Blood Brothers: Chris Stone Series, #3

By Graham Spence

A Liberian businessman is given six hours to pay for a mysterious cargo of weapons in Monrovia — or his son will die.

Al-Shabaab terrorists raid an idyllic Kenyan beach resort, kidnapping a British diplomat's daughter.

An American special forces soldier uncovers plans to cause global mayhem and bloodshed building radioactive 'dirty' bombs in uranium-rich West Africa.

Alaskan adventurer Chris Stone is dragged into this murderous imbroglio with his partner Debra Gordon and Delta Force operators Carl Wilson and Nick Landry. Last time they teamed up was tracking rhino poachers slaughtering Africa's most endangered species, whose horns today are more valuable than gold.

This time the stakes are even higher as a terrifying new front in the undeclared global terror war erupts.

As chilling as today's headlines, Blood Brothers weaves fiction with reality in a white-knuckle tale of modern terrorism.

Spence has written two other Chris Stone adventure novels, The Apocalypse Chase, and Bloodhorn, a thriller based on fact about the wildlife smuggling cartels driving rhinos to extinction.

Spence's non-fiction books, including The Elephant Whisperer which he co-wrote with Lawrence Anthony — 'The Indiana Jones of Conservation' — have received widespread international claim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WildRiver Publications
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393416470

Graham Spence

Born in Africa, GRAHAM SPENCE was a journalist for twenty-five years during South Africa’s turbulent apartheid era. He has written several books on Africa, including the global bestseller The Elephant Whisperer which he co-authored with the ‘Indiana Jones of conservation’ Lawrence Anthony, as well as Saving the Last Rhinos and Rewilding Africa with environmentalist Grant Fowlds. He currently lives with his family in England.

Book preview

Blood Brothers

By

Graham Spence

As always, this is for Terrie, Cameron and Paul

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Copyright © 2018 by Graham Spence

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Printing, March 2019

This is a work of fiction. Unless historical, names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

www.grahamspence.com

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Epilogue

Prologue

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WET WORK. That’s what American soldiers call killing, Fahad Toweel mused. But they didn’t know what wet really meant.

Wet was living in Monrovia, Liberia during the monsoon season. When the swollen purple-black clouds over West Africa stretch to infinity and the lashing rain never relents. When the water-logged roads flow like rivers and there is more trash swirling down the potholed tarmac than vehicles. When rainfall exceeds fourteen feet a year, the height of an average tsunami. When all you could do was get down on your knees and pray for the sun. When you would do anything — anything — to feel dry.

Fahad lifted his wrist. The luminous dials on his Rolex showed 2.32 a.m. He would be getting up in three hours and had barely slept. The steaming humidity was as oppressive as the sheeting rain. There was no air-conditioning as Monrovia’s grid was down. The mechanic had not arrived yesterday to fix the back-up diesel generator, so ceiling fans the size of airplane propellers were unable to shift and cool the air.

He turned onto his side. He must have dozed briefly, as he suddenly jerked upright. There were three men above him. They had revolvers. All pointed at him.

Another man was on the other side of the bed, crouched next to his wife Rashini. She was still asleep.

The nearest gunman put his finger to his lips. The white ovals of his eyes gleamed in the murk. A black keffiyeh covered the rest of his face. His robes were also black. The other three men were dressed the same.

We’re going to die, thought Fahad. He looked around and his heart momentarily seized. One of the men was carrying his youngest child Idris, a baby of just eight months. He had his hand over the infant’s mouth.

What do you want, he whispered, fearful of rousing his wife.

As he spoke the man next to Rashini shoved a bunched cloth over her in case she awakened screaming. Instead, she woke with a brief futile struggle to free the gag.

The man with the glowing eyes flicked on a flashlight. The first thing Fahad noticed was how tall he was. Well over six feet. Maybe almost seven.

He handed Fahad a piece of paper. Yo’ pay dis man de money on dis bill ’morrow nine o’clock. In cash. Yo’ do dat, we giv’ back yore baby.

With that, they were gone.

