Don Pendleton: Predator Paradise

“Understood.”

White men in Somalia, Dugula thought. They were a rare sight. It was beyond strange—malevolent perhaps—how these whites had ingratiated themselves to a rival clan, even if they had thrown around large sums of both shillings and U.S. dollars to buy protection, gather information, carve inroads into their clans. But for what purpose? Who were they? CIA? Mercenaries? The first time he had met them they had dropped off an envelope bulging with U.S. dollars, saying little, only that they would require his help, that he would be well compensated for, again, some unspecified act. Dugula had some idea what they wanted, catching the whispers from his various informants around the city, but he needed to hear them state it out loud.

Slipping on his dark sunglasses, he marched outside, grimacing at the first blast of heat. He was halfway across the courtyard, counting his own men, spread along both walls, a gauntlet of assault rifles and RPGs, poised to catch the visitors in a crossfire, when the first wave of the technicals rolled through the gate. The technicals were a common sight all over Mogadishu, he knew, the Toyota pickups or anything else on wheels, with roofs cleaved off to allow free and easy fields of fire for the .50-caliber machine guns or the smattering of TOW rockets. Truck beds, he noted, were crammed with gunmen, most of the them mooryan, teenage thugs. The glaze in their eyes from the amphetamine-like high of qat warned him they were edged out. Not good, no telling what they would do as he saw their fingers tight around the triggers of assault rifles, ready to shoot, he had to assume, for little or no reason.

He stood his ground, dust spooling in his face, the technicals fanning out. Twelve, no, thirteen technicals lurching to a halt then, nervous-sounding laughter, chatter among the mooryan, a few mouths still grinding away at qat. As before, the black minivan was last, carrying its mystery whites, two motorbikes with gunmen flanking the vehicle. Dugula waited, pulse drumming in his skull. The minivan stopped in the dust cloud, door sliding open.

Three men in brown fatigues stepped out, slow, sure of themselves. AKs were draped across their shoulders, spare banana clips wedged in their waistbands. Commando daggers were sheathed at their hips. As they cut the gap, Dugula found the black hoods concealing their identities unsettling for a moment. He wasn’t sure what to make of this display, wondering if they were issuing some silent statement meant to unnerve him, or if their desire to keep their faces hidden was genuine, bore some special significance. If he chose, he could have them followed again, but the word from his trackers was that these men were bounced all over Mogadishu in the black van, changing vehicles, in and out of safehouses, able, or so he was told, to vanish into the air. It made him wonder how accurate—or deceitful—their report, whom he could trust, where did the truth lie. Money always had a way of shifting allegiance.

Blue Eyes, as he thought of the hood in the middle, held his stare. Dugula was certain he was grinning to himself. Arrogant bastard, he thought, stifling the urge to whip the assault rifle off his shoulder and blaze away. Dugula felt himself being measured, Blue Eyes laughing back at him, a private joke.

“We have to stop meeting like this, Habbie. Your little slice of hell on Earth, not high up on my list of hot spots to start with, is starting to make even me a little jumpy, and I’ve been down some dark alleys in my day.”

“Perhaps you would prefer we do this on some sandy beach, sipping iced tea?”

“Right. After a nice dip in the Indian Ocean. No, thanks, but I’d rather swim with sharks of the human variety than what’s out in those waters. And do me and yourself a favor when we leave here. Leave your own mooryan at home. If I start seeing a bunch of your shooters on my bumper, I’m going to begin thinking ours can never be a working and profitable match made in Hell.”

“Perhaps if I knew exactly what you wanted? If I were to understand what is this working relationship to which you refer?”

“It’s this.”

The white with the scar on his hand spoke up, producing a thick envelope from behind his back, tucking it in his waistband. “Fifty thousand dollars, American. An advance, if you agree.”

“But you need to understand the rules first, Habbie,” Blue Eyes said before Dugula could ask the obvious. “Then we can play ball. You love money, you want power, you want to be top dog on the block. You’re on every shit list from UNICEF to the White House. Thing is, what we are, we’re your three wise men, come here bearing gifts.”

“How magnanimous. To what do I owe this great honor?”

The third black hood got into the act next. Like the first time they met, the three whites ricocheted the verbal shooting match between them, leaving Dugula wondering if this act was scripted, and who, exactly, was in charge between them. Number three had blackness behind the slit where his left eye was, Dugula fairly assuming there was a patch covering some war memento.

“Here it is,” One Eye began. “In the coming days there are going to be several very significant big events, within and beyond your borders. We prefer to not stand here in this heat and dust and with sky spies framing our every move, answering a bunch of questions that only time and decisive action will answer in the first place. First, we’re taking the human cargo you have smuggled in-country. They’re part of the plan. They go with us.”

There it was, he thought, gut clenching, spine tightening. Before the thought they were some sort of international bounty hunters or CIA black ops, come to either kill or capture the holy freedom fighters he had been paid to grant safe haven to, Blue Eyes, as if he could read minds, cooled some of his fears.

“Relax. We’re not here to kill or arrest those who are under the care of your golden umbrella.”

“Truth be known,” Scar Hand said, “their leaders are aware of our presence here. Call it a blessing from Allah, a strange union between infidels and Islam, but it’s arranged. And your guests have already agreed to go the distance.”

Dugula bared his teeth, a half smile, half grimace, and waved a hand. “This is all very mysterious, and suspicious. You talk, ten ways out of your mouths, but you say little.”

“No time to stand around and gnaw on nerves or question what’s damn near an act of God being dumped in your lap. You accept—on faith—and you’ll be well rewarded,” One Eye said.

“There is a number inside the envelope,” Blue Eyes said. “Call it. A cutout to a very important individual in a country better left unnamed at this time, but an individual you know well through your own Web site. He’ll back our story, and he’s backing us.”

“You are telling me, what, exactly?”

“Rule number one,” Blue Eyes said. “You’re on a need-to-know basis, that is, until the time comes when your role will become larger than the scourge of Muhammad’s head-lopping converters. Then it will be defined, a blinding light that will grant you, shall we say, instant transformation. Super warlord. That could be you.”

They paused, Dugula sensing he was supposed to be impressed or implore them to continue. “I’m listening.”

“You recruit some of these fighters for your clan,” One Eye said, “from other countries, some of them used by you to wipe out rivals, help keep the iron grip on your turf. They train here, they plan their operations when they’re not beefing up your troops. Surprised? Habbie, we know everything that goes on in this neck of the woods. Hey, as far as some folks you know are concerned, we’re the next-greatest thing to Allah. Think of us as damn near supernatural.”