The Catch: A Novel

by Taylor Stevens

  Out of breath and hurting, Munroe found shade and a wall to lean against, dry swallowed another dosage of ibuprofen, and when she could finally push through once more she studied the printouts again, then folded a page and tucked it away. She was close. If this wasn’t the building, one of the others nearby would be.

  Munroe opened the door and stepped into a long and unlit hallway, where the smell of acrylic lingered, as if the place had recently been painted, masking the age and must that permeated every part of the building. Scuff marks and dirt streaks along the wall made a mockery of the effort at improvement, while high ceilings and transom screens kept the air flowing.

  A baton-wielding askari was sitting on a folding chair just inside the door stood when she entered. He gave her a half glance and sat down again, asked no questions as she continued on, stopping in front of each door to take note of the businesses that lay beyond: details mounted on plaques to the side of, or painted onto, the doors, most of which were half wood, half translucent glass, like something out of an old detective film.

  She found what she wanted at the second-to-last door—a solid door with import/export signage mounted to the wall on one side, and a law office plaque with several names in increasingly smaller print on the other. She took the hawaladar’s name off of both: Abdi Geedi Bahdoon.

  Then opened the door and stepped inside.

  The receptionist stood when she entered and as Munroe continued around her and peered down the hall, the woman stepped forward and then hesitated, as if unsure as to the most appropriate action. Half out from behind her desk and half in the hall, she said, “Can I help you?”

  Munroe said, “I’m sorry, I seem to be lost.”

  “Who do you need?”

  “Imperial Tea.”

  “One door to the right,” the woman said.

  With the mental map to the interior redrawn, Munroe left once more for the outside heat. She had to walk Bishara Street all the way back to its opening before she found another taxi, a slow effort that leeched off and stole energy she didn’t have. The persistent weakness, like getting knocked out in a fight she’d never before lost, was bewildering and frustrating.

  At Abdel Nasser Road she flagged down yet another ride for yet another visit to an Internet café and another round of searching. Never a substitute for feeling and touching and breathing, this was a shortcut: a point in the right direction, and in the shortcut she lost an hour to learning what little there was to learn about the man who’d provided her with information on the Favorita.

  She had his name and from her interaction with him knew where he’d spent his school years, but names were different for Somalis than for people of many other cultures: no surnames of which to speak, rather first names from father and grandfather to act as middle and last names, and nicknames that at times took on a multigenerational legacy.

  She found him through school records, followed those threads, adding to what she knew, and then having reached the point where the law of diminishing returns turned further queries into redundancies, she cleared the history and shut down the browser. Left for Nehru Road with enough knowledge to cold-read and bluff her way through to more.

  The bodyguard straightened when she approached and she handed him the knife as she’d done a few days earlier; endured the same tedious procedure to get inside. There was no wait in the hall, and when she entered the hawaladar’s office, she closed his door with a shove of her foot, a little harder than necessary, and the slam reverberated loudly in the enclosed space.

  She didn’t drag the chair to the desk as she’d done the last two visits, rather strode to the desk and, refusing to react to the pain screaming in response to the unnatural movement, sat on it and leaned in toward him. He pushed back and away from her encroachment and his gaze assessed her, top to bottom.

  “Someone sent a group of street boys to kill me,” she said.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t accuse you.”

  “All the same.”

  “Who did it?” she said.

  “How should I know?”

  “I’m not one for letting slights go,” she said. “By my last reckoning, four of the men who came after me are dead. I intend to find the others. I want what you know about the foreign investors and if you refuse to give it, then I will treat you as if you’re part of what happened. I won’t kill you today, although I could. And not tomorrow, or even the next day, but there’s nowhere you can hide that I can’t find you and you have to ask yourself, is it really worth it?”

  The hawaladar faced her, silent for a long while, and although nothing in his expression or in his body language betrayed fear, she could smell a hint of it on his skin and knew she’d made her point.

  “I had nothing to do with any attack,” he said, and she turned her back to him and stepped for a chair. Dragged it back, sat, and with her arms crossed stayed silent for a long moment to disguise the pain and exhaustion that stole the breath from her and made it impossible to speak without shaking. When she’d recovered enough to put forth an air of control, she said, “I’m listening.”

  He leaned forward, hands clasped atop the desk. “I extended you a hand of peace, I offered you the little information I did have and asked for nothing in return, and yet you repay me by coming here to threaten me under my own roof?” He stood, and palms to his desk he leaned toward her, lowered his voice, and said, “You’ve given me nothing but games and riddles and bullying—no reason to want to help you. Cameroonian you say, and yet you come in here so typically American, full of piss and vinegar and righteous fury ready to blow things up. If you think I had something to do with your attack, fine. Do what you plan to do. If you’re here to kill me, then go ahead and try to kill me, otherwise you’re wasting my time.”

  “You haven’t hit your safety alarm yet,” she said.

  “You haven’t tried to kill me yet.”

