Predator Paradise. Don Pendleton
I knew exactly what you wanted? If I were to understand what is this working relationship to which you refer?”
“It’s this.”
The white with the scar on his hand spoke up, producing a thick envelope from behind his back, tucking it in his waistband. “Fifty thousand dollars, American. An advance, if you agree.”
“But you need to understand the rules first, Habbie,” Blue Eyes said before Dugula could ask the obvious. “Then we can play ball. You love money, you want power, you want to be top dog on the block. You’re on every shit list from UNICEF to the White House. Thing is, what we are, we’re your three wise men, come here bearing gifts.”
“How magnanimous. To what do I owe this great honor?”
The third black hood got into the act next. Like the first time they met, the three whites ricocheted the verbal shooting match between them, leaving Dugula wondering if this act was scripted, and who, exactly, was in charge between them. Number three had blackness behind the slit where his left eye was, Dugula fairly assuming there was a patch covering some war memento.
“Here it is,” One Eye began. “In the coming days there are going to be several very significant big events, within and beyond your borders. We prefer to not stand here in this heat and dust and with sky spies framing our every move, answering a bunch of questions that only time and decisive action will answer in the first place. First, we’re taking the human cargo you have smuggled in-country. They’re part of the plan. They go with us.”
There it was, he thought, gut clenching, spine tightening. Before the thought they were some sort of international bounty hunters or CIA black ops, come to either kill or capture the holy freedom fighters he had been paid to grant safe haven to, Blue Eyes, as if he could read minds, cooled some of his fears.
“Relax. We’re not here to kill or arrest those who are under the care of your golden umbrella.”
“Truth be known,” Scar Hand said, “their leaders are aware of our presence here. Call it a blessing from Allah, a strange union between infidels and Islam, but it’s arranged. And your guests have already agreed to go the distance.”
Dugula bared his teeth, a half smile, half grimace, and waved a hand. “This is all very mysterious, and suspicious. You talk, ten ways out of your mouths, but you say little.”
“No time to stand around and gnaw on nerves or question what’s damn near an act of God being dumped in your lap. You accept—on faith—and you’ll be well rewarded,” One Eye said.
“There is a number inside the envelope,” Blue Eyes said. “Call it. A cutout to a very important individual in a country better left unnamed at this time, but an individual you know well through your own Web site. He’ll back our story, and he’s backing us.”
“You are telling me, what, exactly?”
“Rule number one,” Blue Eyes said. “You’re on a need-to-know basis, that is, until the time comes when your role will become larger than the scourge of Muhammad’s head-lopping converters. Then it will be defined, a blinding light that will grant you, shall we say, instant transformation. Super warlord. That could be you.”
They paused, Dugula sensing he was supposed to be impressed or implore them to continue. “I’m listening.”
“You recruit some of these fighters for your clan,” One Eye said, “from other countries, some of them used by you to wipe out rivals, help keep the iron grip on your turf. They train here, they plan their operations when they’re not beefing up your troops. Surprised? Habbie, we know everything that goes on in this neck of the woods. Hey, as far as some folks you know are concerned, we’re the next-greatest thing to Allah. Think of us as damn near supernatural.”
“The Alpha and the Omega,” Scar Hand declared. “That’s us.”
“And we’re here to tell you what is in motion cannot be aborted,” Blue Eyes said.
“We don’t need to spell out the organizations of the fighters you have in-country,” Scar Hand said. “All you really need to know is they’re with us. More truth—these fighters have already been contacted by their leaders, weeks back, and they’ve been ordered to accept our terms without conditions.”
“They know some of the score,” One Eye said. “Not much, but the truth will be revealed in due course. But their leaders know something of the endgame. All parties—down to you—have agreed.”
“You want endgame speculation? What will go down could prove one of the biggest coups,” Scar Hand said. “One of the most fearsome blows Islam has ever struck against the infidels.”
“With or without you,” Blue Eyes said, tone hardening, “it’s a done deal.”
“And Umir Hahgan? You come to Somalia, three wise white men,” Dugula said, putting an edge to his voice, “and you go straight to my main rival. How much did you pay him? And if I say no to this strange offer, ask no questions, go along, a blind man in the dark among the wolves and hyenas, what then? Do you set Hahgan’s men against me?”
“It’s like this,” Blue Eyes said. “We hedged our bets, granted. Hahgan’s giving up some fighters, and yeah, he’s been paid, enough to keep the troops in qat and whores for a while. Time to put aside all this petty squabbling over some real estate. Fact is, you’re stronger than Umir, more men, more guns, more contacts from Cairo to Karachi, but we’ll pencil in the number-two man on the roster if we have to. Hey, you need to start thinking more about your future, leave the hand-wringing to the losing side. Now’s the time.”
“Think big, as in immortality big,” Scar Hand added. “Your name could end up being glorified by the entire Muslim world, feared by your enemies, for decades to come. You’re a rising star, could be bigger than Osama, if you want. Let me ask you, you don’t want to just be a second-string warlord, creaking around this shithole in your golden years, or do you?”
“I would think,” One Eye said, “your ambitions would be a little bit larger than ‘exterminating’ all those hungry mouths you and the twenty-something other clans won’t feed.”
“While you rip off planeloads of UN aid and resell it across the borders,” Scar Hand said. “Chump change, compared to what we’re offering you.”
“Now you insult me in front of my men.”
“No offense intended. Just the hard facts,” Blue Eyes shot back.
“We won’t waste your time—don’t waste ours. We’re thinking you’ve got a big day ahead of you,” One Eye said. “Probably heading out to exterminate some camp infested with disease.”
“Or take down another UN plane,” Scar Hand said.
How did they know so much? Dugula wondered. Or were they guessing? Perhaps his secured phones and fax weren’t so secure. Or had Hahgan infiltrated his clan with spies?
“In or out?” Blue Eyes asked. “No is no, and we’re fine with that.”
“You can go back to business as usual,” Scar Hand said. “Stay small.”
“Decision time,” One Eye added. “Dump or jump off the crapper.”
Dugula took a few moments, peering into those slitted gazes, eyes, he decided, without emotion, no soul. It was true that he wanted far more for himself than remaining where he was, doing what he’d done. The suggestion on their part was that certain freedom-fighting organizations—of which at least forty members were under his protective umbrella—had already agreed to some undefined role for some allegedly grand but mysterious big events. If he declined? Then what? Risk some long, protracted war with rivals who supposedly were ready to leap on board for this so-called big event? Let rivals grab the glory these whites were offering? What glory? Or was this some elaborate ruse, a trap being laid by rivals? He didn’t think so; none of the competition was that clever or devious. His rivals were, for the most part, thugs with hair-trigger tempers,