Dangerous Alliance, page 8
“Hmm.” Tahliil rubbed his chin as he considered Dacar’s suggestion. “Not now, perhaps later. If weapons inferior or double-crossed, we do this.”
“Should we continue to seize freighters?” Sahid asked. “Or concentrate on the oil carriers?”
“Both. If one kind of ship, easy spot pattern. Make more difficult do both.”
Dacar nodded and changed the subject. “Okay, we’ll do this. What about the money wired to the Freedom Bank in Malta? How should we disburse the funds?”
“Leave alone. Mistake to accept wired money. Why you think I want cash? Money sent to bank is traceable—cash much harder. Don’t plan more without approval. You learned English and received schooling in America and England, but wits more important.”
“Yes, Tahliil. Forgive my rash behavior.” Dacar gazed at the floor. Silent for a moment, he looked up and stared at Tahliil. “I wanted to show my expertise. I was wrong.” He always treats me like a child. Will he ever trust my judgment?
“Yes. Very wrong but done now.” Tahliil stretched his legs toward the fire and sighed. “I tell you story about rashness.” He glanced out at the water before continuing. “I was fourteen. Ran around the streets of Mogadishu. I took things from stores, not pay. I shared with family and tribe. Right? No. Boolis no catch me. I steal more.
“My father said carry identification. Did I? No. My name my own. At fourteen, I knew everything.” Tahliil chuckled. “Thought I did. One day, I ran from store. Huge man stop me—Somali Army sergeant. He demanded identification. I try get away.”
“What happened?” Dacar’s eyes grew wide as he listened. “Did you escape?”
“No. My father right. Should have listened. Too late. No identification. Sergeant dragged me to army truck, cage on back. Soldier opened door. Two more throw me in cage.”
“Where did they take you? Did they let you go?”
Tahliil shook his head. “When let out, we at camp. Others in cage, too. They say belong Somali Army.” His eyes misted as he swayed in his chair. “I watched many boys, young men die fighting Ethiopians. Two years, they let me go—my time finished.
“Must have discipline and training. I learned from army. My rules be burden, but everyone better off.”
Tahliil stared at Dacar and Sahid in turn. “This why obey. I listen suggestions. I make decision. Always.”
“Yes, Tahliil,” both men responded.
“Sleep now. Tomorrow go Kismaayo.”
Tahliil went into a room and shut the door. Sahid banked the fire. Dacar handed him a woolen blanket. Both men draped the covers over their shoulders and curled up near the brazier.
One of the remaining men pulled several strands from a straw broom, breaking them into different lengths. They each drew a piece from the man’s hand. The one with the shortest piece began sentry duty while the others tried to sleep.
***
Before dawn, the men rose and cleansed themselves with water and sand at the shoreline. Mats aligned with Mecca, they completed the Salat al-fajr. Afterward, Sahid, the designated cook, made chickpea pancakes and sweet tea. They ate and prepared to travel to Kismaayo. Some had small packs with a change of clothes while others used plastic bags. All ensured their weapons were slung over their backs by straps and extra ammunition was packed in magazines and clipped to belts at the waist.
Tahliil gave orders to two men before they boarded the boat. “Take technical. Inform others in Mogadishu I return soon.”
The men nodded and jumped into a brown Jeep Cherokee. The windshield was missing, bullet holes riddled the body, and the side mirrors no longer existed. A Browning .50 caliber machine gun was attached to the roof.
The property of a former American diplomat, during the fighting with Siad Barre’s government, vehicles such as this became known as technicals. Now, they belonged to the strongest, the ones who could keep them from thieves.
The driver gunned the engine, spewing sand everywhere as he rocked the vehicle to lengthen the small depression in the sand caused by the weight of the Jeep. Clear of the obstruction, he headed for the main road, both men swaying to the movement of the vehicle. Within moments, the vehicle was out of sight, the dust churned up by the tires marking their departure.
***
After Tahliil, Dacar, and Sahid were seated on the boat, the remaining two men pushed the craft farther into the water and jumped aboard.
