The Devil's Handshake

39

Aden Isaaq International Airport

A still fuming Wasir and the resigned pair of Andrew and Tony met the Indian as he reached the bottom step of the G-4.

“Gouramangi, I am glad you’re here my friend!” said the Interior Minister as he hugged and kissed him on both cheeks expressively. His embrace provided Navjot with a whiff of extra strong perfume that was general in the Middle East plus a rather unsavory deposit of damp sweat from the minister’s linen shirt onto his.

“These idiots have placed great pressure on us!” he added waving his hands towards the Englishmen at his side.

Yesterday when Wasir had ranted and raved about them letting him down, at that point Navjot hadn’t committed to traveling into Borama due to the rest of the plan progressing well. The two hundred Turaeg soldiers had arrived over the last week entering variously through Djibouti, Ethiopia, and Somalia respectively and were covertly being taken to a camp just outside the city. There, the Ukrainians were going through their weapons training with the Non Commissioned Officers and finally the armored vehicles that had arrived in Addis Ababa from China and were being loaded for transportation through Ethiopia and onto Adwalland.

Having been briefed by Ali to make sure there weren’t any problems with the arrival of vehicles Navjot had ordered, in somewhat colorful language, the resident in Addis Ababa made sure that was the case.

“There was a time when a bribe was only a couple hundred bucks here or there!” the resident had said to the Indian as it was now costing them ten thousand U.S. dollars.

Again the reliable Reza had made the transfers to relevant accounts in Dubai and sent some money to the resident, so he didn’t have to go to the Ambassador for petty cash, thus avoiding the need to fill in about twenty-five forms of paperwork, the absolute scourge of every officer since the austerity measures of the Obama Administration.

“Don’t worry my friend these things happen; that is why I am here,” Navjot replied lying to the Interior Minister as he caught sight of the look of thunder on Andrew and Tony faces. He did have some sympathy although he didn’t show it. Working with amateurs like Wasir was never easy, as he knew through bitter experience during his time working with the ISI in Pakistan.

“Tell me what else has been happening?” Navjot asked in keeping with his cover. A question he would also ask his team later but first, he needed to hear it from his expensive pair of contractors having caught sight of Litchfield’s large private BBJ already parked up to the side of the runway as they were taxiing in.

“Litchfield and Jawari are going to have a meeting with the chieftains from Lughaya and Saylec this afternoon,” Wasir said with authority. He had been briefed by one of his men who kept tabs on the different Clans for him.

“Is that a problem for us?” asked Navjot, eyeing up the pirate.

“No,” replied Wasir, lying to his face because, despite his growing commercial control through the Interior Ministry in the country, it wasn’t the case due to the fact he belonged to the Bima, a sub-clan of the Gadabuursi’s Dir so, therefore, unfortunately was still bound by the decisions of his Chieftain, something no foreigner couldn’t possibly understand.

The background to this tie of blood, a fact of everyday life in Somalia, was founded in the civil war that followed on from the revolution in 1969. After the breakdown and bloodshed of the brutal civil war and eventually sick of the bloodshed, the Clans of the North finally “stopped digging in their hole,” to quote President Bill Clinton, and met at a conference entirely organized by the elders in the early 1990s. The outcome of the conference was that all parties agreed to return to customary law and to form a grassroots assembly through which Clan leaders would oversee.

Overnight, this had the effect of legalizing the Clan structure and introducing a bicameral system consisting of Upper and Lower houses. The Clan elders predominant in the Upper house, and all from the Issa Clan took over security and helped hold the region together. The Lower house all from Bima Clan considered the educated ones became responsible for the legislation, which used Sharia law as its base.

Because Wasir belonged to a sub-clan under the Lower house it meant that despite his appearances to Navjot, even he had to bend to the will of the Upper house on matters of security. It was a bitter pill to swallow for the ambitious Wasir Osman Hassan who had funded and paid taxes over years from his piracy and had ensured that his Indian friend made a contribution of a million U.S. dollars to each tribal chief to gain power.

Yet, the simple truth was that because Jawari was a member of the Upper house through the blood of his uncle and furthermore maintained a close relationship with his area’s Upper house Chieftains, it meant that the man’s position was still stronger than his own due to his hereditary rights.

