The flight from Amsterdam to Addis took over ten hours. It was as comfortable as such things can be in a spanking new A380 Airbus, and Ax got as comfortable as he could. It was a Lufthansa flight, and he ordered a couple of vodkas which the older, German, air-hostel gave him for free. He cracked open one of the little plastic bottles, poured the vodka into his little plastic cup and lay back, going over what had happened and what he though would happen. There had been no problems in Amsterdam. There never were. It was too large. Too many people going to too many places and after he had his ticket he chose a quiet seat in the passageway to exit C and started to day-dream. His flight to Dubai was booked and it left seven hours from now. He checked in slowly, a man with time on his hands. He spoke loads to the check-in girl, making sure he’d be seen by airport CCTV and facial recognition on a surveillance camera when they looked. Of course, he “tried” to hide his face, but not really. They would think themselves real smart for picking up on his “suspicious” avoidance activities. After booking the flight to Dubai he had calmly walked back to the central area of Schipol and walked into a toilet. A very quick makeup and change and he walked out. This time he did not look for cameras. The CCTV guys would see that. He did not hurry. The CCTV guys would notice that. He did not stop and look back to see if he was being followed. The CCTV guys would pick that up. He opened a paper, then walked up and down in front of the check-in desks for International flights before walking up to Ethiopian Airways and booking the next flight to Addis. He was cutting it fine, as it left in two hours. He looked good with thick glasses and a beard. The glasses were real. CCTV could now tell. They could not, however, tell that when the glasses slipped down his nose Ax could see everything normally by looking over them. Ax smiled as he thought of their faces in Dubai. The flight times were different, around seven hours to Dubai, around ten to Addis, but as the Addis flight left in only two hours it would give him five hours after the flight from Amsterdam to Dubai landed before they woke up to the fact that he was not on the flight. He knew they could check the passenger manifesto to see if he had really taken the flight, but this was not the movies. It was a difficult process and not one hundred percent reliable as late planes, overbooking, people changing seats and different flight-attendants made it difficult to say for sure if a passenger had, indeed, taken the flight. Just because they had no record of a passenger did not mean he was was not on board. Mistakes were made. No, they would go to Dubai, just to make sure. They would take a private military flight, and be disappointed when Ax did not show. Commanders would be furious. Heads would roll. As they always did. Just, again, it would be the wrong heads. Never the head of they guy at the top. The CCTV guys would rejoice at their overtime. Ax smiled as he weaved between the cleaning electric cleaning cars, down the long corridors of Schipol to the Ethiopian Airways departure desk.
Ax woke up when the announcement came. They would be landing for a short stop-over in Jeddah. Anyone drinking alcohol should finish up now. They should also make sure that no alcohol was visible in their overhead luggage or anywhere near themselves. Even though they were not getting off the plane, and were just transiting Saudi airspace you did not want to be found with alcohol on your person, never mind in it. Twenty minutes later the plane rolled to a halt. Five minutes after that the plane had four more visitors. They were dressed in long white robes, had long dark beards and did not look in any way friendly. In fact they looked as if they totally despised these western infidels. They walked through the plane, sometimes stopping and looking at a passenger, saying nothing. They just stood there and stared.
Ax watched. He said to himself, “Do this in Glasgow mother fucker and I stand up and bite off your fucking nose.”
If they thought there was a guilty reaction they opened the overhead luggage compartment and started rummaging around. What? Who gave them the right? Oh, Mohamed. Ax licked him lips and closed his eyes again. He thought - they actually looked like they wished to find something illegal, just so they could administer their punishment, which in this case would be to be taken off the plane for violating Saudi rules. Ax was thinking about what he would like to do with these fuckers. They had taken part in the largest ever arms deal, with America, buying nearly $100 billion worth of weapons from America. They were, even now, bombing the shit out of women and kids in Yemen. Dog bless America and their military bases. Ax felt the hair stand on the back of his neck as they approached his seat. So he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He could not risk being taken off the plane. Who knows what would happen to him, to them. Ax guessed that to most European tourists that these guys in their long white robes with their long black beards must have appeared to be really scary. They were the “moral police” of Saudi Arabia and they got on your plane and searched your luggage because, according to them, Allah had said it was not permitted to fly alcohol over their country. ”Fuck sake,” thought Ax. The moral police took a long, hard look at you and if found wanting they would take you off the plane with your hand-luggage and you would probably never be seen again. Ax heard them come closer. He kept his eyes closed. He did not see them and they did not see him.