Dacar took over the controls, steered through the small gap in the sand bars, and drove south along the Somali coast. Small, thorny bushes and low scrub trees dotted the coastline between the sand dunes. They passed the occasional shepherd tending to his flock of sheep and goats.
Tahliil dozed under a small awning. Sahid sat next to Dacar, while the other two, armed with AK-47s, maintained their station in the stern and bow. Whenever they approached a small village, Dacar turned east and headed farther out in the water. No one could identify the boat’s passengers.
As dusk approached, Dacar guided the craft into a small inlet north of Kismaayo. He stopped against a rickety dock where two armed men waited. Recognizing the boat, they waved and caught the ropes tossed to them.
Tahliil, first to disembark, stumbled as he stepped on the shifting pier. One of the men grabbed his arm to steady him.
“Thank you.” He straightened and patted the man on the shoulder. “Help others, and we go camp.”
“Yes, Tahliil. Our transport is ready.” The man pointed through the dense brush. “Two vehicles are prepared. It will take two, perhaps three hours in the dark to reach the compound.”
“Proceed.”
The SUVs bounced along the road. More a track than a proper highway, they sped over areas with firm sand, slowing down as it became softer and the vehicles threatened to become bogged down. Occasional trees and bushes marked the edge of their route. A slight glow in front of them indicated their destination.
As they approached, men fired their weapons in the air. The Toyotas stopped in the middle of the camp near a smoldering fire. When Tahliil stepped out of a vehicle, his followers shouted and stomped their feet.
Tahliil waved his hands in a downward motion. Once the noise level dropped, he spoke. “Thank you. More weapons coming to us. We make sacrifice for Allah. Lieutenants, join me.”
The men reveled as Tahliil strode into a military-style tent, followed by Dacar, Sahid, and three others. He eased himself into a camp chair, while everyone else sat on the floor.
“Report.”
Gari Shire, a lanky man with a patch over one eye, stood. “Tahliil, things progress. My men raided a Kenyan police barracks. Confiscated whatever they could carry. Our new supplies will arrive in three or four days.”
“Excellent. Any casualties?”
“Not on our side.”
“Well done. Busuri?”
A short, rotund man, unusual for a Somali, lurched to his feet. Busuri Kablan gazed at the others before turning to Tahliil. “Much success with our raid in the Kenya border region near Malindi. No supplies—but entertainment.”
Those assembled laughed, knowing Busuri’s men had seized female refugees for their pleasure. Several men nudged one another as Busuri clasped his hands together and raised them above his head, crowning himself their new champion.
“When will the entertainment arrive?” a man asked. “Quicker than last time, I hope. Took forever.”
“Their travel will be slow. Perhaps a week, they need to gain their strength.” Busuri laughed, waving his hand in an arc. “Still makes me the champion.”
“Wait a moment, Busuri.” A gray-haired man addressed the group. Most of the time he dressed in Western clothes, but today Harbi Kuusow chose a macawiis, a brown and gray-checkered sarong-like garment. A yellow and red cloth covered his upper body, his head crowned with a koofiyad, a colorful turban. One of the oldest in the group, he had also served in the Somali Army, where he met Tahliil.
“I believe my men take the prize for the best raid. They intercepted a Kenyan army team, which ventured into our lands near Buur Gaabo. The patrol comprised a dozen men.” Harbi stretched upward, thrusting his head out in rapid movements like a chicken, hence his nickname, Chicken Man. “My men brought four survivors.”
Whistles and foot stomping erupted as the others praised Harbi. Tahliil stood and clasped Harbi’s shoulder. “This week’s winner. Now, where trophies?”
“In the back tent. They’re not going anywhere.”
Dacar held the flaps open. Tahliil stepped into the night air. A clear evening, a myriad of stars covered the heavens, providing sufficient light to traverse the small camp without a flashlight or lantern.
Together Tahliil and Dacar led the others between two rows of smaller tents, erected between piles of rocks and thorny bushes. At the end of the alley, another military-style tent ended the encampment.
Inside, four Kenyan soldiers cowered on the floor. A dim lantern revealed they were gagged, blindfolded, with hands and ankles bound. Cuts and bruises showed through torn clothing. One man whimpered. A stench permeated the air, as if each man had soiled himself.
