Running Dark

21

STARK AND EMMA STARED AT RODUCCI AND THE KENYAN IMMIGRATION authorities. Stark frowned.

“I can’t afford to have Price involved in any scandal. If you get detained at customs, I’d appreciate your keeping us out of it.”

“Of course,” Emma said.

Stark moved next to her to stand in the open doorway. “I’m staying here for the moment. My meeting isn’t for another two hours, and I’m going to use the plane as my office. Something tells me that you and those officials are going to be having an extended conversation. I’ll just watch the proceedings from up here. Do you mind?” He appeared to be enjoying the moment.

“Not at all.” Emma did her best to sound unconcerned. She stepped out of the plane into the damp, cool air and moved down the stairs with what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face. When she reached the bottom, Roducci held out a hand.

“So nice to meet you!” He pumped her hand with a heartiness that Emma found disconcerting. “Major Stromeyer of Darkview Enterprises asked me to meet you upon your landing and to give you your traveling papers.” He kept her palm in his grip and held her gaze a beat while he let the information sink in. He released her and produced an envelope from his back pants pocket with a flourish. “Here they are.”

Emma said nothing as she opened the flap to pull out the papers.

“The letter is from the American embassy located here in Nairobi. It confers temporary diplomatic status on you, as well as the immunity from prosecution that comes from that status.”

The papers were written in the form of a letter rogatory and suggested that Emma be allowed entrance to the country. It explained that she would be stopping only briefly in Nairobi on her way to Dubai. A Post-it note on the paper said that she was to meet her next contact near the Price private jet in one hour and warned Emma not to call until she received a second, cleared line from the contact. Emma peeled off the Post-it and placed it in her pocket.

The second paper looked exactly the same, except it was translated into a foreign language. Emma flicked a glance at the two immigration officers. The one closest to her held out a hand. She offered him her passport and the letter rogatory. He said nothing as he read them.

“Allow me to explain,” Roducci said. “Normally you would require a visa. This is no real problem, a mere fifty dollars in the terminal and even less for a transit visa to another location. However, Major Stromeyer indicated that she did not wish for you to be registered in such a fashion. The officers have informed me that you must stay here, in the airport, for the time needed to obtain another flight to Somalia, which they understand is your final destination. You are not allowed to leave the airport.” Roducci looked at Stark, who still stood in the open doorway at the top of the jet’s stairs. “I am required to ask if the Price company intends to ensure that Ms. Caldridge does not venture outside of the terminal for any reason.”

Stark shook his head. “The Price company will ensure no such thing.”

Roducci looked taken aback. “You won’t?”

“I won’t.” Stark nodded to the immigration authorities. “If you will excuse me, I need to make some calls before I disembark.” He disappeared back into the airplane.

One of the officers raised an eyebrow and made a “huh” sound as he watched Stark leave. Roducci looked flabbergasted. He moved the Kenyans away from Emma and engaged in a spirited discussion with them. After a moment they nodded their agreement to something, Emma didn’t know what, and headed for the terminal entrance. Roducci waited until they were out of earshot before filling her in.

“I have offered to ensure your compliance.” Roducci looked less than pleased at the turn of events. “But I need your agreement that you will stay in the terminal. Normally I would assume such compliance in the face of a direct demand from the immigration authorities, but Major Stromeyer indicated to me that you are a woman with her own ideas about things.”

Emma wasn’t about to promise Roducci anything until she met with her contact and learned the next step. She smiled a reassuring smile. “I promise to inform you if my plans change.”

Roducci looked stern. “I don’t have the power to help you if you break the law. My relationship with African police is one of mutual distrust. So far they have not attempted to incarcerate me, but the threat is always in the air.”

“I understand. And I hope that nothing untoward happens,” Emma said. She wondered at Roducci’s business but decided that the subject was best left alone. “Is there a first-class fliers’ lounge? I’d love a shower.”

Roducci looked hesitant. “Yes, but it will cost you twenty dollars, and shortly thereafter you will enter hell. Best to save your money. Perhaps you may gain access to the one maintained by the international airlines.” He walked along with her to the terminal. “The man in the dark slacks. Is he always so disagreeable?”

Emma saw no reason to lie. “Yes.”

Roducci gave an expressive shrug. “Life is far too brief to be so upset.”

They made it to a lounge maintained by a consortium of international airlines, paid a fee, and entered. The room was a narrow rectangle. Ancient armchairs upholstered in an orange industrial fabric, tattered and stained, lined one wall, and laptop power stations lined another. After the plush accommodations on Stark’s private jet, the spartan room felt depressing.

