Troubleshooters (Jackson Chase Novella Book 2) (3 page)

“I saw that eleven people were killed,” Chen said.

Landon nodded. “Yes. Three Americans, one Israeli, three local nationals, and a British family of four,” he said.

“Your assignment is to find and terminate the terrorists responsible. We do not want this escalating. And we owe justice to the families of those who lost their lives.”

“
W
hat leads do
you have so far?” I asked.

“So close to Kenya, our first thought was Al Shabaab, Al Qaeda, or both operating as one once again. But it could just as easily be one of the many lesser jihadist groups taking hold in the area. You will need to work with the locals. The regional police have taken the lead on the investigation, and the State Department has ensured us they will share their findings. Build on whatever leads they have, find the attackers, and take them out. Send a message that the violence to the north will not spread down to Tanzania.”

“A lot of other troublemakers are looking to cleanse the world of infidels in the area,” said Sterba. “AQIM and AQAP. That’s a lot of pressure and influence.”

AQIM, or Al Qaeda in the Islamic Magreb, originally had a focus on Algeria, but their reach had extended across Africa north of the Sahara. They were now hitting European and American targets throughout the continent. AQAP, or Al Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula, just across the Gulf of Aden, remained one of the most active Islamist militant organizations in the world.

Landon replied, “You’re right. And given the on-again-off-again relationship between Al Shabaab and Al Qaeda, the insurgent landscape in East Africa is constantly changing. The information on groups in the area and key players is in this briefing packet.”

He slid a folder across the table, and added, “We didn’t say it would be easy.”

The Director took the stage again, addressing all of us. In a slow deliberate voice, he said, “In 1998, we were caught off guard with the U.S. embassy bombings in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi. And the Benghazi attack in 2012 showed us to be uncommunicative and indecisive.

“Now we have a string of attacks in Tanzania. We need to stop this, and stop it immediately to show that attacks on Americans will have extreme consequences and we will not allow terrorism to take control.”

He stood, signaling the end of the meeting, leaving us to put the pieces together.

W
e flew out of Dulles
, stopping in Amsterdam for a change of planes before making our way to Arusha. The flights were spent reviewing the background on troubles in Tanzania.

The picture I had in my mind was a country of vast beauty, populated by Masai villages and every form of exotic wildlife. The briefing materials we’d received supported this, even adding a profile of your average Tanzanian as being welcoming, kind, proud, and industrious. The section of the briefing packet describing religion indicated there were three major religions practiced, but the mixture was described as ‘harmonious’ on some pages and ‘unstable’ on others. I imagined analysts in a basement somewhere conspiring to make sure their report could be seen as accurate no matter what.

Masai native beliefs focused on the myth of a dual-natured god, and were often discounted as they didn’t fit the typical religious checkboxes. Close to half of the country followed Christian beliefs, undoubtedly the result of years of Western influence. Islam was the third major religion, with Zanzibar—the islands previously a nation unto their own—being predominantly Muslim. The three religions had found a balance in Tanzanians’ everyday life. But Islamic militants were fraying the edges of the country’s very fabric, with the threat of tearing it to pieces a very real possibility.

Islamic extremists on Zanzibar had in recent years been stirring the Muslim population from a position of religious observance to one of action. Just last year, over the course of only a few months two Christian priests had been shot, and a third beheaded. The actions had emboldened local jihadists, creating a snowball effect that continued with acid attacks, where priests and even several foreigners were assaulted.

Pressure coming from across the border with Kenya was mounting as well. Al Shabaab attacks, from bombings to full-scale sieges such as that on the Westgate Mall in Nairobi, showed that the Al Qaeda-linked group was making its way south. Arusha, situated near the Kenyan border, was not immune. A recent attack on St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church had left three people dead, and over sixty injured.

The attack had encouraged local terror groups, and they’d recently shifted their focus to the tourist centers of Arusha. Just weeks ago, an improvised explosive device had been thrown through the window of a restaurant popular with foreigners, wounding eight people. And now this hotel bombing showed that Tanzania was edging ever closer to a precipice from which it might never recover.

