“Sure. Thanks.”
She handed him a one-liter bottle. Justin gulped down half of it. He kept his gaze to his right, searching for a dirt trail among the shrubs stretching alongside the road. The “taxi” truck was long gone, and there was no other traffic on the road and no goat or camel herders on the flatlands.
“Right here.” He pointed to a spot on his right. “We’ll turn here.”
The mouth of a trail appeared a few yards ahead. The blackened hulk of a burned truck — similar in shape and size to theirs — marked the detour. Justin slowed down, then steered through the bushes.
He picked up speed as they entered the trail. It was a few inches wider than the Nissan, but cleared of all shrubs. Visible tracks in the hardened soil provided evidence of recent use. Some were wider and deeper than the rest. This was one of many smugglers’ routes piercing the porous border. Al-Shabaab was also known to routinely use them to launch incursions into the Kenyan villages and towns.
“Large trucks. I wonder what they were carrying,” Carrie said.
“Hostages. Guns. Cattle.”
He pointed to a couple of cow carcasses baking in the scorching sun a few feet away from the trail. A flock of vultures pecked at one, their curved beaks tearing chunks of flesh. They had already picked clean the other carcass, its white bones the only thing remaining from the animal.
Carrie nodded. She glanced at her wristwatch, then picked a pair of binoculars from her knapsack lying at her feet. She observed the horizon, looking first to her right, then straight ahead and to her left. “No movement anywhere,” she said when she finished her reconnaissance.
“We’ll be in Somalia in a few minutes.” Justin calculated the time based on the Nissan’s speedometer. “We’ve got to ditch the truck and walk the last few miles.”
Carrie gestured with her head to the left. A cluster of acacia trees — which had somehow survived the sweltering temperatures — rose up about half a mile away. “In case we need the truck on our way out.”
Justin grinned. “You really think it will still be there?”
Carrie shrugged. “Probably not. But it doesn’t hurt. Maybe no one will cross this way over the next four hours.”
Justin slowed down, then maneuvered the Nissan in that direction. He stopped when they arrived under the trees, and the stepped out of the truck. Glancing at the trail, he said, “It’s quite visible to anyone driving or walking there.”
“Well, maybe they’ll be in a hurry or maybe they’ll have no more room for plunder. Or they’ll think it’s a piece of junk.”
Justin looked at the Nissan. Its rusty doors and cracked windshield were evidence of its long use and abuse through these rugged roads. The tires had lost almost all their tread. The interior was in a better shape, with newer seats, the owner obviously interested more in the comfort of his own ass than the overall conditions of his vehicle.
“Hmmm, I don’t know. I saw an old Kia in Wajir that seemed to be held together by duct tape. But I’ll take the keys,” Justin said.
Carrie had already loaded her knapsack on her shoulders. “Ready?”
“Yes, ready.”
Justin swung his knapsack around his back.
“Two miles northeast, then two miles east,” Carrie read her GPS. “If everything’s OK, Birgit should be waiting for us.”
They marched in silence, preserving their energy. Justin was wearing a beige long-sleeved shirt, a multi-pocket vest and light khaki pants. Carrie had a white polo shirt and navy blue pants. She had applied sunscreen over her face and her neck and had offered some to Justin, but he had shrugged away the possibility of sunburn. His skin had a nice bronze tan.
Their khaki travel hats protected them well from the blazing sun for the first five minutes. Then their heads began to melt, streams of sweat trailing down their faces and their necks. Under the weight of their twenty-pound knapsacks, even their regular steady pace caused their bodies to break out in sweat.
“We’re leaving Kenya,” Carrie said.
She followed two steps behind Justin. He stopped, then glanced right and left, as if crossing an intersection. No signs of a border. The same red sand, the same thorny shrubs, the same scorching heat. He continued his march. Three more steps and Carrie said, “Welcome to Somalia.”
Justin slowed down. Another two miles to our rendezvous point. He glanced at his wristwatch. Right on time. I hope Birgit has some cold water.
About half an hour later, he said, “We’re here.”
He pointed to their right. A white Toyota Land Cruiser was visible in the distance. UNHCR was stamped in large blue letters on its side.
“Thank God.” Carrie removed her hat and used it to fan her face. She used the back of her hand to wipe a few sweat drops blinding her eyes.
A black man in an olive drab uniform jumped out the Toyota’s front passenger door. He was carrying an assault rifle, which Justin recognized as the American-made M16. He knelt in a firing position by the hood of the Toyota, pointing his rifle at them.
“Quite the welcome,” Carrie muttered, placing her hat back on her head.
“They’re being careful. That’s good.”
Justin continued advancing toward the Toyota. He kept the same pace, making no sudden moves or doing anything the man with the gun might interpret as a threat. As they drew nearer, he noticed the slender silhouette of the blonde driver. Another black man was sitting behind the driver. The barrel of an assault rifle was sticking out of the window on his side.
When they were a few feet away from the Toyota, the driver pushed open her door. “You must have friends in some very high places, Mr. Jacob Tanner,” she said in English as she stepped out and slammed the door behind her. Her terse voice dripped with scorn.
Justin looked at Birgit. Her face showed her displeasure at being here and serving as their guide. She was measuring them up, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her light blue t-shirt revealed nice biceps, neatly covered in a golden suntan. The benefits of working long hours outdoors, Justin thought. A pair of sand khaki pants and brown work boots completed her attire.
“We appreciate this favor, Ms. Fredriksen and we regret any—”
“I don’t need your regrets,” Birgit interrupted him. She took a couple of steps forward.
Justin realized she stood at least three inches taller than him. I was hoping for some cold water, not cold shoulder. He braced for her lecture.
“I’ve been working in Somalia for ten years, and I’ve never talked to any of our director generals. Ever. But this week I get not one, but two, two phone calls, from two different DGs. Both concerned, very concerned, to make sure I serve as your driver for the day. As if I have nothing better to do.”
Justin’s face remained calm and expressionless.
“Who are you, Mr. Tanner? Is Tanner even your name? Your real name?”
Justin exchanged a quick glance with Carrie. She gave him a stoic grin, which Justin translated as “just let her vent.” Then the corner of his eye caught Birgit’s security guard movements. The guard adjusted his position, re-aiming his M16 at Justin’s chest.
“Ms. Fredriksen, we thank you for agreeing to help us. My colleague and I, we’re journalists, in the area to—”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Birgit took another step toward him. She was now standing three feet away. “There are no journalists in this Godforsaken land. Men, women, and children are dropping like flies and nobody gives a damn. This land sees only refugees, terrorists, and terrorist hunters.” Birgit pointed a finger at Justin. “You’re not a refugee, and you don’t look like a terrorist.”