Born of War (18 page)

“Not good to be killed by our friends.”

Omar held his Kalashnikov on his lap and felt for the hand grenades in each of his pockets.

“No, not good.”

 

 

“We have received over one hundred thousand dollars since he started making his broadcasts.” Faud motioned with his hands to the others while they met in a house on the far northern side of Kismaayo. The abandoned villa was near the beach and had two roads that departed from it in two different directions.

“Where is this money coming from?” Mukhtar Abu Zubeyr asked the question. He was also known as Ahmed Abdi Godane and led the meeting as he also led Al Shabaab.

“Much from Eritrea, but most is from America by our couriers that cross from Kenya.” Faud depended upon a trusted system in which certain carriers would pack the money in from Kenya by crossing through the nights. It was originally carried out of the United States in small bundles hidden on passengers. Everyone on the journey of money could be trusted. Not a penny was ever missing. The remainder of the world would consider such a thing as not likely to ever happen, for the risks of being accused of stealing were too great. Under the law of Al Shabaab, a thief's hands were both cut off. As a result, none of the couriers took such a risk.

The couriers were famous within the Somali community. A select few had done it for decades with more reliability than an automatic teller machine.

“But where in America?”

“We know that some of it is from women in Virginia. They started sending money after the
Amriiki
's broadcasts.”

Godane's facial expression indicated he was not pleased.

Faud knew that he didn't like the American. Word had quickly gotten around of his constant complaints about the food, the ammunition, and the strategy being applied. It was the strategy criticism that cut deep. The men understood the hardships and even took pride in doing more with less food and less ammunition. They ran over an Ethiopian unit and then scavenged the site for food, boots, magazines, and anything they could carry. But men being chewed up by the enemy's artillery because of the ordered attack was not to be the subject of criticism.

“There may be more.” Faud held his hand up.

“You mean money? We need more for a second missile. Much more. Especially since our Swiss contact has died,” Godane said with disgust.

Faud knew that an Iranian-promised second and third missile still depended upon money for the go-betweens. And now that process had to start again from the beginning.

“I talked to the American and he promised something else. He would not tell me what it was.” Faud didn't like secrets.

“What of the word that we have two for ransom?” Godane asked.

“We do have two who are in the wilderness. Omar has been sent to meet them. A videotape of one jihadist American with another captive American will be of great value.”

“And he is away from the troops for now.” Godane smiled. “We don't need our
Amriiki
telling all how much wrong we are doing.”

“We will soon have a new Islamic state and it will control the Horn of Africa. The courts will have to listen to all that you direct.” Faud was speaking of the Islamic Courts Union that was intended to oversee all, including its militant wing, Al Shabaab.

“An Islamic state that controls the Horn of Africa. Our people had that power several thousand years ago. And now, today, every ship that hopes to use the Suez will pass through our gates. Allah be praised.”

“H
ow much do you have this month?” The woman in her mid-thirties, short, stout, and covered in the Muslim tradition, walked with a waddle as she moved quickly through the mall just outside Richmond.

“Here.” The woman by her side, who looked like her sister in size, shape, and appearance, quickly handed her a brown paper bag. She looked around as she did it. The first one slipped the paper sack into a beach bag she had slung over her shoulder.

“It will go out tonight.” She was meeting the boy from Kenya who was booked on a flight out from Dulles to Kuwait City that very night. He would hide the money in a false-front bag with some pepper and frankincense. The two items would cause any dogs on the trip to move past the bag. He would take a flight from Kuwait City to Kenya only a few hours later. And then he would head out by motorcycle to a crossing near El Beru Hagia. It was another village on the southwestern border of Kenya with Somalia. He would avoid the town and cross by a path nearby to waiting Al Shabaab fighters. It would all take less than two days.

“I have saved some for the other.”

They both knew who and what she was talking about. He needed money for a cheap van he must buy, and gas to head north of Richmond. Time remained of the essence.

