Authors: Gary Haynes
Crane paused then, partly, Tom guessed, so that the Somalia could process what had been said to him, and partly because he could see that he was struggling to maintain a calm exterior, due to the leg wound.
“That same number that’s on your cellphone received a call not too long before the Somali came after my friend here. It was made from another man’s cellphone, a dead Frenchman. And that Frenchman was killed by Ibrahim, which means that those people called the Somali; which means that Ibrahim knows people that you know. Which, given the nature of the Somali who came after my friend here, means that you know a Somali terrorist cell in Paris close to Ibrahim. Which is why I’m wearing Italian cloth and you’re wearing an orange jumpsuit.”
Tom saw the Somali mulling that over in his mind. It was cute and Crane was impressive. Ibrahim had used the Frenchman’s cell to call the Somalis in Paris and they had called the guy who came after him. The number of the Somali group had been called by the Somali in custody. Yeah, cute, he thought.
“I need you to phone this number, and I want one piece of information. Where is Ibrahim? If you can do that I’ll get you out of here in five years tops. Your US citizenship will be revoked and you will be deported to Qatar. They’ll take anyone. Well, any Muslim, anyway. That’s the deal. But if you come up on the radar again, you’ll be a dead man walking, am I clear?”
The Somali looked impassive, his head bowed.
“This is what you’re gonna say,” Crane, said, taking a piece of paper from his pocket with a typed script on it and sliding it over the table.
The Somali picked it up and glanced at it before placing it back down again. “I will make a call,” he said, “but not this one. And I want to be out of here in one year. I also want to stay in the US, and I want protection.”
Tom expected Crane to go into a rant and have the Somalia dragged out before he pleaded with him and said he’d take what was first on offer, but he didn’t. His pale blue eyes narrowed. He sat back, looked about to ride the chair before he realized he’d likely topple over, no doubt, given the hole in his leg.
“So what do you have?” he said.
“Despite my lapse into hell, I still have contacts with my brothers in the jihad. Ibrahim’s wife is in Somalia. I know he wants to die. And I know that you know. And the reason you are here is because you are afraid of him, which means his death is close, and when he dies many more will die, although I do not know by what means. He will go to see her first. I will tell you where she lives. If they ring him and you trace the call to Somalia, which is what you want, you will know he is there for sure.”
Crane didn’t even flinch. He said, “You can pinpoint this on a map?”
Harrah nodded.
“Is she a Somali?” Crane asked.
“Yes.”
Crane pursed his lips. “If what you say is true, and my gut tells me it is, you have a deal.”
Tom saw something in the Somalis eyes then. It was satisfaction. He saw something in Crane’s eyes, too: The knowledge that it was job done.
The cellphone was on speaker and was being monitored by the NSA. Harrah said that he had information that the CIA knew that Ibrahim had been in France and had killed a man in Paris. He said that the CIA PA he was sleeping with had informed him that she’d seen a communication. It stated that Ibrahim was intent on coming to the US, but was holing up in Somalia for now for a purpose they didn’t understand, other than the Middle East and Europe had become too dangerous for him. The CIA didn’t know where in Somalia.
The man on the other end thanked him and said that they would let their brothers in Somalia know that the CIA were aware of this.
Tom walked at Crane’s sedate pace from the prisoner proper to the limo parked adjacent to the entry blockhouse. The evening air was cool and welcomed, the leaves on the surrounding white spruce trees vibrating like a flurry of wings. With the scent of cut grass about him, Tom watched the CIA paramilitary assigned to protect Crane, a dark-haired man in his thirties, with the physique of a heavyweight boxer, open the rear door of the limo, nodding to his boss.
On the way back to Langley, Crane got a call on the secure satphone in the car. A call had been made to Somalia, the Harardhere District in the Mudug Province, and part of the autonomous state of Galmudug. It was in the north-east of the country, sparsely populated, and bordered the Indian Ocean. It was ruled by heavily armed pirates and Al-Shabaab. It was also confirmed that the incubation period for the virus was ten days. But, after the initial trace on the call, the cellphone in Somalia had died.
