Terminal Justice Page 7

  It took just under five hours for the Cessna to cross the central desert region and approach the mountainous lands of the north. Wanting to make the best possible time to maintain the cover of darkness, Arteh crossed the Ogaden region of Ethiopia—a dangerous course. Roger felt fortunate that their trip went unchallenged by gunfire, something he attributed to Arteh’s insistence that they fly under cover of darkness.

  Now darkness was giving way to the rising August sun as it steadily scaled the sky over the Indian Ocean and cast long shadows from the mountains. Bohotleh Wein lay one thousand feet below them. Arteh circled the small and impoverished town looking for a place to land. Aden pointed out the pilot’s window and said something in Somali. Arteh grunted and banked the plane in the direction indicated by Aden, all the while descending with stomach-churning speed.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Arteh,” Roger said as he leaned back in his seat in a futile gesture to reduce the precipitous descent angle chosen by the bush pilot. “Who taught you to fly?”

  “I taught myself,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Why?”

  Roger looked at the rapidly approaching ground. “No reason, just curious.” He swallowed hard.

  At about two hundred feet, Arteh pulled back on the yoke and eased the creaking Cessna into an easy glide path. He had found what Aden had been pointing at: a small cluster of unpainted wood buildings about two miles from the heart of Bohotleh Wein that had a flat piece of ground that looked suitable for landing.

  “That looks pretty smooth,” Roger said, eager to be back on the ground.

  “Maybe,” replied Arteh.

  “Maybe?”

  “If there’re no holes, soft spots, rocks, or animals in the way, we’ll be fine.”

  “And if there is a hole, soft spot, rock, or animal, then what?” Roger asked. Arteh just shrugged and continued his descent.

  The plane touched down and bounced back into the air. Seconds later it touched down again, this time rebounding only a few feet. The next time the wheels made contact they rolled freely along the hard earth surface. Arteh quickly stepped on the brake pedals, slowing the craft to a suitable taxiing speed. Turning the plane around, he taxied back to the buildings and switched off the engine, which coughed harshly and ejected thick oily smoke.

  Roger took a deep breath and looked at the intrepid pilot. For the first time since meeting the enigmatic man he saw Arteh smile as he said, “Thanks for flying Air Somalia.”

  6

  “AH, THE DEDICATED WORKER.” DAVID LOOKED UP from the briefing he was reading and saw Kristen standing in the doorway to his office. “Hard at work, and you’ve only been here a week.”

  “It’s an old trick really,” David replied with a smile. “Simply spread out a few papers on the desk, rub your eyes until they’re red, move a little more slowly than normal, and everyone will think you’ve been burning the midnight oil.”

  “What? Trickery from a man of your caliber?” Kristen returned the grin. “Somehow I don’t think you’re faking it.”

  “See, it works,” David said. He was glad for the distraction. “Come in and have a seat.”

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” Her voice was sweet and melodious, yet filled with confidence. David watched as she stepped into the office and made her way to a chair opposite his desk.

  “Actually, I could use a break. How have you been?”

  “I’m well, thank you, but like you I’m buried in work,” she said looking at the papers strewn across his desk. “What are you working on?”

  “A.J. has asked that I prepare a speech for the Washington Press Club and one for a fund-raiser here in San Diego. They’re the first ones I’ll have written for him, and I want them to be right.”

  “The press club is an important speech,” Kristen said leaning back in her chair. “He speaks there about once a year. Sort of a standing engagement. He briefs the reporters and news executives on the hot spots of the world and hopes that it’ll inspire them to keep the issue before the public.”

  “I’ve read the last two speeches,” David said, pushing his chair back from the desk, “and that’s the approach he’s used each time. I think we can do better.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sure. These reporters are some of the best. They can get whatever information they want. They need more than an update on world conditions, and they certainly need more than a reminder of how bad things are. They write about danger, evil, and the worst that life can deliver. I think we need to punch their buttons another way.”

