‘Okay, you all know what to do. We’ll set up food distribution at block B2, in the north-west section. Local staff will be waiting. Make sure women and children get their fair share. I don’t want the men grabbing it all.’
Fabienne mopped the rivers of sweat from her forehead with the back of her dirty shirt sleeve and tucked a stray lock of her long grey hair behind her ear. It had been a tough few weeks travelling Somaliland and assessing the food security situation. She sighed.
‘What’s wrong?’ her driver said.
‘Just feeling it all catch up with me, Andrew.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. The militia will nick it all again. Gets to you in the end.’
‘You too? So young, yet cynical like the rest of us?’
‘Well, not exactly cynical, Fab. Realistic, I’d say.’ He glanced at her with his serious brown eyes, rubbed his bald head. ‘I mean, look at the state of things. A basket case. The more aid we pour in, the worse it gets.’
Fabienne didn’t respond. She was tired of the aid debate. They continued in silence, each of them lost in thought. The camp was inching closer. She could see the rows of thousands of makeshift domed huts, shimmering in the heat like a desert mirage. The Universal Action flags at the entrance hung from their poles, as though too tired to stand to attention.
‘Whose idea was it to put an IDP camp here, in the middle of nowhere?’ she said.
‘Harry’s. Says it’s safer to have them dotted around the countryside rather than all the IDPs piling into Hargeysa.’
‘Can’t say I agree with him. Makes delivery of aid a nightmare.’
Andrew squinted ahead through the afternoon haze.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Something’s not right. Last time I came here you could see at least some sign of activity.’
Fabienne followed his gaze. ‘You’re right. How odd. There are meant to be 20,000 people there.’ She spoke into her walkie-talkie again. ‘Okay everyone, stop here. The camp looks empty. Andrew and I will go in first. Wait for our signal.’
Andrew slowed down the truck.
‘What you doing?’ Fabienne said. ‘You and I are going in.’
‘Sure, but shouldn’t we follow the anti-ambush procedure? Recognition, observation and all that kind of stuff?’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.’
‘How about going in with the others? You know what they say about strength in numbers.’
‘I said don’t worry, for God’s sake. Let’s go.’
Andrew shrugged and hit the accelerator. The truck jerked forward and sped up. They entered the camp through the main entrance, rows of barbed wire on either side. Many of the domed huts were falling apart, their wooden frames smashed and bits of covering hanging off or scattered in the dirt. Strands of tarpaulin caught in bushes fluttered in the light wind next to mounds of rubbish. Pots and pans were strewn around the charcoaled remains of cooking fires. Carcasses of dead goats lay rotting in the sun, insects feasting on their vitreous eyes and dried entrails.
‘What the hell happened here?’ Fabienne held her hand over her mouth and nose in an attempt at blocking out the stench. ‘Let’s go further in.’
‘Is that safe?’
‘Doesn’t look like an ambush to me. There’s nobody here.’
‘That’s exactly my point. Generally people hide for ambushes.’
‘Look, just keep going will you.’ Fabienne shook her head in exasperation. ‘It’ll be fine.’
Andrew shrugged again. They drove in a few hundred metres further.
‘How about here?’ Andrew said. ‘Where the rest of the convoy can still see us.’
Fabienne sighed and nodded. Andrew hit the brake. They both kicked open the creaking doors and hopped out. The dirt and stones crunched under their shoes. They examined the huts closest to them. They were based on the traditional home structure used by nomads: made from sticks arranged in a semicircle as a frame, covered with tarpaulin, cardboard, rags, and plastic bags. They were empty, with mats on the floor and cooking utensils lying around or hanging from hooks on the walls.
‘Where’s everyone gone?’ Andrew said.
‘No idea, but looks like they left here in a hurry.’
They went deeper into the camp, searching for clues. Fabienne heard Andrew gasp behind her.
‘Fab, over here.’
He poked his head out of a hut and gestured to her. She jogged over. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside.
She went pale.