C
hunks of rubble
and glass crumbled beneath our boots as we approached the Meru Grand Hotel in Arusha. Looking up, we saw that the linear institutional facade was simply gone from half of the building. What remained was a jagged grid of smoke-blackened squares that were once hotel rooms for businessmen, diplomats, and tourists headed on safari.

It looked like the back of a dollhouse, with each room an open-ended compartment into which you could reach and move the furniture and dolls around. Only in this case, the furniture was in splinters and eleven of the dolls were dead, killed when a bomb had been detonated in the hotel’s first floor.

All around us, workers sorted through the debris, moving pieces of rubble to the lawn in front of the hotel where they were sorted by size and material. Some small tractors were in use, but largely it was a manual effort. Hands, shovels, wheelbarrows, and strong backs. And while the machinery did make some noise, the workers were otherwise quiet. They spoke only through their expressions, which were a mixture of grief, pity, and resolve.

Across the front portico, strands of yellow caution tape fluttered in the light breeze. The twists and curves danced back and forth the in the sunlight, ignorant to the fact that their warning had come far too late.

“Mister Chase?”

We turned to see a man walking briskly towards us. Arab rather than black, he was of average height and rather overweight. A ring of tightly-cropped salt and pepper hair surrounded a bald patch that bore beads of sweat.

“I am Jackson Chase,” I said, extending my hand. “And this is Joe Sterba and Haley Chen.”

“Nice to meet you. I am Naseeb Aman. Your embassy has asked me to be your guide in Arusha.”

The CIA chief of station in Dar es Salaam, Ron Burke, had messaged us to say he didn’t have a case officer operating in Arusha, but he would have one of his men find a fixer for us. Typically, fixers are locals that serve as a translator and guide. More than a tour guide, their purpose focuses on steering people through local customs and red tape. The better fixers also provide some manner of security and connections to local organizations, both official and unofficial.

“Thank you for your help, Naseeb,” said Chen, the sincerity in her voice a product of the scene around us.

He gave her a bit of a forced smile, making me wonder if he disliked Chen because she was female. Maybe he was simply grumpy about having to show up at work today.

“Tell me about the hotel,” I said, curious as to why this particular hotel had been targeted.

Naseeb turned to the building. “This hotel is used mostly by westerners coming to Tanzania for safari. They arrive and spend the night, visit the market in the morning, and then leave for Kilimanjaro, Tarangire, Ngorogoro, or the Serengeti to see wildlife. This hotel is very good, and therefore receives most of the visitors to the area.”

Sterba turned to me and said, “Targeting ‘western infidels’?”

“Given the recent attacks here, that’s my assumption as well. Let’s get a closer look.”

We followed Naseeb across the scattered piles of rubble that covered the crescent-shaped drive in front of the hotel. Workers moved about with brooms, shovels, and wheelbarrows, sorting the debris into piles. Mangled metal pieces clumped together like giant insects. Chunks of concrete and cinderblock were gathered in dust-clouded piles. And while the scene around us was one of dirty sadness, the small fragments of glass that refused to obey the coarse brooms sparkled in the morning sun. Like the caution tape, their shimmer was attempting to provide a hint of hope.

“Kukoma! Stop!” came a shout as we stepped over the broken bricks of the café’s patio. A policeman wearing a high visibility white jacket and matching pants approached.

“You cannot enter the hotel,” he said.

“We are here to see Lieutenant Kahembe,” said Naseeb.

The policeman looked us over, stopping at me. “What is your name?”

“Lieutenant Commander Jackson Chase,” I replied, hoping to throw a bit of official weight. OK, maybe I was posing just a bit with my new rank. Sometimes I can’t help myself.

“A moment, please,” he said, and then pulled a radio mic off his shoulder. There was a rapid exchange in Swahili before he said “Karibu” and motioned for us to follow him.

He led us through the debris and into the lobby. The morning sun angled through the gaping hole of the missing facade, illuminating the mess. We headed towards a group of three policemen talking with one another. Our escort said something quietly to one of them, who then waved our man and the other officers off. He turned to us and said, “Lieutenant Commander.”

