The militiaman shone the torch back into Jim’s face. He lifted his battered AK and pointed it at him through the window opening. Sweat poured down Jim’s forehead. Maybe this was it. His last few moments. Murdered in cold blood by a teenage soldier in the middle of a desert in a country nobody had heard of.
Nasir spoke calmly and softly in Somali. The militiaman spat out of the corner of his mouth and answered something. Nasir spoke again. There was a tense moment of silence. Nasir lifted his hands to his shirt pocket and pulled out the roll of US dollar bills. He handed them to the militiaman, who spat again. Then he lowered his rifle and moved to the back of the truck. Jim realised he’d been holding his breath and let out a deep sigh. Maxine looked at him and winked. They could hear banging and shuffling as the militiaman searched the inside of the truck.
‘I think it’ll be okay,’ Nasir muttered.
But Jim looked again in the mirror and swore to himself. Oliver and Marie were standing in front of their truck, lit up by the headlamps, casting shadows on the ground. Two militiamen were walking round Marie, eyeing her up and laughing to each other. She was offering them something, probably cash. One of them slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of Oliver’s head. He fell like a sack. The two militiamen did high-fives and were joined by the guard who jumped out of the back of Jim’s truck.
‘Nasir, get ready to scram,’ Jim said.
‘Scram?’
‘Rush off. Escape.’
One of the militiamen shot Oliver point blank in the head. He kicked Oliver’s corpse over and over again.
Marie screamed.
‘Go, now!’ Jim cried.
Nasir gunned the engine. The vehicle lurched forward, then swerved to the right. The militiamen by the side of the road shouted and ran towards them. The truck burst through them, scattering them like ants. Some of them stopped, knelt and shot bursts of automatic fire. The machineguns on the back of the technicals swung into action, firing volleys of high velocity bullets.
‘Get down,’ Jim said.
He pushed Maxine forward, whacking her forehead against the dashboard. The windscreen cracked as bullets tore through it. Nasir had his head down next to the steering wheel and was driving blind. The vehicle hit a bump and tilted dangerously to the side before landing again on its four wheels.
Behind them, the gunfire subsided. The militiamen must have realised it was a waste of costly ammunition.
Nasir kept his foot on the accelerator until they were certain they weren’t being chased. Then he swerved the truck in an arc to join the road again. Jim glanced in the side mirror: behind them was darkness. No sign of the checkpoint or pursuers.
‘What do you think will happen to the others?’ Maxine said.
‘We need to go back for them,’ Jim said.
‘Are you crazy? We need to call base for help.’
Maxine pressed the radio button, but nothing happened. A bullet had smashed the radio box to pieces.
Jim shivered. It was getting cold. His clothes were drenched in sweat. That was the second time that day they’d abandoned colleagues.
‘Oh shit,’ Maxine said, pointing.
There were lights ahead.
Another checkpoint.
Chapter 13
Cape Town, South Africa
19 September 2003
The taxi glided through the alley of palm trees to the entrance of the Table Bay Hotel. A young doorman in a sharp grey suit and sparkling black shoes opened the door to the cab. Harry stepped out, smoothed his black shirt and waited for the doorman to drag his heavy suitcase out of the boot. It had been a long journey from Hargeysa to Cape Town via Addis. The final flight had been particularly turbulent and uncomfortable. He was looking forward to a double whiskey or two.
He switched his phone on and was greeted with a flood of beeps: 11 messages.
That was normal.
He’d check them later.
Better not to make Edward wait.
Harry cupped his hand against the wind and lit a cigarette. He marched through the marble-floored entrance of the hotel to the gleaming lobby area, where the self-satisfied cream of South Africa mingled with the international business elite, sitting on luxurious arm chairs while sipping expensive cocktails and negotiating the latest deals.
There they were: sitting at a table outside on the balcony, overlooking Cape Town’s refurbished waterfront with a stunning view of Table Mountain and the city sprawled around it. The glass buildings twinkled in the evening light.