  “I don’t want to kill you,” she said. “I could do it, finish with it before you got to your alarm, but I think we’d both be happier if you stayed breathing.”

  “I don’t know who did that to you,” he said.

  “Are you sure? Because rumor has it that hawala is a perfect vehicle for funding Islamist extremists and laundering pirate money. Seems like you’d be in a perfect position to know who did it.”

  He smiled wryly, sat down again, rocked the leather chair back toward the wall, and smoothed down his tie. “I’ve made my position clear and you either believe me or you don’t.”

  “I’m not worth fucking with,” she said.

  “And neither am I.”

  She motioned to her face, her body, threw out another lure to see how he’d bite: “This is connected to the hijacking of that ship. There’s something they want and they think I have it.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “Seriously?”

  He grinned, as if amused by his own joke. “It was worth a try,” he said.

  “But you have an idea then, Mr. Bahdoon, of what it is they want?”

  His expression tightened in response to her use of his name. “You’ve been doing some reading,” he said. “Was it a dossier from your CIA friends?”

  “The name on the door of your office,” she said. Stood and walked toward the rear of the room. Ran her fingers along the cinder block and dragged her hand in the direction of nearby shelving. “You’d never be stupid enough to conduct financial transactions in a place with only one in and out, and hawala is hardly enough of a business to keep a man like you completely busy. You should have a small army of accountants in here, but you don’t. For whatever reason you do this yourself, so I figure the door is”—she paused, tapped the shelving unit—“right about here.” She turned to face him. “It wasn’t difficult to find you on the other side; you should be more careful.”

  His focus had tracked her as she walked, and he smiled now as she returned to her chair. “Why do you keep coming to me?” he said. “It should be obvious that I have no interest
in getting tangled up in whatever it is you’re after.”

  “But you are,” she said. “You are very interested. More interested than any one man should be, and so far, you’re the only one who hasn’t tried to kill me.”

  “That you know of,” he said.

  She paused and returned his smile. “Your reaction to the off-putting American answered that for me,” she said. “I keep coming back because you have what I want—I know you have what I want. And you’re the only one who hasn’t tried to kill me.”

  “You want to deal?” he said.

  “I want to deal.”

  “And you have connections?”

  “I told you, I’m not CIA.”

  He waved his hand as if bothering with denials was a waste of her time. “Can you get a job done?”

  She nodded.

  “What do you know of the law of salvage?” he said.

  The question, a derailed train of thought, took her by surprise. “When divers go down to shipwrecks to find treasure,” she said.

  “Like that,” he said. “Partially. Although that isn’t always the case. You found my offices; therefore you know I have practiced law?”

  She nodded.

  “You know my specialty?”

  “Admiralty solicitor,” she said. “Maritime law.”

  “Very good,” he said. “Your dossiers are accurate. Kenyan law is partially based on English common law. I don’t practice here, but it helps in figuring out how to navigate the system. It’s my office that you found, but I don’t work there. I hire Kenyan lawyers, it’s easier that way. As a Somali I’m not trusted here. Hated even.”

  She nodded out of politeness. Still didn’t follow the train of logic.

  “How much do you think the ship is worth as scrap?” he said.

  “No idea.”

  “How many years do you think she still has in her?”

  “It’s not my area of expertise, but I could find out.”

  “You want to know why I am interested in her?”

  Munroe smiled at the redundant question. “Would love to,” she said.

  “According to the internationally accepted law of salvage, if a ship is clearly in distress and she is saved—salvaged—the rescuers are entitled to twenty-five percent of the value of the ship for the risk and effort.”

  “The Favorita isn’t worth the risk of getting killed for twenty-five percent.”

  “Ah yes, but if the owners do not pay, the ship can be put to auction,” he said, and Munroe understood his intent. The chessboard inside her head shifted, and a new strategy arose. He offered to give her what she wanted, believing she’d go after the ship to save what he assumed were her people, provided she brought the ship to him in exchange.

  “Does it always work that way?” she said.

  “It’s not guaranteed. Each country has its own laws, and a suit has to be brought against the ship. I’d have good odds under Kenyan law.”

  “So if the owners decide an aging freighter isn’t worth coughing up the cash to redeem it, never show up, you’ll take it all?”

  “Yes, if the owners don’t claim it.”

  “You might have trouble finding someone willing to go get it for you with that kind of lackluster guarantee.”

  “I might,” he said, and he studied her knowingly.

  “It’s not just the twenty-five percent,” he said. “If they choose to claim it, they’ll also be dealing with the ship’s crew, and families, possibly the governments of those families, local officials, inspections, and appraisals.”

  “And the corruption.”

  “It does come in handy at times.”

  “Don’t you have connections in Somalia that would allow you to buy the ship off them?”

  “Sadly, no. We are dealing with pirates after all. Not even the president himself could convince them to release the ship without ransom, and my connections don’t go quite that high.”

  “Tell me about the financiers for the hijacking,” she said. “If it works for me, then we can discuss the Favorita.”

