The militia boss grinned. “Bring lots of diamonds. I think all of these ones will be good.”
***
MADIINO, SOMALIA
Kurtz finished cleaning his AK and snapped the receiver cover in place with fingers black with carbon and oil. Maintaining the weapon was a cathartic process that he conducted at the end of every mission. Not only was it good practice, but it also allowed him to gather his thoughts and process the often-traumatic events that occurred during a PRIMAL operation.
The mission to recover the girls had become intensely personal for Kurtz. He and Kruger had met with the families of the girls who’d been kidnapped, to gather intel. One look at their grief-stricken faces was all he’d needed to dedicate himself to finding them. A former German Counter-Terrorist policeman, Kurtz was utterly committed to making the world a better place.
Kruger was already inside the buried shipping container that served as their armory. The broad-shouldered South African was servicing his own equipment under the supervision of his dog, Princess. The burly Ridgeback Mastiff-cross turned and ambled across to greet Kurtz as he placed his AK on a rack.
“Debrief in five?” asked Kurtz as he patted the dog.
“Ja,” replied Kruger.
He left the shipping container and crossed the twenty yards of junkyard that separated the buried shipping containers from a rusted hangar. The odd assortment of buildings was part of a complex that belonged to Toppie, a colleague from Kruger’s Recce days. The eccentric bush pilot and smuggler had built what resembled a cross between a military scrapyard and an apocalyptic fortress. It was the perfect base of operations for their hunt for the girls.
Shoving open a side door to the hangar Kurtz was greeted by aggressive barks. Five of Princess’s brothers and sisters swarmed him with wet noses and slobbery tongues. “OK, OK.” Kurtz shoved his way through the excited animals to a Mi-17 helicopter. Originally a transport helicopter, Toppie had recently upgraded it into a formidable gunship. Soviet-era rocket and cannon pods hung from four hardpoints under stub wings, purchased with a recent injection of funds from PRIMAL.
“Just a minute!” Toppie said before rolling out from beneath one of the rocket pods and climbing to his feet. Squat and rotund with a heavy beard that reached the center of his chest, Toppie looked more outlaw biker than arms dealing, pilot mercenary.
“How’s it, bro?” he asked Kurtz when he was closer.
“Gut, ja. Kruger and I are going to conduct a debrief with Booyah if you’re free.”
Toppie wiped his hands on a rag as he turned from the helicopter and made eye contact with Kurtz. “For sure.” He paused. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, eh. We’re going to find those girls. All in good time.”
“Ja, of course,” Kurtz said half-heartedly. He turned, ducked under a drooping helicopter blade and navigated through the piles of helicopter parts that cluttered the side of the hangar. Exiting through a side door he stepped into the operations center that Toppie had constructed for them.
It consisted of two shipping containers welded together side by side. The walls inside had been removed and the exterior paneled with wood. A pair of air conditioners kept the temperature at a pleasant level.
Their Somali scout, Booyah, was already inside, standing in front of a large map of Somalia and surrounding countries. He was studying the red pins that Kurtz had placed at the locations of camps they had raided.
On hearing Kurtz enter the lean-faced former pirate turned and shot him a nod. “Kurtz, I’ve got good news.”
“What is it?” he asked, sitting at the central table.
The oil-stained wood was strewn with maps and printouts of aerial surveillance photos of their potential targets. More imagery was plastered across the walls, including a poster with photos of the seventy teenage girls who remained missing. From their school photos they stared out at the men who had dedicated themselves to finding them. For Kurtz, it was a daily reminder that so far they had only rescued thirty.
“We think we’ve found another camp across the border in Ethiopia.” Booyah was the team’s leading source of intelligence. Formerly a pirate, he’d worked for the man who had hired Kurtz and Kruger to find the kidnapped girls. That man’s name was Al-Mumit, the self-proclaimed Pirate King of Somalia and he was single-handedly funding the operation.