George’s fat shape was unmistakable, dressed as always in his sweaty brown shirt and trousers. Sitting next to him were two other people: one was Edward, Harry’s boss. His Queen’s English and pinstriped suit gave an impression of old British fair play, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. Harry chuckled. The man could be as devious as he was himself at times. The other person was an attractive young lady Harry had never met before. She had high heels, manicured hands, and a tailored navy suit and shirt that hugged her carefully sculpted body, which she clearly worked hard at.
‘Harry,’ Edward exclaimed, as he rose from his plush chair. ‘So good of you to make it. How are you doing?’
‘Doing good, doing good.’ Harry clasped Edward’s hand firmly. He knew that Edward placed great importance on a man’s handshake.
‘Let me introduce you to Jenny, my new executive assistant. Flew in with me on the jet. Used to work for MainShield, as a head-hunter.’
‘Pleased to have such a beautiful woman on our team.’ Harry shook her hand and bowed slightly. His gaze lingered on her. Were there any brains behind her good looks?
Edward smiled, as though reading Harry’s mind. He leant back in his armchair, sipping from his glass of champagne. Night was falling and the wind was rising across the bay, making the yachts in the harbour rattle with each gust. The sound of African drummers entertaining tourists across the waterfront flowed through the air.
‘So, down to business,’ Edward said. ‘We have a major problem. George tells me the journalist from Agence France Presse, whatever his name is…’
‘Sablon,’ Harry said. ‘Jerome Sablon.’
‘He’s in hospital in a bad state, in Paris. He’s starting to talk, saying things.’
Damn. He should have asked Patrick to finish him off.
‘What’s he saying?’ Harry asked.
George butted in. ‘He’s claiming you beat him up. Says he has evidence against us.’
‘And what, exactly?’ Harry asked, annoyed by George’s intervention.
‘About the UN Security Council negotiations. No details so far.’
‘How do you know?’ Harry took a matchbox from his pocket to light another cigarette.
‘I have my sources,’ George said.
‘I’m sure you do,’ Harry replied with a sneer. He blew smoke into George’s face, who started coughing. ‘We’ll discuss this later.’ Harry turned to Edward. ‘Look, don’t worry. Sablon knows nothing.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I asked him myself.’
Edward chuckled. ‘Hence the mess we’re now in.’
‘It’s not a mess. I’ll sort it out. I have good contacts in Paris.’
Edward looked intently at Harry, as though judging his worthiness. Harry kept the stare. George shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Jenny looked down and scribbled some notes on her ring-bound pad.
Edward spoke slowly, emphasising each word: ‘We can’t have loose ends lying around like this.’ The hint of warning was clear, but then he smiled broadly and moved forward to pat Harry on the shoulder. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll sort it out. Now, to business, old chap. Update us on Somaliland.’
‘I’ve got everything ready to go. We’ve prepared the camps. We’re delivering the supplies. I’ve briefed the media crews and launched the appeal.’
‘Jenny tells me the UN isn’t happy with this. They’ve heard that a convoy has gone missing and they want an explanation. You know that, don�
��t you?’ Edward glanced at his gold watch. He was the impatient type: not one for long discussions.
‘That’s none of their business,’ Harry said.
Jenny leaned forward. ‘Aren’t you concerned UNHCR will withdraw the contracts to run the camps?’
‘No chance,’ Harry snapped. ‘We’ve bribed just about everyone at UNHCR, including the high commissioner for refugees. We control them more than they control us.’
‘Now listen.’ Edward rested his forearms on his knees and clasped his hands together. ‘After you’ve sorted out the situation with that Frenchie, I want you to organise the relief supplies to the target camps and coordinate it with a big media push. No more two-man crews wandering around and going home. None of the riff-raff who do their own thing. Got it?’
‘Right.’
‘So no more mess-ups like with the BBC journo today.’
Harry turned pale. ‘What BBC journo?’
Edward nodded to George. ‘Tell him.’
Sweat trickled down George’s forehead, despite the cool breeze blowing over the bay. Some of it accumulated in the rolls of fat around his neck, creating small pools of fluid.
