Running Dark

27

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES INTO THE RIDE, THEY CAME UPON A PICKUP truck parked on the shoulder. The cabin doors hung open on either side, and two men lounged on the bench seat, facing out with their feet on the running boards. One had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, the other a rifle in his lap. They kept their bodies at right angles to the dash and watched the road. Hassim pulled into the shade of a nearby tree and waved them forward.

“Is this trouble?” Emma asked.

“No, they’re with us. The government in Hargeisa requires that visitors wishing to take the Hargeisa-Berbera road hire SPUs, or special protection units, to accompany them. I picked these guys because they can speak rudimentary English.”

“The road is dangerous, then?” Emma said.

“It can be, but it’s the only road between the two cities, so we are required to use it. We’ll spend the night in Berbera. They’ll guard you while you sleep.”

Hassim pointed at the dilapidated truck. “It can make it?” he asked.

The men nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

Two hot and dry hours later, they pulled into Berbera. Dust covered Emma from the neck down to her waist and encrusted her lips and face below the glasses. Berbera itself seemed devoid of people. Cinder-block buildings lined empty roads. Skinny mongrel dogs slunk into whatever shade was available. From somewhere in the distance came the howl of an animal, along with the tinny sound of Indian music. They drove along the outskirts of town to a rotting dock where the rusted hull of a speedboat without an engine bobbed in the waves. A floating houseboat was tied to the far end of the pier. Its flat, wide bottom made it look like a barge with three masts, spaced evenly apart. The back was open to the air but covered by a canvas roof that connected to the cabin area. Paper lanterns in bright colors hung from the roof supports in a line. Hassim jerked his head at it.

“It’s a dahabeeyah. Egyptian, really. The lights are plugged into the dock’s power supply. They’re off now but will turn on with a timer. The windows are mesh, so you should get some relief from the mosquitoes.” He pointed to a small wooden structure twenty feet off the dock. “There’s the outhouse, and you’ll find paper in the boat. Sorry, no running water to speak of, but there is an outdoor showerhead on the side that is fed from an overhead tub, a rain barrel for washing up, and a jug of drinking water.”

Emma nodded. The dahabeeyah charmed her, with its paper lanterns. She remained silent, though.

Hassim peered at her. “You are quiet. I hope you’re not upset. Unfortunately, there is no hotel. I promise you, this is somewhat better than sleeping outdoors. We won’t leave until dawn, so it was important I find you a safe place. It’s clean, and the SPUs will watch you through the night.”

Emma shook her head. “I’m not upset. I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s perfect.”

Hassim looked relieved at that. He reached behind her and into the black bag in the back of the jeep. He pulled out a teardrop-shaped backpack and a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“I’ll show you the inside,” he said.

True to his word, the boat was clean. A hanging curtain separated the outdoor section from the cabin. To the right of the entrance, against the far deck railing, sat the rain barrel. Its top was open to the sky but covered with a wide mesh screen to keep out larger animals. Next to it was a tin tub, presumably for washing. Above the rain barrel rested another collection keg on a small platform bolted high up near the boat’s roof. A rusted showerhead jutted out from the bucket’s side, and a string hung down.

Hassim waved at the bucket. “It’s a crude shower, but it works. Pull the string to release the water. Use it sparingly, though. The barrel empties fast and is filled only when it rains. We’re entering the dry season, so what you use will not be replaced soon. Whatever’s left is likely to be lost in evaporation.”

The interior room consisted of one long rectangle, about ten feet by fifteen feet. It held no furniture, but colorful woven mats covered the floor. At the far end, a propane hot plate, an ancient coffee percolator—the type placed directly on heat—two dented pots, and two steel bowls containing silverware sat on a wooden crate. On the other side of the crate was a cooler.

Hassim walked to the center of the room and sat cross-legged on a rug. He placed the backpack and the parcel in front of him.

“This is for you. From Major Stromeyer.”

Emma moved to sit opposite him. He handed her an American passport. She opened it to find a fairly recent picture of herself next to a false name and passport number.

“You don’t want me to use my own?”

Hassim shook his head. “Not any longer. This one is issued not by the State Department but in Nairobi by a vendor near the Kibera slum. Nevertheless, it will get you past immigration in most countries of the world, with the possible exceptions of Switzerland and Israel.”

He handed her the brown package. “Another gift from Major Stromeyer,” he said.

Emma untied the string and unwrapped the paper. The parcel contained sleek black pants in a parachute-type material with ingenious pockets hidden in the legs, two gray T-shirts made by a running company in a technical fabric designed to wick away perspiration, as well as running socks and underwear. Emma checked the sizes. They were correct.

“Thank God for this,” she said. Her relief was heartfelt. The clothes she wore were stained, filthy, sweat-soaked, and hot.

Hassim opened the teardrop backpack and withdrew an aluminum water bottle that he offered to her.

