Terminal Justice (17 page)

“Are ya’ listening, Ian boy?”

“Yes, I sent my family away.”

“Ya’ sent them away and ya’ stayed behind—a brave thing, lad.” The man paused as he looked out the window. “I suppose ya’ sent them to that mountain cabin in the States.”

Booth’s jaw dropped open. No one could know about that. He had been too careful, too meticulous in his preparation. His racing heart beat faster, sweat appeared on his brow, and his stomach ached.

“Close your mouth, Ian. We’re not interested in your family. I just wanted ya’ to know that we make efforts to know everything about everyone who could hurt us. Your family will remain safe. At least from us. We’re not monsters, ya’ know.”

“Thank … thank you.”

“This will be fine,” the man said to the driver. “Pull over here.” The car veered to the right across the empty oncoming lane and parked behind a clump of trees that were growing near the edge of a cliff. The four men exited the car and waited as Ian Booth slid across the seat and stepped from the vehicle. The man who had been sitting in the front passenger seat pulled a small .25 caliber handgun from under his coat. The warm tropical air was heavy with humidity, and soon all five men were sweating. Booth, however, was perspiring for an entirely different reason. He had come to the end of his life. He had not been a religious man, but now he wanted so very much to be … if only there was a little more time, he could pray and maybe find the missing money. But the time was gone. It had ticked away until his days had evaporated, and now his life would end at the hands of men who valued their cause above anyone’s life—his especially.

“Would you mind terribly,” Ian said as tears streamed down his cheeks, “if I just jumped?” He finished his sentence by nodding his head in the direction of the cliff. “I’m not sure why, but I find that demise a little more … palatable.”

The leader of the men shook his head. “Sorry, laddy. As I’ve said, there must be an investigation so that the papers will print a nice story about it. Our friends read the paper, ya’ know.”

The refusal made Booth’s sorrow all the more profound. Not only would he die, but he would do so with no dignity whatsoever. Leaping to his death would have brought only a smidgen of honor, but at least he would be ending his own life and not surrendering it to others. It was a small point, and in a mind suffering less stress it would be no point at all—but it was all he had. It was the last thing he could do to exert some control over his life, and he would be deprived of this. It was so patently unfair. Someone had robbed his bank, and now he was going to be killed for it. Booth watched in detached horror as the man with the gun walked toward him and wondered if the thief was enjoying the money. It was an odd thought for a man seconds away from his execution.

The gunman pressed the cold barrel of the gun to Booth’s forehead and pulled the trigger. In the distance, sea gulls, startled by a loud and unfamiliar sound, took to the air.

“So your journey was useful?” Mahli asked as he took another small bite of roasted goat and watched his brother, Mukatu, devour yet another portion of his meal, leaving spots of grease on his chin and cheeks, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

“I found out what you wanted to know, but I could’ve stayed here and told you the same thing.”

“Firsthand information is the best information,” Mahli replied. He wondered how he and his brother could be so different. Both had had the same opportunities for education, far more than 99 percent of their countrymen could hope for. Both had taken degrees from a college in London, Mahli with honors and Mukatu with barely passing grades. Both had returned to help manage the banana export business that their father and grandfather had built, with Mahli working in the office and Mukatu with the men on the docks. Mahli liked to read; Mukatu liked to eat. Yet different as
they were, they shared some traits in common: Both men were ambitious, loved wealth, hungered for power, and could kill without a second thought. But even in that there was a difference—Mahli killed to further his purpose; his brother Mukatu killed because he enjoyed it so much.

“It’s like you said,” Mukatu said, his words muffled by a wad of food. “Ethiopia is now worse than we are. The people there are weak with hunger and frustration. They die by the hundreds.” This last comment was made as he stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth. Swallowing hard, Mukatu continued. “The civil division is still strong, but there are fewer people who can fight. They are ripe for the picking.”

“Good,” Mahli said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Very good. You have done well, my brother. It is time we help our brother Africans in Ethiopia. Tomorrow I want you to have some of the men begin loading supplies to be taken there. Be sure that the boxes and medical supplies bear the right mark, the mark of our clan. I want them to know that this food comes from us.”

“What about our people?”

“Send some of the trucks to the relief centers along the way, but only those that might see our convoy pass. They will think that we are taking food to other centers. You already have teams ready to do this?”

“Yes, we’ve been ready for weeks.”

“Good. Begin passing the rumor too. Tell people that the UN and American food may be poison. Tell them it is the American’s way of taking revenge for their defeat at the hands of loyal Somalis in 1994.”

“Will they believe that?” Mukatu asked as he began wiping bits of food from his face with his hands.

“A starving man will believe anything as long as he can swallow it with fresh food.” Mahli got up from the table and walked over to his brother and put his hand on his shoulder. “I have one other task for you. It involves more travel.” Mukatu groaned and started to
object. “It is necessary. Who knows, you might even get to kill someone.”

Mukatu turned to face his brother. Both men smiled and then laughed.

