The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  ‘That’s because they do need our help,’ Harry said, never breaking eye contact as he spoke. ‘Without our support, Africa would descend into an even bigger mess.’

  Harry looked over Jim’s shoulder. Jim glanced round. Harry was blatantly trying to read the subject lines on Jim’s emails. Jim slammed the laptop shut, unplugged it and stood up.

  ‘I need to speak to you, Harry.’

  ‘I hope that little incident in your room didn’t upset you. Africa’s a dangerous place, you know.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Nasty things happen to those who don’t follow the rules.’

  Jim stepped closer until his face was nearly touching Harry’s. He could see the pockmarks on the man’s skin: the sign of a heavy drinker.

  ‘What are you saying, exactly?’ Jim said.

  ‘I’m saying exactly what I just said. Do as you’re told, everything’ll be fine.’

  Harry tapped Jim’s shoulder in a mock gesture of friendship. Jim’s muscles tensed. Harry seemed to sense this, and smiled. Then he turned round and left the room, leaving Jim with the distinct impression again that he’d met the man before. But where? Harry was so striking, so unnerving, that he seemed like the kind of person you’d never forget.

  Jim went back to his emails. He scanned through the usual spam and junk mail trying to sell him anything from Viagra to false Rolexes and opened an email from Sarah.

  Hi Jim. Any news?

  He typed back: Found him. Male, mid-40s, US expat. Tortured, beheaded. I won’t go into details here…

  He hit send and waited a few seconds for the email to leave the outbox. Sarah was based in Washington. It was nighttime there, but she always had her Blackberry on. Chances were she’d still be awake. She was so efficient and focused on her work, he wondered if she ever slept.

  He read through his other emails. Nothing much there. He waited a few minutes and clicked on ‘connect’. Sarah’s reply came through.

  Oh my God. Will speak to the others and get back to you. Be careful.

  Jim smiled and typed back.

  Don’t worry about me. I’ll be ok.

  Chapter 9

  Hargeysa, Somaliland

  18 September 2003

  Jim spent the rest of the morning digging for information on the internet on the risk of famine. The BBC website had a story about Universal Action’s press conference, with a quote from Harry about facing starvation and conflict. He printed it out.

  No-one else here seemed to think that a full-blown famine was on its way. After asking Nasir to take a convoluted route into Hargeysa in order to shake off any tail, Jim had lunch with two guys from Oxfam in a camel-meat restaurant. Restaurant was a big word for the dark, crumbling stone hut that served freshly slaughtered camel meat straight onto wooden tables for them to slice with long knives. As they tucked in, the Oxfam staff told them that food security was a serious issue in the rural areas, particularly after the past years of drought, but that Somaliland wasn’t Somalia: things were better here.

  ‘It’s a bit premature for UA to launch an appeal,’ one of the Oxfam guys said. ‘Unless Harry knows something we don’t.’

  After lunch, Jim and Nasir headed back for the compound. They drove past the rows of moneychangers with their stacks of bank notes, the crumbling yellow and blue buildings with their Arabic and Somali signs, the minarets, and the downed Soviet MIG fighter plane that acted as Somaliland’s war monument. Jim went straight to the common room and poured himself a strong black coffee. Maxine was sitting at a table to the side, deep in conversation with two Westerners he’d never met before. One was a youngish man with a bald head. The other was a grey-haired woman dressed in a colourful flowing skirt, like she’d dropped off the hippy trail in the sixties and never made her way back to the 21st century. It was clear they didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Jim walked over and pulled out a spare chair from under the table. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Maxine hesitated an instant, then flashed him one of her gorgeous smiles. ‘Fabienne and Andrew were debriefing on their trip to Togdheer,’ she said, then turned back to face the others. ‘Harry’s not going to be happy about this.’

  Fabienne had dark shadows under her eyes and the lines in her face were filled with dust. ‘I’ve told you already, Maxine,’ she said in a heavy French accent. ‘Someone hijacked the convoy. Maybe militia. We tried to follow its tracks, but couldn’t keep up. We ran low on fuel. I dunno what happened.’