Travelers occupied most of the chairs and all of the power stations. Some read, while the vast majority talked on their cell phones. A group of Arabs sat in a far corner, the men wearing business suits, the women head scarves and black, cloak-type dresses. To Emma’s right, a long counter held a Coca-Cola fountain and an industrial coffee-maker. Plastic-wrapped sandwiches sat on a battered tray. At the far end of the coffee counter was a hallway that led to the washrooms.

“I’m going there.” Emma pointed to the sign.

“I will await you here. I understand that your second contact is due to meet you in the next hour.” Roducci snatched a newspaper from a nearby rack and settled into a free chair.

The bathrooms matched the outer area, in both age and cleanliness. Fluorescent lights cast a bluish gray glow onto the tiled walls. The far end contained three shower stalls. Yellowed vinyl curtains hung from a horizontal metal pole spanning each entrance. Emma moved one aside. White ceramic tile with gray specks and grout colored black with mold encased the interior. With a sigh, she headed to a sink. She dropped her duffel on the floor beneath it. The soap dispenser of the first was empty. She pushed the second, also empty, as was the third. At the third she depressed the handles of the cold and hot water faucets. A weak stream of tepid water poured out. It stopped after twenty seconds. She washed up as well as she could, repeatedly hitting the handles while splashing water on her face and cleaning her hands.

When she stepped into the main room, Roducci was gone. She headed to the counter, grabbed a shrink-wrapped muffin and a carton of yogurt. A display held individual servings of cereal. She chose a box of granola, ripped the top off the carton of yogurt, and poured the granola into it, then wolfed down the mix. When she was done, she took another quick look around for Roducci. She had twenty minutes before the second contact was to meet her at the rendezvous, so waiting for him to reappear was out of the question. She’d have just enough time to hustle back to the landing field.

On the tarmac once more, she received another bad turn of luck. The Price jet was gone. She walked a little farther out to check the names on the long row of private planes currently resting in Nairobi. None matched the Price jet’s configuration. At the tenth jet, she reached the very end of the airport. A chain-link fence rimmed the runway. Beyond that was a frontage road. Cars whizzed by. She stood for a moment, perplexed, when she felt a touch on her arm. A man in a bright yellow reflective vest frowned back at her. He waved toward the aluminum door.

“I was just looking for my jet,” Emma said. The man asked her something. She didn’t know what he was saying, but she took a stab in the dark. “It’s the Price Pharmaceuticals jet.”

He walked her to a small booth situated next to the aluminum door. A stool, a counter, a telephone, and a clipboard filled the tiny area, barely leaving enough room for the man once he stepped inside. His foot kicked a wastebasket on the floor. He muttered and shoved it up against the wall with the toe of his boot. He consulted the clipboard before picking it up and showing it to her. At the top was the name, registration number, and time of embarkation for the Price jet.

“It wasn’t supposed to fly anywhere. This was its destination,” Emma said. The man shrugged, either not understanding her or not caring.

The aluminum door behind her slammed. She jerked around to see Roducci. He, too, glanced around as if searching for the jet.

“No Price jet and no contact. I’ve been stood up,” Emma said.

Roducci’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “The contact did not appear and the disagreeable man left? I don’t believe it!”

Emma didn’t either. She looked at her watch. “Let’s give it some time.” She moved to lean against the terminal building to wait.

Thirty minutes later she decided that the contact wasn’t going to show. Roducci sat on the ground next to her, his head against the wall. She tapped him on the shoulder.

“Do you have a secure contact number for Major Stromeyer?”

Roducci shook his head. “She calls me on mine. She purchases prepaid phones for temporary use and gives me the latest number. Currently I can only contact her through the Darkview offices’ line.” He frowned. “Not a good idea, as it will immediately reveal our location to anyone listening.”

So calling Stromeyer was out. “Any idea who the contact may be?”

Roducci shrugged. “There are four Darkview personnel in Nairobi. Perhaps five. I know two.”

“Can you call them?”

“Of course.” Roducci dialed his phone and waited. Hung up. Dialed again and waited. Hung up. “No answer at either.”

Emma looked at the jets all around her. “I’m standing in an airport. Seems to me I should be able to get my own flight to Hargeisa, or at least closer to it, don’t you think?” she said.

Roducci’s eyes lit up. “I have just the thing. A good friend of mine is a member of a fine, upstanding family. They have their own jet that is parked here. I will contact them to determine what it will cost for you to charter it.” Roducci whipped out his BlackBerry and began thumbing it furiously.

Emma started back to the terminal.

