Running Dark Part 16

"It's a dahabeeyah. Egyptian, really. The lights are plugged into the dock's power supply. They're off now but will turn on with a timer. The windows are mesh, so you should get some relief from the mosquitoes." He pointed to a small wooden structure twenty feet off the dock. "There's the outhouse, and you'll find paper in the boat. Sorry, no running water to speak of, but there is an outdoor showerhead on the side that is fed from an overhead tub, a rain barrel for was.h.i.+ng up, and a jug of drinking water."

Emma nodded. The dahabeeyah charmed her, with its paper lanterns. She remained silent, though.

Ha.s.sim peered at her. "You are quiet. I hope you're not upset. Unfortunately, there is no hotel. I promise you, this is somewhat better than sleeping outdoors. We won't leave until dawn, so it was important I find you a safe place. It's clean, and the SPUs will watch you through the night."

Emma shook her head. "I'm not upset. I'm pleasantly surprised. It's perfect."

Ha.s.sim looked relieved at that. He reached behind her and into the black bag in the back of the jeep. He pulled out a teardrop-shaped backpack and a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"I'll show you the inside," he said.

True to his word, the boat was clean. A hanging curtain separated the outdoor section from the cabin. To the right of the entrance, against the far deck railing, sat the rain barrel. Its top was open to the sky but covered with a wide mesh screen to keep out larger animals. Next to it was a tin tub, presumably for was.h.i.+ng. Above the rain barrel rested another collection keg on a small platform bolted high up near the boat's roof. A rusted showerhead jutted out from the bucket's side, and a string hung down.

Ha.s.sim waved at the bucket. "It's a crude shower, but it works. Pull the string to release the water. Use it sparingly, though. The barrel empties fast and is filled only when it rains. We're entering the dry season, so what you use will not be replaced soon. Whatever's left is likely to be lost in evaporation."

The interior room consisted of one long rectangle, about ten feet by fifteen feet. It held no furniture, but colorful woven mats covered the floor. At the far end, a propane hot plate, an ancient coffee percolator-the type placed directly on heat-two dented pots, and two steel bowls containing silverware sat on a wooden crate. On the other side of the crate was a cooler.

Ha.s.sim walked to the center of the room and sat cross-legged on a rug. He placed the backpack and the parcel in front of him.

"This is for you. From Major Stromeyer."

Emma moved to sit opposite him. He handed her an American pa.s.sport. She opened it to find a fairly recent picture of herself next to a false name and pa.s.sport number.

"You don't want me to use my own?"

Ha.s.sim shook his head. "Not any longer. This one is issued not by the State Department but in Nairobi by a vendor near the Kibera slum. Nevertheless, it will get you past immigration in most countries of the world, with the possible exceptions of Switzerland and Israel."

He handed her the brown package. "Another gift from Major Stromeyer," he said.

Emma untied the string and unwrapped the paper. The parcel contained sleek black pants in a parachute-type material with ingenious pockets hidden in the legs, two gray T-s.h.i.+rts made by a running company in a technical fabric designed to wick away perspiration, as well as running socks and underwear. Emma checked the sizes. They were correct.

"Thank G.o.d for this," she said. Her relief was heartfelt. The clothes she wore were stained, filthy, sweat-soaked, and hot.

Ha.s.sim opened the teardrop backpack and withdrew an aluminum water bottle that he offered to her.

"What's in it?" Emma lifted the bottle.

"Water mixed with Red Bull."

"Not vodka?"

Ha.s.sim almost smiled.

It seemed to Emma that Ha.s.sim was too serious for his age, which she estimated to be about thirty, give or take a few years. She a.s.sumed he was a mercenary, like many connected with Darkview. Perhaps being a soldier for hire made one serious before one's time.

"The pack and what's in it are also for you."

The pack slung across Emma's shoulders diagonally. The strap contained a zip pocket suitable for a cell phone. She unzipped it and found just that. The credit-card-thin receiver had a minimum of bells and whistles. She held it up to Ha.s.sim.

"Will it get a signal?"

He shrugged. "It should. Cell phones are common. They keep the khat trade moving. I added a SIM card purchased from a nearby warlord's village, but I would be careful when using it. The phone contains a GPS signal tracker that I was unable to deactivate."

"Why don't they grow their own khat instead of hiring guys like Lock to fly it in?"

"The insurgents burned the fields during the civil war. Replanting would require cooperation between the various warlords, which is not likely to occur."

"Are you Somali?"

Ha.s.sim shook his head. "I'm from Kenya."

Emma zipped the phone back into the strap. A quick review of the rest of the backpack yielded a flat bubble pack of pills labeled "electrolytes," six packets of GU running gel, four PowerBars, three thousand dollars American in a thin bank envelope, and a compa.s.s. Emma smiled at the last item. After Colombia she had sworn that she would never be without a compa.s.s. She still wore the GPS wrist.w.a.tch given to her by Banner when he'd appeared in Colombia, but the traditional magnetic type was sure to work under any conditions.

