by Tom Saric
Bailey nodded. The International Maritime Police was the developed world’s response to the rise in piracy in Southeast Asia and Africa. Comprised of a few basic radar stations that tracked ships through hot spots of pirate activity, their mandate was to identify ships that were veering off course, notify their owners, and initiate efforts to recover the ship. In practice, however, the IMP was poorly coordinated and rarely identified any ships in actual danger. Since its creation, pirate attacks and ransoms had risen.
“And no word from the Ukrainians.”
Bailey looked over the day’s briefing. There was no information on the ship. And the Ukrainians hadn’t contacted the U.S. to help.
“This is a problem.” Crilley lifted himself from his chair and looked out the window, holding his coffee mug in his hand. “A hundred bucks says the Ukrainians are looking into this. And they want to know if we’re involved.”
Crilley was dangling something, Bailey knew. While heavy weapons getting unloaded in Somalia was unusual, it was small potatoes compared to threats elsewhere. Even so, the U.S. had been helping gun runners get across Somalia’s Ethiopian border for a decade.
“We did this, didn’t we?” Bailey said, and Crilley broke eye contact and turned toward the window. Then she put together what was happening. “You did this.”
He shook his head. “Not this one.”
The pieces began slotting together. Crilley wasn’t pissed at her, no. An operation had gone awry and he wasn’t able to put the fire out in time so he needed a scapegoat. He had his elbow against the window, face in his hand. Bailey smiled. This was why she applied for this position, to get out of data analysis and see the big, strategic picture. Crilley had been keeping her in the dark, limiting her scope. Bailey sensed that this was her chance to change that.
“Jim,” she tested his boundaries, knowing he felt weak. “Even the best laid plans can go to shit.” He turned and held her gaze for a moment. “I’m your assistant, so if you don’t tell me what’s happening I’m never going to know what is relevant for these reports.”
Bailey’s heart beat faster; she felt like she was getting through to him. Bailey took a step towards Crilley. She didn’t think this was risky; he was nothing like her boss in paramilitary. She touched his elbow.
“I want to be part of the team, but if you don’t keep me informed I’m going to keep screwing up.”
Crilley crossed his arms and chuckled. “You’re good, Clarke. I think you’d make a good field agent.”
Bailey smiled her best coy smile. “I’m just trying to do a good job, sir.”
“Alright, if you want to know more...” Crilley opened one of the folders on the floor, pulled out a thick document, and handed it to her. It was titled Strategic Objectives: Horn of Africa.
“Somalia’s a hotbed for terrorism. There’s been no real government for decades, and warlords run the country; it’s anarchy. For the past ten years, not only have fundamentalist groups been making serious inroads into Somalia, destabilizing it, so has a secular one.”
“Asabiyyah.”
“Exactly. But we can’t wage war; it would be political suicide. So we do the next best thing.”
Bailey nodded along. He meant helping internal resistances. “But it was the clans plunging the country into anarchy.”
Crilley raised his hands as if to say ‘Oh well.’ “They were, but now they’re a potential solution. If we help them fight these extremists and stabilize the country, things could settle out. This is the future of warfare.”
Bailey raised an eyebrow. There were constant news reports questioning policy makers’ judgment in cases of former U.S. allies now orchestrating terrorist attacks against the United States.
“But we could never do that openly; public opinion is against it. Instead we give them information.”
“About the ships?”
He nodded.
“But then?”
“They either get the cargo or a ransom. Then they can use the ransom to buy weapons to fight the insurgents.”
Bailey stepped back and exhaled. “How do—”
“—we do it? We have a man inside Somalia.” Crilley passed her another folder.
Bailey looked in closely at the photo stapled to the corner of the folder. A headshot of a middle aged man. Next to it was his demographic information and name: Paul Alban.
“He’s a doctor?”
“Correct.”
“But, U.S. law dictates that operatives cannot pose as doctors, lawyers…”
“I know,” he pointed at the folder, “but he’s technically not American, he’s French.”
