immediately after. Klaussen hung up and called a travel agent, who booked him a ticket.

Arriving on the red-eye from Nairobi a few mornings later, Klaussen met Le Roux in a hotel restaurant that hadn't yet opened. The boss wasn't interested in breakfast. "Fuck off, we're talking," he said to a waiter who approached the table. He had ordered Klaussen there to convey a single message: Before the fishery was even up and running, the project was already burning money—on bribes, on security forces, on property. They were going to need to bring in some cash to defray the costs, and quickly. Le Roux would be developing additional plans for the project beyond fishing, he said, starting with establishing Somalia as a transit point for phar- maceuticals. "We need to get self-sufficient," he said.

For Klaussen, the vague directive was concerning—a business as elaborate as tuna fishing would take years to break even, much less turn profitable. And whatever schemes Le Roux had in mind for faster money were likely to be even more risky. But the project was just getting started. If Klaussen could show progress on the ground and the potential for long-term profits, he thought, Le Roux would come around. He caught a flight back to Nairobi and headed into Somalia.

On the ground in the dusty streets of Galkayo, he connected with two employees Le Roux had sent previously to help get the project started. One, a South African who rarely ventured outside and loudly disdained the Somalis, Klaussen arranged to have sent home after he drunkenly fired weapons from the roof of the compound. The other, a corpulent Zimbabwean named Mischeck who had once served in the notorious Zimbabwean secret police, Klaussen designated head of security. Mischeck in turn recruited a handful of other Zimbabwean security personnel, all of whom seemed to fear him, listening with respect as he recounted tales of torturing and murdering suspects back home. "To me he was just a big teddy bear," Klaussen said. "I actually got him on the roof and made him