Running Dark (11 page)

VANDERLOCK WAVED EMMA TOWARD THE AIRPLANE. THE WORKERS
were loading the last sack into the cargo hold. One had already jumped into his pickup and prepared to leave. She heard his car radio switch on with the motor. Township music filled the air. She paused to listen to the sound of pulsing beats and women’s voices.

“What is it?” Vanderlock said.

“Township music. It’s the second time I’ve heard it. I love it.”

“I grew up with township music. I hate it,” Vanderlock said. He grabbed her elbow to help her into the jet. The workers had wheeled a small set of rolling metal stairs to the entrance. Emma stepped up and into the body, with Vanderlock right behind her.

The jet’s interior had been gutted. Only the first row of seats remained, the rest ripped out to allow maximum cargo space. Wet burlap sacks filled every available inch. Twigs, leaves, and bits of dirt from previous flights covered whatever floor space remained visible. The entire plane smelled of damp leaves, earth, moss, and a hint of mold. Skeletal metal rails, and nothing else, separated the cockpit from the rest of the plane. Emma peered at the controls.

“Can you fly?” Vanderlock said.

Emma shook her head. “Not at all.”

He lowered his frame into the pilot’s seat. “Join me.” He indicated the copilot’s chair.

“You don’t have a copilot?”

Vanderlock busied himself with the dashboard. “I often do, but
he’s away for a couple of weeks. If I flew with passengers, I’d be grounded, but with khat? No one cares. The shipments must go on.” He snapped a headset onto his ears, checked that the workers had closed the doors, and flipped some switches. The props began to circulate. Vanderlock handed her a second headset over his shoulder, all the while making adjustments and checking the dash.

Emma held the headset and hesitated.

Vanderlock looked up at her. “Are you afraid of flying?”

If you only knew, Emma thought. “I’m afraid of crashing. Flying is okay.” Despite the danger, uncertainty, and her exhaustion, Emma felt almost giddy with excitement. She’d never flown in the cockpit of an airplane that size, never thought she’d ever do so. The idea of experiencing flight from the nose of the aircraft rather than the bowels of the plane seemed safer somehow—the way riding in the front seat of a car was more pleasurable than in the back. She scrambled into the seat, snapped her seat belt, and placed the headset over her ears. Vanderlock turned and taxied for a minute to an empty runway. When they reached the beginning, he throttled the aircraft forward.

The ground passed under their wheels faster and faster as the plane chewed up the runway. The liftoff felt magical when viewed from the copilot’s seat. One minute they bumped along, grounded, and the next they angled into the air, floating. Emma laughed out loud with the feeling of the jet pulsing upward and the view of only the vast sky in front of her. Vanderlock seemed to enjoy her excitement, because he smiled. He kept his eyes on the controls as he maneuvered the aircraft higher. When they reached cruising altitude, the plane leveled off. After thirty minutes he pressed some more buttons and visibly relaxed. He glanced at her, shaking his head.

“You’re the first person I’ve known who has laughed while flying to Somalia,” he said.

Emma refused to let her fear of what lay ahead eclipse the moment. “I love this,” she said.

Vanderlock held her gaze. She couldn’t read his thoughts.

“What do you do for Banner?”

“Ah. I can’t say.”

“Are you a mercenary?”

“I can’t say.”

“Are you his girlfriend?”

Emma snorted. “If I were, do you think he’d be sending me to Somalia?”

Vanderlock shrugged. “Word is he hires ex-military women. Wouldn’t be unusual for those types to take dangerous missions.”

“Tell me about the khat.”

“Changing the subject?”

“Yep,” Emma said.

Vanderlock settled deeper into the seat. “The khat is picked in Kenya, driven to Nairobi, flown out of Wilson Airport to Mogadishu, and from there distributed throughout Somalia. Speed is important, because khat stays fresh for only forty-eight hours. After that it’s useless.”

“How much is in here?”

“Five tons. And I’m not the only flight today.”

“How did you get into the business of flying it?”

Vanderlock checked his dash before answering. “I always wanted to be a pilot, but opportunities were slim in South Africa where I grew up. I flew charter safari tours for a while, but dealing with rich tourists out of New York got old. Too much hand-holding for my taste. When a friend offered me the khat route, I jumped at it.”

The whole explanation sounded a bit too pat for Emma. Give up a good job for making drug flights to the most dangerous place on the planet? Not likely, but she decided not to pursue it. Whatever secrets Vanderlock wanted to keep, they were no business of hers.