The deal offered by his Indian friend in Dubai with his white mercenaries had allowed Wasir a unique opportunity to change the natural order of things. He didn’t care about whether the Russians liked it or not. He was only interested his own power base within Adwalland. If the Indian and his friends wanted him to break the agreement with the Russian oil companies and the Englishman, so be it. Being an opportunist though he recognized this was the only chance to do it, because he knew the moment the Russian soldiers arrived, the power of Jawari would be absolute with his friends acting as guarantor.

He had seen how they had stood by the Syrian leader despite international pressure and they had always kept their promises.

With his friend’s adviser’s plan to bring in Gaddafi’s mercenaries to assist in any difficult operations of what Martin described as “sensitive,” Wasir immediately recognized what he could use them for: “A takeover in Lughaya then blame it on Jawari and his militia.”

His plan simple in design within the confines of his mind guaranteed him as the Minister responsible for security that the militia under his authority was sent in to restore order with the direct result being the unfortunate death of the incumbent Clan leader, Reer Rooble Ali.

What Wasir hadn’t bothered to explain to his Indian friend was that the difficult part of the operation, despite explaining otherwise, was the acceptance of him as Jawari’s replacement as he belonged to a Lower house Clan.

The only real way that he could ensure this happened was to slaughter Jawari and Rooble Ali’s entire immediate Clans and some of his own for appearances plus a unique group of VIPs. Together that decision represented the lives of over two thousand men, women, and children. Despite his friend and his Englishman’s tough talk, Wasir knew this final part of the plan would be something even they would hesitate over on fear of the world media finding out about it. Something that appeared to always be their first consideration in every decision he noted but still not understanding as to why.

It was because of this that Wasir had decided that he was only going to tell his Indian friend after the event.

“Excellent!” replied Navjot with a false smile.

“Let’s head back to the hotel so I can take a rest and then meet up this evening for dinner,” Navjot offered, just as a runner who had been observing started to call his supervisor on his cheap handset to let him know that a foreigner had arrived and been met by the Minister, knowing as he did so he would earn a hundred U.S. dollars, half a year’s salary for his family.

At about midday with the air conditioning working overtime as the heat continued to build outside sitting with Igor and his number two, Mikhail and Benny were at the suite’s dining table with Jawari’s head of security reviewing the security arrangements around the President and the different areas of importance around the city.

“I cannot put our men around the television center,” said Badr before explaining that the Interior Ministry had full responsibility for the security of the place.

“What about the telephone exchange?” Igor asked.

“The same again,” replied the experienced battle-hardened veteran of the civil war in Arabic, before adding as the mobile masts are here in the Cismah Hotel grounds, he would make sure the internet and mobiles of TLH network had their security increased with men that were loyal to the President.

“That will work,” thought Igor.

As long as they had a key piece of communications infrastructure under control, by giving Badr’s men loaded up burner phones, they could communicate at will on the TLH Network with all the President’s loyal fighters.

“Whatever happens, Badr,” said Igor. “You must hold the communication towers,” he instructed the Somali.

“I understand,” the man grimly nodded.

Earlier Mikhail had briefed Igor on the arrival of the Il-76 despite the intelligence being something Igor already knew about having been notified by Moscow who was monitoring all air traffic through their listening post in Yemen. The next piece of information from Mikhail’s update he certainly wasn’t aware of.

“The ten transporters,” Igor said, shaking his head. He hated surprises. This news definitely fit into that category.

“Should take them about nine hours to get to Addis,” continued Mikhail.

Fearing that the transporters could be picking up tanks or armored personnel carriers, Igor sent an immediate flash message to Sergei Andreyevich in Moscow asking for a confirmation of anything unique or unusual being reported from the local resident in Addis. Then things got worse.

“Mr. Igor, my people have found a farm that is located just outside Borama in a village called Aw-Barre. It appears to have over two hundred men on it undergoing drills and training,” Badr said.

“How do you know this?” injected Mikhail.

“We followed a white man who had a meeting with this Martin and Wilson at Rays Hotel in the Shacabka district,” answered the veteran.

“Thank you,” replied Igor, trying not to show his concern while his mind worked over the intelligence. With only the ten of them plus Litchfield’s men on site at the moment and with a possible coup d’état just days away he had to make a call whether to request additional backup. What happened over next few hours would determine whether he made that call or not.