He thought about the Crusades. Most did not know the truth. That the crusades were a response to Muslim terror. The Muslims had invaded the “Holy Lands” burning and destroying everything in their path. Holy Lands? Said who? Ax wondered if what he had read was even true. These days one never knew for real. But they, they said, that the facts were so. They, the Muslims, had taken over all of Europe. Killed and raped their way through time. Mohamed, they said, had sanctioned slavery. Girls could be fucked, raped. Girls, not women, were made by Allah for men. A girl could be married at, say, 9. Even 8 years old, like Mohamed and his Aisha. Women were there only to fetch milk from the goats, water from the wells and to fuck, of course. Nobody questioned what an 8 year old girl could possibly think about being fucked by an old hairy, horny man. Allah said it was OK, so, deal with it. Ax felt himself becoming angry again and let his hands and arms relax. He must survive this. He had to get to Lucy.
Only Germany and Britain had survived. The Muslims had killed their way across nations, forcing them at the face of a sword to become Muslim. They were trying to do the same thing again, thought Ax. It was stupid. Islam was a joke. A backward story, supposedly “written” by an illiterate, that God was talking to, when he was in a cave. Of fucking course. God only talks to "people" in caves. Ax shook it off and tried to sleep. Then the “ping” “Fasten safety belts,“ Take off.
When they took off again the German air-hostess asked who would like a drink. The relief was palpable. People laughed, looked at each other, strangers becoming friends in the sharing of a look that said “Wow!” Nearly everyone on board wanted something to drink. It seemed to Ax as if it were a protest drink. They drank because they could. They had choice. Ax smiled. He still had a new bottle of Yamazakura whiskey in his overhead luggage. Bought in Amsterdam. Flying to Addis. If they knew this could happen why did they allow it? Fucking Money Changers, he thought. He close his eyes and went to sleep. He knew the bottle was in a separate plastic bag, inside his hand luggage. It was actually not allowed, but nobody had seen him do it, and he did not want to have to deal with fuckers like those. He had other fuckers to deal with. And, he needed to sleep. If they had asked? Maybe he would have offered them a drink. He laughed. Closed his eyes and fell into to sleep.
When he arrived in Addis-Abba nothing had changed. People were still herded like cattle into two lanes. Vaccinated and non-vaccinated. Visas and no visas. You could only get a visa if you were vaccinated, this made things easy. But the thing that everyone knew? Visas came first, then vaccinations. And if you knew the place? Knew the doctors’ faces with impatient passengers every flight? Then you knew you could just wave your passport and walk through. And they? “They” all knew they couldn’t catch everyone, indeed, they did not even want to. Every legitimate tourist had a visa, bought months before their travel date. It was much more expensive, but it saved the waiting in line like everyone else. Everyone had to face the line of police before getting out of the airport. If you were not actually stopped and checked you were watched, even more. This was one of the most difficult moments for Ax. One never knew what could happen. It was here you became really aware, if you did not already know, that Ethiopia was not a democracy. America had not yet bombed the shit out of Ethiopia. There was nothing here that America wanted. Band Aid and TV adverts had been wonderful for a few, now rich, Ethiopian politicians. They had Swiss bank accounts and huge houses. Nothing had changed.
Ax had no visa, and no vaccines. He did not let unknown people put an unknown substance in his body to fight an unknown threat. So he waited in line. It took two hours to get the visa, a young girl like a robot asking questions to which she expected no real answers, not looking at him and all the while stamping pages in his passport. Then she demanded the most important thing: money. Ax paid his $70 and it took 2 seconds to go through the line of “doctors” dressed in white robes offering vaccines. “Sir, Sir!!” they shouted. Ax ignored them and walked past waving his passport and saying “No,thank you.” That was all it took. They had the money already. They did not care, he was not going to pay for them to inject him.
Outside the night was black, warm and busy. The ubiquitous blue Lada Taxi’s and the tiny Tuk-Tuks, the motor-bike Taxi’s were everywhere. Ax stood and looked around. Ethan must be here somewhere. The air was warm and heavy. Dry. The smell of diesel was overpowering. There were army men with AK-47s everywhere.
