectly assumed was because of his power and status at the time. Only to have his rising expectation ruined within an hour when having joined her in the lounge area of Litchfield's a great boat for drinks while they waited for him to arrive.
Catching sight of a picture of her on the table beside the sofa of her looking lovingly up at Litchfield in his arms with a be
autiful little girl who was obviously their daughter in front of them, he picked it up. As he did so he ruefully thought, "My friend is wrong!" in reference to his Turkmen partner. "She isn't his whore, she is his woman!" shaking his head knowing his chance to take her would not be offered. He silently murmured, "That will cost you, Litchfield! Tempting me with such a vision!" he told himself as he put down the image in disgust referring to the upcoming negotiation to be held later as one of the yacht's staff provided him with a Blue Label on the rocks.
Picking up his look of lust across the table, a look Nara had seen before from many men over the years, she took Thomas's hand in comfort. She knew killers, and she felt this man was one. It scared her.
"Thank you Hussein, I am indeed truly blessed," Thomas replied in response to the advisor's toast as he lifted her hand to his mouth to signal towards the peasant masquerading as a Minister at his side that she was indeed his lady and not for his pleasure. Something Wasir resentfully acknowledged also by the raising his glass if somewhat reluctantly.
Toast over and determined to punish Litchfield in their negotiations and the whores like dogs later, in frustration he ordered another drink. With various courses coming and going the conversation crossed many subjects from the history of Adwalland to the politics of the region. With the dessert course to arrive and been treated to the sight of Wasir getting drunker with each course and now past the point of just mentally undressing Nara with his blatantly leering looks and sensing she was becoming more and more uncomfortable, Thomas gave her the signal that it would be all right to escape. Picking up on it instantly, Nara's relieved eyes said thank you to him.
Then not wasting a further moment she immediately suggested to his bored companions that they retire to the ready room on the main deck and leave the men to their business.
20
Borama
Sitting with the President a month ago, sharing a sweet, bitter coffee, the staple drink of East Africa, and pleasantries out of the way the conversation was nervously opened by the worried man.
"My friend, I have a problem with Wasir!" Omar had said before launching into a diatribe about the man and his constant undermining of his position. He is the richest man in Adwalland! I have nothing!" he had continued emotions boiling over, waving his hands in the process.
"You have me, Omar," Thomas had countered evenly to his dramatics. "And the word of the President of Russia," he had continued in reference to the Russian Government offering technical support to his Army and Police forces which would be borne out of the Militia disbandment.
"Yes I know, but as you know he is using his money to gain loyalty within the new Army and Police forces," the President had countered. "And the support of Russia still needs to be approved by the leaders!" he then had added in reference to the tribal leaders of the land that he had to adhere to.
Thomas had looked at him as he talked and could tell the President was a man under pressure and reflected that had having fought for so long for the birth of their nation he now faced the added problem of having an ex-pirate erode away at his power base with the tribes as an intended power grab.
"What would you like me to do, my friend?" Thomas had asked to help, knowing it was almost certainly going to involve a payoff.
The man didn't need to be asked twice.
"Please, my friend, reach a deal with him over the provision of security to your drilling teams," the President had said.
Thomas nodded his head. He had taken out one of his Cuban Robustos from his cigar case and he offered one to the President. He knew he needed to give the President time to deal with the tribal elders while he waited for the first deployment of support by Russia, something that he had understood would happen over the next six months from the man who had also accompanied him as part the investment delegation from Russia on the trip and would eventually become the Ambassador to the country. As his African friend had taken the cigar, Thomas gave him the answer he knew he needed to hear.
"I will ask Hussein to organize that he comes to France as my guest in a month."
"So long?" the President had questioned.
"There's much I need to cover up to make sure my partners are happy," Thomas had replied, something that was only a half-truth, but he wasn't going to tell his friend. He needed to make sure that TLH's bases were covered politically.
The worry written on the President's face had told Thomas he felt it was too long. He had moved to put him at ease.
"Don't worry, Omar, we will find a suitable solution," he had said as he offered his gas lighter to the President.
"Thank you, my friend," a very relieved President had acknowledged.
21
Cote d'Azur
With the ladies departed, Hussein and Thomas, who had both risen as a sign of respect towards the women, sat back down with the drunk Wasir who hadn't bothered to get up.
