When the Chinese approached him, Faisal immediately saw the opportunity to expand his business and his influence. He was patient and methodical in his plans as he worked with the Chinese businessman who introduced him to Abdi Mohammed Asha. Just as Asha would someday return to Somalia and become a great leader, when the time was right Faisal would lead an army of men and rise to power to rule Yemen. His father and brother would bow before him. It was his birthright.
DAY 7
McLean, Virginia, 0208 (GMT)
Hu visited him only in the evenings, after the sun had set. Eliot Green unbuttoned his too-tight blazer and groaned in relief as he sat in one of the chairs next to the couch where Hu had taken his usual seat. Green pushed an ashtray toward Hu, who pulled a cigarette from a silver case. The trousers of his silk suit made a whispering noise as the businessman from Beijing crossed his legs. As always, Hu wore a black suit, black socks, and polished black shoes. His hair was black, as were his eyes. He had worn no other color in the half dozen years Eliot had known him, with one exception: the man had an endless supply of pastel shirts and subtly patterned ties.
Hu was taller than most Chinese Green had known. Green had read in an intelligence report that South Koreans were generally several inches taller than North Koreans because the dietary conditions in the capitalist country were vastly better than the decades-long near-starvation levels to the north. In the same way, Hu’s height, if not genetic, suggested that he had always been part of the privileged class in China—even during the strictly communist era, party members had always had access to an improved quality of life.
Hu took a long, slow drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out his nostrils like a storybook dragon. His black eyes never left Green. He said a word in Chinese that Green had come to understand as “leave us.” At his command, the two dark-suited men who had accompanied him inside left the room. One always waited outside the door, the other in the car. Once, Green had glimpsed a shoulder holster when one of the guards opened his jacket. Green knew of few businessmen who required armed bodyguards in the United States.
Getting the men’s arms into and out of the country wasn’t a problem because Hu never used commercial airports. His company owned at least one private intercontinental jet—and a very plush one at that. Green and President Becker—before Becker was president or vice president, of course—had traveled in Hu’s aircraft, and fondly remembered the fine food and even better female entertainment their host had provided.
“You have news for me about Yemen.” Hu wasn’t asking a question; he was demanding an answer.
“Hu, you know these things take time.” Green shifted his bulk and reached for the Jack Daniels he’d poured for himself earlier.
“Indeed. I also know that you and I have invested time and resources into this project.”
Green tried to recall if the stone-faced Hu had blinked at all since arriving. Nope. Those damned eyes just sucked in everything around them like two black holes. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to hurry this along, Hu.”
“Tell me what you have tried. Perhaps I can offer further suggestions.”
Hu’s silky voice gave him the creeps. Green gulped at his whiskey and leaned forward, grasping the glass with both hands as he looked toward the coffee table. “The Department of Defense has transferred all antipiracy assets away from the area except for that one cruiser—and we’ve essentially defanged it to prepare it.”
Hu gave the merest of nods.
Green hurried on. “I ordered the State Department to stop transferring personnel to the embassy, especially security and intelligence elements. And Dunner was starting to ask questions, so I convinced him to resign.”
Hu smiled. “Very good. What of Ambassador Sumner?”
“She has no clue what’s happening.” He took another gulp.
“But she isn’t stupid.”
“No,” Green chuckled, “she isn’t.” He stuck his finger in the Jack Daniels and swirled it around, clinking the ice against the glass. “She may eventually figure it out, but I’m keeping her busy for now. She’s holed up in the embassy trying to get the government to talk to her. Without success,” Eliot grinned.
“So the Yemeni government will have no formal contact with her, and she won’t be able to complete her assigned mission,” Hu said, asking and answering his own question.
“If she becomes a problem, I’ll make the proper arrangements,” Green assured him. “Hell, I didn’t want her there in the first place; she just stepped into it.”
“Is Becker concerned for her?”
Green chuckled. “We both know the president, Hu. He’s concerned for himself. She doesn’t know about his other women, and he knows where his real loyalty lies. He knows you have been a strong supporter since his first Senate race.”
“Ah, good, Eliot. We already have plans for that oil. We would not wish to lose it to an American company.” Hu paused, his obsidian eyes narrowing. “On another matter, the president is sliding in the polls. Should we be concerned?”
“We’ll be fine. The party convention is in a couple of weeks. The incidents your friends are helping with will generate public outrage and support for the president just in time for him to give the speech of his life. We’ll win this election, Hu. No problem.”
“Very good. The money will be deposited tomorrow—the standard amount, of course.”
Hu said something in Chinese so quietly that no one outside the room should have heard. Eliot Green knew what that meant: Hu had a direct wire to his men. Green once feared that Hu might also be recording their conversations but had decided that he probably wasn’t. If such a recording ever became public, the Chinese businessman and his associates would also be implicated, which would complicate their plans. Green heard the front door open. The bodyguard stood at the entrance to the living room.
Hu rose quickly and gracefully, and Green struggled to follow suit.
“We will be successful, Eliot,” Hu said firmly.
“Who the hell can stop us?”
