[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel by Richard Marcinko Page B

in checkered pants and cooking smocks stood over a counter, arguing vigorously over some fine point of food preparation. The one on the left had an eight-inch chef’s knife, which he flicked against a chopping board to accent his points. The other had a cleaver, which he flailed around in the air, either chasing some unseen fly or demonstrating how he would install several new scars to the other man’s scalp.
    Taban continued past them to a set of steel steps in the right corner of the kitchen. I followed. The door at the top was open, and we walked into a room filled with personal computer stations. Only about half were occupied; I counted a dozen men hunched over the keyboards, pecking furiously.
    “Fat Tony has been branching out,” whispered Taban as we walked toward the back of the room. “They are now doing e-mail solicitation.”
    “My old friend, Taban,” said Fat Tony, rising from an upholstered chair in front of a TV set. “And my very good friend, Mr. Dick. We have met in the flesh for the first time.”
    He clasped my hands as if I were a long-lost relative—one who’d recently won a very big lottery.
    “Very pleased to meet you,” I told him as he released me. I resisted the temptation to count my fingers.
    “It is the pleasure mine, to meet a man of your caliber.” Fat Tony’s accent if not his grammar shaded toward Britain, where he had gone to school. “Have you seen my restaurant?”
    “Yes.”
    “For our clients,” he confided in a stage whisper. “They are not used to the local food. Taban gave me the idea.”
    Taban beamed proudly.
    “Unfortunately, we didn’t have sufficient notice of your visit,” continued Fat Tony. “Or we would have prepared a great feast. We will still have a dinner, though—our best food on short notice.”
    “Please, don’t go to any trouble,” I said.
    “Trouble? For a famous American? There is no trouble!”
    “We have some business to discuss,” said Taban.
    “First, some refreshment,” insisted Fat Tony. He started for the door.
    “What’s with all the computers?” I asked.
    “Data processing. New area of business growth.”
    You know those scam e-mails that fill your in-box with news of a lottery you’ve never heard of? And the notes about a downtrodden widow who needs an American connection to liberate ten million dollars? They don’t just come from Nigeria anymore.
    Fat Tony took us downstairs to the restaurant and sat us in the middle of the room. A pair of skinny young men appeared within a few moments carrying pitchers of water and a few cans of soft drinks. I passed on the water—always wise in Africa—but took one of the soft drinks to be sociable. It tasted like a cross between coconut juice and very weak ginger ale; nothing that couldn’t be improved by a little gin.
    “So, Mr. Dick,” said Fat Tony finally. “How can I help you?”
    “I represent a group of investors who will have a ship sailing in the area very soon,” I told him. “And they want to insure safe passage.”
    His eyes widened, and he asked for details. I gave him a cagey response, enough to make it clear that I was buying safe passage for a shipment of drugs without actually saying that.
    “The ship will have a Russian flag and will sail past in about two weeks,” I told him. “Payment will be made when it reaches its destination. In a foreign currency, and we will arrange for a delivery.”
    Foreign currency meant not in American dollars or euros, something that was a deal breaker in Puntland. Fat Tony insisted on American dollars, and a bank transfer. I hemmed a bit for show, then finally told him I would have to speak to my employers to see what I could do.
    “I believe that it can be arranged,” I conceded. We shook hands. This time I looked to make sure I had them all when he released my grip.
    Fat Tony called over one of the skinny young men, and whispered something to him. The young man disappeared into the kitchen, reemerging in a few moments