“Quickly,” the worker said to the bodyguard, “put him in the trunk when I back up to the stable. If anyone sees us, we will lose our heads.”
PART III
DAY 12 (cont.)
U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 0831 (GMT)
Sighing in disgust, C.J. shook her head at the two dirty, dusty, bloody men who stood in front of her desk. “It certainly hasn’t been boring since you two arrived. Think either of you can make it a couple of days before getting attacked again?” She pointed at Golzari’s bandaged arm. “Are you responsible for this, Commander Stark?”
“No, ma’am. Not this time. Special Agent Golzari was wounded in the course of a firefight outside Mar’ib as we were returning to Sana’a.”
“Commander Stark is correct, Madam Ambassador. Eight men, probably Somalis, ambushed us. We killed seven of them. The eighth got away. Commander Stark is largely responsible for stopping them because I was wounded almost immediately.”
“Special Agent Golzari doesn’t do himself justice,” Stark interjected. “Had he not found high ground and cover and taken out two of the attackers immediately, we would have been vastly outnumbered and in a poor tactical position. It was due to his quick thinking and professionalism that we were able to defeat them.”
C. J. leaned back in her chair and marveled at the change in their behavior. It was the first time she heard them use official titles. They were treating one another with respect. And they were fighting other people now rather than each other. She could work with this. “Sit down, please, gentlemen, and tell me exactly what happened. No, wait.” She held up her hand and spoke into her intercom. “Mindy, please bring a first aid kit and some water.” She looked from one man to the other. “Special Agent Golzari, why don’t you tell me about the ambush.”
After Golzari had described the ambush and Stark had added further details of his meetings with the Yemenis, she gave them her own news. “We’re a go for Socotra from the White House,” she began, “so we can get this operation under way.” She turned to Stark. “Commander, I’d like you to take the lead on organizing the mission.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I saw Bill Maddox on Socotra—” she added.
“You went to Socotra without me, ma’am?” Golzari interjected.
“Don’t worry,” she said, raising her hands in mock self-defense. “Gunnery Sergeant Willis and his Marines provided excellent protection throughout. Agent Golzari, I’d like you to work with Commander Stark on the mission’s security,” she continued, then stopped and thought for a moment. “Wait a minute. Let’s go back to the ambush. Did you say Asha was among the Somali attackers?”
“I believe so,” the agent said.
“Why would a Somali drug-runner ambush U.S. embassy personnel? Do you have any ideas?”
“Just a tie to a shipping firm, and possibly to the ruling family, Madam Ambassador.”
She inhaled. “How much of a tie, Agent Golzari?”
“Perhaps the good commander should answer that one.”
“We’re not sure,” Stark said. “We think my friend’s son may be involved, but we haven’t had time to confirm that yet.”
“What if he is, Connor? What then? I can’t negotiate with the Yemenis if one of them is involved. We have to know. Can you talk to your friend?” she asked.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can find out. But I’ll have to do this very carefully.”
USS Bennington, Djibouti, 0950 (GMT)
Bobby Fisk stood on the quarterdeck wiping sweat and sand from his face as he tried to breathe without singeing his lungs. The humid, oven-hot air of the port off the Bab el Mandeb at the juncture of the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden felt like heated sandpaper as it scraped against his throat. He watched as crewmen escorted the last of the Kirkwall survivors off the ship and into the van that would take them to Camp Lemonier for a final checkup before they were flown back to the States.
The Bennington was scheduled to be in port only half a day for refueling, but at least Bobby was looking at dry land. The high-speed dash across the Gulf of Aden to rescue the Kirkwall’s survivors had depleted too much fuel to let the ship continue on patrol. Maybe the captain would enjoy himself so much that he’d let the ship make more port calls in the future. Bobby smiled at the thought.
OPS rounded the corner. “Bobby, have you seen the skipper or SUPPO?”
“He and the XO left here about five minutes ago.”
“Well, I have good news for you. It looks like we’ll be here overnight after all.”
