Terminal Justice Read online

  “It’s my job to protect you from both outsiders and insiders.”

  “And you’re doing a tremendous job. I couldn’t feel more secure,” A.J. replied lightly.

  “You’re not always easy to protect. You leave without telling me where you’re going, and you’re too trusting.”

  “When have I left without informing you?” A.J. asked feigning hurt feelings.

  “August 17 you went jogging in the early morning hours and were attacked. An eyewitness told a newspaper reporter that a tall man with a ponytail beat up three gang members and then continued jogging as if nothing happened. That sounds a lot like you.”

  “All right,” A.J. said, throwing up his hands, “you got me. I’m guilty as charged. I was upset and couldn’t sleep that night. But you have to admit, I don’t do it often.”

  “A.J.,” Sheila said rising from the bed, “you are the most lovable and loving man in the world, but that affects your judgment. That’s why I’m here. I’m a skeptic and a pessimist. I trust no one but myself and you. It’s my job to help balance your optimism and enthusiasm and to keep you safe. But you have to take the things I say seriously.”

  The conversation fell silent, and then A.J. took Sheila into his arms and said, “I do take you seriously. I need you, not just for protection and balance, but I need you because of who you are. Knowing you’re close by means more to me than words can express. Don’t be angry with me.” A.J. held her close and tight. A moment later, Sheila returned the embrace.

  14

  “YOU WATCH FOR A WHILE,” ROGER SAID AS HE rolled over on his back, extended his legs and pointed his toes, stretching until every muscle in his neck, back, and legs was taut. He held the position for ten seconds then relaxed. He sat up and moved his head in easy circles, working out the kinks in his neck. “The roof of this warehouse may be the ideal surveillance spot, but it sure is uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t think it was designed for humans,” Aden said seriously. “Personally, I’d rather be in my bed at home instead of watching for a man who may or may not be in the building across the street.”

  “He’s there,” Roger said resolutely, “and if he’s not, he will be.” He rolled over on his belly again and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Slowly he scanned each window as he had done a hundred times before, but he saw nothing. “We know he has offices in the basement. At least that’s what your informant said.”

  “Maybe he was lying,” Aden said as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You were pretty rough on him. He may have been lying to save his own skin.”

  Roger shook his head. “I believe him. There are too many guards posted around here. I’m surprised there’s not one on this roof. They’re either careless or comfortable.”

  “But we haven’t seen him in days,” Aden replied tiredly. “Perhaps he went back to Mogadishu.”

  “Maybe. I suppose it’s possible that he has an underground entrance to the place. He’ll make a mistake, and when he does I’ll be there to … wait a minute.” Aden brought his own pair of binoculars up. “The front door, someone’s coming out. Is that … him?”

  Aden studied the dark figure closely before he answered. “Close. It’s his brother, Mukatu.”

  “Judging by the bag he’s carrying, it looks like he’s planning on going somewhere.” Roger watched as a blue Jeep Cherokee pulled up in front of the warehouse. “Are he and his brother close?”

  “Yes. Both are sadistic, but Mukatu is more so.”

  “I wonder …,” Roger said, his voice trailing off as he watched the car pull away. “Come on,” he snapped as he got to his feet while remaining in a crouch. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where? But what about Mahli—”

  “Come on! I don’t want to lose him.” The two men moved quickly along the roof to the back of the building where a rope ladder had been neatly coiled. After a quick glance over the low parapet to be sure no one was in the alley below, Roger threw the ladder over the side. Without hesitancy, he sat on the parapet and swung his legs around so that they dangled over the alley. In an easy fluid motion, Roger was on the ladder and racing toward the ground. A moment later Aden, who was more accustomed to discussing matters over a table than to scaling the sides of buildings, fumbled awkwardly as he searched for the first rung of the rope ladder. Finding it, he eased himself over the side and cautiously climbed down the ladder. “Couldn’t you take a little bit longer?” Roger said sarcastically. “Now we might actually catch up to him.”