Hands still shaking, Fahad lit a candle — an essential item with Liberia’s sporadic electricity supply — and read the page of paper he had been given. His wife was staring at him, holding a pillow tightly.

They have taken Idris, she whispered. Her voice rasped as she choked back a sob. He looked at her. Her face was taut with terror, but she was still as beautiful as the day they had married ten years ago in the city of Baabda, a Christian Maronite stronghold in Lebanon. As least the intruders had not hurt her.

He nodded. We will get him back. I’m just reading what they want me to do.

It was a crudely scribbled bill of lading. Fahad was instructed to present it to Mr. Jibril Kadar at an office in downtown Monrovia near the Waterside Market, overlooking the Mesurado River, and pay twenty-thousand U.S. dollars.

Fahad whistled. In Liberia, that was a fortune. The equivalent of more than two and a half million Liberian dollars. But he was a rich man. He could afford it.

He also knew Jibril Kadar, who was, like Fahad, a Lebanese expatriate. There were about five-thousand Lebanese in the country, who by and large ran the business sector. Fahad, for example, owned several upmarket restaurants, gated compounds for expatriates and a transport company.

Jibril Kadar was a Muslim, while Fahad was a Maronite Christian, although not a particularly devout one. Kadar was even richer than Fahad, so anger flared in Fahad’s belly along with the terror. He was being threatened with the life of his son to pay a ransom fee to a wealthier man.

He moved the candle closer to read the scrawled handwriting more carefully. The goods listed were ‘hardware’.

Fahad felt the hairs on his arm stiffen. In much of Africa, hardware was a euphemism for weapons. What was he, through no fault of his own, getting into?

...

HE WAS AT the front of the queue when the First International Bank opened for business six hours later. With him was a trusted employee to carry the two briefcases of money. As a valued customer, he had no problem withdrawing the money. Much of Fahad’s business was cash-only in any event. The manager dealt with the request himself.

His chauffeur drove him to Jibril Kadar’s offices situated in a block taller than most in Monrovia’s tattered commercial district. The exterior was bare cement chipped by thousands of bullets, testament to two particularly nasty civil wars between 1986 and 2003. But this was not unusual; most businessmen in this poverty-stricken country preferred to keep as low a profile as possible. Ostentatious wealth was not advisable.

Kadar seemed surprised to see him, and even more surprised when Fahad dumped the two cases of cash on his desk.

I had no idea you were involved, Fahad.

I am not involved. They have kidnapped my son.

Kadar shuffled uncomfortably as he rose from his chair and locked the money in a large wall safe.

Do you know who they are? Fahad asked.

No. But I think they are ISIS or Al Qaida, Kadar replied. I too have been threatened. But not in Liberia. My family in Lebanon will be harmed if I don’t handle this cargo.

He could see Fahad wasn’t convinced. This money is not for me. I think it is for jihad.

Fahad took a couple of moments to digest that. Islamic terrorists? Here in Liberia?

But ISIS is in Syria. Or Iraq. Not here.

Kadar looked away. Jihad is everywhere. They threatened me even though I am a Muslim. They wanted an inf... non-Muslim, to pay the cash.

Fahad seethed. Kadar almost called him an infidel. He never for a moment suspected that any Liberian Muslim supported terror. The country was at last at peace after tearing itself apart for almost two decades. Or so he thought.

How do I get my son back?

I don’t know. Maybe just wait here for them to collect the ... goods.

You mean the guns?

Kadar said nothing.

Fahad took a seat and waited. And waited.

In the late afternoon a battered Toyota pick-up with several men sitting in the back arrived. The driver got out. He was an exceptionally tall man with a bushy beard tangling down to his chest, which was unusual for an African. A kufi, or brimless round cap, covered the top of his head and a white robe flowed to his ankles. Instead of sandals, he wore thick-soled combat boots.

He glanced at Fahad as he entered and nodded. Fahad recognized him by his height as one of the men who broke into his home earlier. The one with the gleaming eyes.

Kadar came out. Salaam Musa. Everything is in order. The goods are in the warehouse at the back. 

