The Aden Effect (18 page)

“It was family over career back then, Connor. At least he didn't fight me for the kids in the divorce.”

“How are they?”

“Growing by leaps and bounds. How can I not miss them during my ninety days on?”

Stark looked out through the pilothouse windows at his former command. The
Kirkwall
was an old British
Seal
-class long-range recovery and support craft. It was small—only 120 feet long—and displaced 160 tons. Twin Paxmans, built by the same company that produced diesel engines for the
Cyclone
class, powered the steel hull. It could do twenty-three knots on a good day, which meant the
Kirkwall
could outpace and protect any of the supply boats it was escorting; any ship slower than fifteen knots was vulnerable to pirate attacks.

A voice crackled over the radio. “
Kirkwall, Kirkwall
, this is the
Mukalla Ismael
in company with the OSV
Endurance
. We are under way and expect to arrive at the prearranged coordinates for escort, over.”

Jaime picked up the microphone. “
Mukalla Ismael
, this is
Kirkwall
. Message received. Copy all.
Kirkwall
standing by channel one-six. Out.” She replaced the mike and picked up the shipboard announcer. “All hands, this is the captain. Stand by to get under way for escort duty in twenty minutes; that's two-zero minutes.” She turned back toward Stark. “I told the boss that we need to think about replacing this boat with one that has a helo and RHIBs like
Deveron
and
Arnish
.”

“It's that bad?”

“The pirates are just adapting too fast. I've turned back seventeen attacks against the supply ships. But we could always use more boats. And a real U.S. Navy presence around these parts wouldn't hurt.”

“What's here?”

“The closest thing to a Navy ship would be the
Bennington
. I heard her over comms last night, so she's somewhere nearby in the Gulf. Hey, isn't she named for your great-great-great-granddaddy's battle?”

“Yup. General John Stark. He led a New Hampshire regiment and defeated the Hessians at Bennington. What do you mean by ‘closest thing'? She's Navy, right?”

“Well, more or less. I got some gouge on her when I heard she was in the Indian Ocean. I know someone who served under her CO during his last command. Not exactly the best and brightest. Plus, the ship's old and coming out of service soon, so no one's willing to put any money into it.”

“How'd he get command?”

“His uncle is chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee and his cousin is a three-star admiral.”

“Jesus. We're not that much different from the Yemeni ruling family. How about the pirates? Are they still driving skiffs around?”

“Yeah, but there are more of them now. They pretty much stay away from our client ships after so many failed attacks; they want the low-hanging fruit, the commercial freighters that don't have any protection.”

“What else have you learned about them?”

“Nothing since the president shut down CTF 151. Only a few people are tracking what's going on. This is the Wild West, Connor. A couple months ago we did pick up a Somali kid in a skiff that had run out of fuel and was never found by its mother ship—the guy carrying their satellite phone was high on khat and dropped it in the water. All the others on the skiff had died from exposure, and the kid was pretty close.”

“What authorities did you release him to?”

“Neptune and Davy Jones. He died a few hours after we picked him up. Our medic was able to speak with him through the interpreter first, though.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Not much, except that the rumors of a pirate king are true. The kid said that the clans aren't in charge of the pirate boats anymore; almost all of them take their orders from a guy called al-Yemeni.”

“He's not Somali? Great. Now we have both sides of the Gulf of Aden to worry about.”

Two ships coming up astern caught his eye. “Looks like we're ready to go,” he said.

“Toss your pack below. Stateroom 3 is yours. Grab some chow. Chef's waiting for you and said he has your favorite.”

He moaned. “Haggis? Oh, boy. Thanks for the hospitality, Jaime.”

Golzari was apoplectic. The Navy commander had gone against regulations by driving alone in Yemen. He had almost certainly violated some other rule by using private security people, even if they weren't being paid. And because of Stark, Golzari was going to have a scar on his forehead and had been forced to throw away a good pair of trousers.

With the gunnery sergeant's help, Golzari set up shop in the spartan RSO's office. He waited impatiently while the information technology staff set up his access to the classified networks he needed to search for Abdi Mohammed Asha and the police liaison Khalid, who apparently were the same man. Was Asha/Khalid still in England? Had he gone on to his native Somalia? Or could he be here? Johnny Dunner's khat, which had been shipped to Asha in Boston, had come in on a ship out of Mukalla. It was Golzari's only lead.

Golzari swirled the cup of black tea he'd gotten in the embassy mess as he considered the situation. He had promised John Dunner that he would find out what really happened to his son. Aside from his family's debt to Dunner, Golzari had become personally fond of the man during his time on the assistant secretary's security detail. The old man was quiet and considerate of those who worked for him, quite unlike the harpy from Harvard who until recently had been Dunner's boss. Diplomatic Security agents, like the Secret Service, got a unique perspective on what public officials were really like when the cameras were off. Protectees were generally accompanied everywhere except the restroom and the bedroom, and agents were often posted outside those within easy hearing range. The charges took a while to get used to the twenty-four-hour protection, but they eventually forgot about it and let their guard down, showing their true selves. And in most cases, that wasn't a pretty sight. Golzari had often wondered if Rome's Praetorian Guard had felt the same way. That was probably why so many of them eventually turned on their emperors.