“Have you ever been fired on?”

He reached behind him to open a Styrofoam cooler shoved between a green duffel bag and the airplane wall. He pulled out a bottle
of water and handed it to her, then opened another and took a huge gulp. He had stopped smiling.

“I had a close call just last week. Surface-to-air missile came within fifty meters. I banked pretty hard and circled to take a look. Nothing else happened, so I landed anyway. Shocked the hell out of me. I’ve been flying the same route for two years now without incident. The insurgents know me and this plane. I’m still not sure if it was a mistake, some kid playing with a new toy, or deliberate, but it’s not a good sign.”

Emma swallowed. Her throat had gone dry. “Any idea what might be happening?”

“Things are deteriorating. The pirate activity is handled by the warlords. They’re cashing in to the tune of millions, but the rest of the maritime world is starting to push back. Banner’s stunt sent a message that the warlords couldn’t ignore. They’re responding by ramping up their attacks on anything that moves.”

Emma felt a flare of anger. “Why do you call it a stunt?”

Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. “Because he knew that the government in Hargeisa had no jurisdiction over those pirates. Hargeisa’s in a section of Somalia called Somaliland. It’s relatively peaceful by Somali standards, but it’s not separate from Somalia and its government isn’t recognized by the West. It’s just an area some warlord decided to take over. In fact, there’s no government in Somalia at all, so when the navy catches the pirates, they often just let them go again. Banner knew this but dragged them in anyhow.”

Emma swallowed some water. “Sounds like he was making a point.”

“That point being?”

“‘Don’t mess with me. I won’t let you go.’”

“He’s making that point against some very sick characters. They’re going to attack Banner and his people with all they’ve got. And that means you.”

The fear grew. She tamped it back down. “I’ll take my chances.”
She sounded tougher than she felt. She only hoped that she was convincing.

“You sure are taking a chance.” Vanderlock tossed the empty water bottle into a small garbage bag that hung from the wall on a bungee cord. “Listen, it may be none of my business, but something doesn’t feel right here. When Banner moves personnel, he arms them to the teeth and they travel in groups for safety. His stealth guys operate alone, but they’re armed as well. And you? You show up with Roducci, one of the biggest arms traders in the world, but you have no weapons, no luggage, and no escort.”

Emma in no way wanted to have this conversation. It would only serve to scare the hell out of her. She’d get to the second contact and take things from there. If Vanderlock was correct, she’d be in “relatively peaceful” Hargeisa in three hours.

“
You’re
not armed that I can see,” she countered.

Vanderlock pointed to a long metal toolbox strapped flush against the wall on Emma’s side of the plane. “Open it,” he said.

Emma reached to the box, flipped open the metal clasp, and lifted the lid. An AK-47 rested on top of another, tubular-type device.

“What’s the tube?”

“RPG-7. Shoots rocket-propelled grenades.”

Emma closed the box.

“And then there’s this.” Vanderlock leaned forward in his seat, raised the tail of his shirt, and twisted away from her. A pistol nestled in a holster at the small of his back. “And this.” He put his left foot on the plane’s side, pulled back his pant leg, and slid a slender knife out of his boot. He held the weapon up for Emma to see before returning it to its place. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.” Vanderlock’s eyes held a challenge. Emma chose to ignore the double entendre.

“Please concentrate on flying this plane. You’re making me nervous,” she said.

He resettled into the flight seat. “You don’t have a weapon, do you?”

She felt her face flush. Truth was, she couldn’t shoot with any accuracy. If she held an automatic weapon and fired hundreds of bullets per minute, she
might
succeed in hitting a target, but success was not assured by any means.

“No,” she admitted. “I’m not a great shot.”

Vanderlock shook his head in disgust. “Roducci has a trunk full of guns in that Mercedes of his. Least he could have done is given you one. Can you fight?”

Emma was confused. “What do you mean?”

“Karate? Tae kwon do? Anything?”

Now Emma was getting angry. She didn’t need his derision just then. She pointed at his metal box.

“Judging from that little collection you just showed me, fighting will get me nowhere once the bullets start flying. Listen, I’m a scientist and I just need to get to Hargeisa. I’m counting on you to fly me there. After that I’ll go my own way.”

Vanderlock put a hand up as if to ward her off. “Fine. I’ll get you there.”