  “Look,” Aden snapped, “you’re the former army ranger; I’m the misplaced teacher, remember?”

  Roger ignored the comment as he reached for nylon ropes that hung on each side of the ladder. With a firm pull on each cord, the knots that secured the ladder to vent pipes on the roof slipped their grasp and the ladder fell to the ground, folding in on itself. Roger grabbed it and began to run down the alley with Aden close behind. They wove their way through the small maze of passageways formed by the various buildings and warehouses. Three minutes later they stopped at the side of an old Peugeot sedan.

  “I’ll drive,” Roger said bluntly.

  “Won’t they see us following them?” Aden asked apprehensively.

  “Not if I can help it,” Roger replied. The vehicle pulled away from its resting place. Roger turned the lights on and drove slowly through the back streets until he was sure he was at least a half-mile from Mahli’s building. Then, as he steered onto the main street to follow Mukatu’s car he switched off the lights and pressed the accelerator. The little car’s engine responded accordingly, and soon Roger and Aden were bouncing down the rough road in pursuit.

  “Isn’t it a little dangerous to be driving without lights?” Aden asked as he attempted to catch his breath after their little jog.

  “It’s a lot less dangerous than driving with them on,” Roger replied easily. He, unlike Aden, was not winded by the run to the car. “Unless you want to meet Mukatu face to face.”

  “No thanks. He’s a piranha. I have no desire to meet him.”

  “That’s odd, I think I would enjoy meeting him—alone and in a locked room.”

  Aden looked puzzled. “I thought you were after Mahli, not his brother.”

  “I’m after all of their kind.”

  “Kind?”

  “Guys like that have kept your country in poverty and forced children to die on the streets. They kill people who come to help. They are the worst kind of human being. They are cancers, and the best thing that could happen to your country is to have those cancers removed.” Roger spat his words with vehemence. “I want Mahli, and I’ll get him. I may have to go through his brother first. Consider it a bonus.”

  Within five minutes they spotted the red taillights of Mukatu’s car. Roger slowed to follow at a discreet distance, unnoticed by the vehicle in front of them. The disjointed two-car caravan traveled north toward Mogadishu but soon turned off onto a side road. Roger let his Peugeot fall even farther back so that the taillights ahead of them were barely discernible.

  “How far from Mogadishu do you think we are?” Roger asked.

  “Not far,” Aden replied, “maybe thirty kilometers.”

  “Any idea where he’s going?”

  Aden thought for a moment. “There are some large oceanfront homes nearby. Some business owners and government officials live there. Maybe that’s where he’s headed.”

  “Follow them with your binoculars,” Roger ordered. “I want to know how many people are in the car with him.” Aden brought the glasses up to his eyes and struggled to keep the Jeep in sight, a task made difficult by the bouncing of the car. “See anything?”

  “It’s hard to see much in the dark and at this distance, but it looks like there are four occupants,” Aden said as the car hit a pothole with a jarring impact. “That doesn’t make it any easier,” he snapped. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “You want me to pull over and let you out?” Roger quipped.

  “No thank yo
u. I’ll see it through, although I don’t know why.”

  “You know why,” Roger said firmly. “You’re involved because you are a man of principles and because you believe that people in your country have a right to live without fear from guys like Mahli and Mukatu. Besides, Barringston Relief has been good to you. You have food, money, and a place to stay. That’s better than 90 percent of your people. You don’t want to give that up, do you?”

  Aden ignored the remark and kept his binoculars on the Jeep Cherokee. “They’re slowing,” he said loudly.

  “Don’t shout! I’m in the same car as you.”

  “Sorry. They’re pulling off the road. We had better slow down.” Rather than step on the brake, which would activate the brake lights and increase the possibility of being noticed, Roger dropped into a lower gear. The car slowed immediately with a lurch. Ahead they could see the taillights of the Jeep glow brighter as the driver stepped on the brakes. The car was slowing and turning. Roger dropped to the lowest gear and let the car coast to a near stop. He then pulled up on the parking-brake handle until the car ceased moving.