“Who’s your source?” asked Kurtz as Toppie and Kruger entered the room.
“A family link. They said that the local militia leader’s name is Dula. He’s a smuggler with ties to Al-Shabaab and ONLF based in Omorate,” he explained, referring to the two Islamist militant groups most active in Somalia and surrounds. “My contact says he’s been throwing a lot of cash around.”
“So he might be the one selling the girls to the white smuggler?” asked Kruger as he joined Kurtz at the table. Toppie helped himself to a soda from a bar fridge.
“What else do we know about this Dula?” asked Kurtz.
“He’s got several camps.” Booyah directed their attention to the map. “Moves around a lot to avoid the authorities.”
“Which is going to make it hard to pin him down.”
“Yes, but he’s in an area with lots of people. It will be easy to infiltrate and work out exactly where he is. Then you fly in with the helicopter and rescue the girls,” said Booyah.
“Good plan, ja,” added Toppie. “Maybe this time I can use some rockets to shake things up a little.”
Kruger snorted. “You and your damn rockets.”
“Hey, you get to shoot these bastards all the time,” said Toppie.
“It’s not a competition!” snapped Kurtz. “We’ve been hunting for two months, and so far we’ve only found thirty schülerin.”
The comment plunged the room into silence. Booyah, Kruger and Toppie all stared at Kurtz, solemnly.
“We need to step up our operations or they’re going to be dead.”
The trill of Kurtz’s phone broke the tomb-like atmosphere of the room. He pulled the device from his pocket and checked the number. It was Al-Mumit. The Pirate King would be looking for an update on the hunt. Kurtz slid the phone back into his pants. He’d call their employer back later. “This Dula looks promising. Let’s put together a plan and get after him.”
CHAPTER 3
THE SANDPIT, ABU DHABI
James Castle, or Ice as his colleagues knew him, spun his massive shoulder as he extended his arm and shoved a floor-to-ceiling punching bag with his palm. At the same time, he sidestepped as he snatched his pistol from its concealed holster inside his belt-line and fired two plastic ball bearings into a man-shaped paper target. Holstering the airsoft gun he inspected the target. His pellets had punched two neat holes through the bridge of the zombie terrorist’s nose.
Ice flexed his artificial left hand as he stepped back to repeat the drill. The former CIA operative had lost his hand when he’d been severely injured in Afghanistan. The blast that had destroyed his limb had also left his face heavily scarred. Mitch had designed him a state-of-the-art prosthetic that worked as well, if not better than the original. The joke among the PRIMAL team was that Mitch was slowly turning the six foot seven blue-eyed blonde operative into the Terminator.
“Nice shooting,” said a gravely voice from the doorway of the three-bay garage that served as their gym. He nodded and turned to the bald African American. Vance, the Director of Operations for PRIMAL, was dressed with his usual flair: a garish Hawaiian shirt, linen pants and leather slip-on sandals. The outfit accented his barrel chest and bulging biceps.
“Yeah, when you gonna put me in, coach?”
Vance chuckled. “You know as well as I do that the whole team’s been benched.”
“Except for Kurtz and Kruger. They’ve got a mission.”
“Well technically, it’s not a PRIMAL mission.”
“Yeah, well at least they’re making a difference.”
Ice walked across to a workbench in the corner of the garage, unloaded his pistol, and removed his holster and
belt. “Coffee?”
“Right on.”
The two men entered the luxury beachfront villa that contained what remained of PRIMAL’s command element. The organization had previously numbered nearly a hundred operatives and had been based at a hidden island facility in the South West Pacific. However, compromise by the CIA had resulted in a significant downsizing, relocation and ultimately, hiatus.
Now, the Sandpit was merely a monitoring site, PRIMAL’s arsenal of weaponry and equipment nowhere to be seen. The closest thing to a firearm was the replica pistol Ice used for training. Weapons were not something anyone wanted to get caught with in a country that regularly enforced the death penalty.
