[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (17 page)

Magoo had decided that, because I didn’t give him a minute-by-minute rundown of what I was doing, I was conspiring to cheat the government—trying to skim some of the money I claimed was for the smuggling operation. He made some other accusations as well, accusing me of everything from breaking international gun laws to withholding information from him.

Granted, I had done both of those things. But I had my reasons. And skimming money off Uncle Sugar wasn’t one of them.

I’m not convinced that Magoo thought that was really the case. More likely, he saw me as an impediment to his claiming the glory of nailing Allah’s Rule and closing down its drug-smuggling operation. The French had gotten the glory for the earlier bust; he wanted no more competition.

Not that he was going to admit anything close to that, or even concede that I had done everything he’d asked and then some. Hell, I was about to hand him a connection twenty times more valuable than any he’d managed.

Our discussion attracted more than a few stares from the desk. I agreed to continue the discussion at Gray Suit’s office, which happened to be on the military base back on the other side of the airport we’d just left. Gray Suit wasn’t a particularly bad sort for an FBI (Fornication & Butt Implants) agent, even one of the overseas variety. He and I drove to the base with Trace and a pair of marines. By the time we got there, he understood what Magoo was up to and was fishing for a date with Trace.

The car ride took some of Magoo’s venom away, but he really didn’t start to backpedal until I suggested we call the admiral to straighten things out.

“Maybe we can ignore the charges if you start cooperating,” he said finally, glancing at Gray Suit.

Gray Suit looked at me and smirked.

“Listen, Marcinko, I want to impress on you that this is an
agency
operation,” continued Magoo. “
Agency.
I want you to understand that we’re the ones who are doing the job here. We’re tracking down the terrorists. That’s our job.”

“I’m glad you understand that,” I told him.

Magoo got a confused look on his face.

Garrett Taylor, who’d been standing at the side of the room the whole time, stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“I think Mr. Mar-Marcinko is right. I think he’s absolutely, uh, just uh, on board here.”

As these were the first words he’d said since Saudi Arabia, it was a bit of a shame that he stuttered. But Trace’s death stare has that effect on people.

Magoo said something that might generously be interpreted as agreement. I convinced him that it would be foolish to do anything to make our contacts suspicious, like handing over the phones and changing the arrangements. He agreed, reluctantly, then assigned young Mr. Garrett as our “liaison.”

And money holder. He handed over a small attaché case with ten thousand in euros, the down payment.

“I have other business, Dick,” he said, as if I’d been the one wasting his time. “Don’t make a move without clearing it first.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” I sealed my promise with a one-finger salute.

Aside from having to babysit Garrett, the biggest practical effect of Magoo’s intervention was the need to find a new hotel, since our cover had been blown. While Trace and I had been listening to Magoo’s harangue, Shotgun and Mongoose had spent their time more productively, first by locating another nondescript hotel, and then by meeting the supplier who’d arranged some gear and additional weapons for us. The latter was not a particularly honest man, as it turned out; when he tried to double the agreed-upon price, Mongoose instead demonstrated how an MMA-style punch could break a rib. The supplier was so impressed he went back to the original price, and threw a few extra mags in gratis.

The hotel sat on the outskirts of the tourist area. The French-run place dated from the colonial days but now catered mostly to businesspeople from other parts of Africa; the desk clerk told us cheerfully that we were the first white people he’d seen in months.

We were just getting rooms when cell phone Number 1 began to buzz. I took out a voice recorder and held it close to the phone. Then I unwrapped the tape with great ceremony and unlocked the mobile so I could answer. “Yes?”

“Go to Banque La Monarch. De-posit ten thousand euros in a-count 1-0-9-7-7-6-5-5-5.”

The instructions were made by a voice that sounded a lot like the auto-reader in the Kindle, assuming the Kindle had been dropped in a few swimming pools. The message repeated once—I grabbed a pen from Trace and jotted down the numbers—then cut off.