"And this is from me," Ha.s.sim said. He handed her a small blue-steel gun with an ankle holster. "I a.s.sumed you knew how to handle weapons and so was surprised when Lock said he was giving you a lesson. Would you like me to show you?"

Emma nodded. Ha.s.sim ran her through the loading, firing, and safety features of the gun. When he was done, he handed her a box of bullets.

"Extras," he said. She tossed them into the pack along with the gun.

Ha.s.sim stood and stretched. "We leave before dawn. The SPUs will return at dusk. There is food in the cooler for you. Please stay on the boat, and inside as much as possible. If you wish to shower, perhaps do so once the night has fallen. Although this area is usually deserted, it is best to remain anonymous." He parted the hanging curtain. Emma listened to his steps as he walked across the dock and then heard the jeep's engine and the crunch of the tires as he drove away.

Pillows lined the walls in the far corner, and a thick foam pad acted as a bed. Emma inspected all of it, taking care to shake out the pillows and look under the bed for scorpions. Seeing none, she removed her shoes, grabbed a pillow, covered herself with a small throw that was folded at the foot of the mat, and lay down. She spent the last three hours of daylight falling into and out of fitful naps brought on by the combination of heat and exhaustion.

At dusk the paper lanterns clicked on, sending small bits of colored light onto the boat's deck. A bare bulb in a protective cage threw a yellow glow in a desultory circle on the dock's weather-beaten boards. Moths and other insects fluttered in the beam. Emma made her way to the crate and found a kerosene lamp and matches. She lit the wick and adjusted the flame higher. Shadows flickered in the room.

When it was full dark, she roused herself again to rummage for food. She opened the cooler and found three apples, two oranges, a plastic bag with a type of round flatbread that looked like tortillas only spongier, a jug of drinking water, one can of salmon and one of tuna, and a small bag of coffee, all nestled in ice. She ate the bread, then pulled the ring tab on the tuna can and devoured the contents. She finished her dinner with a chaser of the remaining lukewarm Red Bull mixture.

On top of the crate was a threadbare bath towel. She stripped off her clothes, wrapped it around her, grabbed the lantern, and pushed aside the fabric door to the outside deck. The shower and rain barrel were on the side deck facing the water. A small sliver of soap on a rope and a bar rag hung from some nails pounded into the wall next to the shower. She pulled on the shower string to wet her body. The stream of water was weak, but so warm as to be almost hot. She lathered the soap everywhere, including her hair, and pulled again to rinse. She wrapped the towel around her once again.

Emma paused to gaze into the night. A slice of moon sent a stream of light across the undulating waves. The only sounds were the lapping of the ocean as it moved against the dock and the rhythmic creaking of some loose boards. Insects hummed somewhere on sh.o.r.e, and she heard the occasional splash of a fish in the water. She felt alone but not lonely. She looked at the stars and wondered if Patrick's spirit floated among them, watching her. She returned her attention to the water, and she prayed that the ocean was not preparing to swallow some more inconsequential humans who attempted to sail its waves.

THE LIGHTS OUTSIDE TURNED OFF. She moved back into the cabin, put on the clean clothes, and removed the gun, placing it next to her. Then she turned down the kerosene lamp and fell asleep on her first sigh.

28.

MUNGABE LISTENED TO THE VULTURE GIVE AN EXCUSE ABOUT why Darkview still existed. He paced the length of the trawler in the early-morning hours, holding the phone to his ear and doing his best to keep his temper in check.

"We have a congressional committee pressuring Darkview to give answers on a job they completed four months ago, the American tax authorities are auditing its income, and a new offensive is on the way. Things are moving along nicely," the Vulture said.

Mungabe couldn't believe his ears. "That is nothing! Hire a man and shoot the head of the company dead. Why do you waste your time?"

The Vulture made a disgusted sound. "The man works contracts for the Department of Defense. Killing him will alert the authorities with their endless questions. I won't kill him until it's required. You should trust my judgment."

Mungabe wanted to laugh. Men like them didn't use the word "trust." "As soon as you can, kill him."

"Killing him won't stop the company. He has a vice president who will simply continue to operate it."

"Then kill him, too," Mungabe said.

"Her. It's a woman, and I will kill her once I have completed testing and have the information I need. But killing her still may not end the corporation. The only way to be sure that the company no longer functions is to remove its supply of funds. Without money every business starves. This company is no different. I am taking the necessary steps to stem its flow of defense contracts, squeeze off its private clients, and cost it time and effort in battling the tax authorities. Soon it will have to close its doors, only because it cannot fight on all fronts. Just stick to attacking the s.h.i.+p. I'll handle the rest."