Ice and Vance had initially started the vigilante organization together. Disgruntled CIA operatives, they were given a unique opportunity from the son of a wealthy Emirati extremist. Decisive action had resulted in their retirement from government work and the establishment of the world’s only truly independent covert operations team.
Chen Chua, the Chief of Intelligence, was already in the kitchen firing up the espresso machine.
“Long black and a chai latte please, barista,” barked Vance as he and Ice sat at a sleek marble breakfast bar.
“Do I look like a hipster?” he shot back.
“You’ve got skinny little hipster arms,” Ice said, with a grin. “Must be all that CrossFit.”
There was a good-natured rivalry between the three men that stemmed from their differences in exercise methodologies. Ice and Vance were both powerlifters and had solid builds. Chua, an American of Chinese descent, had a lean wiry frame that favored high intensity over power.
“Yeah, well all that bulk’s gonna catch you out big man,” said Chua. “Too much weights and not enough speed work,” he continued in his best New Zealand accent.
“Once Were Warriors,” added Vance, identifying the source of the quote.
“On the money,” confirmed Chua as he poured two espresso shots and commenced steaming milk for the latte.
As the machine squealed Ice gazed out of the floor to ceiling windows, over the pool and past the beach to the Arabian Gulf. In the distance he could see a tanker cruising out to the Gulf of Oman. The ‘Sandpit’, as the team called the residence, was a great place to live but it wasn’t for Ice. Nearing fifty, the battle-scarred operative still longed to get out into the field and do what he did best, track down bad guys and serve out justice.
“So, Chua and I have been discussing a new operational concept,” Vance said interrupting his thoughts.
Ice’s focus was snapped back to the kitchen. “Yeah?”
Vance chuckled. “Thought that might get your attention.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Small and nimble,” said Chua as he placed their coffees on the countertop. “Operatives, or pairs of operatives, linked in with trusted agents inside government agencies.”
“So no centralized command. No more Sandpit?” asked Ice.
“A smaller C2 element that’s mobile with less infrastructure,” said Vance. “We get our missions from our interaction with other agencies. We pick and choose what we go after.”
“Doesn’t that increase our risk?”
Chua shook his head. “No, only a single operative, or at worst a pair, will have contact with the agency person. Think Al-Qaeda or a US Special Forces model. If our link with an agency goes sour, our people cut contact and disappear.”
“And if they get wrapped up they can only compromise one layer back. Which will ultimately be a cutout.”
Ice sipped from his coffee.
“However, Chua and I also think we’re going to need a contingency element. A heavy hitter who can augment the pairs when and if required.” Vance paused. “That sound like something you’d be interested in?”
He lowered his cup, nodding. “Hell yeah, get me in the game coach.”
***
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
Manfred Lisker strolled into Mossad’s headquarters wearing a well-cut navy suit with a leather briefcase under his arm. Balding with glasses and an academic build a casual observer may have assumed he was one of the bean counters, an accountant responsible for keeping the spy agency’s books in order. The reality was very different. Lisker ran Mossad’s Special Operations Department. That meant that all paramilitary and military action sponsored by the agency came under his authority. He literally decided who lived and who died.
The heavily armed guards at the building’s access control point nodded respectfully as Lisker swiped through inch thick blast doors into the foyer of Mossad HQ. The gaggle of staff clustered around the elevators parted as he approached, their conversation dying to a whisper.
They left him to ride the elevator alone and he selected floor twelve. When it opened he swiped through another door and turned right into a long corridor. At the end he arrived at the Director of Mossad’s office.
A secretary spotted him as he entered and leaped to the door. “He’s waiting for you, sir.”
As he pushed the door open a young officer emerged with a stack of files in his arms. Behind him, the director appeared.
“Manfred, come in.”
He entered the expansive office and stood in front of the desk as Director Atzmoni took his seat.
“Please, sit.”
