Black Flag

by David Ricciardi

  Pickens had the butt of the machine gun resting on his hip, the barrel angled up through the open window. Though there was no indication that they’d been seen, good tradecraft dictated that they take precautions. They spent two hours running a surveillance detection route that took them outside the city and back in, through high-security neighborhoods and ones with none at all. By the time they pulled into their central Mogadishu safe house, they were confident that they weren’t being followed.

  Jake parked close to the building and killed the vehicle’s interior lights. The two Agency operatives manhandled their prisoner directly through the basement’s exterior doors and into an area they’d isolated with sheets hung from the ceiling. Pickens secured Mahad to a chair with more zip-ties, then stood behind him and removed the hood.

  Jake slapped him across the face, hard.

  He and Pickens were dressed in dusty camo fatigues and jungle boots. Each had a black shemagh wrapped around his head that revealed nothing but his eyes.

  Mahad squinted at the halogen work lights that shone in his face, but he was able to see the video camera mounted on a tripod in front of him and the huge serrated knife that was resting on the wooden stool next to Jake. As a man who’d done horrible things to others, it didn’t take long for his imagination to leap to a worst-case scenario.

  “Salaam-alaikum,” said Jake. He had spent some time in Yemen the prior year and mimicked its distinctive accent.

  The prisoner had been sweating so heavily that the duct tape fell from his face when he tried to speak.

  “Wa—”

  Jake slapped him again. Harder.

  “Wa . . . alaikum . . . salaam.”

  Mahad flinched as he spoke each word, wary of being hit again, but his apprehension was soon replaced by a much greater, and far more legitimate fear. Jake lifted the sixteen-inch knife from the stool and rotated the blade a few times, ensuring that the spotlights glinted off its polished steel blade.

  “We have a problem, brother,” Jake said. Though most Somalis switched effortlessly between Somali and Arabic, the Americans stuck to Arabic to stay in character.

  Jake thrust the knife an inch deep into the wooden stool.

  The two Americans were pretending to be al-Shabaab militants. The terrorist group had once been the youth wing of the Islamic Courts Union and, upon its rebirth, it invaded the void created by the absence of a central Somali government, attempting to assert authority over every aspect of daily life. It was infamous for committing frequent and arbitrary executions. Espionage, collaboration, adultery, and apostasy were the most common charges, but the radicals saw nothing outside their purview and, like others who’d corrupted their faith, the rules didn’t apply to them.

  Jake and Pickens spent the next ninety minutes unloading an elaborate fiction onto Mahad. They accused the pirate of cooperating with the Somali National Intelligence and Security Agency in the killing of six of their fighters. Jake kept calling him “Ali” and ignored Mahad’s protests that they had the wrong man. Pickens slapped the prisoner around—hard enough to ensure that his survival was not a foregone conclusion. The man was tough, but all resistance ended the instant Jake turned on the video camera and yanked the enormous knife from the stool.

  Taped beheadings were a specialty of radicalized Islamists.

  Jake shouted a dozen rapid-fire questions as he approached with the knife. Halfway through the list, Jake asked the Somali who he worked for.

  There was no hesitation, no bumbling, no searching for a plausible lie.

  The answer came instantaneously.

  Yaxaas.

  TWENTY

  IT PLUNGED THE whole operation into chaos.

  Jake and Pickens had expected their captive to confirm that Badeed was the pirate leader, but Mahad’s identification of Yaxaas forced the Americans to review the logic behind their theory, including their determination that the pirate gang of eight was behind the attacks. They went through every assumption and conclusion step-by-step, but neither man found any flaws in the reasoning.

  Jake was confident that Mahad had been telling the truth. He had clearly been afraid for his life during the initial interrogation and answered the questions without hesitation. During subsequent rounds of questioning, Mahad had asserted that he worked merely as a deckhand on the pirate ship, but he became guarded as the questioning focused less on the killing of the six al-Shabaab militants and more on Yaxaas.

  Pickens knew of Yaxaas and, while he was a powerful warlord, the CIA officer never knew him to be involved in piracy. They needed more information. They pulled everything CIA had on Badeed and Yaxaas: photos, known business interests and associates, financial networks. Badeed had a long history with piracy and Yaxaas had none, but Yaxaas’s criminal enterprises had grown dramatically in the past decade while Badeed had diversified into many legitimate businesses. The Agency had also requested voice and communications intercepts, but those would take time—assuming the warlords still used electronic devices. Many criminals and terror networks in the post-Snowden era had reverted to sending messages via couriers on motorcycles.

  There was nothing to break the tie, and CIA didn’t have the luxury of time while men and money were disappearing from the high seas. They had to be proactive.

  The only other member of the gang of eight they could possibly approach was Saahid. The dangerous dead-end road leading to his home had put him at the bottom of their list—discreet surveillance would be difficult, and limited options for ingress and egress presented a real danger if things went kinetic—but they needed to do it soon, before Mahad’s disappearance became widely known and Saahid was spooked.

  One of Pickens’s regular sources requested to meet with him on an urgent but unrelated matter that afternoon, which meant Jake would have to perform the initial drive-by on his own. The two men would snatch Saahid that night if it looked doable.

