The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  ‘Why did they kill Oliver?’ Jim said. ‘What were they hoping to gain from it?’

  ‘Terror tactics,’ Maxine said, sitting back on her heels. ‘They’ve done it before. First, they killed that Italian nurse in her clinic in Borama. Then they shot the two old Brits who were working in a secondary school. After that, they killed a Kenyan aid worker and her driver at a roadblock outside Hargeysa. That was when we began travelling with weapons.’

  ‘Must have been quite a shock for everyone.’

  ‘Before then it could get hairy, like when you came across a checkpoint and stuff. But it was pretty safe. This isn’t Somalia, you know. You said that yourself yesterday. Somaliland’s been much better.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Terrorists. Religious fanatics. Militia battling for the unification of the Greater Somalia. Or a mix of all three.’ Maxine turned back to searching through her rucksack. ‘The interpretation depends on who you speak to. The guys who murdered the Kenyan tried to escape to Ethiopia, but villagers caught them and handed them to the police. Eight were sentenced to death. Seven got life. Remember that life in a jail here isn’t much fun. I’d rather the death sentence.’

  ‘You said you were given guns?’

  ‘Pistols.’ She pulled a Glock out of her rucksack. ‘Hope I never get to use it.’ She dropped it back into her bag.

  ‘What does Harry think? Why doesn’t he hire security advisors?’

  ‘He’s looking into it,’ Maxine said.

  ‘A bit late. What about Oliver and Andrew’s killers? And those that killed the guy I found a few days ago? And this missing convoy? What’s Harry doing about that?’

  ‘Hurray,’ she said, pulling a hairbrush and a small box out of her bag. ‘Okay, see you later. Nasir says he’d like to leave soon.’

  She left the hut through the small opening that served as a doorway, having elegantly avoided answering his questions. He lay back and studied the wooden construction that made the frame of the hut and the intricately decorated mats that formed the outer shell. An assortment of cooking pans and utensils hung from hooks nailed into the framework.

  Sarah had warned him to trust nobody. He needed to find a way to get an update from her side and see if she’d made progress. Maybe in Addis. His phone had no signal out here. Meanwhile, he’d have to get more intel out of Maxine and Nasir, particularly about the injured man and the missing convoy. The two must be linked. Maybe the injured man had been on the convoy? The man must have found out something and paid with his life.

  Then there was Harry: a man who instilled an unnatural fear in his subordinates, who controlled Maxine’s mind in an unhealthy way. There was something about Harry, that uncanny resemblance to someone else, which made Jim deeply uneasy.

  Harry was a doer, Sarah had told him, while Edward was a thinker.

  A deadly combination.

  Chapter 15

  Awdal region, Somaliland

  20 September 2003

  Ten minutes later, Jim emerged from the hut into the scorching sun. Maxine was standing next to the truck, studying herself in the wing mirror and brushing her hair. Jim climbed past her into the passenger seat. He gazed through the open window at the village of stick and mud huts. Three young women in colourful Somali dresses were building the frame for a new hut, carefully tying it together. One had a baby tied to her back. Four small children in rags ran past her, chasing each other in the dust. One of them used a piece of wood to roll an old tyre, while the others tried to grab it off him.

  Maxine climbed in through the driver’s side and sat in the middle passenger seat. To their left, Nasir was having a heated conversation with the frail old man who had welcomed them the previous night. He seemed agitated, leaning on his stick with his left hand while waving the right. Jim was fascinated by the old man’s gaunt face, with its sharp features, hardened skin and sea of crinkles. He wore a traditional Somali circular hat with a motif on it, a long brown shirt and chequered baggy trousers, a style of dress Jim had seen everywhere here.

  Nasir shook the old man’s hand, said ‘nabad gelyo’—goodbye in Somali—and climbed into the driver’s seat. The old man shuffled closer. He reached through the open window and grabbed Jim’s arm. Jim looked into his weary eyes. The wrinkles around them seemed to express years of pain, suffering and grief. Then the man let go and took a few steps back. Nasir turned the ignition key. The engine rumbled to life.

