Dangerous Alliance, page 19
The four men paused to shake Tahliil’s hand as they departed.
Hasan, the last to leave, grabbed Tahliil’s arm. “I do this in Gari’s name—not for you.” He glared at Tahliil before storming out of the tent.
***
As dusk fell, lanterns bathed the inside of Tahliil’s command tent and entrance with pale yellow light. Shadows cast a myriad of shapes around the area, moving in the light breeze.
Inside, two tables were loaded with roasted goat, rice, chapatis, and vegetables. Pitchers of milk stood like sentries, interspersed among the steaming platters. The mixed aromas of the prepared food filled the tent.
Tahliil’s lieutenants entered. “Eat, eat.” He waved at the tables. “First food, then talk.”
The men rushed forward, grabbing food and tossing it onto metal plates. Using their right hands, they dug into their choices. Grunts of delight echoed throughout the tent as the dishes emptied.
Satiated, everyone gathered in front of Tahliil and knelt.
“Now, talk. Busuri. You first.”
“We have picked our targets. In addition to the power plant and the Mogadishu airport, we will attack the refinery and the police barracks near the palace. If there is time, we will also hit the port.”
“Excellent. Remember, everyone to Afgooye first. Except Harbi. He attack Kismaayo before come to Afgooye.”
“Yes, Tahliil.” Busuri glanced at the others. “Asad will arrive tomorrow with half of his men. Not many women—three.”
“How come not more?”
“One died the first night at the camp trying to escape. The other killed her new husband and then committed suicide.”
“Enough—one each team. Harbi, about Kismaayo?”
“We will hit targets in the north of the city. I also want to attack the fish market where the military ambushed Gari.”
Tahliil turned and tipped his head for Hasan to speak.
“The port is the primary source of income for Boosaaso. We will concentrate our effort in destroying the fish processing plant and the tannery. If possible, we will disable some of the cell towers.” Hasan gazed at Tahliil, his eyes glancing to the ground before remaining steadfast. “I want Gari’s pistol. His bullet-ridden Toyota will be my transportation.”
Tahliil nodded and turned to 3M. “How bombs coming?”
The smallest man in the group, 3M cleared his throat. “I will make as many as possible. Busuri, Harbi, and Hasan want more than I have materials to make.”
“Okay. Soon, Dacar provide supplies. More bombs, ammunition, guns. No more talk. Meet tomorrow.”
***
Two dust-laden vehicles approached the camp, midmorning the following day. Recognizing the Toyota Land Cruisers and the lead driver, the guards fired their weapons into the air. The camp alerted, most of the men rushed forward to greet them.
Busuri met the passenger of the first vehicle as the man jumped down. They shook hands and gave each other a brief hug. “Welcome back, Asad! How many men did you bring?”
“I brought ten—and three female captives.”
“Excellent. You and your men will be on my team. You’ll be second-in-command.”
“I’m honored, Busuri. What should I do now?”
“Bring your men and the captives into the camp. Eat and rest. Later, we will be moving to Afgooye.”
No sooner had the two vehicles entered the compound than someone shouted an alarm. Busuri ran to a wooden, two-story structure about fifteen feet high and six feet wide, where two men pointed to the southwest. He climbed the watchtower.
A man handed a pair of binoculars to Busuri. “Over there—a cloud of dust. Not sure what is disturbing the sand. Many vehicles, I think.”
“Inform Tahliil. It might be Somali soldiers or a Kenyan military patrol.”
“At once.”
Busuri trained the binoculars on the dust cloud. Too fast for heavy troop trucks or tanks.
“What …?” Tahliil spat out the word as his chest heaved from the exertion of climbing the tower.
Busuri pointed to the cloud and handed over the glasses. “There—several vehicles coming this way.”
“Yes. We ready to fight.” Tahliil handed the binoculars to Busuri. “Stay here. Direct men.”
The dust cloud continued its advance toward the camp. Two miles away, the hidden source of the disturbance stopped forward movement.
Busuri continued to monitor the area. Dust settled.
Technicals.