“Problems?”
“Nope. We just got orders from Fifth Fleet to load up on medical supplies, food, and extra water.”
“For what?”
“We’re directed to support humanitarian operations on an island a few days from here. We’ll deliver the supplies and then be on our way. Nothing exciting.”
Suleiman, South of Mukalla, 1400 (GMT)
Faisal lit another cigarette as the ship’s twin diesel engines drove it through the waters off Mukalla toward the island of Socotra. His crew of ten worked swiftly to secure loose objects on the deck and below in case they ran into inclement weather on the way. “Be sure to secure those skiffs,” he commanded from his spot three decks above. The crew hurried to obey. A mother ship without its skiffs was no mother ship.
Another sixty Somali pirates and Yemeni soldiers augmented the ship’s regular company for this voyage. When the battle came, some would crew the skiffs while the others would defend the ship. All who survived would be well paid for their service.
Faisal paced back and forth, ignoring the man climbing the starboard ladder to meet him.
“My people are ready, Faisal, and look forward to this mission.”
Faisal was silent.
“What troubles you, my friend?” Asha asked, tapping out a cigarette from his own pack.
“The military adviser.”
“Don’t worry, we will kill him.”
“You said that once before, Abdi Mohammed, and you failed to kill him.”
“I admit I did not take my best men. I took many men instead, thinking their numbers would overpower the military adviser and the agent. The Americans were lucky. They will not be lucky again.” He inclined his head politely. “Perhaps you should have killed him when you had the chance at your father’s house.”
Faisal took a long drag on his cigarette. “Had I killed him then, I would not be here now.”
“He is an American,” Asha said contemptuously. “They are for killing.”
“My father considers him a brother because he saved my life.”
Asha laughed. “Yes, from a former rival pirate clan who turned on you in a deal. But you survived because of him and now command these waters. No merchant ship is safe from your fleet. He is not worth your attention.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Faisal responded, unconvinced. He dropped his cigarette and ground it out beneath his sandal, then glanced up to watch a couple of his men performing maintenance work on the large circular helipad forward and above the pilothouse. The pad was empty, but not for long. “At least my men now have Ali,” he said with satisfaction.
“When do we get the helicopter?”
“Tomorrow. It will fly from Abdul Kori Island to meet us.”
“Good. Then you will take us to Socotra before the Americans get there. We will be ready.”
“Ready for what, Abdi?” Faisal said sarcastically, “to fail again?”
“You insult me, Faisal? I should kill you for that.” Abdi whipped out his knife but froze when a gunshot rang out behind him. He dropped the knife and turned to see two of Faisal’s men. One was lowering his gun after firing a shot into the sky. The other was pointing his weapon directly at Abdi Mohammed Asha.
Faisal motioned Asha away. “Do what you are assigned to do, and I will do the same. In the meantime, on my ship, these two men will be at your side to ensure your success.”
U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 1555 (GMT)
After d
inner Stark joined Golzari in the RSO’s office with an open bottle of scotch. Golzari’s actions at Old Mar’ib had dispelled Stark’s first assessment of him at RAF Lakenheath as an elitist wimp. His appreciation for good whiskey completed Stark’s about-face. For his part, the uptight Diplomatic Security Service agent had loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves enough to reveal his bandaged forearm.
“Can you still shoot with that injury?” Stark nodded at the forearm while he sipped his Highland Park.
“As well as you can, I’m sure. Sometime when things calm down around here we should go down to the range in the basement and have a little shoot-out.”
Stark raised one eyebrow. “At each other?”
“Maybe we’ll settle for fencing,” Golzari amended.
“That sounds a great deal more civilized.”
Golzari was amused to hear the man he had characterized as a Visigoth talk of being civilized.
“Should we talk about this upcoming op?” Stark suggested.
“While we’re drinking?”
“We really haven’t started drinking yet,” Stark said. “Just the basics for now. We’ll go over the details tomorrow once we’ve seen the six Yemen Navy boats that will be escorting us.”
