The CIA on the Trail

Nairobi, Kenya.

An unexpected visitor arrived at the CIA's North Africa branch inside the U.S. Embassy: Jackson Davis, the Agency's Middle East officer, the man who worked out of Istanbul.

Smith showed him in, and Jackson shook hands with Mitchell, the North Africa chief, who had been waiting for him.

"Good to meet you. Jackson Davis—I'm the one who reached out. Just Jackson is fine."

"Well. I didn't expect you to come in person."

"On our end, it ties into something urgent."

Jackson's call had come a week earlier.

Smith, tracing the disappearance—or abduction—of Al-Shabaab fighters, had sent a records request to the regional CIA stations, hoping to identify the people staying at a certain unexplained estate. He hadn't expected much to come of it. To his surprise, the Middle East station in Istanbul answered.

And the officer who sent that reply, Jackson himself, had flown to Nairobi.

The three of them sat. While Jackson dug through his briefcase for the file, Mitchell's eyes traveled over him, and something in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man snagged wrong against Mitchell's instincts. They looked to be roughly the same age, but where Mitchell's own middle had gone soft and heavy, Jackson was solid through the frame, muscle laid on where it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠belonged—fit enough to work a live operation that very afternoon.

The difference between them wasn't only physical. Langley barely spared a thought for North Africa. Istanbul was another matter entirely: a hinge between the Middle East and Europe, a crossing point for both the Middle East and Russia, counted a prize among prizes even inside the CIA's overseas stations. The chief of a post like that ought to have outstripped this branch in clout, in manpower, in budget.

And that chief flew out here in person over a single routine request?

Mitchell was still watching him with open suspicion when Jackson drew out a report and set it down in front of them.

"Let's talk through this."

Skimming the pages, both men quickly found faces they knew—photographs of men presumed to be from Türkiye and Syria.

Jackson went on.

"Three of the people you sent us. All of them were IS."

"IS?"

"Wasn't IS all but wiped out?"

"It was. Their strength had been cut down hard, but until recently the organization was still running without much trouble. Out in eastern Syria they were producing Captagon and shipping it into Europe and elsewhere, so on the money side, at least, they had no real problem. Then, three months ago, they started collapsing fast. And behind that collapse is a mass disappearance inside IS itself."

"A disappearance?"

Smith blurted it, startled. Mitchell smothered his own unease in the same instant, but he couldn't keep the flicker out of his eyes.

He asked, carefully, "Wasn't the sudden weakening of IS the result of the rebel offensive that took Syria not long ago?"

"No. You have to read it the other way around. IS shrank so fast that the rebels found their rear secure, turned their offensive on the government forces, and that's how they were able to take Syria. That's the accurate version."

"Then what do you mean, a mass disappearance sitting behind the collapse?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. A huge number of people vanished without a trace. At first we assumed IS had sent those fighters off on some secret operation elsewhere, or simply shifted its base across the border into Iraq or Iran. But once we started collecting intelligence inside the IS leadership, we learned the disappearances weren't an internal decision. They were the result of an attack from outside—or an abduction."

"An outside force."

"If it was a mass disappearance, how many are we actually talking about?"

"Our estimate of the missing is roughly fifteen hundred to two thousand."

The number Jackson gave made both men start.

"That many?"

"How does something like that even happen? Did those IS bastards just stand there and watch while their own people vanished?"

"They tried to answer it. First they tightened their communications and reinforced the defensive manpower at every cell. Some of them even fled into the mountains, where signals couldn't reach. Even that couldn't stop the chain of disappearances. After the missing passed a thousand, trust between members and the whole communications net began to fall apart completely. Internal cohesion disintegrated, and in the end IS in Syria judged that cutting off contact with one another was the only option left. They carried it out—and the scattered cells were destroyed piecemeal under the rebel attacks."

Mitchell's and Smith's expressions turned grave.

The collapse and disappearance of IS, or of Al-Shabaab, was not in itself a bad thing. The problem was not knowing who was doing it, what they wanted, or whether they were friend or enemy.

"Have you learned anything about that outside force?"

"We ran our own investigation. We never identified them. All we came away with is this single photograph."

Inside the file Jackson offered, mixed among the papers, was a shot of a truck that looked as if it had been taken under a dark night sky.

"A truck found near one of the areas where the chain of disappearances occurred."

There were several photographs of trucks. The same model, shot again and again in different places.

"You couldn't track its location?"

"We tracked it. Then it vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Gone, between one moment and the next, like a lie. As if it had sunk into the ground. We had Air Force support, searched the area around the last position, even sent officers onto the site itself. Nothing left behind. Just in case, we tore through the ground underneath as well. The conclusion was that it disappeared in front of our eyes. Like a magic trick."

"How is something like that possible?"

"We'd love to know the method ourselves. We were on the verge of filing it as unsolved when Agent Smith's cable came in. The same thing that happened to IS in Syria is happening here."