Lisker made himself comfortable in one of the chairs. “How’s the family, Caleb?”
“Good, Manfred. Are you going to make Benjamin’s Bar Mitzvah this Sunday?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. They grow up so fast.”
“That they do. Sorry to cut straight to business, but I’ve got a very full day. As you know, there have been significant funding cuts as a result of changes to the counterterrorism budget. I’ve had to make some hard decisions on what I can and cannot afford to fund. Unfortunately, your Proteus project has not made the cut.”
Lisker exhaled. “The Proteus project is the future of our agent recruitment.”
“There is no doubt that the project has shown promise. However, it is decades, maybe more, from showing any payoff and I have more pressing matters that require attention.”
Lisker knew better than to attempt to argue the point. The Director was a man of absolutes and once he’d made a decision very little could change his mind. However, he was a reasonable man, and Lisker knew that the closing of one door might provide the goodwill to open another.
“Disappointing but understandable. As you are aware, I am all about delivering capability now as well as in the future. Our recent success employing proxy forces through Tariq Ahmed and his company, Lascar Logistics, is evidence of that. My team has been able to leverage external assets at minimal cost and risk to the agency.”
“Yes, both you and agent Bachman have had an element of success in running Lascar assets.”
Lisker snorted. “Sir, Bachman is interacting with a foot soldier. I have leverage and access to Tariq Ahmed, CEO of the largest logistics company in the Middle East and the Arab world.”
“Bachman seems to have developed a level of rapport with her foot soldier.”
“You know as well as I do, Caleb, rapport is limited. Real influence is achieved through leverage.”
The director pondered the comment. “Not a believer in the old adage, you catch more flies with honey?”
“I speak from twenty-five years of experience. I’ve seen agents with so-called loyalty and rapport betray their handlers at the drop of a hat. Real power is holding the leash, not coaxing the hound.”
Atzmoni nodded. “You’re right.”
“Agent Bachman is to be commended for her endeavor. However, a source as influential as Tariq Ahmed needs to be run with an element of finesse. I think it is best that I personally handle all engagement with him and his associates, with oversight by yourself of course.”
“You want exclusivity?”
“Yes. Ahmed is a fox and he will slip out from under our thumb if he isn’t handled delicately.”
“H
is value is undeniable. I want weekly updates on your activities.”
“Of course. I’ll have the necessary changes made to the compartment and associated intelligence.”
“I’ll inform Agent Bachman and her team.”
“Appreciated, Caleb. Is there anything else you needed?”
“That is all. Future funding for Proteus has already been redirected, I’m sure you will manage its closure discreetly. Now, I’ve got an oversight committee meeting to prepare for.” Atzmoni rose and shook his hand. “I’ll see you on the weekend.”
Once Lisker had left his boss’s office, he took a phone from his jacket and dialed his head of operations. “Set me up a meeting with Daniel Ginsberg.”
***
EL LEH, ETHIOPIA
When he returned to the abandoned school Krenich found Dula sitting on his barrel smoking the same brand of cigarette. Three armed Somalis stood guard over the group of twenty girls he’d tested.
“Are the tests in?” Dula asked between puffs.
Krenich nodded. “The results were not as good as I hoped. Only six of the girls passed.”
Dula grinned revealing a set of tobacco stained teeth. “Yeah, but you pay three times the price and I can sell the others to Al-Shabaab for wives. They don’t care what’s wrong with them as long as they have a pussy.” Dropping from the barrel Dula swaggered across to where the girls were huddled. “What ones you want?”
Krenich took a slip of paper from his pocket and read out six numbers. Dula gestured to the girls and his men unlatched the collars on their necks and shoved them to one side. He watched, emotionless as one of those selected clung to another girl and screamed. The younger of the two, he guessed her age at around twelve, had not been selected. He didn’t know who had the worse deal, the girl being handed over to Doctor Morrison or the one who’d find herself married to a terrorist.
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