With a whoop, Busuri ran to the edge of the platform. “Technicals! Three of them—it must be Warsame.”
Excited voices heralded the news, accompanied by gunshots as weapons were raised and fired into the air. Tahliil and his lieutenants met the technicals when they arrived at the gates.
A smile plastered across his face, Warsame shook hands with the men. “We brought two captives, a British man, and an Italian woman.”
Cheers erupted and others slapped Warsame on the shoulders. Four of his team pulled the captives from the middle vehicle and shoved them in front of Tahliil.
The woman screamed and fell to the ground. The man reached down and helped her stand, his eyes locked on Tahliil.
Dressed in tattered clothing too small for him, George sported a black eye. Peeling skin and brown scabs dotted his nose. Scratches and insect bites covered both arms and his ankles. He held himself erect, almost regal, as he faced his captors.
Silvia wore pants too long and baggy for her and a long sleeve shirt buttoned to the neck. Her unkempt hair tied in a greasy ponytail reached to the middle of her back. Despite her darker Mediterranean skin tones, Silvia’s sunburned face bled from a myriad of scratches and blisters. Unlike George, she seemed ready to topple over.
Tahliil leered at the woman, who shrank back, and moved closer to George. “Take them my tent. Guard. No escape.”
After the excitement of Asad and Warsame’s return, Tahliil’s men wandered back to their previous tasks, while he strolled to the command tent. “Lieutenants. Follow.”
Perched on the edge of his seat, Tahliil glanced at his men. “Everyone leave for Afgooye before dawn.” He turned to Harbi. “Attack Kismaayo dusk tomorrow. Head to Afgooye after.”
Harbi nodded.
“Warsame and men go with you.”
“As you wish, Tahliil.”
“May Allah protect us.” Tahliil stood. “Finished now. Eat. Interrogate foreigners.”
***
Dusk fell with its normal abruptness—daylight one moment and dark a few minutes later. Lanterns and torches scattered around the compound provided flickering light. As the hours passed, the sounds of human inhabitants diminished, giving way to nocturnal activity.
Tahliil stepped past the guards into his tent. Huddled together on a blanket on the ground near his bed, one of the foreigners gazed at him with defiance while the other cowered, unable to face him.
He sat on a camp chair a few feet from the bed. “Sit on bed. Better.”
The captives moved as directed. Settled, they appeared to wait for something to happen.
“Names. Where from? Why in Kenya?”
“My name is George. My friend is Silvia. I’m from England while she is Italian. We both finished our university degrees and took a year out to donate time to help others.”
“Who you help?”
“Somalis, Kenyans, anyone who came to Jujubba Refugee Camp.”
“Where go university? What study?”
“I went to St. Andrews and studied art history and geography. When I finish at the refugee camp, I will join the Royal Air Force. I want to fly jets and helicopters.”
Tahliil glanced at the woman and motioned for her to speak.
“I-I studied medicine at the University of Bologna. When I leave the camp, I will go back to the university and learn to be a surgeon. One day, I want to return to Africa and help others.”
George squeezed Silvia’s hand and turned to Tahliil. “We’ve told you a bit about ourselves. Who are you? What do you want with us?”
“I am Tahliil. I lead one wing of al-Shabaab.”
“Isn’t al-Shabaab a terrorist group?” George rubbed his peeling nose. “I seem to recall reading about an attack on a shopping mall in Nairobi and something about pirates.”
“To some, terrorists. Freedom fighters better description.”
George gazed at the dark eyes of the man. “I believe you are smarter than you show. Why the charade?”
Tahliil clenched his fists and closed his eyes. Should I tell the foreigner the truth? He sat in the same position for several minutes. When he opened his eyes and glanced at George, his eyes were red and brimmed with tears.
“Many years ago, my father was the leader of a small but important Somali clan. He became the vice president. Two years later, the government was deposed in a coup. The plotters killed the president when they overran the palace.”
Tahliil gulped and brushed away a tear threatening to dribble down his cheek. “The traitors grabbed my father, accused him of corruption, and dragged him to the beach. They made my family and I witness his execution.