He nodded at Fahad and said, They have been paid for.

Musa smiled. He gestured to a man behind him. The man left the room. Musa turned and stared at Fahad. Fahad stared back. The thought of losing his son fueled his mounting panic, but he was not going to back down.

A few moments later the man re-appeared carrying a bundle wrapped in a white shawl. Fahad jumped up. He recognized the woolen shawl. It had been lovingly crocheted by Rashini while she was pregnant last year.

Inside the shawl was Idris. The man gave the baby to him. Fahad clasped the infant so tightly he feared he may suffocate his son. But he could not let go.

Musa walked up. He bent until his face was level with Fahad’s, barely a foot away.

I hav’ kept mah word. I also give mah word dat if yo’ tell an’one ‘bout dis, I kill yo’. And yo’ fam’lee.

One

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THERE WERE FOUR of them squatting around the fire, burning driftwood on the pebbled sandbanks of the Anvik River.

Sizzling on a wire grid above the flames were several salmon fillets, thick and pink, spitting and hissing as rich oozing omega oil splattered onto the coals. The fish had been caught barely an hour ago. You don’t get fresher than that, even in Alaska.

Fishing guide Chris Stone was in charge of the grilling, while Nick Landry was CEO of beers. With Nick was his stepson Carl Wilson. The fourth man was Fahad Toweel.

Fahad intrigued Chris as he was his first-ever client from Africa, although he was not technically African. He was officially Lebanese even though his family left the Middle East more than 120 years ago. In most countries, Fahad would be considered a fifth generation native. But such were the vagaries of the troubled continent of Africa, only blacks could take out Liberian citizenship.

This did not worry Fahad; he was wealthy enough to live anywhere he chose. As he told Chris, the Lebanese may not be considered Liberians but they controlled about sixty per cent of the economy. It was a benign control. The country simply would not function without them and the current crop of politicians knew it. The Lebanese may not be loved in Liberia, but they were tolerated out of necessity.

Fahad was an avid fisherman, hunting bonga, snappers and pompano in the West African lagoons as far back as he could remember. Then one day he watched a group of South Africans fly-fishing for tarpon. He asked them to give him a casting lesson. From then on he was hooked – literally and metaphorically as his first cast snagged his shirt, ripping it off his back. He recounted that story at any given opportunity, especially the ‘shirt off my back’ analogy when discussing the costs of the sport.

This was Fahad’s first foray into Alaskan King salmon fishing, which he rated even better sport than tarpon. But he was prepared to debate that.

When Chris told Fahad that he too had fished in Africa, Fahad was equally intrigued and pressed him further.

It was mainly for trout in the South African mountains, said Chris. But I was hijacked, which cut the trip short.

Nick interjected, Chris is a dangerous dude. You must get him to tell you about his fishing adventures. *

Chris laughed and shook his head.

Okay, if he won’t, I will. Thanks to this guy, Nick jerked his thumb towards Chris, we rescued his sister-in-law who had been kidnapped by the most bad-assed rhino horn poachers you would never hope to meet. **

Thanks more to you, you mean, said Chris, looking a little uneasy at being in the spotlight.

Well, I was there. But I am trained to do those things. Chris just stepped up to the plate and did what had to be done. You can’t beat that for guts. In fact, Chris is as bad-assed as a Green Beret.

What actually happened? Fahad asked.

We went after the wildlife mafia, mainly run by Vietnamese bandits and rogue South African game ranchers. Rhino horn is the most valuable commodity in the world, and Josie — Chris’s future sister-in-law — is a wildlife crime investigator and was captured. So we got her back.

Wow, said Fahad, And I thought Chris was just a laidback fishing guide.

Nick laughed. A fishing guide who has outgunned South Africa hijackers, escaped Colombian terrorists and outrun Chechen jihadists.

All with the help of people like Nick, said Chris, then changed the subject. Do you have much poaching in Liberia?

