Running Dark (10 page)

“What does it stand for?” Emma said.

“United Nations Humanitarian Air Services.”

Emma headed to the main terminal, Roducci hot on her heels.

“I don’t think the UN air services will allow you to fly. You should take my friend’s aircraft.”

“Too expensive,” Emma said.

Roducci nodded. “I see your point. Exactly.” He began another conversation with his friend on the phone.

Emma found the UNHAS sign prominently displayed on a counter next to a long line of passengers waiting for ticketing on a commercial jet. The UNHAS agent had no takers. He looked European, with short-cut hair and wearing a dark polo shirt. He watched Emma walk toward him and flicked a look at Roducci, who was still chattering on his cell phone. The man glanced back at Emma, a question in his eyes and a smile on his face. She responded with her own smile.

“I need to get to Hargeisa, and I understand that UNHAS flies that route. Is there a way I can pay for a seat?”

The man nodded. “Are you a journalist?”

“Unfortunately not.”

The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. We’re only allowed to fly UN personnel and journalists with proper press identification and advance clearance.”

Emma hesitated. “If I can arrange for the identification, would I be able to go?”

“If so, then yes.”

She pulled Roducci aside. “Can you get me some forged press identification?”

Roducci snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

Emma stepped back up to the agent. “How much?”

“Today Hargeisa costs twenty-six hundred dollars round-trip, but the price can fluctuate as the situation there changes. Check-in is tomorrow, five-thirty
A.M.
I warn you, the flight is a bit rough. We fly small planes with no catering service and no toilets. It’s five hours, with a touchdown in Jowhar.” Emma calculated the time. Even with the overnight stay, she would cut twenty-four hours off the commercial flight to Ethiopia.

“Do I bring you the ID and clearances?”

The man shook his head again. “That needs to go through the main office, and it will take fourteen days for a security check.”

Roducci snorted. “Fourteen days is far too long. And twenty-six hundred dollars for no beverages, no toilets, and in a small plane? That’s banditry!” He turned to Emma. “My friend believes he can arrange to have someone rent the plane for its flight back here. He will accept fifty thousand dollars for your leg of the journey. Really, Ms. Caldridge, this is a very good deal for a private flight
with
all the comforts of a private jet. I believe you should accept this offer.”

The UNHAS agent looked taken aback. “Somalia is an extremely dangerous place. The insurgents target any planes that fly there. There’s no guarantee that a private jet won’t be shot down. Even our jets are fired upon despite their UN affiliation. Your only other option is to take a khat flight out of Wilson Airport.”

Emma perked up. “Khat flight?” She was familiar with khat, a twiggy plant popular throughout Africa. When chewed, it provided feelings of euphoria and led to long periods of chattiness interrupted by bouts of stupor.

“We don’t recommend the flights, but they make the trip daily and the insurgents don’t interfere. Khat is very important to them.” The agent’s voice was dry.

Emma turned to Roducci. “Can you take me to Wilson Airport?”

Roducci sighed and clicked off his phone. “So much for promises to stay inside the terminal. Should the immigration authorities stop us, I will charge Major Stromeyer for the inconvenience.” He waved her out of the terminal and cut across several lanes of traffic to a nearby parking lot. Once there he marched to a hulking black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows and a satellite radio antenna. He reached around her to open the passenger side. As the door swung open, Emma noticed that the panel was thicker than most.

“Armored?” she said.

Roducci nodded. “I work in many dangerous areas of the world. Nairobi is not nearly the worst by far. However, even I have not been to Somalia in three years. Whatever business takes you there, I would suggest you reconsider.” He closed the door with a heavy
thud, jogged around, and slid into the driver’s seat. As he snapped the seat belt, he cast a glance at her.

“I’m going,” Emma said.

“Yes, I can see that you are determined.” He sighed and started the car.

Half an hour later, Emma stood next to Roducci and stared at an ancient Fokker airplane being loaded with burlap sacks.

“That tall man in shirtsleeves is the pilot,” Roducci said.

The pilot, a deeply tanned, rugged-looking white man with brown hair in a ponytail that brushed his collarbones, oversaw the loading. He wore faded navy blue chinos, combat boots that might have been black but were covered in dust, and a sand-colored short-sleeved shirt with the tails out. He appeared to have skipped his morning shave. Emma guessed he was nearing forty. He nodded at Roducci and made a comment to one of the workers before walking over to greet them. He walked with a smooth, loose-limbed gait that telegraphed confidence. Emma adjusted his age downward five years based on his stride alone.

“Roducci. What brings you here?” The man spoke English with a slight South African accent.

Roducci shook his hand. “May I introduce Ms. Emma Caldridge? Ms. Caldridge, this is Wilson Vanderlock. He owns that rusting plane you see being loaded.”