“Afterward, I was thrown on the streets without any identity papers. The army found me. Without proper identification, I was tossed in the back of a truck and taken to an army training camp.”
George shook his head. "What a horrible story!"
Wracked by sobs, his shoulders heaving, Tahliil appeared to shrink in stature. When he finished, he wiped his eyes with his sleeves. “I went from the elite to something less than human. I modified my speaking patterns so everyone would dismiss me as an ignorant fool.
“I joined al-Shabaab for revenge. I want to kill every person involved in my father’s death, even if I lose my life. Even my men think I’m dim-witted, which is why some plotted to replace me. I arranged their deaths in Kismaayo.”
Tahliil stood. “We’ve talked enough. We leave this camp early in the morning.” He stepped to the tent’s entrance. “Guards, take foreigners to tent with other captives. Death if escape.”
Alone in his tent, Tahliil cleansed himself with sand. Facing Mecca, he prayed. Once finished, he slid on top of his bed, but sleep remained elusive.
George, who are you? You’re not cowered by captivity. You portray a privileged upbringing but cover it up well. Will someone pay for your return? I must find out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hotel English Point
Mombasa, Kenya
Trevor Franklin, Bedlam Bravo’s leader, stood on the open-air terrace of the Hotel English Point’s penthouse. He took a sip of his tea and gazed at the spectacular view of Mombasa’s Old Town, the old port, and Fort Jesus.
After a final glance at the scenery, Trevor sighed and returned inside. He sat at the eight-place dining table and pulled his laptop closer.
He shook his head as he reread the latest communiqué from Sir Alex. I think we’re stretching ourselves too thin. Still, must follow orders.
A rap on the door—a key turned in the lock. A poor imitation of a chickadee’s tweet followed.
Trevor closed the laptop and strode to the door. Standing to the side, he glanced through the peephole. Smiling, he unlatched the deadbolt and yanked open the door.
Laden with plastic shopping bags from several nearby stores, Nathaniel ‘Nate’ Webster and Fergus Mulligan stepped inside. They wandered to the dining table and dropped their purchases.
Trevor closed the door and joined them. “Did you buy out every store?” He laughed. “Anything worthy of keeping?”
“I tink everything is rubbish.” Fergus rubbed a hand over his short, red hair. “Mission accomplished—we visited loads of shops today.”
“Locals in every shop for about ten blocks are aware two freelance photographers want to speak with those traumatized by the al-Shabaab attacks.” Nate’s eyes twinkled as he smiled. “We spread the word we would pay for photos or videos of the terrorists.”
“Any takers?” Trevor pursed his lips.
“Yes. We promised twenty pounds if what they supply us is used.” Fergus danced a small jig and laughed. “They are to take their material to the nearest police station. We already talked with a police sergeant. After we agreed to give him a cut and hinted about taking his photograph, he’ll help us out.”
“Greed.” Nate rolled his eyes and twirled a finger in the air. “Makes the world go ‘round.”
“I must hand it to you guys. An outstanding job—not what I might have done, but it should reap the desired results.”
Nate pointed at the laptop. “Any news from—?”
Trevor waved a small black box, about the size of a smartphone with a six-inch antenna. “Checked the room out. Didn’t find any critters, but to be on the safe side, I suggest we go on the terrace.”
After they settled into chairs overlooking the old port, Nate glanced down.
“I checked everything on the terrace, too. If someone has a directional mic on us, we won’t know.” Trevor smiled at Nate’s concern over their security. “Right. Received an email from Topaz. Bedlam Alpha is providing someone to help us—Willie.”
“I guess we’ll be doing some underwater work. Since I was a Special Branch diver, I assume I’ll partner with him.”
“Correct. He’ll arrive at Moi International tomorrow night at 00:45. You’ll pick him up.”
Fergus nodded.
“We’ll give him a day or so to recover from jetlag before transferring to HMS Snapdragon. Nate and I will be travelling to the Seychelles to meet with local contacts.”
“Did Topaz provide any further details?” Nate stood and walked toward the terrace’s glass wall.