  As they drove off, leaving a cloud of dust and fumes in their wake, Jim said: ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘A village elder. Not happy,’ Nasir said. ‘Says none of the food aid is being delivered. They’re led to believe that aid will come, then it never turns up. And when it does, they’re ignored.’

  ‘Ignored by whom?’

  ‘A UA convoy approached the other day, a big convoy with nine trucks and our logo all over them. It sped right through their village. Destroyed some huts and ran over a child.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Ribcage crushed.’ Nasir shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s amazing they welcomed us after something like that.’

  Jim glanced at Maxine. ‘Could that be the missing convoy?’

  ‘The convoy was hijacked in Togdheer region,’ Maxine said. ‘That’s miles away.’

  Nasir’s hands clenched onto the steering wheel. ‘You know very well what they were doing, Maxine.’

  Maxine shot him a worried look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know very well what’s going on with this food aid distribution.’

  ‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’

  Nasir’s knuckles went white. Jim leaned back in his seat. This was getting interesting, but he was going to stay out of this for now. He glanced outside. Nothing but sand, stones and a few dry shrubs. The sky was a deep, clear blue. The sun was blazing.

  ‘You take us for fools, don’t you?’ Nasir said. ‘You think we don’t have a clue what you’re up to?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about. Jim, do you?’ Maxine made a spreading gesture with her hands, as though baffled.

  Jim didn’t reply.

  Nasir kept talking, gathering momentum as he spoke. ‘This aid appeal, this famine, do you and Harry think we don’t know what’s happening? Do you think I’ve not seen the maps in his office?’

  Maxine put her hand on Nasir’s arm. He shook it off.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ she said.

  Jim decided it was time to intervene. ‘What maps?’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Jim,’ Maxine said. ‘It’s nothing. I’ll explain later.’

  Nasir glared at Maxine and said to Jim: ‘Harry has maps of Somaliland hidden away in his desk. They’re marked with the locations of UA’s so-called model aid camps.’

  ‘So?’ Jim said.

  ‘Do you know why they’re model aid camps? It’s because—’

  ‘Shut up, Nasir!’ Maxine yelled. ‘You know you’ll regret it. Just like Graham did. These things get out and they will find out.’

  Nasir fell silent.

  When he spoke, it was a whisper, barely audible over the sound of the engine: ‘You’re owning up at last that you killed him.’

  ‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Harry. We don’t know who it was.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ said Nasir.

  ‘Who’s Graham?’ Jim said, glancing from one to the other.

  ‘I’m not lying,’ Maxine said.

  ‘Yes you are.’ Nasir hit the centre of the steering wheel with his closed fist. ‘I know you’re lying.’

  ‘Who’s Graham?’ Jim said.

  ‘Shut up, Nasir,’ Maxine said. ‘I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘Answer me, for God’s sake!’ Jim yelled.

  Maxine looked away. ‘He was the man you found by the side of the road.’

  The man whose decapitated head he then found in his bed and who Harry said he’d never seen before, Jim thought.

  ‘So who was he?’ he said.

  ‘Just forget
about it.’ She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘It is my business. I found this guy. You told me to shut up about it, but I deserve an explanation. And what about you, Nasir, pretending you didn’t know who he was?’

  Nasir kept silent, which Jim realised was his usual strategy when faced with something he didn’t want to answer.

  ‘Nasir, I asked you a question.’

  Still Nasir didn’t answer. Jim turned to Maxine again. She was stony faced and arms crossed. He turned back to Nasir. He thought he saw tears welling up in Nasir’s eyes as the man spoke, as if to himself: ‘Graham was one of the best. He was a great guy who got caught up in events that were way beyond him. That’s why he was punished.’

  ‘Punished?’ Jim said. ‘What for?’

  ‘For knowing too much,’ Nasir muttered. ‘For being tired of all the lies and the scheming. For wanting to save people’s lives.’

  ‘Whose lives?’ Jim said. ‘What lying and scheming? Tell me. I can do something about it.’

