What passed for a government at the time and its Ethiopian allies advanced on the city, but Somalia was already in a massive humanitarian crisis, and retaking Mogadishu would have been costly in treasure and in lives. The government forces feared that an invasion would turn the city’s densely packed streets into rivers of blood.

So they laid siege to it.

Overextended across the country, weakened by a string of defeats, and facing a patient foe, the ICU appealed to the nation’s clan leaders to broker a deal. The clans whose power had once offended the Union now became its only salvation. The ICU sheiks approached Cawar—already a respected elder of the powerful Isaaq clan—and negotiated the surrender of the ICU’s armored vehicles, small arms, and heavy weapons. It was a massive collection of armaments, enough to deter two national armies from invading the capital city, but the clan took control of the weapons without incident. The ICU sheiks resigned their positions, the fighters melted into the population, and the government troops retook the city.

And Cawar became the largest arms dealer in Africa.

Government officials, Islamic radicals, other clan leaders, and the nation’s warlords all sought his support, but Cawar remained steadfastly neutral. He sold weapons and ammunition to anyone who could pay, never tipping the scales too far to one side lest the conflict come to an end. War wasn’t just good for business. It was his business.

Cawar reinvested the proceeds from his initial windfall and cultivated fresh sources of new weapons from black markets on three continents. He became immensely rich, but worked out of a dingy warehouse in the northern Shibis district halfway between the Damanyo government military camp and the local soccer stadium. It was outside his traditional clan stronghold in the Hodan district, and surrounded by squalid private homes, a truck dealership, and the Islamic University.

But Cawar had chosen the location carefully, intent to show that he was a friend to the government, the people, the warlords, and the religious.

An equal-opportunity merchant of death.

SEVEN

THE MAN WAS on his knees, pleading for his life.

They always did.

It was pathetic.

The forty-six-foot fishing boat rolled a few degrees as a small swell passed underneath her. The calm winds and a cloudless blue sky would have been ideal weather had it not been the same, every day, for the past two years. The sun had been relentless: scorching fields, killing livestock, and starving the population.

It was the same offshore.

Hot, still, oppressive.

It was time to finish this thing.

“Two things can drown you,” Badeed said to his captive, quoting an old Somali proverb, “too many enemies and too much water. Unfortunately for you, you have both.”

The warlord nodded to his henchmen.