“Not about our mission. They’ll provide an update later. However, I did receive a short email from Gerhard.”
“What’s the big oaf up to?” Nate chuckled.
“He says they arrived at the Jujubba Refugee Camp and met with the administrator and Prince George’s sole security man. The guy, a former corporal with 16 Air Assault Brigade named Alfred Livingston, will take Gerhard and Pun to the wadi where he left the prince.”
“If anyone is capable of picking up the trail, Pun will. I witnessed him in action, and he has a natural gift.”
Nate laughed and switched to one of his favorite topics. “Not sure about you guys, but I’m so hungry I could eat a gazelle.”
“Not much else we can do at this time, so I agree with Nate.” Trevor patted his stomach. “Always room for a bit more grub.”
***
The following morning, Nate and Fergus arrived at the police station to meet with Sergeant Jomo. Painted in the colors of the Kenyan national flag, the building stood out from those nearby covered in pastel colors. Oversized Masai shields and spears attached to the wall guarded the entrance.
Despite the pristine appearance of the exterior, the building’s interior displayed chipped green paint, greasy floors, and battered desks. Two ceiling fans failed to improve the airflow, their movement almost nonexistent.
“May I help you?” A young woman at the information desk interrupted the appraisal of their surroundings.
“Yes, good morning. We have an appointment with Sergeant Jomo—Webster and Mulligan.”
“One moment, please.” The woman hopped from her stool and sauntered between the other desks. She stopped in front of a closed door at the rear and rapped her knuckles on the glass.
The door opened. A heavyset man with curly black hair and dark eyes filled the doorway. He stepped forward, his face beaming. “Mr. Webster and Mr. Mulligan. Welcome! Come into my office.”
After they seated themselves in designated chairs, Sergeant Jomo pointed to a small pile of photographs on the edge of his desk. “Many responses to your requests. Most are pictures, but two people brought cell phone videos.”
“Fantastic. We hope to find faces cropping up during the recent al-Shabaab attacks so we can create a photo display and sell our work to various newspapers around the world.” Nate’s eyes twinkled as he laid out their plan. “We’ll begin with photos of those with weapons.”
“Three or four men are holding guns. Some are from different angles, so most facial features are provided.”
“Excellent. I will work with Mr. Webster to select the best. I spoke with a friend at The Irish Times in Dublin, and they are keen to view our material.” Fergus pointed at the sergeant. “Since you are helping us, they want your photo, too.”
Jomo’s face threatened to split as a new smile appeared. “I will help my new friends. We must remove the terrorists and criminals, so tourists will return to Mombasa.”
“We’ve another meeting to attend.” Nate pointed at the photos. “May we take these now and we’ll check back again later?”
“By all means, my friends.”
***
Armed with an oversized envelope stuffed with twenty-two photographs of varying quality, Nate and Fergus returned to the penthouse. They joined Trevor, who waited for them before digging into a late breakfast.
Once the men finished eating, they placed the empty dishes on a cart and wheeled it into the hallway. Nate dumped the photos on the table and spread them out.
Each took a photo and scanned the others for duplicate images. They identified multiple photographs of three men holding AK-47s.
Trevor booted his laptop. “I’ll upload these and send them to Topaz. In the meantime, go through them again in case we missed anything.”
To: Topaz
From: Black
Blue and White’s plan to obtain photographs of possible al-Shabaab terrorists involved in recent Mombasa attacks resulted in over twenty snaps so far. The images of three men holding weapons were captured multiple times (attached). Please advise any confirmed identities.
Acquisition program is continuing at this time. After we depart the area, local contact will continue to collect images.
“Right. Put everything in the safe in the walk-in closet and bring your cameras. Time to play tourist.”
***
Fergus left the hotel at 23:45 and grabbed a random cab outside the hotel. At Moi International Airport, he paid his driver and stepped inside the expansive entrance area, packed with people waiting for new arrivals. He leaned against a pillar as he gave the crowd a once-over. Armed soldiers patrolled throughout the terminal. Two dog handlers threaded their way through the throng, German Shepherds sniffing at random people and luggage.