“What’s in it?” Emma lifted the bottle.

“Water mixed with Red Bull.”

“Not vodka?”

Hassim almost smiled.

It seemed to Emma that Hassim was too serious for his age, which she estimated to be about thirty, give or take a few years. She assumed he was a mercenary, like many connected with Darkview. Perhaps being a soldier for hire made one serious before one’s time.

“The pack and what’s in it are also for you.”

The pack slung across Emma’s shoulders diagonally. The strap contained a zip pocket suitable for a cell phone. She unzipped it and found just that. The credit-card-thin receiver had a minimum of bells and whistles. She held it up to Hassim.

“Will it get a signal?”

He shrugged. “It should. Cell phones are common. They keep the khat trade moving. I added a SIM card purchased from a nearby warlord’s village, but I would be careful when using it. The phone contains a GPS signal tracker that I was unable to deactivate.”

“Why don’t they grow their own khat instead of hiring guys like Lock to fly it in?”

“The insurgents burned the fields during the civil war. Replanting would require cooperation between the various warlords, which is not likely to occur.”

“Are you Somali?”

Hassim shook his head. “I’m from Kenya.”

Emma zipped the phone back into the strap. A quick review of the rest of the backpack yielded a flat bubble pack of pills labeled “electrolytes,” six packets of GU running gel, four PowerBars, three thousand dollars American in a thin bank envelope, and a compass. Emma smiled at the last item. After Colombia she had sworn that she would never be without a compass. She still wore the GPS wristwatch given to her by Banner when he’d appeared in Colombia, but the traditional magnetic type was sure to work under any conditions.

“And this is from me,” Hassim said. He handed her a small blue-steel gun with an ankle holster. “I assumed you knew how to handle weapons and so was surprised when Lock said he was giving you a lesson. Would you like me to show you?”

Emma nodded. Hassim ran her through the loading, firing, and safety features of the gun. When he was done, he handed her a box of bullets.

“Extras,” he said. She tossed them into the pack along with the gun.

Hassim stood and stretched. “We leave before dawn. The SPUs will return at dusk. There is food in the cooler for you. Please stay on the boat, and inside as much as possible. If you wish to shower, perhaps do so once the night has fallen. Although this area is usually deserted, it is best to remain anonymous.” He parted the hanging curtain. Emma listened to his steps as he walked across the dock and then heard the jeep’s engine and the crunch of the tires as he drove away.

Pillows lined the walls in the far corner, and a thick foam pad acted as a bed. Emma inspected all of it, taking care to shake out the pillows and look under the bed for scorpions. Seeing none, she removed her shoes, grabbed a pillow, covered herself with a small throw that was folded at the foot of the mat, and lay down. She spent the last three hours of daylight falling into and out of fitful naps brought on by the combination of heat and exhaustion.

At dusk the paper lanterns clicked on, sending small bits of colored light onto the boat’s deck. A bare bulb in a protective cage threw a yellow glow in a desultory circle on the dock’s weather-beaten boards. Moths and other insects fluttered in the beam. Emma made her way to the crate and found a kerosene lamp and matches. She lit the wick and adjusted the flame higher. Shadows flickered in the room.

When it was full dark, she roused herself again to rummage for food. She opened the cooler and found three apples, two oranges, a plastic bag with a type of round flatbread that looked like tortillas only spongier, a jug of drinking water, one can of salmon and one of tuna, and a small bag of coffee, all nestled in ice. She ate the bread, then pulled the ring tab on the tuna can and devoured the contents. She finished her dinner with a chaser of the remaining lukewarm Red Bull mixture.

On top of the crate was a threadbare bath towel. She stripped off her clothes, wrapped it around her, grabbed the lantern, and pushed aside the fabric door to the outside deck. The shower and rain barrel were on the side deck facing the water. A small sliver of soap on a rope and a bar rag hung from some nails pounded into the wall next to the shower. She pulled on the shower string to wet her body. The stream of water was weak, but so warm as to be almost hot. She lathered the soap everywhere, including her hair, and pulled again to rinse. She wrapped the towel around her once again.

Emma paused to gaze into the night. A slice of moon sent a stream of light across the undulating waves. The only sounds were the lapping of the ocean as it moved against the dock and the rhythmic creaking of some loose boards. Insects hummed somewhere on shore, and she heard the occasional splash of a fish in the water. She felt alone but not lonely. She looked at the stars and wondered if Patrick’s spirit floated among them, watching her. She returned her attention to the water, and she prayed that the ocean was not preparing to swallow some more inconsequential humans who attempted to sail its waves.

THE LIGHTS OUTSIDE TURNED OFF. She moved back into the cabin, put on the clean clothes, and removed the gun, placing it next to her. Then she turned down the kerosene lamp and fell asleep on her first sigh.