A burner phone ringing on the table interrupted them.

“That was Barak,” reported Benny after he had finished listening to the pre-agreed coded-message.

“It appears that the Indian has arrived at the airport,” he said

“Really?” offered Igor somewhat surprised. In his experience Principals never arrived on the scene when a putsch was about to take place.

“What’s he doing here?” asked Mikhail having thought the same thing as Igor.

“Good Question!” Igor replied assuming at that moment the putsch wasn’t now so imminent.

“Let me know what your boys in Addis come up with in respect to the trucks,” offered Mikhail towards Igor being older and more experienced. He was thinking something must be up.

Two hours later, while Thomas and Jawari were still having their meeting with the two tribal elders and their advisers, Igor received his answer.

Picking up his ringing codex phone, he quickly answered it. He listened carefully what Sergei had to say. The grim look on his face told the waiting Mikhail the whole story.

“It appears that our friends have been busy picking up Armored type 63 personnel carriers at the airport this morning, and as we speak are on their way back to the border,” Igor said completely disregarding his own private assumption with respect to the putsch not being imminent of earlier.

“As it will take them about nine hours to return to Borama so add that to load time plus customs perhaps a stop or two, say two hours. That means we have until 20:00 hours before they arrive then maybe an hour or so after that for them unload them,” Benny said out loud making calculations on timing as he went along.

“As soon as they get here they will almost certainly start their operation,” injected Mikhail.

“We will be getting some additional support from Damascus in the form of two teams,” Igor offered to have been told by Sergei that he had ordered them to be deployed to him.

“How many?” asked Mikhail, having already mentally calculated that they will arrive approximately at the same time as the trucks.

“Twenty,” answered Igor.

“It will still take them about six hours best case, say seven hours to get here,” offered Igor’s deputy Aytrom before adding that they had only two PMILE–general purpose machines guns with 12.7mm rounds within their kit having also checked the strength of the armor on the carriers on the Getac laptop.

“Better make sure they put extra PMILEs in their kits, please,” Igor asked Aytrom who nodded his head in response then began typing out the request on encrypted emails to the quartermasters of units C and D.

“This is going to be tight. Anything else your boys can get to us?” asked Mikhail using the old Israeli logic of military operations never run on time.

“Yes, but we must get Jawari’s permission before we can receive the authorization from Command for them to deploy,” he said before explaining further that they could have two hundred men from the 3rd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade GRU in the theatre within twelve hours.

“We better go and tell the boss then,” said Mikhail getting up never actually believing he would be so happy see the sight of two hundred Russians Spetsnaz commandos arriving in his lifetime.

Taking lunch with Rooble Ali the leader of the Lughaya Clan and Rashid Dualeh Jawari the President’s uncle and leader of his own Clan from Saylac Thomas was in a pensive mood.

The reason as to why they were having lunch was because both were representatives the Upper House and of the Issa, the main Clans that held responsibility for the safety of Adwalland. A right given to them because of their shared Arabian roots that dated back to Aqeel ibn Abi Talib the second son of Abu Talib, the uncle and protector of Muhammad.

In their late seventies, the men were not only the oldest Clan heads, but also tough no nonsense men having fought, initially, in the brutal civil war against Said Barre the former leader of the dictatorial regime of Ethiopia.

Both had suffered terrible losses of children of both sexes as the aggressor’s troops and militia shelled bombed and strafed all towns and villages in Awdalland before they finally set aside their traditional differences and joined together to fight the SNM’s in the early 1990s.

Both were also determined to see their country and their grandchildren no longer fall back under the boot of oppression.

Although initially distrustful and suspicious of the President’s foreign friend they had finally bonded with Thomas on his trip five years ago when he had informed them that his own daughter was Muslim, and sworn on his child’s life that he would support their country’s birth as a nation.

With Thomas having fulfilled all his promises to them despite their minor sub-clans having their head turned by Wasir’s Indian friend, they had steadfastly stood by the President despite their initial reservations over the Russian naval base forming part of the deal.