Hasan, the last to leave, grabbed Tahliil’s arm. “I do this in Gari’s name—not for you.” He glared at Tahliil before storming out of the tent.
***
As dusk fell, lanterns bathed the inside of Tahliil’s command tent and entrance with pale yellow light. Shadows cast a myriad of shapes around the area, moving in the light breeze.
Inside, two tables were loaded with roasted goat, rice, chapatis, and vegetables. Pitchers of milk stood like sentries, interspersed among the steaming platters. The mixed aromas of the prepared food filled the tent.
Tahliil’s lieutenants entered. “Eat, eat.” He waved at the tables. “First food, then talk.”
The men rushed forward, grabbing food and tossing it onto metal plates. Using their right hands, they dug into their choices. Grunts of delight echoed throughout the tent as the dishes emptied.
Satiated, everyone gathered in front of Tahliil and knelt.
“Now, talk. Busuri. You first.”
“We have picked our targets. In addition to the power plant and the Mogadishu airport, we will attack the refinery and the police barracks near the palace. If there is time, we will also hit the port.”
“Excellent. Remember, everyone to Afgooye first. Except Harbi. He attack Kismaayo before come to Afgooye.”
“Yes, Tahliil.” Busuri glanced at the others. “Asad will arrive tomorrow with half of his men. Not many women—three.”
“How come not more?”
“One died the first night at the camp trying to escape. The other killed her new husband and then committed suicide.”
“Enough—one each team. Harbi, about Kismaayo?”
“We will hit targets in the north of the city. I also want to attack the fish market where the military ambushed Gari.”
Tahliil turned and tipped his head for Hasan to speak.
“The port is the primary source of income for Boosaaso. We will concentrate our effort in destroying the fish processing plant and the tannery. If possible, we will disable some of the cell towers.” Hasan gazed at Tahliil, his eyes glancing to the ground before remaining steadfast. “I want Gari’s pistol. His bullet-ridden Toyota will be my transportation.”
Tahliil nodded and turned to 3M. “How bombs coming?”
The smallest man in the group, 3M cleared his throat. “I will make as many as possible. Busuri, Harbi, and Hasan want more than I have materials to make.”
“Okay. Soon, Dacar provide supplies. More bombs, ammunition, guns. No more talk. Meet tomorrow.”
***
Two dust-laden vehicles approached the camp, midmorning the following day. Recognizing the Toyota Land Cruisers and the lead driver, the guards fired their weapons into the air. The camp alerted, most of the men rushed forward to greet them.
Busuri met the passenger of the first vehicle as the man jumped down. They shook hands and gave each other a brief hug. “Welcome back, Asad! How many men did you bring?”
“I brought ten—and three female captives.”
“Excellent. You and your men will be on my team. You’ll be second-in-command.”
“I’m honored, Busuri. What should I do now?”
“Bring your men and the captives into the camp. Eat and rest. Later, we will be moving to Afgooye.”
No sooner had the two vehicles entered the compound than someone shouted an alarm. Busuri ran to a wooden, two-story structure about fifteen feet high and six feet wide, where two men pointed to the southwest. He climbed the watchtower.
A man handed a pair of binoculars to Busuri. “Over there—a cloud of dust. Not sure what is disturbing the sand. Many vehicles, I think.”
“Inform Tahliil. It might be Somali soldiers or a Kenyan military patrol.”
“At once.”
Busuri trained the binoculars on the dust cloud. Too fast for heavy troop trucks or tanks.
“What …?” Tahliil spat out the word as his chest heaved from the exertion of climbing the tower.
Busuri pointed to the cloud and handed over the glasses. “There—several vehicles coming this way.”
“Yes. We ready to fight.” Tahliil handed the binoculars to Busuri. “Stay here. Direct men.”
The dust cloud continued its advance toward the camp. Two miles away, the hidden source of the disturbance stopped forward movement.
Busuri continued to monitor the area. Dust settled.
Technicals.
With a whoop, Busuri ran to the edge of the platform. “Technicals! Three of them—it must be Warsame.”
