‘I just said,’ Harry snapped. ‘A huge, fantastic, brilliant success.’
They arrived in front of Harry’s office, a wooden door with a small sign with Harry’s name. Harry entered and slammed the door in George’s face.
Harry sat in his chair. He opened a pack of Marlboro, lit one, and leaned back. He took three long drags, stubbed it out, lit another. He gazed out of the window at the traffic jams below. He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept the previous night. Too much to do in Hargeysa and then he’d flown out to Nairobi at 5am on a UA Hercules cargo plane. But it had been necessary. He couldn’t leave that cretin George in charge of such key issues.
He got up and paced up and down. Something deeply worrying had happened at the press conference. Jerome’s first few questions had seemed normal enough. But then it had got nasty. Jerome was trying to push Harry to see how far he’d go. He was trying to prove something. And he knew things that nobody was meant to know, yet. Which meant he had a source.
But who?
Harry stopped, blew a smoke ring. It dispersed into the air.
He needed to find out more.
It was time to call Patrick.
Chapter 6
Nairobi, Kenya
17 September 2003
Jerome left the press conference feeling rather smug. He’d scored a point against Universal Action, or at least against that arrogant bastard Harry. A man like that would be better off in a mercenary outfit than an international NGO. Unfortunately, not everyone seemed to agree. He’d spoken to many people within the aid industry who admired Harry, who even professed to like him.
Jerome crossed the street to the Stanley Hotel, one of Nairobi’s most expensive places, where top politicians and businessmen mingled freely. He narrowly missed being run over by a speeding bust-up taxi, which honked its horn like a trumpet. People drove like crazy here to avoid carjackings, which were endemic in Nairobi. He took the lift to the pool bar and ordered himself a double Jack Daniels.
‘Hey, Jerome, can I join you?’
It was that blonde beauty from Universal Action. She had a tight white t-shirt and jeans. Jerome found it difficult not to stare at her perfectly formed breasts. What was her name again?
‘Sure.’ He gestured to an empty chair.
She sat down and extended her delicate hand.
‘I’m Maxine. We’ve met before, at the reception at the US embassy last year.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ Jerome said, although he struggled to remember much of that drunken evening.
‘I hear the press conference was interesting.’
‘Were you there? I didn’t spot you.’
‘I had other meetings. I heard you asked very pertinent questions.’
‘Well, maybe.’ He downed his whiskey. He found speaking to beautiful women rather daunting.
She flashed him a dazzling smile. ‘Another drink?’
‘Well, okay.’
‘You’re right to question our sources. That’s your job as a journalist.’
He nodded solemnly. The drinks arrived. He gulped his down.
‘Have you been to Somaliland?’ she said.
‘Not yet.’
‘You’ll love it. It’s a wonderful place. We’re delighted you’ll be visiting.’
‘I’m glad I’m going.’ The alcohol was starting to make him more relaxed. ‘Is that where you work?’
‘Sure do. And I’ll be your host.’ Maxine smiled at him again. ‘Tell me, what makes you question our sources?’
Jerome felt embarrassed. It was one thing criticising Harry during a heated press conference; it was quite another to contradict this stunning woman over a quiet drink.
‘Well, I wasn’t really questioning your sources. I was more, kind of, asking about the accuracy of the information about the famine. I suppose I was asking whether they had other sources to corroborate it. I mean, we all know that the NGO sector is guilty of exaggerating disasters to raise money. You should read the papers written by Anne Gaillac.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A friend of mine. Professor at the Institut de Sciences Politiques in Paris. An expert on the politics of aid.’
‘Is she your source?’
‘Vaguely,’ Jerome said, wanting to change topic. He was feeling rather tipsy. He’d said too much already.
‘I’ve been there,’ Maxine said gravely. ‘I’ve seen the starving children. This may turn out worse than even we can imagine if we don’t do something. Another drink?’
‘Oh, sure.’
‘Just need to go to the ladies first.’
Minutes later, she was back, along with the drinks, beaming at him again, revealing wonderfully white teeth.
