Two of his weapons were out and at hand on the front passenger seat. The first was his Sig 228 5.56-mm pistol, standard State Department issue. He would be issued a new pistol when State changed over to the 229, which was a little beefier than the 228 but still used NATO-compatible ammunition.
His second weapon was an M4, a carbine variant of the military’s M16 with a shorter 14.5-inch barrel and collapsible stock. He had strapped two extra magazines of M4 ammo to the gun, and his go-bag with eight more magazines on a bandolier was within reach on the floor. That should be more than sufficient to get him through a firefight.
He noted some changes on his final pass. Three men standing next to a parked moving van on a dusty street corner caught his eye. They appeared to be taking a cigarette break. One of the three did not look Yemeni. He was taller and thinner and much darker skinned than the two Yemenis. Golzari didn’t slow down. After two more blocks he turned down a side street and circled around to park just a block away from the van on the opposite side of the main thoroughfare.
The three men were standing casually, laughing as they smoked. Golzari took a hard look at the one who was not a Yemeni. He appeared to be East African. When he turned so that Golzari could see his face, Golzari went rigid; it was Khalid—or, as he now suspected, Abdi Mohammed Asha. The two Yemeni men climbed into the van’s driver and passenger seats while Khalid continued to smoke and talk with them through the open driver’s window. Periodically he looked casually down the street in the direction from which the ambassador’s car would be coming. He never looked in Golzari’s direction.
Golzari had a fleeting doubt. Was he sure about this? Or was the van just a moving van and the men just friends chatting during a work break? Damn that Stark, he thought. The little incident with the private security guards had undermined his confidence. He had to decide. Gunny and his Marines would be leaving the embassy compound with the ambassador in just a few minutes.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, holstering his pistol and covering his M4 with his go-bag. He got out of the rental vehicle and locked the doors. In the window’s reflection he saw Khalid shake the driver’s hand and wave to the passenger. Golzari turned and started walking quickly toward the van. Khalid was crossing over to Golzari’s side of the street, moving nonchalantly toward a café that hadn’t yet opened. Suddenly he turned abruptly right toward the street. Even when he could see nothing but the man’s back Golzari had no doubt that this was the same man he had met in Maine and tangled with in London. He spoke quietly into the microphone: “Code Black. I repeat, Code Black,” signaling the ambassador’s convoy to take an alternate route immediately and return to the relative safety of the compound.
Less than twenty seconds later he saw the Somali put a cell phone to his ear, listen for a moment, then start back across the street, waving at the van.
Thirty yards away now, Golzari reached for his Sig. Taking a chance, he said out loud: “Abdi Mohammed.”
Asha froze and looked back at Golzari, confused that anyone but the terrorists would know his name. When he saw the familiar face, he moved forward a step to attack, then saw the Sig in Golzari’s hand. Lacking a comparable weapon, he turned and ran down the street in the opposite direction.
“Kaf (Stop)!” Golzari yelled in Arabic. As Asha continued away from him, Golzari heard the moving van’s engine rev up as the vehicle pulled away from the curb. Golzari continued to chase Asha even as he knew that he couldn’t outrun the van behind him. He pivoted toward the vehicle, which was now less than a block away and headed straight for him.
Light from the sun at Golzari’s back reflected off the van’s aluminum mirror protectors, and the driver held up one arm to shade his eyes from the glare. The passenger was jogging the driver’s other arm and screaming at him, further distracting him. Pedestrians on both sides of the street darted back into the recesses of storefronts, giving Golzari more freedom of movement and minimizing the possibility of collateral damage. He planted his feet firmly as he aimed his Sig at the driver, ignoring the passenger, who was now leaning out the window with a weapon.
The van closed the distance. The driver was now clearly centered in Golzari’s sights. He fired three quick rounds. At thirty feet, he couldn’t miss. Two shots hit the driver in his chest; the third exploded in his throat. The van continued advancing, veering slightly away from Golzari without a driver to steer it, and missed him by a few feet. The passenger, who had been unable to get off a shot with his AK-47, was trying to turn around in his seat to aim again, but Golzari had two clear shots at him once the van had passed. The other Yemeni slumped forward to the floor as the van continued its momentum, stopping only when it slammed into a storefront and exploded. The force of the blast lifted Golzari into the air.
His father’s bodyguards would have been proud of him. Two terrorists dead with a total of five shots. As he brushed dust and debris off his jacket— another suit ruined, damn it—Golzari reflected that it was better to kill terrorists than to take them into custody and risk their acquittal in a long, drawn-out trial. Better all around that they die in their final battle. Fewer loose ends. Less paperwork.
Golzari spun around searching for a sight of the Somali man he now knew to be Abdi Mohammed Asha, but he was long gone.
