He wasn’t talking French, either; his accent was pure American.
I watched them walk through the exit, the security guy leading the way and another sweeping in behind out of nowhere to watch their backs. They all climbed aboard a black Lexus 4WD with tinted windows parked outside in a no waiting zone and it took off as soon as the doors closed, heading away from the terminal at a brisk clip.
It didn’t take rocket science to figure out why an American was cosied up with a French Intelligence officer right here and now, not if what Masse had told me was true. I know Djibouti has a large military presence from both countries, but I was pretty sure that had nothing to do with it. Still, experience told me it would be good to know who the American was. If Petrus had put himself out to meet the man off an incoming flight, it wasn’t simply to show fraternal greetings.
I thought about calling Brian Callahan. He’s a Clandestine Service Officer with the CIA and we’d worked together a couple of times. The intelligence community in Washington, as big as it is in personnel numbers, is tight, and I figured he might know who the American was. People in the trade tend to mix with their own kind, and although I had no proof, this one had all the hallmarks of a spook.
In the end I decided against it. If it turned out to be somebody Callahan knew, maybe even respected and liked, I’d be putting him in a difficult spot. He’d either tell me who the guy was, but with reluctance, or tell me to mind my own business. Either way my card would be marked and we might have trouble working again in the future.
I figured instead that it would be safer to go to somebody outside that immediate circle, and opted to call Tom Vale. A British intelligence officer with MI6, Vale and I had worked together in the past and had got on well; mostly, I think, because he was a former field operative from way back and knew the score. If I was treading on anybody’s toes he’d soon let me know without rancour.
I checked the time difference and figured he would still be at his desk. It took a while answering pointed questions from security personnel, but I finally got through to Vale’s extension. He sounded relaxed but with a definite hint of interest.
‘Marc. Good to hear from you. How can I help?’
I gave a vague explanation without revealing details or names, and said that I’d come across somebody who seemed vaguely familiar, and I needed to know if I should stay out of his way.
‘I see. Of course, I’ll help if I can, but shouldn’t you call Callahan or Jason Sewell? If he’s one of theirs, they’ll probably know more about him than I do.’
Sewell was Callahan’s CIA boss in Langley and probably not the person to go to for information. He would have justifiably strong reservations about giving out details about colleagues or assets, even though I’d done work for the agency in the past. ‘I’m sure they do, but they might see a conflict of interest and refuse to tell me.’
‘Good point. OK, it’s a long shot but do you have a name or a description?’
‘No name, but I do have a photo.’
He chuckled. ‘Of course you do. Send it over and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have anything.’ He finished by giving me a cell phone number. I thanked him for his help, and two seconds later sent him the photo of the mystery American.
I made my way back to my hotel and had something to eat, then put my head down. If Masse got himself organised, we would have to move quickly and sleep might become a luxury. Some hope. I was an hour into it when my phone rang.
It was Tom Vale. ‘I ran the photo you sent through our files. Interesting company you’ve got there. If you meet him and shake hands, make sure you count your fingers afterwards.’
I sat up, suddenly wideawake. ‘Do tell.’
‘His name’s Clay Lunnberg. He was a promising big hitter in the US military a few years back, rising to colonel and serving as an assistant to General David Petraeus in Afghanistan. He moved with him to the CIA in a similar position. After Petraeus lost his post as director, Lunnberg dropped out of sight. Some thought he’d become collateral damage as a result and had been sent to drive a training desk somewhere. Others said he transferred into special operations, which seems more likely.’
Petrus, Petraeus. Fate playing name games with Colonel Lunnberg? ‘I agree,’ I said cynically. ‘He doesn’t walk like a desk man.’
‘He plays at it when it suits but he certainly isn’t that. The last data we have on him is that he was recruited to a senior operating position with the Defense Clandestine Service, after which he really did disappear into the undergrowth. But I suppose you know all about them?’
Vale was fishing and I smiled. Once a spy, always a spy, on the lookout for information and trade gossip. But it confirmed my earlier feeling about Lunnberg being a spook.
The truth was that I didn’t know much about the DCS beyond what little had been released into the public domain. Operating under the umbrella of the Defense Intelligence Agency, they’d been set up a few years back in what some suspected was a rival spying operation to the CIA, only more secretive. Their brief, though, now I thought about it, was interesting: their area of operations covered, among others, North Africa.
I told Vale as much, but I doubt it added anything new for his files.
‘So where did you come across him?’ he asked casually.
I could have lied, but that would have been to insult his intelligence. He would only have to click his fingers and one of his researchers would have Lunnberg’s current location pinned down, with flight times, current agenda and change of clothes for the next two weeks.
‘Djibouti,’ I told him, and added, ‘he was inbound through the airport.’
‘Djibouti? Of course … you were on attachment to the Foreign Legion down there, weren’t you? Catching up with old desert hands, I suppose? I thought the French had all decamped to Abu Dhabi.’
He was fishing again and I figured he knew more about the movement, operating bases and locations of friendly nations’ military forces than most people. It’s called checking known facts.
