The Aden Effect (10 page)

Dunner sat straighter, summoning the determination that had carried him through the last few days. “No, Eliot. Absolutely not. I will bury my son. Then I will return to do my duty for my country. Elizabeth will expect nothing less from me.”

Fine
, Green thought.
We'll do this the hard way
. “John, the president doesn't agree, particularly in light of how your son may have died.”

“What does that have to do with my job?”

“I have an initial report from the director of Diplomatic Security, whom I asked to investigate this matter. Apparently, your son was doped up on some drug called khat when he died and was in all probability a drug dealer himself.
Step down now, John. You'll be inundated with offers from universities and foundations. Find a nice teaching position. The specifics of your son's death can remain a private family matter. It would serve no one if this sordid affair became a topic of discussion in the media and the blogs. You don't want that. And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that this is an election year.”

“You're a real bastard, Eliot,” Dunner said slowly, his voice trembling less from weakness than anger.

“You serve at the pleasure of the president, John. It's his pleasure that you step down.”

“I'll write a letter of resignation right away. He'll have it by the end of the day.”

“No need to trouble yourself. Here's something I drafted for you. All you need to do is sign it. It's one less thing you need to worry about at this difficult time.”

“Welcome back to the East India Club, Mr. Golzari.” The front desk attendant spoke in a hushed, respectful tone commensurate with the surroundings. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you, Steven, it is always a pleasure to be here,” Golzari said, smiling as he handed his leather travel bag to the waiting servant.

“Shall I inform the dining room that you will be coming in for luncheon, sir?”

“No, Steven. I'll be dining elsewhere. I'm expecting Mr. Witherfield to join me within the hour. Please send him up when he arrives.”

“Very good, sir.”

As on every return, Golzari took a moment to savor his surroundings. With the exception of his two brief marriages and the small studio apartment he kept in Washington, Golzari hadn't had a real home since college. This magnificent building in St. James's Square was the closest thing he had to one. It was, he decided, the only civilized place he had ever lived. The understated elegance and quiet rooms full of history comforted his senses in a way that no other place ever could. The club's dress code of a jacket and tie at all times was a welcome departure from the world of denim jeans, t-shirts, and flip-flops in the United States.

Before it had become the East India Club the building had been home to two centuries of British aristocrats. King George IV, while still Prince Regent, had famously received news of Wellington's victory at Waterloo while attending a dinner party here. The club counted among its notable members Admiral Lord Mountbatten and the American jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes. During the war it had witnessed the frantic activity that surrounded Eisenhower's headquarters at Norfolk House diagonally across the square.

Golzari's club membership was effectively the only thing he hadn't lost in either of his divorce proceedings—not that his wives wouldn't have tried to take that too had it been possible. Even now, though, early in the twenty-first century, ladies were not allowed to join. On the other hand, he mused, neither of his ex-wives was a lady. He turned toward the hallway, pausing slightly as he noted, not for the first time, the large wood-and-brass plaque on the wall memorializing all the members who had lost their lives in England's wars. He stopped by the bar to pick up a drink and then made his way to the one-man elevator at the rear of the building.

Once in his room, he checked the windows and closet, the inevitable habit of a perpetually security-conscious DSS agent. He made a local call to his old friend Robert and then sipped at his drink as he checked for new messages on his Blackberry. Glancing through his email, he was disappointed to read that Deputy Secretary Dunner had resigned. There were too few good people in government, he thought, and Dunner's departure was a loss for wisdom and decency in an administration sorely lacking in both. His debt to Dunner remained, however, whether he was in the government or not.

“Posh Robert!” Golzari said, extending a hand to his former partner as he opened the door.

“Damien!” Robert Witherfield replied warmly, returning the handshake while keeping a firm grip on the briefcase in his left hand.

Golzari stepped back to allow Witherfield to enter the room. “It's been awhile, Robert.”

“Too long. Welcome back to the world's finest city.”

“Yes, indeed. I've always thought that Hubert Robert was really thinking of London when he painted
Gallery of the Louvre as a Ruin
.”

“Good lord, Damien, will you never get off that depressing Rococo trash? God knows our art instructor tried to broaden your horizons. In any case, Hubert Robert's work is all in the Louvre. They have all the bloody garbage we didn't have room to store. You need to spend time in British museums again to refresh your education—unless, of course, we pop off to Paris. Do you have time?”

“I wish I could, Robert. I remember our last trip there with particular fondness, although I'm not sure they'd let us back in France yet.”

“Too right. Well, how about a drink and dinner then? There's a smashing Indian restaurant on Shaftsbury that I want you to try.”

“Why do you never suggest going to a ‘smashing' British restaurant?”

“Didn't you know? That's why the British Empire expanded. We were looking for a decent meal.”

“Then business before pleasure. Have a seat, Robert,” Golzari said, gesturing to the chair closest to the window. Witherfield sat down, opened his briefcase, and pulled out several folders. “Well, Damien, will you have the good tnews first, or the bad news?”

“Let's start with the good, shall we?” Golzari suggested, sipping his Bombay Sapphire and tonic.