They lapsed into silence. Emma gazed out the window. The fear had won. It overshadowed her joy at flying. She wrestled it back to manageable levels. She took several long, slow breaths to calm herself while she stared at the ground below them. She remembered a bit of advice a soldier had once given her: When in the field, sleep when you can. The sun on the windshield bathed her face, and the plane’s vibration soothed her. After a few minutes, her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep.

She awoke with a start. Vanderlock had a hand on her arm and was shaking her. “First you laugh, then you sleep. You’re a cool one.”

Emma straightened up. She had no memory of falling asleep, and for a moment she was disoriented.

“We’re landing.” He pointed to a spot far in front of the plane’s nose. “Over there is the city proper. Used to be a beautiful place back in the eighties. It’s a little bit of hell now. But we’re not going there.”
Below them, battered buildings came into view amid the scrub and dust. Gaping holes and missing roofs revealed the extent of the destruction wrought by mortar shells. The entire landscape looked bleak, hot, and forbidding.

Vanderlock focused his attention on the panel before him. Landing the plane appeared to be taking all his concentration. Emma stayed silent, letting him work. They dropped lower and lower. A single runway cut into the sand came into view. Vanderlock aimed for it.

They bumped once before the plane settled into a fast taxi. Vanderlock lowered the flaps. The resulting drag pushed Emma against her seat belt. Near the end of the track sat several pickup trucks with men gathered around. Sunlight glinted off the guns slung over their shoulders. Their images flashed by as the plane shot past. When it seemed as if they would fall right off the runway, they stopped. Vanderlock worked some switches, and the propellers slowed. He turned to her.

“Welcome to Mogadishu. Also known as ‘Baghdad by the Sea.’”

VANDERLOCK THREW OPEN THE DOOR AND SPUN BACKWARD.
Men swarmed at the entrance, each one yelling at the other and jostling for position. They hoisted themselves into the plane, competing to be the first inside. They clawed at the sacks, hauling them onto their shoulders. A Toyota pickup pulled parallel to the opening, and the men flung the khat into the truck’s bed. When the flatbed was full, the truck tore off, its spinning wheels flinging bits of dirt and stones into the air. Another vehicle pulled into place, and the men kept the sacks somersaulting out. The plane shook with the frenetic activity. Sunlight filled the aircraft’s interior, and along with it came a wave of heat. Emma stood but remained pressed against the back of the copilot’s seat to stay clear of the frenzied men.

A skinny Somali fought his way into the cabin. He wore a T-shirt and dirty green cargo pants, and he carried an open clamshell mobile phone in one hand. A necklace with a carved antelope head swung on a rawhide string tied around his neck. Emma stared at it, trying to recall where she’d seen it before. The memory danced around in her head, but she was unable to pin it down. The man’s face twisted in anger as he shoved at the workers. He shrieked, “Shit, shit, shit!” interspersed with words in a language that Emma assumed was Somali. Behind him came a young soldier whom Emma guessed to be no more than nineteen, perhaps twenty. He wore jeans and black Nike basketball shoes. An ammunition belt encircled his waist, and two more crisscrossed his chest, covering the logo on his T-shirt. Emma noted
that out of all the men, he was the only one in jeans. An AK-47 hung from a strap on his shoulder. Skinny Man stepped up to Vanderlock.

“Shit—” he said, and followed up with some more words in Somali.

Vanderlock shrugged and replied in the same language.

Skinny Man turned his eyes to her, not with interest but with menace. Emma pressed back against the seat. Her foot hit the locker holding the guns. She pulled up a mental picture of them nestled in the case and wished she were holding one now.

Vanderlock began speaking again in Somali, but the young soldier interrupted him.

“You should speak in English. It is the only language you know well enough to be understood.” The young soldier spoke in American English with no accent. Emma gawked at him. He caught her surprise and sneered at her.

“Yes, lady, I’m American. Like you?”

Vanderlock snapped out a sentence in Somali. The young man gave him a disgruntled look but subsided a bit.

Skinny Man jerked his head at Emma and turned back to the door. A worker carrying a large sack of khat blocked the exit. Rather than let the worker toss his burden and move out of the way, Skinny Man shoved him right between the shoulder blades. The worker yelped and fell out the door, landing face-first on the truck bed, the khat sack still on his back. The others continued heaving the sacks despite the fact that their colleague lay in the line of fire. Emma heard him grunt as two fell on him. He extricated himself and leaped out of the truck. He threw a look of pure hate at Skinny Man as he loped back to the plane’s door.

