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days.”
    “Have you been here long?” Larry asked. “You seem pretty well versed.”
    “I have been stationed here for four years now. It is home, of a sort.” He smiled.
    “Legion?” I asked. He nodded.
    “ Sergent Chef Arno Kohl, at your service,” he said. I raised my eyebrows. I didn’t think anybody used “at your service” anymore. “And yourselves?”
    “Lou,” I replied. I jerked a thumb at Larry. “This is Bud.”
    He laughed. “Hardly the most inventive cover names, but as I was not born Arno Kohl, I suppose I have no room to argue.” He looked us over. “What brings you to delightful Djibouti?”
    “We’re with a refugee aid organization,” I replied, pulling out one of the phony business cards that Sam had cooked up. They looked professional, and in fact they were, having been made through an online company that specialized in them. The fact that no such organization as Team Refuge existed was beside the point.
    He studied it as though it were genuine, though, nodded, and handed it back. “Veterans, yes? I have met a few such, turned to relief work.”
    “It’s an exclusively veteran organization,” I replied. I was talking out of my ass, since we didn’t really have all that thick a back story for Team Refuge. I had to be careful that I didn’t go too overboard. Not only did that present problems for the rest of the teams, keeping up with my lies, but it could awaken some suspicion in our new friend. I didn’t trust this Legionnaire, especially since we were in the country without the knowledge of the US Embassy or the local authorities.
    He was a pleasant enough conversationalist, though. He spoke at length about the city, and a few of his experiences with the Legion.
    “So, Arno,” Larry said congenially, “I haven’t seen much Legion presence out on the streets today. And you’re not in uniform. Last time I was around the Legion, you guys wore your uniforms everywhere. What’s going on?”
    Kohl grimaced. “The French government has issued strict ‘hands off’ orders for the demi-brigade,” he answered. “We have an arrangement with the President, but apparently that doesn’t extend to dealing with this rabble.”
    “I understand the opposition is just pissed that the President stays in power no matter what the people want,” I said. “Pro-democracy demonstrations and suchlike.”
    “That’s what they say,” he said derisively. “And a lot of them certainly are just that--they want a functioning democratic republic. But a lot of these people are Somalis, driven out of that scheissloch of a country as the wars worsen.” He took a gulp of his drink. “There are plenty of infiltrators among the Somalis--Shabaab and Al Qaeda, and plenty of Sudanese who are happy to help.” He leaned forward. “They are appealing to the poor Muslims to unite and drive out the infidel-influenced President. Then they can set up an Islamic state here, on the only major port on the Horn.”
    “Why would the French want to sit back and allow that?” I asked, genuinely curious.
    “Because they don’t want to piss off all the jihadis in their own country,” Larry snorted.
    “Exactly,” Kohl said. “ Verdammt cowards are overrun with Arabs and Algerians now. Entire tracts of Paris are off-limits to infidels. The Republic is hanging on by a thread, and they are terrified of doing anything to further inflame the Islamic population. If they do, the rioting might overthrow the whole country.” He spat.
    “You don’t seem to like the French much,” Larry commented amusedly.
    “Of course I don’t, I’m German,” Kohl said. “The Legion gave me a chance when I had to get out of Germany. I am loyal to the Legion, not the fucking French.”
    “ Legio patria nostra ,” I said quietly. He nodded emphatically, and smote his hand on the table.
    “So, what, the entire demi-brigade is just staying inside the wire?” Larry asked.
    “Essentially,” Kohl said. “As soon as the