‘Who else have you spoken to?’ she said.
Forty-five minutes and three double whiskeys later, Jerome stumbled after Maxine out of the Stanley Hotel into a taxi. She’d suggested they go back to her hotel, which seemed like a good idea.
Maxine was saying something to the cab driver. Jerome was surprised to see the man was white.
‘Hello,’ Jerome mumbled.
The driver looked at him with cold blue eyes. There was a scar down the left side of his face.
‘Nasty cut. Hurt yourself shaving?’ Jerome said, slurring his speech.
The man didn’t even smile.
Jerome’s eyelids felt heavy. How had he got so wasted? He rested his head against the window. Just a small nap. Sleep away the booze.
Seconds later, he was snoring loudly, a line of spit dribbling from the side of his mouth down his chin, onto his shirt.
Chapter 7
Nairobi, Kenya
17 September 2003
Jerome woke up to a splitting headache and a gut-wrenching smell. He was lying on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky. He lifted himself onto his elbows. He was on a garbage tip, probably in Kibera, the slum on the outskirts of Nairobi. Children in rags played on mountains of rubbish, amid burning tyres and clouds of acrid smoke.
‘Looks like our little journo’s awake.’
Jerome rubbed his eyes and looked round. Harry was standing behind him, arms folded, his usual smirk on his face. Maxine was to his left, talking to a tall Western-looking man dressed in combat fatigues and holding some kind of long metal spike. The long scar on his cheek was familiar.
Harry knelt down, pushing his ugly face close to Jerome’s.
‘So, Sablon, you been nosing around?’
Jerome didn’t answer. His head hurt too much.
Harry prodded his finger into the centre of Jerome’s chest. ‘Maxine says you’ve been speaking to a French professor who seems to knows more than she should.’
Jerome groaned inwardly. Why had he got so drunk? What else had he told that bitch?
Harry seemed to read his thoughts. ‘That’s the problem with beautiful women. You just can’t trust them.’ He stood up and kicked Jerome in the ribs. ‘What else d’you know?’
Jerome groaned and clutched his sides.
‘Eh?’ Harry kicked him again.
‘Like what?’ gasped Jerome.
‘Like what your professor friend’s been saying?’
Jerome tried to get up, but Scarface kicked him to the ground.
‘Go for it, Patrick.’ Harry put his hand on Scarface’s shoulder. ‘Let’s see how much he can take.’
Patrick lifted the metal spike and slammed it flat on Jerome’s legs. Jerome howled, his eyes blurry with tears.
Harry whispered into Jerome’s ear. ‘I didn’t like your little number at the press conference. Wasn’t funny. D’you know what I’m saying? So, what else d’you know?’
Jerome spoke rapidly through teeth gritted in pain. ‘I know about your contacts with the Security Council. I know you’re lobbying them, but I don’t know why. Please, that’s it.’
‘Really?’ Harry signalled to Patrick, who whacked Jerome in the chest.
Jerome moaned, rolling onto his side.
‘The massacres…’
&n
bsp; ‘What about them?’ Harry asked.
‘I heard your team found them. Their convoy vanished.’
‘Who told you?’ Harry towered over Jerome, who was curled in a ball and peering at Harry through his hands. ‘I asked you a question, Sablon.’
‘Nobody.’
‘Don’t mess with me—’
‘Interpol,’ Jerome blurted out.
‘Who at Interpol?’
Jerome swallowed. All his journalistic training was screaming at him not to reveal his sources. Patrick lifted the metal spike.
‘Anne has contacts,’ Jerome said.
‘Anne?’
‘Anne Gaillac. The French professor. That’s all I know. I promise. Please don’t hurt me.’
A crowd of men was gathering round. Jerome shuddered. Kibera was renowned for being one of the most dangerous places in Kenya.
‘You’re wasting my time.’ Harry turned to Patrick. ‘He’s all yours.’
Jerome tried to get to his feet, but Patrick pinned him to the floor by placing his boot on his chest. Patrick patted the metal spike in his hand like a baseball bat.
