Justin let out a deep sigh. “The less you know, the better it is for everyone,” he said, slowly gesturing toward the guard. “Please take us to the village. In an hour, we’ll be out of your life. For good.”
Birgit tapped her left foot, kicking up a small puff of dust. “What’s in the bags?”
“Equipment. Satphones. Cameras. Binoculars and such.”
“Guns?”
“No, no guns.”
“Open them up.”
Justin lowered his brown knapsack slowly to the ground. He undid some of the straps, opening up the main compartment. He had no reason to worry Birgit would find anything objectionable inside. They were carrying nothing illegal. But it seemed she was looking for a reason not to take them with her.
Birgit gave Justin’s knapsack a meticulous search, then proceeded to do the same with Carrie’s. She opened all side compartments and inside pockets. Finally, she picked up the knapsacks, weighing them in her hand.
“We’re good to go?” asked Justin.
Birgit bit her lips, clenched her jaw, then opened her mouth, ready to continue her tirade. But she changed her mind, dropped the knapsacks and turned around. “You’re riding in the back,” she said without turning her head and walked toward the Toyota.
The guard lowered his weapon and stood up, but kept a stern face. His eyes were following Justin’s every move. Carrie nodded at Justin, then whispered, “Well done, terrorist hunter.”
“Thanks, Ms. Fredriksen,” Justin said. He zipped up his knapsack and hastened behind her.
The left side of the back of the Toyota was filled with medical supplies packed in gray metallic boxes of all sizes. UNHCR and a red cross were stenciled on their sides. Justin and Carrie sat across from the supplies, on the well-worn vinyl upholstery full of tears and stains.
As soon as they closed the back door, Birgit gunned the engine. The Toyota shook, then launched forward. They looped around a few burned acacias. Someone had stopped here and had decided to make a big bonfire. Most of the other trees and the shrubs had been cut down and picked clean, leaving the landscape even more barren and depressing than on the Kenyan side.
Two minutes later, they drove into a wider, dustier road, which seemed to run parallel to the border. Heavily used by militants and government troops of Kenya and Somalia, the road was in a rough shape. It was high at the center and tapered very steeply to the sides. The rear suspensions of the Toyota might have been sufficient for the harsh terrain during the vehicle’s first year in use. But now Justin could feel every bump in the road. At least they had air conditioning, but Birgit still had not offered them a cold drink.
Justin glanced at Birgit. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. She still had a dark look on her face. “You’re CIA?” she asked.
Her tone told Justin she was certain of his positive answer. He felt sorry to disappoint her yet again. “No, we don’t work for CIA”
Birgit’s eyes narrowed, the look of surprise replacing that of anger.
“MI6?”
“Sorry, we’re just journalists,” Carrie said.
Birgit titled her head to look directly at Carrie. Her amused facial expression was telling the other woman she was not talking to her. “Journalists or not, you’ve already cost me two grand. Al-Shabaab’s men at checkpoints make no exceptions for humanitarian vehicles.”
“You pay them off?” Carrie asked.
“Yes, and a journalist would know that. Why do you think pickup trucks mounted with machine guns and rockets are called ‘technicals’? Because we pay them off to leave us alone, so we can do our job and help save a few good people. And we write off those sums as ‘technical assistance.’”
Carrie nodded. “Thanks for the explanation.”
Birgit pondered Carrie’s reply for a second and decided it was genuine. Justin knew better, but kept his mouth shut.
“Here, have some water,” Birgit said. “You’re dying of sweat.” She gestured to the guard in the back seat. He handed them two bottles of water.
Justin and Carrie gulped down their water in a matter of seconds.
“So, what’s in Barjaare?” asked Birgit.
“What?” replied Justin.
“What’s going on in Barjaare that deserves the arrival of two journalists? The place hardly has two hundred souls.”
“We’re just working on a report about the recent clashes between al-Shabaab and Kenyan forces,” Justin gave her the rehearsed reply.
“Hmmm, interesting.”
Justin glanced sideways at Birgit. “Why is that, Ms. Fredriksen?”
“Oh, call me Birgit, will you? And it’s interesting because it’s very obvious when al-Shabaab leaders visit the area. There are reinforcements, curfews in villages, a show of force. There hasn’t been anything like that at all in the area. So I don’t know whom you’ll interview in that village, since it has no al-Shabaab fighters.”
Justin scratched his chin, choosing the right words in his mind. “Perhaps you’ve been overwhelmed with work, running the camp, and you haven’t taken notice.”
Birgit shook her head. “You’re handling me. I don’t like it.”
“The less you know, the—”
“Yes, yes, the better it is, but for you, not everyone.”
Justin did not reply even though Birgit flogged him with a harsh glare.
They drove in silence for the next few minutes, the rumble of the diesel engine the only sound in the tense air. At some point, the road become wider, but the semi-arid landscape remained generally the same.
Then in the distance, Justin saw a crude roadblock, formed by the skeleton of a large transport truck, probably of the Kenyan or the Somali army. It was flanked by a light blue pickup truck to the left and a black jeep to the right. A light machine gun was mounted on the back of the truck. It was manned by two men dressed in desert camouflage pants and white and red headdresses. Its muzzle was pointed at incoming traffic. Two other men in green pants and multicolored shirts stood next to the truck, holding large rifles in their hands, bandoliers slung around their necks. There also seemed to be a driver inside the truck, but Justin was not sure.
He threw his gaze at the jeep, a newer Mitsubishi Pajero model, with a mismatched driver’s door, a shade lighter than the rest of the body. He spotted two men inside, in the driver’s and the front passenger’s seat, but he could not make out their faces.
Justin’s breathing grew faster. By this point, he would have reached for his gun, but they had brought none on this mission. They had hoped to get them from local Somalis in Barjaare, since the country was awash with weapons. His right foot was tapping involuntarily. He glanced at Carrie and saw her tense face, heaving chest, and clenched fists.
“Relax,” he heard Birgit’s voice, as the Toyota began to slow down. “They’re al-Shabaab, but I’ve dealt with these men before, and we just passed this checkpoint on our way to meet up with you. They just want to collect their ‘taxes.’ Just keep your cool.”
Justin nodded nervously, feeling the sweat bubbling on the palms of his hands. He wiped them against his pants, then leaned forward to peer through the side window at the two men behind the machine gun. Their stance was relaxed, as they were not expecting to engage the incoming vehicle in a firefight. He hoped it would not come to that. The machine gun — he recognized it as a Russian-made PK — was capable of shooting seven hundred rounds per minute.
One of the men with bandoliers stepped forward, motioning at the driver to stop at the side of the road, across from the pickup truck. Birgit followed his order. The man approached the car slowly, his strut full of machismo, his rifle still in his hand, the barrel pointing to the ground.