“I am curious, though,” David said. “When I wrote the speech I mentioned nothing about worsening conditions in Africa, nor did I cite any statistics. Are things really that bad?”
“I added that information at the last minute,” A.J. replied. “Research handed me the report this morning. I wanted to run it by you, but my day was already filled. You’re not offended, are you?”
“Not at all,” David offered quickly. “It was a good addition and done perfectly.”
“Good. To answer your question, yes, things are getting that bad. Climate conditions may be worse next year than they’ve been over the last ten. There will be too little rain, and therefore too little food for man or beast. We also have reason to believe that warlord activity and civil war will be increasing. I’m not free to tell you how I know, but the information is reliable. The UN is also aware of the developments.”
“That means more work for us,” Peter commented. “It’s a good thing that nearly everyone present made a healthy contribution. Will it be enough?”
A.J. shook his head. “A thousand times that wouldn’t be enough.”
“So what do we do?” David asked.
“We do the very best we can and never lose sight of our objective of saving lives. If we can’t save all of them, we will save some of them.” A.J. looked out at the passing traffic and the tall downtown buildings. “You know, David,” he continued slowly, “there are times when I sleep at night that I can hear the hoofbeats of your four horsemen of the apocalypse, and famine rides in the lead.”
David nodded in understanding, “It’s a shame we can’t do more than provide food and medicine.”
“Maybe we can,” A.J. said softly. “Maybe we can.”
Before going to his apartment, A.J. stopped by his office to check for messages and to leave his speech notes for his secretary to file. On his desk he found a small black plastic case, which he immediately recognized as a videocassette. A note written in the meticulous handwriting of his secretary read, “Special delivery from the office of Sen. Dean Toler.” It was Senator Toler, head of the Armed Services Committee, whom he had asked for help in locating the missing Sea Maid. Apprehension flowed through him. Instinctively, he knew this was bad news.
One minute later, A.J. sat in shock as the macabre pictures of the sunken Sea Maid played across his television. The ghostly and grotesque images of the tethered crew floating in the dark waters sickened him, but one sight turned his horror into rage. Arrogantly scratched into the paint of a bulkhead were the foot-high letters that spelled Mahli and Mukatu.
10
“I’VE GOT SOME THINGS FOR YOU,” PETER POWELL said as he stepped into David’s office. “I know you’re dying to have more stuff to read, but information makes the world go around, and it certainly makes Barringston Relief go around.”
“Thanks, Peter,” David said, taking the manila folder and the large white binder with the company logo prominently displayed on the front. He nodded at a chair and said, “Have a seat.”
“It looks like you’re settling in all right,” Peter said, taking the seat opposite David’s desk. “You look sufficiently inundated with paperwork. They must be keeping you busy.”
“I’ve got a full plate, but it’ll all even out once I learn what I’m doing.”
“Judging by the response to A.J.’s speech, you already know what you’re doing.”
David chuckled, “Not really. The beautiful thing about a speech is that no one interrupts you to ask questions. You say what you want to say and then sit down. It works even better when someone else is delivering the speech. Have you heard how the contribution commitments are doing?”
“I have, and they’re doing great. The accounting office is projecting that financial gifts from this last fund-raiser will be double the previous year. If the others go as well, we’ll have a good year.”
“Judging by what A.J. says about things getting worse, we’re going to need it.”
“Amen to that,” Peter said solemnly. “Let me tell you what I just gave you. The folder is the paperwork you need to fill out for a passport, medical history, and travel log. The travel log is something we keep here so that we can keep track of where you’ve been. The medical history is self-explanatory, and the passport information is basic. You’ll have to make the application yourself and get an ID photo, but that’s easy. The binder contains information on the countries we’ll be traveling to. I don’t have a full itinerary, so some of it may not apply, or I may have to bring you more information.”
David opened the binder. “You said, ‘we’ll be traveling.’ Are you going too?”
“Yup, it’s my turn again. My office doesn’t have much to do with the actual work in the field, but I do make all the hiring decisions, except for senior management and department heads; A.J. makes all the final decisions on those. I do the research and bring recommendations. Since I hire the field workers, A.J. likes me to travel with him to check up on the welfare of our heroes.”
The last comment, which was a clear allusion to the speech he had written, caused David to smile. “Do you enjoy the travel?”
Peter paused before answering. “Enjoy may not be the right word. While we often have the opportunity to visit some of the most fascinating places in the world, like Rome and Paris, our trips always end up in the … well, in more difficult areas. I can promise you one thing, David: You will see things that you will never forget.”
“Personally, I look forward it,” David replied. “I’ve never really traveled much, so this will be an experience for me.”
“Just don’t convince yourself that this is a pleasure trip or some vacation,” Peter admonished. “We want you to go in with your eyes open.” David nodded absentmindedly as he thumbed the pages of the binder. “You’ll also find a protocol section in there. I suggest you read that several times. We may be meeting some very important people, and we don’t want to get on the wrong side of them.”
“I’ll do it.”