“Is a grand plan really necessary? The pirates aren’t likely to attack a boat escorted by six Yemeni warships.”
“They attacked the Kirkwall,” Stark pointed out.
“With due respect to the Kirkwall and her crew, that was one ship, not half a dozen.”
Stark shrugged and changed the subject. “So, how does someone go from a British public school to the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service?”
“It’s the only job I’ve found that allows me to combine my two great interests. My family are naturalized American citizens, but my father insisted on a British education. After Cheltenham I went to George Washington University with a double major in criminology and archaeology.”
“Interesting combo.”
“Actually they’re very similar. In each you look for evidence to put a case or a story together.”
“You like working at State?”
“The world needs stability, and protecting diplomats helps to ensure that state-to-state communications continue.” The chair squeaked as he slowly rocked while sipping the scotch.
“To stability,” Stark said, raising his glass.
Golzari raised his glass in reply. “What about you?”
“Boston University, Navy ROTC. I expected to have a full career.” He drank more than a sip of whiskey recalling what might have been.
“What happened?”
“I took an assignment on Capitol Hill because I was promised that it would help my career. It didn’t.”
“You can never trust those folks on the Hill.”
“Mmm, actually O’Rourke was a good man. A real gentleman.”
“Senator Padraic O’Rourke?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Didn’t the ambassador work for him once?”
“You’re quick. We were there at the same time. She worked on foreign affairs and I worked on armed services.”
“During the Canada incident,” Golzari suggested nonchalantly, hoping for an opening into that long-lost secret.
Stark raised his chin and stared at him.
“Sir?” Gunnery Sergeant Willis said from the doorway.
“Saved by the bell,” Stark said. “Pull up a chair, Gunny. It’s after hours and the bar’s open.”
“Thank you, sir. I normally would, but I still have to show a few of our young’uns the proper way to PT tonight. You wouldn’t believe how puny the weights they lift are.”
“What do you have there, Gunny?” Golzari asked, motioning to a red-striped folder under the sergeant’s arm.
“You asked about any intercepts that might be related to the attacks in Yemen and to track down some phone numbers.”
“I remember.”
“NSA said they couldn’t get to the intercepts for a while, but I tracked down a Marine at NSA who helped. I’ll leave the folder here for you.” He slid the folder across Golzari’s desk.
“Thanks. Are you sure you won’t have just one with us?” Golzari asked.
“Another time, sir, if you’ll save some of that for when we finish this operation.” Gunny left and closed the door behind him.
Golzari took out the two sheets and read them. “Shit. That’s interesting.”
“What?”
Golzari slid the sheets across to Stark, who spent a few minutes trying to extract the information from the clutter. It had been awhile since he’d seen classified documents. When he finished, he read them again. “No access to the phone numbers. The phones they use are a new type of Chinese manufacture. Perfect.”
“Not to worry,” Golzari said. “It looks like our intelligence friends did confirm something I found earlier—a reference to al-Amriki. ‘The American.’”
“And?” Stark asked.
“The intercept references a military adviser aboard the Highland Maritime security ship and notes that al-Amriki wants the ship sunk and the adviser killed. Apparently our late friend Ahmed al-Ghaydah called a friend of his on a regular line and mentioned al-Amriki, saying that the adviser and ambassador were both targets.”
“An American is behind all this? And the message was before the attack on us?”
“Yes.”
“But we should assume that the order still holds true.”
“Absolutely. They’ll keep trying.”
“If that’s the case,” Stark mused, “this al-Amriki is trying to undermine our negotiations. If he takes me out, that breaks the embassy’s closest tie to the Yemeni government.”
“Now you see why I’m worried, old man?”
Stark nodded emphatically. “I see it. It’s not just a little khat or piracy that we’re dealing with. The cell is trying to drive a wedge between the United States and Yemen, or at least to prevent us from getting closer. Why?”
The two men looked at each other. “Oil,” they said simultaneously.