Harbi approached the nearest soldier and kicked him in the ribs. The man groaned and tried to roll away from further jabs. Harbi kicked him again, a pitiful whine escaping from his lips.
“Enough, Harbi.” Tahliil bent down to examine each soldier. “Treat their wounds. Feed and water. Allow them regain strength.” He stood and glared at Harbi. “No further mistreatment. If abused, someone will answer.”
“What’s the point, Tahliil?”
“The point is—” He jabbed a finger into Harbi’s ribs. “I spoke. Do as told. Must be healthy.” He left the tent, followed by the others.
Perhaps time for me to take over. “They are my trophy. I claim my rights.” Harbi thumped his chest.
“No. My right as chief. I decide. No one else.”
“Tahliil, what do you plan to do with them?” Dacar stepped between the two men before tempers flared beyond breaking point. Is Tahliil becoming too old to be our leader?
“Easy. This training camp. Men must train. Healthy soldiers make better targets.”
Chapter Eleven
Port Area
Naples, Italy
After the close encounter with an errant container three days ago, Pun and Gerhard moved to a bunkhouse operated by the port authorities. Trevor, Nate, and Fergus also switched accommodations, electing to room in a small pensione away from the area.
No longer traveling as a group, the team relied on their training to enter a mission mindset, maintaining vigilance. Surveillance detection routes led the men throughout the city before converging at pre-arranged locations.
On the other side of Naples, Bedlam Bravo, now dressed like mid-level businessmen, entered Palazzo Perucci Ristorante, an upscale establishment overlooking the harbor. Trevor entered alone, the others arriving before him in pairs. Since it was still early, the restaurant was almost empty. He asked for the Topaz party and was escorted toward the back of the room, where several areas were concealed behind red velvet curtains.
The maître d' pulled the curtains apart, revealing a partitioned door. A brief knock and he pushed it open, stepping aside for Trevor to enter.
Laughter and the clinking of glassware dominated the room. Besides the other members of Bedlam Bravo, a fifth person stood with them. Trevor’s mouth dropped.
“Hello, Trevor. Shocked? Me, too.” Evelyn Evinrude, offered her hand. “The doctors declared me fit for duty even with my slight limp. Sir Alex figured I could handle the exchange as I returned to the Middle East.”
“Welcome to Naples, Evelyn.” He released her hand. “I suspected we’d meet again.”
She laughed, pulled out a chair, and sat at the table prepared for six. “I have packages for you. The equipment mentioned in London, plus two extra items.”
While they conversed, the others grabbed seats and scanned the menu. Written in Italian and English they identified preferred dishes.
Nate frowned as he scanned the menu.
“What’s the matter? Nothing to your liking?” Gerhard laughed. “I thought as long as it was food, you’d eat it.”
Everyone laughed.
“I wanted a hamburger.”
“What?” Fergus raised his head and glanced at the ceiling. “You’re in Italy and you want a burger?”
“The pasta didn’t fill me up and I’m not big on Italian. A burger and fries would be perfect.”
“Shall we eat and do the handover?” Trevor nodded at the others. “They seem ready to order.”
“Yes. I’ll have today’s special with a glass of the house white.”
Instructed by the maître d' to push a concealed button when they were ready to order, their selections were announced when a waiter returned with their starters. All began with pasta, except Nate, who went for an antipasto salad. After the waiter departed, Evelyn addressed the group.
“Sir Alex instructed me to wish you good luck on your voyage. No change of plans, but instructions will be relayed when necessary. Recommend checking for messages at least three times a day.”
Trevor nodded. “Not a problem. Once we’re underway, it should be easy to find the horizon with the satellite phone. Only need a few seconds to set up, transmit, and finish.”
The conversation switched to their recent visits to local sites of interest as two waiters delivered their main entrees, which varied from traditional Italian to seafood. Finished handing out the dishes, the waiters departed.
“I checked out the Pompeii exhibit.” Fergus waved his forkful of spaghetti in the air. “Hard to imagine fleeing from the lava, yet still being caught. A horrible way to go.”