If Mungabe could have killed the man right through the phone, he would have at that moment, for no other reason than the patronizing sound in the man's voice.

"I will have the s.h.i.+p by tomorrow. But I don't give it to you until Darkview is dead, do you understand?" The man on the other end of the line was silent so long that Mungabe thought he'd hung up.

"No one dictates to me," he said at last.

Mungabe could not believe his ears. Was the European threatening him? If he was, Mungabe would be sure that the man would not survive the week. "Is that a threat?" he said.

"Merely a fact. I suggest that we both work on our respective duties and talk again after you have taken the s.h.i.+p."

"And after you have destroyed Darkview."

"Yes," the Vulture said.

Mungabe hung up and immediately dialed Roducci. He would get to the bottom of the cargo question. When the man answered the phone, Mungabe dispensed with h.e.l.los and got right to the point.

"It's Mungabe. I'll pay you four thousand dollars to tell me what news you have heard about the cargo on a cruise s.h.i.+p in this area and an additional six on the delivery of three new RPG-7s."

Roducci hesitated. Mungabe could hear him breathing over the phone.

Eventually he said, "I'll give you information. You know I cannot sell you guns. Somalia is on a restricted list. No weapons."

Mungabe wanted to spit at the man. He sold his guns all over the world, but not to Somalia? He was a hypocrite.

"I've lost five RPGs in as many hours. I need some more weapons."

"Then call the Russian. He has no morals. He would sell fire to the devil."

"He cannot be found. His partners think he is dead."

"Ah, see what happens to those who mess with the restricted list?"

"Then transfer them to the Sudan. I'll-"

"Also on the list."

"Not all of it. But if you are so worried about bureaucratic lists instead of making money, send them to Kenya. The Russian used to deliver his to Mombasa port. I pick them up there."

Roducci sighed. "Mungabe, I am truly sorry not to be able to do business with you in arms, but the situation in your area is troublesome. You are stinging the s.h.i.+ppers, the Western media is watching, and the companies that insure the s.h.i.+ps are screaming for blood. They've had to pay out too much as a result of your activities."

Mungabe chuckled despite himself. He loved the idea that his work was being recognized the world over. He basked in the praise for a moment. Then Talek stepped up to him, listening to Mungabe's side of the conversation.

"Fine. I'll locate my arms elsewhere. For now I will wire you the money for information. What is the agent's name, and where can I find him? When you call me back, I want to hear all about the Western companies shrieking for blood. Send me the latest paper by e-mail."

"Read Al Jazeera. They report from their side of the conflict."

Mungabe snorted. "Arab trash."

"The New York Times, then."

Mungabe was getting angry. They were communicating in English, that was true, but only because it was the language of war the world over. The man knew he couldn't read that well, and especially not English. Roducci must be messing with him. "No English."

Roducci made an annoyed sound. "Stick to reading the Koran. I will tell you the news when your wire transfer clears. I'll call you back."

"Tell me now. You know I pay my debts."

Roducci chuckled. "You are a good client, that's true, but I wait for the transfer nonetheless."

Mungabe hung up. He waved Talek over. "Send Roducci four thousand dollars."

Talek brightened. "We're getting some more guns? Roducci sells the best. How did you convince him?"

Mungabe felt a flash of irritation. "He's not selling us arms. We're buying information. If there is anything special about the cruise s.h.i.+p's cargo, Roducci will have heard about it. In fact, he may even have sold it."

Talek nodded. "That's right. Roducci knows everything."

Mungabe returned to staring out at the ocean. He was no further in his quest to destroy Darkview. He looked at Talek. "How well can you read?"

Talek shook his head. "Not at all. When Barre went down, the schools were closed. I was sent home."

"You can read the Koran, can't you?"

Talek shook his head again. "A little. My grandfather read to me, but he died shortly after the schools' closing. My father can read, but he never taught me."

Mungabe wasn't surprised. When the Ethiopians took down the Siad Barre government in '91, most of Somalia fell into anarchy. The latest generation was barely surviving. There was no time for education. He didn't read to his children either. Actually, when he thought about it, he wasn't sure if any of his children were able to read. He made a mental note to ask his women.

"Why do you ask me this?" Talek sounded suspicious. "Reading is of no use." He sounded dismissive, but Mungabe saw the comment for what it was, a way for Talek to cover for his lack of education.

"I want to know what the media are reporting about our conquests here."

"They are singing our praises."

Mungabe snorted. "Perhaps not praises exactly." He thought a minute. "But when we take the cruise s.h.i.+p, they will speak about us with respect. That much I promise you."

The phone rang. Mungabe checked the display. It was Abdul.

"Ha.s.sim Reboude just drove into Berbera with the woman that Vanderlock claimed was his girlfriend."

Mungabe stopped pacing. "Are you sure it's the same woman?"