  ‘No you can’t,’ Maxine said. ‘Nobody can do anything about it.’ She turned to Nasir. ‘Graham wasn’t all he seemed.’

  Nasir didn’t answer.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jim said.

  ‘Just that he wasn’t all he claimed to be,’ Maxine said. ‘Anyway, it’s all too late now.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Jim said. ‘Tell me.’

  Maxine’s eyes took on a distant look, as though remembering things that she’d rather have kept forgotten. Jim saw that he was losing his opportunity.

  ‘It’s not too late,’ he said. ‘We can get help.’

  Maxine’s mobile phone beeped. She blinked and read the text message that had just come in. She bit her lip, put the phone away, and gave Jim a sad smile.

  ‘We know why you’re here, Jim.’ She reached into her rucksack and pulled out the Glock. ‘Nasir, stop the truck.’

  Nasir started to protest, but Maxine repeated her order with such strength that he pressed on the brake and brought the truck to a sudden halt.

  ‘Get out, Jim.’ She waved her gun towards the door. ‘I know how to use this thing.’

  ‘This is madness,’ Jim said.

  Maxine’s hand was trembling and her eyes were wet. ‘I’m sorry.’ She pointed the gun at his head. ‘I have no choice. Now turn round.’

  Jim put out his hand, palm outstretched and facing upwards.

  ‘Give me the gun,’ he said. ‘I can help you. We can stop Harry.’

  Maxine hesitated. She lowered the gun slightly. ‘I can’t—’

  Before she could react, Jim’s left hand shot up, pushing her hand holding the gun away. She cried out. He twisted sideways and tugged her until her face was in his lap. He whacked her on the back of the head with his elbow. There was a crack. She slumped, unconscious.

  Jim picked up the gun and put it in the glove compartment.

  Nasir was looking at him with wide eyes. ‘Shall we leave her here? She deserves it.’

  Jim shook his head. He couldn’t leave her to die in this heat. That would make them no better than Harry.

  He took her pulse. She was still alive. He picked her up and placed her in the back of the truck, tying her hands and feet with rope. He checked her head injury. It didn’t look too bad. She’d probably got concussion and would wake up with a bad headache. As he reached out to close the back of the truck, he remembered something: her mobile. He found it in the front pocket of her jeans.

  They drove off. Jim held onto the passenger grip above his head.

  His hands were shaking.

  Chapter 16

  Awdal region, Somaliland

  20 September 2003

  They sped through the desert. Every so often, the truck juddered and trembled when they hit a section of the road that had collapsed into rubble.

  ‘It’s time we stopped them,’ Nasir said. ‘Harry, Edward. All of them.’

  ‘From what?’ Jim said.

  ‘From doing more damage. This whole thing’s a set-up. I told you. I’ve seen the maps. UA works with local warlords to create the famine.’

  ‘They deliberately starve them?’

  ‘They deliver the food, but people don’t eat it. They waste away, and the TV crews roll in. Then the warlords massacre the IDPs. And the TV crews come back.’

  ‘They have footage of the massacres?’

  ‘I know Harry’s arranging for some of the news networks to film the mass graves.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jim shook his head in disbelief. ‘Do you have evidence?’

  ‘All I’ve got is hearsay and what I’ve seen with my own eyes. But I know what he’s capable of.’

  They raced past another small village. Children gaped at them in the late morning heat.

  ‘What about Graham?’ Jim said.

  ‘A great guy. Bit like you. Really nice and passionate. He found out too much and tried to tell the world about it.’

  ‘They killed him?’

  ‘Tortured him first. You saw the burns. They thought he was me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘They thought he was a CIA agent. But he wasn’t. It’s me.’

  Jim glanced at Nasir, who was expertly negotiating another damaged stretch of road. All along the agent had been Nasir?

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Jim said. ‘I thought Langley had lost contact.’

  ‘I’ve known for weeks Harry suspected something. That’s why I stopped communicating.’

  ‘Did you know who I was?’

  ‘I guessed it pretty quickly. We knew Interpol was on the case. It was just a matter of time before they sent someone.’