“David,” Peter said seriously as he leaned forward. “I think you’ve already demonstrated how important you can be to this team, so I don’t want you to make the mistake of taking this trip too lightly. We’ve taken others who couldn’t bear what they saw. Several quit on the spot. I don’t want that to happen to you. We need you, and A.J. needs you.”
“A.J. needs me?”
“You’ve been good for him. I can see it already. Perhaps it’s because you’ve both had marriages that failed. Perhaps he likes your humor. Whatever the reason, he likes you a great deal. And most likely you’ve made a dear friend for life—a powerful friend.”
“Thanks for sharing that,” David said sincerely. “It means a lot to me.”
“I’m not trying to scare you, David. I want this trip to make you stronger, not shock you into leaving.”
“I can’t predict what the future holds, but I’ve enjoyed, no, more than enjoyed, relished my time here. This is more than a job to me; it’s my second chance at a meaningful life. I assure you, I will be fine. As a pastor I had to deal with many people who have received the worst kind of news. I’ve buried adults, infants, and persons of every age in between. I’ve counseled those who have had loved ones murdered or killed by drunk drivers. I’ve seen sorrow before.”
“That’s good to know,” Peter said firmly, “but remember that on this trip you’ll see that kind of sorrow multiplied by the thousands.”
“I’ll be there for you and the rest of the team,” David said resolutely. “I promise not to scurry off into the bush.”
Peter nodded approvingly.
Over thirty-five hundred miles away Ian Booth, president of the Americas Bank, sat on the backseat of a rented Cadillac DeVille as it drove five miles under the speed limit along the coastal route north out of Georgetown on the island of Grand Cayman. The deep blue ocean and the verdant hillsides went unnoticed by the executive; his wide eyes stared ahead, not comprehending anything he saw. He was blinded by the terror brought to h
im by the four other men in the car. Two men, the driver and another, sat in the front seat. The other two men sat in the back with Booth, one on each side.
“It’s no’ the money, ya’ understand,” the man on his right said, his words heavy with an Irish brogue. “It’s the principle of the thing.” The man pulled a small knife from his pocket and began to clean his nails. Booth didn’t have to turn to see the man, his face, ruddy and thin, was branded deep into his memory. “We do have an image to protect, ya’ know. I mean, what would the others say?”
“I have done my best to do right by you,” Booth said, his voice trembling. “I informed you as soon as I found out the money was missing. I kept nothing back. I’ve worked hard to find out who did this and to replace the money, but it takes time. It’s not easy to siphon off two hundred million American dollars.”
“No, I suppose not, boyo, but you understand my point.”
“Time. All I need is … time.” Booth’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve always been trustworthy. I’ve always delivered on my promises. I need more time.”
“It’s a sad thing, lad, I agree,” the man said, putting the pocketknife away. No longer seeing the knife brought Booth a small measure of calm, but he knew it was artificial. They were going to kill him, but not with a pocketknife. The man continued. “Truth be told, I rather like ya’. It hurts me to have to do this, but we have other people to consider. Folk in my position depend on their reputation. The Silver Dawn has a fine reputation in the world, one we work hard to maintain. It behooves us, laddy, to mind even the wee details. And ya’ must admit, allowing two hundred million dollars to be stolen from our accounts is more than a wee detail.”
“There must be some way,” Booth rattled. “Some … way.”
“Nah. We’ve given ya’ weeks to work on the problem, and you’ve not solved it. We’ll take it from here now. Ya’ needn’t worry ’bout it anymore.”
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” Booth was surprised at the brazenness of his own question. “You’re going to take me somewhere and kill me.”
The man nodded slowly, almost as if he was feeling genuine remorse. “ ’Tis a sad thing, Ian boy. I’ve grown to be fond of ya’ and your family. This gives me no pleasure, even if ya’ are a Brit. This is … well, ’tis business and that’s all it is.”
Booth tried to think clearly. “What if I just disappeared. You know, just dropped off the face of the earth. I can arrange that. I really can.”
The man shook his head from side to side. “No, boyo. There’s got to be a body and an investigation. That’s part of maintaining our image.” After a pause he continued, “Ya’ sent your family away didn’t ya’, Ian boy?”
It was the one act that Booth felt proud about. The day he discovered the missing money from the Irish terrorist group, he booked a flight out for his family, said his good-byes with hugs and kisses and toys for his two small children, and sent them to the United States. His wife had family there, but she wouldn’t be seeing them for a long time. Instead she would be staying in a home in the San Bernardino mountains in the small community of Big Bear. It was a lovely house, chosen in part for its secluded view of the lake and for its sequestration. The house, a three-bedroom cabin, had been purchased under an assumed name that matched the artificial identities he had had the foresight to create. Holding and laundering large sums of money for groups like the Silver Dawn had inherent risks that required prudent planning. That was one thing at which Booth excelled. It had crossed his mind to go with his family, but he knew the Silver Dawn would never give up until “justice” had been served. His family would never be safe until the money had been returned or he was dead. Only by sending his family away while he remained behind could he assure their safety.
“Are ya’ listening, Ian boy?”
“Yes, I sent my family away.”