I checked my watch. If things went quickly at the bank, I could just make the flight to India.

*   *   *

As the name suggests, Banque La Monarch was a French-owned bank. Located not far from the central market, Banque La Monarch was small in international finance terms, but it had the ability to wire funds anywhere in the world, which was undoubtedly the only thing Shire Jama was interested in.

We had fifteen minutes. I sent Mongoose and Shotgun out ahead to take a look at the place and report back. I told Trace and Garrett to pose as a pair of tourists and shadow me and Abdi while we took our time walking over.

Garrett was very much up for the job.

“We could pose as a honeymooning couple,” he said.

“I don’t think we have to be on our honeymoon,” said Trace. “Just a married couple.”

Garrett was slightly younger than she was—if I say how many years, she might kill me. But aside from his affiliation with the Christians in Action, he didn’t look like a bad catch. He’d already started to recover from the Saudi prison, and while still a bit underweight he had an athletic frame at six-three or so. He knew a couple of languages, spoke well, and seemed genuinely embarrassed by Magoo. Plus he came from good stock.

Garrett put his arm around Trace’s waist. She removed it swiftly, though without violence—clearly a sign that she was attracted to him. I’ve seen her toss people through windows for less.

They left first. I gave them a three-minute head start, then Abdi and I left the building.

“What do you think I should do, Mr. Dick?” he asked.

“Just keep up with me,” I told him. “Most likely you won’t need to do anything.”

“I meant with my cousin. Rose.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten about the girl. “What would your uncle do?”

“I have thought about it the whole flight. He would have a solution, but I don’t know what it would be. I don’t think I can take her with me to America.”

“Probably not.”

“She should marry her cousin,” he said. “That is the best solution for all.”

I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t my job to be the kid’s conscience.

Like a lot of the Third World, Djibouti City combines the modern with the colonial. The port area has machinery that would put American ports to shame, while for tourists there’s a nice selection of fancy resort hotels along the beach. But the bulk of the city wears its poverty openly. Pick a street away from the port and downtown, and you’re likely to find a narrow, dirt-packed thoroughfare littered with garbage and lined with rubble. It’s as if the original buildings fell fifty or sixty years before, were pushed into a pile, and then forgotten. More often than not, their replacements are steel panels joined together slightly off-kilter.

Assuming you’re in the high-rent district. Elsewhere, crates and discarded boxes are the popular building material.

Even though it was midmorning, the streets were mostly empty, everyone either off to work or doing their chores inside. Abdi had been here before, and took to playing tour guide as we walked toward the bank. The street opened into a wide field, and we passed what looked like a car junkyard. He assured me it wasn’t a junkyard at all; the cars surely belonged to workers in the buildings just beyond.

“No one would abandon something worth that much here,” he said. “And no one would steal it either.”

“I’m surprised at that.”

“Very honest place, Mr. Dick. Africa is like that.”

“Somalia is not.”

“Yes, it is. If you are one of us, it is very honest.”

“But not if you’re not.”

“If you are not of the tribe, then you are not us. The rules are different.”

“We don’t think that way in America, Abdi. You should remember that.”

“Yes, yes, I know. That is one thing I like. That and to make money.”

We passed back onto a paved road, ignoring a pair of stray goats as we headed near the market, a square with various booths selling different items. Think Wal*Mart au naturel. If that image is too jarring, then conjure up a flea market and chill.

I was the only white man around. I got a few stares, but not as many as I thought I would. I stopped to sample some fruits, discreetly checking to see if I could find anyone watching us. I was sure that there would be surveillance, but if so I couldn’t find it.

Abdi stepped in to negotiate the price. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to get any of the local money—aside from the money to make the down payment for the drugs, all I had were the few euros I’d been carrying, and the worthless Somali script. I ended up giving the proprietor a one-euro note, about a 3,000 percent markup, according to Abdi.

“Now many people will want to do business with you. Watch.”

“We’re not going to hang around to let them.”