Nervously, the President's Advisor moved the discussion towards the reason for the weekend.
"My friend," Hussein said, licking his lips nervously. "The Minister has a request that I have been charged with to discuss with you in regard to the security measures that need to be put into place for your drilling teams," he somewhat long-windedly offered on behalf of Wasir.
Thomas nodded his approval for Hussein to continue. Drunk, frustrated, and without the patience for a diplomatic approach, Wasir took over the meeting and went straight to the point.
"I need ten percent of all the revenues from your wells, one million U.S. dollars for my employees who will be selected to protect your interests and another one million for my expenses!"
As he listened to his statement, Thomas saw Hussein bulk at the figures. He agreed with him-two million U.S. dollars was a huge sum for security personnel in anybody's language, but it was the ten percent added element, giving him at least fifty million?U.S. dollars per year out of the ground once it was operational, that had made his statement outrageous.
"Over fifty million a year for security is rather steep," Thomas responded coolly as he actually thought, "Greedy bastard!"
"You can afford it my friend," Wasir responded with a toothy smile waving his hands around as a gesture toward his surroundings.
"Normally a security provider from the government receives a flat fee, not added incentives, as that goes to the Natural Resources Ministry," Thomas countered ignoring the rude hand gestures as to his wealth.
"We are a poor country who needs the support of our wealthy friends," Wasir said dismissing Thomas's reply, determined not to budge.
"Do you have a suitable figure in mind Thomas?" Hussain asked respectfully to at least start a negotiation he knew his President needed to succeed.
"I have no problem with the two million just not the percentage of revenues," Thomas said firmly.
"No percentage no deal!" the pirate said as he took yet another sip of his Blue Label that had been continually topped up through dinner.
"You are not authorized to speak on behalf of the President with that respect," Thomas replied with a piercing stare. It was a look that instantly made Hussein shift in his chair nervously as the two men fixed on each other.
"Maybe it would better if we finished our discussions tomorrow?" Hussain offered. With neither man backing down nor was Wasir unlikely to be sensible due to his alcohol fuelled state of mind, it would be a good time to call it night. His statement brought an instant change in focus from the Minister he ranted at his advisor in Somali.
By the look on the face of the advisor, Thomas immediately thought he had just threatened to kill him, though he didn't understand what he had said.
He certainly understood though what Wasir, having turned his gaze back towards to him, and said to him in Italian in an effort to show him he wasn't just some peasant from Somalia who could, be pushed around by rich white men.
"Only if you send me your whore for the night!"
Instantly Thomas's eyes flashed his demon appearing with force. It was a look that made Hussein feel a
shiver down his spine.
In measured flawless Italian like the devil Thomas replied, "You will leave my boat in the morning! You will take the two million I have offered. If you do not, I will cut off your balls and feed them to fishes for your insult."
In any other circumstances, he would have made Wasir pay the two million for the insult to the love of his life on pain of death, but he had given his word to his friend so instead he had offered the pirate a way out.
The fact that Litchfield had replied unexpectedly in fluent Italian to his insult just as Wasir's teachers did as a small boy had taken aback the pirate for he could tell Thomas meant what he said.
Although Hussein had no idea what had been said, the former teacher could sense both parties were at a point of no return. He was thoroughly terrified and not just because of the threat, he had just been on the receiving end of from Wasir.
While the ex-pirate, sensing through experience that now was not the time for a fight, not to mention still in shock having been called out by the Englishman's fluent Italian, he chose to listen to his survival instincts.
"Two million is acceptable," he said taking the offer and allowing Hussein to breathe again as catastrophe had been avoided. Having being a teacher in London before returning home, he wasn't used to 'the sharp end' of life.
"I will let the Captain know you're leaving in morning Minister," Thomas said with finality, letting Wasir know he was no longer welcome under his roof. He promptly left the room to join Nara.
As he did so, Wasir turned to the relieved Hussein and ordered, "Go and get my bitches and tell them to join me in my room!" in Somali.
"Ybeeldaaje," meaning "Chief," said the advisor in a subservient manner, praying that Wasir didn't carry through on his threat to cut out his tongue.