Tom knew that the chances of finding Ibrahim there were fifty-fifty at best. But there was no other lead, no other option, and after what Crane had said about the incubation period for the virus, Ibrahim was not only more of a threat infected than he’d been fit, but time was short. The last time the man had been in Palestine, when he’d likely been infected, was three days ago.
“So we send in the SEALs or the Unit?” Tom said.
“Could be, but we got history over there and it ain’t good history,” Crane replied.
Tom knew he was referring to the First Battle of Mogadishu, part of Operation Gothic Serpent. It had been fought over two days in October 1993, between US Army Rangers and Special Forces, and Somali militias. Two UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters had been shot down, resulting in eighteen US deaths among the rescue forces, and up to three thousand Somali casualties, including civilians.
“Somalia is a rats’ nest of pirates, warlords, jihadists and criminal gangs,” Crane said. “He’s likely embedded in deep. Protected by a lot of fighters. I’d prefer a drone strike.”
Tom knew that the short timeframe before Ibrahim became toxic was pushing Crane towards a detached aerial strike. He also knew that they’d have to kill everyone within the vicinity of the target site just to ensure that they killed Ibrahim. And that was if the call to Somalia had in fact been to warn Ibrahim there. But all the pointers were facing in that direction, especially since no other call had been made on what the Somalis in Paris no doubt figured was off the radar COMMS.
“What about that Somali cell in Paris?” Tom said.
“What about ‘em?”
“They’re dangerous.”
“They ain’t as dangerous as Ibrahim. Besides the French will likely say, so what? A phone owned by Somalis got called by a dead guy’s phone? So what? The DCRI don’t know the Somali went after you, or the rest, so unless you want me to incriminate you by saying you shot two guys on French soil, I’ll wait until this is over and say we have some intel and they should put them under surveillance.”
Tom knew he was right. He also knew that Crane had agreed to the deal with the incarcerated Somali because there was no way he would get in touch with his brother terrorists again. They would figure sooner or later that he’d given up Ibrahim and that would be a death sentence, which was why he’d wanted to stay in the US and have protection.
“Would you let me do something?” he said.
“Do what?” Crane said.
“I could bring him out into the open. And Lester was a Marine sniper,” Tom said, knowing his friend was back in DC.
“Too many of my men have died already,” Crane said, looking morose. “Besides, we ain’t got the time.”
“How many innocent Somalis will die?”
“Look, Tom. All we got is your glance at him and the three little scars above the wrist that Basilios told us about. And that ain’t a helluva lot.”
Crane winced then and took a bottle of pills from his jacket pocket, opened it, and emptied some painkillers straight into his mouth and began crunching them up.
“I know it ain’t clinical and it sure as hell ain’t humane, but we gotta do it and then focus all of our Homeland Security on the airports,” Crane said. “Just in case.”
“If he survives or isn’t there he could fly to Mexico and cross over in a small plane to a dirt track. Happens all the time.”
Crane sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
“So, me and Lester get flown to Mogadishu and hook up with the SAF,” Tom said, referring to the Somali Armed Forces. “They’d be more than happy for us to help take out a cockroach like Ibrahim. And Department B’s got carte blanche, right, and you call the shots. I could do some covert recon, check he’s there. When the strike happens, I could check he’s dead.”
In the back of the limo, Tom watched Crane bend over to scratch his leg, but clearly thought better of it. Instead he tilted his back to rest it against the cool leather of the backrest.
“Sounds to me that your French blood is up,” Crane said, referring to Tom’s heritage. “You wanna be the modern equivalent of those old hags knitting beside the guillotine.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
Crane turned to Tom, the CIA veteran gritting his teeth due to the obvious pain he was suffering, despite the drugs. He said, “Your father’s dead, and I feel rotten about that, you know I do. But it’s a fact. My boys are still in Lebanon, too, what’s left of them, and though I’ll break my balls to get them back, I’ve done all I can ‘til now. I got no right to stop you going to Somalia, though I’ll probably never see you again. Besides, under no circumstances can you say you’re there to watch over the death of someone on their soil. We stopped the drone strikes a while back. But if you’re intent on going, as I know you are, I’ll set up something to get you out, though, as I said, you won’t make it out from over there.”
