The Exile

by Andrew Britton

  Kealey looked at him. “You seriously believe that’s true?”

  Saduq nodded. “I am an international businessman, not someone to be treated like a cheap criminal.”

  Kealey looked at him another moment, then grabbed him under the chin again and smashed him back with greater force than before, keeping his fingers locked around his throat.

  “I want answers,” Kealey said. “We’re staying on this boat together until I get them, do you understand?”

  Saduq said nothing. Staring at him, Kealey was struck with an odd sense of dissociation; it was as if he’d been watching the scene in the cabin unfold from some significant remove and taken cold recognition of two things. The first was that he once might have felt a mixture of anger and admiration for Saduq’s unfaltering composure. The second was the complete and utter absence of any feelings or compunctions within him at all. It was exactly as he had told Abby before. He just wanted to get the job done.

  “I asked if you understood,” he said and slammed the arms merchant back into the wall a third time.

  Saduq remained silent. Kealey’s upper and lower molars clicked together. All right, have it your way. He raised his gun and pressed its bore into the middle of his captive’s forehead, tightening his grip around his neck, clamping off his windpipe.

  “Let’s try again,” he said in a flat, mechanical tone, looking directly into Saduq’s eyes. “Do you understand me? Yes or no?”

  Saduq swallowed and took a thin, wheezing breath, his Adam’s apple a hard, straining lump against the rigid vise of Kealey’s hand. Not letting up, Kealey dug his fingers in deeper, bringing the gun barrel to bear against his forehead with a pressure that made the skin pale around it in a small circle.

  “Yes or no?”

  Saduq produced a strangled, gurgling sound, his tongue writhing thickly in his mouth, the veins of his temples pulsating, his eyes bulging in their sockets. “Yeesss,” he croaked at last.

  Kealey unlocked his fingers from Saduq’s throat without moving his gun from his forehead. At almost the same instant, he heard Brun shift on the bed, shot him a quick glance, and detected a measure of discomfort in the Interpol agent that had nothing to do with the physical pain of his gunshot wound. This registered in Kealey’s awareness with no more emotion than anything else about his situation. It was just another factor to be inventoried should it enter into play.

  “The man who came aboard with you,” Kealey said, his eyes darting back to Saduq. “Who was he?”

  The arms dealer swooped air into his lungs, his chest heaving up and down. “A Somali brigand,” he sputtered.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “He…he calls himself Ali.”

  “What do you mean ‘calls himself’?”

  “I cannot…cannot tell you…whether it is…his true identity.” Saduq pulled in another rapid series of breaths. “He is…a lieutenant. Nothing more. I have dealt with his group in the past.”

  “Its leader, then,” Kealey said. “Give me his name.”

  “He goes by many aliases…. I know him as Dafo,” Saduq said, massaging his throat. “They say he is based in Puntland…Boosaaso, Haradheere, or Eyl. But he communicates only via telephone and e-mail, and it’s uncertain whether he even resides on the continent.”

  “And that’s the best you can do?”

  “As far as what you have asked to this point,” Saduq said, looking him squarely in the eye. “I am prepared to tell you whatever else I might know about him…and can help with other information you wish to know.”

  “I’m sure,” Kealey said. “Except you’re full of shit.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Shaking his head in denial, Saduq began to respond, but before his lips could shape another word, Kealey bunched his collar in his fist and yanked him up off his chair, hauling him forward so he left his feet. He threw him to the cabin floor on his belly, the armchair momentarily getting tangled between his legs and clattering over sideways. As Saduq tried gathering himself, Kealey came up behind him, grabbed the back his shirt, and half dragged, half lifted him to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” Saduq wheezed.

  Kealey pushed the barrel of his gun rifle into Saduq’s back. “We’re going up top.”