Plenty. But it’s mainly subsistence rather than commercial. Liberia is one of the poorest countries and bushmeat is the sole source of protein for millions. It’s now on such a big scale that most jungle creatures are either endangered or already extinct.

Fahad sighed, then continued. But it’s not just poaching that’s a problem in the rainforests. There’s also conflict diamonds and a lot of illegal rare earth metal mining.

Carl Wilson looked up. Yeah ... that’s the currency of terrorism. Blood diamonds in war zones for bullets.

Fahad nodded. That happened to me. Although I was forced to pay cash, not diamonds.

Carl squinted at him. What do you mean?

Maybe it was the beers, maybe because this was the first time Fahad had relaxed for more than a year. He opened up.

Four terrorists broke into my house one night, pointed guns at me and grabbed my youngest child. They said I would never see him again unless I paid a shipping bill that they presented. It was for weapons, probably AKs. I paid and got my son back. I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since.

He paused as if debating whether to continue. Then decided he had said enough.

Look ... they threatened to kill me and my family if I told anyone. So in the highly unlikely event that you visit Liberia, please don’t mention this conversation.

Carl laughed. Maybe not so unlikely. I was in Somalia last month, so I know exactly what you mean.

Somalia? Who in their right mind would go there?

I go where I’m told.

What do you do?

I’m a soldier.

...

CARL WAS BEING economical with the truth. Strictly speaking, it was correct that he was in the military. But in the arcane jargon of the armed forces, he wasn’t a soldier. Like his stepfather Nick Landry, who had been a Green Beret, he was among the elite of the elite — a highly-skilled Special Forces member of Delta Force.

Delta are not referred to as soldiers. Or even as warriors. That is too pretentious. Instead, they are operators, although most rank and file soldiers call them snake eaters due to their almost mythical survival skills. But that is all semantics. Suffice it to say that Carl and Nick were among the finest fighters in the world.

Carl’s mother Sandra, a beautiful and feisty brunette, had been a hippy anti-war protestor in her youth and his father a pacifist university professor. To say they were bewildered that their son opted to be an alpha warrior was seriously understating the case.

However, Sandra had always admired men of action, which is what drew her to Nick Landry twelve years ago. They lived together for a decade before finally marrying a few months after Nick returned from his previous African gig, which as he said to Fahad was rescuing Chris’s sister-in-law. Part-payment for that rescue mission was the fishing trip Nick and Carl were now on. Carl regarded the tough sixty-two-year-old Vietnam vet with veneration. This was the father-figure he’d never had.

After a few more beers, Carl returned to their earlier conversation. He asked Fahad, What makes you think the guns were terrorist weapons? Maybe they were for poaching.

Could be, said Fahad. But the men collecting them were wearing keffiyeh, like the ISIS people you see on TV.

I thought Liberia was a Christian country?

It mainly is. About twelve per cent are Muslim, and they are industrious and peaceful. A fine community. That’s what surprised me.

Can you describe the big guy to me? Was he a North African or Middle Eastern Arab?

No. He was black. He had a thick beard down onto his chest. He was exceptionally tall and strong. The main thing I noticed was when he looked at me, his eyes were those of a fanatic. Sort of blazing. He also spoke Liberian English, which is unique to the area.

Why did they target you?

I am a wealthy man. I have to be to pay Chris’s prices, he said with a smile. Also, when I went to the office of the man who had the guns, he apologized. Said it was because the terrorists wanted an infidel to foot the bill. As a rich and not very devout Christian, I think I was an obvious choice.

Is there any particular tribe in the country that are Muslim? asked Nick.

Mandinka.

Fahad’s brow furrowed, deep in thought. Now that I think of it, it makes more sense. The big man’s name was Musa. I heard them call him that. Musa is a Mandinka name.

Chris crumpled his beer can and threw it into the plastic trash bag they would take back to the lodge.

We’d better go. Light’s starting to fade and we’ll miss dinner if we hang around any longer.

More food? said Fahad. I’ve just eaten the best salmon fillet of my life.

Chris revved the small motor on the skiff. After two intense seasons, he was a skilled coxswain, navigating the most treacherous rapids with skills you cannot buy in a sports shop. As he throttled forward, Fahad touched him on the arm.

