Yet there was no hard evidence against Universal Action, just gut feeling and scattered intelligence that the NGO was linked to militia. Then there was Edward Ostely. He’d shot to the top position at Universal Action since he’d joined three years ago. Too fast, according to Sarah. Edward promoted UA as the purveyor of a new ‘business-minded’ and ‘professional’ approach to aid, based on ‘high impact’ and ‘rapid results’. Sarah suspected the reality on the ground was vastly different to the story told by UA’s multi-million dollar spin machine.
And what about Harry? He’d joined UA in the past year and was being trumpeted as one of its rising stars. Sarah believed Harry was even more implicated than Edward in whatever was going on in Somaliland.
Who was he? Where had he come from? What was he up to?
Jim’s phone rang, shrill, insistent. It was Sarah.
‘Can you talk?’ she said.
‘Why are you calling?’ he said in a low voice. ‘We agreed to limit phone calls.’
‘I know. It’s important. Can you talk?’
He glanced out of the half-broken window. ‘Nobody here.’
‘The CIA lost touch with their agent.’
‘Which agent?’
‘They had one in Hargeysa.’
‘Why didn’t we know?’
‘We never asked.’
‘Bit of an oversight,’ Jim said. ‘Pretty obvious they’d have agents here after 9/11 and all that. What happened?’
‘They’d put him undercover. Got him a job with UA. No contact for the past week. They’re worried.’
‘How did they know we were here?’ Jim said.
‘No idea. They want us to ask the Somali National Bureau about any kidnappings or murders.’
‘As if they’d have a clue.’
‘That’s why I thought I’d speak to you.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Investigating UA’s aid camps. Told Langley he’d found something. Then nothing.’
Jim felt something click in the back of his brain.
‘They’re infuriatingly vague,’ Sarah said. ‘How they expect us to work on this if they won’t tell us anything is beyond me.’
‘What does he look like?’ Jim said.
‘They wouldn’t say. Just keep an eye out.’
‘No need.’
‘Why not?’
‘I may have found him.’
A door creaked open behind him. He looked round. It was Maxine, as gorgeous as ever with her long blonde hair and shiny blue eyes. She was wearing a figure-hugging white t-shirt, imprinted with the UA logo, and super tight jeans. She stepped through the doorway, winked at him and pulled up a chair.
Sarah was speaking again, but Jim interrupted her.
‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Gotta go.’
Maxine flashed a smile. ‘Difficult day?
‘Kind of weird.’ Jim put his laptop in his rucksack.
‘Oh?’
‘Found some half-dead guy in the desert. Had a UA t-shirt bit like yours. Harry says he’s never seen him before. Anyone gone missing lately?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Any idea who he might be?’
‘Not without seeing him.’
‘Hmm.’ Jim took a swig from his beer. ‘The guy was saying really odd things.’
‘Like?’
‘About helping people, not trusting anyone.’
Jim studied Maxine’s reaction: her eyes, the movement of her hands.
‘Maybe he was delirious. It’s hot out there. Happens all the time.’ She inched her chair closer. ‘How was the rest of your trip?’
‘None of the NGO reps turned up to the meeting in Berbera. I’m thinking I should check out the rural IDP camps next. Could include them in the funding proposal to USAID.’
‘Do you really think they’ll fund us?’
‘Maybe.’ Jim held out his hand and tilted it from left to right. ‘Depends whether they think the situation is serious enough. Not sure Universal Action needs the cash, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s the largest NGO in the world, worth 10 billion dollars. Bigger than most government agencies. That’s why.’
He swung open the fridge and picked another beer.
‘Can I have one?’ Maxine said.
‘Sure.’ He tossed it to Maxine and grabbed another. The beer fizzed out of the can as he poured it into his glass.
‘I wonder who that guy was?’ he said.
Maxine looked around, then leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. ‘Jim, forget about it.’
‘Why? Is there something I should know?’
‘Two Brits were killed a couple of weeks ago. They were mates of mine. This place is dangerous, even by African standards. I wouldn’t want this to happen to another friend.’
‘Nice to know you consider me a friend.’
‘Well…’ Her face reddened.
‘I’ve been to dangerous places before.’
‘Really?’ Her eyes brightened up and she shifted her chair closer to him. He could smell her fresh perfume. ‘Tell me about them.’
Jim wanted to dig deeper about the injured man, but decided to drop it for now.
‘I wasn’t always a development worker, you know,’ he said. ‘Did a stint in the US army after college. Went with the 1st Infantry Division to Iraq in the First Gulf War.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Let’s just say I didn’t like being told what to do.’
She smiled. ‘So you were the one with the attitude problem.’
‘Not me. Them. An officer was bullying one of my buddies. I intervened. It got nasty. The officer ended up in hospital. So I quit, travelled the world, became a Thai boxer. Won a few big titles. Then my club went bust. So I got into journalism and a friend convinced me to accompany her to Afghanistan after September 11. She was a war journo. I worked freelance for the New York Times, the Washington Post. Even the Financial Times.’
‘You stopped that too?’