  ‘But you can’t just hijack a whole convoy of trucks just like that.’ Maxine spread her hands in disbelief. ‘What about the rest of the team?’

  ‘What do you think happened to it then? Do you think I’m hiding the whole convoy in my fucking pocket?’

  Andrew flinched. ‘Fab, please.’

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘How can you say that? After what we just saw.’

  Maxine glanced at Jim. She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What about the returnees?’ she said to Fabienne. ‘They must have known something?’

  ‘Too traumatised,’ Fabienne said. ‘When we got to Duruqsi, they snatched the boy and hid in their huts.’

  Fabienne slumped back into her chair as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Andrew put his hand on her arm in a gesture of support, but she shrugged it off.

  Jim glanced from one to the other. Now seemed a good a time as any to butt in. ‘Can I ask a few questions? I’m new here.’

  Fabienne and Andrew looked at Maxine questioningly.

  ‘Jim’s our new funding manager,’ she said. ‘Preparing a proposal for USAID.’

  Jim pulled a set of folded print-outs from his rucksack and straightened them out on the table. ‘Harry’s been quoted here saying there are “hundreds of thousands, even millions, facing starvation”. Is it really that bad?’

  ‘It is bad,’ Andrew said. ‘It hasn’t hit Hargeysa yet, but all the signs are there, especially in Togdheer and Sool.’ He pulled out a document from his bag. ‘Here’s the report I got from Harry. It says it all.’ He started to read. ‘Water sources are drying out. More than 40 per cent of shoats and 20 per cent of camels are dead. Maize and sorghum production is negligible. Acute malnutrition is leading to an increase in diarrhoeal diseases, measles, and whooping cough, among other illnesses.’

  ‘Okay, I get the message.’ Jim put his hand up to stop him. ‘Is that what you saw yourselves?’

  Andrew looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you see all the things that Harry mentions in his report?’

  ‘We saw starving people. That’s one thing for sure.’

  ‘Why are the other NGOs not worried?’ Jim said.

  ‘We control the main camps. None of the other NGOs have early warning systems like ours.’

  ‘Is security getting worse?’

  ‘Definitely more excursions by militia from Somalia.’ Andrew paused. ‘Weird, though. It’s just flared up. Nobody knows why.’

  ‘What’s flared up?’

  ‘The famine, the militia attacks. Generally, it builds up, but here it’s erupted out of nowhere.’

  Jim turned to Fabienne, who was staring blankly at the wall.

  ‘What did you see back there?’ he said.

  Fabienne turned her gaze back to Jim. She had the same empty look Jim had seen dozens of times on people who had been though a traumatic situation. Had she heard him? He was about to repeat his question when she spoke, gently and quietly, as though to herself. ‘We saw hell itself. And it’s worse than I ever imagined.’

  She went on to explain, in minute detail, what Andrew and her had come across in the relief camp, including the pile of severed heads. When she’d finished, nobody said a word, their faces grim.

  ‘I need to visit an IDP camp,’ Jim said to break the silence. ‘Not one in Hargeysa. One of the other ones.’

  Maxine was about to talk when Fabienne jumped in. ‘No problem. We’re
leaving today.’

  Maxine shook her head. ‘We’ve lost a convoy, you’ve found a mass grave, you’ve just come back, and you’re thinking of going out again? Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘I’ve got 35 years experience in the field,’ Fabienne said, folding her arms. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s to keep on going when things get tough. Those people are waiting for our food. We can’t let them down.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Maxine said. ‘Harry hasn’t said yes.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

  Jim could feel another argument brewing. He downed his coffee and stood up. ‘Let me know once you’ve agreed what to do. I need to visit a camp. If not, I can’t pull together the proposal for USAID. Just tell me when and where.’

  ‘We will be going,’ Fabienne said, glaring at Maxine. ‘Leaving the compound at 3pm.’

  Jim left the room, but stopped once he was round the corner, out of sight.

  ‘What the hell you doing?’ Maxine was saying to Fabienne. ‘Are you completely stupid?’

  ‘Why are you worried?’ Fabienne said. ‘We know Harry’s up to something.’