  “Looks like they’re done for the night,” Roger said quietly.

  “What do we do now?”

  Roger looked around. In the dim, moonlit night he could see the ocean to the east and a set of small rolling hills to the west. “We’ll hide in those hills. Maybe Mahli is here, too, and if so, then we can take our next step.”

  “And just what is our next step?” Aden asked seriously.

  Roger looked at the man for a few seconds. “I don’t know yet. But I will.”

  Seated at the small desk in his hotel room, A.J. listened patiently to the ringing that was coming over the handset of his phone. Three rings later the Barringston Relief automated voice mail answered. A.J. punched three-two-two-three. A moment later a voice made tinny by the overseas satellite link answered.

  “Yes?” The voice was slow and groggy.

  “Good morning, Eileen,” A.J. said cheerfully. “You sound positively radiant.”

  “I don’t radiate until after noon,” she said gloomily. “I hate mornings. What time is it?”

  “It’s nearly midnight, which means that it’s almost eleven in the morning there, so wake up. The morning’s almost gone.”

  “It’s still before noon, and I didn’t go to bed until six this morning.”

  “Been busy, I take it?” A.J. said with a chortle.

  “Enough to keep me off the streets.”

  “Let me get to the point, so that you can have breakfast or lunch or whatever. Have you heard from Roger?”

  “Last night. Is your phone working okay?” Eileen asked. It was a code to determine the security of the line.

  “I have the encoder on,” A.J. said as he looked at the small black plastic device that had been designed to look like a CD player. “I assume your outgoing line is secured.”

  “I turned it on last night. I had a feeling you’d be calling,” Eileen said nonchalantly. “Anyway, Roger made his usual contact through the satellite, but this time he had news. First, the bad news. He hasn’t seen our man yet, but—and here’s the good news—he has found a new location. The old one is still a valid place to watch, but the new place may be even better. Roger was maintaining surveillance on the warehouse when he saw Mahli’s brother leaving. Apparently, he travels more than Mahli.”

  “Probably to protect him. Where did he go?”

  “A seaside villa between Marka and Mogadishu. It’s heavily guarded, so sneaking in is out of the question, but Roger feels that Mahli is either there or will arrive there over the next few days. He has set up a surveillance spot with Aden. He feels secure, but he’s complaining about the heat. There’s nothing to do but wait. How are you doing?”

  “We’re all okay. Anything else I need to know?”

  Eileen didn’t answer at first.

  “What is it, Eileen?”

  An audible sigh preceded Eileen’s words. “The president of the Americas Bank was found dead a few days ago. He had been shot in the head. A story ran in the New York Times and on the AP service.”

  A.J. felt his heart race and his stomach turn. “Do you think it had anything to do with the … the money transfer?”

  “Yes, but don’t take this too hard. It’s not your fault. It’s his for being involved with terrorist groups. He knew that he was dancing with the devil.”

  A.J. said nothing for a long time.

  “You still there, A.J.?” Eileen’s voice was laced with concern.

  “Did he have family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they well off?”

  “I suppose so, he was the president of the bank, and we know that he skimmed money.”

