Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (12 page)

Justin smiled. “I was hoping you would say that, sir.”

McClain nodded. He took out a small manila envelope from a folder and slid it toward Justin. “Here’s your new smartphone with the updated encryption.”

Justin pulled out his old BlackBerry from his briefcase and handed it to McClain.

“Not sure if your old phone is compromised, but let’s take no chances,” McClain said.

“I haven’t used it since last night.”

“Our techs will tear it apart.” McClain set it aside, next to his other folders. “If there’s a tracker, software or hardware, they’ll find it.”

“I had an interesting meeting right before the bomb blast,” Justin said.

He told them about the stolen surface-to-air missiles and Romanov’s proposal.

McClain listened carefully.

Carrie could barely hide her contempt. She hated Russia and everything Russian. It reminded her of the unclosed wound of her father killed in action. Romanov might be trying to help her find her father’s remains, but she still hated the man.

McClain leaned back in his seat, then loosened the tight knot of his black tie. He said, “Is this related to our leak?”

“It could be, especially if al-Shabaab gets hold of that arsenal.”

“And Romanov wants you to recover the shipment? Alone?” Carrie asked. Her tone of voice indicated the impossibility of such a mission and the craziness of even considering it.

“Yes, he suggested I retrieve the missiles. I didn’t agree to his proposal, so we didn’t get into other details,” Justin said with a shrug.

McClain shook his head. “I can’t authorize such an operation. Not in these circumstances and not now. I see the need to remove such precious cargo from the reach of al-Shabaab, but first, we’ve got to catch this mole.”

Justin opened his mouth, but McClain raised his right hand, stopping him. “I know what you’re going to say. We’ve isolated the worm, but it’s not enough. I don’t want a similar breach to happen again, especially if you’re deep in the badlands of Yemen, surrounded by packs of insurgents.”

Justin nodded. “Fine, but we can’t tell the Americans about Romanov’s deal gone sour. He spoke with me in confidence.”

“Understood,” McClain said in a slightly annoyed tone. He thought a moment about what he was going to say next, then reached for a document in a folder. “I said earlier we’re going after al-Shabaab. Here’s our best chance.”

Justin glanced at the paper.

“Our military intel has intercepted two conversations between senior al-Shabaab officials. Hassan Khalif Yusuf is the man in charge of a cell operating in southern Somalia. One of the men responsible for the New York bombing tonight was a member of his cell.” McClain passed a full-page color photo to Justin.

The man staring at him had small, but piercing dark eyes, a full black beard with a couple of gray spots, and a large bony nose. A black-and-white headscarf covered his forehead, a flap falling along the left side of his head. The barrel of a machine gun was visible in the background.

Justin took another look at the photo, memorized the face, then moved it toward Carrie. She glanced at Justin, who gave her a slight nod. “NCS showed me an older picture of Yusuf. He seems thinner here,” Justin said.

“His cell has the intel that endangered our recent operations,” McClain continued. “And yes, he’s lost some weight. Yusuf is sick. Kidney failure. Somalia doesn’t have the greatest health care system, and Yusuf is on so many blacklists, he can’t leave the country.”

“Do we know his current location?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, well, we know where he was yesterday. And we also know he’s on the move.” McClain pulled a couple of reports from one of his folders. “According to our intelligence, Yusuf is scheduled to see a doctor in three days, near El Wak, in southwest Somalia. He’s travelling light, with just three guards, as to not bring too much attention to himself.” He handed one of the reports to Justin, the other to Carrie.

Justin skimmed through the first page. “Do we have any assets in that part of the country?”

McClain sighed. “We don’t and neither does NCS.”

“MI6?” asked Carrie.

McClain shook his head. “Not that we’re aware of. The entire region is a wasteland, apart from a small village here and there—a few huts more than anything else—and a couple of struggling refugee camps. The drought and famine have devastated almost everything, and al-Shabaab is cutting down the few people still standing.”

Justin said, “Anyone from the camps we can use for infil and exfil?”

McClain shuffled through his papers. Finding what he was looking for, he pulled a couple of photos and a few maps. “Birgit Fredriksen. She’s the UN representative at Dagadera camp, a hundred miles south of El Wak.”