Excited voices heralded the news, accompanied by gunshots as weapons were raised and fired into the air. Tahliil and his lieutenants met the technicals when they arrived at the gates.
A smile plastered across his face, Warsame shook hands with the men. “We brought two captives, a British man, and an Italian woman.”
Cheers erupted and others slapped Warsame on the shoulders. Four of his team pulled the captives from the middle vehicle and shoved them in front of Tahliil.
The woman screamed and fell to the ground. The man reached down and helped her stand, his eyes locked on Tahliil.
Dressed in tattered clothing too small for him, George sported a black eye. Peeling skin and brown scabs dotted his nose. Scratches and insect bites covered both arms and his ankles. He held himself erect, almost regal, as he faced his captors.
Silvia wore pants too long and baggy for her and a long sleeve shirt buttoned to the neck. Her unkempt hair tied in a greasy ponytail reached to the middle of her back. Despite her darker Mediterranean skin tones, Silvia’s sunburned face bled from a myriad of scratches and blisters. Unlike George, she seemed ready to topple over.
Tahliil leered at the woman, who shrank back, and moved closer to George. “Take them my tent. Guard. No escape.”
After the excitement of Asad and Warsame’s return, Tahliil’s men wandered back to their previous tasks, while he strolled to the command tent. “Lieutenants. Follow.”
Perched on the edge of his seat, Tahliil glanced at his men. “Everyone leave for Afgooye before dawn.” He turned to Harbi. “Attack Kismaayo dusk tomorrow. Head to Afgooye after.”
Harbi nodded.
“Warsame and men go with you.”
“As you wish, Tahliil.”
“May Allah protect us.” Tahliil stood. “Finished now. Eat. Interrogate foreigners.”
***
Dusk fell with its normal abruptness—daylight one moment and dark a few minutes later. Lanterns and torches scattered around the compound provided flickering light. As the hours passed, the sounds of human inhabitants diminished, giving way to nocturnal activity.
Tahliil stepped past the guards into his tent. Huddled together on a blanket on the ground near his bed, one of the foreigners gazed at him with defiance while the other cowered, unable to face him.
He sat on a camp chair a few feet from the bed. “Sit on bed. Better.”
The captives moved as directed. Settled, they appeared to wait for something to happen.
“Names. Where from? Why in Kenya?”
“My name is George. My friend is Silvia. I’m from England while she is Italian. We both finished our university degrees and took a year out to donate time to help others.”
“Who you help?”
“Somalis, Kenyans, anyone who came to Jujubba Refugee Camp.”
“Where go university? What study?”
“I went to St. Andrews and studied art history and geography. When I finish at the refugee camp, I will join the Royal Air Force. I want to fly jets and helicopters.”
Tahliil glanced at the woman and motioned for her to speak.
“I-I studied medicine at the University of Bologna. When I leave the camp, I will go back to the university and learn to be a surgeon. One day, I want to return to Africa and help others.”
George squeezed Silvia’s hand and turned to Tahliil. “We’ve told you a bit about ourselves. Who are you? What do you want with us?”
“I am Tahliil. I lead one wing of al-Shabaab.”
“Isn’t al-Shabaab a terrorist group?” George rubbed his peeling nose. “I seem to recall reading about an attack on a shopping mall in Nairobi and something about pirates.”
“To some, terrorists. Freedom fighters better description.”
George gazed at the dark eyes of the man. “I believe you are smarter than you show. Why the charade?”
Tahliil clenched his fists and closed his eyes. Should I tell the foreigner the truth? He sat in the same position for several minutes. When he opened his eyes and glanced at George, his eyes were red and brimmed with tears.
“Many years ago, my father was the leader of a small but important Somali clan. He became the vice president. Two years later, the government was deposed in a coup. The plotters killed the president when they overran the palace.”
Tahliil gulped and brushed away a tear threatening to dribble down his cheek. “The traitors grabbed my father, accused him of corruption, and dragged him to the beach. They made my family and I witness his execution.