PART II
DAY 8
M/V Kirkwall, Gulf of Aden, 0600 (GMT)
“Commander Connor Stark to see Captain Johnson,” Stark shouted from the bobbing whaler to a deckhand. “Request permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted, sir.”
Once he was on deck, the transport boat sped back to the pier at Mukalla.
“Welcome back to the Kirkwall, Commander,” said the skipper. She shook his hand and then hugged him.
Jaime’s eyes were the same robin’s-egg blue that he remembered so vividly from his first sight of her fifteen years earlier. “No gray hairs from the responsibility of command?” he joked.
“I dye them,” she said, pushing back an errant strand of blond hair. “You should do the same.”
“Bill says you’re doing a fine job, just as I expected. I wouldn’t have hired you as my replacement if I didn’t think you could do it.”
“The money didn’t hurt, especially when that son of a bitch left me and the kids. C’mon up to the pilothouse. I just made a fresh pot of your second-favorite beverage.”
Stark followed her up the ladder toward the aroma of rich, dark coffee. She handed him a royal blue coffee mug imprinted with the security company’s logo and name.
“How’s business?” he asked, taking an unsweetened gulp.
“Busy. We could use another hand around, but I see you’ve been co-opted. I was surprised when Bill told me you were back in uniform.”
“No one was more surprised than I was. Defense attaché is the last job I figured I’d ever hold.”
“Too bad. You were a great CO on the Cyclone. We all wanted to be part of your wardroom when you got a destroyer or a cruiser.”
“If that had happened, you’d have been my first choice for XO.” He surveyed the familiar pilothouse. It had become better organized and more efficient looking during the last year—the result of Jaime’s meticulous work.
�
��It was family over career back then, Connor. At least he didn’t fight me for the kids in the divorce.”
“How are they?”
“Growing by leaps and bounds. How can I not miss them during my ninety days on?”
Stark looked out through the pilothouse windows at his former command. The Kirkwall was an old British Seal-class long-range recovery and support craft. It was small—only 120 feet long—and displaced 160 tons. Twin Paxmans, built by the same company that produced diesel engines for the Cyclone class, powered the steel hull. It could do twenty-three knots on a good day, which meant the Kirkwall could outpace and protect any of the supply boats it was escorting; any ship slower than fifteen knots was vulnerable to pirate attacks.
A voice crackled over the radio. “Kirkwall, Kirkwall, this is the Mukalla Ismael in company with the OSV Endurance. We are under way and expect to arrive at the prearranged coordinates for escort, over.”
Jaime picked up the microphone. “Mukalla Ismael, this is Kirkwall. Message received. Copy all. Kirkwall standing by channel one-six. Out.” She replaced the mike and picked up the shipboard announcer. “All hands, this is the captain. Stand by to get under way for escort duty in twenty minutes; that’s two-zero minutes.” She turned back toward Stark. “I told the boss that we need to think about replacing this boat with one that has a helo and RHIBs like Deveron and Arnish.”
“It’s that bad?”
“The pirates are just adapting too fast. I’ve turned back seventeen attacks against the supply ships. But we could always use more boats. And a real U.S. Navy presence around these parts wouldn’t hurt.”
“What’s here?”
“The closest thing to a Navy ship would be the Bennington. I heard her over comms last night, so she’s somewhere nearby in the Gulf. Hey, isn’t she named for your great-great-great-granddaddy’s battle?”
“Yup. General John Stark. He led a New Hampshire regiment and defeated the Hessians at Bennington. What do you mean by ‘closest thing’? She’s Navy, right?”
“Well, more or less. I got some gouge on her when I heard she was in the Indian Ocean. I know someone who served under her CO during his last command. Not exactly the best and brightest. Plus, the ship’s old and coming out of service soon, so no one’s willing to put any money into it.”
“How’d he get command?”
“His uncle is chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee and his cousin is a three-star admiral.”
“Jesus. We’re not that much different from the Yemeni ruling family. How about the pirates? Are they still driving skiffs around?”
“Yeah, but there are more of them now. They pretty much stay away from our client ships after so many failed attacks; they want the low-hanging fruit, the commercial freighters that don’t have any protection.”
“What else have you learned about them?”
“Nothing since the president shut down CTF 151. Only a few people are tracking what’s going on. This is the Wild West, Connor. A couple months ago we did pick up a Somali kid in a skiff that had run out of fuel and was never found by its mother ship—the guy carrying their satellite phone was high on khat and dropped it in the water. All the others on the skiff had died from exposure, and the kid was pretty close.”
“What authorities did you release him to?”
“Neptune and Davy Jones. He died a few hours after we picked him up. Our medic was able to speak with him through the interpreter first, though.”
“Did you find out anything?”
“Not much, except that the rumors of a pirate king are true. The kid said that the clans aren’t in charge of the pirate boats anymore; almost all of them take their orders from a guy called al-Yemeni.”
“He’s not Somali? Great. Now we have both sides of the Gulf of Aden to worry about.”
Two ships coming up astern caught his eye. “Looks like we’re ready to go,” he said.
“Toss your pack below. Stateroom 3 is yours. Grab some chow. Chef’s waiting for you and said he has your favorite.”
He moaned. “Haggis? Oh, boy. Thanks for the hospitality, Jaime.”
