Dangerous Alliance, page 11
“Here’s the situation. An intern, almost young enough to be my great-grandson, if I had any children, stumbled across something interesting. The day before the Napoli and her crew were released, the owners transferred two million dollars to a bank in Malta. They haven’t used this institution before.”
Sir Alex whistled. “Is the money still there?”
“Yes. We’ve established electronic tracking around the account to let us know the moment there’s any movement of the funds.”
“This might be the break we need. Any other details?”
“Yeah. You’ll like this. One person is associated with the account. Arrogant SOB if you ask me. The first two letters of the account are his initials. His name’s Dacar Khadaafi.”
“Fantastic, Richard. Please pass my thanks to your great-grandson.” Sir Alex propped his feet on the edge of his desk and laughed. “Knowing how you don’t care for children, I couldn’t resist.”
“Go ahead, laugh all you want, Alex. Remember—turnabout is fair play.”
“Anything else? If not, I have a meeting at the club. Someone wants to double our membership fee. Oh, before I forget, the Prime Minister will be in Washington next month to meet with your president. Any chance of a paper on him?”
“I’ll get you something in the next few days regarding him and his ongoing shenanigans. Something else for you. A NOC reported a possible connection between the North Koreans and Somali pirates. He hasn’t provided any details yet but will pass them along as they come in.”
“How did someone under non-official cover come up with this tidbit? Never mind—I shouldn’t ask.”
“Nothing further from this end, Alex. Enjoy your meeting and knock back a Glenlivet on the rocks for me.”
“Perhaps a double, I think. Thank you for the information.”
Better alert the team. Sir Alex dropped the receiver in the cradle, settled back into his chair, and pulled a miniaturized keyboard out from its cupboard. He pecked at the keys with his index fingers.
To: Black
From: Topaz
New intel. Keep eyes peeled for linkage between North Koreans and pirates. Also, possible break with the discovery of a money trail. More to follow when available. Proceed as planned.
He turned out the lights, and locked the office door. His driver waited outside the building. Sir Alex hopped into the black Daimler, which whisked him to the club.
Once settled in a soft, black leather easy chair, he ordered a double Glenlivet on ice. He raised the glass in a silent salute to the admiral’s fictional great-grandson.
Chapter Fifteen
Al-Shabaab Camp
Outside Kismaayo, Somalia
A cockerel crowed, breaking the morning’s silence. Tahliil shrugged off his blanket and struggled to his feet. He rubbed his hands over his head and face before venturing into the morning’s warmth. The cockerel crowed a second time, as if reminding Tahliil he had slept late. In the distance, a lone baboon whooped and yapped, calling to his troop.
He grabbed his jaw, testing for pain after spending the better part of the night chewing khat. Hmmm. Missed morning prayers. Too much khat. I know better.
Satisfied everything appeared in working order, he sat on a bench in front of his tent. “Dacar! Come.”
Dacar poked his head from underneath a nearby tarp. “Yes, Tahliil?”
“Bring others. Meet me in command tent. Ten minutes.”
Tahliil broke off a branch from one of the nearby shrubs and gathered several stones.
When Dacar and the three lieutenants entered the tent, Tahliil sat on a three-legged stool. At his feet, a pile of rocks and a short, thin stick. He smoothed an area of sand with his palm.
“Sit. New plan. Came last night.” He drew a rough outline of the Somali and Kenyan coasts in the sand with the branch. Picking up several stones, he placed two in Kenya, one in Somalia, and one in the Indian Ocean.
“Dacar. No more freighters. Need weapons. Take tankers for North Koreans.” Tahliil tapped the stone in the area representing water. “Not near canal. Too close foreign navies. Here instead—east of Kismaayo. Big ocean, make harder to find.”
Dacar nodded. “When should I begin?”
“Today. Take Sahid and others. Capture ships. Change name and go Si-Sihan—”
“Sihanoukville.”
“Yes. Try not kill crew. Perhaps more money.” Tahliil pointed to the rock farthest away from the Somali border. “Harbi. Your target is Mombasa. Attack whatever you want. Keep Kenyans too busy to help tankers.”