“Where are you going?” Roducci jogged next to her as he held the phone to his ear.

“To check the monitors. There may be a commercial jet leaving soon.”

“Please, please, not necessary, not to mention not likely. Who goes to Hargeisa anyway? Just let me discuss this with my friend. I urge you to settle down. All will be well.” He followed her into the terminal, chattering into his phone in a language Emma didn’t understand. She headed to a customer-service desk manned by two agents. Above the desk hung several screens that contained scrolling flight information. She stood in front of the monitors, watching the green letters advance across the display. Roducci continued with an animated conversation. He lowered the phone.

“My friend says that you can use the jet. He can have a pilot here within the hour.”

Emma kept her eyes on the schedules. The flights to Mumbai were scrolling by. “How much?”

Roducci held another conference. He lowered the phone. “Two hundred thousand dollars. American.”

Emma gave him an incredulous look. “Are you joking?”

Roducci seemed offended. “It is a two-hour flight from Nairobi, and the cost of fuel is astronomical at the moment. The fee is for a round-trip, because once you are delivered there, the plane must be flown back here, and that is assuming you don’t get shot down on approach. The insurgents are firing upon aircraft.”

Emma raised her eyebrows at him. “What a lovely thought,” she said. “But that’s in Mogadishu, not Hargeisa.”

Roducci gave a dismissive wave. “Nonetheless, we are discussing Somalia, so anything is possible. My friend would like to receive his jet back in one piece. And by the way, the jet you are paying for is the top of the line. A Gulfstream of the latest model. My friend assures me that it has all the comforts of home. He bought it from a very extravagant Russian billionaire who is now dead.”

The screen completed its circuit. There were no flights to any destination in Somalia.

“Tell him thank you very much, but the cost is too high.”

“Major Stromeyer will perhaps assist you in paying for part or perhaps all of it.”

“I doubt that.”

“I can arrange it very quickly. I am able to procure whatever you desire. I have a corresponding agent in Africa who is quite good at this.”

Emma had no doubt that Roducci could arrange anything in any part of the world, but now she was much more concerned about his prices. “Who would pay for the procurement?”

“Why, the American government, of course. Major Stromeyer sees to it that my invoices are paid. She is not as generous as some contractors who hire me, but she is fair.”

“I would have to run any charges past her and Mr. Banner first.”

Roducci grimaced. “Mr. Banner and I do not always see with the same eye. I prefer to negotiate with Major Stromeyer.” A smile creased his face. “She is a beautiful woman, is she not?”

“Major Stromeyer is very nice. As is Mr. Banner, once you get to know him. I’m sorry you don’t always see eye to eye.”

Roducci shrugged again. “It’s no problem as long as Major Stromeyer is there.”

Emma stepped up to one of the women behind the customer-service desk. “I need a flight to Hargeisa.”

The woman shook her head. “All flights from Nairobi have been suspended. Ethiopian Airlines maintains flights, but you will need to connect in Addis Ababa.” She tapped on her keyboard. “A flight there leaves in two days. You’ll have a twelve-hour layover, and you will arrive in Hargeisa late that evening.”

“Is there no other way? It’s very important that I get there.”

The woman paused. “The United Nations relief organizations fly their personnel into Hargeisa. Go back to the main ticketing counter in Terminal One and look for this sign.” She wrote on a small notepad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to Emma. It bore the letters UNHAS.

“What does it stand for?” Emma said.

“United Nations Humanitarian Air Services.”

Emma headed to the main terminal, Roducci hot on her heels.

“I don’t think the UN air services will allow you to fly. You should take my friend’s aircraft.”

“Too expensive,” Emma said.

Roducci nodded. “I see your point. Exactly.” He began another conversation with his friend on the phone.

Emma found the UNHAS sign prominently displayed on a counter next to a long line of passengers waiting for ticketing on a commercial jet. The UNHAS agent had no takers. He looked European, with short-cut hair and wearing a dark polo shirt. He watched Emma walk toward him and flicked a look at Roducci, who was still chattering on his cell phone. The man glanced back at Emma, a question in his eyes and a smile on his face. She responded with her own smile.

“I need to get to Hargeisa, and I understand that UNHAS flies that route. Is there a way I can pay for a seat?”

The man nodded. “Are you a journalist?”

“Unfortunately not.”

The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. We’re only allowed to fly UN personnel and journalists with proper press identification and advance clearance.”

Emma hesitated. “If I can arrange for the identification, would I be able to go?”

“If so, then yes.”

She pulled Roducci aside. “Can you get me some forged press identification?”

Roducci snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

Emma stepped back up to the agent. “How much?”