I set a good pace over to the bank, a block and a half away. There was a guard inside the foyer, dressed in a brown uniform with what looked like a police cap from the 1950s practically covering his eyes. He had a wad of khat in his mouth, and chewed it with great purpose and deliberation as he watched us walk past and look around. Ordinarily, I would have chosen the cutest teller and explained my business. The tellers here were all men, though, so I went to the one in the middle.

“I need to make a large
dépôt bancaire.
”

“Il ne s’agit pas d’un problème, monsieur,”
he assured me in French. “Not a problem at all. What is the account?”

I told him. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled over a pen and asked me to repeat it. “How much euro?”

“Ten thousand.” I glanced at Abdi and he popped open the briefcase on cue, setting it on the counter.

“Just a minute and I get the form,” said the teller, practically hopping toward the office at the back.

Abdi and I were the only customers. There were two other clerks behind a high wooden counter topped with metal dividers. The interior offices could only be reached from the clerk’s side of the counter.

The interior was plain, with a few wood panels beneath walls that were painted a dull beige. There were no paintings on the wall, and the incandescent arrays of lights that hung down would not have looked out of place in a water plant or maybe a large truck garage. The one fancy touch in the customer area was a skylight composed of large panels of clear glass that filled the ceiling three stories above. Two panels had faded designs on them, symbols I would guess of the bank, or maybe a previous owner of the building. Both were so faded it was impossible to tell what they signified.

The teller came back a few minutes later, a big smile on his face. He had me fill out a form for the deposit. The form asked for my name, and I gave it to him:

State of Virginia.

It even agreed with the license I showed him for identification.

He gave me a receipt, and wished me a
bon jour.

I
bon jour
ed him back and took my leave, mentally calculating how long it would take me to get to the airport for my flight to India.

Just as we reached the door, a pair of women entered, dressed in black burkas. Abdi nearly fell over trying to get out of the women’s way; I had to hook his arm in mine as I pushed through the door and went out on the street.

Trace and Garrett were strolling in our direction, looking very much like a married couple—there was a good five or six feet between them.

“What was that about inside?” I asked Abdi.

“The woman had a gun under her dress,” he said. “I thought—”

He stopped speaking as an AK47 began barking inside the building, its metallic stutter nearly overwhelmed by the sound of shattering glass.

The bank was being robbed.

(III)

Is it me, or is there no safe bank to put your money in anymore?

While I was considering the horrible state of the international banking system, Trace was running past me in a blur, charging into the building.

“Stay out here,” I barked at Abdi, following her inside. Garrett, barely comprehending what was going on, trailed me by a few steps.

One of the “women” had pulled a paratrooper model of an AK47 out from beneath her long tunics and was holding the staff at bay while “her” partner grabbed cash from behind the counter. The guard—I should probably use quote marks there as well—had thrown his weapon to the middle of the floor and was gazing at the robbers with stoned admiration. Clearly he went for dominating women.

As she entered the large lobby, Trace slid to one knee, pistol raised, voice steady.

“Drop the weapon!” she said.

It’s debatable whether the robber understood English or not, and he’s not around to say: he made the mistake of turning toward Trace with the gun still in his hands, and she put two bullets through his forehead.

The second thief ducked behind the counter, pulled out a pistol, and grabbed one of the clerks as a hostage. Then he began spouting something in Arabic. He was talking much too quickly for me to make heads or tails of what he was saying, but the general gist was clear enough—drop your weapons or the clerk gets it. To my surprise, Trace tossed down her gun, put up her hands, and moved sideways, giving the gunman and his hostage a clear path to the door.

Except for me. The gunman—as you undoubtedly know by now, two men had disguised themselves as women to make it easier to get inside with their weapons—yelled something at me and jabbed his weapon into the hostage’s neck.

I wasn’t particularly impressed, and held my ground. He shouted again, once more jabbing the automatic into the skinny clerk’s neck.

“You speak English?” I asked.