“Understand, Tahliil. I must scout the areas for targets before choosing one.”
Tahliil glanced at Busuri. “You like girls, don’t you? Go to refugee camp. Take more. No kill.”
Busuri’s eyes brightened. “What about ra—”
“No rape, Busuri. No torture, no kill. Hostages.” Tahliil glared at him until the gleam in his eyes faded. “Or I do same to you.”
“What about my team?” Gari glanced at the stones. “One left, but it’s in Somalia.”
“Yes. Best target for you. Take Kenyan uniforms, weapons. Pretend Kenyan military. Attack Kismaayo. Come from South. Kill some—not many. Cause confusion.”
The five men chuckled. Tahliil stood and wiped his feet through his crude map. He gathered the stones and tossed them outside. “Go. May Allah keep you.”
Tahliil returned to his private tent. One of the women brought him sweet tea and fruit for breakfast. He mulled over the future while he ate. Soon many weapons, money. Plan new attack—against all infidels.
***
Dacar and Sahid gathered some personal items and pistols from the tent they shared. They bid Tahliil farewell and hopped in a battered white Subaru for the short drive to Kismaayo. Arriving in the city, they meandered through the streets before stopping at a small shop near the Haji Jama Mosque in the Faanoole district.
The store sold a mixture of home implements and dried foods. A front for al-Shabaab, the owners were fervent supporters of the group. Behind the shop, stood a small one-story house built out of rubble. Primitive, with electricity and running water unavailable, it was a perfect location for Dacar and his men to meet as few people ventured inside.
He waved a hand at the shop’s proprietor, who was busy with a customer, and shuffled down a narrow aisle to the back counter. Sahid grabbed a handful of dates as he shimmied through an area crammed with baskets and barrels. They ducked out the open back door.
Inside the house, the fourteen men waiting for them filled all available space. A small propane stove heated water for tea. Cups in hand, the men waited for Dacar to speak.
Dacar twitched his nose at the smell of unwashed bodies in the Somali heat in such close quarters. “We have a new mission.” He gazed at the eager faces. I remember my first time—excitement, full of energy. Didn’t realize I might die. Now I know different. “We want oil tankers now. No freighters.”
“Will owners pay as much to get their tankers back?” one of the men asked. Missing two fingers on his right hand and a ragged scar rippled across his right cheek, he chewed khat and spat on the floor.
Dacar grimaced at the man’s actions. “Even better than money.”
“What’s better?” the same man asked.
“Weapons.”
Cheers erupted as the men thumped their feet on the floor.
Dacar motioned for quiet. “We’ll take the ships when they are passing Kismaayo. They’ll be taken to Cambodia. Their transponders will be disabled so they can’t be tracked. The names, homeports, and flags will be changed. Once in Cambodia, a different crew will take over, and our men will return, ready to seize another one.”
He glanced at the others. “We begin tonight. Two boats. Eight men in each.”
The men cast lots to determine who sailed with Dacar and who went with Sahid.
After the crews were decided, Dacar issued his final order. “We meet at the boats after dark.”
***
A moonless, starry night provided sufficient light for the passage of the two small speedboats along the river and into the Indian Ocean. The latest information from Rooble indicated a tanker had left the Suez Canal during the previous afternoon, bound for South Africa.
Off the coast, the boats turned north, before heading farther east. They planned to attack from the port side, and Dacar wanted them well out in the ocean as the tanker passed. Previous attacks always came from the coast.
The repetitive motion of the speedboats as they bounced across calm water at twenty-three knots caused many of the pirates to doze. Hours passed with no ships in sight.
Dacar mulled over his plan. Rather than use their mother ship, which was still positioned close to the Gulf of Aden, he hoped to launch a new surprise attack to capture their first tanker. These boats are too small for their ship to pick up on radar. They’ll be alert for attacks from starboard.
As the first rays of dawn shimmered over the glass-like surface, Dacar reckoned they were about 300 miles east of Kismaayo. He whistled, waking the men on his boat.