‘We’ve been trying to contact you about this all day,’ George said. He blinked a few times. ‘There’s been an accident. At a roadblock. Oliver was shot dead. Happened an hour ago.’
Harry relaxed. ‘And the others?’
‘Maxine and the new guy Jim: they’ve disappeared. Andrew’s also dead. Fabienne’s heading back to the compound with Marie.’
‘How’s she reacting?’ Harry asked.
‘Who?’
‘Marie, you idiot.’
‘She’s scared to death.’
‘That’s pretty obvious. But has she said she’ll talk to others at the BBC?’
George frowned. ‘Not sure.’
‘Find out. That’s the key thing. The BBC needs to pick up on this and report it. It’ll be huge.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, George. Just do it. Marie’s one of ours.’
Harry turned to Edward, who was looking at him with emotionless eyes. Jenny was sitting back in her armchair, long legs crossed, her face a mask.
‘You planned this, didn’t you?’ Edward said.
‘It’s the only way to build support for our cause.’
Edward nodded slowly.
‘I’m the best you can get at this,’ Harry said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘If you mess up, the whole thing comes crumbling down on our heads.’
‘I know. You can trust me.’
Edward fixed Harry again with his unyielding gaze. Then he turned to Jenny and smiled. ‘Tell them your news, Jenny.’
Jenny blushed. She was shy. Harry liked that in a woman.
‘Come on then, Jenny. Speak up!’ Edward said.
‘We’ve got a deal for a fundraising gig,’ Jenny said, looking down at her notepad. ‘It’ll be called Feeding Somaliland, with 80,000 people at Wembley Stadium.’
‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ Edward pattered her on the knee and gleamed at Harry and George. ‘We’ve got a bunch of celebs lined up. Bigger than LiveAid. We’re going to make millions.’ He laughed, stood up and nodded enthusiastically to them. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go.’
Harry lifted a hand. ‘Just a second.’
‘I don’t have much time. I’ve a meeting with the American vice-president about the Security Council.’
‘It’s about the CIA and Interpol.’
Edward sank back into his armchair. ‘Them again?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘A number of sources. Confirmed by that French journo. We’ve known for some time the CIA had an agent among us in Hargeysa. But I thought Interpol had stopped their investigations.’
Edward’s eyes narrowed. His neck was flushed. He was playing with his champagne glass, twiddling it around. Harry hoped there wouldn’t be an outburst.
But there was. Edward hurled the glass to the floor, where it shattered to pieces. George jumped in his chair. Jenny stared down at her notebook and clenched her pen. Harry gritted his teeth.
‘Damn it, Harry. This is getting messy,’ Edward shouted, oblivious to the questioning looks from nearby tables. ‘Do you have any idea what this could lead to?’
Harry looked down at his hands like a schoolboy being told off by his headmaster.
Edward took a deep breath. ‘Did you get the CIA man, assuming it is a him?’
‘We beat him up a bit, then he escaped. But we captured him again thanks to some unintentional help from this new guy who was driving back from Berbera a few days ago.’
‘Did he speak?’ Edward’s voice was back to normal now.
‘You know what these CIA agents are like. Never owned up to it. A good cover, though. He’d been working for us for months. He just got too sloppy and was asking too many questions.’
‘Where’s he now?’ Edward said.
‘I got the militia to deal with him.’
‘What about Interpol?’
‘Just some French professor who has contacts there,’ Harry said.
‘And this new guy, the one who found the CIA agent?’
‘Jim Galespi. He’s the one who’s gone missing with Maxine. She did background checks on him the other day in Nairobi. Spoke to a few USAID guys. They said he’d been working in the Washington office.’
Edward got up again. ‘Find him. And don’t get too smug about the CIA agent, if indeed you did get the right man. I’ve got contacts at Interpol. I’ll speak to them.’ He picked up his coat from the back of his armchair. ‘Remember, this is my baby. I do the planning here. Not you.’