“Fredriksen. Danish?” Carrie asked.

“Swedish,” McClain replied. He handed the photos to Carrie and the maps to Justin. “Last year, she helped hide a couple of MI6 agents on a rescue mission. Their team was ambushed by unknown militants near the Somalia-Kenya border, somewhere around here.” He pointed to a particular point on the first map. “Our sources tell us she has a solid background. I’ve got a file on her.”

“Did she know they were MI6?” Justin asked.

“No. They said they were kidnapped tourists who were able to get away,” McClain replied.

“And it worked?” Carrie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It did. I don’t know if Fredriksen bought it. The truth is, she provided medical assistance and kept them hidden until the arrival of another rescue team.”

Justin studied the map showing the area surrounding the town of El Wak, the border cutting through its center. “For this to work, Birgit will have to pick us up near El Wak, then drive us to the village where Yusuf is seeing his doctor.”

“She’ll do that. Fredriksen will bring to this mission her knowledge and reputation. She has been working in Somalia for over ten years, the last six of them spent in this region,” McClain said, gesturing with his head toward the map.

“Then, after we snatch Yusuf, she’ll have to drive us into Kenya. So we’ll have to tell her about our mission, which will put her in grave danger,” Justin said. His voice turned low as he spoke the last words.

McClain’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “That can’t happen. She’s already in danger, working and living in an area infested with insurgents, witnessing battles among tribes and all-out wars. She doesn’t need any of our problems.”

“So we’ll have to get our own transport for exfil,” Carrie said. “We’ll take whatever Yusuf’s men are driving. By then, we should be familiar with the way out.”

“Yes, that could work,” Justin said. “What if we went in with our own transport?”

“I was thinking about it,” McClain replied, “but that adds additional risks. You’ll be a much more visible and precious target. Our CIS station in Nairobi will secure you a vehicle, which you can use at least some of the time.”

Justin nodded. “That would be good. This border is just in a line on a map. If Birgit meets us a few miles inside Somalia, then gets us close to the village, we’ll take care of the exit.”

McClain’s drew back his lips to form a thin line. He shook his head slowly, then said, “You need a more concrete plan. What if Yusuf’s SUV is disabled in the firefight? You may not be able to find another car. This area is al-Shabaab’s heartland, and you’ll have people shooting at you from all directions. Women. Children. And you’ll have no backup.”

“Agreed.” Justin spread out his hands, leaning forward. He tapped the map on the Somali side. “According to the intel, we’ll be about twenty miles in. Let’s have Birgit be our backup plan. If we can’t get our hands on a car, she’ll be our next option. Kenyan troops should also have a couple of choppers on standby, in case things get really ugly. They’ll be our last resort.” Justin placed his index finger on the Kenyan side, west of El Wak.

McClain nodded. “The Kenyans will play ball. Al-Shabaab is a big pain in their ass. A string of car bombs have targeted their cities, and militants routinely raid their border towns and villages.”

Justin rubbed his chin, then scratched the corner of his left jaw, just below one of his bruises.

“What are you thinking, Justin?” McClain asked.

“How will we convince Birgit to help us?”

“I’ve got some pull with high officials at the UN mission here. We helped them a year ago when five of their workers were kidnapped near the Dabaab refugee camp in Kenya, close to the border with Somalia, not far from where you’re going. We negotiated their release, so I’m sure they’ll return us the favor.”

“Perfect,” said Justin.

“I’ll get you on a plane to Nairobi, then to Wajir.” McClain pointed at the second map. “It has a decent airport, a tarmac runway, the only one north of Garissa, which is almost 200 miles south. Wajir is about sixty miles from the border with Somalia. You’ll travel as part of a diplomatic mission, so get all your gear ready. We have limited resources on the ground.”

“Will do,” said Carrie. She handed over Fredriksen’s photos to Justin.

The first one was a close-up. She was behind the steering wheel of a vehicle. Sweat, dirt, and fatigue were clear on her face, but Birgit was still a pretty woman, with blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a straight, narrow nose. She had thin lips and long blonde curls tied in a ponytail. The second photo showed her among a crowd of African children, probably from Dagadera camp. She looked as happy as they were to receive food and other supplies she was handing them.