So your wife is from Africa?

Wife-to-be. That’s if she doesn’t see through me. Debra’s family is South African.

It is a tough continent to leave, said Fahad.

Chris nodded. Not so hard for her. She had a horrific experience. The stuff of nightmares. She only goes back to see her family.

When she does, you must come and visit me.

I’d like that.

* As told in The Apocalypse Chase

** As told in Bloodhorn

Two

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IT WAS GOING TO be a pre-dawn start as Chris had pledged to put Fahad into a 20lb-plus King salmon, a trophy that had eluded them all week.

The Lebanese-Liberian was scheduled to fly out in the afternoon and had been a model client — so much so that he was already talking about booking for the next season. Chris wanted him to go home with the best memories possible, which included the fish of a lifetime.

So Chris suggested they hit the sack straight after dinner, rather than prop up the bar like most of the other clients. Fahad wasn’t a big drinker in any event.

But as Chris stood to leave for his sparse staff tent at the back of the lodge, hidden from paying customers by a convenient grove of spruce trees, Carl and Nick called — or more accurately, summoned — him over for a nightcap in their room in the main lodge.

Chris sensed something was up when Nick uncapped a bottle of Wild Turkey. Interesting chat today.

Yeah. Not often do we get clients from Africa. In fact, this is the first. Really good guy.

Carl sipped his bourbon. What Nick actually is referring to is Fahad’s story about the gun shipment. Now that was interesting.

What are you getting at? Chris knew about Carl’s special forces background.

I was in Somalia last month. Just two of us Delta guys and a Somali asset. We lived rough in the desert and were tracking this al-Shabaab dude who we believe has links to a particularly nasty piece of work, a Brit woman called The White Widow. We nailed him in Mogadishu, but he was a tough nut and we couldn’t crack him in the limited time we had. In Mogadishu, you don’t hang around after sun-up if you have a white skin. But we didn’t kill him as we figured he might be more useful alive, now that we knew who he was. Instead we downloaded his computer, and in amongst all the porn and shit, found some interesting communication with a Liberian called Musa.

Ties in with Fahad’s story then?

Carl nodded. Initially we thought Liberian was a misspelling for Nigerian. That would’ve made more sense as Boko Haram, which specializes in grabbing schoolgirls for sex slaves, are the most active terrorists on the continent. Anyway, it seems West Africa is fast becoming a global jihadist target. Strategists think it’s part of the sharia law domino effect ... not only the big one Nigeria, where Boko Haram is based, but also Guinea, Sierra Leone, Ivory Coast, Niger and Mali are all on the bucket list.

Wow. Never even heard of most of those places. Is this important?

Definitely Nigeria. It has the fastest growing population in the world. By 2100, at current growth, Nigeria will have more people than China, which is going to be interesting seeing it’s only a tenth of China’s size. It’s like shoehorning 1.5 billion people into Texas.

Are you serious? asked Chris.

It’s not just Nigeria. Africa will soon overtake Asia as the most populous continent. Asia has 4.5 billion people but is increasing at just 1.04 per cent. Africa has 1.22 billion and increasing at 2.57 per cent. Also, forty-one per cent of Africans are under fifteen — so you do the math.

How will the poorest continent cope with that growth?

Well, it shouldn’t be poor. Its natural resources are staggering. For example, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, also known as the DRC, has estimated mineral wealth of twenty-four-trillion U.S. dollars, more than the GDP of Europe and the U.S. combined.

Okay, I get it. The jihadist groups want to tap into that to fund their terror stuff.

"Exactly. What I found during my last gig in Africa is that there are three main terror groups; Boko Haram, Al Qaida in the Maghreb — or AQIM — and al-Shabaab in Somalia. That’s a pretty large and murderous bunch stretching across the continent at its broadest point. And there are several equally homicidal off-shoots, such as the former Movement for Oneness and Jihad in West Africa, which has now regrouped under the name al-Murabitun. They are getting their act