The Aden Effect (8 page)

Golzari met the eyes of one of the military personnel in the airport waiting room, a man seated in the corner with his arms crossed. Their eyes locked for a moment, and that was all the time Golzari required to memorize every detail about the man before turning his gaze elsewhere so as not to call attention to himself.

The man was in his mid-forties, about a decade older than Golzari, with brown hair that was graying at the temples. The skin on the lower half of his face was a shade lighter than the upper half, suggesting that the man had very recently shaved off a beard and moustache. He was dressed in desert cammies. Though he was too far away for Golzari to read the nametag or service branch, the man's O-5 collar devices indicated a lieutenant colonel or commander; the distinctive patch above his service tag was proof that he was a surface warfare officer in the U.S. Navy. But a man wearing desert cammies wasn't bound for a ship. This one was heading to the Middle East.

The uniform appeared new. The material was not faded from repeated launderings, and the boots had no scratches or marks. Though fit looking, he was thick-bodied, the kind of thickness not uncommon in former athletes. All the signs added up to a man who had not been in the military for some time, which likely meant he was a reservist recalled to active duty. Judging by the scowl, he was none too pleased about it.

An airman's voice boomed over the loudspeaker: “All personnel en route to Bahrain, proceed immediately to the boarding area.” Golzari's subject picked
up a fully packed, new green seabag and winced as he placed his weight on his right knee. Golzari's lips twisted in disdain. He had little love for members of the military who seemed so patently unsatisfied with their assignment, particularly reservists who clearly didn't want to be recalled.

Their eyes met again as the Navy commander passed within arm's reach of Golzari on the way to the boarding area. Under other circumstances, Golzari thought, the man might have been an adversary, someone encountered in a cheap Third World bar, perhaps, where a few drinks and a misspoken word would devolve into an altercation. But Golzari was not one to frequent cheap bars.

Stark sized up the elitist fed as he passed by on his way toward the plane and thought that he might have enjoyed kicking the man's ass if they had ever met in one of the many bars he had frequented over the years. But he couldn't imagine the fussily dressed fed walking into a real bar.

Stark had spent the past few days trying to figure out why he had been recalled. Certainly his work for Bill Maddox's firm had given him some knowledge of Yemen, but there were plenty of active-duty people qualified to serve as defense attachés, and he was pretty sure none of them had ever been court-martialed. Besides, attachés were among the military's elite, subject to months of training in their assigned country's politics, geography, and language, and of course the diplomatic niceties of the job.

Most of the articles that had caught his eye dealt with the deteriorating situations in Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and North Korea. His understanding might be at a basic level, but Stark could see that America's focus on the wars and potential wars in the Middle East was having both domestic and international ramifications. Among other things, it had left the rest of the world open to the influence of other countries. Particularly alarming was an article in
The Economist
describing the economic and military aid packages that China had negotiated throughout Africa and Central and South America. It seemed to him that the United States was on the verge of losing its status as the world's only superpower.

A young assistant regional security officer met Stark at Sana'a International Airport and drove him back to the embassy in an armored SUV. Both men were silent for most of the drive. Chitchat seemed inappropriate in an area where the activity on a calm street corner could quickly escalate into a terrorist incident. The city hadn't changed much in the year or so since he'd last been here. But aside from the cars and the neon-lit storefronts, he doubted that much had changed in a thousand years. Taxis sped by erratically, much as in any major American city. The heat from the mid-afternoon sun had tempered much activity. Most of the men he saw on the sidewalks were busy chewing khat, further reducing any productivity. He remembered fewer people idling in the afternoons, perhaps a sign that unemployment was up yet again. Every time the vehicle stopped at a traffic light, a few men paused in their conversation and eyed it warily. He wondered if they watched him out of curiosity or as a potential foreign target.

After the driver dropped him off at the entrance to the embassy, Stark checked in with a man at the front desk and was handed his credentials.

“Welcome to Yemen, Commander,” the young man said. “The ambassador is expecting you.” He pointed to the stairway behind him. “One flight up.”

Still stiff from the long plane ride, Stark winced his way up the stairs. The friendly voice that greeted him as he approached the top made him stop short and look up.

“It's about time you got here, Connor. The golf course just hasn't been the same without you.”

“Bill,” Stark said, grinning at the man seated against the wall to the left of the receptionist. He shook Maddox's hand and pulled him into a bear hug. “You should be right at home playing in the desert—it's just one big sand trap.”

Maddox snorted. “We'll talk about that later. You have to meet the ambassador alone first, and you have to know before you go in that I had nothing to do with this, okay? I advised her against it.”

Stark frowned. “Her? What are you talking ab—”

The door to the ambassador's office flew open and a rich soprano voice rang out. “Mindy, I thought you said he was on his way up.” Ambassador Caroline Sumner glanced past the receptionist, then smiled. “Oh. You
are
here. Please come in, Commander,” she said cautiously.