Vanderlock moved next to Emma and bent to whisper in her ear. “Abdul wants us to step outside.”

“Who is he?”

“That skinny one. He’s a paid lackey for a warlord named Mungabe.”

Emma heard Abdul scream, “Shit!” and didn’t understand anything else that came after.

“How many times is he going to say ‘shit’?” Emma asked.

“It’s the only English word he knows. The khat is late this morning. These guys are a little strung out.”

“Why does he want us outside?”

Vanderlock shook his head. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good. Normally I don’t leave the plane. I let them unload, and then I fly away as fast as possible, because every minute wasted degrades the khat.”

Emma flipped open the toolbox and hauled out the AK-47. “This thing loaded?”

Vanderlock looked alarmed. “Don’t wave that around. These guys carry an entire arsenal with them. One aggressive move and they’ll blow us apart. That’s a last resort.”

“They’re not going to see it,” she said.

“Shit! Shit!” Abdul was shrieking again, though at whom Emma couldn’t tell.

She looked closer at the weapon, unfolded the butt, and flipped the firing switch to automatic.

Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t shoot.”

“I can’t. I know how to use the firing switch and depress the trigger. But in semi I can’t hit a target to save my life.” Emma pointed the gun downward and slid it behind their bodies, propping it up against the backrest of the copilot’s seat.

“At least if anything happens, one of us can reach it,” she said. The young soldier came back into Emma’s line of sight through the door. He stood on the far side of the truck.

“Abdul says get out here. Now.”

The last vehicle peeled off from the plane, and the workers jumped after it, one by one, until only Emma and Vanderlock remained inside. Emma cut a quick glance at the remaining sacks. She estimated that 50 percent of the shipment was gone. The men had unloaded two and a half tons of khat in fifteen minutes.

“Are we going outside?” Emma spoke in a low tone.

“No way. Abdul can come to me. I’m not leaving my plane.” Vanderlock settled next to her, leaving his left arm flush with hers. Emma felt sweat beginning to form wherever their skin touched. The physical contact with him was somewhat reassuring. That and the knowledge that he was armed and she was within reaching distance of the AK-47. Abdul marched up to stand next to the young soldier. He yelled again.

Emma felt Vanderlock’s body go rigid. He reached under his shirt and pulled out his gun in a leisurely motion. He held it in front of him, nose down, for a second, chambered a bullet, and then lowered it to his side. All his actions were in slow motion and performed while he kept his eyes on Abdul. Abdul snapped the cell phone closed in a dramatic gesture. Emma heard the metallic click as he did it.

Vanderlock put out his hand and said one word. After a short pause, Abdul reached into his pocket and removed a small cylindrical object. He tossed it through the open door. It landed on the floor and rolled toward Vanderlock, stopping against the side of his boot. It was American money, rolled and secured with a rubber band. Vanderlock reached down, grabbed the money, and shoved the bills into his pocket.

Abdul barked out another order and jerked his chin at her.

Vanderlock shook his head and spoke in Somali. When he was finished, he removed the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and used his lips to pull out a smoke. He managed the maneuver one-handed, because his other hand still held the gun. A look of pure fury washed across Abdul’s face.

“Shit—” He spit out a sentence. Bits of foam collected at one corner of his mouth flew in all directions as he spoke.

“What did he say?” Emma said.

“He wants you to go with him. He heard a rumor that you work for Banner. He intends to drag you before Mungabe for questioning.”

Emma’s heart began to race. “What did
you
say?”

“I told him you were my latest girlfriend. We met in Dubai on vacation, and you wanted to fly with me.”

“Does he believe that?”

“He’s not sure what to believe. My reputation is to change women fairly often, but that’s not what’s holding him back.”

A bead of sweat ran along Emma’s spine, stopping at her waistband. She kept her eyes on Abdul and her voice low. “What is, then?”

“Banner’s reputation. He knows that Banner wouldn’t let an operative travel alone, with me, and apparently unarmed. It’s making him hesitate. That and the fact that you’re a woman.”

Abdul yelled a phrase. Within seconds the workers surrounded the open door. Two aimed at them from the ground, while three others hoisted themselves back into the jet. One shoved a gun tip into Emma’s ear. The metal felt hot rather than cold, as if it had just been fired. A muscular man, his head wrapped in a white turban and his beard dyed bright orange, stepped next to Vanderlock. He shoved a rifle up under Vanderlock’s jaw. Vanderlock kept his own pistol lowered at his side.