One hour later and after trying to get back inside the airport to use the phone and being met by machine guns, Ethan arrived. He was out of breath, but he still had the same face, the same, big smile, sparkling eyes and the same innocent look full of hope. “Hey!,” he cried, “let’s go, let’s get you out of here!” He had a Taxi waiting.
There were four checkpoints leaving Bola, the main airport in Addis. Each checkpoint was manned by 6 guys with AK47’s, each dressed in the Ethiopian Army fatigues. One approached , the others standing in the dark holding guns, pointed. They checked the passports, yellow eyes in the dark. Thirty minutes later they were chez Ethan, in Summit, having a beer in Ethan’s house. There were lots of rich westerns out in Summit. It was only about 30-40 minutes from the centre of Addis, the rents were cheap and there were the usual little market shops everywhere. Ethan’s house was huge, thought Ax. Most westerners had a huge house here. Ethan had three floors all to himself, barbed wired around the gates. Life here was OK if you were rich, ie, from Europe or the USA. From the second floor you could watch the Ethiopian family guarding the construction site next door. From here you could smell the coffee. They were allowed to live there until the house was finished for the rich, Swedish businessman who had bought it. For an Ethiopian family like this the house was paradise. They all had friends who were sleeping under corrugated iron sheets on the streets. This family did not pay much to stay here, just all they had.
Ax remembered the last time he had been here. Ethan had been living alone, in a small flat bang in the centre of Addis. It was loud, smelly and expensive. And it was too close to some of the larger, western hotels like the Jupiter, or worse, the Harmony. The beer there was extortionate. Western prices for westerns. These hotels were owned and run by Arabs who felt nothing at fleecing the stupid westerners who frequented the bars and paid top dollar for small, smelly rooms. Internet was always a problem, too, but these westerns would pay almost anything to have their Internet and mostly they did.
Ethan was married, now, to a very pretty Ethiopian girl. And he had a child. Well, they thought, they had a child. Ax wondered how much of the marriage was part of Ethan’s cover. He was always away, apparently. As they talked into the night Ethan told stories about visits to Yemen, Saudi Arabia, The United Arab Emirates, Oman. He showed photos of the strangest plants. Trees bent in unimaginable shapes, flowers like nothing on earth, taken, said Ethan, on a trip to an island off of Yemen.
They retired at 3am. There was much to do in the morning. Ethan showed Ax to his room, which he was happy to see was complete with a full, hanging mosquito net. Ax hated bugs and was happy for the net.
The next morning Ax awoke wrapped up in his mosquito net. It had fallen on him in the night. He told Ethan while one of the maids made coffee. “Don’t worry!” said Ethan, “we are too high up for mosquitoes!” Ax showed his bites. Not from here, said Ethan!
The coffee arrived 15 minutes later. How many maids do you have,” asked Ax. “Just these two,” said Ethan. “It is more or less expected that Westerns will have maids. You know, give something back to the local economy,” he said. Ax asked if they were expensive. Ethan laughed out loud. “My dear Ax, a western violinist playing for three hours in one of the big hotels in the city will earn more in that three hours than these women earn in a year!” He seemed really happy with his slaves, thought Ax, but he said no more. They were on call 24 hours per day, but for that they lived rent free. He mentioned the mosquitoes again. Ethan said they were too high up but Ax knew this was not true. He had been bitten many times.
But mosquitoes were the least of his problems. He had chosen Ethiopia for two reasons. He needed to get the gun, and he needed to get back into the way of poor Arabs. He had made many plans but he still did not know whether he would have to go to Yemen or Oman. Either way he needed to mix with the poor, pick up their ways again. Learn how to blend in. And do it quickly. Ethan said he would take him to meet the dealers. They would take the new metro. Ax refused. Chinese built, it ran on electricity, and in a city where the electricity went off twice a day? No, thank you. They would take a taxi and walk, he said.
And they had left, like that. Walking through the wild barking dogs, the dust and dirt, the hidden men with yellow eyes on every street corner, the smell of coffee and strange guys with AK47’s putting their hands on their chests and bowing to the arms dealer, Ethan. Ethan walked his funny walk, left arm slightly behind and straight and stiff as a pipe, fingers splayed out, the tension seeping into them. His right arm was exactly the same, except it was swinging in time to his stiff walk. His head continually looked around, seeing nothing, Ax thought. Ax could almost hear the “Nearly there,“ that Ethan said all the time. Even when they were nowhere near their destination. This was good for Ax. He absorbed everything. The smell of the coffee shops, the accents, he learned not to try to avoid the goat-shit. Firstly it was pointless, and secondly no Ethiopian walked with his eyes on the ground.