Then, over many shishas together, they finally concluded that the base would offer great economic opportunities and more importantly security if the Somali or other neighboring states decided to cast lustful eyes towards the bounty of natural resources that lay off their coast. The decision was made easier by seeing how well their respective Clan members from Djibouti were prospering from the Americans foreign presence primarily through Camp Lemmonier. This wasn’t known however to the President or their friend.

Earlier with their greetings out of the way, symbolized by the kissing of each cheek and then, a third time with a hug the three men had sat.

“Sheikh, we are very grateful for all your support!” Rashid said expressively in Arabic, using the word Sheikh in a respectful manner as a thank you for the ten million U.S. dollars in cash Thomas had brought and handed over to them both without comment or conditions.

“You are most welcome my friends,” replied Thomas in Arabic taking the hand of Rooble Ali first then Rashid as he was slightly younger with both hands to show respect each time.

“We look forward to our friend President Putin’s Ambassador’s arrival in Borama next week,” offered Rashid as conversation filler while the hotel staff entered with dates, pastries, and chilled fruit juices.

Once the Cismah’s staff departed, Rooble Ali continued where he left off as he picked up a date with his right hand.

“Sheikh Omar tells us that you are concerned about Wasir and his friend.”

“That is correct, great Sheikh,” replied Thomas ensuring he showed his concern in his face using the title granted to men who were direct descendants of Muhammad. Something both these men were.

Rashid offered that there was no need, for all elders were fully behind the strategy of having Russia as a tenant in Lughaya having seen how many of their extended family and friends had prospered in Djibouti. Suddenly, Thomas felt a lot better. With a beaming smile, Thomas replied in kind that he was pleased while actually thinking privately he had just had his “pocket picked” by the cunning elders over the way they merely dismissed the deal offered by the Indian.

With this important agreement out of the way, the President as they had agreed beforehand, took over the next part of the mini conference.

Yesterday, when the pair of them had discussed the need to remove Wasir from the scene, the President explained this could prove extremely difficult because he provided a valuable source of income to many sub-Clans nevertheless he had changed mind in an instant when Thomas advised about the impounding of the helicopter gunship, the sending of his trailer trucks to Addis, and when his Head of Security advised him of the discovery of the two hundred foreign fighters this morning.

When Omar had been informed of Wasir’s treachery he had nearly gone into meltdown. Nevertheless he knew he needed to make sure they had the Clan leaders’ ongoing support; something that allowed him to manage to contain his anger.

That being granted, he took the gloves off.

As Omar set about explaining with lots of hand movements to his tribal elders in excitable Somali what Wasir was up, to Thomas could tell by the look on their grim faces they were completely shocked.

“We are very grateful for our Russian friend’s help,” said Rashid, emotionally supported by Rooble Ali having been told by the President that the Russians had arranged for the hated gunship to be impounded in Guinea Bissau. Both men had a rabid fear of them having seen the terrible effects the ones from Ethiopia had inflicted on their Clans during the war.

Interrupted by Mikhail, he could tell by the look on his trusted friend’s face that the news wasn’t good something that was confirmed to him when Mikhail leaned down into his ear and told of him of the news from Addis.

“What is it my friend?” asked the President concerned as he picked up on the same look. Just to have his own look match Mikhail’s and his when Thomas informed the three of them the news.

“What do you suggest Sheikh?” asked Rooble Ali in Arabic, still in shock over Wasir’s actions. In the twilight of his life, he had no wish to see his country fall back into the bloodshed of the past.

“Why don’t I ask our Russian friend to join us, he has a proposal,” replied Thomas, grimly knowing that they had a fight on their hands.

During the ten minute trip to the hotel, Navjot received an update from both Tony and Andrew with regard the loss of the gunship and as he listened to them offer up their excuses he knew it was an attempt by them both to downplay its significance because they had tried to convince him they had suitable backup plans in place to work around its loss. He didn’t bother to tell them that the Russians were behind it because he knew they would get cold feet.

So instead he set about briefing them on what the future plans were on the various companies he had lined up to enter into partnership once the regime change was completed. As he did so, could see the former Guards officer was impressed and already counting his money.

Now checked into his suite, Navjot started to sweep the room for listening and observation devices. Seeing there were none he opened his case pulled out the Codex phone and dialed a number. A lady answered.

“Coast is clear I am in my room,” he said.