“Afterward, I was thrown on the streets without any identity papers. The army found me. Without proper identification, I was tossed in the back of a truck and taken to an army training camp.”
George shook his head. "What a horrible story!"
Wracked by sobs, his shoulders heaving, Tahliil appeared to shrink in stature. When he finished, he wiped his eyes with his sleeves. “I went from the elite to something less than human. I modified my speaking patterns so everyone would dismiss me as an ignorant fool.
“I joined al-Shabaab for revenge. I want to kill every person involved in my father’s death, even if I lose my life. Even my men think I’m dim-witted, which is why some plotted to replace me. I arranged their deaths in Kismaayo.”
Tahliil stood. “We’ve talked enough. We leave this camp early in the morning.” He stepped to the tent’s entrance. “Guards, take foreigners to tent with other captives. Death if escape.”
Alone in his tent, Tahliil cleansed himself with sand. Facing Mecca, he prayed. Once finished, he slid on top of his bed, but sleep remained elusive.
George, who are you? You’re not cowered by captivity. You portray a privileged upbringing but cover it up well. Will someone pay for your return? I must find out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hotel English Point
Mombasa, Kenya
Trevor Franklin, Bedlam Bravo’s leader, stood on the open-air terrace of the Hotel English Point’s penthouse. He took a sip of his tea and gazed at the spectacular view of Mombasa’s Old Town, the old port, and Fort Jesus.
After a final glance at the scenery, Trevor sighed and returned inside. He sat at the eight-place dining table and pulled his laptop closer.
He shook his head as he reread the latest communiqué from Sir Alex. I think we’re stretching ourselves too thin. Still, must follow orders.
A rap on the door—a key turned in the lock. A poor imitation of a chickadee’s tweet followed.
Trevor closed the laptop and strode to the door. Standing to the side, he glanced through the peephole. Smiling, he unlatched the deadbolt and yanked open the door.
Laden with plastic shopping bags from several nearby stores, Nathaniel ‘Nate’ Webster and Fergus Mulligan stepped inside. They wandered to the dining table and dropped their purchases.
Trevor closed the door and joined them. “Did you buy out every store?” He laughed. “Anything worthy of keeping?”
“I tink everything is rubbish.” Fergus rubbed a hand over his short, red hair. “Mission accomplished—we visited loads of shops today.”
“Locals in every shop for about ten blocks are aware two freelance photographers want to speak with those traumatized by the al-Shabaab attacks.” Nate’s eyes twinkled as he smiled. “We spread the word we would pay for photos or videos of the terrorists.”
“Any takers?” Trevor pursed his lips.
“Yes. We promised twenty pounds if what they supply us is used.” Fergus danced a small jig and laughed. “They are to take their material to the nearest police station. We already talked with a police sergeant. After we agreed to give him a cut and hinted about taking his photograph, he’ll help us out.”
“Greed.” Nate rolled his eyes and twirled a finger in the air. “Makes the world go ‘round.”
“I must hand it to you guys. An outstanding job—not what I might have done, but it should reap the desired results.”
Nate pointed at the laptop. “Any news from—?”
Trevor waved a small black box, about the size of a smartphone with a six-inch antenna. “Checked the room out. Didn’t find any critters, but to be on the safe side, I suggest we go on the terrace.”
After they settled into chairs overlooking the old port, Nate glanced down.
“I checked everything on the terrace, too. If someone has a directional mic on us, we won’t know.” Trevor smiled at Nate’s concern over their security. “Right. Received an email from Topaz. Bedlam Alpha is providing someone to help us—Willie.”
“I guess we’ll be doing some underwater work. Since I was a Special Branch diver, I assume I’ll partner with him.”
“Correct. He’ll arrive at Moi International tomorrow night at 00:45. You’ll pick him up.”
Fergus nodded.
“We’ll give him a day or so to recover from jetlag before transferring to HMS Snapdragon. Nate and I will be travelling to the Seychelles to meet with local contacts.”
“Did Topaz provide any further details?” Nate stood and walked toward the terrace’s glass wall.