  A chair scraped the floor as someone stood up.

  Fabienne laughed. ‘Aller, va-t’en. Run along and tell Harry, like a good little puppy. Go and fuck him again while you’re at it.’

  ‘You’re gonna regret this,’ Maxine said, her voice quivering. ‘You have no idea what you just said.’

  Jim went back to the office. He made sure nobody was around and plugged in his laptop. There was an email from Sarah.

  Wrong man. Your description doesn’t fit theirs. Ring me tonight.

  Jim leant back in his chair. So who was the dead man if he wasn’t the CIA agent? Which begged the question: was the CIA agent still alive?

  There was another email from Sarah.

  Have you met Harry yet? Any progress?

  Jim pondered whether to reply. Better not to leave an email trail in case the mission went pear shaped and this went public.

  He typed back: Can’t ring today. Got to go visit IDP camp. Will speak when I get back.

  He hit send, packed his computer and left the office.

  As he entered his bedroom, he noticed on his desk the bust-up mobile phone he’d found on the dying man. Wasn’t his phone also an oldish Nokia? He fumbled around in his rucksack. Yes, it was. Maybe the battery from his phone would work in the bust-up one. It did: the screen came to life.

  He scrolled through the text messages in the inbox. Most were chit-chat with friends and colleagues, but several stood out:

  Watch out on way back.

  Shipment in Berbera all ok.

  Tell H need $$$.

  There was a knock on the door. Jim dumped the phone in his rucksack, which he placed on the desk.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Maxine, holding two small bottles of water.

  ‘Sorry for the argument back there,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a stressful time for everyone.’

  ‘Here, have this. It’s hot outside.’

  She passed him a bottle. He plonked it on the desk.

  Maxine pursed her lips. ‘Look, you sure you want to visit a camp? It’s a long journey.’

  ‘It would help me assess the situation for the USAID proposal.’

  Maxine closed the door and leant against it. ‘It would be at your own risk of course.’ She moved closer and looked up at him, tilting her head sideways.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘As I said, I’ve been in worse situations.’

  ‘Okay then.’ She took a step back, sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her long legs. She looked at her fingernails. It was as if she wanted to tell him something. Then she uncrossed her legs, stood up and left the room without saying a word.

  Jim took a swig from the bottle of water. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what that was all about. He had to find out who the dead man was. Confronting Harry wouldn’t work. Maybe Fabienne or Andrew would know. Or he could always catch Maxine with her guard down. She seemed to be attracted to him—unless she was pretending. As to where or who was the disappeared CIA agent, that was a different matter. It’s not as if the agent would go around with a CIA badge. Sarah needed to get him a basic description.

  Jim suddenly felt fuzzy headed and tired. He drifted off to sleep, his mind full of thoughts of dead men, missing convoys, undercover agents and starving IDPs in devastated camps.

  Chapter 10

  Hargeysa, Somaliland

  18 September 2003

  Jim felt movement next to him. He opened his eyes to find Maxine with her back to him, rummaging through his rucksack. She must have found the dead man’s phone, because there was a beep and she stopped moving for a moment. Then he heard her zip up the bag. He pretended to sleep until the door banged shut behind her.

  He sat up, puzzled. He had a pounding headache. His mouth felt parched and his vision was slightly blurred. It wasn’t like him to fall asleep in the middle of the day. He must have been exhausted. Probably all the stress of the past few days. He looked at his watch: 2.50pm. He’d passed out for over an hour. The convoy was leaving soon. He downed a couple of painkillers and stepped outside.

  In the courtyard of the compound, Somali helpers in blue overalls were loading half a dozen ex-army trucks with large white bags of food aid printed with the UA logo. Fabienne was smoking a cigarette and speaking to Andrew in the shade of a tree.

  Jim walked up to Maxine, who was checking a truck’s tyres.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ he said, brushing his hair with his hands.

  She raised an eyebrow, as though surprised to see him. ‘Just loading the vehicles, then we’re off. Probably two hours drive before we stop for the night, then an early start and a few more hours to get to the camp. Ah, here’s Harry.’