Less than a minute later on the second knock he opened the door so allow Clara Martinez to walk in. As she did so, both of them ignored the little housekeeper of about fourteen going about her business on the same floor.

On the ground for the past two weeks watching the coming and goings of various designated parties with four other members the Special Operations Group, Clara and the rest of the team had entered through Ethiopia posing as NGOs attached to one of the CIA fronts, a water aid charity called Water & Life Aid. They had rented some offices in the center of the city where they had set up their communications and monitoring equipment.

A strong willed, attractive woman of Mexican descent in her mid-thirties, Clara was best described as having a slender, girlish figure with an oval face, large and lustrous eyes, and a head crowned by a mass of coal black wavy hair. She had served with Navjot for the last ten years since graduating in Politics and Economics from Berkeley and given her ability to multi-task, she held responsibility for logistics and planning of the group’s operations.

It was her unique ability at being “better at playing a part” and “superior to colleagues” when it came to “suppressing her ego in order to attain the goal,” as her trainers at the Farm had placed on her file alongside her skill in speaking Spanish and Arabic, that she found herself recruited into SAD.

An Intelligence Star locked up in the vault in Langley for her role in assisting in the take down of Anwar al-Awlaki in the Yemen, the unmarried “mother” as the team referred to her for the way she worried, Clara was always the first name Navjot added to his team list when setting up an operation.

“Boss! Do you think you should really be here!” she said not bothering with any formalities like greetings after he closed the door.

“Nice to see you too, Clara!” Navjot said making light of her statement.

“We are a fucking day away, and now the Principal is in the theatre! What the fuck does that look like!” she continued, ignoring his attempt at a joke not to mention angry with him for taking such risks.

“Like it’s supposed to!” Navjot answered, with a wry smile still trying to put her at ease before going on to describe both his and Ali’s suspicions that the Russians were on to the operation due to the gunship being impounded.

Their theory was a stretch, more Navjot’s as Ali wasn’t that convinced, despite backing him with an authorization to deploy, that for the sake of appearance with his presence in Adawaland they would ensure the Russians, fearing a regime change was about to take place, didn’t up the timetable by landing troops before their Ambassador officially took up residence,.

“No self-respecting billionaire is going to put himself in harm’s way due to the risk of things going wrong,” Navjot stated, ignoring the fact that Ali wasn’t fully behind the plan either.

Clara shook her head.

“I still consider it a fucking risk. What happens if they grab you?” she said, using almost the same line Ali had yesterday over the secure line.

“Then I am a star on the wall!” Navjot answered flippantly referring to the wall at Langley where all the fallen agents were honored.

He didn’t need Clara or Ali to tell him that. He knew it was a huge risk, but Navjot had rationalized that it was one he had to take due to the pressures of time working against them. That didn’t mean though he should not have a backup plan in place, that he done by putting Rob Ashley on standby back in Dubai, but again for operational security reasons, he chose to keep that from Clara for the simple reason she had no knowledge of Rob’s identity having never met him.

Finally, getting the message sensing she had almost certainly pushed her friend and colleague far enough, Clara reluctantly accepted his decision.

“Now having heard bullshit from everybody else can I have a proper update, please?” Navjot asked again with his smile returned before offering her a drink from the bar.

Forty-five minutes later, the attractive aid worker left the room and made her way back out of the hotel and got into her Land Cruiser.

As she did Navjot, still in his room, looked at his watch. Seeing that he had about an hour before he had to meet Wasir again, he undressed and went for a shower so he could think through the effect of what he had just been told to him by Clara.

“So Litchfield has ten Russian special forces members guarding him!” he told himself as the jets of water hit his face. That meant with Litchfield’s own team of four they had to deal with fourteen highly trained security officers plus the team of twenty ex-Gurkhas that were in charge of guarding the TLH assets in Adwalland, whom he had reasoned Litchfield would certainly be able to draw upon.

In his mind he had discounted Jawari’s own men due to their lack of skills and having assessed Wasir’s men on his previous trips he figured they could be easily neutralized; experienced fighters yes they were, but organized, no. “As long as it stays that way, we should be okay!” he convinced himself as he began to wash his hair.

To the sounds of the evening prayers echoing around the city and needing privacy to make his call, Igor entered his hotel room. He too checked for listening and monitoring devices then pulled up the stocky aerial on his Codex phone and dialed the number for Sergei Andreyevich.