I extended my hand. “Jackson, sir.”

“Lieutenant Kahembe,” he replied rather sternly. Seemed we wouldn’t be on a first-name basis here. “Arusha Regional Police.”

The Lieutenant was several inches shorter than I, and I put him in his mid-forties, given the sprinkle of gray visible in the tight curls of his hair. His dark skin showed the hint of wrinkles around strong, commanding eyes. While he wasn’t imposing in size, he projected authority through demeanor.

I introduced Sterba and Chen, and Naseeb. He shook each of our hands, but remained rather brusque.

“My government has instructed that I cooperate with you, but I am unclear as to your goal here. My police force is perfectly capable of conducting an investigation.”

My, aren’t we a little defensive?

“Sir, I completely understand. We are well aware of your capabilities.” Actually, I had no idea whether or not the local police could handle this, but it seemed the right thing to say. “We are only here to follow your investigation and help wherever you need us.” Again I was being deferential, but given the cool welcome, I wanted to warm him up. If he thought we were a threat to his authority, our search would be significantly more difficult.

He seemed to think about my reply for a second, his eyes locked on mine, then he gave a slight nod and said, “Very well. Come with me.”

Lieutenant Kahembe led us from the lobby through a reception area where the only thing left intact was the marble floor. We passed through into what was once the dining area. The floor was covered with debris, and despite the cleanup effort the smell of rotting food remained.

A handful of tiny pebbles fell from above. I looked up to see not a ceiling, but a gaping hole that had to go up at least two stories further. The explosion had taken out two of the reinforced floors above us.

“Shouldn’t we be wearing hard hats?” said Chen.

Sterba and I looked around at the dozen-or-so workers and policemen moving about. Only one wore a hard hat.

“I don’t think the health and safety police have made it to Africa yet,” said Sterba.

“Stand under the big guy,” I said, pointing my thumb at Sterba. “His giant head is made of steel.”

Before he could give me the finger, we arrived in what was once the kitchen. Mangled stainless steel prep counters were twisted and sheared, their jagged edges jutting out like bushes of machetes. The entire room was blackened from fire.

“What do you know about the device?” I asked.

“It appears to have been made from artillery shells. Perhaps as many as four,” Lieutenant Kahembe replied.

“Libya?” asked Sterba. The Lieutenant shrugged, as if to indicate he didn’t know, but it was possible. Chen lifted her eyebrows, wondering about this possible connection.

Sterba explained, “When Gaddafi fell, the bunkers were raided. Hundreds of thousands of artillery shells went missing, along with small arms, light weapons, and, most seriously, MANPADS—man-portable air defense missiles. The rebels used some, but much of the stores have spread across the continent. They’ve found their way into the hands of every terrorist group from the Islamic Magreb to East Africa.”

“There are
hundreds
of
thousands
of artillery shells unaccounted for?” Chen asked.

Sterba nodded. “And it only takes one or two to make a car bomb. Or four, apparently, to bring down a sizable portion of a hotel.”

“How can they be detonated?”

“Any way you’d like. Simple command det, timer, cell phone, the homemade pressure plates they used all over Afghanistan. Basically, anything that can close a circuit.”

Lieutenant Kahembe motioned towards one area of the kitchen where the reinforced concrete floor opened to a large hole all the way down to the gravel beneath the foundation. “We believe this was the location of the blast.”

“What was this area of the kitchen used for?” Sterba asked.

“Food storage,” Lieutenant Kahembe replied. “Items that don’t need refrigeration.”

“So the device was brought in with the supplies.” I said.

He nodded. “Most likely.”

I looked up. Above the hole, or, more accurately, the crater, the damage went what appeared to be three levels up. The explosion had been far enough from the central spine of the building to find the weak points towards the front of the hotel. The end result was a blast that moved up and out, completely destroying dozens of rooms and the front of the hotel.

“Have you recovered any parts of the device?” I said.