  “Check it out,” A.J. said sharply. “His family shouldn’t have to pay the price for his sin or ours. Also tell Roger to keep it up, but to use his best judgment. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Will do. Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine, thanks.” A.J. hung up the phone, disconnected the electronic scrambler, and returned it to its compartment in his luggage bag. His mind raced with the image of a man with a bullet in his brain. It was true that Ian Booth was far from an ethical man, but he was neither violent nor vindictive. He didn’t deserve to die at the hands of terrorists. A.J. felt remorse and guilt. It wasn’t the first time that he had ordered the appropriation of someone else’s funds to finance Barringston’s work around the world. But he had always been careful to steal only from those who were outside the reach of the law, from those who made the world more violent and dangerous. He had no qualms about electronically stealing funds from the Mafia, terrorist groups, and oppressive dictators, but only if he was sure that the ramifications would never affect the innocent. Booth’s death was a failure, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Life was neither simple nor predictable. He himself was a complex stew of intellect, desire, motivation, and emotion. He felt no remorse when the evil leeches of the world died, even if they died at his bidding. There were men who deserved death and for whom A.J. wouldn’t waste a second thought. There were people like Mahli and Mukatu who killed the brave and noble Dr. Rhodes in the middle of the work to which she had so unselfishly dedicated herself. Adding insult to that act was the sinking of the Sea Maid. Mahli and men like him deserved to be planted in the ground where they belonged—their dead bodies fertilizing the earth. But the innocent were another matter. They deserved life, a reasonable life that A.J. struggled to provide. Now, because of his decision, a family mourned a lost loved one, a father, a husband, a brother, a son. It was not for Booth that he mourned, but for his family.

  This knowledge caused A.J.’s adrenaline to kick in. Sleep was out of the question. He paced back and forth between his bed and the small desk at which he had been sitting. He had been pent-up too long. He missed the physical release of jogging, racquetball, and working out. It was the inability to exercise as he wished that bothered him most about traveling in difficult lands.

  Stripping his shirt off, A.J. lowered himself to the floor and began doing push-ups, lowering and raising himself time after time in a slow steady rhythm. At first his muscles protested the strain, but soon they were loose, and he was feeling the exhilaration of his power. With each push-up, he withdrew further and further into himself. His eyes were fixed on a tiny spot on the dirty green carpet between his hands. Soon he saw nothing but that spot, heard nothing but the beating of his heart, and felt nothing but the stretching of his muscles. One push-up was followed by another. He didn’t count. The number of push-ups didn’t matter, only the mind-numbing work, only the searing muscular heat to be conquered. This would clear his mind. This would ease his tension. This would allow him to face one more day and to do those things that no one else in the world was willing to do.

  The late afternoon sun reflected off the tinted, double-pane windows of Mahli’s seaside manor, leaving the interior protected from the unrelenting and stagnant Augu
st heat, a heat the locals called tangambili, a Somali word that meant “two sails.” It is said that during the hot months a boatman needed two sails to catch enough breeze to move forward. Mahli stood by the window gazing introspectively out at the rolling surf. Behind him, seated at a large dining-room table, was his brother, Mukatu, who unlike Mahli was still eating. Before him was spread an array of fruits, lamb, and sweet bread.

  “What do you see out that window, brother?” Mukatu asked, his mouth full of meat.

  Mahli turned for a moment and regarded his brother. They were as close as any brothers had ever been, but they were so different. Mukatu lived for the moment, for the present enjoyment or thrill, but Mahli lived for what the future held—the future he would help mold.

  “I see the past and the future.”

  “You see all that in the waves? You are a wise man.”

  “I was thinking about our country’s past,” Mahli said, returning his attention to the rolling, blue Indian Ocean. “The ancient Egyptians call this the Land of Punt, and they sailed here in their ancient vessels and returned home with incense and myrrh to use in their temples. Then came the Phoenician traders, followed by the Greeks and Romans. Then Arabs and Persians joined the parade. The Arabs took our resources for their homes and gave us Islam for our souls. The Portuguese came and conquered until they gave way to the Italians who built the triumphal arches, but they too left in defeat. Then the British arrived, but they left three decades ago. Somalia always comes back to Somalis. Allah gave us this land, barren as it is, and no matter who takes it, it returns to us.”

  “You are indeed a philosopher, my dear brother,” Mukatu said as he reached across the table and took a large pinch of leaves from a bowl and placed them in his mouth. “There is no doubt that Allah gave you the brains of our clan. Care for some kat?”