“I will drop half of this off for him and then meet him before he leaves for Africa.” She nodded good-bye and they left in separate directions.

The drop-off for the first delivery was relatively simple. She carried a FedEx overnight box with her. The money was bulky as it was a collection, ten to twenty dollars at a time, from the fellow members at the mosque. She stuck the wads of bills, nearly a thousand, in the box and then sealed it. The drop-off was a FedEx box in an office park just north of the beltway on the Charlottesville side of Richmond. By the time she made it to the box, the area was dark and quiet. It was what she had hoped for.

She drove up to the steel FedEx drop box and pulled down the handle. She wedged the box into the drawer, pulling up the handle so that it closed on the box. As planned, the box did not move. She then drove away.

When her small old Toyota pulled off into the darkness another car's lights came on. A worn-out Honda drove out from the rear of a physician's office, cut across the parking lot, and pulled into the left lane. The Honda stopped at the FedEx box and the driver pulled out the package.

The man behind the wheel looked to be no more than in his early twenties. He was clean shaven and had a close haircut. He looked very different from the jihadist he was. He was from Minneapolis and was more determined than ever to see the face of Allah.

“Omar has taught me well.”

He had met the
Amriiki
in Toronto the summer before. He listened as Omar had taken long walks with him and told him of the importance of his faith. Like Omar, he was a virgin, determined not to be with a woman until he was married. He, like Omar, had learned to hate the language of the television, of the music videos, and of America. Omar had told him that only the true faith could give his life meaning.

He had watched every broadcast that came over the network. After Mobile, Omar had become a celebrity in the community. He went to the mosque and talked with the others. As soon as he went to prayers, they said “Have you seen the new one from Omar?”

“No, I must.” He never revealed that one would be more important than the rest. He would go to a friend's house, pull up the Internet, and watch as Omar told of the battles he had been in. Omar showed the scars on his knuckles from training with the glass and a wound he claimed he had received in combat. The messages encouraged the brothers to come to Somalia and join the fight against the Americans and Zionist Jews. The video begged for money.

The others would talk about how they were going to join the fight as well. They would be jihadists and become martyrs. He kept his mouth shut.

“You must not say anything to anyone,” Omar had told him. “It is your fate from Allah that you will do more than many here in the United States.”

It was particularly difficult for him to keep his silence. He hugged his mother the last time he saw her, squeezing her tightly.

And then the message came.

Omar gestured, then pointed with his index finger, and then gestured again. Then he waved his hand with his thumb out and his index finger up. It activated his cell.

He pulled onto the interstate heading for an exit off the highway just north of Dumfries, Virginia. He had an address written down on a piece of paper. The FedEx box covered a butcher's knife.

It was important that he arrive no later than ten o'clock in the morning. It had all been planned out for several months. He and Omar had worked through every detail.

He had worn a John Deere camouflage hat and a Redskins sweatshirt that was one size too large when he went to the gun show in Richmond several months before. He'd had on blue jeans, well worn, and a pair of Converse sneakers.

He called himself Bobby. It sounded like the perfect name. His false license also said Bobby, although his given first name was Shirwa. He knew that a police officer would be more suspicious of a license bearing the name Shirwa, so he used the alias instead.

Bobby went through the show looking for the one gun booth that was selling ammunition by the crate. He talked to the owner and stayed there for more than an hour.

“What is it about this Class III?” Bobby asked. He already knew the answer. A Class III collector could purchase and own the same guns that a military unit could own.

“Sorry kid, but no chance.” The storeowner had a wad of snuff in his cheek and a plastic bottle that he would spit into. “Do you know what it takes to get a Class III?”

Bobby already had some idea. It required background checks that he would never have passed in a million years. The sheriff and multiple agencies ran the checks and rechecks. It was bulletproof for someone such as himself. But Class III allowed a gun collector to own virtually any weapon from silencers to large-caliber sniper rifles.

“I know. Maybe someday.”

“Here, this is John. He has a Class III,” the owner introduced the two.