Instantly his call was picked up.

“Sergei Andreyevich,” Igor started the call respectfully. “The President, within the next thirty minutes, will be sending the Minister of Foreign Affairs a formal request for assistance from Russian Armed Forces under the terms of their cooperation agreement fearing an attempt by foreign powers to overthrow his government,” said Igor.

“Understood, Igor! I will let the Director know. Your mission is now to protect the HARE at all costs.” Replied Sergei Petrov, using the call sign for the President of Adwalland. “Command Authority is granted. Unit C and D and the Brigade Commander that will be providing support for your team will be informed. What other resources do you have at your disposal until they arrive?” asked Sergei Petrov.

Having read Igor’s notes on the current disposition of the potential forces of Viper and then updated him on the carriers that were on their way from Addis despite the removal from the field of the Mil-17, Sergei was concerned they were outgunned. As he listened, he was even more concerned.

“This is going to be tight until the GRU Guards arrived in the theatre,” Sergei told himself.

“Within his security detail he has ten immediate bodyguards,” continued Igor. We are unsure of their loyalty, so we have not briefed them with the exception of Head of Security, but Blagorodnyy has placed his assets at our disposal, so this gives us extra twenty-five,” concluded Igor. His count included Thomas, who had insisted that he was staying in Borama despite him and Mikhail arguing about it and overriding Igor’s objections when they had stepped outside having received the President permission to make the call.

“Really?” answered Sergei surprised having assumed that Thomas was going depart the scene with his men knowing a putsch was imminent. It was what any sensible Oligarch would do.

“He has also placed his aircraft at our disposal if we need to do an emergency extraction,” Igor further added.

“Please pass on my thanks to Blagorodnyy,” offered Sergei gratefully.

This was going to be a close run thing, deciding there and then whatever happens he would ensure his wife cooked Thomas dinner next time he was in Moscow over this gesture. For he was sure the moment the Director reported to Vladimir Vladimirovich that one of Russia’s most important National Champions was staying, he would be ordered out of the theatre of operations for he was much too valuable to Russia to have him dying in the small country on the Horn of Africa.

“I will sir!” answered Igor, thinking the same thing despite Thomas overruling him.

After dropping off his Indian friend at the hotel, Wasir and his bodyguards drove back to his villa located on the outskirts of Borama, reaching it just as the midday sun reached its zenith.

The villa, built by a Sharjah based Pakistani three years ago, had cost him over two million U.S. dollars to construct in the foothills of the mountains that surrounded the small city.

The compound, enclosed by a two-meter high wall with machine gun posts at each corner was designed in a contemporary Arab style, set in a garden of date and palm trees much like the luxury Signature Villa the same contractor had built for him in the Emirates Hills, Dubai.

It had a spacious open plan living area, high ceilings, and a clerestory in the central living area, so to allow the ample natural light to filter through the property. The four bedrooms on the first floor were located off the double height gallery landing; two of the bedrooms and his master bedroom also contained a safe room. He maintained a separate similar villa on the compound for his wives and their children, as he preferred not to have the sound of them disturbing him. Only his eighteen- and sixteen-year-old sons, Mohammed and Samir, lived with him at the main house.

On entering with Ahmed, he found his oldest son Mohammed sitting in the lounge with a white man of about forty. After first greeting his son with a hug and a kiss on each cheek in the traditional method he then turned introduced himself to the man.

“You must be Mr. Leo,” he said offering his hand to the tall, bald, tanned, well-built muscular man with piercing blue eyes dressed in a black t-shirt with his holster looped over his shoulder and army trousers.

The UN convention defines a mercenary as “any person who is specially recruited locally or abroad in order to fight in an armed conflict; is motivated to take part in the hostilities essentially by the desire for private gain and…. is neither a national of a party to the conflict nor a resident of territory controlled by a party to the conflict.” Leonid Yosipovich Buryak was such a man. A Jew starting his career as an eighteen-year-old in the Airborne Brigade of Ukraine, he had served three years with the unit before he left after the fall of Soviet Union because of the poor conditions and pay to make his way to Paris, France where his sister was making a living as a prostitute. He had been there six months scraping a living as a bouncer or enforcer for his sister’s pimp when he walked past a recruiting office for the French Foreign Legion. Thinking that it represented a better opportunity of allowing him to make a living and have a career he quickly joined up to serve ten years, eventually reaching the rank of Sergeant Chef. In the Foreign Legion, he served in the Central African Republic, Rwanda, as part of the KFOR mission in Kosovo and Iraq along the way before finally leaving to make a living as a security consultant back in Bagdad and in Afghanistan before finding his real calling as a mercenary in Sierra Leone and the many miserable holes of Africa.