Sitting in the Master cabin on the sofa at the end of the bed having retired in the evening, Thomas picked up the phone and made his call to Adwalland to let the President know how the meeting went with his problem Minister.
He hadn't been on very long though before he was momentary distracted by Nara exiting their bathroom wearing the most incredible lace silk teddy. Covering the receiver he said, "La mia Signora di Bellezza!" receiving blown kisses in return from her.
Returning back to his call, he decided to finish it as quickly as possible so he could get his hands on Nara. He proceeded to brief the President as to his thoughts, including his disappointment at Wasir's attempt to extort fifty million for his own personal pocket.
With the conversation now reaching a natural end, not to mention Nara giving him her "best come to bed" look as she sat by him on the sofa stroking his arm and sinfully using her toes to rub his crotch that in response was stirring to life, he wrapped up the call.
"We will need to deal with him in the near future, Mr. President."
The President chose to ignore him. "I will see you in soon?" the President asked hopefully as he knew he needed Thomas's financial strength and help to ensure the chief's loyalty.
"Next month," he promised his friend.
Call ended, the phone replaced, Nara pounced and arrived on his lap, straddling him with her feet either side whispering huskily in Turkmen as she bent down to kiss him. "Take what is yours, my love."
As Thomas and Nara started to make love on The Libertine, the conversation between him and President started simultaneously?downloaded by two listening posts, one at GCHQ in Cheltenham the other at the FAPSI listening post based in Syria.
The download completed, the communication was immediately forwarded onto Navjot and Rebecca respectively under the terms of their nations shared intelligence agreement and the analysts of the SVR by the FAPSI.
On the shoreline in Nice, three surveillance teams of MI6, SAD, and SVR unbeknownst to each other were also sending their images from the day on their respective laptops to their masters.
22
Washington D.C. / London / Moscow
Arriving in Washington, London & Moscow almost within minutes of each other, yet unknown to each recipient, the transcript of the telephone conservation between the billionaire and the President of the world's newest nation was handled differently.
Navjot and his team retreated to the Cube together to listen to it.
Rebecca left it on her laptop unopened, as was the case with regard the photos that had been emailed as well.
Alexei was still unaware of the call and would remain so until his analysts had summarized it for him.
Navjot left the images to one of his team, who deemed the photos of limited importance and as such parked them in a file.
Later still Alexei was still unaware of them, he too having left them for his analysts to deem whether the information was important enough for his attention to be included in his Report.
Rebecca dropped her coffee the second she saw the pictures of Wasir Osman Hassan boarding his yacht!
23
Kenya 2006
"God's Place" is the loose translation of the word "Kenya", and for Rebecca would forever represent both the place that she had fallen in love and the place that had then cruelly taken that love away from her.
After a challenging tour in Baghdad's Green Zone liaising with the contractors tasked with the security of Iraq, the tracking and then relocating members of the failed state's abandoned chemical weapons program to ensure that terrorists or States engaged in the development of weapons of mass destruction didn't get their hands on them, she was then transferred to Nairobi. There she was to monitor the growing problem of Islamic terrorists from Britain and Pakistan that were making their way to Somalia for training to become the next the 'lambs to the slaughter' in the fight against the great Satan.
She had first met Chris Anderson on the famous Lord Delamare Terrace of the Norfolk Hotel where they were both staying while setting themselves up in Nairobi.
With his blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, sun-washed face scattered with one or two lines from his years spent in-country working for the Red Cross and at a muscular framed six-feet, to Rebecca he looked like her image of Hercules, and he had quickly swept her off her feet.
Until Chris appeared, relationships in Rebecca's life were just moments in time. He changed that in the instant they met. A surgeon by profession, principled, committed to injustices of the world, he had said to her in their first night together that he could never leave Africa.
"Africa haunts your soul," he had said and told her every time they discussed it.
Although they had been together for nearly two years, and despite knowing she was in love with him, Rebecca still hadn't him told him what she did really for a living.
Her reasoning was simple-she was terrified of losing him.
He knew her as "Cathy Benson," the Regional Asset Manager for London and Africa Loss Adjusters, not as "Rebecca Leriris," East Africa Section Chief for MI6, despite HR clearing him.