There, on a mat, were two dead bodies, half decomposed. Their skin was dry and cracked, thin as paper. Flies swarmed in the air. Narrow rays of sunlight came through a row of bullet holes in the hut’s outer covering. Fabienne put her hand to her mouth to stop herself throwing up, yet she couldn’t keep her eyes off the corpses. Their heads had been hacked clean off.
‘Mon Dieu. C’est atroce,’ she muttered, her veins throbbing in her temple.
Next to her, Andrew was leaning against the hut’s fragile wooden frame, his face drained of colour. His young, wide eyes stared at both bodies with a mixture of horror and fascination.
‘That one was an old guy.’ Andrew pointed at one of the bodies, which was wearing a blue football t-shirt with the word ‘sport’ written on it in white letters, covered in splashes of dried blood. ‘Look at his hands and arms. All thin and withered away.’
‘Or someone on the brink of starvation,’ Fabienne said, the remains of her lunch rising up her throat.
‘That guy was a soldier.’ Andrew pointed at the other corpse, which was dressed in khaki trousers and a black shirt, with a ripped chequered white and red turban half-wrapped round the shoulders.
Fabienne backed out of the hut, nearly tripping over a small pile of wood. Andrew followed her out.
‘Or maybe a militiaman?’ he said.
She fixed the ground, waiting for the nausea to pass. Then, between slow, deep breaths, she said: ‘Or a bandit. Looks like they had a fight.’
‘And decapitated each other?’ Andrew shook his head. ‘Fat chance of that. No weapons. No heads lying around. I reckon someone shot them from outside the hut and then cut their heads off.’
A small cry came from a nearby hut.
‘What was that?’ Andrew crouched and looked around. ‘An animal?’
‘Nope.’ Fabienne headed for the hut right behind them. She ducked inside, beckoning to Andrew to follow her in. ‘A child.’
On the floor was an emaciated boy looking up at them with fear in his bloodshot eyes. His head seemed disproportionately large and barely balanced on his stick-thin neck. His shoulders, elbows and knees stuck out from a loose layer of skin, covered in rashes. The boy was dressed in the remains of a torn yellow top and had no trousers. He gripped a small metal bucket that had a few bits of grain in it. Andrew knelt down and held out a hand. The boy tried to bite him, but was so weak that he could barely move his neck.
‘Poor thing,’ Andrew said, stroking the boy’s head.
‘Looks about six,’ Fabienne said. ‘Probably at least 10. Starvation stumps their growth.’
Andrew spoke softly to the boy in Somali.
‘What’s he saying?’ Fabienne asked.
Andrew waved his hand for her to be quiet. ‘Just a sec.’ He leaned closer to the boy. ‘Something about everyone escaping.’
The boy muttered something else.
‘Duruqsi,’ Andrew said. ‘They’ve escaped to a place called Duruqsi.’
‘That’s the village next to the border with Ethiopia.’
Andrew wasn’t listening to her. His ear was nearly touching the boy’s mouth.
‘They were scared of being raided, or maybe they had been raided.’ The boy whispered something more. Andrew glanced up at Fabienne. ‘Something horrible happened. He was left behind because he was too weak.’
‘Let’s take him with us. We need to go to Duruqsi.’
Andrew sat the boy gently on his knee, a
s though he was scared of breaking him in two.
‘I’ll feed him,’ he said. ‘You check out the camp. There may be other kids.’
Fabienne hesitated. She didn’t like being told what to do, particularly not by a subordinate. But maybe he was right.
She walked out of the hut towards the centre of the camp, past a row of yellow and white jerry cans next to a public water tap. She stopped in front of a large tarpaulin tent with the red and black UA logo above its entrance. She lifted the flap. There were rows of rusty metal-framed beds with dirty mattresses half covered in ripped red sheets. Blue mosquito nets dangled from the ceiling over each bed. In a corner was a pile of medical-looking equipment, with tubes and dials. A hospital tent.
She stepped in, looked around. Some of the mattresses were half hanging off the beds, as though someone had yanked their occupants from them. The dirt on the ground had large patches of black. Fabienne knelt down. It was sticky.