Golzari sipped his tea and nearly spit it out. This country was known for diverse and flavorful teas, but the embassy had none. General Services had no soul. Setting down the cup, Golzari turned back to the problem at hand. Abdi Mohammed Asha was Somali. Golzari knew his tribe and the town where he lived. That was a start. Would Asha return there? If he did, Golzari wouldn't be able to follow him; no Americans were allowed into Somalia.

If Asha was in Yemen, he was still within reach, though the authorities probably couldn't—or rather,
wouldn't
—help Golzari with an investigation:
Asha wasn't Yemeni, but he was more like them than Golzari was. He knew the creed:
My brother and me against my cousin; my cousin and me against my town; my town and me against
. . . The best-case scenario would be interminable delay.
We will help you as much as we can, inshallah, but
. . .

The best lead he had on Asha and his ties to Yemen was the series of small khat shipments transported on the
Mukalla Hassan
, which was owned by the Yemeni president's brother. Certainly the Yemeni police would be anxious to help with that one, Golzari thought wryly.

The graying gunnery sergeant looked in the open door. “Sir, anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah, Gunny, I need a good tailor, a hard drink, and a soft pillow.”

“In this country, sir?”

“Good point. How about you just keep lunatic Navy commanders at least twenty yards from me?”

“I haven't formally met any recently,” the sergeant replied in a heavy southern drawl, “but from what I hear, he won't be around long. He and the ambassador have had some heated discussions since he arrived. Some walls just ain't soundproof enough.”

“They don't get along. What a surprise. Why do I get the feeling this guy wouldn't get along with us good people either, Gunny?”

“Don't judge him just yet, sir,” came the raspy reply. “Scuttlebutt is he's here under some unusual circumstances.” The sergeant stepped further into the little office. “Mind going on a drive with us tomorrow?”

“Where to, Gunny?”

“The foreign minister's office, sir. Ambassador Sumner received a call inviting her to meet with him.”

“A phone call?”

“Yes, sir. That's what I understand.”

“She's going?”

“Yes, sir. At zero nine hundred we leave the compound in two vehicles. We're short, so we could use the extra firepower.”

“How long have you been assigned here, Gunny?”

“Almost eighteen months. I roll out in six more.”

“Have you been here longer than the ambassador?”

“Sure have, sir. She's been here only a couple of months.”

“How often has she gone to the foreign minister's office in that time?”

“Just once, sir. When she presented her credentials.”

“How many times has she been invited?”

“This is the first time.” The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “Do you think something's up?”

“I'm not sure, but standard protocol between diplomats is that invitations are on paper and hand-delivered. Never telephone calls, especially in the Middle East.”

“Do we advise against the meeting?”

“No, I could be wrong. But let's take some extra precautions just in case. Can you pull the list of all incoming and outgoing embassy calls and emails from the past seventy-two hours?”

“I'll have it to you within the hour.”

Gunny was as good as his word. An hour later Golzari stroked his goatee as he read down the list, cross-referencing all incoming and outgoing embassy calls against a list of the names and U.S. residences of the remaining embassy personnel. The list confirmed that the embassy did indeed receive a call from the foreign minister's office and that the number matched the known office number. That ruled out the likelihood that the invitation had been issued from a different location, but it didn't exclude the possibility that someone within the Foreign Ministry was collaborating with a terrorist group. Golzari leaned back in the old creaking chair that the General Services Office hadn't replaced since the 1960s.

The email list revealed a few anomalies. Two emails from the embassy to the White House in as many days filed at the same time as emails to Secretary of State Helen Forth. Both came from Ambassador Sumner. Why would Sumner copy the White House? Only State should determine if an issue merited informing the White House, and then it would come directly from the secretary of state's office, not the ambassador. Golzari could have asked the information technology office for the content of the emails, but he didn't see the need for it just now. He wasn't supposed to be investigating anything other than Abdi Mohammed Asha, and even if he did have authorization to review other emails, wasting time to do so meant that much less time to find Asha.

He walked down to the senior Marine's office. “I'd be happy to join you tomorrow morning, Gunny, but I'd like to try something different than you've planned.”

“What do you have in mind?”

While his crew ate their meal on the fantail, Faisal checked his watch and then tapped a cigarette from the pack and lit it, his second of the day. He propped his bare foot on the starboard rail as he inhaled and looked down at the choppy sea.

“How many times have you checked your watch, Faisal?” asked his helmsman, Saddiq.

“I must call Ahmed al-Ghaydah at a specified time,” Faisal responded.

Saddiq looked at him knowingly. “You don't like him.”

“Why should I? He's incompetent. He got the job because of his name, not his ability. His family is still powerful, but not as powerful as when the Soviets supported their region.”

“It is true that Ahmed has no interest in business,” Saddiq agreed. “Only for obsolete Russian weapons that he barely knows how to shoot and Ukrainian whores he knows even less about how to handle.”

Faisal ignored the off-color joke while admitting to himself that it was almost certainly true. “He is useful to us. That is all that matters. Let him complain that the job is beneath him. I care only that he does it properly. He won't be there long anyway.”

“Ah, but does he do it properly?” Saddiq returned. “I hear what the cargo captains in the Gulf are saying. They all complain about him too. He ignores them and doesn't respond to their complaints.”

“He only ignores the ones he is supposed to ignore,” Faisal said. “All that matters is that he helps those I tell him to help—the ones transporting hashish and khat. At least he manages to give me a daily report on ship movements.”

“Why is it so important that you speak with Ahmed now, Faisal?” Saddiq asked as Faisal checked his watch yet again.