‘What you doing?’ Jerome said. ‘Harry, tell this thug to back off.’
‘Too late for that, my friend.’
‘I didn’t mean to insult you. Please, let me go.’
Maxine put her hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘I thought you were just going to question him.’
Harry shrugged her off.
‘Isn’t this going too far?’ Maxine said. ‘We’re not in a CIA detention centre.’
Patrick stamped hard on Jerome’s chest, who cried out. Some of the onlookers cheered.
‘Stop this! I mean it.’ Maxine grabbed hold of Harry’s arm. Harry shoved her. She fell onto her backside.
Jerome grabbed Patrick’s foot and tried to pull him over. The man was too strong. Maxine sprang to her feet and jumped onto Patrick’s back, but Harry peeled her off and pushed her to the ground again.
‘Don’t you start getting all righteous with me, Maxine,’ Harry snarled. ‘You spiked his drink. You brought him here. You knew what was gonna happen. Get into the car before I get really angry.’
Maxine flinched as Harry took a step towards her. She scrambled to her feet and staggered towards the car, tears streaming down her face.
Harry nodded to Patrick, who took the metal spike and placed the pointed end on Jerome’s stomach. Jerome screamed as Patrick pushed down, impaling him to the ground.
‘You son of a bitch,’ Harry said with a sneer, looking down at Jerome, who was tugging at the spike, his hands covered in blood.
Harry threw his head back and laughed. ‘That’ll teach you to mess with me.’ He gestured to Patrick. ‘Come on, let’s go. Let the local boys finish him off.’
He kicked Jerome in the side of the head.
There was a sharp crack.
Jerome’s writhing body went limp.
Chapter 8
Hargeysa, Somaliland
18 September 2003
Jim woke up with a start. He’d had a nightmare: he was entering his bedroom and finding the severed head in his bed. It looked strangely familiar, so he bent closer to study it. It was his own head. It stared back at him with empty eyes, maggots flowing out of its open mouth. The face changed to Harry’s and laughed: a small chuckle that turned into a roaring belly laugh. The eyelids fluttered and the eyes came to life and glared at him like laser beams going to the centre of his soul.
Jim sat up. Something fell onto his pillow, making a small pop as it landed. It was a cockroach. It had fallen onto its back and its legs were kicking in the air. He swept it onto the floor and watched it scurry into a crack at the foot of the wall.
He’d hardly slept after finding the decapitated head. Maxine had insisted she didn’t know who it was, then stumbled off in a daze, mumbling something about telling Harry. The guards had taken it away in a bin bag. He’d been given cleaner sheets, but nobody had seemed to care. It was as if finding decapitated heads in people’s beds at midnight was a regular occurrence—nothing to be shocked about.
He’d spent the previous day walking around the compound, checking for clues, talking casually with everyone. Never once had he mentioned the dead man, and it never came up in conversation. Either nobody knew about it, or they were keeping it to themselves. He’d speak to Maxine again when she got back from Nairobi, maybe even speak to Harry.
Jim’s head felt like a drill was being pushed into it. He slipped out of bed and studied himself in the mirror. His lean body rippled with muscles, but he had bags under his eyes. He stretched his legs. Exercise helped with the headaches. He stretched his arms, his back, his neck. He did some shadow boxing in front of the mirror. Fists, then elbows, knees, legs, then all together. There wasn’t much space, but it was enough. First the left leg forward. Then the right leg forward. Now the combinations. Left jab, right cross, left elbow, both knees, side kick. Slightly out of breath after 20 minutes, he moved to the next part of his regular morning fitness schedule: push-ups and ab crunches. One hundred of each. He already felt better: his head was clearer and his body more awake.
His mind went back to the dead man. Why the warning note? Was his cover already blown? Should he abort the mission immediately?
He was about to begin his warm-down when there was a sharp knock on the door. He stopped, embarrassed. He was drenched in sweat and breathing hard. There was another knock—three, this time.
Damn. He had to answer.
He moved the desk from where it had been barricading the door, which he opened a crack.
