“What are you thinking, Justin?” McClain asked.
“How will we convince Birgit to help us?”
“I’ve got some pull with high officials at the UN mission here. We helped them a year ago when five of their workers were kidnapped near the Dabaab refugee camp in Kenya, close to the border with Somalia, not far from where you’re going. We negotiated their release, so I’m sure they’ll return us the favor.”
“Perfect,” said Justin.
“I’ll get you on a plane to Nairobi, then to Wajir.” McClain pointed at the second map. “It has a decent airport, a tarmac runway, the only one north of Garissa, which is almost 200 miles south. Wajir is about sixty miles from the border with Somalia. You’ll travel as part of a diplomatic mission, so get all your gear ready. We have limited resources on the ground.”
“Will do,” said Carrie. She handed over Fredriksen’s photos to Justin.
The first one was a close-up. She was behind the steering wheel of a vehicle. Sweat, dirt, and fatigue were clear on her face, but Birgit was still a pretty woman, with blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a straight, narrow nose. She had thin lips and long blonde curls tied in a ponytail. The second photo showed her among a crowd of African children, probably from Dagadera camp. She looked as happy as they were to receive food and other supplies she was handing them.
“Now, get some sleep,” McClain said, closing his folder. “You’ll head out tomorrow, well today in the morning. We’ll convene here for a pre-mission briefing at zero nine hundred. By then, I should have more details about this operation.”
“And the mole?” Carrie asked.
“We’ll input data in our systems about a recon mission in northern Somalia to throw off al-Shabaab. That should give you some extra cover. Hopefully, Yusuf will give up his source, and we’ll find this traitor.”
McClain provided Justin and Carrie with detailed topographical maps of the border area, recent satellite photographs, and a collection of pictures of known and suspected al-Shabaab militants active in the area. More importantly, the agents received aerial shots of the village of Barjaare and of the house where the doctor was expected to treat the terrorist mastermind. A RQ-170 Sentinel reconnaissance drone was expected to secure real-time intelligence on any movements of militants, and the CIS station of Southeast Africa Division in Nairobi was going to monitor the operation and provide constant updates.
During the flight from Ottawa to Nairobi, Justin and Carrie re-examined the files received from NCS and McClain. They met in Nairobi with the two operatives that formed the entire CIS presence in the country. McClain was not kidding when he said they had limited resources on the ground. The station operated out of the High Commission of Canada to Kenya to provide the operatives with the vital diplomatic cover that came with being “members” of the Canadian Defense Advisor’s office.
McClain had vouched for the two CIS operatives, but Justin still kept their involvement and their knowledge about the operation to the necessary minimum. He relied on the operatives to secure a safe house for them in Nairobi, but he swept the apartment for bugs, and Carrie and he took turns keeping guard during the night.
They received updated intelligence from the Nairobi station in the morning. Al-Shabaab fighters had clashed with Kenya Defense Forces north of Wajir and around the border area last evening. Six people were dead, and several Kenyans were kidnapped. Al-Shabaab had taken the hostages back to Somalia, while Kenyan troops were sent in to pursue them. The army had set up checkpoints every ten miles or so, but its clampdown on the insurgents had not affected flights to Wajir Airport.
While it was still possible to fly the agents’ baggage — along with their weapons — under the label of “diplomatic mail,” it would be difficult to explain their arsenal if discovered at an army checkpoint. Justin and Carrie travelled on diplomatic passports. Even so, the presence of two Canadian senior officials in a war zone, heavily armed and without bodyguards, would raise a lot of suspicions. Everyone would realize they were anything but diplomats.
Justin and Carrie were not about to abandon their mission so far into it. Their cover of freelance journalists in the area to report on the recent incursions was going to allow them a certain freedom of movement, especially if they were not carrying any weapons or suspicious gear. They decided to change their travel plans and cross into Somalia closer to Wajir, to avoid at least some of the checkpoints. Birgit would have to meet them at another location, farther down south, away from El Wak. The use of aerial surveillance was out of the question, to avoid detection by Kenyan helicopters and fighter jets patrolling the airspace.
Justin and Carrie knew the bitter truth. They were going into this extremely dangerous operation completely on their own, without any weapons, and almost blind.
Chapter Nine
The local “taxi” truck carrying over thirty people switched lanes, cutting in front of them, dangerously close to their truck’s front bumper. Justin slammed on his horn as their gray Nissan was engulfed in a thick cloud of red dust. He slowed down and switched on his headlights to avoid running over any cattle or humans with the bad habit of dashing across the strip of dirt called road.
“Crazy driver,” Justin barked, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
The Nissan bounced over a series of ruts in the road.
“Yeah, deadly. Carrying thirty people and still pulling such stunts,” Carrie said, holding on to the door handle.
“I think I saw a goat too. One of the women was holding it over her lap.”
The dust was setting. The terrain on both sides of the road was mainly flat, with scraggly thorn bushes and an occasional half-withered tree dotting the red soil. The prolonged drought had killed most of the livestock, fueling feuds among clansmen. A week ago, the area had seen bloody fighting, with young men swinging machetes and AKs.
The truck was one of the few vehicles they had seen since they left Wajir. Kenya Defense Forces were manning heavily reinforced roadblocks at the northern entrance into town. They had armored jeeps and bulletproof vests, machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenades. The checkpoints, the ethnic violence, and the fear of another attack from al-Shabaab fighters had emptied the roads, halting almost all traffic. KDF soldiers searched their Nissan and rummaged through their belongings, but waved the two “Italian journalists”—Justin and Carrie’s cover in Kenya — through without too much hassle.
Justin and Carrie were not that lucky at the next checkpoint. The captain of a small unit — seven, maybe eight soldiers holed in two armored transporters — insisted he could not allow any one, journalists included, to continue further north. After a couple of minutes of negotiating, Justin dug into his wallet to produce his fail-safe pass: five one-hundred dollar bills. The captain pocketed the bribe discreetly and ordered two soldiers to move to the side the coils of barbed wire forming the roadblock. He even offered to provide them with a military escort, hoping for another windfall. Justin politely declined his request, and they were on their way.
“How far are we from the border?” Justin asked.
Carrie consulted her GPS receiver. “About seven miles.”
“We’ll soon leave the road and head toward the border.”
Justin drove for another mile. Carrie reached for a water bottle from their mini-cooler. The temperature had climbed five degrees over the last hour, reaching eighty-seven. The Nissan’s air conditioner supposedly worked, but the sweat on her forehead proved otherwise. She took a sip, then asked Justin, “Water?”