Bailey stepped back and put her hand on her chin. How many hijackings had the U.S. set up? What about robberies at military armories in the former Soviet Union? How many seemingly random acts were coordinated by the intelligence community?
“So you gave this man the information on this Ukranian ship and he gave it to the pirates?”
“That’s the problem,” he said. “We had nothing to do with this one.”
9
The man rubbed his beard with his palm and smiled at Paul the way someone would after unexpectedly running into an old friend at the airport. He walked past the camcorder and sat on the table between the laptop and dusty circular saw. His legs hung off the edge of the table and he swung them back and forth rhythmically, playfully.
If one could overlook the scene around him--the man tied to a chair with blood dripping down his lips, the surgical instruments splayed out on the tray, the camcorder beside him, the dingy cellar—one would think the man was waiting at a bus stop.
While this man seemed prepared for a reunion, Paul felt disoriented and confused. Was he dreaming? Was he dead? No, not yet. But he felt like he was looking at a ghost. He closed his eyes, part of him hoping that when he opened them, Kadar Hadad would be gone, and he could chalk it up to some strange déjà vu experience.
But he was still there, grinning at Paul. That stupid grin.
“You seem surprised to see me,” Hadad began, “Dr. Ramsey.”
“It’s Paul,” he said through his teeth.
“Of course.” Hadad gave an exaggerated nod. “Because Marshall Ramsey died in prison.” Hadad hopped off the table and walked up to Paul and untied his hands. “Because Marshall Ramsey would never leave his wife and child, leave his homeland, turn in his friends.” Hadad shook his head, patronizing. “No, never, not Marshall Ramsey. He’s dead.”
Hadad reached out towards the surgical instruments and let his hand hover over them. He picked up the forceps and clicked them open and closed several times, never taking his eyes off Paul.
“And certainly,” Hadad continued, waving the forceps as he spoke, “Marshall Ramsey would never torture anyone.” Hadad planted a hand the back of Paul’s neck and pushed Paul’s head down. His other fist met Paul’s face, sending blood from Paul’s mouth spraying against the wall behind him. “You would never allow someone to be chained in a frigid room, choking all day long. You would not allow someone to almost drown on a table, over and over and over again, would you?”
Hadad released his grip.
“If they were you?” Paul spoke softly, “I would.”
In his mind, Paul saw Hadad strapped to the wood plank, his head covered in the water-saturated towel, his neck muscles tense and his abdominal muscles jerking. The oxygen saturation reading dropping until Hadad stopped moving and lay motionless on the board. Paul saw himself feel for the carotid pulse, but there was none. Hadad was dead. But then he ordered Sidwell and McCormick to take the leather restraints off Hadad’s body and began chest compressions. Twenty compressions followed by two mouth-to-mouth breaths. Hadad was dead for three minutes before he coughed up a mouthful of foamy water, gasping for air.
And it was all for nothing. No confession. No indictment.
Hadad took a deep breath and his muscles relaxed. His shoulders lowered. “You did do it.”
“And I would do it again. You’re a fucking t
errorist who’s killed thousands of innocent people.”
“And who are you?” Someone who tortures people and is so sick of himself that he has to change his identity and escape, so that he can forget about what he has done?”
Paul shook his head. “My only regret is that I didn’t let you drown on that plank.”
“At least I’m no rat.”
Paul choked back a response. Instead of anger at the accusation, Paul considered what Hadad had said in a way that he never had before. To an outsider, it would seem that he had taken the easy way out. He had taken a deal in exchange for his testimony against his fellow interrogators. It resulted in one successful indictment against agent Bruce McCormick. It would have led to a second, but Steve Sidwell disappeared and was never tried. Those were the facts.
But if it were not for McCormick’s love of cheap whiskey, the entire investigation wouldn’t have fallen to bits. If he hadn’t bragged about Kadar Hadad’s interrogation to the skinny blonde thirtysomething (and had he not been drunk he would have realized she was out of his league) that he had met in the bar, and had she not turned out to be an undercover reporter, the story wouldn’t have made it to the press. An internal investigation wouldn’t have been launched. Charges for heinous interrogation techniques and prisoner abuse wouldn’t have been laid. The architect of the Nairobi embassy bombings wouldn’t have been set free.
