Yaxaas scrutinized the man sitting opposite him. He was young, Caucasian, and spoke excellent Arabic. He possessed a steely calmness despite all the guns and the tension.

“At last we meet,” said the warlord.

Jake reached across the table and took a piece of pita bread off Yaxaas’s plate. “Do you know why I’m here?”

The warlord poured two glasses of tea and waited for Jake to continue.

“I represent the government of the United States.”

“And what brings you to Mogadishu?” said the warlord. He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air.

“I’m here to solve a problem,” Jake said.

“Many people come to me with their problems.”

“This isn’t my problem. This is your problem.”

“Your country doesn’t make the rules in Somalia.”

“There are no rules in Somalia.”

“Ah, but there are. The customs of Xeer have been passed down through the noble clans of Somalia for over a thousand years.”

“And who enforces Xeer?”

“I do,” said Yaxaas.

“Why you?”

Yaxaas was not an educated man, but he was a smart man. He knew that his authority did not come from a popular vote or even heredity. He ruled because he had the power to impose his will—and the Americans’ brash display was meant to show him that a more powerful force had entered the equation.

He stubbed out his cigarette.

“From time to time,” Jake said, “we will require you to intercept certain vessels at sea.”

Yaxaas raised an eyebrow. “I am a simple businessman. I know nothing of the sea.”

Jake took a sip of the sugary tea.

“Those eight tankers didn’t disappear by accident.”

The warlord lit another of his Turkish cigarettes. “What is to become of these vessels?”

“That will be decided on a case-by-case basis. You’ll be given enough time to plan accordingly.”

“I expect to be well compensated. Mounting such operations is costly.”

Jake shook his head. “Consider it the cost of staying alive. Somalia can be a dangerous place.”

“Indeed,” said Yaxaas. “Especially for foreigners.”

Jake rose from his seat and dropped a cell phone on the table. “We’ll be in touch.”

“CIA?” the warlord asked in English.

“GFY,” Jake corrected.

Yaxaas knew many of the U.S. military units and intelligence agencies that operated in his country, but his puzzled look indicated that he’d never heard of this one.

“You’ll figure it out.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

NACAY MADE A call on his mobile phone the moment the Americans left.

Yaxaas took a long pull of his cigarette and waved his son back to the table.

“Are we out of business?”

The warlord exhaled.

“Quite the opposite. They want us to intercept ships for them.”

Nacay cocked his head. “I hadn’t expected that . . . Is it one of their intelligence services or their military?”

“The line has blurred between the two,” said the warlord, “but their military has a navy, so it must be an intelligence agency.”