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

hair of rat.”
    “Rat hair, or hair of rat?”
    “Both.”
    Calling it roadkill stew may be giving it a culinary upgrade; it seemed to have been baked au naturel by the sun. Compared to some of the things I’ve eaten in Africa, it wasn’t half bad.
    Taban talked about Somalia while I ate. He was as optimistic as ever—killings in the city were down to a manageable level, and the government zone had actually expanded in the past few weeks. Business at his restaurant had improved: he could count on half a dozen customers each week.
    “Soon, soon, as big as New York City,” he proclaimed.
    His nephew frowned from the corner. The expression seemed permanent.
    Taban’s optimism faded when I told him why I had come.
    “A very risky trip for you, Mr. Dick,” he warned. “Fat Tony is very far from here, and if we drive, there will be many risks.”
    “You’ll be well paid.”
    “I am not worried about me. For me, there is no risk. For you…” He shook his head.
    “What’s life without risk?” I asked. “Speaking of which, how ’bout a second helping of that roadkill stew?”

(IV)
    Taban and his nephew Abdi met me at my hotel the next morning. Dressed in a light tan suit over a black T-shirt with a pair of Ray-Bans and a NY Yankees baseball cap, he looked vaguely like an American actor on holiday.
    I, on the other hand, looked as African as I could manage with my white skin. I wore an oversized green khaki military uniform “borrowed” from some African Union soldiers for a few dollars, and a very loose head scarf that concealed much of my face. Even Taban was impressed.
    “You look Russian, Mr. Dick,” he said approvingly. “Very good. You are ready?”
    “Very ready.”
    “Abdi, take our friend’s bag.”
    “I have them,” I said, picking up my battered overnight bag. Aside from a change of clothes and a few electronic items I might need, the bag was empty. The narrow ruck on my back had some more tactical gear, but it too was very light.
    Abdi frowned, and walked toward the door.
    “Is he ever in a good mood?” I asked Taban.
    “But he is very happy today,” said Taban. He didn’t seem to be joking. “He is a very good boy, Mr. Dick. To me, like a son.”
    Taban led me through the lobby, past the two bellhops who accessorized their uniforms with bandoliers and assault rifles. A pair of Land Rovers and six men with rifles were waiting at the curb. Taban walked to the rear of the first and retrieved an assault rifle—the MP5 was too valuable to take on the road.
    “Take, take,” he said, sounding as if he were talking about hors d’oeuvres.
    I took an AK47 for myself. (Paratrooper’s model with the folding stock.) It was one of the lighter weapons in the back of the truck. Besides a pair of RPGs and a British mortar, there were two Belgian light machine guns and a Russian PKP “Pecheneg,” a light machine gun used by the Spetsnaz special op troops. There were also two boxes of grenades, and dozens and dozens of spare magazines for the AKs. I helped myself to plenty of the latter, then took a seat in the front of the first Rover. Taban was driving; two of his men, Rooster and Goat, were in the backseat. Abdi was driving the others in the second vehicle.
    Mogadishu sprawls like a cockleshell from a small downtown area near the port. The federal government controls only about a quarter 8 of the city proper, its pie-shaped wedge bordering the water in the south quadrant.
    There aren’t any skyscrapers, but if you happen to visit—something I don’t recommend—you’ll be surprised by the number of modern buildings. Somalia was an Italian colony and protectorate until 1960, and by African colonial standards at least, was relatively civilized.
    At first, the difference between the government zone and the area to the north dominated by al-Shabaab was subtle. Teenagers with AKs patrolled the streets in front of rundown buildings—barely a difference there. Then I started noticing graffiti and