Hadad flicked the forceps in his hand. He called out a name, Islam, and Red Scarf came back into the room. He stood beside the camcorder, his arms folded in front of him.
“So what? You work with Asabiyyah now?”
Hadad shrugged. “I go where there is work to be done.”
That’s what the file on Hadad had said, too. A mercenary terrorist who worked with six terrorist groups by the time Marshall had read the file in 1999. Groups with conflicting missions. By all accounts, Kadar Hadad did not subscribe to any ideology.
Hadad produced a latex glove from his pocket and snapped it onto his left hand. He pulled a towel off of the metal tray with surgical instruments and dropped it on Paul’s lap. He dragged a chair from the corner of the room and sat down squarely in front of Paul. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”
“What are you doing?”
“A manicure.” Hadad spread his fingers wide apart and held the back of his hand in front Paul’s face. At the end of each finger, a gnarled mass of yellowish tissue lay on the nail bed. “Don’t worry, they grow back.”
Before Paul could react, the man behind the camera, Islam, had a firm grip on both of his wrists and pressed them onto Paul’s knees. Paul let out a shout and tried to withdraw his arms, but Islam was too powerful. He clenched his hands tightly and tucked his fingernails into his palms. Hadad dug his finger into Paul’s left fist and pulled out Paul’s index finger, extending it. Hadad held Paul’s finger so tightly that Paul saw his finger turn white. He clamped the forceps down on the end of the nail and locked it in place. Now any attempt to withdraw his hand would only result in the nail being pulled out.
Hadad gripped the forceps and wiggled it side to side. Paul screamed long after the nail was ripped right off the nail bed. Blood seeped out from the end of his finger. Pulsating pain ran through his hand. If he hadn’t looked down at the mangled mass of tissue, he wouldn’t have been able to say whether the nail was plucked or his whole finger pulled out.
“What do you want from me?” he pleaded.
Hadad wrapped the towel around Paul’s finger and tied it in a tight knot, red slowly soaking through the white towel. He leaned in and whispered in Paul’s ear, “We need access to the ship.”
Paul winced, “I don’t have access to it.”
“We know that, but you have access to someone who does. Samatar al Jelle.”
“Sami?”
Hadad nodded.
“Find him yourself.”
Islam slapped him in the back of the head but Hadad held up a hand. “These pirates are hard to find. Even when you do, they travel in groups. We can’t get close to them.”
“And you think I can find them?”
“You can call him and arrange a meeting.” Hadad looked at Paul, who was already shaking his head at the idea. “You are his contact, correct? He will listen to you. And he will come alone.”
“I won’t do it,” Paul said.
“Yes, you will, Marshall. Trust me.”
“It’s Paul.”
Hadad turned abruptly and walked to the table at the far end of the room. He placed his hand on the circular saw, ran his hands along the power cord and then plugged the end into an extension cord. Hadad motioned to Islam who turned Paul over onto his side in the chair.
Paul thrashed his head side to side, like a bull avoiding a lasso. Islam placed his hand on the side of Paul’s head and pressed down with all his weight, mashing Paul’s head into the concrete floor, making it feel like it was going to explode. Paul shifted his eyes towards Hadad, who held the circular saw and revved it several times, making a screech that reverberated off the walls.
Hadad knelt in front of Paul. “I’m serious, Marshall.”
Hadad lifted the saw and placed it on Paul’s neck. Three of the saw’s teeth pierced the skin under its weight. Paul felt the warm liquid drain down his neck. Then Hadad pressed down on the saw, the teeth digging in further, biting.
“This is your last chance,” Hadad lifted the saw, revved it again.
Paul saw the tendons in Hadad’s hand tense slightly around the saw’s trigger. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.”
The saw made a loud clang as Hadad tossed it onto the floor beside him. He exhaled, and Paul thought he heard more relief in Hadad’s voice than disappointment.