Blood.
There was a scuffling sound behind her. She spun round. The tent flap fluttered. Probably just the wind. Or maybe a survivor of whatever had happened here.
Had there been a sudden epidemic of disease? Is that why everyone had fled? Or an attack by militia? Why had Universal Action’s office in Hargeysa not been informed?
She headed for the exit. There were vehicle track marks in the dirt outside. She followed them further into the camp. They led to a big shipping container. She was about to peer inside when there was a crack behind her. She glanced round. A shadow moved between some huts.
Was someone following her?
She crept towards the huts and looked round them. There was nobody there. Just more abandoned pots and pans and ash from cooking fires. She shrugged. This search was pointless. The camp was empty.
She ran back to where Andrew was waiting for her, cradling the boy in his arms.
‘I don’t like this place,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘We should keep looking.’
‘I just did.’
‘Not everywhere.’
Fabienne tucked the lock of hair behind her ear again. ‘It’s a huge camp. Would take days to check it all out.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration. And isn’t every life saved worth it? You said that yourself at the briefing.’
‘Well, yes. But we have aid to deliver to thousands of people who are probably in Duruqsi by now. Anyway, I thought you were scared.’
‘If we got everyone else to help us, it wouldn’t take long.’
‘Sorry, Andrew.’ She checked her watch. ‘Sunset’s in 45 minutes. We need to get going.’ She started walking towards the truck.
‘Come on, Fab. Don’t be a bitch.’
‘Quoi?’ Fabienne spun round and marched towards him. ‘What did you say?’
‘Sorry, Fab. Didn’t mean that. I just—’
Fabienne’s walkie talkie crackled and a fuzzy voice came through, calling her name. She ignored it and just stood there, pulling her thoughts together. Speaking in English could be so difficult when she was angry.
Andrew was looking at her.
She launched in. ‘Listen, Andrew, and listen carefully. We have bags of grain, salt, corn and all kinds of other shit to distribute to thousands of IDPs on the edge of starvation. Can you see them here?’ She waved her right arm in a wide arc. ‘No, you can’t. Because they’ve all gone. Okay? Maybe a few are left, but that’s just too bad. We don’t have time. That’s aid work for you. We have to make choices. You should know this by now.’
Andrew gaped at her. She stomped off. Then she stopped, whirled round and jabbed her finger at him.
‘And don’t ever call me that word again.’
Andrew shouted after her, but she ignored him. Sometimes she felt she was too friendly with him. He needed to have respect.
She marched back towards the truck, or at least in the direction she thought it was. After a few minutes she looked around.
Where was it?
She was sure they’d parked it over here. These camps were mazes: every block of huts looked alike. Andrew would be able to find the truck, but admitting she was lost would be too humiliating, even though she knew he wouldn’t gloat. He was too nice for that.
Fabienne kept walking. She’d find the truck eventually. Maybe it was there, behind that large pile of wood.
Her heart lurched.
It wasn’t wood.
It was a pile—or more accurately a wall—of severed heads. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Meticulously placed on top of each other, like some obscene construction by a deranged artist. Flies swarmed and buzzed around them. Blood had formed large pools of black in the dust. Further away lay a mound of half-naked, headless corpses, covered in congealed blood. Their limbs were bent at unnatural angles and their ripped clothes hung like dirty rags on discarded dolls.
Fabienne lowered herself to the ground. She was dizzy, her mouth dry. Something in the pile moved. A head slipped off the top, tumbled with a dull thud and rolled towards her. She shrieked and scrambled backwards. It stopped a few metres away, staring at her with glazed eyes. A hairy animal ran from the pile, upsetting a dozen or so more heads, which rolled to the ground towards her.
A hand grabbed her shoulder.
She screamed.
‘Fab, it’s me.’
Andrew’s strong arm curled round her. She clutched it. He knelt next to her, the young boy, unconscious or dead, hanging under his other arm.
‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Who?’