“This is completely off the record, of course?”

“As it always is with us—with everything,” Golzari returned.

Robert raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Good. Here are the files. I made no copies, so you'll need to look these over while I'm here. And, of course, I was never here.” Witherfield winked.

Golzari chuckled. “You've been watching too many James Bond movies, Robert. Or should I say Austin Powers?”

“Are you implying that I have bad teeth?”

“No, just bad clothes.”

Witherfield adjusted his impeccably knotted silk tie. “You really know how to hurt an ally.”

Golzari started reading while Witherfield continued to talk. “I wish I had had more time to gather material for you on Abdi Mohammed Asha. He's a bit of a problem child.”

“Ever cause any problems here, Robert?”

“Not directly, no. But he'd have been right at home with the ‘Mad Mullah' back in the day. Of course, back in those days we actually mounted campaigns
against people like him, even if it was in British Somaliland—or Somalia, if you will. Coincidentally, Asha belongs to the Mad Mullah's clan—Dhulbahante.”

“Wait a minute.” Golzari stopped reading and looked up at Witherfield. “That can't be right. The Somali refugees he was living among in the States are all Bantu. A Dhulbahante wouldn't go to the other side of the world to live with Bantus—not in a society as strongly tied to clans as Somalia's still is.”

“I'm not sure I have an explanation for that, Damien, but we do know that Asha is not a simple refugee. He was a soldier with strong connections to the power structure in Somalia. The only reason he came to our attention is because we were tracking his boss, a warlord named Suldaan Yaxye Abokor— a particularly nasty fellow. Asha was one of Abokor's lieutenants.”

“Nasty how?”

“He took the Islamic law of
hirabah
to heart. Anyone he saw as creating disorder had their opposing hands and feet amputated.”

“Of course. And he represented the order. What happened to him?”

“Ironically, another warlord found Abokor's activities to be disorderly. Abokor and some of his people were massacred about a year ago. Asha happened to be in Yemen at the time.”

Golzari read his way down the third sheet. “And Asha disappeared after that. Has the new warlord lived happily ever after?”

“Not really. He and several of his top people were killed two weeks ago.”

“By another warlord? Or al-Shabaab?”

“Neither, actually. They were your chaps.”

“Ours?”

“I'm afraid so. The media didn't pay much attention to it because it happened to coincide with a North Korean missile test. The United States issued a press release afterward saying that an al-Qaeda base in Somalia had been destroyed by three U.S. Tomahawk missiles.”

“So that's what that was about. And the new warlord wasn't tied to al-Qaeda?”

“Not a chance, my friend. Al-Shabaab isn't the only organization in the area. The fight nowadays is between the old warlords and the Islamists. The terrorists just stay under the radar to train. But it's not like the Somali communities elsewhere have been quiet. In fact, I've been investigating three Somalis from Birmingham who attacked a Yank.”

“In Birmingham?”

“No, Scotland, actually. The Yank killed all three of them, though MI5 says he got some help from a Scottish woman.”

Golzari raised his eyebrows. “Lovely. Were the Somalis tied to al-Shabaab?” “No, but one of them had fought in Mogadishu.”

“That's damned odd. Why would expatriate Somalis attack an American in Scotland? Can I interview the American?”

“He was snatched up by your Department of Defense.”

“Under protection?”

“No, I believe under the guise of employment.”

“This gets odder and odder. Are you sure he's not CIA?”

Robert laughed. “Definitely not. He's a rough one and a renegade.”

Golzari shrugged and changed the subject. “What can you tell me about the
Mukalla Hassan?
”

“It's there in the material I gave you. To summarize, she's a fifteen-thousandton freighter. Never been tied to khat before. According to our customs officials, she delivered a cargo of dates and vegetable oil in Southampton.”

“Who owns the ship?”

A knock at the door stopped their conversation. Golzari readied his weapon before looking through the peephole. He signaled okay to Witherfield before opening the door to admit a servant carrying a tray. Golzari took the single item from the tray, thanked the servant, and placed the Bombay and tonic in front of his friend. Robert lifted the glass in appreciation and continued.

“The company is owned by a brother of the Yemeni president.”

“Hmm.” Golzari sat quietly for a moment. “I had planned to fly back to the States and check for new leads in Antioch, Maine, but I've changed my mind. Asha was in Yemen right before he came to America, and Johnny Dunner's khat was on a boat from Yemen. I don't think there's anything left for me in Maine.” He nodded. “Yemen is my next stop.”

“You don't plan on speaking with the ship's owner, do you? I hardly think that would be wise.”

“We both know there are other ways to get information, Robert. You chaps in MI5 have taught me a few tricks over the years. I really wish I could stay here longer, though.”

“Why is that, Damien?”

Golzari grinned. “The food's better even in London than it is in Yemen. Many thanks, Robert.”

“My pleasure. We have to help you Yanks once in a while so you don't mess up the world too much.”

“We're just cleaning up the imperial mess you left behind, you know.”

“I don't recall the headmaster tolerating such rudeness when we were at Cheltenham.”