Vanderlock ignored Roducci’s insult to his aircraft and gave Emma a considering look and then a slight smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to hitch a ride to Hargeisa.”

“Are you an aid worker?”

“She’s working for Edward Banner,” Roducci said. For some reason Emma was glad when she saw surprise enter Vanderlock’s brown eyes. Something about his manner made her think he had a conventional view of women, and her working for Banner conflicted with that view.

“Banner’s creating a stir in Hargeisa. His company arrested some pirates and dragged them there to be tried.”

“Why would that cause a stir? Aren’t the authorities happy to see a pirate captured?” Emma said.

Vanderlock shook his head. “Half the authorities in the Puntland region have a hand in piracy. Darkview is seen as a danger to the trade. I’m not sure I want to be associated with Banner or his company.”

Roducci stepped forward. “Since when are you against Banner?”

“I’m against trouble, and that’s what Banner has right now,” Vanderlock said. He cocked his head to one side as he gazed at Emma. “Where’s your entourage? Banner’s people rarely travel without one. Not if they want to live.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. She ignored the fear trying to make its way through her system. Since Colombia she’d become an expert at ignoring the fear. She extended her hands, palms out. “It’s just me. If it makes you feel any better, Banner has no idea that I’m here, talking to you.”

Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you?”

“Because I need to get to Berbera. Fast. And the flights through Addis Ababa will take time, which is something in short supply for me.”

“What’s causing the rush?” A look of keen interest entered Vanderlock’s eyes.

“Private business” was all Emma said.

He nodded, accepting the fact that she wouldn’t tell him. “Better I don’t know, actually. I’ll take you. It will cost you a thousand dollars American.”

Roducci made a surprised noise. “Out of the question! I know for a fact that your usual rate is one hundred dollars.”

Vanderlock shook his head. “She’s not usual. If anyone gets wind of her connection to Darkview, I’m going to be in hot water.”

“She just told you no one knows, except us three. And discretion is my business, so I will never speak of it,” Roducci said.

Emma wanted to strangle Roducci. Even if Vanderlock’s price was inflated, it was hundreds of times less than that of the private jet he’d just tried to foist on her. She interrupted the men.

“I’ll pay you five hundred,” she told Vanderlock. Roducci took a breath to say something, but she cut him off. “You tried to bamboozle a Russian’s jet on me for fifty grand when you knew not only that khat flights were cheap but even a pilot who flies the route?”

Roducci gave one of his expressive shrugs. “A lovely woman such as yourself should travel in style.”

Vanderlock laughed. “You tried to unload Sergei’s jet on her, didn’t you?”

Roducci’s look went sour. “I simply tried to keep her safe.” He jerked his chin at the Fokker. “You’ve kept that thing flying with duct tape and rubber bands.”

“It hasn’t let me down yet.” Vanderlock turned to Emma. “Seven-fifty and it’s a deal. But know that I won’t be able to fly you back here. Kenya doesn’t care who I fly out of the country, but I’m no longer allowed to fly anyone in.”

Roducci snorted. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“Well, it will in her case.” He looked at Emma. “You’ll have to return through normal channels.”

“And Somalia? Do they care who arrives?”

“Not on the route we’re taking. And keep your association with Darkview quiet.”

She nodded. “Can you take me to Berbera?”

“Sorry, but no. After Hargeisa I return here. The khat is driven to Berbera. You might be able to ride with it all the way, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“You go straight to Hargeisa?” Roducci sounded surprised.

“First to K50, then Hargeisa,” Vanderlock said. Roducci gave a small groan.

Emma didn’t like the sound of that. “Where’s K50?”

“Mogadishu.” Roducci supplied the information, a grim sound in
his voice. “It’s an alternate runway just outside of the capital. The main airport is too dangerous to use.”

Tension curled through her. The immense danger of what she was trying to do hit her.

Roducci touched her arm. “You should wait to fly to Hargeisa directly. Surely whatever Banner needs you to accomplish can wait for a safer flight.”

Vanderlock took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He put one to his lips and held the box out to her. She waved it away without a word. She needed to think. Vanderlock returned the pack to his pocket, extracted a blue plastic lighter, lit the cigarette, inhaled, and watched her. She noted that he neither confirmed Roducci’s opinion that she should wait nor disputed it.

“Mr. Vanderlock—”

“Call me Lock. Everyone else does.”

“How long will you stay on the ground in Mogadishu before taking off for Hargeisa?”

Vanderlock blew out a stream of smoke. “Thirty minutes. Just long enough to offload the first half of the shipment.” He took another drag off the cigarette.

Thirty minutes could be a lifetime in Mogadishu, but Emma thought the UN agent might have it right. She doubted that the insurgents would mess with them when they still had half a planeload of khat to deliver. She offered a hand to Roducci.

