Free [Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel by Richard Marcinko

perspiration—obviously he was thinking hard. I ordered a refill and asked him to explain what he had in mind.
    Note for the file: never make important business decisions after midnight in Abu Dhabi.

(III)
    Two days later, rested, restocked, and rejuvenated, I came face-to-face with an old friend.
    A Heckler & Koch MP5, to be exact. The submachine gun has been my weapon of choice for many years. It’s light, deadly, and most important of all, dependable. If a dog is a man’s best friend, a decent submachine gun is not far behind.
    Unfortunately, this one wasn’t mine. And it happened to be pointed at my nose.
    “You are an enemy of the state,” said the man holding the gun.
    “Probably,” I admitted.
    “You are an infidel and a demon.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “You are worth more to me dead than alive.”
    “There I’d have to disagree.”
    “In Somalia, even here in Mogadishu, white men are worth their weight in gold,” countered the man with the gun. He wore a gray suit, which somehow seemed loose-fitting despite his considerable girth and broad shoulders. The perfectly pressed cuffs of his pants edged over the tops of his gleaming blue vinyl Nike athletic shoes. A small line of sweat glistened at the edge of his mahogany-colored scalp, a dotted line where his hair had once been.
    Hopefully, the sweat was a result of the heat, not nervousness. Nervousness in Somalia is very bad for your health, especially if you’re on the wrong end of a gun barrel.
    I held my arms out a little farther. The Somalis are world-renowned for their friendliness. In ancient times, it’s said they often held feasts for visitors, generally about a half hour after they were killed. These days, they party a little less, but the same welcoming spirit prevails.
    “No one will pay my ransom. You’ll have to pay the cost of my burial.”
    “Well, that wouldn’t do.” The man lowered the submachine gun and grinned. “How are you, Mr. Dick?”
    “Good, Taban,” I managed before he extended his arms and pulled me into a bear hug that could have squeezed life out of a tree.
    “So long since we have seen you.”
    Taban released me and stepped back. Then he glanced to his left, where a thin young man of about twenty was standing, holding an AK47. The young man seemed confused, or maybe disappointed that he wasn’t going to get a chance to use the rifle.
    “Let me introduce my nephew Abdi,” continued Taban. “Abdi—put the gun down. This is my friend, Mr. Dick. We have done much business together. The Good American. Mr. Dick—the Rogue Warrior. Very famous in America. He has come to eat in our restaurant, no?”
    Taban turned back to me.
    “Sure,” I told him. I had already eaten, but turning down an offer of hospitality in Mogadishu is more dangerous than stepping into a room filled with king cobras.
    Abdi eyed me suspiciously. I couldn’t blame him, really—paranoia is a survival skill in Mogadishu.
    “Come, and have something to eat,” said Taban, pulling me into the restaurant. “I have something very special for you—Mogadishu meatloaf. This is an old family recipe. Very good.”
    “Your family had meatloaf?”
    “No, no, not my family. A family in Minnesota. I found it on the Internet.”
    *   *   *
    I’d met Taban ali Mohammad nearly a decade before, when I did some “consulting” work for a shipping line, during the days when piracy was still a growth industry. My clients got their item back without having to make a payoff, which meant quite a big payday for me. Taban got a commission. We’ve had several opportunities to work together since then, though Somalia being Somalia, we haven’t seen each other all that much.
    Taban had worked for several of the revolving-door governments, and had ties to two different clans along the coast. More important was his connection to a Somali entrepreneur whose unpronounceable local name translates as something like Fat Tony. Fat Tony started in the pirate business