  Jim reached for a bottle of water behind his seat. His throat was parched.

  ‘I guess Harry came to the same conclusion,’ he said between gulps. ‘What about Graham?’

  ‘He was asking too many questions,’ Nasir said. ‘Harry mistook him. That was Harry following us in the desert the other day. I recognised his car. He must have been hunting for Graham, who’d somehow escaped.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I didn’t know whether to trust you.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I think so.’

  For the first time ever, Jim saw Nasir smile. His long, aristocratic face lit up. His eyes sparkled. Jim felt a surge of gratitude for this young, unassuming Somali man, who had already once saved his life.

  Then a thought hit him. ‘Why did you want to leave Graham to die?’

  Nasir’s smile evaporated. ‘I knew Harry would finish him off if we brought him back to Hargeysa. It would have been better for Graham to die in the desert.’

  ‘Except that Harry was on his tail anyway.’

  Nasir shrugged.

  ‘Do you really think Harry killed him?’ Jim said.

  ‘I reckon he got the militia to do it. Maybe he spoke to one of the warlords. He knows them well. Same thing in the end.’

  ‘What do you know about Harry?’

  ‘Not much, to be honest.’ Nasir took a swig from the bottle that Jim handed him. ‘I’ve been trying to dig around, doing background searches, but very little comes up. All I know is that he has strong links with mercenary groups.’

  ‘He’s ex-CIA, apparently.’

  ‘I’ve heard that too, but I very much doubt it. I’d know. I’d say he’s had a career in private security. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘In Afghanistan?’ Jim said.

  ‘Everywhere.’

  ‘Was he in Afghanistan last year?’ Jim asked a bit too insistently.

  ‘Not from what I hear.’ Nasir glanced at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Jim looked away. ‘It’s just—’

  ‘Just what?’

  This was getting too personal. Jim decided to change topic. ‘Why did you join them?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The CIA. Why do you work for them?’

  ‘For the money. Why else?’ Nasir shook his head in disgust.
‘I’m tired of seeing my people exploited. For years, we’ve seen you Westerners come here. First the English colonisers, then the Americans and Russians giving us guns and tanks. Now the NGOs. All you do is suck us dry and use us to your own ends. Universal Action is just the modern-day form of colonialism.’

  ‘Is the CIA any better?’

  ‘No, but at least it pays better than the NGOs.’

  They continued in silence. Jim didn’t know what to say. He’d joined the army while barely out of school in the misguided belief that he would serve his country. He’d left aged 19 after witnessing the carnage in the First Gulf War, leaving him with memories of charred bodies in burnt cars, dead comrades and injured civilians by the roadside that came back to haunt him every night for years. Survivor’s guilt, they called it. He’d retrained as a journalist and went to report on the worst conflicts in an attempt at showing the world the true horror of war. Then the accident had happened that had killed Carrie in Afghanistan. At that point, he’d left everything, until Sarah, whose professionalism and sense of duty had re-awakened his belief in justice, had recruited him into Interpol last year.

  He remembered Maxine’s phone. He scrolled through her inbox. The last text she’d received said: Jim Interpol. Finish him. Don’t argue this time or Lesley gets it.

  Jim hit ‘reply’ and texted back: All done. Jim dead.

  The answer was immediate: Good grl. Txt me pic.

  Harry wasn’t taking any chances. He’d soon figure out something wasn’t right. Jim scrolled through the other texts. Most were idle chit chat. Only one other stood out.

  212 Stanley 2pm 23 9

  Jim searched around in his pockets for the piece of paper he’d found on Graham’s body. It was exactly the same message on it.

  Nasir glanced over. ‘What’ve you got there?’

  ‘Does the name Stanley mean anything to you?’

  ‘Could be Stanley Kibaki. President of Kenya. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  How was the president of Kenya involved in this mess? Jim checked Maxine’s phone: the signal had gone. He put it in the glove compartment. Then he gazed out of the cracked windshield at the desert landscape.

  So arid, so empty, so hostile.