Chapters (96)
- Cover
- Berkley titles by David Ricciardi
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- CHARACTER LIST
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EIGHTY-FIVE
- EIGHTY-SIX
- EIGHTY-SEVEN
- Children of Fallen Patriots Foundation
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
The SUV sped from the scene and disappeared down a side street.
FIFTY-EIGHT
THE LINE OUTSIDE the clinic was moving slowly, and the infant children in their mothers’ arms were restless, but the women did not leave, for it was the only clinic in Mogadishu that was open to the Hawiye, and the doctor came but once a week.
And for once, the mothers did not have to stand in the glare of the sun. The cottony clouds that had been building over Mogadishu during the past week had turned thick and dark, ushered in by a strong, gusty breeze, and they cast wide shadows across the street. Though their hopes had been dashed countless times before, enthusiasm was building across the country about the possibility of rain.
It was late afternoon when a Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up outside. Badeed’s bodyguards paid no mind to the man who exited the white SUV. His name was Robleh, and eight years earlier, he had acquired the rights to distribute the popular Caafi brand of bottled water throughout the Hawiye clan territories in northeastern Somalia. It was a massive franchise in a country plagued by polluted groundwater, and it had made him a rich man.
He passed the guards and found Badeed inside the clinic, holding an emaciated boy whose eyes and ribs bulged from a body that should have been twice as heavy. Badeed held the boy on his lap, patiently feeding him sips of sugar water, trying any way he could to get calories into his dangerously malnourished system. The warlord spotted Robleh and nodded, but continued to feed the boy until he’d finished the eyedropper full of sugar water.
Badeed picked up his cane and gestured for his friend to follow him to an empty room. Both men were Hawiye clan elders and had known each other since childhood. Robleh was also Badeed’s cousin, although this was of lesser importance, as everyone in the clan was, by definition, related to everyone else.
The two men skipped pleasantries and quickly got to the reason for Robleh’s visit. Badeed considered the clinic his refuge, and visiting him there to talk business was not recommended for anyone but his closest friends and advisers.
“I received a phone call yesterday,” said Robleh, “from a government official in Afgooye. You know of the displacement camp there?”
Badeed nodded solemnly. “Last I heard, it was ten thousand people . . .”
“Sixteen thousand now,” said Robleh, “and someone fouled one of their wells.”
Badeed shook his head. He thought of himself as ruthless, but just. Depriving a refugee camp of drinking water made him ponder the existence of humanity.
“And they asked you for bottled water?”
Robleh nodded.
“I will help with the cost,” Badeed said.
“Thank you, but that is not why I am here. I will provide the water until the well is cleaned, but I do not have the resources to do what needs to be done next.”