U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 0620 (GMT)
Golzari was apoplectic. The Navy commander had gone against regulations by driving alone in Yemen. He had almost certainly violated some other rule by using private security people, even if they weren’t being paid. And because of Stark, Golzari was going to have a scar on his forehead and had been forced to throw away a good pair of trousers.
With the gunnery sergeant’s help, Golzari set up shop in the spartan RSO’s office. He waited impatiently while the information technology staff set up his access to the classified networks he needed to search for Abdi Mohammed Asha and the police liaison Khalid, who apparently were the same man. Was Asha/Khalid still in England? Had he gone on to his native Somalia? Or could he be here? Johnny Dunner’s khat, which had been shipped to Asha in Boston, had come in on a ship out of Mukalla. It was Golzari’s only lead.
Golzari swirled the cup of black tea he’d gotten in the embassy mess as he considered the situation. He had promised John Dunner that he would find out what really happened to his son. Aside from his family’s debt to Dunner, Golzari had become personally fond of the man during his time on the assistant secretary’s security detail. The old man was quiet and considerate of those who worked for him, quite unlike the harpy from Harvard who until recently had been Dunner’s boss. Diplomatic Security agents, like the Secret Service, got a unique perspective on what public officials were really like when the cameras were off. Protectees were generally accompanied everywhere except the restroom and the bedroom, and agents were often posted outside those within easy hearing range. The charges took a while to get used to the twenty-four-hour protection, but they eventually forgot about it and let their guard down, showing their true selves. And in most cases, that wasn’t a pretty sight. Golzari had often wondered if Rome’s Praetorian Guard had felt the same way. That was probably why so many of them eventually turned on their emperors.
Golzari sipped his tea and nearly spit it out. This country was known for diverse and flavorful teas, but the embassy had none. General Services had no soul. Setting down the cup, Golzari turned back to the problem at hand. Abdi Mohammed Asha was Somali. Golzari knew his tribe and the town where he lived. That was a start. Would Asha return there? If he did, Golzari wouldn’t be able to follow him; no Americans were allowed into Somalia.
If Asha was in Yemen, he was still within reach, though the authorities probably couldn’t—or rather, wouldn’t—help Golzari with an investigation: Asha wasn’t Yemeni, but he was more like them than Golzari was. He knew the creed: My brother and me against my cousin; my cousin and me against my town; my town and me against . . . The best-case scenario would be interminable delay. We will help you as much as we can, inshallah, but . . .
The best lead he had on Asha and his ties to Yemen was the series of small khat shipments transported on the Mukalla Hassan, which was owned by the Yemeni president’s brother. Certainly the Yemeni police would be anxious to help with that one, Golzari thought wryly.
The graying gunnery sergeant looked in the open door. “Sir, anything I can do for you?”
“Yeah, Gunny, I need a good tailor, a hard drink, and a soft pillow.”
“In this country, sir?”
“Good point. How about you just keep lunatic Navy commanders at least twenty yards from me?”
“I haven’t formally met any recently,” the sergeant replied in a heavy southern drawl, “but from what I hear, he won’t be around long. He and the ambassador have had some heated discussions since he arrived. Some walls just ain’t soundproof enough.”
“They don’t get along. What a surprise. Why do I get the feeling this guy wouldn’t get along with us good people either, Gunny?”
“Don’t judge him just yet, sir,” came the raspy reply. “Scuttlebutt is he’s here under some unusual circumstances.” The sergeant stepped further into the little office. “Mind goin
g on a drive with us tomorrow?”
“Where to, Gunny?”
“The foreign minister’s office, sir. Ambassador Sumner received a call inviting her to meet with him.”
“A phone call?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I understand.”
“She’s going?”
“Yes, sir. At zero nine hundred we leave the compound in two vehicles. We’re short, so we could use the extra firepower.”
“How long have you been assigned here, Gunny?”
“Almost eighteen months. I roll out in six more.”
“Have you been here longer than the ambassador?”
“Sure have, sir. She’s been here only a couple of months.”
“How often has she gone to the foreign minister’s office in that time?”
“Just once, sir. When she presented her credentials.”
“How many times has she been invited?”
“This is the first time.” The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “Do you think something’s up?”
“I’m not sure, but standard protocol between diplomats is that invitations are on paper and hand-delivered. Never telephone calls, especially in the Middle East.”
“Do we advise against the meeting?”
“No, I could be wrong. But let’s take some extra precautions just in case. Can you pull the list of all incoming and outgoing embassy calls and emails from the past seventy-two hours?”
“I’ll have it to you within the hour.”
Gunny was as good as his word. An hour later Golzari stroked his goatee as he read down the list, cross-referencing all incoming and outgoing embassy calls against a list of the names and U.S. residences of the remaining embassy personnel. The list confirmed that the embassy did indeed receive a call from the foreign minister’s office and that the number matched the known office number. That ruled out the likelihood that the invitation had been issued from a different location, but it didn’t exclude the possibility that someone within the Foreign Ministry was collaborating with a terrorist group. Golzari leaned back in the old creaking chair that the General Services Office hadn’t replaced since the 1960s.
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