Jim went quiet. He’d said too much already. His late wife Carrie’s delicate face hung in his mind’s eye, before fading away like a ghostly vision.
‘An accident,’ he said, looking away. ‘I had to leave.’
Maxine was studying him intensely.
‘I figured I had to find a more stable job, one that paid regularly,’ Jim said. ‘So I applied to USAID.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Assessing funding applications.’
Jim decided it was time to switch topics. He’d only spent a week in Washington with the USAID Bureau for Africa as part of the preparation for his cover.
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Got bored of the admin, so applied to UA.’
‘The call of field work.’
‘And you? Why are you here?’
The lights went out. It was pitch black. The sudden silence seemed overwhelming after the constant hum of the generator.
‘Curfew,’ Maxine said. ‘Time for bed. Coming?’
There was a suggestive sound to her voice.
He switched on his torch and stood up. ‘Good night then.’
She placed her hand on his arm. The torch was lighting her face from below, giving her an eerie look. For a second, he thought she was going to kiss him.
‘Remember what I said,’ she said softly. He could see his reflection in her eyes. ‘Forget about that guy.’
Jim nodded. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
He walked down the corridor towards his bedroom. Footsteps echoed. Someone bumped into him. He stumbled backwards, steadied himself, sprinted after the person. He burst into the courtyard.
Just a large bat flying in circles.
Maxine poked her head out of another doorway.
‘Everything okay?’ she said.
‘Did you see someone?’
‘Heard the gate clang. Why?’
‘Someone just bashed into me.’
Jim walked around t
he courtyard, peering under the vehicles and behind a shipping container that was plonked in a corner.
He came back towards Maxine. ‘Looks like they came from—’
Jim raced back the way he’d come and burst into his bedroom, shining his torch. Everything was in its place. The half-made bed with the ripped mosquito net. The wooden bedside table with his half-litre bottle of filtered water and Rough Guide to Africa. He yanked open the desk’s drawers: his work files were there. His large grey bag still contained all his clean and not-so-clean clothes.
Maxine came up behind him. ‘Could’ve been a drunken expat.’
Jim sat on the bed. It creaked, like it was about to collapse. He lay down. There was a large lump under the covers. It felt too hard to be the pillow. Intrigued, Jim stood up and pulled back the sheets.
For a second, he thought he was having a hallucination. Despite years in the world’s warzones, he’d never seen anything so horrific.
There, in the centre of the bed, was the decapitated head of the injured man. Jim didn’t move. The man’s eyes had a glazed look that seemed to reflect all the shock and horror of his final moments. There were deep cuts on the side of his head where machete blows had fallen.
Maxine was leaning against the doorframe. Her lips were trembling.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, as she slid to the floor with her back to the wall, arms wrapped round her knees.
Jim’s head was reeling. A piece of paper was attached to a string round the remains of the man’s neck. He untied the string and read the paper.
You’re next.
Jim sank into the chair behind him. He was still clutching his rucksack, so he placed it on the floor.
After a while, he spoke, slowly and calmly.
‘Do you recognise him now?’
Chapter 5
Nairobi, Kenya
17 September 2003
Harry put his closed fist to his mouth, cleared his throat into the microphone with a sharp cough and launched straight in.
‘Good morning everyone. Thanks for coming at such short notice to Universal Action’s emergency press conference. The famine situation in Somaliland is serious.’
He paused, gripped the sides of the wooden lectern with both hands, and studied the packed room of 50 or so journalists staring at him. He smiled to himself. Bloody journalists, as his boss Edward liked to say. Such gullible fools.
‘We’ve reports coming through of hundreds of thousands, even millions, facing starvation. The poorest households are turning to extreme coping strategies: skipping meals, splitting up families, migrating, and selling their assets. This could be as bad as the great famine of 1992 in Somalia, when 300,000 died.’
The journalists were lapping it up, scribbling away like schoolchildren. The CNN, BBC, Fox News and other network cameras at the front row were rolling. This was working well.
‘Key reasons are drought and conflict. We’ve had reports of militia excursions far into Somaliland, into the IDP camps. This makes delivery of aid risky.’
He paused for effect.
‘While the United Nations and others continue to do nothing, we’re launching an international appeal for half a billion dollars. I will now hand over to my esteemed colleague, George Stephens, Director of Universal Action for East Africa, who will provide further detail.’
Harry stepped away from the lectern. George took his place, his trembling hands hanging onto the lectern like a drowning man. Sweat dripped down his red face, despite the icy air conditioning pouring into the press room from the noisy vents above. Harry knew how much George hated public speaking. But hey, it was part of the job.
Harry sat on a chair reserved for him on the end of the front row. He laughed inwardly at how foolish George came across. He was small, pudgy, with sweat-marks under his armpits and always dressed in the same brownish shirt and trousers.
George rattled out his speech, hardly finding time to gulp for air between sentences. The journalists behind Harry sniggered. He twisted round and shot them a look that shut them up instantly.