‘I’m not here to see them. It’s a private thing.’
‘I see. Forgive me for being nosey, Marc – it’s a bad habit.’
He didn’t sound the least bit sorry to me, but as he’d given me the information I needed, I could hardly hold it against him. And I trusted him more than most people in this business. But now I knew a little more about this new man, Lunnberg, and his shadowy background, it gave me a plausible explanation for his being here and mixing with a member of French intelligence.
‘Thanks, Tom,’ I told him. ‘I appreciate the information.’
‘My pleasure. Always ready to help. Watch your back down there, won’t you – it’s dangerous territory. Call me if you need anything.’
I disconnected, trying to read behind Vale’s last comment. Everybody knew the Horn of Africa was a dangerous place, so why the warning? Did he know something I didn’t?
SEVEN
By the time Lunnberg and Petrus arrived at the Hotel Kempinski, where they were both staying, Petrus had given the American a full report of events so far. Lunnberg listened in silence, absorbing the facts without comment. If he had any opinions on the way things had been handled, he kept them to himself.
After a moment or two of thought, he said, ‘Where did you find this Portman guy?’
‘I was ordered to bring in a protection specialist from outside. I asked around.’
Lunnberg grunted. ‘By outside you mean not French.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Do you often use outsiders to do your grunt work?’
Petrus frowned at the implied criticism. It was rich, he thought, coming from a man representing an intelligence network that relied heavily on non-attached personnel and private military contractors to do their ‘grunt’ work. ‘We do whatever we have to. But this … issue is highly sensitive; we wanted no links back to France if anything went wrong.’
‘And yet you used this French national … what was his name – Masse?�
��
‘That was unavoidable. It was Masse who first discovered that there was information out there that could be damaging to both our countries if it became public knowledge.’
‘How?’
‘How what?’
‘How did he find out? Has he got second sight? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not doubting him. But I am interested in how he got access to something as remote as a file of information kept by a senior member of al-Shabaab. That’s pretty amazing, if you ask me. Or are you going to tell me he had family connections inside the organisation … maybe a girlfriend’s brother or the husband of a mistress, something like that?’
Petrus kept his voice level. ‘Masse was very good at what he did, colonel. He had built up a number of contacts over many years. He knew the region, the people and the way things work. He blended in. He had assets here that – with respect – your people do not have. It was one of those assets who came to him with the information.’
‘If Masse was such a hotshot, why did he need somebody riding shotgun?’
‘Because it was important to recover the information and Mogadishu is a very dangerous place. It was decided by my superiors that we could not risk losing it.’ He shrugged. ‘I suggested sending a team but their response was that one man providing protection would be less noticeable than a team.’
‘How many do you have here?’
‘Three men, all former Legionnaires and highly experienced. They know this region very well. I have them on stand-by.’
‘Good to know.’ Lunnberg walked over to the window and stared out. ‘Did your Masse guy have a reach inside al-Shabaab, or did he buy the hard drive from a camel-boy who happened to find it out in the desert?’
‘Of course not.’ Petrus’s response was snappier than he intended, his patience beginning to wear thin. He didn’t know much about Lunnberg’s status, only that he was highly-regarded, with a distinguished military career behind him in Iraq and Afghanistan, and now occupied a vague but important position linked to the US intelligence community. A troubleshooter, Degouvier had called him, when tasking Petrus to work with him and provide whatever support he needed on a joint venture between the US and France that was beyond secret. But he was starting to resent the man’s arrogant and overbearing attitude. ‘This is not how we should be working together, colonel. I find your insinuations about our methods insulting.’
Lunnberg turned and waved a conciliatory hand. ‘Don’t get your britches in a twist, Victor; I’m just trying to clean up the back-trail. If my rough manner offends you, I apologise. I’m a soldier by training and inclination, so I might lack a few of the diplomatic touches here and there. Thing is, I have to make sure that this stuff wasn’t planted on Masse to get us running around like a bunch of girls, wasting time and resources. We know al-Shabaab has access to computer-savvy people, so it’s not beyond reason that they might have done this to throw us off-course for their own reasons.’
‘It’s possible, yes. But from what Masse saw on the original when it was offered to him, it contained details of negotiations, proposals, times, dates … and names. That is why we needed to get it back.’
Lunnberg turned and smiled. ‘Right. You’re absolutely right. See, it’s the names and details that concern me the most. Let’s jump back a pace here: at what point did Masse get hold of the information?’
‘After Deputy Emir Hussein Abdullah was killed by one of your drones, his office was looted before his followers could secure the site. As you know he was their leader in this region while his emir is recovering in hospital from a sickness.’
Lunnberg gave a humourless chuckle. ‘Beats everything, doesn’t it? One of the world’s top terrorist group leaders can take time off in some clinic to be ill, just like ordinary folks. I bet he’s even got health insurance and a convalescence plan, too. Sorry – carry on.’
