Terminal Justice (20 page)

“You’re the expert in terrorist groups,” Woody said. “Do you know any group that would be interested in a thoroughly beat-up country?”

“Some might be interested. Several groups might make some use of the direct sea access to Egypt or Jordan, but there are better ways and more friendly countries to set up a base of operations. Drug cartels don’t seem too likely.”

“What are the odds of my seeing those pictures?” Woody asked.

“That’s not up to me, but I will check on it,” Stephanie replied. “Why do you want to see them?”

“I’m not sure really. It may be a wasted effort, but sometimes clues come unexpectedly. It might help me get into the mind of our thief.” Woody paused before he asked the next question. “Have you folks considered that you have a mole?”

“An agent selling information?” Stephanie said. “Why is that everyone’s first thought? Most of the people who work for us are unselfish. I can assure you that the CIA is not filled with double agents like the media would have everyone believe.”

Woody raised both hands in an act of surrender. “I’m not impugning you or the CIA, but we both know that organizations like ours have their share of people who can be manipulated, threatened, or just plain bought. You had Aldrich Ames who spied for Moscow for almost a decade. The man made $69,000 a year, yet he paid $540,000 cash for a house. He even had a suspicious lie-detector test. The British discovered too late that Harold Philby was working for the Russians. The Pentagon, the navy, every major institution has had those in its ranks who sold out. And we at the FBI are not exempt. This is not a personal thing. The easiest way to get into a computer system is by buying the code. That’s not the only way, but it is the easiest way, and we can’t overlook it.”

“You’re right,” Stephanie said. “We are looking into that possibility, but we think it’s unlikely.”

“You’re probably right, but if we are going to catch the person who’s helping themselves to your files, then we can’t leave a stone unturned. Listen, go back to your office and see if you can get copies of those pictures. In the meantime, I’ll keep this list of relief agencies working in Somalia and see what I can find out. What say we meet again tomorrow afternoon?”

“Agreed, but this time we meet at Langley. No more coin flips.”

“All right,” Woody said with a broad grin. “Fair is fair. I’ll see you then.”

“WELCOME TO ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA,” A.J. SAID AS their plane taxied toward the terminal of the Bole International Airport. “You are now in one of the oldest independent countries in the world, at least two thousand years old. I hope everyone is dutifully impressed.”

“I didn’t know it was so mountainous,” David said with surprise.

“Good coffee-growing altitude,” A.J. replied, and then speaking to the whole travel party he said, “Just a reminder to everyone: Our elevation is pretty high, so if you feel dizzy or have trouble breathing, be sure to tell someone right away. Don’t overexert yourself for a few days. As your briefing papers told you, this is the rainy season, but the drought has cut into that. Still, we may see a few short rainstorms while we’re here. Also, and I know I don’t need to say this, but let me say it anyway: Don’t travel alone or into any of the outlying regions. This country is still unstable, and even with its new government there is still tribal violence. Democracy has not eased the age-old tensions between the Afar, Tigrean, Oromos, and others. Things are better, but I would be more comfortable knowing that everyone was hanging around the hotel.”

“What do we do now?” David asked.

“Leonard and I have to say good-bye,” Gerald Raines interjected. “Someone from the Child Touch orphanage is picking us up. It’s been great traveling with you. We appreciate the lift, A.J.”

“My pleasure, gentlemen,” A.J. replied. “Be careful out there.”

“We will,” Wu answered. The two men shook hands with the other travelers, gathered their luggage from the rear of aircraft, and quickly deplaned.

“Sheila has made arrangements for transportation to the hotel,” A.J. said. “The National Tourist Office has provided cabs that will take us directly there. We’ll rest while I make contact with the U.S. Embassy and our field teams. Now if everyone will find their Ethiopian visas we’ll be on our way. Oh, one last bit of advice: Don’t drink the water.” Several of the team chuckled. “I’m serious. Tap water here is not potable, so don’t drink it. Bottled water will be provided in your rooms. Now let’s enjoy the land of Ethiopia.”

The hotel was the best in Addis Ababa, but it still fell short of the five-star hotel they had occupied in Rome. The hotel was a metaphor for Ethiopia itself: grandeur and majesty, pockmarked with holes of poverty and conflict. The advice that A.J. had given on the plane was just what he had called it—a reminder. David, like each member of the crew, had been given a briefing book on each country they’d visit. The section on Ethiopia had contained all that A.J. had said and more. The country could be the poster child for world hunger. In the early nineties it had suffered one of the most devastating famines in contemporary history. David, tired from the travel and now suffering from jet lag, lay on the bed in his room, with the briefing book propped on his chest.