In the past, she had often used the service's regulations as justification for the ending of her relationships, as officers of the SIS weren't allowed to marry non-British nationals or even disclose their real names until they have been security vetted. But because he had become such an important part of her life she took the plunge and had declared their relationship to her superiors.
With her tour ending in just a few months and fast approaching in the back of her mind if not in reality, she was resigned to the fact that she was either going to have to bite the bullet and tell him or end it like she had always done in the past and return to Britain back to her real life.
It was a prospect she couldn't bear to think about but as was typical in their relationship he beat her to the punch so to speak. Lying in bed together after Chris had spent a hard month in South Sudan supporting the overworked doctors in the field, he had asked her to come to Lamu and Kiunga on the coast over the weekend with him so they could have a "mini-break."
Ever the agent, Rebecca had jumped at the chance to go with him having been tasked for intelligence on the area on the growin
g influence the Al Shabaab that had taken over much of south and central Somalia.
"We need an on-ground assessment whether AQ has established training camps in the area," Michael had said in their weekly briefings over the sat phone.
"I'll get on the case," she had replied without a second thought.
For adventure driven tourists of the world, Lamu is the epitome of what happens when the film the Arabian Nights has a relationship with the Blue Lagoon.
For the rich wealthy jet set of the world, it represents the end of a party circuit that starts in Gstaad and ends amongst the poverty of Lamu. The reason why the area had become so popular over the years amongst this unique set of adventure seekers was because for some of them who were backpackers in their youth in the 1970s, had returned to build their guarded villas on the Shela Beach, making the small little town Africa's own "Sodom and Gomorrah" with an underground of sex and drugs, with some of the beach boys doing the delivering in more ways than one.
Yet for all its excesses, it is in its proximity the border with Somalia there is an area called Kiunga, which is the nearest thing on Earth to purgatory outside a gulag in North Korea. With its islands it shelters an extensive system of creeks, channels, and mangrove forests that were the perfect safe haven for smugglers and pirates alike who in turn were the lifeblood of the terrorists.
The fact that Chris had just asked her to come to Kiunga was too good an opportunity to turn down even if she did feel guilty using her lover as an intelligence source.
As a direct consequence from having worked for many aid agencies over the last ten years the simple fact was his intelligence sources were much better than hers would be.
As they drove up to Lamu, he had told her had arranged to meet one such pirate with a good reputation for always delivering to get much needed supplies into Ras Kamboni.
"How did you meet him darling?" she had asked, ever the intelligence officer.
"One of my runners set it up," he had said without actually explaining how, despite her attempt to push him.
What Chris had told her though was that the little community on the Somali side of the border that had been on the U.S. radar since the early days after 9/11, when the U.S. had thought the town was used first for the bombings of the embassy in Nairobi and then the Mombasa hotel bombing by the Jihadist fighters, was in a desperate situation due to a takeover of the town by Al Qaeda.
Later on that night having had arrived at the little hotel while they had sat on the beach with a light wind brushing against her face looking at the map of the area Chris suddenly had said, "I know why my locals call it Dick's Head now!"
"Pardon?" she had replied giggling.
"Because it's a phallic spit of land extending out from the village!" he had added, showing her the map.
"Oh gosh! They're right! It is!" she had said, still giggling.
"Marry me?" he had said out of nowhere, interrupting her.
"WHAT!" Rebecca had replied her laughter stopping dead in her tracks as her mind had processed what he had just asked."You heard me Cath," he had responded.
"I?.I?" she had answered in s
hock.
"It's okay. I know darling," he had said, interrupting her and taking hold of her hand.
"Know what?" she had said, completely thrown by not just his proposal but also his line of questioning.
"That you're not just a Lost Adjuster," he had said squeezing her hand in the process.
A flood of emotions hit her all at once as her deception of the man she loved was out in the open and not because she had told him.
"How?" she had responded weakly.
"About a year ago, I sort of worked it out, when I had a series of probing chats with several friends from other NGOs, at the time it felt like an interview ?and well I put two and two together when I suddenly realized that I had never met any of your friends or family." He had smiled at her. "So, yes or no?" he had asked as she sat there in shock processing his words.
"This was why I fell in love him!" she had thought. "He has never put pressure on me to meet my friends or family, he accepted me warts and all." Her mind had processed all at once.