“Up. Time to prepare.” Dacar grabbed his AK-47 and checked his ammunition. The others gathered their weapons. Metal clicks indicated magazines were seated and ready to go. Two of the men loaded their RPGs, additional rockets lay ready nearby.
“Dacar! On the horizon—a ship!” One of the men pointed to the north. “Is it our target?”
Dacar pulled a pair of binoculars from a pouch on his belt. He tried to focus on the shape but failed. “Samatar, stop the boat. We’ll wait for them to come toward us.”
They slowed after Samatar cut the engines. The other pirate boat approached them and did the same.
Dacar raised the glasses again. With a more stable platform, although the boat rocked with the waves, he determined the approaching ship was their target—an oil tanker.
“We wait until they pass. Perhaps three hours. The sun will be in their eyes if they scan the area where we are.” The others nodded their understanding. A couple of men nudged each other and grinned. They glided knives across small whetstones, sharpening the blades.
The ship edged closer but hugged the horizon. The men became impatient. Dacar shook his head when they gave him questioning glances.
“Go.”
Samatar fired up the twin inboard engines and the boat sped after its prey, the second craft following as if they were linked. They closed the gap, with no indication their target had altered speed or direction.
The chase on, Dacar waved to the other boat. Sahid waved back, gave a thumbs up and began separating. Dacar’s crew lined the starboard side, weapons at the ready. Samatar pushed the controls to their stops, the vessel appearing to leap forward as it gained on the slower ship and approached its bow.
Dacar turned to one of the men holding an RPG. “Fire a warning shot in front of them. Don’t hit the ship.”
A wavering contrail signaled the flight of the grenade, which sailed over the bow. A plume of water shot into the air as the grenade exploded underwater. With a prearranged signal, the others shot above the deck, not aiming at any target.
Sahid’s crew sped along the tanker’s starboard side. Two RPGs sailed forward as gunfire raked the upper structure of the vessel. Their pilot steadied the craft while the others prepared to board.
The speedboats approached the steep sides of the tanker, which had slowed. Hooks and ladders launched, the pirates climbed aboard to take charge.
The first pirate to reach the railing fired his AK-47 into the air. He lifted his leg to climb aboard. His body jerked. Blood spraying from his wounds, he fell into the sea. Replaced by another pirate, this one savvier than his deceased companion, he raked the bow.
A cry of pain escaped from an injured man somewhere nearby. The pirates scrambled onto the ship. One found the wounded man and raised his weapon.
“Wait!” Dacar rushed forward. “No killing—yet. I will decide if it’s necessary.”
The chastised pirate reversed his AK-47. His rifle butt smacked into the injured man’s head, knocking him unconscious.
“Sahid. Take your team and round up the crew. Leave one man in the engine room. Put the rest in the galley.”
“It will be done.” Sahid grinned.
Dacar and the others headed to the bridge. A locked door provided no barrier—a burst from his AK-47 shattered the locking mechanism and the door bounced inward on damaged hinges.
“Where is the captain?” Dacar glanced around the bridge while his men rounded up the crew.
A small, white-haired man limped forward. “I’m the captain. Don’t hurt my men. What do you want?”
“Simple, Captain. Your ship now belongs to me. Behave, and no one will be hurt—except for the injured man who killed one of mine.”
Dacar pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to the captain. “Here are the coordinates for your new destination. Take us there. No tricks.” He pointed at the young-looking helmsman. “Or he dies.”
Finished, Dacar motioned to one of his men to remain behind. The others herded the crew to the galley while he located the radio console. After he found the ship’s satellite phone, he punched in digits memorized long ago, and spoke when someone answered.
“The prize is ours. Proceeding to planned destination.”
Chapter Sixteen
Al-Shabaab Camp
Outside Kismaayo, Somalia
After Dacar and Sahid left the camp to launch their new operations, the others gathered under a tarp to shelter themselves from the sun. Gari passed a bag of khat leaves to Busuri and Harbi. The men chewed and relaxed on the sand.
