The Aden Effect (23 page)

“Gunny.” Golzari acknowledged the grizzled Marine who had just entered the office. He looked back at his computer just in time to watch the screen go blank. The realization that he hadn't saved the report came shortly afterward. “Shit!” He pounded the CPU tower with his fist. “What else can go wrong today?”

The Marine shook his head to signify his disagreement. “Things went right today, sir. You caught an attack before it started and you x-ringed the two drivers before their explosives were able to do serious damage—except, of course, to that store.”

“I want that son-of-a-bitch, Gunny.”

“Are we talking about the terrorist that got away or your friend the Navy commander?” he joked.

“Priorities, Gunny. I get one, then I get the other. Where the hell is he anyway?”

“You didn't see the email from the ambassador?” Gunny realized his mistake as he looked at the stricken computer. “ . . . well, it's in there somewhere. The commander was riding on one of the oil platform supply ships last night— actually he was on the escort ship.”

“The merc ship?”

“They like to think of themselves as private security specialists, sir.”

“Ever known one who wasn't a merc?”

“I think these people may be the exception, sir. They seem different from the mercs I saw in Iraq. Mr. Maddox doesn't hire them out to the government
like the PSCs in Iraq do. They just protect his ships and assets. That's how Commander Stark set it up for him.”

Golzari sat up straighter in his chair. “Stark set it up?”

“Yes, sir. When I first got here Connor Stark was a civilian with a big, bushy beard.”

Golzari's mind brought up an image from the RAF Lakenheath airfield lounge. One of the first things he had noticed about Stark was the lighter area of his tanned face where a beard would have been.

“The gouge I got was that Stark and Maddox are old college buddies. When Maddox got permission to explore the oil fields and the pirates started hitting them, Stark acquired the first security ship and trained its crew. Did pretty well on the water, from what one of the other security guys told me. He even stopped an attack on a Yemeni cargo dhow. The Yemeni government formally commended him for that one.”

“That seems a bit excessive.”

“Not when the captain of the dhow is related to the ruling family.”

Golzari was trying to process the information Gunny was handing out. Maybe Stark wasn't a complete idiot. “Swell. So Stark's a merc himself. I wonder why they brought him back on active duty. Any gouge on that?”

“No sir. As far as I know he was through with that kind of work, so it must be something big for him to be brought back, especially in uniform.”

Shaking his head, Golzari gave up. “What did I miss in the email, Gunny?”

“Commander Stark was on the escort ship when pirates attacked it midway to the Socotra oil platforms. The ship was sunk and twelve of the eighteen onboard were killed. He survived.”

“Jesus. I'm surprised the media hasn't picked this up.”

“There is no media here, sir. The government keeps a pretty tight lid on what gets out.”

“What else did the email say?”

“Five of the survivors are en route to Djibouti for medical attention. Commander Stark is flying up here on one of their helos. We were advised to prepare the landing pad for them. ETA is,” he looked at his watch, “about twenty minutes. Actually, I better get up there in case they get here early.”

Golzari leaned back to do some thinking as the Marine turned to go. “Thanks for the decent tea, Gunny,” he called after him.

“Anytime, sir. My people really appreciated what you did out there.”

Golzari's computer flashed suddenly back to life, and he started to retype his report. But he kept losing his focus. Stark was once again being an inconvenience. Instead of looking for more information on Asha, Golzari felt compelled to find out more about the growing enigma that was Connor Stark. Within minutes of logging in he had all the information on Stark that the Department of Defense personnel system had to offer. That consisted entirely of Stark's commissioning date and the date he left the service—not left, was discharged. It was neither a standard honorable discharge nor a dishonorable discharge. What the hell was a “general discharge”? The final line added a bit more information: “Court-martialed. Subsequent general discharge.” When Golzari tried to access Stark's court-martial proceedings through the Judge Advocate General's computer system, all he got was a response that said “proceedings closed and sealed by order of the court.”

Fascinating
. For some reason Golzari's thoughts drifted to the fall of Rome. When the Roman Empire became too rich and too bloated for Romans to defend, Rome contracted out its security and warfare to border tribes. That cost the empire dearly. Visigoth leaders such as Alaric served under Roman commanders and then turned on their masters. Golzari liked to think of himself as representing the modern Praetorian Guard designed to protect the emperor and government. That would make the mercenary Stark the new form of Visigoth. Alaric was the first barbarian to sack Rome, in AD 410, but he was not the last. The empire whose borders shrank as Roman beltlines expanded lasted another six decades. Was the United States another Rome, doomed to suffer a similar fate? Would Washington be sacked from without or from within? Would barbarians like Stark lead the way? Mercenaries were, after all, loyal only to their current employers.

He chided himself for letting his thoughts wander again and redirected them to their proper course. Abdi Mohammed Asha was no longer simply a name. He was the tie to khat in Antioch, had probably murdered Dunner's son and Officer Hertz, and, of course, had attacked Robert. And now he was right here in Yemen and had been in the company of two men who were planning to kill the U.S. ambassador. That deserved Golzari's complete and undistracted attention, and yet he was wasting time thinking about Stark.
Damn that Stark
, he thought. And then,
Speak of the devil
. Above the sound of the embassy's stuttering and unreliable air conditioner he heard the faint but growing sounds of a helicopter. The mercenary Commander Stark was back.

Asha pulled out a wad of khat, pushed it inside his mouth, and leaned on the railing of the balcony overlooking the harbor. No one had followed him here from Sana'a; of this, he was sure.