"But But? You don't know my real name" she had replied, tears in her eyes.
Suddenly dropping the map he had pulled her towards him. They had met in the middle and kissed each other.
"I am Chris," he had said after breaking away brushing away her long hair from her face followed by a small smile as he looked into her tear filled eyes.
"I am Rebecca," she had responded.
"Will you marry me, Rebecca?" he had asked this time using her real name, love in his eyes.
"Yes, my darling Chris. Yes!" she had replied as they kissed and then they had made love on the beach as the waves had rolled in around them.
24
Ras Kamboni 2006
Wasir Osman Hassan, due to his Clan links in Adwalland, had always had a reputation for delivering. In the south, on the Kenyan border where the Foreign Islamists were using the area as a base camp, his links weren't as strong and as such, he was suffering.
With the only healthcare available in Ras Kamboni in the form of a small pharmacy, the Al-Qaeda foreigners had contracted him to deliver to them their medical supplies from the Yemen.
Unfortunately, despite a heavy investment of bribes, Wasir, because the Kenyan coastguards were receiving more money from the Americans to stop the deliveries, and after the loss of another boat this morning, had come to the bitter conclusion that it was time to cut his losses and run.
Unable to fulfill the foreigner's delivery, he was in a vile mood as this meant he was now going to have to purchase another load out of his own pocket to meet the order as one didn't stiff or disappoint a client like the Al Qaeda if you wanted to survive.
His mood greatly improved while sitting in his little villa picking his teeth when one of his runners briefed him about an Englishmen in Lamu who was looking for a boat captain to bring into Ras Kamboni some much needed medical supplies from the Red Crescent Society for the little pharmacy to distribute.
"Arrange the meeting!" He barked at the runner. A plan formed in his mind before getting up to select one of the terrified young girls that he intended to use for his evening's entertainment.
25
Lamu 2006
Small, personal, and considered to be the perfect resting place after a safari or as a hideaway holiday from modern life, The Peponi Hotel, run by the Korschen family, who had opened it in 1967 to look after the hedonistic party seekers from Gstaad, was the reason why Chris and Rebecca had chosen it for their romantic weekend.
Walking into the bar of the small hotel, Wasir Osman Hassan spotted his 'runner' sitting in the corner with a man he was assumed was the Englishman and a very beautiful woman.
The runner having spotted Wasir as he walked into the bar immediately got up out of respect to his chieftain in order to offer his chair to him.
"It's good to meet you, Mr. Wasir," Chris said as a way of an introduction standing up in respect earning a single nod in return from Wasir whose eyes were instantly on Rebecca who in turn felt he was undressing her as he looked at her.
"May I introduce my fianc?e, Miss Benson," Chris said ignoring his lack of acknowledgement or manners to finish the introductions by indicating her position in his life to the pirate having spotted his obvious leer in her direction.
Again, Wasir said nothing; instead he offered a further nod in return. As far as he was concerned women existed for pleasure and creating sons, of which he had two from his three wives, and certainly not for attending meetings between men.
With the arrival of the waiter Rebecca asked if he would like a drink.
"Whiskey!" said Wasir towards the waiter, ignoring her.
26
London -Present Day
For what seemed like ten minutes when in fact it was just a minute, Rebecca sat in numb shock at the screen of her computer staring at the face of the man who had kil
led Chris as the steaming coffee continued to drip over her desk from the cup she dropped.
Hearing the coffee cascading off her desk and shaking herself free of Wasir's image, on autopilot Rebecca got up and cleaned up her desk with her emotions in turmoil.
"It's the Captain!" she said out loud, a fact she later confirmed when she had read the notes from the team in Nice.
"Interior Minister of Adwalland, Wasir Osman Hassan boarding The Libertine," it had said.
Composing herself, she sat back down to gather her emotions.
When the Kenyans had told her that Christopher had been found dead over the border in Somalia she just couldn't believe it. He would have never crossed the border.
"He an experienced aid worker, I don't believe it," she had said to her counterpart in the NSIS, the Kenyan Intelligence service.
"Cathy, I am extremely sorry," was all he had said.
Because he was found murdered over the border she had no choice but to tell Michael that Chris was aware of her true identity because they just became engaged.
