Badeed might have dismissed the compliment as an attempt to curry favor were it not true. The warlord had provided Kitadra with not only security but a medical clinic, a school, and a new mosque. He had done the same for the Hawiye areas of Mogadishu. In the absence of an effective central government, the clan leaders had stepped into the void.

For a reasonable fee, obviously.

“I am sorry I was delayed,” Badeed said. “I had some business to attend to.”

The two men raised their glasses of sweet chai tea. The conversation meandered like a winding river, touching on family and friends, who’d been born and who had died, and of course, the drought, and how to best profit from it. One of Badeed’s associates had become fabulously wealthy after wresting Mogadishu’s bottled water concession from a Darood clan rival.

The two men shared plates of stewed camel meat and roasted goat.

“Business has been challenging of late,” began the arms dealer. “So many AMISOM and U.S. forces are here that what used to be simple is now complex and what used to be highly profitable is now much less so. Were it not for a single large client, my business would be down significantly from last year.”

Badeed looked at his lunch guest and waited.

The arms dealer looked around to ensure no one was in earshot. They were mostly alone in the restaurant, but the dramatic gesture had the desired effect—Badeed leaned forward to hear better.

“Yaxaas has been arming to the teeth,” said Cawar.

Badeed scowled at the mention of his nemesis. Yaxaas had demanded protection money from him in the early years of Badeed’s ascendancy, and the two warlords were now the dominant powers in Somalia—evenly matched after nearly a decade of armed conflict. The country would belong to whoever was able to defeat the other.

“What’s the old crocodile up to?”

“I do not know his plan,” said the arms dealer, “but I can feel his ambition.”

“He is like a shadow,” said Badeed dismissively. “In the morning he is turned in one direction, and in the evening, the opposite. I have seen this before.”

“Not like this. He is spending every last shilling on arms and men.”

“Then do me a favor, old friend—for every weapon he buys, you must sell me two.”

NINE

YAXAAS STOOD IN the bedroom adjoining his office. A Bantu girl lay naked on the bed next to him, rubbing her wrists where the handcuffs had dug into her skin.

Though Mogadishu was barely a hundred miles north of the equator, the room was pleasant with a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead and the French doors open to the courtyard.

A white goat stood among the flora, eyeing the pond. It took a step forward, poking its head through a cluster of ferns. The water was twenty feet away.