“Okay, let’s figure this out,” Golzari said, rising to stand before a whiteboard on the office wall. “First, suspects.” He drew a rough map of the Gulf of Aden with Socotra in the middle. “First possibility, Somalia,” he said, writing down the name.
“Which we can strike from the list,” Stark replied from his chair. “Even if they had some right to the oil, they have no operational government; Somaliland and Puntland are self-governing territories, but they don’t have the reach, resources, or stability. The warlords certainly couldn’t develop it either.”
Golzari drew an X over “Somalia” and continued. “Second possibility, Yemen.”
Stark shook his head. “Based on my conversations with them recently, I don’t think it’s them. They already have the power to deny us rights to the oil. There’s no reason for them to initiate or escalate any violence.”
“What about internal factions?” Golzari said.
“It’s possible. The average Yemeni agrees more with al-Qaeda in Yemen than with the government, but even they would know that the government doesn’t trust or like America and isn’t likely to let us have the oil.”
“Then let’s go beyond the Gulf. India? Russia? China?” He wrote the names on the whiteboard.
Stark nodded in agreement. “All candidates. India and China especially need oil. How do we link them or any other suspect to the pirates?”
“We just have to pay more attention. The evidence will surface. Even in archaeology it happens.”
“But in archaeology you have to wait centuries or millennia,” Stark said. “We don’t have that kind of time.”
Golzari tapped the marker against his desk. “There must be more information out there. If we had full access to other intelligence communities’ resources we might be able to find it. If this embassy was fully manned that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Wait a minute,” Stark said. “Let’s go back to the internal factio
ns. Al-Ghaydah’s family and Mutahar’s family are major rivals.”
Golzari tapped faster. “What if Mutahar’s son Faisal is working with the other family?”
“That wouldn’t make sense. If Faisal wants leadership, he’ll probably eventually get it within his own family.”
“Probably?” Golzari asked.
“Faisal has been in trouble before. He’s smart but he has run drugs. Not legitimate commerce like his father. Plus, Mutahar favors Ali. Mutahar did say that Ali was the family’s and the country’s future. No mention of Faisal.”
“So if Faisal wants to be in power, he has to make a deal with the devil—in this case a rival family like the al-Ghaydahs?”
“Yeah,” said Stark quietly. “And Faisal brought in one of the al-Ghaydahs to the family business when Ismael—the stevedore—was killed.
Finally Stark rose. “How about we both get some sleep and take this up early in the morning when our minds are clear?”
Golzari dropped the marker. “Agreed. Thanks for the scotch.”
DAY 13
The White House, Washington, D.C., 0214 (GMT)
The Fist of the Senate. That’s what they had called him when he was chief of staff for Padraic O’Rourke, the senator with the longest record of service in the history of that august body—longer than Ted Stevens and Strom Thurmond. Even Robert Byrd never broke O’Rourke’s record. No piece of legislation was unknown to Green, no tactic undefeated, and no dalliance undetected. Some argued that he held more power than the majority leader himself, a fact not lost on the majority leader, who knew that he owed his position to the Fist.
He, Eliot Green, had engineered the selection of young Congressman Becker to replace the deceased Senator O’Rourke, over the outraged cries of half a dozen more senior politicians in Massachusetts. Then, when the party powers said Senator Becker was too young to be on the national ticket, Green persuaded them that he wasn’t. When Becker assumed the presidency at midterm, they had no choice but to embrace him. And Eliot Green—the Fist— was there every step of the way to pound the opposition into complete and utter submission. Now, with the general election just around the corner, Green faced the supreme test of his career in getting a full term for Becker. He had handpicked the campaign manager and senior campaign staff. They were loyal to him, not the president. They did what he ordered, not Becker. Green wanted to do what no one but Reagan and Nixon, both members of the other party, had ever done before and win in a sweep of at least forty-nine states. All he needed was a bad opposition candidate and a national crisis to rally the country around the fallen, the flag, and Hamilton Becker.
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