  Kristen stared at David for moment and then said, “I wrote those speeches.”

  David returned her gaze and wondered how clearly his embarrassment showed. “I didn’t mean to say the speeches were bad, I just meant …”

  “Don’t apologize,” Kristen said laughing. “I’m no speechwriter, and I know it. Press releases, I understand, but speechwriting is beyond me. If the truth be told, I hated writing those things. In fact, I’m the one who pushed for a professional writer. It seems I was right.”

  “I really wasn’t meaning to belittle your work; they are fine speeches.” David felt the warmth of embarrassment touch his cheeks. “I tend to get a little overenthusiastic about these things.”

  “That’s good. Enthusiasm is what we need. So what approach do you think the speech needs to take?”

  David shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. It needs a strong emotional angle that the audience won’t expect, but I don’t know what that is.”

  “I’m sure it will come to you.”

  “It will, and when it does, I’ll recognize it.”

  “How are you fitting in otherwise,” Kristen asked.

  “Fine. The hard part is the learning curve. I’ve been trying to get a feel for all the work that Barringston Relief does, but there’s so much of it I feel a little overwhelmed. The statistics alone are intimidating, as are all the different countries where the work goes on. I don’t know how you keep up.”

  “I’ve been at it longer. As time passes you’ll get a better grasp on it all.”

  “I hope so. I really want to do a good job.”

  “Well, you’ve impressed A.J.,” Kristen said, shifting her weight in the chair.

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Sure you have. You spoke the truth to him.”

  “Truth?”

  “He told me about his visit with you the other day. He said you were candid with him, and he appreciated that.”

  “That’s good. I was worried that I had offended him. Like I said, I tend to get excited about these things.”

  “You not only didn’t offend A.J., you dazzled him. He said you saw things he would never have noticed, but more importantly, you corrected him. A.J. likes that sort of thing. He hates yes-men who only tell him what they think he wants to hear. Shoot straight with him, and you’ll have a friend forever. He likes you, David, and thanked me for pushing for a speechwriter.”

  “That’s a relief. I like him too. I’ve never met anyone like him, so filled with passion and devotion to others. He seems to be quite a man.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Kristen replied. “Wait until you see him in action. You’ll have to run to keep up with him.” She paused for a moment and contemplated the red polish on her fingernails. David noticed that the nail polish matched her hair almost exactly. “He’s a hero, David. I hope you can help the world see that.”

  David said nothing but nodded his head. He watched Kristen closely. Was she in love with A.J. or simply an ardent admirer? In either case, she was right: A.J. Barringston was a hero, something the world needed.

  “Well,” she said, rising from the chair. “I just wanted you to know how pleased A.J. was with your meeting.”

  “I appreciate your coming by,” David said as he, too, rose from his chair.

  “You know,” Kristen stated, “you do look tired. How about a break? Do you like European coffee?”

  “Cappuccino, latt
e, that sort of thing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I love them. What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, since you’ve been thrown into the fray of things and haven’t been properly welcomed, I thought I’d take you out for a midafternoon coffee and maybe a sandwich.”

  David beamed. “I’m in.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you at the elevators in fifteen minutes, and we’ll go to Horton Plaza. I know a great coffee shop there.”

  “Fifteen minutes it is,” David replied, rounding the desk to walk her to the door.

  Roger strolled around the area where they had parked the Cessna. It seemed peaceful enough, making it hard to believe tens of thousands of Somalis had been killed or wounded in clan fighting, and most of those were innocent bystanders and children. Now as the sun slowly rose along its course, he could see the simple, austere but majestic landscape. In the distance he could hear the calls of animals. He knew that the land had everything from crocodiles to giraffes. It would be an interesting land to investigate; unfortunately this wasn’t a safe land, despite what the peaceful early morning might imply. The simple truth was that a few thousand people would die today, and a few thousand more tomorrow, and there wasn’t anything he, Barringston Relief, the UN, or anyone else could do about it. Well, not all of it anyway. There was something that could be done about one of the problems, the madman Mahli. Roger wanted to be the one to handle that particular problem.