  “Why…I don’t see what reason there is for—”

  “Upstairs,” Kealey grunted, prodding him with the rifle. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Saduq went into the stairwell and then climbed to the glass-enclosed main cabin, coming up beside the cockpit, where Abby Liu stood with her weapon trained on the captain. At a near standstill in the bay, the Yemaja drifted slightly leeward beneath the partial moon, the glimmer of the harbor lights visible far off behind to port.

  “Everything copacetic?” Kealey asked Abby.

  She nodded and gave him an inquisitive look. But before she could ask what he intended to do, Kealey had already turned away, shoving Saduq down the length of the cabin toward the entrance at the stern.

  “Keep walking,” he said.

  The deckhand Brun had shot lay in a fetal position in the main cabin, a wide pool of blood around his dead body. Kealey skirted the dark red puddle as he followed the arms dealer into the open air, then steered him around to the narrow span of deck between the main cabin and the starboard rail. After a second he grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him around so they were facing one another.

  “I want you to back toward the rail,” he said. “Do it slowly.”

  His eyes on Kealey’s face, Saduq obeyed his orders, taking one step, another…and then coming to an abrupt halt.

  Kealey waved his gun. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

  “I’m getting close to the rail.”

  “No kidding.” Kealey shrugged. “Go on…. Back up some more.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “It depends,” Kealey said. “But if you don’t pay attention, I promise you’re going to end up like your deckhand in the main cabin. This isn’t a bluff.”

  Saduq gazed at him in disbelief and resumed edging his way back toward the rail until he was flat up against it. He could go no farther without falling over the side.

  “Okay,” Kealey said. “Hold it right there.”

  Kealey noted the flicker of relief on Saduq’s face as he realized he was not going overboard…at least not yet. It was precisely the reaction he’d sought from the arms dealer. Let him feel he had a chance, give him a modicum of hope, and he would cling to it however he could.

  Kealey took a quick stride forward and shoved the MP9 into Saduq’s chest cavity. “You have balls, I’ll give you that much. But for a deal maker you don’t seem to be a great judge of people.”

  Saduq tensed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Look into my face,” Kealey said. “And then tell me if you believe I’d think twice about blowing you away. Right here and now.”

  Saduq tensed. “How would you explain it to whoever sent you?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Kealey said. “I’m not CIA. I’m not anything. Consider me a walking ghost—I can pass through whatever walls I please.” Kealey grinned. “If you and your captain don’t return to shore, the local authorities would be the only ones asking questions. And I’m betting they could be convinced it was pirates.”

  Saduq was silent for a long moment. “I cannot believe you would kill me in cold blood. Someone sent you here, and it must have been for a reason….”

  “I told you to look at me.” Kealey slugged him hard in his mouth, pushing the rifle into his middle with one hand. “Talk, Saduq. Talk, or I’ll blow your guts out and dump you overboard like a barrel of trash. But I promise it won’t be before I make you feel a whole world of hurt.”

  “Ya Allah,” Saduq rasped, blood trickling from his mouth. “What do you want?”

  “The truth. All of it. Starting with what I asked you down below.” He moved closer—so close Saduq was forced to lean back against the rail’s upper h
orizontal bar. “That means the name of the man who came aboard with you. And who you were buying those weapons for. And whether your friend still intends to deliver the goods now that he’s made off on a launch with their money.”

  Saduq dragged the back of his hand across his lips and chin, glanced down at his red-smeared knuckles. “If I do cooperate with you…I will be a hunted man.”

  “Better hunted than dead.”

  Saduq stared into his face. “I’m going to need protection.”

  Kealey shrugged. “We can worry about that later,” he said. “First let’s hear what you have to tell me.”

  Saduq hesitated for another moment before he finally expelled a long, trembling breath.

  “The pirate’s name is Nicolas Barre,” he said.

  “And?”

  “As you’d surmised, the payment he took with him was from Ishmael Mirghani and another man…an American like yourself. I received it at my home in Darfur.”

  Something flashed in Kealey’s eyes. “This American,” he said. “Who’s he?”

  Saduq hawked up a mat of blood and saliva and spit it onto the deck. “He was introduced to me as White,” he said. “Cullen White.”

