Johnson gestured to the M45 pistol in King’s hand, the barrel of which remained pointed at the dirt between them. ‘Seems like you’re planning to engage.’
‘Precautions. I’d be stupid not to take them.’
Johnson nodded. ‘I’d do the same. Well, good luck out there. Don’t make things worse, or you’ll fuck up the operation for the rest of us.’
‘I have the feeling Reed’s already done that.’
‘Uh-huh. And he didn’t stop for a second to consider the consequences. He should be in prison, and you know it.’
King paused. ‘I don’t know anything yet. And neither do you.’
The hostile temperament resurfaced. ‘It’s pretty obvious. No-one’s bothering us, and then a trio of al-Shabaab thugs ambush Reed on the outskirts of the camp. What if they didn’t find him patrolling the suburbs? What if they barged straight in here? What would the damage have been like?’
‘Well, it’s a good thing they found him, then. And it’s a good thing he had the nerve to act. They could have gunned him down and pushed straight through into the compound. He stopped them in their tracks, and it’s probably causing the rest of the dock workers to hesitate. It’s probably why we’re not outnumbered by militants right now.’
‘Reed instigated everything in the first place. They wouldn’t be bothering us if he’d stayed in his lane.’
‘But he didn’t. And here we are.’
‘Here we are,’ Johnson mused. ‘Well … I won’t keep you waiting.’
He moved across to the small wood-panelled booth erected right near the perimeter gate and thumbed a button on a grimy console. The space within was shrouded in darkness, sparse and utilitarian. Little funds had been expended on this place.
The gate whined open, piercingly loud in the balmy night. King flinched involuntarily and tightened his grip on the weapon. The gaping maw in the perimeter fence beckoned him, inviting him out into the wild. He had no vehicle, no instructions, no-one watching over him to pull him out if the going got tough.
He turned to Johnson. ‘How far’s the port?’
‘About two miles.’
‘Nice night for a walk.’
Johnson shrugged. ‘Your choice. I can’t let you take one of the jeeps. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb out there. Remember, you’re not affiliated with us. Under any circumstances.’
King nodded. ‘I’m a nobody.’
‘Good luck,’ the man repeated. ‘Hope you find enough evidence to nail that scummy fucker.’
‘That’s not what I have in mind.’
‘You should.’
King let the conversation die out, realising that allowing it to drag on any further would only mean doubling back on topics they had previously touched on. Johnson’s resentment toward Reed was starkly obvious, and any more time King spent loitering around would serve him no good. He was determined to keep a neutral perspective.
From what he’d seen so far, all signs pointed to Reed posing a welcome addition to Black Force’s ranks.
King nodded farewell to the perimeter guard and stepped out into the night.
15
The container ship breached a violent wave with a roar of exertion, its hull groaning under the strain of the Indian Ocean. Then, all at once, the crippling swells dispersed, replaced by a sparkling field of turquoise for as far as the eye could see, illuminated by a full moon overhead.
The bearded man breathed a sigh of relief as he stared out one of the portholes along the bridge. Beside him, the ship’s crew calmed themselves. They had overcome the last major hurdle of the journey, and were now free to trawl along Somalia’s coast for as long as their guests needed. They had little choice in the matter.
The bearded man reached up and wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead — he hated the seas. He would die before admitting it to any of the crew around him, but he had been reluctant to accept the task that had been put before him. Eventually, the potential profits outweighed the fear and he had stepped aboard the container ship with bated breath.
Now they’d made it to the coast, he soaked in the view of Galmudug state, a portion of Somalia several hundred miles north of its capital. Their payload would soon make its journey from Mogadishu to the tiny village of El Hur, where it would be intercepted by the container ship. The bearded man — along with his unit — would make off with their riches in stunning fashion. No-one would be the wiser, and they would live out the rest of their days in opulent luxury, having employed a number of methods to ensure that they received a sizeable monthly cash flow until the day they died.
He could hardly wait.
He wanted off this damn ship, and he wanted more money than he could possibly imagine.
It had been a laborious, complicated procedure. The business he and his men owned had to be restructured in preparation for the massive explosion of wealth they were set to acquire. The majority of the money they received would be cold hard cash. Whenever this kind of dirty operation was concerned, cash reigned king. It couldn’t be traced, couldn’t be regulated and scrutinised and taxed. It proved cumbersome to manhandle, but the bearded man considered himself up to the task. It would be injected sporadically into their pre-existing business, piece by piece, entering the system legally without having to do any of the work to earn the money honestly.
The bearded man smiled.
He studied the ship workers milling about the bridge, sweating and focused. They would be paid scraps for their hard work, forced to maintain their positions for years — if not decades — to come.
If only they knew.
The bearded man had only recently experienced the revelation. There were men on this planet who worked harder than him — even when taking into account his violent past. But all it took was a single power move, a set of actions that were rather simple but most chose to avoid. He would take advantage of the way the world worked — all the business dealings that governments and countries allowed to go ahead under the table because they kept the economy running.
In planning this operation, he had discovered that almost anything could be achieved if you made the dealings complicated enough. Carry out the deal in international waters, where jurisdiction was confusing and muddied, and no-one felt the urge to come after you. Set up accounts and systems in five or six different countries across the globe and money is forced to pass through a route that no-one will care to follow to its end.
After all, most countries only give a shit about what happens within their borders.
Now that he could see the coastline, the bearded man experienced a wave of anticipation. It made him giddy with excitement. He didn’t let it show, but hope began to trickle into his system. He had remained sceptical for longer than necessary, just in case everything went belly-up and he found himself at the mercy of a foreign judicial system.
But the endgame was right there.
Just a couple dozen miles away.
Soon the payload would make its way to the container ship with the help of a convoy of work boats hired off the locals. They would cram it into one of the TEUs, which he’d been told would ensure its safety for the return trip.
The details had been explained to him in painstaking fashion.
The likelihood of their container getting inspected was almost nonexistent. Roughly one percent of the containers that passed through the major ports were stopped for inspection — any more than that, and there would be such massive delays as to disrupt the natural flow of the international shipping industry. He had asked his men to compile as much data as possible on the size and scope of the maze, more for reassurance’s sake than anything else. He had come away satisfied — the transnational web of ships that ebbed to and fro across countries and continents was almost immeasurable. Finding their dirty profits would be like finding a needle in a haystack the size of a skyscraper.