“Wow, what an honor.” Bobby shook the gray and balding man's large, full-fisted hand. “It is a big deal.”

Bobby only cared about one weapon.

 

 

The knock on the door came at three in the morning. The woman from the mall heard it in her sleep, hesitated, and then knew who it was. She looked through the curtains to see three black Yukons with blue lights flashing.

“FBI.”

She didn't remember much in the fog of the moment other than a dog being brought into her house, drawers being emptied, and a woman agent showing her a badge.

“I am with the TFOS.”

“What?”

“The Bureau's Terrorist Financing Operations Section. TFOS.”

It appeared that the FBI had had her on their watch list for some time. Despite her dealing in cash as much as possible and with small bills, the deposits and withdrawals varied and seemed to be timed to a certain time of the month. From the money activity, it didn't take long to link her up to the terrorists.

“We just missed a drop,” another agent told the woman standing in front of her.

“Check the airports for any flights to Kuwait City.” The agent had a sense of the plan used. They would catch up to the courier and count the cash. They had a source who told them what amount of money to expect. At Dulles they would see that the money was short.

D
octor Paul Stewart looked exhausted. He wore baggy pants with no crease, a checkered shirt with several pens in the pocket, glasses, and brown lace-up shoes with thick spongy soles meant to make long days on his feet a little less painful. The hair pushed back from his receding hairline remained uncombed. He also wore his white lab coat, which should have been left at the CDC, but after decades of living in it, the coat had become a part of him. He forgot to take it off and it was good that he hadn't, as the large pocket was where he kept his Tums. He would pull out a roll and peel one off all too regularly.

“Hello, Doctor Stewart.”

“Oh, hello.” Stewart had been told to go to a small park located between the CDC and the Emory campus. The park had a trail and was one of the few places in the area that did not have cameras. The day was both hot and humid. Stewart wasn't good at this game, but he understood that Parker entering the CDC would only raise alarms that were not needed at this point.

Moncrief and Hernandez stood behind them on the path.

“Let's take a walk.” Parker pointed down the trail.

Stewart had little time.

“Colonel.” It was the only form of address he ever knew for the man. He didn't even know his last name until just recently. “I need your help.”

“What do you want of me?”

“There is a CDC team setting up in eastern Ethiopia near the Somali border. They and a bunch of others are trying to fight what you had.”

“Had? The same bacteria? The meningitidis?”

“Yes.” He paused. “But not just any meningitidis. This form of Neisseria is very bad. The bug was locked up and frozen until we brought it out with you. Somehow the infection that you survived has awoken again in Somalia.”

The bug once in Pakistan had infected Parker. On a prior mission, his chewing a piece of gum with the bacteria implanted in it was all that was needed to initiate their attack. The gum was coated with the organism and Parker knew it. The bacterium was what caused meningitis. It unlocked an infection that spread through the mucosal membranes of the nose, throat, and lungs, going from there into the blood and into meninges that surround the brain. For the lucky few, death followed quickly. Spreading the bacteria had all been planned and William Parker had a part in that plan. It was directed at one particular terrorist group that Parker had been embedded with in the tribal area of western Pakistan. It was not supposed to spread beyond that one valley.

“So what do you suggest?”

“Aren't you O positive?”

“Yes.”

“We have no time.” Stewart looked down at his feet on the pine straw and gravel trail. He reached for another Tums.

“I still am unclear as to our course of action.”

“You mean why not just take some blood here?”

“You have the best lab in the world within a quarter mile of where we are standing.” Parker looked up the path as he spoke. It led to the street, which passed directly in front of the CDC complex.

“I need you to consider going to Ethiopia. I need you to go with me.”

Parker looked at the doctor.

“My daughter is a prisoner of Al Shabaab and she is in the middle of all of this.” Stewart hesitated. “I am not sure if she is even still alive.”

William Parker had had his own share of death. “I am sorry.” Parker folded his arms and stood there for a minute.