George was talking about Somaliland’s steps towards democracy since it broke away from Somalia. He was going on and on into the detail of the ‘complex humanitarian situation’: average household income plummeting, malnutrition rates going through the roof, infant mortality surging, malaria, measles and tuberculosis killing thousands, etc, etc, etc. Who the hell had written George’s speech? Didn’t they realise that the audience was a bunch of simple-minded journalists, not high-brow academics?
The journos were getting restless again. Harry gave them another stern look. It didn’t work this time. Three of them stood up and shuffled through the rows towards the door.
This wasn’t looking good.
Harry glanced at George’s assistant, who was standing behind and to the left of George. What was the assistant’s name? Never mind. Just some buffoon like the rest of them. Still, George had to be stopped before the room emptied.
Harry walked towards George.
‘And so the situation in Somaliland is getting worse by the…’ George said, his voice trailing off as Harry whispered into his ear. He shuffled his papers, grinned stupidly, and stumbled back.
‘Is getting worse by the day,’ Harry completed. Some of the journalists who’d started to leave stopped near the door as they heard Harry take over. ‘Which is why we’ve invited you here. Any questions?’
There was the usual silence, then a hand shot up near the back. It was Jerome Sablon, that whining reporter with the heavy French accent and the ugly face from the Agence France Presse.
‘Yes, Mr Sablon.’
‘First of all, I thought I should thank you for a most fascinating press conference.’ Several journalists chuckled. ‘But is the crisis that bad?’
‘Of course it’s bad. We’ve been there. We’ve seen it. We know what we’re talking about.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ Jerome scanned the audience with an arrogant expression. ‘I mean, nobody else is making such a fuss. I spoke to the World Food Programme this morning. Even they say the situation’s okay.’
‘There’s been six years of drought in the Sool Plateau. If we wait and the rainy season fails again, it’ll be too late. The UN, the WFP, they know this. But they’re too useless to do anything about it.’
‘You’re not implying that there’s a grave humanitarian crisis, that the others are sweeping it under the carpet, and that only Universal Action is doing something about it?’
‘Mr Sablon, it’s no secret we think the UN is too slow. It’s mired in bureaucracy. We’re not. We act fast, professionally and decisively. So don’t you worry. We know what we’re doing.’ Harry looked around. ‘Any other questions?’
Jerome shot to his feet and jabbed his finger at him. ‘You didn’t answer: d’you really think the other agencies are deliberately sweeping this under the carpet?’
Harry pursed his lips. He felt like punching a hole through Sablon’s face. Everyone was eyeing them like boxers before a bout. Harry chose his words carefully.
‘I can only guess the intentions of other agencies, Mr Sablon. What is clear is that there is a serious crisis unfolding in Somaliland, and only UA is set up to respond effectively.’
‘How do we know what you’re saying is not an exaggeration, particularly when no other source is confirming your facts?’
‘This isn’t a time to dispute facts and sources, Mr Sablon. This is a time for action. This is a time for saving the hundreds of thousands of poor, innocent Somalis who face death from hunger, starvation and conflict. This is a time for people who care, not for people who want to turn this into an academic dispute over numbers and sources. Now, any other questions?’
Two other hands came up, but Jerome wouldn’t let go. ‘I agree we need to take action, but we need to be sure what you’re claiming is true.’
‘Sablon, please, let others speak.’
‘There’ve been too many over-inflated NGO appeals in the past, just to cat
ch the headlines. And Universal Action’s record isn’t perfect.’ Jerome looked around the audience. A number of heads bobbed up and down in agreement. ‘I think we should go to Somaliland to check this out. The public has a right to know.’
‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Harry said. Jerome looked at him in surprise. Harry continued: ‘We’d be delighted to have you visit. Let’s speak later.’ Harry scanned the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Sablon used up all the question time. For further queries, you know where to get us.’
Some of the journalists rose to their feet and made their way out. The others started chatting among themselves. Harry fumbled with the mike, looking for the off switch.
‘What about the beheadings?’ Jerome shouted above the murmur.
Silence descended like a heavy blanket. All eyes were on Jerome, who looked determined but nervous, a glint in his eyes.
Harry’s mouth dropped. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What about the beheadings of refugees?’ Jerome repeated, less loudly this time.
‘What beheadings?’
‘The rumours that warlords are beheading refugees in camps.’
Harry breathed out slowly. ‘We’ve heard those rumours too. We’re investigating. If true, they strengthen our case for added security.’
‘Is that the case you’re putting to the Security Council?’
Harry felt like he’d been slapped in the face. It took all his self-control not to hurl himself at Jerome and beat him to a pulp.
‘If you’ll please excuse me,’ he said between gritted teeth, ‘this press conference is over.’
Harry stormed out of the media room.
That journalist would pay.
‘I thought that went rather well,’ George said.
He was jogging along next to Harry, who was walking at a brisk pace down the dimly-lit corridor on the third floor of Universal Action’s office block, away from the press conference.
Harry glanced at George, who was dripping with sweat. He didn’t answer. George really was stupid. But he had his uses, so better not to upset him.
‘Don’t you think it went well, Harry?’
‘A huge success.’
George raised his eyebrows. Maybe his dim brain understood sarcasm after all.
‘Oh, so you don’t think it went well.’
The Somali Doctrine Page 3