The pilot opened his door and he jumped out. A black man wearing a Manchester United red cap, large Ray-Ban aviator shades, a white t-shirt, and black cargo pants approached him, running away from the settling dust. A thick golden chain fit for a retriever hung loose around his skinny neck. He had no weapons in his hands, but Justin was not sure about any pistols hidden behind his back or in his pockets. When he was about ten steps away from Justin, he shouted in Arabic, “Are you the man I’m picking up?”
Justin tightened his grip around his AK slightly raised toward the pilot. “That depends,” he replied. “What’s your name?”
The man grinned. “Ibrahim. My name’s Ibrahim.”
“OK, what are you doing here?”
“My order was to pick up a man needing a ride to Kismayo.”
Justin liked the reply. “I’m the one you’re picking up.”
Ibrahim nodded. “Let’s go.”
“In a minute.”
Justin walked backwards to his jeep, turned off the headlights and the engine, and took his knapsack. He kept his eyes on Ibrahim the whole time.
“Was that gunfire aimed at you?” Justin asked when he returned.
“Yeah. But I was way beyond their reach. Stupid drunks, wasting their bullets.”
The airplane’s red paint was peeling off, and some of the body showed signs of corrosion. The entire exterior looked timeworn. The pilot’s window had a huge crack in the middle. Justin wondered how many flight hours the airplane had clocked up and whether it had ever had an overhaul.
Justin opened the door and climbed in the back seat, behind the pilot. Half of the instruments on the dashboard seemed to be out of order. The interior was rundown, and the panels were threadbare. The gray fabric of the seats was held together by duct tape, covered in scratches, cracks, and stains.
“Don’t let the looks fool you,” Ibrahim said. “I’ve flown all over Somalia, Kenya, Ethiopia. And why don’t you sit in the front?” He pointed to the seat next to him.
“More comfort.”
Justin shifted his body to avoid one of the seat springs from pressing into his thigh. He slid his AK with the barrel pointing to Ibrahim’s seat. In case he makes a move. He only wished the bullet would not go through and pierce the Cessna’s windshield.
“Ready?” Ibrahim asked.
Justin nodded. He groped around for a seatbelt but found only a couple of oil-stained rags.
Ibrahim steered the airplane around, then pushed forward the throttle. The Cessna picked up speed, rattling as if some parts were going to fall off at any moment. The engine clattered, and its vibrations send toppling a few cans in the back of the airplane. Ibrahim pulled on the yoke, gently and slowly — his only gesture that impressed Justin so far — and the Cessna lifted off the ground. It wavered at first, like a duckling in its first flight, then it became steadier.
Justin stared at the black abyss falling behind, then up toward the bright stars. Romanov would have to do better than this. Ibrahim is enough to get me out of this hole, but for the operation in Yemen, I’ll need some true professionals.
Carrie woke up to a car engine revving just outside the safe house, followed by screeching tires. She threw off her sheets and reached for her Browning 9mm on the nightstand. She listened for other noises, while holding the pistol in her left hand. Avoiding the large bedroom window, she tiptoed out to the hall. She stayed away from the line of fire in case someone was about to start blasting through the reinforced steel door. She stopped and listened. No footsteps or other noises came from outside.
She relaxed a bit, then moved on to sweep the two-bedroom apartment. All windows were intact. There were no intruders. Is there such a thing as too much paranoia? she wondered. The thought reminded her of Justin, always suspicious of almost everyone, always expecting betrayal. And it happened sometimes.
Who is this traitor? Why target him? Why now? Justin, wherever you are, please be safe.
She took her gun to the kitchen and made tea. While waiting for it to steep, she logged on to the secure servers of CIS station in Nairobi for any updates on her assignment. Last night, McClain had authorized her operation to stop Justin or as he liked to call him “that rogue agent.” McClain had partnered her with Nathan Smyth, one of the agents stationed in Cairo. Carrie had worked with Nathan a couple of times, and she had only good impressions about his professionalism. Carrie was going to meet up with him in Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. They would fly together to Sa’dah, about one hundred and fifty miles north.
The purpose of their assignment in Yemen was to avoid causing the Service any public embarrassment. Covert operations were supposed to stay that way, but the operation in Somalia was no longer a secret. The news about the dead Americans had not hit the international media yet, but Carrie could see the clouds gathering on the horizon. Nairobi would soon be teeming with reporters.
McClain had given her no specific instructions about the amount of force to use in order to stop Justin. “Capture or kill” was, of course, the usual order in such a situations. Carrie knew about more than one occasion of rogue agents captured by the Service. She had no knowledge of cases when Service operatives had been killed by their own fellow agents. But Justin was a friend, more than a friend, a man she had once dated, and whom for a brief period she had thought was her soul mate. He had been her partner in one too many operations. Nathan was also a close associate of Justin. Carrie could read the subtext and the vagueness in McClain’s order: find him and bring him home alive. She hoped Nathan had received the same order.
Carrie printed some of the files McClain had sent her, so she could read them during the taxi ride to CIS station. Then she sipped her tea, while reading one of the reports. McClain had confirmed that according to the Service’s files some of the people killed during the shootout in Somalia were known or suspected al-Shabaab members. Most of the phone numbers Justin had retrieved belonged to other al-Shabaab members or supporters.
McClain had talked to Deputy Director Adams of NCS. Adams, as expected, had denied having any knowledge about Yusuf holding an American passport. To him and to CIA, Hassan Khalif Yusuf was a Somali terrorist, one of al-Shabaab’s masterminds. She did not know if McClain had pressed Adams on the intelligence claiming Yusuf was looking for a doctor, which, according to Justin, had proved to be false. McClain had provided no information about the boxes of the American-made assault rifles they had discovered in Somalia.
We’ll have to figure these out when we get back to Ottawa.
She caught herself thinking in plural. We. Justin and I. Yes. Justin and I.
Chapter Fourteen
After the bone-rattling Cessna flight in warlike conditions, the comfort of the Gulfstream G650 airplane was the right cure for Justin’s sleep-deprived, dog-tired body. Romanov had thrown his weight around and had convinced one of his Chinese business partners to lend him his private jet.
“He’s a good friend of mine,” Romanov had said.
Justin wished he had such friends. He was the only passenger aboard the luxurious airplane with two gorgeous Malaysian female flight attendants completely at his disposal.