“Agreed.” Nate sipped his red wine before popping a green olive in his mouth. “I’d rather die in bed, with a beautiful woman at my side.”
“Ag, man. The catacombs are the best attraction in Naples. Imagine how many people visit the site.”
“You have a strange sense of entertainment, Gerhard.” Nate finished his antipasto salad and drained his glass. “Hope you haven’t warped Pun’s mind.”
Pun speared a piece of meat from his plate and smiled as he shook his head.
“Let’s eat and run.” Trevor took charge of his team. “Sorry to be a spoilsport. Evelyn will want to be rid of the packages, and we must head back to our rooms.”
After they’d finished, Trevor paid the bill. They departed in ones and twos and reconvened in a black and white van with Pasticceria Alessandro Romano displayed above a picture of a loaf of bread.
Inside, Evelyn introduced them to the driver.
“Meet Mark. He kept an eye on things while I joined you for dinner.” Evelyn passed a bag to Trevor. “What you asked for.”
“We’ll take you close to the pensione and the bunkhouse after we finish.”
“Where are the weapons?” Nate glanced around the back of the empty van. “Do we go somewhere to pick them up?”
“You’re sitting on them.” Mark pointed to the floor. “It’s false. Grab an edge near the door and pull.”
Nate, Fergus, and Gerhard tugged on the carpet while the others moved out of the way. A grated surface appeared below a lifted section.
“Underneath,” Evelyn said. “Five black backpacks and two Pelican cases. Should be two black tennis bags, too.”
Gerhard hauled each item from the concealed compartment as Nate passed them around.
“Each backpack contains a Glock-17, ammunition, and a stun gun. The cases hold MP5s. I didn’t know if you wanted to keep them in their carriers or switch to the tennis bags.”
“I think the tennis bags will work better.” Trevor pointed at Gerhard and Nate. “Take the MP5s.”
Evelyn turned to Mark. “Head out—the pensione first.”
Dropping each group off, Evelyn wished them success. Once Gerhard and Pun entered the bunkhouse, Mark and Evelyn disappeared into the darkness.
***
Thick, greasy ropes were cast off bollards, engines churned the water into a white froth, and a tug assisted the Ventrusco away from the dock. Light rain didn’t stop people from lining the street to catch a glimpse of their loved ones as they departed. Off duty crew members waved from vantage points. Several ship horns sounded as they moved about the harbor. The tug released the ship, which headed out to sea.
“Ag, man. We’re off.” Gerhard waved at his non-existent family.
Pun nodded. Assigned to one of the cargo maintenance teams, Gerhard and Pun squeezed between containers, checking cables and connectors on the port side as Luigi had taught them.
As the Ventrusco left the confines of the harbor, Nate and Fergus worked their way through the containers on the starboard side, ensuring every harness was in place and secured.
Trevor teamed with Marco in the central hold, used to store refrigerated containers. They scooted between each one and checked cooling settings and refrigeration hoses. The ship began a gentle rocking.
“We’re in open water.” Marco shifted his hands back and forth to emphasize the movement. “Now in the Tyrrhenian Sea. A few hours from now, we’ll be in the Mediterranean and sail through the Strait of Sicily.”
“Why not through the Strait of Messina? Wouldn’t that save time?”
“Yes, but more dangerous. In two areas the gap is less than two miles, with heavy commercial traffic. Safer going around and we can move faster, too.”
“Makes sense.” Trevor checked the final meter before they climbed out of the hold, their shift finished.
Three hours later, Bedlam Bravo joined the other off-duty crew for a spaghetti and meatball dinner. Finished, they headed to the deck for a stroll before retiring to their quarters.
“Should be quiet until we’re in the Indian Ocean.” Trevor nodded toward the bow, where bolts of lightning crisscrossed the heavens. Deep rumbling followed. “The pirates haven’t attacked in the Mediterranean before, but we should remain alert.”
“I don’t like the sky. I was once onboard a ship in the North Sea.” Fergus wiped his face with a handkerchief as water sprayed over the side of the ship. “Shaking, rocking, and rolling like a massive rollercoaster. People sick everywhere. Never want to go through dat again.”