“Thank you for your help.” She transferred her travel toothbrush from the side of her duffel to the pocket of her jacket and handed her bag to him. “Do you mind throwing this away? It’s just going to weigh me down.”

Roducci looked at her and frowned. After a short pause, he took her hand between both of his.

“I see that you have made up your mind. Lock will keep you as safe as is possible, given the area to which you travel, but should you need anything, please call me.” He produced a business card. “My
number. Contact me anytime, day or night. I will see to whatever you may need.” Emma took the card. It didn’t contain a name, just a series of different phone numbers and two e-mail addresses.

“No name?” Emma said.

Roducci smiled. “Just numbers. But they all work. And when they don’t, they will direct you to another. Do not worry. My business depends on people who need items quicker than can be found through the usual channels. My customers know how responsive I am. And they also know that I can get them anything. But my specialty is arms.”

“I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOUR FATHER,” SUMNER SAID. “CAN YOU
take me to him?”

“Of course,” Marina said. “But why?”

“I have some questions.” Sumner handed Block the Dragunov.

“Oh, yeah, now, this is what I need!” Block’s eyes lit up. “Those pirates come back and they’re history.” Block was like a child with a new toy. He pretended to sight something in the distance. Sumner reached out and gently pulled the scope away from Block’s eye. He bent the gun on its side and flipped a small switch near the trigger.

“What did you do?” Block said.

“Switched it from automatic to semiautomatic. I don’t have a lot of ammunition. You have to make every shot count.”

“I just switch it back if I need automatic?”

“Don’t.”

“But if I need it? The switch will set it back?”

Sumner had a terrifying vision of Block spraying the water with ammunition, all of it falling far short of its mark.

“No. The switch sets it back to auto or semiauto depending on how you depress the trigger. One pull will give you one shot. Hold it down and the gun will continue to fire until you release it.”

“Hell, put that back. Saves me a step. I promise to use it semi until I need it auto.”

Sumner shook his head. “Under stress you are far more likely to hold the trigger down out of sheer panic. Kind of like the way a new
driver hammers the gas pedal instead of the brake when an accident looms.”

“I’m no new driver.”

Sumner reached out to take the gun.

Block danced backward, out of his reach. “Okay, okay. You win. I’ll leave it on semi for now. Don’t worry.”

Sumner had a lot of concerns, but he kept them to himself. He turned to Marina. “After you.” They headed to the lower decks. Marina took a hallway that wound toward the casino.

“He’s gambling right now,” she said.

“So he’s not worried about the pirates?”

Marina seemed to consider the question a moment before responding. “He likely is anxious about them, but he greatly enjoys gambling, so that’s where we will find him.”

Sumner thought it best not to comment on Herr Schullmann’s habits. In fact, when they reached the casino entrance, it became clear that many of the ship’s passengers were escaping reality by losing their money. The casino hummed with activity. Bells dinged from the slot machines, dice landed on green felt with muffled thuds, and the dealers murmured in low tones as they ran the games. The area was surprisingly full, mostly with men. Sumner didn’t see one woman gambling. Even the bartender who’d poured him a whiskey hours ago was gone. One lone female croupier dealt a hand of blackjack to the French businessmen. Sumner spied the Russian at a roulette wheel, sans mistress, and Herr Schullmann leaned against a craps table watching the thrower fling the dice. Marina made her way through the stations. She slid up against the rail next to her father. Sumner remained a step behind her. Herr Schullmann flicked a glance at his daughter, then returned his gaze to the game.

“What do you want?” Herr Schullmann spoke in German. His voice held a gravelly tone, like that of a smoker who’d destroyed his vocal cords. He was in the same dark slacks from earlier, but he’d changed into a polo shirt that did little for his paunch. Sum
ner pegged him as a machine-tool operator made good. He had little doubt that if he were to meet Herr Schullmann at his factory, he’d find him with his sleeves rolled up and dirt under his fingernails. Sumner was raised in Minnesota by a professor father who, despite his advanced degrees, spent a great deal of time hunting, fishing, and skinning animals with his brothers. The rest of the family remained steadfastly blue-collar. They were pipefitters, plumbers, and electricians. Sumner spent entire summers camping with his uncles. He knew how best to deal with men like Schullmann. The trick was never to underestimate them. What they lacked in finesse, they made up for in ferocity.

“I’d like you to meet Mr. Sumner,” Marina told her father. “He works for the
Kaiser Franz.
He wishes to ask you some questions.” Schullmann turned his head to look at Sumner. His eyes held a wary look.

“What kind of questions?” He continued to look at Sumner but spoke in German and addressed his daughter.

“Questions about how to armor something to withstand a rocket-propelled grenade,” Sumner answered in German.