His response was immediate. He lifted her out that day, thereby rendering her powerless to question or make her own enquiries into his death allowing the official report to stand.
"Although he was foolhardy crossing the border to assess the situation in Ras Kamboni, his death was not because of kidnapping but instead tragically because his Toyota hit a landmine," the report had read.
No mention was made of him illegally smuggling medical supplies across the border because neither Kenya nor the Red Cross wanted the embarrassment.
In her heart, Rebecca had always known it was the Pirate Captain who had killed him and stole the medical supplies.
Despite many attempts and enquires since his death, from the reading of prisoner transcripts to intelligence reports supplied from the Somali's NSS nobody could find the Captain she had met in Luma named Wasir. Until now! When out of the blue when he appears on the yacht of a billionaire she was investigating.
Over the years out of a sense of loyalty whilst continuing to contain her emotions by throwing herself into her work, she had kept an eye on his elderly parents, who only knew her as Cathy Benson. It was the only time she had grieved as she stood by his parents and buried him in their small village in Hampshire and vowed.
"I will find your killer, my darling! God punishes! Man takes revenge!" she had said in Yiddish, her Jewish upbringing spurring her to act and finally, God had answered her and was going to allow the opportunity for her to do so.
27
Washington D.C.
The conversation between Thomas and the President of Adwalland brought a pensive look from Navjot. Stroking his beard, he processed the essence of the discussion?and after another moment of reflection?and a?review?of?his keynotes, he looked up into the eyes of his team.
"Well, that was certainly interesting," he said.
"Did Litchfield just suggest that they take out Wasir?" Clara Martinez, the logistic planning officer and the number two of the group, asked.
"Yep", Peter Obraniak, the group's communications expert replied.
"Greedy bastard though, isn't he?" said Joe Tonelli, his Behavioral Analyst, as if in support of why Litchfield might have made such a suggestion.
"Fifty million U.S. dollars per year for security to a pirate was steep in anybody's language," Navjot answered as if in agreement.
"Well, we now know for certain he appears to be the perfect choice to prod the tribal chiefs," Joe offered.
"So are we going to push it along Boss?" asked Pete.
"I think so?let's get Reza on the horn and just 'up' the time table a little," Navjot answered. His mind already processing that if they didn't get the ball moving then SAD options were going be limited as it was clear that Litchfield intended to remove him from the picture with a bullet.
"Pete; can you find out what Andrew Martin is up to?" Navjot then asked.
"Xerulla?" Clara replied using the name of Martin's security business somewhat surprised. For although they had used him in Iraq to provide contracted support he was pretty much small fry compared to the firms of Tim Spicer's AEGIS and Prince's Academi, the consultants the Agency traditionally used for private security operations.
"Yeah? We going to need some technical support for Wasir, and it cannot be directly linked to us," Navjot countered, answering her question.
Earlier Ali and Navjot had discussed the fact the GSG were going to need to put some "contractors" on the ground to provide support for any effort Wasir made to take over the country or a scapegoat if the operation was scrapped, as had happened in Simon Mann's attempt to take over Equatorial Guinea, they had narrowed the list to a couple of firms that would fit with an ambitious Indian.
Andrew Martin, a former Lieutenant Colonel of the Welsh Guards, represented one such individual out of the original list of about twenty.
They finally settled on Martin because unlike Princes Academi or Spicer AEGIS that had won the principal contracts in Iraq, his company had bounced along the bottom.
Martin's firm was originally formed to provide law enforcement training, logistics, close quarter training, and security services to legally recognized governments in the late 1990s. Over the years, the former Lt. Colonel's company had held contracts with multinational corporations and small carpetbaggers engaged in the extraction of natural resources around the world. But lately, as the world through improved satellite communications and exponentially improved iPhone technology, the use of Twitter, and YouTube, had become aware of some of more dubious techniques these firms and employed. Consequently, Martin's traditional client base had set about trying to change their images to protect their brand.
A casualty of this change of policy was the employment of Mercenaries in the mold of Martin. As a consequence, he had struggled badly.
With a couple of ex-wives, four children, not to mention a country estate to maintain back in England, together with the fact that the various mining companies he held stakes in were running out of money; both Ali and Navjot had reckoned that former Guardsman would jump at the chance to work for a wealthy Indian diamond merchant looking to secure his new oil-gas assets in crisis-torn East Africa.