U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 0642 (GMT)
C. J. Sumner brought a hand towel with her when she emerged from her private bathroom. Golzari had seen the signs before. The hair around her face was still wet from the cold water she had splashed on it. The hand holding her towel was shaking, and she wobbled slightly in her high heels. She had removed her suit jacket, and deep circles of perspiration stained the armpits of her yellow silk blouse. She intentionally avoided the window, even though its frames and panes were specially reinforced to stop bullets. She sat down and rolled her chair close to her desk, her eyes darting toward the window. Clearly she didn’t feel safe even in her own office in the embassy compound.
She took a deep breath. “Special Agent Golzari, I want to express my gratitude for what you did this morning. You saved a lot of lives.”
“Thank you, Madam Ambassador, but the important one got away.”
She shuddered, then squared her shoulders. “I haven’t given you a chance to tell me the details of your investigation and why it brought you here.”
“It started when I was in the States investigating the death of Deputy Secretary of State Dunner’s son. He apparently fell off a bridge in Antioch, Maine, and drowned. It’s standard procedure that someone from Diplomatic Security be sent to investigate cases involving the families of personnel under our protection.”
“How is the death of a student in Maine related to Yemen?”
“The boy was a khat user. A Somali refugee known in Antioch’s refugee community as Khalid was apparently his provider. The evidence indicates that the most recent shipment of khat—which Johnny Dunner had picked up in Boston the day he died—had come in on a Yemeni ship that ported in Southampton, England, en route. I met Khalid during the investigation in Antioch because he claimed to represent the refugee community. I didn’t know at the time, of course, that his real name is Abdi Mohammed Asha. Khalid apparently killed an Antioch police officer who was investigating young Dunner’s death, and afterward fled the country. By that time I was in London talking to a colleague in hope of getting more information on the Yemen connection. Khalid turned up there as well. He attacked and permanently maimed an MI5 officer. So I came to Yemen trying to follow the connection.”
“Go on,” Sumner said, her shakiness gone.
“This morning I saw Khalid—Abdi Mohammed Asha—speaking with two men standing next to a moving van parked on your expected route. It was a short step from there to deduce that the two men were terrorists and that the moving van was packed with explosives.”
She leaned back and thought it out. “Why did you think someone who might have given khat to Dunner’s son was involved in a terrorist attack against me in Yemen?” she asked Golzari.
&n
bsp; “Terrorists worldwide have connections with the drug trade,” he explained. “Drug money can buy a lot of high explosives. It’s possible that Asha’s appearance here is a coincidence, but I’m inclined to believe it isn’t.”
“Are you aware that Deputy Secretary Dunner has resigned?”
“Yes, ma’am, I saw the message. Was a reason given?”
“I was told it was because of his son’s death. It’s a huge loss for the embassy here. The deputy secretary saw that we were undermanned and was pushing to get us back up to full strength.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “That’s past, though. What do you plan to do next?”
“I have some leads, but I’m scheduled to go to Burkina Faso as the RSO.” The distaste in his voice when he said that remote country’s name was unmistakable.
She brought her hand to her chin and smiled. “Who did you piss off?”
Golzari smiled back in spite of himself. Perhaps this ambassador was different from the others he had met.
“Not a fan of Ouagadougou?” she asked.
“Of course I am, Madam Ambassador. It’s a charming little town well known for its fine cuisine. And who could pass up the opportunity to represent the only law enforcement within five hundred miles in a nation of abject poverty poised to explode into violence?”
“Actually, Agent Golzari, there are some lovely French restaurants in Ouagadougou. You’d be surprised. I’ll make a deal with you, though. I’m without a regional security officer at the moment. If you can pull double duty, I’ll have you reassigned here until your investigation is complete.”
“I’m not sure if I can do that, Madam Ambassador. I seem to have gone through my entire wardrobe, and there isn’t a decent tailor in town.”
C. J. smiled at the sarcasm. The Persian-born agent had a certain charm. “I’ll see what we can do about that. Again, you might be surprised. I’ll call your director this afternoon to inform him that you’ll be staying here.”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am. It might be best if you left out a few details, if you know what I mean.”
“I do indeed, Special Agent Golzari. I’m fully aware that tact and discretion are undervalued commodities in D.C.”
The ambassador’s intercom buzzed. “Yes, Mindy,” she said.
“Madam Ambassador, the White House has scheduled a video teleconference for 11:30.” Both Golzari and Sumner made a quick calculation and came to the same conclusion: it was far too early in the Capitol for normal business.
“Do you mean 11:30 a.m. our time?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the disembodied answer.
“Who do they want to talk to?”
“Just you.”
“Thank you.” She released the intercom button. “Special Agent Golzari, I’ll let you go about your duties.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll go and find that tailor.”
C. J. was already preparing for the VTC by the time Golzari closed the door behind him. She turned to her computer and checked news sites for anything that might be related to Yemen or the surrounding countries. Nothing. The White House situation room must have heard about the planned attempt on her life. That had to be it.
She donned her suit jacket and looked cool and composed when Green’s unattractive image appeared on the screen. “Eliot. A little early in D.C., isn’t it?”
“We heard about the attempted attack. How are you?”
“Fine. Everything is under control. We have good people here. A visiting DSS agent broke up the attack and has provided a full account to the Yemeni authorities.”