Schullmann raised his eyebrows. He waved at the croupier to cash him out. Then he gathered his chips, dropped them into a pants pocket, and headed toward the bar without another word. Marina followed him, her face set. Sumner wasn’t surprised at all. His take on the entire family was that the parents disliked each other, and this meant that the daughter would be stuck in the middle. Probably had been her whole life.

Schullmann heaved himself onto a barstool and ordered a beer. He gave Sumner a curt nod that Sumner interpreted to be a request for him to order.

“Seltzer water, lime,” he said to the bartender, now a young man with red hair and a towel thrown over his left shoulder.

“You don’t drink?” Schullmann said.

Sumner offered a barstool to Marina. She took one two seats away
from her father, leaving Sumner the one in between. He pulled the chair out a bit and slid onto it.

“Not when I’m on duty,” Sumner answered.

“They come back?” Schullmann asked the question in a desultory manner, then swallowed a mouthful of beer. To Sumner it looked as though Schullmann wasn’t concerned about the pirates at all. Which was strange. The man had his entire family at risk, yet he sat in the casino playing craps and drinking. Sumner quelled his distaste. He wasn’t privy to the family dynamics and didn’t care to be. All he needed was this man’s knowledge about armor plating. He took a sip of the soda, enjoying the cool liquid. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized how thirsty he was. He downed some more of it before responding.

“That noise—you must have heard it—was a grenade blast. They missed. We were implementing our own countermeasures, but it was difficult to be accurate given the darkness. Your daughter’s assistance was invaluable. She shot a flare gun at the precise moment that we needed it. Without the flare’s illumination, they might have been successful in their latest attempt to board.”

Marina colored a bit at Sumner’s praise. Schullmann acted as though he hadn’t heard it.

“What do you want to armor?” he asked.

“The door to the bridge and a small section of the upper deck. Is it possible?”

“What did you say you are armoring against?”

“Rocket-propelled grenades.” Sumner used the English term before switching back to German. “I don’t know the German word for them, nor do I know the model.”

Schullmann nodded. “Most likely an RPG-7. They’re the most common launchers used worldwide. I am quite familiar with this weapon, as I have had many discussions about arming a car to withstand them.”

“Can it be done?”

“On a car? With an additional nine-hundred-plus kilos of steel, an undercarriage that resists fire, run-flat tires, and a good driver trained to move that vehicle out of the hot zone during an attack—maybe, but not likely. The design of those explosives was based upon the Deutsche Panzerfaust antitank weapon. This is a powerful device. One hit is often enough. Two in the same general location will end the struggle. Arming the sides of the ship against a direct hit? You would need steel. Lots of it. And a way to cut it to fit the dimensions you require. At my factory we have large robotic arms that do this for us. The weight alone makes it difficult to do without mechanical assistance.”

Sumner shook his head. “Not the sides of the ship, a small portion on top of the deck. Almost like a duck blind for hunting. Just something to hide behind when the grenades start flying. And I need it to be movable.”

Schullmann grunted. “That is crazy.”

“Surely you can improvise something? Anything is better than nothing.”

Schullmann considered this. He drank his beer. “Plating is heavy. It has to be in order to work. Even a small amount to protect the bridge door would weigh many kilos. When it’s put on a car, the auto becomes far less mobile. In this case one would have to move the shield manually.”

“Could we put it on a dolly? Move it around that way?”

“One of those red dollies with rubber wheels that you see deliverymen use? Probably not. Best would be a flat dolly with iron wheels. Do you have one of those?”

“I would think so. If only to transport the luggage and other items that provision the ship. I’ll ask the captain.”

Schullmann ran a hand along his chin. Sumner waited, allowing him time to think. The German swallowed some more beer before speaking again.

“You could try cage armor.”

“What’s that?”

“Strips of steel spaced at intervals. Almost like a birdcage. It’s ideal for grenades, because it deflects them before they reach the target. There is a problem, though.”

Sumner thought he already knew what the “problem” was. “As they are deflected, they explode. So whoever is within range of the explosion will die.”

Schullmann nodded. “It’s a flaw. The cage system is used to wrap around an already heavily armored tank. It stops the grenade from piercing the armor, but it’s the armor on the tank that protects the inhabitants inside from the explosion. Just using the cage without another wall of steel is not a guarantee of safety.”

“But the cage is lighter and easier to make than armor plating.”

Schullmann nodded.

Sumner stood. “Let’s make it. I’ll look for a dolly and some metal rails or steel rods that we can use to build a cage. I’ll get the ship’s mechanic to assist you.”

“What about the design flaw?” Marina had been so quiet that Sumner had forgotten she was there.

“I’m not going to have anyone inside the cage. I’m going to use it for another purpose entirely.”