  Kealey nodded. He was sure his features had revealed none of his satisfaction—or curiosity.

  “Okay,” he said. “I think we might be getting somewhere.”

  When Kealey was finished with Saduq on the deck, he brought him back down below to a guest cabin and had him locked inside with the Yemaja’s captain, posting Brun on guard out in the passage.

  “How’s the arm?” he asked.

  “Still attached,” Brun said with a wan smile.

  “Give it to me straight,” Kealey said. He had thought the bullet had hit muscle and passed through cleanly, but wasn’t looking for bravado. “I need to know if you’ll be okay down here for a while.”

  Brun looked at him. “I’m fine,” he said. “We packed the wound well enough…. There isn’t much bleeding.”

  Kealey nodded, went upstairs to the main cabin. Abby Liu was in the cockpit, monitoring the yacht’s basic positional data on its dashboard screens, and he squatted in the aisle beside her.

  “How do we stand with the coast guard?” he asked.

  She pointed to two numerically coded ship icons on the GPS tracker display. “Those are maritime patrol boats. They’re on standby in case we need them. Thanks to Dirk and Leo, who apparently had quite an adventure after we left.”

  Kealey studied the display, grunted. “I got Saduq to open up,” he said.

  “I saw,” she said coolly.

  He looked at her. “Something wrong?”

  “I told you,” she said, nodding her head at the cabin’s wraparound windows. “I saw how you obtained your information. What term shall we give to your interrogative tactics? Coercion? Intimidation? Or prisoner abuse? You see, Kealey, I’m trying to stay away from the word torture because that might be a little too strong.”

  Kealey sat quietly for a moment, shrugged. “Use whatever definition you want,” he said. “I don’t see what difference it makes.”

  “You threatened to kill Saduq. Would you really have done it?”

  “Things never got to where it was something I needed to consider.”

  “Which ignores my question.”

  “No,” Kealey said. “It’s the most truthful answer I can give you. We don’t have time for proper bows and curtsies. I thought it was something you understood.”

  “It was…and is,” she said. “But I don’t have to like watching you work, and don’t know that I’m too proud of my participation.” She stared into his face. “I’m also not sure I know what kind of man Harper sent me.”

  More silence. Kealey raised his eyes to hers, held them. “The truth is that I’m not sure, either,” he said. “Let’s leave it alone, okay? Just leave it be and stick to discussing our little assignment.”

  She frowned. Then after a second gave him a small, reluctant nod.

  “Does the name Barre mean anything to you?” Kealey asked.

  “Nicolas Barre?”

  “That’s it.”

  “He’s head of the Hangarihi…the Scorpion gang,” Abby said. “The Somali pirate organizations you hear about are the Marka Group, the Puntland Group, the Somali Marines, and the National Volunteer Coast Guard. But this is based on outdated intelligence. There are more than those four major bands. I’d estimate between seven and a dozen, some with active alliances, others in competition, and all affiliated with one or more warlords. Barre’s group is relatively new, but it’s one of the most sophisticated—a breakaway from the marines, who are known for their military-type chain of command and technology.”

  “And their politics?”

  “Money and greed,” she said.

  Kealey grunted. “According to al-Saduq, he’s going to fulfill his end of their bargain. What’s your take?”

  “I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”

  “Why? Our bandit’s already made off with his cash. If you’re right, that would make him more trustworthy than Saduq.” Kealey massaged the back of his neck. “Think about it. He brokers the original arms deal between Russia and the Egyptian government, then turns around and arranges for it to be taken by Barre’s men.”

  “Quite a spin on what you Americans call regifting, I know,” Abby said. “Still, Hassan al-Saduq has built up considerable international cachet—and deniability, since there’s no firm link between him and Barre’s capture of the shipment.”

  “So you’re saying Barre realizes he can’t hide behind a reputation of legitimacy.”