"See if you can find somebody who has links with him so we can use them as a back door access to recruit him," offered Navjot thinking that the classic false flag strategy would work well.
"Sure, Boss. I will get on it straight away," Pete answered.
28
London Two Months Later
On reaching passport control having arrived at Heathrow on the "red eye" from Washington, a smiling Navjot presented his NOC Gouramangi Singh British Passport to the officer on Passport Control desk.
Despite being a proud American through and through, the SAD operative up to the age of thirteen had been brought up in Reading, England and as such, he had never lost his English accent. So much so that when he went to Peary, the famous Farm located in Williamsburg, Virginia on being selected for NOC work, his trainers recommended that his cover identities, if possible, were to be always linked back to a British education.
This meant as far as the British Intelligence Services were concerned he was undeclared asset on their soil and by definition 'illegal.'
Passing through the control without incident, he walked out of the Arrivals Hall to the pick-up location.
Met by his driver, they joined the early morning traffic and headed for central London.
The "legend," is the slang for a NOC background was an expensive operation to maintain because it was also a fully-fledged diamond trading business not just a front.
Initially, from a standing start both he and his blonde, blue-eyed wife Lori, whom he had met at the Farm and then married, had created the retail business from scratch by buying and reselling diamonds in Mumbai and Dubai. Then once the reputation of the business was established they had entered the Indian community of Dubai. There, they had set about building the brand of the business, through pl
acements into the society magazines of the area, sponsorships of various events ranging from cricket to fashion shows and the establishment of glossy retail stores in the Five Star Hotels that were being built on money borrowed against the sands owned by the ruling families, before finally moving on to Mumbai three years later to establish their reputations well and truly below and above the line.
Yet it wasn't until just before the end of the decade that the company had started to become noticed on the world stage and in the process had become far bigger than either they or the Agency had ever originally imagined and all achieved by an astute investment into an Alaskan diamond production business.
As to how that had come about was all down to David Young who was at that time a Deputy Director of the Agency.
Taking opportunity to upgrade the Legend he ensured that the CIA's Private Equity firms and key oversight committees steered the Alaskan State Government in the direction the GSG.
To a director like Young, who had internally supported the view with an argument that the world's next Cold War would be fought over resources like water, oil, and gas and rare metals used in advanced technologies, it made sense. With Al Qaeda all but defeated, he ordered Navjot and his team reassigned with a plan for them to act as the United States' point in this new battle.
On reaching the Carlton Tower Hotel in Knightsbridge at seven thirty in the morning, Navjot got out of the Mercedes, walked briskly through the hotel, and right into the famous Rib Room to join his newly hired Head of Security, Tony Wilson.
He had chosen the dining room for the meeting as it was his alter-ego Mr.?Singh's local restaurant of choice when in London because it was near Mr. Singh's townhouse in Walton Row.
A former Major in the UAE Defense Forces and prior to that an Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) in the Welsh Guards, the stiffed backed man of over six-foot-three-inches had been over the moon when a recruitment agent rang him out of the blue at his Thailand home informing him he had got him an interview with a rich Indian who was looking to bump up his security for his expanding business in Africa.
With an ex-wife in England, a young Thai wife, plus two families to support, Wilson had thought when he looked GSG up on the web that his Christmas had come early. Even more so when he found it came with a package of ?120,000/- per year plus all the fringe benefits. Consequently it hadn't taken him long to confirm he would take the job after his first meeting with Mr. Singh.
Apart from the making sure the security at the shops and transportation was all spot on, a job he could do in his sleep, Tony thought his life was on the up.
That had quickly changed, however, when his new employer had asked him to look at bringing onboard some technical consultants for the group's new investment interests they were intending to build.
Not wanting to show his contacts in the world of former "Ruperts" were limited, he had approached his former Commanding Officer Lt. Colonel Andrew Martin. Of course, Tony was completely unaware that was the only reason he had been hired in the first place.
This was going to be Navjot's first meeting with Martin.
"Mr. Singh good to see you, Sir," said the former RSM as he got up to shake his hand.