They stumbled to their feet, still hugging each other. On the way back to the truck, Fabienne shook her head, trying to clear it. She’d never seen anything so nightmarish, so shocking, so horrifying, even in the darkest days of her time in Darfur with Médecins Sans Frontières.
She tightened her arm round Andrew. His body felt firm and comforting. She was about to put her head to his chest when she stopped herself. What was she thinking? She was the head of the relief convoy. She needed to show strength and determination. Embarrassed, she extricated herself from Andrew’s arm and marched ahead, towards the truck, which she could now clearly see.
She yanked open the door and clambered into the driver’s seat. She took a deep breath and spoke into her walkie talkie with what she hoped was a confident voice.
‘Okay everyone, there’s a major situation here. Sit tight. We’re coming.’
A crackle of static.
‘I said major situation,’ Fabienne said. ‘Roger that?’
Andrew was running up to her, carrying the boy.
‘Fab,’ he called out, breathless.
‘Nobody’s answering,’ she said. ‘What the hell are they up to?’
He stopped next to the open door of the driver’s seat.
‘Fab,’ he said, looking up at her and panting for breath like a dog. ‘We have another problem.’
‘Of course we have a fucking problem.’
He placed the boy gently on the floor and reached out to Fabienne.
‘Come down here.’
‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ She put the walkie talkie to her ear again.
‘For God’s sake, woman, listen to me.’
‘How dare you—’
‘Just shut up and come here.’
Andrew yanked her out of the truck, catching her before she hit the ground. Before she could react, he twisted her round. He pointed his finger towards the entrance to the camp.
‘Look, Fab, over there. What do you see?’
‘Nothing,’ she mumbled, gazing at the empty desert.
‘Exactly.’
Then it hit her, like a punch in the stomach.
Their convoy had gone.
Chapter 4
Hargeysa, Somaliland
16 September 2003
After leaving the hospital, Nasir drove Jim back to the UA compound. Its thick cement walls, covered in Arabic graffiti and peppered with bullet holes, rose six metres high like the outside of a foreboding fortress. Nasir drove through the bl
ue solid-steel gate with the qat-chewing guards and into the large courtyard, where a row of five gleaming white Land Rovers was parked against the far wall. Jim said goodbye to Nasir, who just lifted a hand. He was back to his usual grim self.
Jim walked through the dusty car park to the single-story office building. He pulled himself onto the roof and scanned the perimeter wall with his torch, checking the barbed wire was intact and that no trees were hanging over it. Satisfied that the compound was as secure as it could be, he jumped down and went to the common room. He grabbed a Heineken from the fridge and poured it into a glass. He slumped into an armchair riddled with moths, sipped his beer and stared at the cockroach climbing the peeling yellow paint on the wall.
All those years, and still the memories were there, barely contained, ready to pop up at the wrong moment. The faces of dead buddies. The corpses, the screams, the pain.
Do something. Keep your mind active.
He pulled out his laptop from his rucksack, booted it up and typed in his password. Better to start writing up now. Sarah, his boss at Interpol, had told him it would be difficult to uncover what was happening. He glanced through the briefing she’d given him before leaving. There wasn’t much intel in it. Just background on Somalia’s history: the brutal colonisation, the joy of independence, General Siad Barre’s devastating coup, his bloody overthrow, the famine of 1992 that prompted the doomed US intervention, then Somaliland breaking away into an independent democracy unrecognised by any other country.
Nothing in there that could reveal his true mission to investigate Universal Action. Interpol had been careful about that, building his cover story as a former USAID expert on IDPs. Getting him the job at UA had been harder, but a few well-placed bribes could go a long way. Usually, Interpol would have passed this to its Regional Bureau for East Africa, in Nairobi, or Somalia’s National Central Bureau, which was Interpol’s liaison point in-country. But Sarah didn’t want to hand such a sensitive mission to a corrupt local police force.
So she’d set up a covert special unit and recruited Jim. He was new, but rapidly emerging as their best criminal intelligence analyst.
The Somali Doctrine Page 2