  “There’s a Russian delegation in town,” he said. “Nothing unusual about that except that they flew in from Galkayo a little over a week ago. How does that work for your timing?”

  She breathed down a sigh. Given the origination of the weapons in the hold, she’d suspected a Russian connection, had searched in that direction and turned up nothing, but if it had been Russian investment in the hijacking, then it was all the more relevant that she’d warned off Amber and Natan from traveling to Garacad, because Natan would have been dead as soon as he opened his mouth. “The timing works,” she said. “I wish you would have told me this last time.”

  “I didn’t know last time.”

  She didn’t believe him but kept that to herself.

  “Do you have names? Itinerary? Anything?”

  “They’re staying at the Royal Court Hotel,” he said. “They are all men, and there are some people in and around Garacad who have nothing good to say about Russians right now.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “That’s all I have.”

  “What were they after? Why go through all that trouble?”

  He steepled his fingers and glanced over the top of them. “I think you’re in a better position to answer that question than I am.”

  “I might be able to get you what you want,” she said.

  “When do you know?”

  “Tomorrow. But it won’t be free.”

  “Won’t it?”

  “There are some lines that won’t be crossed, Mr. Bahdoon. I may be able to retrieve this ship for you, but outfitting a crew to do it is beyond my budgetary resources.”

  “And if you had the financing?”

  “I could do it.”

  “Perhaps we have a common interest,” he said. “We should talk.”

  Munroe said, “Maybe.” Stood and took a step toward the door. “Is there a way we could meet away from this place? Somewhere we can speak privately?”

  “We are in a space as private as you can hope to get.”

  “If I’m going to show you my cards, I want to do it in neutral territory where I’m not at a disadvantage, where I can get up and walk away without having to kill you to do it.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be anywhere alone with you.”

  “The mistrust runs both ways. Bring your bodyguards.”

  He smiled again and shook his head in a chiding fashion. “As you wish,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  “The Royal Court Hotel?”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “If I’m going to track down your Russian delegation, I can’t waste my time gallivanting around town.”

  Truth, minus the added bonus that if they were seen by her prey, recognition would be easy to spot, both in the hawaladar and in anyone who might know him. He shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “Royal Court Hotel,” he said. “One o’clock.”

  Munroe made her way back to the heart of the city and, one floor up in a six-floor building, found a restaurant that promised Indian food and relative quiet, and put a large dent in the cash in her shoes. At a table near the rear, back to the wall where she could watch the door, she ordered food for two and during the wait dialed Amber Marie. Natan answered and said, “She’s outside. I’ll get her.”

  CHAPTER 26

  When Amber finally picked up, Munroe said, “If you want to save Leo, don’t drive down.”

  “This isn’t news. I took you seriously the first time.”

  “But you’re still planning to go.”

  “Unless you have a better idea.”

  “The people who hold the Favorita have been screwed over by a group of Russians. Natan goes down there, he’s dead on arrival.” Munroe paused, and when Amber didn’t answer, she said, “What if I told you I had an idea that would not only get Leo but your entire team, the ship’s crew, and possibly the ship, an idea that you and Natan need to be a part of in order to properly execute it—would
you fly to Mombasa?”

  “You’re really who you say you are?” Amber said. “The person on that website with that résumé, you’re the strategist who figured everything out, the one who made it in and out—that entire list of countries?”

  “It’s not up-to-date, not comprehensive, but everything there was me.”

  “You’ve done an extraction before?”

  “Not like this one, but yes.”

  “And you’ll stick with us till the end?”

  “If I figure this out right, you won’t need me to, but yes, I’ll stick around.”

  “What do you want for it?” Amber said.

  The question, switching tracks, took Munroe by surprise.

  She’d had no interest in saving Leo for saving’s sake; neither had she expected payment. Her continued involvement had turned messy, was a way to bring payback against those who’d sent the street thugs to kill her, a way to avenge a boy who didn’t deserve to die, and possibly bring closure for Amber and so wash her conscience of the whole situation.

  “We can discuss it later,” Munroe said, “after you’re here.”

  “I like to know what my debts and obligations will be before I sign.”

  “I haven’t thought through to what I want or expect,” Munroe said. “If you need me to figure that out first, we can waste a few days dickering over details that don’t matter and lower the chances of Leo’s survival.”

  “And if we come down, then what?”

  “I have a list of equipment you’ll need to buy and have shipped in.”

  “What are you planning, Michael?”

  “To hijack the ship back.”

  Amber started laughing. Spontaneous laughter, as much from surprise as from the absurdity of the statement, and Munroe didn’t blame her for that. There had, of course, been other pirate-held ships freed through land-supplied commando raids: scenarios that involved air support, and token local government support, and heavy artillery, and that still nearly ended in disaster. But this, slipping hundreds of miles up the Somali coastline, carrying with them everything they might need, going without backup and no inside intel, this was about as suicidal as driving down into Somalia to try to bribe Leo free. Except, in a country where nothing could be kept secret, if they played it right, they’d have the element of surprise and a way to get back out.