Edward strolled off, Jenny hurrying along behind him. Harry watched them disappear through the entrance.
‘That was a pretty good meeting,’ George said. ‘You never know with Edward how things will turn out.’
Harry surveyed George with disdainful eyes. ‘What are you still doing here?’
George stiffened.
‘Didn’t I tell you to follow up this BBC incident?’
‘Yes, sure. Sorry, Harry.’
‘Come on then. Chop, chop.’
George scurried off.
Harry headed for the wood-panelled bar and ordered himself a double Jack Daniels. He downed it and ordered another. As the alcohol took effect, Harry calmed down and mulled over the exchange with Edward. George was not completely wrong. The meeting could have gone much worse. For a start, Edward had not expressed displeasure about the roadblock incident, which meant he approved. His reaction to the French journalist and the CIA agent was understandable. Harry had to admit that he’d been careless in both instances. He wouldn’t let that happen again. Not with these new plans he was now implementing. Next time he’d meet with Edward, he’d make sure he had excellent news to report.
Harry looked at his watch: 7.06pm. He’d have a three-course dinner with fine wine at one of the expensive restaurants on the waterfront before taking the late evening flight to Paris.
It was time to sort out that troublesome French journo once and for all.
Chapter 14
Awdal region, Somaliland
20 September 2003
Rustling sounds. Jim bolted upright. Maxine was rummaging around in her large black rucksack, hauling out clothes, sunglasses and other bits and pieces and then putting them back in.
She flashed him one of her shiny-white smiles.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.’ She looked in her rucksack again. ‘Just looking for my hairbrush and make-up.’
She hardly needed any make-up, with her round face, elegantly balanced features, full lips and dazzling blue eyes. Her shimmering blonde hair was tied back in a bun, emphasising the curve of her neck. She wore a clean white shirt, with the collar open just enough for Jim to catch a sight of her breasts as she leaned over her bag. Jim felt like reaching out and kissing her.
Maxine must have felt his stare, because she looked
up again.
Jim reddened and turned away.
The events of the past 12 hours flooded back. The second army road block, Nasir’s attempt to negotiate a way through, the pointed guns, the sudden escape when Nasir veered the truck off the road and into the desert again, the gunshots that peppered the side of the vehicle with bullet holes. They’d driven for miles over the desolate landscape, the soil parched by the endless drought. During the early hours of the morning, they’d arrived at a small settlement of traditional Somali huts. Nasir had spoken to a wiry old man holding an intricately engraved stick with his bony hands covered in skin like leather. They’d been shown to a small hut to sleep.
As though reading his thoughts, Maxine spoke: ‘We’re lucky to be alive, you know. I’m surprised the soldiers didn’t chase us. Saving petrol’s my guess. It’s good we’ve got Nasir. Otherwise, we’d have been well and truly stuffed.’
Jim ran his hand through his scruffy hair. ‘Any idea where we are?’
‘Nasir reckons we’re still in Awdal. Somewhere close to the border. I think we drove around in circles a bit last night.’
Jim put on an old grey t-shirt he’d packed. He wished he’d planned ahead and brought his larger bag with more changes of clothes. Maxine was better prepared. But then again, he wasn’t expecting any of this to happen.
‘What’s the plan?’ he said.
‘Nasir says we should try to cross the border. If the Ethiopians have closed it, we can cross in the bush. Shouldn’t take too long to get to Addis. The situation here’s too tense with all the road blocks. We wouldn’t make it back to Hargeysa.’
Jim said nothing. The events of the past few days had been draining and brought back anxiety and memories from years ago when he was a young soldier. Jim hardly knew Andrew, yet he seemed like such a decent man. As for Marie and Oliver, while Jim wasn’t especially fond of them, he found it hard to accept that Oliver had been murdered so brutally. He kicked himself: he should have taken over the convoy’s security. These NGO types didn’t have a clue. Harry, if he really was ex-CIA, should have trained them better.
Maxine gave him a quizzical look. ‘What’s up?’
It was time to try to drag out more information from her.
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