“I hope Dacar and Sahid are successful.” Harbi waved an AK-47 in the air. “These are excellent weapons, but we need more firepower to take on the army.”
“What do you want? Perhaps we can make a trade.” Busuri launched a stream of spit into the shimmering sand, where it sizzled in the intense heat.
“We have a few mortars, RPGs, grenades. I want—Hummers.”
Gari stared at Harbi and shook his head. “Dreamer.”
“What for?” Busuri laughed and stood. “Your men ride in technicals. Are you too important to go with them? I don’t have any.”
“No. The technicals are old. Parts are scarce.” Harbi rubbed his chin and pursed his lips. “If I can’t steal or buy a Hummer, some other type of armored vehicle would be okay.”
Busuri waved a hand at the other men and departed.
“When are you planning to attack Mombasa?” Gari scratched his crooked nose and forced himself from the sand.
“We’ll leave tomorrow and be in place during the night. We’ll attack at dawn in two days.”
Gari nodded. “Okay, my men will hit Kismaayo. Two attacks at the same time might cause chaos.”
“Perhaps more difficulties if Busuri hits the refugee camp during the other attacks.”
“Agreed, but Busuri does what he wants when he’s ready.” Gari spat out the khat leaves. “Don’t know why Tahliil puts up with him.”
“Easy to understand—they’re both from the same clan—the Darud.” Harbi shielded his eyes as he gazed at his men. He spotted Wardi and whistled.
Towering over the other Somalis, Wardi Galad turned and trotted over.
“Wardi, gather the men in the command tent. We’ll leave for Mombasa this afternoon.” Harbi clasped the younger man’s shoulder. “It’s time to show the Kenyans who owns the shoreline.”
***
When Harbi entered the command tent, twenty men jumped to their feet. Like almost all members of the Digil tribe of the Rahanwey clan, they revered Harbi for his success against outsiders. Dressed in traditional macawiis or khameez, some favored colored sarongs while others wore white. Embroidered caps sat atop each man’s head. Several also sported shawls, useful for wrapping around the face during a sand storm.
Settling into Tahliil’s chair, Harbi tilted his head to acknowledge their tribute and motioned for them to sit. “Yesterday, I sent five men with technicals to Mombasa. We will leave after dark in two boats from Kismaayo and join them north of the city. As dawn rises, we shall strike.”
Feet thudded into the sand and the men clapped their hands, grins plastered across their faces.
“When we join them, we will divide into five groups.” Harbi pulled a folded Mombasa map from a pocket and spread it on the ground. The others gathered around as he pointed at targets.
“We will attack the airport, the Kipevu Power Station, the oil storage tanks, and the Oceanic Hotel. We will use mortars and RPGs. Use your AKs to shoot anyone you find.”
A short man called 3M, a nickname given to him since his first, middle, and last names were the same, raised a gnarled hand at the back of the group. Perched on his head was a 3M hat, a gift from a previous American employer. “Harbi, you provided four targets. What will the fifth team do?”
“They will protect the New Nyali Bridge until the other teams return, heading out of the city on Malindi Road. Before they depart, they will destroy the bridge.”
The hand shot forward. “I want to blow the bridge.”
“You shall, 3M. I count on your expertise.” Harbi glanced around the eager faces. “Eat, rest, and prepare your weapons. We begin our journey in two hours.”
***
The sun disappeared over the horizon as four technicals loaded with Harbi’s group left the camp, a cloud of dust marking their transit. After an uneventful trip, they entered Kismaayo, and the convoy meandered through the city before taking the road for the port.
They entered the harbor and pulled up to a dock as two speedboats approached an empty pier. The men gathered their equipment and jumped from the SUVs, hustling to the idling boats. The battered Jeep Cherokees departed on their return journey to the terrorist camp.
With the last man aboard, the men pushed the boats away from the dock. They turned around, skimming over the water away from Kismaayo.
Hour after hour, the boats bounced over small waves as they traveled south. In the distance, a glow appeared—the lights of Mombasa now guiding their way.