“Well, at least things are quiet these days,” said Ethan. He did that thing he did with his head, half looking back, but not enough to actually see anything. It was more an acknowledgement than actually seeing.
He could not have been more wrong. All hell was about to break loose.
It started the very next day. All the T.V stations were playing non-stop news of bombings and airplane crashes. The terrorists were going crazy. Ax had gone with Ethan into the centre of Addis early. They would visit an internet café. Ax picked up a newspaper from one of the vending-boys on the streets. They sold mostly cigarettes, but also newspapers, coca-cola, chewing gum. None of the Ethiopians bought the imported cigarettes - they were ten times the price of Ethiopian cigarettes. He could feel the eyes of the surrounding men, watching him. Now he was not just a tourist. With all these bombs and attacks he could be American military and as such he was a target and if he was a target then so were they if they were too close to him. Ax paid for the newspaper with his filthy Birr. and crossed the road looking for a coffee.
He wondered how they could survive, these vending boys. They were everywhere and they all sold the same thing. The world is crazy, he thought. A packet of Nyala, Ethiopian cigarettes cost around 10 Birr from the streets. You would pay anything between 70-100 Birr for Marlboro’s. And even that was cheap compared to the racket in the rest of the world. Those same Marlboro would cost nearly 5 times as much in Australia. Export costs?
The vending-boy held up a packet of Marlboro. Of course he wanted to sell them before the Ethiopian Nyala cigarettes. The Marlboro were nearly ten time the price. Ax shook his head. The boy just smiled and put the cigarettes back in his little box on the ground. He did not care. There would soon be another tourist. One of them would buy from him and he would up the price. Sometimes these stupid foreigners paid six or seven times the going price here. Especially the ones just arrived who did not know or wish to haggle.
Ax crossed the road, found an outside coffee shop sat down and ordered a coffee. A pretty girl took his order and soon there was another pretty girl hunkered down roasting his coffee beans. Ax looked across the street at the blue taxis, and the people going about their daily business, oblivion written across their poor faces. Would it matter if all of them were dead? He thought? Would it matter if half of them were dead? Did life matter? He dropped his head into his hands, eyes closed, hearing memories of kind people speaking. Were they still alive? Was Cookie still alive? He had never cried for Jade, and with Cookie he would never have to. It was just something they shared.
The newspaper headlines were terrible. They had set several bombs and there were thousands dead. He scanned the reports. Two light aircraft had crashed into a huge luxury cruise ship. It was not one of the largest, but the line was famous for it’s luxury. With a total of 700 passengers on board at any one time people paid for an exclusive trip around the Red Sea. The planes had crashed into the centre of the boat where the main pool and bar area was. It had been more or less split in two with the explosions and they knew it would surely sink. There were an estimated 600 dead and injured. They were still airlifting the injured to hospitals on land. Most of the passengers were being taken to hospitals in Egypt, those with private connections were being lifted directly to Israel.
The terrorists had also used small aircraft in other ways. They had chosen very select five star hotels around the coasts of many countries including France, Spain and England. Each of the chosen hotels had suffered the same fate as the cruise ships. The small airplanes had flown directly into the hotels, flying very low and approaching from the sea. The planes, they now knew, had left from small private airports in the countries concerned. There was no way to control and check the flight plan of every single small, private plane that left a private airport. The terrorists had planned this very, very well and again the loss of life was terrible.
Ax caught himself wondering where on earth the money had come from. Something like this was not cheap.