“Today Hargeisa costs twenty-six hundred dollars round-trip, but the price can fluctuate as the situation there changes. Check-in is tomorrow, five-thirty A.M. I warn you, the flight is a bit rough. We fly small planes with no catering service and no toilets. It’s five hours, with a touchdown in Jowhar.” Emma calculated the time. Even with the overnight stay, she would cut twenty-four hours off the commercial flight to Ethiopia.

“Do I bring you the ID and clearances?”

The man shook his head again. “That needs to go through the main office, and it will take fourteen days for a security check.”

Roducci snorted. “Fourteen days is far too long. And twenty-six hundred dollars for no beverages, no toilets, and in a small plane? That’s banditry!” He turned to Emma. “My friend believes he can arrange to have someone rent the plane for its flight back here. He will accept fifty thousand dollars for your leg of the journey. Really, Ms. Caldridge, this is a very good deal for a private flight with all the comforts of a private jet. I believe you should accept this offer.”

The UNHAS agent looked taken aback. “Somalia is an extremely dangerous place. The insurgents target any planes that fly there. There’s no guarantee that a private jet won’t be shot down. Even our jets are fired upon despite their UN affiliation. Your only other option is to take a khat flight out of Wilson Airport.”

Emma perked up. “Khat flight?” She was familiar with khat, a twiggy plant popular throughout Africa. When chewed, it provided feelings of euphoria and led to long periods of chattiness interrupted by bouts of stupor.

“We don’t recommend the flights, but they make the trip daily and the insurgents don’t interfere. Khat is very important to them.” The agent’s voice was dry.

Emma turned to Roducci. “Can you take me to Wilson Airport?”

Roducci sighed and clicked off his phone. “So much for promises to stay inside the terminal. Should the immigration authorities stop us, I will charge Major Stromeyer for the inconvenience.” He waved her out of the terminal and cut across several lanes of traffic to a nearby parking lot. Once there he marched to a hulking black Mercedes sedan with tinted windows and a satellite radio antenna. He reached around her to open the passenger side. As the door swung open, Emma noticed that the panel was thicker than most.

“Armored?” she said.

Roducci nodded. “I work in many dangerous areas of the world. Nairobi is not nearly the worst by far. However, even I have not been to Somalia in three years. Whatever business takes you there, I would suggest you reconsider.” He closed the door with a heavy thud, jogged around, and slid into the driver’s seat. As he snapped the seat belt, he cast a glance at her.

“I’m going,” Emma said.

“Yes, I can see that you are determined.” He sighed and started the car.

Half an hour later, Emma stood next to Roducci and stared at an ancient Fokker airplane being loaded with burlap sacks.

“That tall man in shirtsleeves is the pilot,” Roducci said.

The pilot, a deeply tanned, rugged-looking white man with brown hair in a ponytail that brushed his collarbones, oversaw the loading. He wore faded navy blue chinos, combat boots that might have been black but were covered in dust, and a sand-colored short-sleeved shirt with the tails out. He appeared to have skipped his morning shave. Emma guessed he was nearing forty. He nodded at Roducci and made a comment to one of the workers before walking over to greet them. He walked with a smooth, loose-limbed gait that telegraphed confidence. Emma adjusted his age downward five years based on his stride alone.

“Roducci. What brings you here?” The man spoke English with a slight South African accent.

Roducci shook his hand. “May I introduce Ms. Emma Caldridge? Ms. Caldridge, this is Wilson Vanderlock. He owns that rusting plane you see being loaded.”

Vanderlock ignored Roducci’s insult to his aircraft and gave Emma a considering look and then a slight smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to hitch a ride to Hargeisa.”

“Are you an aid worker?”

“She’s working for Edward Banner,” Roducci said. For some reason Emma was glad when she saw surprise enter Vanderlock’s brown eyes. Something about his manner made her think he had a conventional view of women, and her working for Banner conflicted with that view.

“Banner’s creating a stir in Hargeisa. His company arrested some pirates and dragged them there to be tried.”

“Why would that cause a stir? Aren’t the authorities happy to see a pirate captured?” Emma said.

Vanderlock shook his head. “Half the authorities in the Puntland region have a hand in piracy. Darkview is seen as a danger to the trade. I’m not sure I want to be associated with Banner or his company.”

Roducci stepped forward. “Since when are you against Banner?”

“I’m against trouble, and that’s what Banner has right now,” Vanderlock said. He cocked his head to one side as he gazed at Emma. “Where’s your entourage? Banner’s people rarely travel without one. Not if they want to live.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. She ignored the fear trying to make its way through her system. Since Colombia she’d become an expert at ignoring the fear. She extended her hands, palms out. “It’s just me. If it makes you feel any better, Banner has no idea that I’m here, talking to you.”

Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you?”

“Because I need to get to Berbera. Fast. And the flights through Addis Ababa will take time, which is something in short supply for me.”

“What’s causing the rush?” A look of keen interest entered Vanderlock’s eyes.

“Private business” was all Emma said.

He nodded, accepting the fact that she wouldn’t tell him. “Better I don’t know, actually. I’ll take you. It will cost you a thousand dollars American.”

Roducci made a surprised noise. “Out of the question! I know for a fact that your usual rate is one hundred dollars.”

Vanderlock shook his head. “She’s not usual. If anyone gets wind of her connection to Darkview, I’m going to be in hot water.”

“She just told you no one knows, except us three. And discretion is my business, so I will never speak of it,” Roducci said.

Emma wanted to strangle Roducci. Even if Vanderlock’s price was inflated, it was hundreds of times less than that of the private jet he’d just tried to foist on her. She interrupted the men.

“I’ll pay you five hundred,” she told Vanderlock. Roducci took a breath to say something, but she cut him off. “You tried to bamboozle a Russian’s jet on me for fifty grand when you knew not only that khat flights were cheap but even a pilot who flies the route?”

Roducci gave one of his expressive shrugs. “A lovely woman such as yourself should travel in style.”

Vanderlock laughed. “You tried to unload Sergei’s jet on her, didn’t you?”

Roducci’s look went sour. “I simply tried to keep her safe.” He jerked his chin at the Fokker. “You’ve kept that thing flying with duct tape and rubber bands.”

“It hasn’t let me down yet.” Vanderlock turned to Emma. “Seven-fifty and it’s a deal. But know that I won’t be able to fly you back here. Kenya doesn’t care who I fly out of the country, but I’m no longer allowed to fly anyone in.”

Roducci snorted. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“Well, it will in her case.” He looked at Emma. “You’ll have to return through normal channels.”

“And Somalia? Do they care who arrives?”

“Not on the route we’re taking. And keep your association with Darkview quiet.”

She nodded. “Can you take me to Berbera?”

“Sorry, but no. After Hargeisa I return here. The khat is driven to Berbera. You might be able to ride with it all the way, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“You go straight to Hargeisa?” Roducci sounded surprised.

“First to K50, then Hargeisa,” Vanderlock said. Roducci gave a small groan.

Emma didn’t like the sound of that. “Where’s K50?”

“Mogadishu.” Roducci supplied the information, a grim sound in his voice. “It’s an alternate runway just outside of the capital. The main airport is too dangerous to use.”

Tension curled through her. The immense danger of what she was trying to do hit her.

Roducci touched her arm. “You should wait to fly to Hargeisa directly. Surely whatever Banner needs you to accomplish can wait for a safer flight.”

Vanderlock took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He put one to his lips and held the box out to her. She waved it away without a word. She needed to think. Vanderlock returned the pack to his pocket, extracted a blue plastic lighter, lit the cigarette, inhaled, and watched her. She noted that he neither confirmed Roducci’s opinion that she should wait nor disputed it.

“Mr. Vanderlock—”

“Call me Lock. Everyone else does.”

“How long will you stay on the ground in Mogadishu before taking off for Hargeisa?”

Vanderlock blew out a stream of smoke. “Thirty minutes. Just long enough to offload the first half of the shipment.” He took another drag off the cigarette.

Thirty minutes could be a lifetime in Mogadishu, but Emma thought the UN agent might have it right. She doubted that the insurgents would mess with them when they still had half a planeload of khat to deliver. She offered a hand to Roducci.

“Thank you for your help.” She transferred her travel toothbrush from the side of her duffel to the pocket of her jacket and handed her bag to him. “Do you mind throwing this away? It’s just going to weigh me down.”

Roducci looked at her and frowned. After a short pause, he took her hand between both of his.

“I see that you have made up your mind. Lock will keep you as safe as is possible, given the area to which you travel, but should you need anything, please call me.” He produced a business card. “My number. Contact me anytime, day or night. I will see to whatever you may need.” Emma took the card. It didn’t contain a name, just a series of different phone numbers and two e-mail addresses.

“No name?” Emma said.

Roducci smiled. “Just numbers. But they all work. And when they don’t, they will direct you to another. Do not worry. My business depends on people who need items quicker than can be found through the usual channels. My customers know how responsive I am. And they also know that I can get them anything. But my specialty is arms.”