It was Maxine, tapping her foot. She slipped into the room and eyed him up and down with a raised eyebrow. She was fidgeting with a strand of her long hair, twiddling it round her fingers.
‘Jim, we need to talk.’
‘Back from Nairobi already?’ he said.
She looked tired and haggard, with pale skin and bloodshot eyes. He gestured to the rusty chair near the desk. She slumped into it and clasped her hands together. He sat on the edge of the bed, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his thighs.
‘We need to talk,’ she repeated.
He looked at her expectantly.
‘You have to promise not to say anything about what happened the other night,’ she said.
‘Why? We need to find the culprit, don’t we?’
‘Harry’s investigating. He wants it kept quiet until he’s found who did it.’
Jim stared at Maxine, bemused. Her beautifully-curved eyebrows creased into a frown. Her anxiety was palpable.
‘This is real serious, Jim.’
‘Tell me about it.’ He smiled. ‘Who do you think did it?’
‘Maybe militia. It’s their style.’
‘Militia?’
‘Somali warlords trying to destabilise Somaliland. They want to reunite it with Somalia. They fight like a bunch of feudal barons from the Middle Ages. They kidnap and behead Westerners. They may have infiltrated our staff.’
‘Why me?’ Jim asked.
‘To freak you out. You’re new.’
‘I’m just a lowly programme funding manager.’
‘Maybe they’re worried about what the dead guy told you.’
They looked at each other for a while.
‘What did he tell you, Jim?’
‘I’ve already said. Something about needing help and not trusting anyone.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it. Then he passed out.’ Jim leant forward. ‘What do you know, Maxine? Someone out there is threatening to kill me. You and Harry must have your suspicions.’
‘I’ll let you know as soon as I find out more.’ She shifted uneasily in her seat, looked at him with imploring eyes. ‘So you promise to keep quiet?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do it for me.’
He hesitated, conscious again that he was still in his underwear. Maxine was attractive, but she made him uncomfortable. She was too close to Harry.
‘Okay,’
he said.
‘You’re a star.’ She jumped up and pecked him on the cheek. ‘See you later.’
She gave a quick wave and left the room, leaving Jim sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the faded green paint on the wall.
The dead man had to be the missing CIA agent. And someone was worried the man had revealed something to Jim—hence the warning note. Which meant someone was watching him.
He had a cold shower, put on a clean but creased shirt and jeans and tucked his money belt underneath. His headache had subsided somewhat. He walked through the courtyard to the office and plugged his laptop into the satellite link’s internet port. He sat back in the creaky office chair while his emails downloaded.
He looked around the dimly-lit office. There was a map on the desk next to him. He slid it closer. It was a political map of the Horn of Africa, with the distinctive number 7 shape that delineated the official border of Somalia. There were circles in certain areas of Somaliland with initials saying ‘M.A.C.’. He leant back again, perplexed.
His gaze strayed to the half-ripped posters hanging on the walls. A picture of a tall white doctor cradling an emaciated African baby, with the caption ‘Together we can end poverty’. A map of the world with red dots indicating all the Universal Action country programmes, making it look like the NGO controlled most of the planet. A grainy black-and-white photo of a line of bored-looking refugees waiting outside a UA food distribution centre, with the caption ‘Help the hungry, donate to Universal Action’ in large white letters.
‘And how’s our new boy enjoying his stay?’
It was Harry’s deep voice. Jim spun round in his chair. Harry was standing there, right behind him, hands on his hips, dressed in full military outfit with a green cap and a Beretta at his belt. Jim hadn’t heard him enter. The man moved like a ghost. Harry thrust out a hand. Jim shook it cautiously.
‘Getting used to the climate?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Jim said.
‘Been admiring our propaganda?’ Harry pointed at the wall posters. ‘I expect you think it perpetuates stereotypes.’ He put on a whining voice. ‘The poor, hungry, helpless Africans who need our help.’
Jim shrugged.
Harry laughed. Jim’s nightmare flashed back.
The Somali Doctrine Page 4