When the business began to dry up he signed up with the Libyans at the start of the Arab Spring, working with the Turaegs for six months in the bitter civil war, only quitting when the U.S. dollars stopped coming. He didn’t really care about the rights and wrongs of a side. He had killed a lot of men and women, even child soldiers, over the years. Instead, he dealt with it by telling himself as they weren’t his friends or family, it didn’t matter. Life was cheap in a war zone.

Despite that rather cynically cold outlook on life he had never discussed any of it with his French wife or his sons and being smart neither did they; instead they just accepted his money gratefully.

When Xurella asked him if he could oversee the training and general operations for Adwalland, he had asked only one question.

“How much, Mr. Martin?”

When he got the answer of $100,000 U.S. dollars with $50,000 up-front, he packed his bags that night and recruited as requested, the nine other Ukrainians all in their fifties, eager for the money and had also previously worked with Gaffadi’s Islamic legion when they were in the Soviet Union’s GRU, and two hundred Turaegs who had all worked with him previously in Libya and were fresh from fighting his old Alma Mata—the Legion in Mali.

He hadn’t bothered to tell Martin or Wilson about this particular meeting because the Principal’s liaison had asked him not to when he took him to one side on his arrival at the airport from Mumbai. Assuming that he was the man paying him he replied that wasn’t a problem, “As long as he kept paying him he would do as he asked,” he said to the young man.

The Interior Minister started their discussion with an update on the armored personnel carriers to which Buryak had replied politely that he was very pleased. Privately he was actually thinking, “The sooner they could start the operation the sooner he could get out this shit hole!”

“I want to be sure that we both understand each other, that your men follow my orders, not Martin’s or Wilson’s,” stated Wasir as the young house girl who doubled as a concubine for him brought them dates and dark bitter coffee refreshments.

“Of course, Sir!” replied Leo. He knew where this was going and he had no “special” loyalty to Martin or Wilson. In any case, he was absolutely sure those two were certainly getting more than him.

If this African warlord wanted him to ignore their orders, so be it. Instead, he figured it was because Martin was being greedy or maybe the warlord was cutting him out. Either way he didn’t care.

“As long as you keep paying me, you’re the boss,” he replied picking up a date and popping it his mouth.

“Excellent,” Wasir said before going on to explain that when the personnel carriers would arrive, and when the operation started he wanted him to take one of the vehicles and some men then drive to Lughaya and carry out a unique mission on his behalf.

At the end of the description of what was needed, Buryak just nodded.

“I require a one-off payment,” he said.

What the warlord was asking him to do would almost certainly grab the world’s attention, something he knew Martin was almost rabid about to the point of distraction, so much so the Englishman had ordered him to keep an eye on a couple of freelance stringers at Rays Hotel and left him with instructions to take them out when the action started.

“How much?” Asked Wasir popping his own date into his mouth while stroking the young terrified child that brought them refreshments.

“Thirty thousand U.S. dollars,” replied the former Foreign Legion Sergeant Chef, ignoring the whines of the young girl, figuring that it sounded reasonable.

At least this way Buryak knew that he would be able to head home to Camile, his wife, with at least eighty thousand U.S. dollars in cash. Experience taught him that it was unlikely that Martin would pay him the full hundred thousand, having heard on the grapevine that he had been struggling to pay his other men who were working for some of his other mining companies.

“That is a lot of money, Mr. Leo!” replied the former pirate in an attempt to bargain despite knowing it would be expensive as the targets were very high profile and had been specially chosen to get a response from the neighboring Americans in Djibouti. Yet he also knew he had little choice but to agree to the man’s terms as time was against him. The ex-pirate decided to trust his instincts as he reflected that.