26 Hours Later
Tom knew from his time in the DS’s counterintelligence unit that the Federal Republic of Somalia was in the Horn of Africa, the west being opposite the Indian Ocean. It had suffered huge destruction during the civil war between 1991 and 2006, with massive casualties among the civilian population, and the displacement of hundreds of thousands. In 2011 a terrible drought had afflicted the country and East Africa in general, in which up to one hundred and fifty thousand people had died. But in the same year the Somali army, allied with Kenyan and other forces, had managed to destroy Al-Shabaab’s last major urban enclave.
Al-Shabaab, or the Mujahedeen Youth Movement, had joined with al-Qaeda in 2012, and although it had been driven from the major cities, it had inflicted strict Sharia law upon the population in the rural districts. The group was an off-shoot of the Islamic Courts Union, and had pledged to wage war against the enemies of Islam, with some six thousand fighters. In June 2012, the US State Department had posted open bounties on several of the group’s high command.
Following the kidnap and murder of foreign and indigenous aid workers, humanitarian operations in the country had ceased. The jihadist group was funded by the illegal ivory trade, killing countless elephants every year, as well as the rangers who protected them. Apart from attracting hundreds of Western Muslims, the group’s leadership consisted of many Iraqis, Afghans, Libyans and Egyptians, who had a high degree of military expertise.
Tom had met up with Lester in DC and, given the fact that he was more than willing to help Tom pinpoint his father’s killer, they had flown aboard a CIA jet via London Heathrow, England, to Mogadishu, Somalia’s capital. Besides Lester was still on the CIA payroll, as part of the Department B operation, and, as he’d said, nobody was paying better right now, and he hadn’t been so pumped since his Marine boots had first hit the sand in Iraq.
Tom had felt guilty about not telling him about the viral threat from Ibrahim, but as Crane had said before he’d left, the fewer that knew of it the better. If it got into the public arena, even as the result of a slip, as most secrets did, it would cause mass panic. If and when the American public had to be told, it would be down to the president.
They landed at Mogadishu’s Aden Adde International Airport, named after the First President of Somalia, which had been a small affair, but with the improvements in security and an influx of foreign financial assistance, had burgeoned into a modern glass and chrome facility, resembling an airport a Westerner would expect to see in a medium-sized city, except it was painted a powder-blue and a canary-yellow.
As they disembarked from the plane, it was nightfall, the air cool, with a light onshore breeze, which smelt of salt and stale sweat. The airport was lit by vapour lights, highlighting the high levels of security, the rows of cement bollards and parked military vehicles. Crane had told Tom that if he and Lester didn’t get outta there in twelve hours tops, the whole area of the target site would be blown to hell and back. Given that Ibrahim had been in the north the day before, Tom thought that the elements of uncertainty were stacking up against them, such that he wondered if he was putting Lester in unnecessary danger, and that their journey here would in fact be futile. But Crane had agreed that if he got to the target site before the end time, he could call in the drone strike.
As Tom and Lester walked down the short flight of steps from the jet’s clamshell door, a military jeep pulled up on the tarmac runway and a man in olive-green fatigues with blue epaulettes, a colonel in the Somali National Army, jumped out. He looked about fifty, his hair whitening at the temples. He well over six feet, with narrow shoulders.
He grinned. “Welcome to Mogadishu.”
Tom knew that Crane had rung ahead to Somalia’s National Intelligence and Security Agency, or the NISA, and had said that he was a special agent in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, that there was talk of a visit by the US Secretary of State and he wanted to get a feel for the place prior to an official visit by the advance detail. Lester was a CIA paramilitary and a specialist in threat assessment.
It had been a mixture of truth and lies, but it had got them in and, hopefully, would get them out, without the added stress of them having to duck under the local security services’ radar. It also meant that they didn’t have to worry about having the weapons and surveillance equipment they had in leather holdalls being confiscated by customs.
Crane had said that it was up to them to deceive NISA as to the real reason why they were there, but had reiterated that if the Somalis knew that a drone strike was going to happen without government approval, they’d be arrested on the spot. Like many countries, including Afghanistan, they’d accepted more or less anything when they were on the back foot, fighting terrorism. But as soon as they got a sniff of power, they became all territorial, and, Crane had added, the Somalis weren’t any different.