  Roger turned back to the plane and said, “Let’s go.” Wordlessly, Aden exited the plane, and the two began walking toward the small village. Arteh chose to stay with the Cessna.

  Unlike the grass-domed huts that were popular throughout much of East Africa, this community was composed of a few dozen wood structures. People and a few goats were beginning to mill around. Women with pails and jugs made their way to a nearby well to gather what water they could. Men sat on the front doorsteps or talked to each other. Everyone stopped to watch as one black man and one white man walked away from the dirty little plane and toward their small community. Roger could read the suspicion in their eyes. In this land of turmoil, everyone and everything was suspicious.

  While most Somalis were nomadic or lived in urban areas like Mogadishu, Marka, or Hobyo, a few farmed the arid yet fertile land in the river valleys of the Juba or Webi Shabelle. In good years they could grow sugarcane, sorghum, corn, bananas, and sesame seed. In drought years, especially those years when the clan civil war was excessive, the farmers made barely enough to survive. Aden had told Roger that this village was one of the few that were managing in the drought. They had no surplus, but they were able to grow enough produce to sell or trade for food and supplies. They were neither rich nor safe, but they were better off than any suburban or rural Somali had been in the last two years.

  “This way,” Aden said as they strode toward the small wood house closest to a parked truck. As they approached the building, the door opened and a woman with piercing eyes clothed in a dark brown wraparound dress stood in the doorway. Aden stepped to the door but said nothing. A second later the woman stepped aside and he entered the house with Roger close behind. Once they were inside, the woman closed the door. The house was one large room with a table and four chairs in the middle, a wood-burning stove and stack of firewood on one end, and sleeping mats on the other. It had no lights and apparently no bathroom. The early morning air was thick and fetid.

  “Aden, you have returned just as you said you would,” a raspy voice said in thickly accented English. Roger saw that the voice came from a lone man seated at the table. “This is the curious American?”

  “Yes,” Aden said. “He is eager to speak to you.”

  The man laughed. He looked old, and he wheezed as he breathed. Roger realized that the man looked older than he was. Most people in Somalia died before they reached their mid-fifties, and those who lived that long often looked as though they had lived much longer. “He’s eager to know what I know. Is he willing to pay?”

  “I am,” Roger answered before Aden could speak. “If your information is good.”

  “It is true I can tell you where to find Mahli, but I don’t know why you would want to do that. If you get too close, he will have you killed. Perhaps he will kill you himself.”

  “How do you know where he is?” Roger asked bluntly.

  “I worked for him for two years. I had great responsibility.” The man began to cough a harsh and grating hack.

  It was clear to Roger that the man had a severe respiratory problem. Pneumonia? Cancer? He decided it didn’t matter. “What’s your name?” Roger inquired.

  The man shook his head, “My name doesn’t matter. What I know, that is what matters. That and what you can pay. I want ten thousand dollars American.”

  “You don’t want Somali shillings?”

  The man laughed. “No, I want American money. British pounds would be acceptable.”

  “That’s a large sum of money,” Roger replied incredulously. “What would you do with such a large sum of money?”

  “Leave Somalia.”

  “Leave?”

  “I need medical help, and our hospitals are now useless. And once Mahli finds out I’ve told you where he is, he will have me and my wife killed. After he kills you, of course.”

  “What makes you think he can kill me?” Roger said pointedly. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

  “There’s a lot about Mahli you don’t know. He will kill you, and I will have my money. If he doesn’t kill you, then Mukatu will.”

  “Mukatu?”

  “See, there is much about Mahli you do not know.” The man coughed loudly and roughly. “You Americans are stupid. You think you know everything. You know nothing. That’s why Aidid embarrassed your mighty UN.”