  A large Land Rover with the UA logo sped through the gates of the compound and skidded to a halt in front of them, generating a cloud of dust. It was covered in dried mud and one of its front headlamps was smashed.

  Jim frowned. With all the worries of the past few days, he’d forgotten about the vehicle with the single headlamp that had followed them in the desert. Was this the same one?

  Harry, dressed in combat trousers and a khaki shirt, stepped out of the Land Rover’s passenger seat. He looked more like a military commander than a development worker. He barked orders to the entrance guards, who slammed the gates shut. He marched towards Jim and the others.

  ‘Okay, crowd round everyone.’ Harry kneeled and pulled out a map of Somaliland, which he spread out on the floor. ‘We’re here.’ He pointed with a stick at the dot indicating Hargeysa. ‘And you’re going towards Borama, there, in Awdal region. Right next to the Ethiopian border. The camp is north of Borama. We’re running it under contract from UNHCR. Maxine knows where it is.’

  ‘Doesn’t look that far,’ Jim said. ‘Why not leave early tomorrow?’

  ‘Because I say so.’ Harry looked up at the team around him. ‘Maxine’s the convoy boss. Anything she says, you do. She’ll set RV points to fall back on if there’s a problem. Check your mirrors regularly. Each vehicle is responsible for the one behind them. Maxine, anything to add?’

  ‘Just that you should all check your vehicles one last time before we go. Oil, water, tyres, everything else. We don’t want to break down in the middle of nowhere.’

  Harry stood up. ‘You’ve all heard about the convoy that was hijacked. And yes, before you ask, it has been hijacked. By Somali militia. We’re trying to track it down to negotiate release of the team.’ He glared at Fabienne and Andrew. ‘You should never have entered the camp by yourselves. I’ll deal with you when you get back.’

  Andrew’s face went pale. Fabienne’s eyes blazed and she started to protest, but Harry put his hand up to silence her. He pointed to a short, slim woman in a neat white shirt and a tall man with long, dangly arms holding a large camera. Both of them had just stepped out of the
back of Harry’s vehicle.

  ‘This attractive young lady here is Marie from the BBC,’ Harry said, smiling broadly. ‘And this is Oliver, her cameraman. We’ve granted the BBC special access to our work. So be nice to them please. Maxine, a quick word before you go.’

  Maxine and Harry moved to one side, out of earshot, while the others boarded the trucks. Jim sat next to Nasir, who was in the driver’s seat.

  The convoy’s security situation was worrying. They had no armoured vehicles, no armed guards and no strategy for coping with ambush. If Jim hadn’t been undercover, he’d have challenged Harry about that.

  He was about to mention his concerns to Nasir when he glanced in the wing mirror. Harry was speaking heatedly to Maxine. Harry pulled her towards him, kissed her on the lips and pushed her away. She climbed into the truck. A tear trickled down her soft cheek.

  The first hour of the journey was rather pleasant, particularly as the painkillers kicked in and the headache subsided. The convoy advanced slowly, like a rumbling caterpillar through the desert landscape. Nasir was silent as usual, focusing on the bumpy road. Jim took the opportunity to ask Maxine about her past.

  ‘My parents died when I was nine,’ she said. ‘They were hammered and travelling back from a party on New Year’s Eve with a group of mates. Dad had the bright idea of driving on the wrong side of the road and hit a truck head on. Carnage.’

  Jim grimaced.

  She continued: ‘My sister has a rare disease, ended up in a care home in Cambridge. I was dumped in a foster family. Did a runner when I was 16. Wanted to travel the world. But not just the nice backpacker places. Got bored of lying on beaches in Thailand getting stoned. I realised the best way to see the world, the real world, was to join an NGO.’

  ‘Universal Action?’

  ‘First job was with World Vision in India. No idea why they hired me. I’m not an evangelical, nor even a Christian, and they’re picky about that. I met Harry in Mumbai and he convinced me to jump ship.’

  ‘Still in India?’

  ‘Originally, yes, then moving here. Pay was better and I prefer UA’s way of doing things. They run it like a business. People say things have changed since he took over here.’