“A few,” Lieutenant Kahembe said. “I will show you.” He led us towards the back of the hotel, where a large patio faced an expanse of grass and a swimming pool. The local police had laid out a tarp and arranged the small pieces of suspicious debris much like one would lay out pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. While there was little that hadn’t been completely vaporized, some fragments clearly came from an artillery shell.

Kahembe reached down and picked up two small bits of wire. The rubber insulation had burned off, but the ends of the wires showed small fragments of solder. One still held the tiniest piece of circuit board.

“Our best guess is that this connected to some sort of radio device used as the detonator,” he said.

Chen was looking at the small piece of circuit board. “Can I take a look at that?” she asked.

He handed her the tiny piece of evidence, and she moved into the sunlight. We followed, watching her turn it over and bend one of the wires back.

“There are actually two types of circuit board here. This one,” she said, pointing, “is pretty basic. It’s the type you use when building any homemade device. But if you look closely, there’s a bit of green on the other end.” Her fingernail moved to a spec attached to the solder at the opposite end. “That’s from a proper circuit board. And given the small bit of blue plastic that’s hardened into the side of it, I’d say it’s from a cell phone.”

Kahembe’s eyes darted between Chen’s eyes and the tiny fragment in her hands.

“Can you get access to local cell provider databases?” Chen asked.

“Yes,” Kahembe replied, knowing what she was looking for. “But even if you can match a phone used here to the phone at the other end of the call, I would suspect disposable phones were used. They are very easy to find here, unfortunately.”

“That’s true, but it’s likely that some other identifiers, like the EINs, came through on the handshake with the local switches. They could give us additional data points.”

“Miss Chen, I worry that we don’t have capabilities to follow something that complex,” Kahembe replied.

Joe recognized the perfect opening for us into Kahembe’s investigation. The big man offered one of his southern smiles, and said, “Well, Lieutenant, today is your lucky day because Commander Chen here has enough capabilities in that area to keep all of our heads spinning.”

I wasn’t sure if it was Sterba’s warm southern charm or relief that he would get some technical assistance, but Kahembe said, “Miss, sorry, Commander Chen, we would very much appreciate your help.”

“It’s Haley, sir,” she said, offering a smile of her own, “and I look forward to it.”

Just then another officer came up and spoke quietly to Kahembe. His eyes brightened after the exchange, and he said, “It appears that we’ve been able to recover the kitchen’s security video. It’s taken days to dig it up. Let’s go have a look.”

We packed ourselves into a small utility room—little more than a closet, really—where an assortment of aged computers and video machines had been cobbled together. A cart held four monitors, one of which was operational and playing a security video.

What played out in rather poor quality black and white before us was two males wheeling in a stack of boxes on a battered dolly. They lowered the stack onto the ground in the exact spot where the crater was today. The two then withdrew the dolly and walked through a doorway, which took them off camera.

“Again, please,” Kahembe said to the hotel staffer manning the control board. We watched it again, each of us now focusing on the details.

There were eight boxes in the stack, though I suspected some had been glued together with the center panels removed in order to hold the shells. They were white, with a name printed on the side. It looked to start with the letter A, but the resolution made the rest of the name difficult to read.

It was also difficult to gauge how tall the men were, but they were both thin and wearing jeans. One wore a light T-shirt, while the other’s was dark. The poor video quality made distinguishing their faces impossible, and the only thing we could tell was that their hair was short.

Great. Be on the lookout for two thin black males with short hair. That really narrows it down.

As my cynicism was getting the best of me, I noticed one of the men on the screen pause and look back at the stack before exiting. The back pockets of his jeans were white. Not knowing what to make of that, I simply filed it away.

Lieutenant Kahembe had been studying the monitor carefully as well. During the second run through of the video, he had said something to one of the officers in the room with us. The officer had left immediately.

“One more time, please,” I said.

As we were going through the video once again, the young officer returned with some papers. He spoke quietly to the Lieutenant. Kahembe thanked him, and with a small wave of the papers, he said, “Invoices for kitchen supply orders.”

“The letters on the boxes. Nice thinking, Lieutenant,” I said.