A rich perfume-billionaire on his private yacht had suffered the same fate. Egon Rochard had made his fortune selling perfumes to the rich and famous. He was a well know face and name in and around Hollywood. He was on his 200 foot yacht in the Mediterranean. His little daughter “Cindy”, short for Cinderella, jumped up and down waving at the plane as it circled overhead around the boat. To an observer miles away it would have looked like a giant insect trying to decide where to land, or whom to sting. “Daddy, Daddy!!” she shouted with laughter. She watched with her father as the plane turned slowly to face them. It was high in the sky and started to fall towards them. “Daddy, where is it going, what is it doing?” asked Cindy. “Oh, I expect we’ll have a fly-over, they probably know who we are,” said Egon proudly to his pretty eight-year-old daughter. The plane got bigger and bigger the closer it got and Cindy could not take her eyes off of it. “Daddy, can we get one of them, please!” she demanded. Egon Rochard just shrugged. “OK, sweetheart, whatever you wish,” he said. It was only at the last moment, when it was far, far too late that they both realized what was happening. “Daddy?” she said? Egon shoved his daughter as hard as he could then ran after her, picking her up and headed for the side of the boat. They were too late. The small plane crashed onto their running bodies, killing them instantly in a huge ball of flame as the full tanks exploded. The plane blasted a huge hole in the yacht, effectively cutting it in two. Fifteen minutes later it sank to the bottom of the ocean. There were no survivors.
There were bombs in railway stations, a huge bomb and three small aircraft at the Cannes Film Festival. Flying bombs in hotels all around all the coastal areas of Europe.
The loss of life was huge. The TV stations were loving it.
The girl put a small white cup on his table and poured the coffee. Put down the pot and left. She had not spoken a word to him. Ax was way above her station. She got on her knees, roasted his beans, served his coffee and left. The coffee smelled strong and fresh. Ax lit a cigarette, glad that he had chosen an outside table despite the terrible petrol and diesel pollution.
Ax shook his head. He took a sip of the strong black brew and wiped his forehead. This was bad. Very bad. What where they thinking? Did they not know that the Americans would respond by blowing the shit out of everyone and everything they even thought had something to do with this? And now it became clear. There was never any chance of saving Julie. She was dead the moment she was taken. He had to move. Had to get to Lucy. Nobody knew where he was, for the moment. He knew that would change and could change at any moment. He needed to move. And, yet, as he thought these thoughts, he knew, Lucy was dead, too.
It was then that he stopped himself. Remembered a video he had seen on tectonic plates. Earth movements. He smiled. Looked up and saw the people here in a new light. They were all just victims of circumstance, he decided. America, after all, was a country founded on terror, murder and rape. Perhaps this was why they were so willing to close their eyes these days. America was a country of immigrants. Not yet even 400 years old. They had raped, pillaged, killed and committed genocide to generations to have “their” country. Perhaps this is why they were so vicious now, thought Ax. He began to weep into his coffee. What was he thinking? America was not the problem. At best, it was a symptom. No. The tears he shed were for all of humankind. For all those not like him. For the normal people trying to face each and every day with nothing. He had always known that life. Every Glaswegian did. The tenements were not walls to keep the others out, they were there to keep you in.
The girl came up to him, eyes hard, cold, without sympathy, holding a hot, white cloth. “Maybe Sir would like to wash his face,” she said.
There was no way to explain. Some people were paid to fight. Some people just liked it. Some were made for it. Ax was made for it. He felt sad. Sitting on a stupid English bus. If you saw him you would see a man with fallen shoulders. Nose pushed into the glass. Far off eyes. No smile. He did not want this. He had not chosen this. Why could people not just “be?” Why did humans have to kill each other? And the thing that made him saddest of all, now he just wanted a war. Now he was back. Right in the middle of the shit. Now. I will give you a fucking war, he thought. Tears welled up in his eyes. Many would die. He would not. He did not want this. But, this was easy. Second nature. Not for people like you, he thought. For people like me. Second nature. You will soon, all of you, be dead.
He did not even know the people he was talking to in his mind. He had been so, lost, so often. He felt lost again. Strong lost. He only knew he had to get Lucy out, and soon. Where was the “easy” life he had wanted? Was this violence to follow him forever?
He was pretty sure nobody knew he was in Addis. He’d packed some stuff. Enough to survive the wilderness of Scotland. His knives, his Axe. Enough to let them follow him, but not enough that they would know where he was going. And he had left that bag in the cottage. In a cupboard under the stairs. They would find it and wonder. They would think he had gone to ground in Scotland. They would search the moors, the caves. They would not find him. Ax was only thinking of Lucy? Now you die, he thought, now you all die. He could no longer think of Cookie, not now. Perhaps not ever.
He knew that Anne and Rainbow would come looking for him. They wanted him to fight their fight. Go to war for them. Ax was going to go to war alright, but he was doing it for his own reasons. How had the terrorists known where to find Lucy? It must have come from someone inside. He thought of Anne Pembleton. Impossible. But who else knew? He was sure there was a leak. He was going to find that leak. He was going to find out who it had been. Then he was going to kill them.