“Now, get some sleep,” McClain said, closing his folder. “You’ll head out tomorrow, well today in the morning. We’ll convene here for a pre-mission briefing at zero nine hundred. By then, I should have more details about this operation.”

“And the mole?” Carrie asked.

“We’ll input data in our systems about a recon mission in northern Somalia to throw off al-Shabaab. That should give you some extra cover. Hopefully, Yusuf will give up his source, and we’ll find this traitor.”

* * *

McClain provided Justin and Carrie with detailed topographical maps of the border area, recent satellite photographs, and a collection of pictures of known and suspected al-Shabaab militants active in the area. More importantly, the agents received aerial shots of the village of Barjaare and of the house where the doctor was expected to treat the terrorist mastermind. A RQ-170 Sentinel reconnaissance drone was expected to secure real-time intelligence on any movements of militants, and the CIS station of Southeast Africa Division in Nairobi was going to monitor the operation and provide constant updates.

During the flight from Ottawa to Nairobi, Justin and Carrie re-examined the files received from NCS and McClain. They met in Nairobi with the two operatives that formed the entire CIS presence in the country. McClain was not kidding when he said they had limited resources on the ground. The station operated out of the High Commission of Canada to Kenya to provide the operatives with the vital diplomatic cover that came with being “members” of the Canadian Defense Advisor’s office.

McClain had vouched for the two CIS operatives, but Justin still kept their involvement and their knowledge about the operation to the necessary minimum. He relied on the operatives to secure a safe house for them in Nairobi, but he swept the apartment for bugs, and Carrie and he took turns keeping guard during the night.

They received updated intelligence from the Nairobi station in the morning. Al-Shabaab fighters had clashed with Kenya Defense Forces north of Wajir and around the border area last evening. Six people were dead, and several Kenyans were kidnapped. Al-Shabaab had taken the hostages back to Somalia, while Kenyan troops were sent in to pursue them. The army had set up checkpoints every ten miles or so, but its clampdown on the insurgents had not affected flights to Wajir Airport.

While it was still possible to fly the agents’ baggage—along with their weapons—under the label of “diplomatic mail,” it would be difficult to explain their arsenal if discovered at an army checkpoint. Justin and Carrie travelled on diplomatic passports. Even so, the presence of two Canadian senior officials in a war zone, heavily armed and without bodyguards, would raise a lot of suspicions. Everyone would realize they were anything but diplomats.

Justin and Carrie were not about to abandon their mission so far into it. Their cover of freelance journalists in the area to report on the recent incursions was going to allow them a certain freedom of movement, especially if they were not carrying any weapons or suspicious gear. They decided to change their travel plans and cross into Somalia closer to Wajir, to avoid at least some of the checkpoints. Birgit would have to meet them at another location, farther down south, away from El Wak. The use of aerial surveillance was out of the question, to avoid detection by Kenyan helicopters and fighter jets patrolling the airspace.

Justin and Carrie knew the bitter truth. They were going into this extremely dangerous operation completely on their own, without any weapons, and almost blind.

Chapter Nine

Fifteen miles southwest of El Wak, Kenya

September 26, 2:15 p.m. local time

The local “taxi” truck carrying over thirty people switched lanes, cutting in front of them, dangerously close to their truck’s front bumper. Justin slammed on his horn as their gray Nissan was engulfed in a thick cloud of red dust. He slowed down and switched on his headlights to avoid running over any cattle or humans with the bad habit of dashing across the strip of dirt called road.

“Crazy driver,” Justin barked, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

The Nissan bounced over a series of ruts in the road.

“Yeah, deadly. Carrying thirty people and still pulling such stunts,” Carrie said, holding on to the door handle.

“I think I saw a goat too. One of the women was holding it over her lap.”

The dust was setting. The terrain on both sides of the road was mainly flat, with scraggly thorn bushes and an occasional half-withered tree dotting the red soil. The prolonged drought had killed most of the livestock, fueling feuds among clansmen. A week ago, the area had seen bloody fighting, with young men swinging machetes and AKs.