Axiam exited the cockpit. "We should be in time for dinner.”
"Hold on," Stephen said. "Why does Madar hate Americans?"
Axiam frowned. "What happened?"
"He told Geedi he was going for a walk to get rid of the stench of Americans."
Axiam's frown turned into a scowl. "I'll talk to him."
"Is he going to be a problem?"
"Not after I finish talking to him." He motioned out the door.
"We need to clear the way so that my men can unload the khat and take it to the vehicles. I'll show you to a place where you can freshen up before dinner. After that, a couple hours' nap and then we're on the road after midnight."
"The road?" Liam asked.
Axiam nodded. "Most khat users like it as fresh as they can get it. It's only ninety miles east-southeast from here to Eyl as the crow flies, but in order to get there, we're going to have to travel a hundred and forty miles across what passes for highways around here. So we'll be driving all night to reach Eyl in the morning."
"What’s our cover going to be?"
"Guards. I presume you can all shoot an AK-47?"
It was near midnight when Tanner stepped outside the small building Axiam put them up in. He carried an AK-47, and his pistol was on his hip. He wore cargo pants and an open-necked shirt, with boots.
Despite the lateness of the evening, it was still warm and dry outside, pleasant compared to the relentless heat of the day. A few lights were on, and the steady thrum of a generator was audible. Across the courtyard, people moved about in and around a large building that looked like a garage. Overhead, the night sky was awash with stars.
Tanner heard Axiam's footsteps before the CIA agent emerged from the shadows.
"Couldn't sleep?" Axiam grinned.
"Not really.”
"Something bothering you?"
"Many things are on my mind."
"Including whether or not you can trust me?"
Tanner looked at Axiam, who returned the stare with one of his own. “Stephen trusts you."
"But you don't."
"I don't know you."
Axiam nodded. "Fair enough." He pointed to a set of stone stairs placed against the wall twenty yards away. "Let me show you something."
The climb wasn't too taxing, and moments later, both were standing on the wall's walkway, behind a chest-high wall. "What do you see, Mr. Wilson?" Axiam motioned out into the darkness.
"I see the town. A few lights. It's quiet."
"This is my home," Axiam said quietly. "A home that's been torn apart by warlords and religious extremists for the last twenty years. Now?" He shrugged. "These days it's clan versus clan, with alliances, betrayals, and innocents getting slaughtered. No one cares."
"Must be tough.”
Axiam laughed derisively. "Tough, yeah. It’s a damn nightmare. I'm only tolerated in some areas because I'm the only source of khat they can get. Clan loyalty is still strong here, stronger than the idea of belonging to a country. Then you add in the pirates and religious hard-liners…I just don't see it getting any better."
He leaned forward until he rested his elbows on the wall in front of him. "Do you know what I miss about America the most?"
"What?"
"Not being pigeonholed as being from this clan or that clan. In America, I was an American.” He paused to shrug before continuing. “Most people didn't care where I came from — the Marines sure as hell didn't. My uncle doesn't worry about the religious police coming in and telling him what to do or say. There, I am free to make my own decisions. Here, I'm trapped between clan obligations and family duty."
Axiam turned and looked down at the garage. "I have ninety men depending on me for their livelihood, so they can put food into their family's bellies, and maybe a new headscarf for their wives. The average Somali makes six hundred dollars per year. Do you know how much I pay my people? Fifty dollars a week. Here, that's an incredible amount of money."
"All from distributing khat?"
"Mostly. I've been expanding into other businesses, trying to give the people here hope. Nearly three hundred people see me as their leader, and depend on me. Without me, they would turn to piracy, flee for a refugee camp, or risk crossing the Gulf of Aden for menial work in Saudi Arabia or Yemen." He motioned toward the garage. "That is why I stay, when it would make more sense to take my family and return to America."
"Sounds like a lot of responsibility." Tanner said. "And outside of your agent responsibilities."
"It is. The CIA sends me a little money and some spare parts now and then, and in return I send them reports detailing the Somali equivalent of a soap opera — which clans are talking alliance, who's backstabbing who, who's up, who's down, who's backing who…" He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "I don't know if anyone actually reads them, and I don't care anymore. I trust Stephen, and he trusts you. That's why I'm helping you."
"It's liable to be dangerous."
Axiam snorted. "Life here in my country is dangerous every single day, Mr. Wilson. Bullets and shells have no morality, and famine is never far away. A quarter of my clients would kill me if there was another way of getting their khat, and about half would steal it if they thought they could get away with it. I've lost a dozen men to would-be hijackers and ambushes, and three times, other gangs have tried forcing their way into my territory. I've had to become the major khat dealer in the area in order to survive and do my job for Uncle Sam. Yabaal is dangerous, but he isn't the first psycho I've had to deal with, and he won't be the last."
Axiam glanced at his watch. "You'd better get your team together. We're leaving within the hour."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
From the back of an old Soviet GAZ-51 cargo truck, Tanner's first impression of Eyl was that it was similar to Garoowe, just smaller. The town rested in a valley of sorts, surrounded by rocky hills, and was still mostly in darkness. The convoy drove in from the north along a deserted two-lane highway in the pre-dawn hours.
Axiam gave the team a brief overview of Eyl via radio as they neared the settlement. "The bulk of the town is three miles inland,” the CIA agent explained. “Yabaal's headquarters is in the section fronting the beach. For centuries it was a fishing village before piracy raised its ugly head. For a while, it was like a modern-day Port Royal, with pirates swaggering up and down the streets, until the world had enough and cracked down. Then Puntland came along, pushed the pirates out and reestablished law and order. Earlier this year, Yabaal's goons show up, they take over and we're right back to Port Royal again. Not only that, but there's a couple of warlords who want the town as a home base."
"What about Yabaal's goons?" Dante asked.
"Bullies, but they generally leave the town's population alone beyond keeping everyone in line and the occasional beat-down. They tolerate me because I'm the only khat dealer willing to come out here to deal with them."
Tanner looked back at the rest of the five-vehicle convoy, marked only by their headlights. Besides the GAZ-51 he was riding in, there was a pair of Russian-made ZIS-150s, an American M35 two-and a-half ton cargo truck, and an Italian-built Lancia Ro. While all were far older than any of the drivers and guards, they were decently maintained and there had been no mechanical issues along the entire five-hour trip. Each truck carried a ton of khat, along with supplies for the convoy and Axiam's Eyl-based operations.