He travelled in the most unexpected and untraceable way he knew. His only luggage was a small backpack bag in which he had a change of underwear, a few shirts and jeans and socks. Nobody searching him would think he was going far. He took a bus to London, then booked a ticket on the National Express, from London directly to Humberside Airport. The bus took six and a half hours, but he knew that nobody would be looking for him on that bus. Then, he took a little airplane from Humberside to Schipol, Amsterdam. From there he became an international tourist. He booked an expensive tourist flight from Amsterdam directly to Dubai. He used a passport known to Rainbow. They would be waiting for him on arrival, but he would never arrive. Then, they would realize they had been tricked and would start looking at other countries. When they looked at Oman and they would find him booked on another bus, from Dubai to Muscat in Oman. They would wonder what he was doing, where he was going and why he was going to Oman? From Muscat he had arranged to hire a camel. He had arranged this in the most stupid way possible, the most traceable way. He had arranged a desert tour with a travel agency in Muscat that was used to taking a great many dollars from stupid Americans. That would lose them. If his camel got lost in the desert they would have no way of knowing where he had gone , only that he had hired a camel and that meant he wanted to be in the desert. Someone, one of the smarter ones, would suggest that it was all too easy, that Ax was too easily traced. But Ax knew Anne and Rainbow. They would think he was crazy about the kidnapping and just wanted to get to Lucy as soon as possible. His plan would work.
By the time they had all this figured out Ax would be ready to leave Addis, Ethiopia. First he needed to get supplies and other stuff he needed from Ethan. Ethan was safe. He was safe because he was stupid. If he fucked up and told people things then what he told them would be what he himself had been told. And Ax would tell him lots of things. Just not the truth. He had to organize a fishing boat to Yemen. It was not far across the water. He would pay a fair price and no Arab would give freely any information to the American government. The only dangerous part would be leaving Ethiopia, he would have to avoid the south, it was riddled with Al Shebab and who knew, maybe there was a link there somewhere. He would go through Djibouti. Eritrea had too many Americans. Too much American military. It was a well kept secret that the UAE had built a huge military presence, along with the Americans, in the port of Assab. Money could buy anything, just not food for the dying, he thought.
The fisherman would be given a great price. He would be told a time and a place. The fisherman would be a smuggler, used to avoiding the patrol boats in the Red Sea. The fisherman would be paid in advance. He could not know that Ax would never turn up. He would earn his money for nothing.
It was dark when Ax left Addis. He had everything he needed. The guns he had bought in Addis had been dumped. They were too traceable, and if Ax’s story of flying to Dubai were to believed then he could not fly with weapons. It was, anyway, not his plan. A few days earlier Ax was in the Jupiter Hotel in Addis. He walked up to reception and booked a room. An expensive room. The receptionist had that bored look of having to deal with a rich, loud American, which is what Ax was that day.
After checking in he went to the bar. He saw them immediately. Fat Americans. A couple, of sorts. Ax did what would be expected of him and walked straight up to them. “Hey! Fellow Americans! Where the hell are you from, then?” he asked, sounding Australian.
And that was when Ax knew he had hit the jackpot, first time, because the man looked Ax up and down, very quickly, with a trained eye. This guy was a fucking spook, thought Ax. Perfect for what he needed. If only they were going, or could be persuaded to go in the direction he needed to go in. Three drinks later, all bought by Ax, he had the information he needed. In two days time they would be driving overland to Ássab. It was nearly perfect. Richard said he was an American businessman and was going to Eritrea to help move trade deals to Ethiopia. Since become officially declared landlocked by the government and international backers most trade was still going through Djibouti. Assab was dangerous. No person in their right mind, especially an American, would be roaming around there. And almost nobody, no normal person, would be going to the biggest, modern airbase, deep-water port, and military training facility run by the UAE. This was their port. Their safety against ISIS, their safely against Americans. American tourists did not go there. Ever. Richard said they were meeting friends, business friends and talked about how they wanted to help Ethiopia. Richard said he would be met at the border by some people he knew, and these people, like a security blanket, would be with them 24/7. Fucking spook, thought Ax. Ethiopia had been forced for years to rely on the ports at Djibouti, Kenya and Sudan for nearly everything. Somalia was just too dangerous, now. And it was expensive. If Richard really was goin