Ethiopia was a land filled with diversity. Its highlands accounted for almost half of all those found in Africa, yet it also had hot grasslands and the Great Rift Valley, which was still geologically active. He had been surprised to learn that 80 percent of the mighty Nile River’s water came from the vast mountainous area of the country, yet the land had been frequented by drought and famine. There had been four famines previous to the one Ethiopia was experiencing now: 1972–74, 1984–85, 1987; and 1989–90. More than two million Ethiopians died of starvation during those years. If A.J. and his researchers were right, the present famine could
match the total devastation of the other three periods combined. According to the briefing papers, Ethiopia was as varied in people as in geography. More than eighty languages could be heard within its borders.

There seemed to be an unfairness to it all, David thought. A country as ancient and as ethnically rich as Ethiopia should be the crown jewel of Africa. Unlike all other African countries, Ethiopia had never been a settlement of Europe. It had always stood on its own. But recent decades had forced it to accept help from other countries to keep its people alive. What both puzzled and infuriated him was that none of the loss of life need have occurred. Sufficient food supplies could be delivered to the country in short order. The country possessed an international airport and, until the recent breakaway of Eritrea in the north, had two ports on the Red Sea. But neither weather nor terrain prolonged the famines, caused the large numbers of displaced people to flee across borders, or killed the innocent. No, it had been men who did such things. Men who could not live with one another because they were of different tribes. Men who felt the need to force changes on people as did the former leader of Ethiopia, Mengistu Haile Mariam, the young military leader who founded the nation’s Communist Party and, with the help of the once Soviet Union, became the nation’s president. Fourteen years later he resigned in the face of force. During his years in office he attempted many plans that led to the deforestation of land and the forced resettlement of a half million nationals who had been pressed into new and unwanted villages.

David and millions of others had seen pictures from Ethiopia on their television sets. But the images always seemed too far away to be true. Now David lay on a bed in a hotel in the capital of that country, and soon he would stand in the filth of abject poverty. He wondered if he was up to it. With that last thought still floating in his mind and compelled by jet lag, he dozed off to sleep.

He awoke to a banging on his door. At first he felt groggy and displaced. His mind struggled to place him in his own bed in his
own home, but reason reminded him that home was thousands of miles away. The knocking on the door resumed and was accompanied by a muffled voice. “David, are you in there?”

“Yeah,” he shouted, rubbing his eyes. “Just a second.” Taking a few deep breaths to help wake him, David rose from the bed and went to the door.

“I thought you had died or something,” Kristen said. “I must have been knocking for five minutes.”

“I fell asleep,” David replied groggily. “I must have really been under.”

“It’s the altitude,” Kristen said with a grin. “People who aren’t used to it tend to get sleepy.”

“So that’s what was wrong with my congregation,” he said with a smile. “And I thought it was my sermons.” Kristen laughed. “But maybe it is similar after all,” David continued. “One has to do with thin air, and the other with hot air.”

“I came by,” she said, “to see if you wanted to go down to the restaurant with me and sample some native cuisine.”

“Does native cuisine include hamburger and fries?”

“I sure hope so,” she replied. “You’ll join me?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Across the eastern border of Ethiopia, past the dry Ogaden desert, in the Benadir region of Somalia lay the coastal city of Marka. The small city had been Roger’s home for eight hot days. He, along with Mohammed Aden, had been staying in a small hotel near the warehouse district of the port city. Actually, Aden had made arrangements for the room. Roger crept in the room that night and only left it under the cover of darkness. It was his intent to remain invisible. This was one of Mahli’s towns, and Mahli would have people on the lookout for the unusual—such as a white American.

“Find anything?” Roger asked Aden when the latter stepped into the hot hotel room.

“This is not easy, my friend,” Aden said exasperated. “I can ask
no questions of the people here for fear of alerting Mahli; I cannot simply walk up to the warehouse and peek in a window without being shot. And I am not trained for electronic surveillance.”

“I’ll take that as a no then,” Roger said bluntly.

“I have had no more luck during the day than you have had at night,” Aden replied. “But we know the information we received is right because of the number of guards and the weapons they carry. We are, at least, in the right place.”

“Most likely, we’re in one of the right places. Mahli probably has dozens of places like this scattered across Somalia. We just have to wait. Get some rest; we’ll be going out again tonight. Maybe tonight we will be lucky.”

Aden groaned.

The hotel restaurant served a fair dinner for a country in the midst of famine. The food was far from the well-prepared and tasty delights on which the hotel had once prided itself. Now it was content to serve sandwiches and thin soup—a meager meal in the West, a banquet for the rural people of Ethiopia and a half-dozen other nations in East Africa.

“Sorry there were no burgers,” Kristen said, “but I suppose we should still be thankful.”

“Amen to that,” David said. “Besides, the food is less important than the company.”

“Why thank you, Gentleman David. You are most kind.”

“I aims to please, ma’am,” David said jovially. “Does it seem like we’re in Africa to you? I find it all a little hard to believe.”