end of Djibouti City, if one could say that living in a famine- and drought-stricken region could in any way be luxurious. Douglas took another deep breath, removed his sunglasses and surveyed his surroundings, wondering if his newly assigned partner, Peter Davies, was doing the same. What a joke that was. Somebody at Langley had to have been having a laugh at the time. Peter and Peter, the washed-out, veteran has-been and the rookie. Let’s put them together in the hellhole of the Horn of Africa and see what happens. Assholes.
The hotel foyer was a chaotic jumble of humanity and equipment. Sports bags and other paraphernalia were piled up against the wall as aid workers and journalists milled around, waiting for rides out of the city to the refugee camps. People were shouting at one another and at the staff behind the reception desk, demanding to know where they were supposed to go. Didn’t the staff know who they were?
Douglas recognized one of the people, a journalist from CNN who thought that Douglas worked for the US Consulate as an aid adviser. He gave a quick nod to the journalist before moving on to survey the rest of the people. Beside him Davies was still busy brushing the dust out of his loose-fitting white shirt and beige cargo pants, besides running his fingers through his hair, mumbling about the heat and how hot it was and how unfair it was that they had to stand in line and be searched, not once but twice. The first search by the Djiboutian military who manned the checkpoint outside, supposedly to protect the hotel and foreigners and then by the facility’s private security, who didn’t trust the military as far as they could throw them. That had taken more than an hour, an hour standing in the searing sun at ten in the morning. Douglas was grateful for the bottle of water that he had brought with him, a bottle that one of the soldiers had wanted to confiscate, but instead had chosen to accept the dollar bills in Douglas’s hand. Dollars could buy food for the family; a bottle of water would go only so far. So, they had passed through both checkpoints and now stood in the beehive of activity. Douglas figured that many of the aid workers were new on the ground, having arrived maybe yesterday, hence all the baggage scattered around. They would be moving out shortly, into the heat, the desperation, the misery of a dying population.
Many people had moved closer to the city from the outlying country. The large US Marine and naval base at Camp Lemonnier had been locked down so that the masses couldn’t storm the gates in search of the food and water they knew the American military had to have. The adjoining Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport was also closed and guarded by the Marines. Only international aid and military flights were coming in and out, but that didn’t stop the desperate from wanting to stow away and find somewhere safer to live. A memory flashed by of a story he had heard about six refugees who were found dead on a flight after it landed in Germany. The cargo hold hadn’t been pressurized, so the six had perished. Douglas shook the morbid thought from his head and returned to the present. Their contact would be waiting for them in the dining room.
He began to work his way through the people and toward the hotel’s dining room, aware that Davies was following him, still brushing dust off his clothes and seemingly paying little attention to his surroundings. Douglas hoped that the rookie was staying alert, that Langley still arranged to have basic field craft taught back home. So far Douglas hadn’t been impressed with Davies. The kid—Douglas couldn’t help but think that of him; the kid was twenty years younger, athletic and talked about computer games all the time—had moaned about everything since he’d arrived a week earlier.
They were not based at Lemonnier; that would have been too obvious. Instead they had a small safehouse not far from the airport. That way it was hoped that they would “blend in,” as if such a thing were possible in the height of the drought. Americans always looked well fed while everyone around them was emaciated. The idea of blending in baffled Douglas. Instead he maintained his cover and did what he could to assist various aid agencies while keeping his ear to the ground for rumors of potential jihadists that wanted to stir things up and drive the Americans out of Djibouti altogether.
“Shit, it’s already hotter than New Mexico out there,” Davies said to him above the general hubbub.
Douglas stopped, turned to the younger man and prodded him in the chest with his index finger.
“Listen, Peter, a French friend of mine wants to meet with me, and we’re here to find out why. You will sit down, keep quiet and learn something. Whatever you do, do not interrupt.”
“Hey! What did I do?” Davies protested.
“Nothing yet. That’s what worries me. Come on, we’re already late.”
The dining room was as busy as the lobby. Douglas craned his neck to look over the top of the crowd. Yes, there he was, sitting in the corner with his back to the wall, keeping an eye on all the movement, besides watching the military checkpoint that was no more than ten yards from the big bay windows. If he saw Douglas, he gave no sign. The CIA agent, with Davies following, threaded his way through the tables toward his contact.
In his late sixties, with a head full of white hair and dressed in a tan suit, Pierre Saint-Verran was immaculately groomed. The man watched Douglas as he neared the table and gave a slight nod in greeting. Then he focused on Davies.
“Who is this, Peter?” The Frenchman spoke English with a slight French accent.
“Pierre, this is Peter Davies, a colleague. I have to show him the ropes, so to speak.”
Davies leaned past Douglas and held out his hand. The Frenchman looked at it for an instant as if it were something distasteful, then reluctantly grasped it. “I’m Peter Davies,” he gushed, shaking hands vigorously.
Douglas pulled out a chair and sat down. Davies released Saint-Verran’s hand and did the same.
“Pierre Saint-Verran,” the Frenchman announced, then ignored Davies, who was already beckoning to a server, and regarded Douglas. “Peter, I do not have much time. I have a very important meeting with several companies later, so I will keep this short.” He broke off as a smiling but harried server appeared and began taking their orders.
Douglas waited until the server had departed. “What’s wrong? You seemed quite worried when you phoned last night.”
“Not worried, no. More concerned. We have known each other for a while now, and I know what it is that you do for your embassy.”
“Hey.” Davies suddenly felt the need to jump in. “We just work for the ambassador.”
“For pity’s sake, shut up! What did I say to you before we came in?” Douglas kept his voice quiet but was unable to hide the exasperation that he felt.
Saint-Verran raised a hand and smiled faintly. “Of course you do. But I am sure the information that I have will be of interest to the ambassador, as well.”
“Please, Pierre, ignore my young and impertinent friend here. What’s concerning you?” Douglas was already troubled himself. Saint-Verran had lived in Djibouti a long time, working freelance as a security consultant for various companies and aid agencies. As a former counterintelligence agent, Saint-Verran knew almost every important person in the country, including the senior officers of the French Foreign Legion stationed here.
“A few months ago—” Saint-Verran paused as the server returned with their drinks. “A few months ago I was approached by a US oil company wishing to explore the north Obcock region. I advised against it, not only because of the bandit raids but also because of the increased tensions between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Many of the people in Obcock originate from those two countries, and ethnic tension is always present. But the two men of the company insisted, so I reluctantly provided them with guides and saw to it that they had the means to get out of the area in a hurry. Ten days later they returned,