“Right. Make sure you tell Helen. She’s worried. You’re okay, though?”
The solicitousness surprised her. She had never known Eliot Green to be a warm and caring person. Quite the opposite, in fact; he had a reputation for ruthlessness in his pursuit of results. Something was up.
“You’re not calling to check on me, are you?”
“No. There was an incident off the coast,” he said. She braced herself. “We only have a few details. Three ships departed the port of Mukalla yesterday morning and were attacked by pirates. One of the ships, a private security ship—the Kirkwall—was attacked and sunk. The other two ships were unharmed but have been taken into Somali waters.”
C. J. struggled for control. She was not going to show her grief, especially not to Eliot, who had never liked Connor. A knot developed in her stomach. She had managed not to lose her breakfast after the attack; she felt no guarantee now. “Lives lost?” she managed to ask in an even tone, anticipating the worst news. If Green knew that Connor had been on the ship, he’d probably take delight in telling her.
“Yes. As far as we know there were eighteen individuals on board. Twelve are missing and considered dead. A U.S. Navy cruiser picked up the other six.”
She let it sink in. Six survivors out of eighteen. There was a 66 percent chance that Connor was dead. She had forced the system to recall him. Had she killed Connor Stark?
“Things seem to be picking up in that part of the world. We’re thinking about ordering an evacuation of the embassy.”
“No,” she said adamantly. “Please don’t. I want to stay. We should stay. We can’t back down.”
“Embassies are evacuated on a regular basis when the threat level gets too high, C. J. Make no mistake, if that happens, I will advise the president that the time has come to pull you out.”
Green was a pro at pretending to be concerned, but pretense was all it was. C. J. knew him too well to be fooled. He wanted her out of there, she realized. He wanted her to fail.
“No,” she said stiffly.
“It’s hard for you to be objective when you’re part of events. You may not know what’s best. And you might put more people at risk.” Did she detect a smirk? “The president will make a statement about this later today,” he continued. “We’ll pass along the time so you can watch it with your staff. Again, I want to say that the White House is glad you were able to avoid a tragic incident.”
C. J. rested her head against the back of the chair as the face of Eliot Green faded from the screen. The rest was all too short.
“Madam Ambassador?” her secretary called again on the speakerphone.
“Yes, Mindy,” she said without lifting her head. “What is it now?”
“The embassy has been asked to process an emergency flight request. It’s a helicopter from the Navy cruiser USS Bennington. They have one passenger— our defense attaché.”
Golzari frowned intermittently as he typed out the incident report for headquarters. He had long ago decided that filing reports was the worst part of being a beat cop or a federal agent. He was relieved that the situation here seemed to be under control. The Marines had come to full alert, and the Yemeni government had posted extra security guards outside the main gate.
“Gunny.” Golzari acknowledged the grizzled Marine who had just entered the office. He looked back at his computer just in time to watch the screen go blank. The realization that he hadn’t saved the report came shortly afterward. “Shit!” He pounded the CPU tower with his fist. “What else can go wrong today?”
The Marine shook his head to signify his disagreement. “Things went right today, sir. You caught an attack before it started and you x-ringed the two drivers before their explosives were able to do serious damage—except, of course, to that store.”
“I want that son-of-a-bitch, Gunny.”
“Are we talking about the terrorist that got away or your friend the Navy commander?” he joked.
“Priorities, Gunny. I get one, then I get the other. Where the hell is he anyway?”
“You didn’t see the email from the ambassador?” Gunny realized his mistake as he looked at the stricken computer. “ . . . well, it’s in there somewhere. The commander was riding on one of the oil platform supply ships last night— actually he was on the escort ship.”
“The merc ship?”
“They like to think of themselves as private security specialists,
sir.”
“Ever known one who wasn’t a merc?”
“I think these people may be the exception, sir. They seem different from the mercs I saw in Iraq. Mr. Maddox doesn’t hire them out to the government like the PSCs in Iraq do. They just protect his ships and assets. That’s how Commander Stark set it up for him.”
Golzari sat up straighter in his chair. “Stark set it up?”
“Yes, sir. When I first got here Connor Stark was a civilian with a big, bushy beard.”
Golzari’s mind brought up an image from the RAF Lakenheath airfield lounge. One of the first things he had noticed about Stark was the lighter area of his tanned face where a beard would have been.
“The gouge I got was that Stark and Maddox are old college buddies. When Maddox got permission to explore the oil fields and the pirates started hitting them, Stark acquired the first security ship and trained its crew. Did pretty well on the water, from what one of the other security guys told me. He even stopped an attack on a Yemeni cargo dhow. The Yemeni government formally commended him for that one.”
“That seems a bit excessive.”
“Not when the captain of the dhow is related to the ruling family.”
Golzari was trying to process the information Gunny was handing out. Maybe Stark wasn’t a complete idiot. “Swell. So Stark’s a merc himself. I wonder why they brought him back on active duty. Any gouge on that?”
The Aden Effect Page 15