“Ya’ sent them away and ya’ stayed behind—a brave thing, lad.” The man paused as he looked out the window. “I suppose ya’ sent them to that mountain cabin in the States.”
Booth’s jaw dropped open. No one could know about that. He had been too careful, too meticulous in his preparation. His racing heart beat faster, sweat appeared on his brow, and his stomach ached.
“Close your mouth, Ian. We’re not interested in your family. I just wanted ya’ to know that we make efforts to know everything about everyone who could hurt us. Your family will remain safe. At least from us. We’re not monsters, ya’ know.”
“Thank … thank you.”
“This will be fine,” the man said to the driver. “Pull over here.” The car veered to the right across the empty oncoming lane and parked behind a clump of trees that were growing near the edge of a cliff. The four men exited the car and waited as Ian Booth slid across the seat and stepped from the vehicle. The man who had been sitting in the front passenger seat pulled a small .25 caliber handgun from under his coat. The warm tropical air was heavy with humidity, and soon all five men were sweating. Booth, however, was perspiring for an entirely different reason. He had come to the end of his life. He had not been a religious man, but now he wanted so very much to be … if only there was a little more time, he could pray and maybe find the missing money. But the time was gone. It had ticked away until his days had evaporated, and now his life would end at the hands of men who valued their cause above anyone’s life—his especially.
“Would you mind terribly,” Ian said as tears streamed down his cheeks, “if I just jumped?” He finished his sentence by nodding his head in the direction of the cliff. “I’m not sure why, but I find that demise a little more … palatable.”
The leader of the men shook his head. “Sorry, laddy. As I’ve said, there must be an investigation so that the papers will print a nice story about it. Our friends read the paper, ya’ know.”
The refusal made Booth’s sorrow all the more profound. Not only would he die, but he would do so with no dignity whatsoever. Leaping to his death would have brought only a smidgen of honor, but at least he would be ending his own life and not surrendering it to others. It was a small point, and in a mind suffering less stress it would be no point at all—but it was all he had. It was the last thing he could do to exert some control over his life, and he would be deprived of this. It was so patently unfair. Someone had robbed his bank, and now he was going to be killed for it. Booth watched in detached horror as the man with the gun walked toward him and wondered if the thief was enjoying the money. It was an odd thought for a man seconds away from his execution.
The gunman pressed the cold barrel of the gun to Booth’s forehead and pulled the trigger. In the distance, sea gulls, startled by a loud and unfamiliar sound, took to the air.
“So your journey was useful?” Mahli asked as he took another small bite of roasted goat and watched his brother, Mukatu, devour yet another portion of his meal, leaving spots of grease on his chin and cheeks, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.
“I found out what you wanted to know, but I could’ve stayed here and told you the same thing.”
“Firsthand information is the best information,” Mahli replied. He wondered how he and his brother could be so different. Both had had the same opportunities for education, far more than 99 percent of their countrymen could hope for. Both had taken degrees from a college in London, Mahli with honors and Mukatu with barely passing grades. Both had returned to help manage the banana export business that their father and grandfather had built, with Mahli working in the office and Mukatu with the men on the docks. Mahli liked to read; Mukatu liked to eat. Yet different as they were, they shared some traits in common: Both men were ambitious, loved wealth, hungered for power, and could kill without a second thought. But even in that there was a difference—Mahli killed to further his purpose; his brother Mukatu killed because he enjoyed it so much.
“It’s like you said,” Mukatu said, his words muffled by a wad of food. “Ethiopia is now worse than we are. The people there are weak with hunger and frustr
ation. They die by the hundreds.” This last comment was made as he stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth. Swallowing hard, Mukatu continued. “The civil division is still strong, but there are fewer people who can fight. They are ripe for the picking.”
“Good,” Mahli said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Very good. You have done well, my brother. It is time we help our brother Africans in Ethiopia. Tomorrow I want you to have some of the men begin loading supplies to be taken there. Be sure that the boxes and medical supplies bear the right mark, the mark of our clan. I want them to know that this food comes from us.”
“What about our people?”
“Send some of the trucks to the relief centers along the way, but only those that might see our convoy pass. They will think that we are taking food to other centers. You already have teams ready to do this?”
“Yes, we’ve been ready for weeks.”
“Good. Begin passing the rumor too. Tell people that the UN and American food may be poison. Tell them it is the American’s way of taking revenge for their defeat at the hands of loyal Somalis in 1994.”
“Will they believe that?” Mukatu asked as he began wiping bits of food from his face with his hands.
“A starving man will believe anything as long as he can swallow it with fresh food.” Mahli got up from the table and walked over to his brother and put his hand on his shoulder. “I have one other task for you. It involves more travel.” Mukatu groaned and started to object. “It is necessary. Who knows, you might even get to kill someone.”
Mukatu turned to face his brother. Both men smiled and then laughed.
In Marka, Mukatu began a hurried inspection of the convoy of trucks in one of the dozens of warehouses that housed food and medicine commandeered over the months. Some of the food had spoiled, but the grain and dried goods were still intact. There was some damage and loss due to rats, but the supply of food that remained usable was more than enough for present purposes.
Terminal Justice Page 12