  Roger felt his anger rise exponentially and wondered if it showed. “Ten thousand is still a lot of money.”

  “Eleven thousand,” the man said calmly. “Agree or leave; it’s time for my breakfast.”

  Roger was nonplussed, “You said ten thousand …”

  “Twelve thousand,” the man replied. “I do not wish to barter.”

  Lowering his head, Roger bit his lower lip as he struggled to contain his anger. After a moment’s thought he said slowly, “I will pay you the ten thousand, but since I do not carry that much money with me I will need to make arrangements. Tell me where Mahli is, and I will see that you get your money.”

  The man exploded in laughter and continued laughing until he began coughing again. Once the respiratory spasm ceased, he said something in Somali to his wife. Roger turned to see that she had been laughing too. The woman took a few steps toward the door and opened it in a clear gesture that said time to leave. Roger walked slowly toward the door, his rage boiling inside of him. This should not be this difficult, he thought.

  “We have come a long way,” Aden said. “Surely we can come to some agreement.” The man shook his head and motioned toward the open door.

  When Roger arrived at the door, he looked at the age-creased face of the woman who was still smiling. Roger returned a sneer for her smile, placed his hand on the door, and shut it. He turned to face the man at the table.

  “I thought you would see it my way,” the man said, “but now it’s fifteen thousand American dollars.”

  In slow deliberate steps, Roger approached the man, who placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair showing every ounce of confidence he felt.

  “Fifteen thousand?” Roger said. He stepped beside the seated man as he rocked his chair on its two rear legs. In a swift motion, Roger kicked the legs of the chair, sending the man crashing to the floor. He seized the front of the man’s shirt with both of his hands, and in an almost effortless move lifted the stunned African from the floor, spun him around, and threw him onto the tabletop, pinning him.

  “What are you doing—” the man started to ask, but his words were cut off when Roger seized his throat with his right hand.

 
“Shut up!” Roger yelled. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a stiletto which, at the touch of a button, unsheathed a six-inch blade. Roger placed the point of the knife in the man’s right ear and pressed gently until the man squirmed. “I have spent too much time in your little backwoods country sweating under your sun and being eaten by your bugs. My patience is exhausted—gone! So now I’m going to tell you how this is going to work.”

  “Roger,” Aden began, “I’m not sure this is a good—”

  “Shut up!” Roger shouted again. As he did so, he caught movement in the corner of his eye. Snapping his head up he saw the man’s wife approaching with a log from the woodpile. Roger glared at her through eyes that carried more meaning than any words—“One step more, and you’ll be burying your husband tonight.” The woman saw the message in Roger’s eyes and stopped cold. Slowly she lowered the log and backed up until she made contact with the wall. Quickly surveying the room, Roger saw Aden, mouth open in shock, watching dumbfounded at the sudden violence.

  Roger turned his attention back to the prostrate man he had pinned to the table. “As I was saying,” Roger uttered through clinched teeth, “my patience is gone. You will tell me what I need to know or I’ll push this knife clear through your skull. Do you understand what I’m saying?” The man gave the best nod he could. “Where is Mahli?”

  “Marka,” the man croaked as Roger loosened his grip so that he could speak. Roger listened intently as the details of Mahli’s whereabouts unfolded from the sickly man’s lips. Still pinning the man to the table, Roger made him repeat the information, memorizing each point. Ten minutes later the duo left the wooden hut armed with the information they had sought.

  Roger had stopped in the doorway and looked back at the frightened man who held his slightly bleeding ear. He felt a small sense of remorse for his actions, but mostly he felt anger at himself. He had lost control, and that was dangerous. He could have cost himself his mission.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” Roger said grimly, “that’s what we agreed on, and that’s what you’ll receive. The money will arrive this week and will be brought to you—unless Mahli gets word of our little conversation, in which case I’ll be back to visit, and I will be in a real bad mood. Do you understand?”