After a brief moment of shock, Stark moved without a word toward the inner door, only his compressed lips revealing the extent of his anger. He glanced back at Maddox, who simply grimaced and sat back down. “Good luck,” he mouthed.

“You've
got
to be kidding me!” Stark said as the receptionist closed the door behind him. “I'm not sure what I'm more surprised at—that you're an ambassador or that you ripped me away from my happy retirement to come here!” He didn't even try to mask the displeasure in his tone.

Although the room was supposed to be soundproofed, the two people in the reception area could clearly hear his booming voice.

“Commander, I—”

“Commander? No. It's Connor. Just plain Connor. At least it was until
you
sent the Navy after me.”

“Don't shout at me. I'm a United States ambassador. Show some damned respect, Connor, if not for me than for the office I hold and for the president I serve. Or you'll find yourself court-martialed again.”

“Really?” he said in a voice of velvet steel. “If you or the president want me court-martialed, go right ahead. I've been there before,” he said, daring her to say something else.

She sank into her seat and paused. “Please, Connor, sit down.”

Stark grudgingly complied, if only to substitute the expensive cushioned chair in front of her desk for the memory of the airplane seats he had occupied for the past thirty hours. “Why the hell am I here?”

C. J. swiveled her chair to face the window, giving him only her elegant profile to look at.

“Your predecessor left this morning. He wasn't getting much traction with what we've been assigned to do here. I haven't been in the job long. I want to get this right, but I keep hitting walls. I need someone I trust who can break through those walls.”

Connor threw back his head and laughed. “That's a new one, C. J. When did you start trusting me?” He rose from the chair and walked toward the window, back into her field of view.

“I do trust you. Your word is better than any contract.” Assuming the full authority of her office, she sat in silence, waiting for his full attention.

Stark stared out the window, allowing the tension in the room to build. In all the time he had spent in Yemen he had never seen the city from this vantage point. At this time of day the market in the street below was full of vendors and customers bickering about the price of items for sale. “That word didn't save me from a court-martial,” he said, finally turning to face her.

“You did what you felt you had to do, and what you had said you would do. I did what I could to help. It wasn't up to me, Connor. There were other issues, much bigger ones than you or me.”

“Whatever.” Connor shook his head. “Why am I here?” he repeated.

“Pirates. The same ones you dealt with until you left last year. The situation's gotten worse in the Gulf of Aden. At this point, the pirates are hitting any ship they want. We have no military support in the region—practically everything has been redirected to the Persian Gulf or the western Pacific. I'm here to get the Yemeni Navy to agree to secure and stabilize the region, including the oil platforms off Socotra. Bill just doesn't have enough assets to do it on his own.”

“So, get your agreement. What's the problem with the Yemenis?”

“They're stalling. They have all these boats we gave them a few years ago, but they won't put to sea. We don't know why. And we don't have anyone they'll work with. Someone with a real working relationship with them . . .”

“ . . . which I had when I worked for Bill.”

“Yes.”

“Which is why I'm here.”

“Yes.”

“And you think I'll help you after all that's happened?”

She shook her head sadly. “No. I don't, really.” For a moment she allowed her fatigue and frustration to show.

Stark leaned forward in his chair and felt his shirt stick to his back; the office temperature was approaching that of the outside. “Then why?” he asked. “Why bring me here?”

“I hoped.”

“Hope is overrated.”

“Not when it's the only option left to you,” she said.

“When it's the only option left, it's called desperation, not hope.”

“Okay, I'm desperate. Will you help?”

“I haven't yet heard a reason why I should.”

“For Bill?”

“Bill hasn't asked me.”

“How about for your country?”

“I think I did enough for my country when I was in uniform.”

“You're in uniform now,” she reminded him.

“This time it's not by choice.” Stark removed an envelope from his pocket, the same envelope he had gone to his boat to retrieve before the three Somalis
attacked him in Ullapool, and held it up. “This is my general discharge. You want me to help? Change that to an honorable discharge.”

“Ok,” she said quietly.

“You don't have that kind of power.”

“No? I got you recalled to duty and brought here, didn't I?”

“Good point,” he admitted. “Let's assume I can do whatever you need me to do. What then?”

“As soon as I have what I want, you can go back to . . . wherever you want to go.”

He thought about it for a moment. Until a few days ago he had finally been leading a life of peace and contentment, secure in the knowledge that he had disconnected from his past. And then three Somalis had tried to kill him. They had come to his adopted home, the home of his friends, Maggie's home. Would that threat continue if he made the wrong decision now?

“I'll do this,” he said finally. “And if my record is cleared as a result, I'll accept that. But let me be clear—very clear: I'm not doing this for you or your damned president.” Stark caught himself. He hadn't been in uniform twenty-four hours and had already violated Article 88 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice—contempt toward officials, namely his commander-in-chief. Fortunately, C. J. was a diplomat and was probably ignorant of the UCMJ. Stark, however, had firsthand experience with it and had violated it in almost every way possible the last time he was in uniform.

“I understand, Connor. Let me know what you need.”