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

as a grunt, then climbed the ladder to commander and CEO. As competition increased, he did what many businessmen do: he sold out his shares and retired from day-to-day operations.
    Not that he was really retired. He still invested in different pirate groups, bankrolling expeditions and seeing to a number of other concerns, including smuggling and gun running. Rumor had it that he owned several khat “farms,” a potentially lucrative arrangement given the popularity of the narcotic, which was not only the drug of choice for ministers of mayhem on the high seas, but more popular than coffee in much of northern Africa.
    I knew of Fat Tony only by reputation, and needed Taban’s introduction to make the connection. The connection was necessary, for I’d come to Somalia to buy things unavailable in Europe.
    Magoo’s plan had been extremely crude—he wanted me to make a connection in Somalia, where the drugs shipped en route to Europe, and he’d take it from there. I refined the plan once I realized Fat Tony was one of the connections used by the terrorist/smugglers.
    I should say that, as far as I could tell, Fat Tony wasn’t a member of either Allah’s Rule or al Qaeda; he was Muslim in name only, if that. That was certainly not unusual—the terrorist hierarchy contained only true believers, and no true believer would have a direct connection to drugs. The network made use of many Fat Tonys in its day-to-day affairs.
    I hadn’t told Magoo about the connection between Allah’s Rule and the bank. I’m sure there were things he didn’t tell me as well.
    As for Magoo himself, he wasn’t too well-known among my network of CIA contacts. “A fast-mover,” one friend I’d known since my SEAL days told me. “Shooting up the ranks like a rocket.”
    I’m not sure he meant it as a compliment.
    *   *   *
    “How long have you been in Mogadishu?” asked Taban, making small talk as dinner cooked.
    “I just got here. They didn’t want to give me a tourist visa.”
    “This is not surprising. Maybe they gave you a head exam first, no?”
    “They probably thought about it.”
    Actually, I had obtained a tourist visa before flying into Mogadishu, but I knew from experience that it would be useless for anything other than getting on the plane, which flew from Dubai to Kenya, stopping here mainly for fuel. Once we landed, I joined the short queue of Turks waiting for a tourist visa in the terminal, which looked like a cross between a bus garage and a 1960s strip mall. The line moved at a snail’s pace under the wary eye of soldiers from the African Union, who were there to provide the security that the government couldn’t. They looked at me and rolled their eyes, sure that my tanned but still white face would never be seen again.
    The Turks were “contract workers” for the government—aka, mercenaries who would man “peacekeeping posts” and shoot the daylights out of anything smaller than a tank that crossed into the government-controlled area of the city without permission. For them, tourist visas were a convenient fiction. For me, it was an inconvenient one, as the customs official at first refused to believe my story that I was expected, and tried to send me back to the plane.
    Fortunately, the aircraft was already taxiing down the runway, and I eventually got my visa, for twice the normal bribe. That was a bargain, though—I paid five times what the Turks did for the room at my hotel.
    All told, I spent about what you’d spend at McDonald’s for a super-sized lunch. Isn’t the Third World wonderful?
    “Mr. Dick, here you are,” said Taban, gesturing as Abdi came out of the kitchen with a covered plate. “Special meatloaf.”
    It looked about as appetizing as my shoe, and proved nearly as tough. Slices of mystery meat were aligned on the plate beneath a thin sauce.
    I picked up my fork and carefully tried a bite. “Goat?” I asked.
    “Dog,” he said triumphantly. “With a touch of oxen and just a