  “Or quasi legitimacy, I suppose. He’s an upstart on the scene.”

  “And by that logic his goal is what? To prove there can be honor among thieves?”

  She shrugged. “It’s good business. The success of this deal would mark Barre as a player on a large regional scale. Especially when word gets around that he could have easily taken his bundle and run.”

  “And then resold…regifted…the shipment a third time,” Kealey said.

  She nodded.

  Kealey was thoughtful a moment. “Saduq insists the details of the arms delivery weren’t worked out. He says it was something they’d meant to discuss aboard the yacht before we rudely interrupted.”

  “My turn to ask, then,” Abby said. “Do you believe him?”

  Kealey tried to choose his words carefully. He did not want their conversation doubling back to where it had started out. “I think he realized it would be in his best interests to tell me the truth.”

  She gave him a glance that said his bit of verbal finesse hadn’t made his methods any easier to tolerate. “Which means there’s going to be direct contact between Saduq and Mirghani.”

  “There’ll have to be,” he said. “The delivery needs to happen soon.”

  “Is this something else Saduq told you?”

  “He didn’t need to,” Kealey said. “Back in Yaoundé, you told me the merchandise was initially loaded aboard a Ukrainian ship bound for Egypt and was then meant to be transported into Sudan…. Is that accurate?”

  “That was our intelligence, yes.”

  Kealey looked at her. “Think about the difficulty of it for a minute. Guns and artillery would be one thing—the Egyptians could have piled them aboard a C-One-thirty Hercules or two and airlifted them over the border. But you talked about thirty-odd tanks, a dozen attack birds…. They’re too heavy to be flown in without a fleet of air transports bigger than anything Egypt could muster. Unless you’re talking about a whole lot of very conspicuous trips.”

  “They would have been moved overland, then,” Abby said. “At least for part of the distance.”

  Kealey was nodding in the affirmative. “I guess the easiest way would have been for the ship to pull into Port Sudan via the Red Sea, off-load its cargo, then rail it east to Khartoum. That entire route’s controlled by Omar al-Bashir, so his forces could’ve kept a tight lid on things. You figure from there the tank
s and choppers might have been divvied into small groups, warehoused at stopover points, and then slowly integrated into Sudanese army units. The biggest hurdle would have been surveillance by Israeli patrol boats out of Eilat before the ships reached harbor.” He paused. “Israel wouldn’t inter-cede unless the consignment got it really edgy—but it would have damn well made sure intel satellites were keeping tabs on its composition and movement from the docks.”

  Abby considered that. “The fact is, Kealey, all of this has become moot, hasn’t it? The shipment never made it to Egypt. And if it’s going to Mirghani’s opposition forces, there’s the double obstacle of needing to slip it past Bashir’s security. Even if the Scorpion band made a transfer along their water route and moved the matériel from the Ukrainian vessel to some rusty barge or barges, no amount of bribes could have gotten it past Bashir’s harbor agents in Port Sudan. They simply wouldn’t bring it that far north.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “But any way you cut it, a haul of this magnitude would be tough to keep under wraps. It’s what I meant about the delivery needing to get done before too long. The seizure took place in the Gulf of Aden, down near Yemen. I think we need to be looking at the quickest and likeliest routes into Sudan from there.”

  Abby reached for her sat phone and keyed up a map. “So what do you think? If the merchandise is coming in from the south, does it travel up by land from Ethiopia or Eritrea?”

  “Eritrea would be my pick,” Kealey said. “It’s actually just right. The bribes are cheaper and tracking the shipment’s harder. You can barge the merch to Massawa, then probably rail or truck it west to the border on the old nomad trails, where the outposts are lightly manned…except maybe at Kassala.” He thought for a moment. “The territorial line with Eritrea runs, what, something like two hundred kilometers?”

  “Closer to three,” Abby said, studying the map.

  “That’s a lot of barren terrain unless you’re an archeologist,” Kealey said. “And if you do get noticed, there are going to be fewer hands held out.”