The heat and humidity were causing the doctor to sweat. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve again and again. He was turning red and the sweat stain was coming through the plaid shirt.

“Take your lab coat off, Doc.”

“What?”

“You are going to stroke out on me.” Parker pointed to the shade. “Let's go over there.”

Parker looked at his two teammates while they stood there in the shade.

“So you want me to go to Ethiopia?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It will allow us more time to create a stronger response.”

“We will be right there when they find your daughter.”

“Exactly. There would be no time to develop an antiserum. The only thing that might work in the short run is a transfusion.” Stewart continued to sweat.

“From another O postive?” Parker was trying to consider all the possibilities.

“She is vaccinated with the antiserums that we have, but this disease is different. It is like Ebola. Some will react and survive. Others will not. A blood transfusion from someone who has survived this particular beast can build antibodies that can carry over to another. It is a long shot but until we get a vaccination that works, it is our only long shot.”

“I need to think about this.” Parker always had an operations plan. He didn't just jump. Even the best of plans went out the window when the first shot was fired.

“We don't have much time. A military airplane leaves from Dobbins tomorrow morning at six a.m.”

“How are you going to get country clearance?”

Military aircraft going into countries at war was generally not as simple an idea as one might think.

“This is as bad as Ebola. The Ethiopians are happy to receive the help. They know that Ebola has killed thousands and it doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.”

“Yes.”

“They will clear anyone who can be of help. Several have died in Yemen, a family died in Switzerland, and the last report from my daughter was that they found a village which had been turned into a ghost town.

“So we know that the virus has been on at least one international flight. The Swiss was a gun merchant that was known for selling weapons to Al Shabaab. It may be spreading like Ebola.”

Ebola had a sister that was traveling across mid-Africa and Yemen, and into Europe.

“I understand.”

“A base has been set up with the Marines near Ferfer. Your going might help some of them not get sick.” Stewart was clearly playing all of the cards in his hand.

Parker stared at him.

“Moncrief and I will see you tomorrow at Dobbins.” Parker set forth his terms. He would not be going without Moncrief.

“Moncrief?”

“Yes, the one you and Hernandez got to find me.” Parker pointed to Moncrief leaning against a pine tree with a short cigar in the corner of his mouth. “He doesn't know it yet, but he is going, too.”

 

 

Paul Stewart was soaked from his sweat when he got back to the CDC. He parked his car in the garage and went straight to the director's office. The director was in an unbroken chain of meetings for the remainder of the day.

“I need to see him.”

“Doctor Stewart, if anyone could get in, it would be you. But . . .”

“I need to see him now.” Stewart stood in front of her looking like he was going to have a heart attack at any moment.

“I will get fired for this.” The secretary had been there for several administrations. It wasn't likely that she was in any more trouble than the clerk who had left the vial of smallpox on the wrong tray.

The director came out of the conference room. Through the open door, Stewart could see half a dozen people around the table and most were from the public affairs department.

“Yes, Paul?”

“I need to head up the team to Ferfer.” By now, the town didn't need any introduction.

“I don't know. It is a combat zone. You can do better work here.”

“Our response time will be critical. The extra hours of being on the ground can make the difference.”

“You know so much. What if they find out who you are? What if they find out who your daughter is?” The director looked directly into Paul's eyes. “It may make things more dangerous for Karen.”

“This Neisseria bug can do more damage than a bullet.”

The director hesitated.

“Okay, go. I will tell everyone in that room that you are going so that there is a chance we can contain this for at least a period of time. They are all of our P.R. people and they will put a lid on it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't get sick, don't die, and bring your damn daughter back.” The director turned back to the door. “You look like a walking cardiac event ready to happen.”

Paul wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

He didn't know that I was planning to go anyway.
Stewart had come close to not asking. Around the same time his coworkers at the CDC would be seeing his dark office the next morning, he would have let the pilot report that another passenger was on the aircraft.

“Don't die?” he mumbled to himself as he walked past the secretary.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just got my orders.”