Islam tilted Paul and the chair upright and untied the ropes around Paul’s torso. Hadad said, “Thank you, Marshall,” then handed Paul a cellular phone.
10
Under different circumstances, Paul would have found it to be a good day to sit at a café in downtown Bosaso. A light breeze coming up from the harbor made the ninety-six degrees more bearable. The chatter of locals mixed with the noise of car horns as crowds overflowed into the streets. With no division between sidewalk and road, car traffic, pedestrian traffic, bicycle traffic, and even a couple of donkey-pulled carts competed for space between buildings. At the foot of the buildings, shoppers haggled with street merchants over the cost of tomatoes, seafood, colorful fabrics, and burned DVDs. Others hunkered under the shield of umbrellas at the restaurants and cafes lining the street.
Paul sat at a plastic table in front of a building with a turquoise facade across from the Hotel Huruse. A sign with blurry spray-painted letters hung above Paul, reading CAFÉ AMERICKA. Men in colorful linen shirts and jeans sat at the other dozen or so tables, talking loudly. Paul waved at flies buzzing around his steaming tea and took small sips; the smell of cloves opening his blood-congested sinuses. He had ordered a second one for Sami.
Three days ago, he and Ellen had sat in the very same café, one table over, drinking Cokes after finishing their grocery shopping. She had brought up the idea that they plan a vacation to the south of France to see where he had grown up. He had skipped over the suggestion—as he always did—a skill he had developed after years of secrets and lies.
He sat back, touched the cut on his cheek and rubbed his fingers together, feeling for blood. One of Hadad’s men bandaged Paul’s left hand, still a small dot of red was visible, soaking through the dressing. Paul let his hand hang by his side, out of sight. He ran his other hand along his nose and it felt puffy and tender to touch. Even blinking too hard sent a shockwave of pain through his face.
Paul looked at his watch. 3:42. Three minutes away. He glanced across the street. A white van was parked underneath one of the balconies of the Hotel Huruse. Inside, Hadad and two of his men waited with a pile of machine guns for Sami to arrive for his meeting with Paul.
He cut his eyes at Islam, who sat two tables over, pretending to read the newspaper. Hadad said
that Islam would stay nearby in case Sami tried to run, but Paul realized he was also there in case he, too, tried to make a break for it. Had Islam not been so close he could have, slipped into the crowd and made it several blocks before the men in the van would have noticed him missing. There was no question he was faster on foot than Islam, but that would only matter in an all-out sprint. Weaving through a packed crowd, Islam’s linebacker physique gave him the advantage of being capable of mowing people over in the event of a chase.
Paul analyzed how the location gave a specific advantage to Hadad. The chaos in the street was so great that even if Sami suspected a set-up, he wouldn’t notice the van, or the large man reading the newspaper beside Paul. Once he got close enough, even if Paul informed him of their location, the density of the crowd would keep him in. He’d get in, but he would not get out. Hadad would only have to wait like a patient spider.
Paul hoped that Sami remembered what Paul told him when he had first anonymously contacted him: We never meet face-to-face. If I ever ask for that, assume that something’s wrong.
A bearded man with a fanny pack hunched over the chair across from Paul. He hammered two wads of Somali shillings down on the table and smiled. Peddlers and moneychangers accosted him every time he ventured downtown. They assumed he was a tourist or a journalist and could make an easy buck off him.
“I’m not interested.” Paul held up his good hand.
The man’s smile disappeared as he leaned in across the table. “I’m with Sami,” he spoke quickly. “Where are they?”
“What? How did you--”
“Where is Hadad waiting?” he commanded. “Hurry before he knows.”
Paul swallowed hard. “Across the street. White van.”
“Sami will be here shortly.” He shoved a stack of bills inches under Paul’s nose. “Push me away now, like a beggar.”
Paul played the part and the man retreated down the street. He ran his hands through his hair, feeling somewhat relieved. He half stood, looking up and down the street for Sami. He caught Islam’s eye as he did so. He hadn’t told the man about Islam waiting there to grab Sami. Paul stood up, looking over the mass of people down the street for the moneychanger, but he had disappeared into the crowd.