“He called you by name?” asked Ahmed al-Ghaydah.

“Yes, yes. He said ‘Abdi Mohammed.' He knows my real name.”

“How would he know it?”

“From Dunner's son. In America. It must have been from him. When he came back from Boston with the khat, the boy asked me who Abdi Mohammed Asha was.”

“But where did he learn your name?”

“I don't know. Perhaps he overheard it on the ship when he picked up the trunk of khat. It's possible.”

“Oh, no,” Ahmed said.

“What? What is it?”

“I was the one who had the trunk put on the
Mukalla Hassan
to be delivered to you.”

“What of it?”

“Faisal's ship had captured a supertanker.”

“So?”

“He killed the captain and crew. He sent back the captain's gold watch with Saddiq and told me to send it to you with the next shipment. I put it in an envelope with your name on it and put it on top of the khat bags in the trunk.”

“You stupid
faq'haa
!” Asha leapt at Ahmed and grabbed his throat, nearly pushing him off the balcony before he threw the boy back inside the room.

“Stupid child,” he yelled at him, kicking him in the abdomen and groin as Ahmed vainly tried to protect himself from the blows.

“You can't treat me this way!” Ahmed shrieked as he tried to crawl away from the Somali's attack. “My father—”

“
Us kut! Nikkabuk
!” Asha swore. “You wrote my name on an envelope? For anyone to see?”

“Stop, Abdi, I beg you. I didn't think anyone would see it but you.”

“I never received a watch or the envelope, you idiot. There was nothing in the trunk but khat.”

“But . . . but . . . I sealed the trunk with my own hands. It must have been inside the trunk when you got it.”

“The trunk was not sealed, you fool. The Dunner boy opened it before he delivered it to me at the waterfall so that he could take some khat for himself.”

“Then, the envelope and the watch . . .”

“Clearly he took the envelope as well, fool.” Asha kicked Ahmed again and began to pace the room like an enraged lion. “I searched his car after I killed him. I would have found an envelope. There was nothing. That means he stopped somewhere before he delivered the khat.”

“Where?”

“Probably his room at the college. There was nothing else in the envelope?”

“No. Only the watch. I put it in there myself.”

“Don't remind me, stupid child. The boy saw the envelope. He read my name. And then he left the envelope where someone else found it. The envelope with my name on it. Idiot! And what of the watch? Was there something special about the watch?

“It was gold. What else would you have me say?”

Asha kicked him again and Ahmed al-Ghaydah recoiled.

“There was also writing on the back of the watch. I couldn't read it. It wasn't Arabic or English.”

“What language? Think!”

“It was like the lettering on my Russian pistol.”

“What was the name of the ship Faisal captured?”

“
Katya P
.”

“A Russian name. The ship was owned by Russians?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps the writing on the watch tied the captain to the ship. And the ship would have made news. That was why the Dunner boy seemed frightened when he asked me who Abdi Mohammed Asha was—he connected that name with the pirated ship.”

“But Abdi, the boy is dead. What does it matter?”

“Shut up! I met the police officer and the federal agent outside the college. They must have found the watch and the envelope in the boy's room. That is why the officer asked me about Abdi Mohammed Asha also. Get up, Ahmed. I am done beating you—for now.”

Ahmed scurried to the bathroom to clean the khat juice from his face and clothing.

So the federal agent was not killed by the train in London and is now in Sana'a
, Asha thought.
If he is following the khat shipment, then his next stop will be here in Mukalla. I will be ready for him
.

The walls of Ambassador Sumner's office trembled and the portraits, diplomas, and photos with politicians came dangerously close to falling from their hooks as the Navy helicopter landed on the roof. C. J. peered out the window and saw the hovering helicopter's shadow on the compound below.

She's overcome her fear of exposure
, Golzari thought.
Or is it that something—or someone—makes her forget that?
Golzari had found the American businessman Bill Maddox already present in C. J.'s office when he answered her summons. They shared a seat on her sofa. Golzari sat straight, his face impassive.

“Bill, do you still fly your own helicopter?” C. J. asked without turning from the window, trying to make conversation.

“No. I don't have time anymore.” He leaned forward at the sound of a light knock at the office door.

The ambassador's secretary opened the door, and Connor Stark walked in wearing a Navy shipboard blue coverall uniform. He looked older than he had just two days before, the lines in his face deeper.

Stark went straight up to Maddox. “Bill, I'm sorry. We lost twelve people in the fight. The pirates have the other two ships.”

“Jaime?”

“Being treated in a French military hospital in Djibouti. Her injuries were serious, but the corpsman on the ship thought she'll be fine.”

Maddox nodded at that bit of good news. “They released one of the supply ships a few hours ago—the
Mukalla Ismael
. What the hell happened?”

They released the other ship so quickly?
Golzari thought.

Stark recounted the story—the prelude to the attack, the tactics of the assault itself, and the aftermath, including the heroism of the four remaining crewmembers and their captain, and the sight of the two captured ships steaming off into the distance. When he was finished he asked the ambassador for permission to sit.

“C. J. . . . Madam Ambassador,” Maddox corrected himself, remembering that the DSS agent was in the office with them, “oil prospecting off Socotra is
no longer a viable practice for my firm. Without U.S. forces to protect my people, I relied on my own security measures. They failed. I knew the people who were lost last night. I'm the one who has to make the calls to their families. And those will be the last calls I'm going to make because I'm pulling all of my people out of here—off the escort ships, off Socotra, off the platforms.”