‘One of the looters found a laptop computer with a hard drive attached. His only interest was to sell the computer to somebody who could use it. He has a cousin in Somali military intelligence and this man approached Masse and gave him first refusal. The computer was damaged but the attached hard drive was good. As soon as Masse saw what was on it, he realised its significance.’
‘And got it for a song, I bet.’
‘He paid enough. He realised that it was too important to risk having his contact try to sell it on the open market. There are no patriots down here, colonel. Everybody has an angle, even, as you discovered, senior members of al-Shabaab.’
Lunnberg shook his head and murmured, ‘Abdullah. Now there was a prime nut job. But he was a useful guy; you could talk to him. Pity he didn’t keep us informed of his movements, though; he might have lived a lot longer and given us vital help in this project before we decided to dispose of him later. Still, couldn’t be helped.’ He eyed Petrus speculatively for a second. ‘Or does your organisation not agree?’
‘I have no idea what my organisation thinks. All I know is that Abdullah was an important link in our joint plans to regenerate oil exploration in the region. He guaranteed a safe pathway for our companies and we promised him a great deal of money and a possible seat in a reformed Somali government in return.’
‘Ambitious little bastard, wasn’t he? Thing is, he would never have made it into any kind of government; I don’t know about your side, but we don’t do that kind of deal with terrorists. He’d have suffered a fatal accident before we’d have let him anywhere near decision-making powers in this region. However, that’s by the by.’
‘As you say, history.’ Petrus took off his glasses and studied the lenses, and blew off a fragment of dust. ‘The issue right now is that we no longer have a link inside al-Shabaab.’
‘Well, that’s not quite correct.’ Lunnberg tried not to look superior, but failed. ‘In getting what we wanted from Abdullah, we also got the goods on his deputy.’
‘Goods?’
‘Leverage. You’ve heard of Liban Daoud?’
Petrus lifted his eyebrows. Who hadn’t? Daoud was a known firebrand in the terrorist organisation, his origins being in the former Union of Islamic Courts before al-Shabaab took over. The idea that Hussein Abdullah had given the Americans some form of leverage over Daoud was hard to believe. On the other hand, they had suborned Abdullah himself, who had once seemed untouchable, so where was the truth anymore?
Lunnberg must have read his mind, because he explained, ‘We believe Abdullah felt threatened because Daoud had more backing than he did within the organisation and was looked on favourably by the rest of their council. Whatever the reason, we now have Daoud like that.’ He clenched his fist and made a squeezing motion. ‘It means he’ll play ball as long as he gets something out of it.’
‘And what will that be?’
‘Hard cash in a Swiss bank account. Daoud’s a realist in a tough world, Victor. One day he’ll trip up because they all do. His people will discover what he’s been up to and if he’s lucky he’ll get out before they come calling. He thinks a bunch of money will help him stay out of their reach, but it won’t. They have long memories.’
‘You have been busy,’ Petrus said drily, and wondered if Degouvier and those above him knew of this development. The Americans, it seemed, had been working away quietly in the background down here and he was willing to bet it was without informing Paris. If so, it was a troublesome hint about how solid the new ‘relationship’ was between Washington and the Élysée Palace and their combined search for oil.
‘That’s what I’m paid for, to stay busy and on top of the game. So, this guy, Portman. Why use him?’
‘Because like you we are trying to keep a sanitized zone around this business. Using freelance operatives, cut-outs where possible and the fewest possible ears and eyes involved on the ground. That is why we do not wish to have our local forces involved.’ He hesitated, then forged ahead, unable to resist giving a dig back at this arrogant man. ‘As for Portman, we asked around and he came with strong recommendations … from your very own CIA, as it h
appens.’
Lunnberg’s eyebrows shot up but he recovered quickly. ‘Well, that was your first mistake, Victor. The CIA does not have the solution to every problem, believe me. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if Portman is their man. Do you have a lead on his current location?’
Petrus ignored the barbed criticism. ‘He’s here in Djibouti, but I don’t know where. He prefers to remain in the background. All I have is a cell phone number.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t take too long to track him down in a place this size. I’ll get some guys on it.’
‘Men at Camp Lemmonnier?’
Lunnberg shook his head. ‘Hell, no. I’m not going anywhere near our special forces unless I’m forced to. I’ll use my own people.’
‘They are with you now? I didn’t see them.’
‘You weren’t supposed to.’ Lunnberg gave him a cool smile. ‘They’re always with me … or close by. It saves time if I have to deal with a situation and keep things contained.’
Petrus felt the first stirrings of disquiet. Until Masse’s unfortunate death, he and Portman had had the situation in their hands. So why did Lunnberg think he needed his own men – men he must have arranged to have standing by already? It made him wonder who was really calling the shots here.
‘You do a lot of that – keeping things contained?’
‘When I have to.’ The American’s face was empty of expression. ‘We do what we have to, right?’
Petrus didn’t answer. Lunnberg had already made it clear that he regarded Petrus, and by association the DGSE, of lesser importance than his own organisation. But fighting him was a waste of time and emotion. And he still had a job to do.
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