In Marka, Mukatu began a hurried inspection of the convoy of trucks in one of the dozens of warehouses that housed food and medicine commandeered over the months. Some of the food had spoiled, but the grain and dried goods were still intact. There was some damage and loss due to rats, but the supply of food that remained usable was more than enough for present purposes.

Under a waning moon the trucks began to leave the warehouse and make their way toward the bordering nation of Ethiopia, as did others like them up and down the coast of Somalia. It would take most of the night for the trucks to travel the deteriorating roads, but by tomorrow’s end they would be dropping bags of grain, boxes of medicine, and rehydration kits to various relief centers operated by independent groups. Mahli had insisted that the UN and Barringston Relief camps be avoided, the first because he wanted to distance himself and his plan from Western intervention, and the latter because the Barringston group would be leery of his efforts, especially in light of the recent double murder and theft in the Somali camp for which his brother was responsible. He knew the Barringston group had made formal complaints to both the UN and to the provisional Somali government.

The protests would do them no good, but still he must be cautious. His plan was in full swing, and details must be attended. Oversights could bring hindrances and inconveniences, maybe even defeat, though that was not likely. Mukatu respected his brother’s intelligence even if he didn’t always agree with his decisions. He was sure of one thing, Mahli was going to be the most powerful man in Africa, and he, Mukatu, would stand as his second. He could live with that.

As the sun rose high in the Ethiopian sky, Mukatu’s truck caravan arrived at a small village near Mustahil, and Mukatu knew that other caravans would be arriving soon in Domo, Dolo, and other villages. As the trucks arrived, the food and supplies were freely distributed to villagers and relief camp residents, and so was the brothers’ propaganda. The irony was not wasted on Mukatu. In 1974 Ethiopia and Somalia went to war over the long disputed Ogaden desert region. Now two decades later, he led a caravan of hope to both Somalis and Ethiopians.
This is one way to unite Africans
, Mukatu thought.
Make them owe you their lives
.

Of course, there had to be more to the plan than providing food. People could easily forget their saviors with proper motivation, as his own country demonstrated when many Somali nationals, pressed on by powerful clan leaders, attacked UN peacekeeping troops. Rock throwing and armed attacks led to injury and death for the Pakistani, French, and American workers. The corpses of foreign soldiers had been dragged through the streets. The difference, Mukatu supposed, was that the UN genuinely desired to help. Mahli and his followers wished only for control, and he would have it.

Famine was not new to East Africa. Somalia, Ethiopia, Sudan, and other sub-Saharan countries had experienced drought, civil unrest, and crop failures many times over the previous decades. Repetition dulls the mind, and perhaps that was the reason why the Western world had grown insensitive to the plight of East Africa.

No matter
, Mukatu thought.
We don’t want the interference that comes with the rich nations. We can help ourselves
. By
ourselves
he meant himself. It was famine’s repeated returns that had taken Mukatu’s soul. He no longer was shocked or grieved to see the decomposing bodies of people who had lost the battle to survive. Their presence along the road moved him no more than seeing a dead animal that had been struck by a vehicle. Nor did the bloated bellies of starving children, the open wounds of women, and the vacant, empty eyes of the men touch him. He was too far removed to
notice the human agony or to feel the injustice of premature death. He had seen it before; he would see it again.

Wherever there were groups of people, the trucks stopped and distributed food. Those people who were well enough to help did so; those whose minds were not too fogged from malnutrition gave thanks to Allah and his servants. At each stop they gave more than food; they gave a warning: “Eat only African food. The American food is spoiled and poisoned. They want to rid the world of our kind.” They also made sure that as many as could understand knew that the food was being provided by the African Unity Party. None had ever heard of the organization, but it didn’t matter, they were giving them another day to live and that was appreciated.

The trucks that lumbered through the Ogaden could not alleviate the famine. The effort they made was purely show, but word would spread. Food was given to both Somalis living in the Ethiopian region and Ethiopians themselves. Each person greeted them with open arms and readily ate the food provided. Under Mahli’s orders, the trucks avoided highly populated areas to avoid riots and injury. Such events, which they were undermanned to prevent, would injure their image and set back their cause. Mukatu knew that his brother would not overlook such details, not after half a lifetime of planning.

THE SMALL BEDROOM COMMUNITY OF EL CAJON was known in San Diego County for many things: its summer heat, its crowded streets, and the sea breezes that blew the smog into the surrounding box canyon, where it settled on residents like a thick brown blanket. This was especially true in the summer months, and David, who seemed more susceptible to smog than most, was feeling a slight pain in his chest with each breath. This made him all the more happy to be in his air-conditioned home. His simple three-bedroom, bungalow-style house sported the typical California stucco and decor. The home was far from fancy and would never appear in any magazines that displayed finely crafted and expensive houses surrounded by meticulously manicured lawns. David’s lawn, he noticed with chagrin, was entirely too tall and filled with dandelions. He would have to mow the yard before he left for Africa, and he wondered who would take care of the house while he was gone.