Trainees and instructors at an Al-Shabaab camp in southern Somalia had vanished. Personnel at the regional cells were disappearing overnight, one incident chaining into the next. Al-Shabaab had gone on internal alert and started locking its people down, but they were nowhere near finding a cause—and with the disappearances repeating, they were being run ragged.

Jackson continued.

"The moment we saw what you sent, we compared it against our own intelligence. We confirmed something further. These individuals, right here. This one was verified as attached to the IS cell in Istanbul. And these two, through an IS source, turned up on the list of IS operatives who went missing in Syria."

Mitchell asked, "So you're saying the missing IS people crossed into Mogadishu and have been kidnapping Al-Shabaab members?"

"We don't know that either. I came to confirm it. I've told you why I'm here. Now—could you walk me through ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what you've confirmed on this end, in more detail?"

Smith glanced at his superior, Mitchell.

Mitchell weighed it for a moment, then nodded.

Smith began.

"The Al-Shabaab disappearances still underway go back to the beginning of last month. At a training camp in southern Somalia, some seventy people, trainees and instructors included, vanished overnight without a trace. That was the start. Afterward, with a few days between each incident, the same thing began repeating at cells and camps scattered across the south: every person stationed there, gone. When the first reports came in, we worked our sources inside Al-Shabaab and our communications intercepts. That's how we were able to confirm the trucks."

Jackson asked, his voice edged with meaning, "Trucks? The same as these?"

"No. Different model, different shape."

"I see. Go on."

"What we've confirmed so far is that those trucks were loaded with grain and vegetables bought at the traditional market in Mogadishu and used to haul them. But that was only a disguise for an ordinary delivery truck. The same trucks were repeatedly confirmed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠near the areas where the disappearances occurred."

"Were you able to confirm the trucks' route?"

"Yes."

"Where does it lead?"

"A mansion in a coastal residential district on the outskirts of Mogadishu."

"What kind of place is it?"

"Built by a Mogadishu local, currently operated as an Airbnb. And the man who holds it on a long-term lease is this one."

Smith drew out a photograph and offered it across.

A man in sunglasses. The deep, sharp cheekbones and jawline particular to Italy were padded over with a layer of soft flesh.

"Fortunately, we received his identity from the Europe station not long ago. He was posing as an Istanbul businessman, but facial records identified him as Jose Maldiano, out of Naples, Italy—a member of the Naples Mafia."

"The Italian Mafia? Even for the Mafia, kidnapping terrorists..."

"Yes. At first we were working on the assumption that it was tied to ordinary Mafia crime. Then, as we dug, something more interesting turned up."

Jackson watched him, curiosity held down.

"The head of the family this man belonged to, the mid-level lieutenants, and their closest men—roughly fifty to sixty people—are currently missing."

For a moment Jackson's mouth fell open.

Mass disappearances in Italy and in Syria. And now the same thing, being reproduced in Somalia.

Smith went on.

"The trucks staying at that mansion have left it five or six times, gone down into southern Somalia, and come back. The timing matches the points when the disappearances occurred inside Al-Shabaab."

"How many are missing?"

"Two to three hundred. If they're the ones who took them, there's a strong chance those people are being held at this mansion. And this is an internal conversation the Air Force intercepted."

Smith took out his phone and played the recording.

Noise rode in between the sounds, and the quality was muddy, but following the conversation wasn't difficult.

Jackson asked, "Merchandise. You don't mean the people they kidnapped?"

"We haven't confirmed that yet."

"And the ship they're talking about—has it been identified?"

"We checked the vessels that came into Mogadishu from Cairo after the day of that conversation. We found a candidate."

"A candidate? What kind of ship?"

"A mid-sized ferry operating out of Istanbul, with a capacity of about seven hundred."

"Seven hundred. So they're planning to use it to move the people they took."

"That's our assessment. Which is why, before they leave Somalia, we intend to coordinate with the local police and search the mansion."

Hearing Smith's answer, Jackson sank for a moment into thought alone.

Then—

"Let's not. Leave them be."

"What? Leave them? What are you saying?"

Unlike the flustered Smith, Mitchell asked in a low, probing voice.

"You have something else in mind?"

"This is Somali territory, whatever else it is. There are bound to be limits on how we investigate. The high seas are a different story."

"On the high seas? That means deploying a warship. Getting the Navy to cooperate on short notice is far too much to prepare."

"I'll take care of that part."

Smith stared at Jackson's unruffled face in disbelief.

"Judging by their conversation, clearing customs shouldn't be difficult for them. Once they leave territorial waters and enter the high seas, our warship and helicopters take the ferry, and we roll up the kidnapped and the kidnapping organization together. Open ocean—they won't be able to run, and they won't be able to hide."

Smith looked to his superior, Mitchell.

Mitchell considered for a moment, then nodded.

"Not a bad idea. Provided the Navy's support is actually solid."

Jackson answered Mitchell's question with a smile, drew a phone from his pocket, and dialed.