“Not about our mission. They’ll provide an update later. However, I did receive a short email from Gerhard.”
“What’s the big oaf up to?” Nate chuckled.
“He says they arrived at the Jujubba Refugee Camp and met with the administrator and Prince George’s sole security man. The guy, a former corporal with 16 Air Assault Brigade named Alfred Livingston, will take Gerhard and Pun to the wadi where he left the prince.”
“If anyone is capable of picking up the trail, Pun will. I witnessed him in action, and he has a natural gift.”
Nate laughed and switched to one of his favorite topics. “Not sure about you guys, but I’m so hungry I could eat a gazelle.”
“Not much else we can do at this time, so I agree with Nate.” Trevor patted his stomach. “Always room for a bit more grub.”
***
The following morning, Nate and Fergus arrived at the police station to meet with Sergeant Jomo. Painted in the colors of the Kenyan national flag, the building stood out from those nearby covered in pastel colors. Oversized Masai shields and spears attached to the wall guarded the entrance.
Despite the pristine appearance of the exterior, the building’s interior displayed chipped green paint, greasy floors, and battered desks. Two ceiling fans failed to improve the airflow, their movement almost nonexistent.
“May I help you?” A young woman at the information desk interrupted the appraisal of their surroundings.
“Yes, good morning. We have an appointment with Sergeant Jomo—Webster and Mulligan.”
“One moment, please.” The woman hopped from her stool and sauntered between the other desks. She stopped in front of a closed door at the rear and rapped her knuckles on the glass.
The door opened. A heavyset man with curly black hair and dark eyes filled the doorway. He stepped forward, his face beaming. “Mr. Webster and Mr. Mulligan. Welcome! Come into my office.”
After they seated themselves in designated chairs, Sergeant Jomo pointed to a small pile of photographs on the edge of his desk. “Many responses to your requests. Most are pictures, but two people brought cell phone videos.”
“Fantastic. We hope to find faces cropping up during the recent al-Shabaab attacks so we can create a photo display and sell our work to various newspapers around the world.” Nate’s eyes twinkled as he laid out their plan. “We’ll begin with photos of those with weapons.”
“Three or four men are holding guns. Some are from different angles, so most facial features are provided.”
“Excellent. I will work with Mr. Webster to select the best. I spoke with a friend at The Irish Times in Dublin, and they are keen to view our material.” Fergus pointed at the sergeant. “Since you are helping us, they want your photo, too.”
Jomo’s face threatened to split as a new smile appeared. “I will help my new friends. We must remove the terrorists and criminals, so tourists will return to Mombasa.”
“We’ve another meeting to attend.” Nate pointed at the photos. “May we take these now and we’ll check back again later?”
“By all means, my friends.”
***
Armed with an oversized envelope stuffed with twenty-two photographs of varying quality, Nate and Fergus returned to the penthouse. They joined Trevor, who waited for them before digging into a late breakfast.
Once the men finished eating, they placed the empty dishes on a cart and wheeled it into the hallway. Nate dumped the photos on the table and spread them out.
Each took a photo and scanned the others for duplicate images. They identified multiple photographs of three men holding AK-47s.
Trevor booted his laptop. “I’ll upload these and send them to Topaz. In the meantime, go through them again in case we missed anything.”
To: Topaz
From: Black
Blue and White’s plan to obtain photographs of possible al-Shabaab terrorists involved in recent Mombasa attacks resulted in over twenty snaps so far. The images of three men holding weapons were captured multiple times (attached). Please advise any confirmed identities.
Acquisition program is continuing at this time. After we depart the area, local contact will continue to collect images.
“Right. Put everything in the safe in the walk-in closet and bring your cameras. Time to play tourist.”
***
Fergus left the hotel at 23:45 and grabbed a random cab outside the hotel. At Moi International Airport, he paid his driver and stepped inside the expansive entrance area, packed with people waiting for new arrivals. He leaned against a pillar as he gave the crowd a once-over. Armed soldiers patrolled throughout the terminal. Two dog handlers threaded their way through the throng, German Shepherds sniffing at random people and luggage.