  Pickens hit the basement for his daily workout while Jake pored over his laptop, examining satellite images and piecing together several different routes he could use for surveillance, for surveillance detection, or to bail out if the situation went to hell.

  He was still working on his computer when Pickens left.

  “Wave off if it doesn’t feel right,” Pickens said. “We can always do it tomorrow.”

  “We’ll do a couple of dry runs when you’re back.”

  * * *

  —

  PICKENS HAD BEEN gone for a couple of hours by the time Jake started the old Toyota Corolla. The car’s white paint had absorbed so much sunshine over the years that it had blistered and cracked, but it blended in seamlessly with the fabric of Mogadishu.

  He had the IMSI catcher on the passenger seat next to him.

  Saahid’s house was on the northwestern edge of the city, close to the Dayniile district, and Jake noticed two vehicles that seemed to take an unusual interest in him during the forty-minute drive, but he carefully followed a surveillance detection route that he and Pickens had established. The silver pickup truck that had followed him for several blocks turned away after Jake drove around a traffic circle, and the man on the motorcycle continued on when Jake made a U-turn at an intersection. It was a sparsely populated area and, after he passed a beige hatchback heading in the opposite direction, he was alone on the road.

  Jake had spent countless hours poring over imagery during his time as an analyst—searching for clues in photographs taken from air, land, sea, and space. For years, he’d used cutting-edge technologies such as spectral imaging, ground penetrating radar, and persistent wide-area aerial surveillance to evaluate potential threats from half a world away.

  But there was no substitute for being on the ground.

  The tree cover in the pirate’s neighborhood was denser than when the satellite images had been taken and the road was narrower and in worse condition. Trash covered the roadside where shadows
mottled the ground. He could manage no more than ten miles per hour in the low-slung Toyota as he bounced over the rutted dirt road.

  Jake began to have doubts. With the only access road in such poor condition, it would be risky to snatch the pirate from his home—and that assumed he was home; the IMSI catcher hadn’t yet registered a signal.

  Cellular coverage was spotty in the area, and it was possible that Saahid didn’t use the phone at home, or maybe he was simply out for a few hours, but the alarm in the back of Jake’s mind that had kept him alive in some of the worst places on earth was starting to ring.

  He checked his rearview mirror.

  There were no one else in sight.

  He’d just returned his eyes to the road when he spotted a tree that had fallen across half the road. He swerved onto the shoulder and the sun glinted off a discarded paint can, stuck in a pile of trash.

  Jake’s mind was already racing, but the tree and the paint can kicked it into high gear. Something wasn’t right. The can was perfectly vertical, and the debris around it wasn’t moving despite the breeze.

  Jake slammed on the brakes and threw the transmission into reverse.

  He’d barely released the clutch when his world went black.

  TWENTY-ONE

  JAKE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS in the Corolla’s driver’s seat.

  The windows were shattered and his ears were ringing.

  Fragments of glass were in his hair.

  Jake wiped blood from his face and inhaled a mouthful of dust and chemicals.

  He stumbled from the car, coughing repeatedly, and drew his pistol. Unsteady on his feet, he swept the area with his weapon, but he was alone inside a giant cloud of dust.

  He shuffled to the side of the road.

  There was a crater where the pile of trash had been.

  He’d been hit by an IED.

  The entire passenger side of the car was imploded, its frame showing through the sheet metal like the ribs of a starving animal. The tires were shredded and the engine had stopped. Gasoline leaked from the tank.

  Jake returned to the driver’s seat, punched in the cigarette lighter, and waited. By the time it was hot, there was a puddle of fuel under the car.

  Jake tossed the lighter into the gas and it flared instantly. Flames engulfed the car from all four sides.

  He staggered to the main road and waved down a Bajaj motorcycle-taxi. The three-wheeled rickshaws were everywhere in Somalia. He switched taxis two more times before heading to the safe house. He unlocked the door and walked inside.

  Pickens had an M-4 rifle against his shoulder, pointed at Jake’s chest.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Pickens said. “I heard the gate open but I didn’t see the Toyota.”

  He lowered the rifle as Jake explained the IED and how he’d torched the car to eliminate his fingerprints and destroy the IMSI catcher.

  “You think you were targeted?”

  “Maybe Badeed wants his diya.”

  “Or maybe it was a warning.”

  Jake went to his bedroom and tossed his shirt and pants into a corner. They were covered with blood, fragments of glass, and explosive residue. Though his ears were still ringing and he had a titanic headache, he looked halfway normal after a shower and a change of clothes. He found Pickens in the kitchen.

  “We need to talk to Graves.”

  “An hour ago you were almost a cloud of dust. Why don’t you lay down for a few minutes?”

  “I’ll feel better once we’ve made some progress. I’m calling Ted. Do you want in or not?”

  The two men videoconferenced Graves from Jake’s secure laptop.

  “You have a name for me?” Graves asked in lieu of a greeting.

  “We’re getting conflicting intel,” said Jake.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”

  “Ted, we’ve tried buying people off, we’ve tried threatening them, and we’ve tried appealing to their consciences, but the people of Somalia don’t see anything wrong with piracy, so we’re not getting much cooperation.”