"Good to see you Tony," replied Navjot with a smile.
"May I introduce my former Commanding Officer Lt. Colonel Andrew Martin," the ex-RSM said almost barking his name as though he would do on parade.
"Absolute pleasure, Mr. Singh," offered the former guardsman in a crisp public schooled accent in comparison to Tony's East London one.
"Likewise Colonel," Navjot replied, knowing British Army Officers loved their titles.
"The Major here was telling me all about your little project you have got going on in Adwalland. I must it all sounds rather good!" Andrew said taking over the meeting instantly. As he did so, Navjot chuckled at the use of Tony's faux rank from his days in the United Arab Emirates armed forces.
"Well, let's hope so! This is the first time we moved out of diamond mining!" Navjot replied as he sat down.
The next five minutes consisted of ordering of breakfasts, but as the menus were handed back to the waiter, Navjot got right down to business.
"We are pretty new in the country but we have an excellent relationship with the Interior Minister who will provide members of his Clan to undertake the day to day security of the teams, but he has," he paused, taking a sip of his English Breakfast tea for effect, "requested that we assist him with equipment, technical support, and training," he continued with a smile as he put the napkin to his lips. It wasn't true of course, as Navjot hadn't even got to that point with Wasir.
The second the Indian had finished his statement Martin's mind began working overtime.
When his secretary had let him know he had a Mr. Wilson on the phone he had thought he was going to be in for one of those typical begging calls that he received from time to time from his former employees or NCOs asking whether he had any work.
Unfortunately, the truth was he was almost broke himself as the shareholdings he had in all his companies he had previously invested in and earned fees from providing his security teams to had virtually dried up as the world media had recently made its mission to hold them accountable as part of the "Twitter revolutions" in the world dictatorships.
In the old days when media had meant walking around with heavy cameras it had been far easier to manage the floor, but with every phone in the world now loaded with a camera and worst still Internet ready, it had become much harder to control. As a result he had suffered badly because he hadn't won any of the larger contracts that were handed out as part of the Iraq Mission. Yes, he had done well in the early years earning some high fees, but that train had long left the station.
He couldn't believe it when Wilson actually rang him up to offer him a job!
"How the bloody hell did Wilson get that job!" he thought as the RSM asked him to meet with his employer.
Discreet enquiries made with some of friends in the security services told him that, despite his high profile retail business that was worth about a billion U.S. dollars according to The Times' Rich List, the man was also suspected of doing questionable deals with Taliban agents along the way via the purchase of conflict diamonds from the Congo. That didn't bother Martin one bit. He just saw the much needed dollar signs.
"That sort of help does not come cheap Mr. Singh. Any idea what kind of equipment he has indicated he wants?" Andrew asked.
"Tony has the list," Navjot said pretending not to understand the ins and outs of the business.
It was the exact opposite, in fact, as Clara, Pete, and he had sat down and worked out what was needed?having?assessed Wasir's capabilities during their visit and then in turn gave the list to Wilson on behalf of the Minister.
"I just want to know how much?" Navjot continued as Tony pulled out his list from his file on the table and gave it to his former Colonel.
As Andrew scanned through the list, he knew instantly it wasn't going to be used for technical assistance.
The Mil-17 Helicopter with counterinsurgency weaponry alone was going to cost in the region of five million U.S. dollars. He could see a nice commission on that item only for himself alone. He was hooked and went straight for the jugular so to speak.
"Well, looking at this, old boy, the equipment alone going to cost at least ten million with my twenty per cent handling fee on top to do it as it's sensitive, to say the least," the former Colonel answered without emotion.
"Men for the technical support would also cost about a million in salaries and bonuses," he continued calculating the commission as he went.
Navjot listened carefully and pretended to nod.
"What's the rest of your fee, Colonel?" he asked while he stroked his beard.
"Two million upfront and another two on conclusion of the contract plus a three percent non-diluted shareholding in any natural resources companies that are established or floated from Adwalland," Martin answered without hesitation.
/> Although greed always disappointed him, Navjot wasn't surprised.
"Let Tony know your account details," Navjot said offering his hand to the Mercenary, who as he took it was thinking he that he would use the money to sort out that damp on his current?family's mansion that he lived in.
The Devil's Handshake Page 2