“The tribal elders would never go with the breaking of the contracts with the Russians, despite convincing his Indian friend otherwise, nor would the Russians receive their loss of their base lightly,” he thought at the time over drinks with his friend at the Burj Al Arab. “For this to work I need to ensure the Americans replace them,” he concluded as his mind thought over the problem of the Russians’ response.

He had seen what they had done to his pirates when they captured them. That meant he had to ensure the Americans entered the country before the Russians arrived. Knowing full well that would be the only way the Russians would accept the change of the status quo, if somewhat reluctantly, thus enable him to broker his own deal with the Americans by using his Indian friends connections to bring in new partners to replace the Englishman and his Russian friends.

That is why he needed to have someone conduct his side operation that wasn’t directly linked to him or his militia. The Ukrainian in front of him with his son represented such a person. If his plan worked he would blame it on the Upper House Clan members of the President’s allies, Rooble Ali’s and Dudeh Jawari’s militias.

The fact that some of his Clan was going to have to die in the process so to ensure the outcome was the price he would have to pay.

“That’s a lot of people and some of them are very high profile,” was the straightforward response from Leo.

Seeing by the look on his face that the hard-nosed Ukrainian wasn’t going to budge on the price and with too much at stake for him to argue, Wasir released the girl he had been playing with and offered his hand to him to imply his acceptance of terms.

The experienced mercenary looked at him again with no emotion before he finally took his hand.

“Up front,” he repeated.

“Of course,” replied Wasir, before telling his son to go and get the Ukrainian his cash before ordering the young terrified child upstairs.

Parking her Land Cruiser next to the new offices of their Charity in the Dila district of Borama in the early evening, Clara Martinez stepped out of the vehicle to the sounds of the small local mosque next to the building calling the faithful to Prayer.

Stopping for a few moments, she chose some limes and grapefruits from the little boys parked outside their three-story building, checking as she did so to see if she had been followed. Satisfied she hadn’t been she paid the boys, collected the fruit, and then climbed up the stairs to the second floor of the building.

She knocked on the door twice to give a warning to the residents inside who was outside, and she was alone.

Once the door opened, the sight of Pete who had let her in and Joe who had the pleasure of monitoring the communications and listening equipment greeted her.

“So what’s up?” asked Joe referring to Navjot’s decision to arrive on site, something he had only advised them of this morning.

Earning a shake of her head then in return to reflect her own disapproval she explained that he was sure that the Russians were on to the Martin-led operation due the fact that they had organized for the gunship to be impounded in Bissau.

Like her they both expressed surprise that he chosen to come into theatre, as he where front and center of this operation, but ultimately unlike her they dismissed it. Navjot had always been a man who liked to lead from the front, so who were they to be questioning his judgment?

“Anything else happening?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Basir reports that one of Ukrainians that arrived on Saturday went off with one with Wasir’s sons,” offered Pete referring to one of the Special Operations SEALS they had on loan from Djibouti who was monitoring the base of the Turaegs for them posing as a goat herder. The young Petty Officer from Queens, New York was of Sudanese descent fit in effortlessly and so far hadn’t raised any suspicions.

“Mike reports Litchfield received the President and a couple of the tribal elders over at his villa,” he continued referring to the other SEAL in more tradition clothing of chinos and t-shirts of the NGOs located at the hotel and was observing the coming and goings around the Oligarch.

Clara nodded that wasn’t unusual, as when the wealthy Englishman was around the President was always close by, for he was the money.

“Any news on who, these new security members are?” Clara asked for although she knew they were almost certainly members of their Russian counterparts at Zaslon, she disagreed with Navjot’s summary that they were there to provide security to him. It was quite common for the unit to be used in the role of diplomatic protection, not just counter-intelligence functions, so she figured they were the advance party for the arriving Ambassador.

“No names, but they have been matched to a team that had been operating in Syria,” answered Pete, referring to the information he had received from one of the analysts at Langley who in turn had gotten it from the Israelis.

“Okay, I will pass that along to the Boss,” replied Clara before heading to the kitchen to put her limes into a cup of tea.

Outside and unknown to Clara, one of the little boys left his friend on the fruit stand to call his foreign friend on the burner mobile he had been given to let him know the woman was now at her office, earning himself a hundred U.S. dollars for his family in the process.