  “Children romanticize pirates, Keller,” Graves said. “This is a national security issue. Ninety-five percent of the world’s manufactured goods travel by sea.”

  “That’s exactly what the Somalis are saying. They literally see the world economy passing them by and they want a piece of it. They feel as if foreign powers have taken advantage of Somalia for years and piracy is their right.”

  “I’m not interested in an imperialist apology tour. I need actionable intel.”

  “I’m just giving you background, Ted. We’ve narrowed it down to two warlords. Badeed is a Hawiye clan leader and a founding father of the Somali pirate community. He and his crew were behind a lot of the hostage-taking a decade ago. We zeroed in on him initially, but a new and highly credible source has implicated Yaxaas, a Darood warlord.”

  “Maybe they’re working together,” said Graves.

  “Not likely,” said Pickens. “These two have been at each other’s throats for years.”

  “Then you need to develop some new sources.”

  “We could liaise with the Somali National Intelligence and Security Agency,” Jake said.

  “They’re no better than the warlords,” said Graves.

  “Then we’re stuck,” said Pickens, “and we’re starting to feel some blowback from our investigation. Jake’s car got IED’d a few hours ago. If we keep working the streets, we’re both going to end up dead.”

  “And I still won’t know who’s running the show . . .” Graves sat back in his chair. “Do either of you know of Giánnis Romanos?”

  “Never heard of him,” Jake said. Pickens shook his head.

  “He’s a Greek shipowner. Two of his tankers vanished in the Indian Ocean six months ago. The crews and ships were never heard from again and he contacted the U.S. Department of State.”

  “Weren’t the ships insured?” Pickens asked.

  “For more than they were worth,” Graves said, “but Romanos lost more than a couple of ships. His son was captain of the first one.”

  “The disappearances fit the m.o. of our pirates,” Jake said, “but I don’t see how he can help us.”

  “The pirates killed his only son. Men like Mr. Romanos don’t just move on. He wants this avenged.”

  “And you didn’t mention this before, because . . .”

  “Because I wanted to minimize outside involvement in the operation, but it sounds as if you two aren’t very good at your jobs, so we need to risk it. The Agency currently has two aircraft hangared in Mogadishu. I’ll authorize one to take you to Greece.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s a great idea,” said Pickens. “Most of the players down here know who those aircraft belong to.”

  Graves stared at the camera for a few seconds.

  “Good,” he said eventually. “Maybe it’ll flush out our boy.”

  The screen went dark.

  TWENTY-TWO

  PICKENS HAD THE machine gun on his lap again.

  Dawn was still two hours away as Jake drove to the outskirts of Mogadishu. It was a dangerous neighborhood for two foreigners, made even more so by the nature of their work. A new IMSI catcher was on the center console, acting like radar to locate anyone around them who was using a cell phone. Jake killed the lights and turned off the pavement. The closest user was a quarter mile away.

  The two CIA officers drove a hundred yards down a long dirt road and stopped. Jake opened the SUV’s trunk and he and Pickens hauled a mildly sedated Mahad fifty feet off the road into a flat area filled with nothing but scrub brush and litter. With Pickens holding the machine gun, Jake loosened the hood, removed the leg restraints, and told their prisoner that there had been a mix-up—that he wasn’t the man they were looking for.

  Then they let him go.

&n
bsp; While the Americans held no affinity for Mahad, detaining him too long would raise questions in the pirate community and potentially put the mission at risk. They needed to move on.

  Pickens took the wheel. He’d spent his entire career as an Africa Center officer and eight years working the Somalia account—intentionally skipping rotations to other posts to build an absolutely airtight legend. Though his cover would degrade naturally over time—he couldn’t recruit sources if he didn’t occasionally risk exposure—he’d decided not to go to Greece. Being associated with a private jet widely believed to belong to American intelligence would be an unnecessary risk for a long-shot lead.

  He drove Jake to the rear entrance of a nearby hotel, where he passed through the lobby and caught a cab to the general aviation section of the airport. Aden Adde International was the most heavily defended space in all of Mogadishu. Hundreds of federal and foreign troops guarded the terminal and the entire eleven-thousand-foot runway with armored vehicles, machine gun towers, and serpentine concrete barriers meant to prevent vehicle-borne IED attacks.

  They were succeeded about 50 percent of the time.

  Jake walked across the sandstone-colored ramp, already warm from the sun. He passed an old MD-88 from the United Nations and a newer Airbus 321 operated by Daallo Airlines. The Airbus had a hole blown in its skin where a laptop computer packed with homemade explosives had been detonated by a suicide bomber intent on bringing down the plane.

  Fortunately, the suicide was the only successful part of the operation.

  Farther down the tarmac was a gray McDonnell-Douglas 520 helicopter that was being rinsed with fresh water. The man working the pressure washer stopped what he was doing and watched as Jake approached the white Gulfstream G550.

  Jake exchanged pre-arranged recognition phrases with the two Agency pilots and boarded the aircraft. Fifteen minutes later, they were airborne and on their way to Athens.