Emma pressed against the copilot’s seat, but there was nowhere to go. She felt a portion of the metallic outline of the AK-47 against the back of her right thigh. Between the worker jamming the rifle into her ear canal on her left and Vanderlock flush against her on the right, she doubted she could maneuver it into firing position in the time she would need. She froze, waiting. She could smell the worker’s sweat coupled with the odor of cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes. The warm, fetid air inside the plane blanketed her, and rivulets of her own sweat poured down her face. The only sound in the cabin was the tapping noise made by a large fly that bounced against a side window, trying to get out.

No one in the jet spoke.

Abdul talked into his cell phone while keeping his eyes on them both. His gaze flicked to Emma. He lowered the phone and spoke to
the soldier in rapid-fire sentences. The young man nodded and gave Emma a contemptuous look.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Emma Caldridge.” She was proud to hear that her voice sounded normal, almost calm. “Where did you live in America?” She was equally proud to hear that her voice did not shake during the longer sentence.

The young man preened. “Minnesota. My parents fled Somalia and ended up there. I’ve returned to work among my people to drive the Ethiopians out and restore Somalia to its prior glory.” His eyes held the fire of a convert.

“You said you were American. Are you naturalized?” Emma wanted to keep the soldier talking about himself and keep the subject off her.

It didn’t work. Abdul barked out a sentence before the young man could respond. “He wants to know if you work for Banner and his company, Darkview,” the soldier said. Emma tried to shake her head but succeeded only in driving the rifle tip farther into her ear.

“I do not,” she said. The soldier translated for Abdul, who conveyed the answer to whoever was on his phone. Abdul listened to his caller for a moment and snapped out another sentence to the soldier.

“Why did you come here?” the soldier asked.

“She came to be with me.” Vanderlock spoke before Emma could.

“Why did you bring her?”

“Why do you think I brought her?”

The soldier made a disgusted sound. “You should keep your mind on business.”

“Man does not live on business alone. Unlike everyone here, I don’t chew the khat, so I can still get it up.”

The young soldier straightened. “The khat makes you strong!”

“The khat makes you impotent,” Vanderlock said. He switched to Somali. The men holding the rifles began protesting, appearing to
argue with him. Emma admired his quick thinking. The topic reinforced the idea that she was there as a girlfriend and not as an operative but did it in a way that was far more effective than his bald assertion earlier.

Abdul yelled one word, and they all subsided. He pointed to a pickup truck parked behind him and started walking away while still talking on the phone, as if the matter were closed. The man holding the gun to Emma’s ear pushed her forward.

“You’re coming with us,” the soldier said.

Emma’s mouth went dry. She slid her right hand behind her and wrapped her fingers around the stock of the AK-47. She’d raise it once she was clear of Vanderlock’s body. Vanderlock yelled in Somali to Abdul, who halted and turned around. The man pushing Emma ceased his shoving. Emma waited, her fingertips still on the gun stock behind her.

“Let me repeat that in English so everyone here understands,” Vanderlock said. He gave the soldier his own contemptuous look. “You take her and I won’t fly. The khat will be late. Mungabe can explain to Jamar why detaining one unarmed woman was worth spoiling a three-ton shipment.”

Abdul sent Vanderlock a considering look. He spoke into his cell phone, lowered it, and pointed at Vanderlock while rattling off a sentence.

“Kill her and I still won’t fly the plane,” Vanderlock responded in English.

The young soldier snorted. “Then we’ll kill you.”

To Emma’s profound surprise, Vanderlock laughed. “No you won’t, smart-ass. I fly twenty-five tons of khat a week. You kill me and the three warlords that depend on me will hunt you, Abdul here, and even Mungabe down and throw all your corpses into the ocean to be eaten by the bottom feeders.”

Abdul snapped an order to the young Somali. He kept his eyes on Vanderlock while the young man translated. Abdul gave Vanderlock
a furious look before consulting with whoever was on the other end of his cell phone. After a moment he clicked it closed. He spit out a response to Vanderlock and waved at the guards, who released their hold on Emma. They moved to the entrance and jumped down. Emma slid her entire hand over the AK-47’s stock but held it next to her leg.

The workers reached up and slammed the door closed. Vanderlock bolted it into place and turned to her.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.