The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  ‘Psycho,’ Laurent muttered.

  ‘I got us out alive. And they deserved it for being such idiots. Anyway, how did they know we were at Gare du Nord? I thought we’d shaken them off in the metro.’

  Laurent shrugged.

  Harry’s heart was pounding. There were more sirens behind them. They needed to get out of this area, quick.

  He turned to Laurent. ‘Are you with me or not?’

  ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘You sure? Because plans have changed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We can’t go to London until Gare du Nord opens again, so in the meantime we need to sort out that journo. And it’ll be rough. I can’t have you questioning everything.’

  ‘I just told you,’ Laurent said. ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘Then quit complaining for fuck’s sake.’

  They stopped at a red light. Harry stared out of the window at the row of shops with their food stalls out the front and the packed cafés. A woman sitting at a terrace on the other side of the road caught his eye. She looked familiar with her trendy blue tracksuit and jet black hair.

  Then it hit him. It was the woman with the buggy from outside the metro station. But this time she didn’t have the buggy. She was staring at him, as if she was daring him to approach her.

  ‘Look.’ Harry tapped Laurent on the arm. ‘It’s that woman.’

  ‘Which one? Where?’

  ‘Damn. There’s a van in the way. Just behind it. At the terrace.’

  ‘Still can’t see her,’ Laurent said, peering over Harry’s shoulder.

  ‘Wait a sec. Van’s moving.’

  But the woman had gone.

  Part II

  Escape

  Chapter 19

  Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

  21 September 2003

  The hotel lounge had seen better days, maybe 30 or 40 years ago, when the end of colonisation had sparked a wave of optimism across Africa. But now, it was falling to pieces. The wooden panels on the walls were chipped. The armchairs were a muddy brown, worn out and peppered with cigarette burns. The glass on the coffee table was scratched. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling gave out a murky yellow light that forced everyone to squint. The navy blue carpet looked like it had been cleaned years ago. Even the waiters seemed from a bygone era, strolling around in faded suits with black bow ties.

  Jim studied the guests who were sitting around. The two white businessmen in their pinstriped suits laughing loudly. The three American tourists in safari clothes examining their top-of-the-range cameras. The elegant black couple chatting over cocktails. None of them showed any interest in him, which was just as he wanted it.

  Jim settled back in his armchair and closed his eyes for a second. The journey to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, had been long and painful. After numerous passport checks and a few bribes, they’d driven across the dirt track border in the middle of the night. Nasir had chewed through half a field of qat to keep himself awake. They’d kept on driving until they’d reached Addis, stopping occasionally in villages where trucks lined the roadside on their way to or from the ports in Djibouti or Somaliland. It must have been doubly uncomfortable for Maxine, who was still tied up in the back of the truck among all the sacks of food aid. He felt guilty about treating her like that.

  Jim went outside into the car park. He checked the handful of vehicles there: all were empty except for their truck. Nasir was sitting in the front, keeping an eye on the hotel’s comings and goings.

  Nasir gave him a curt nod. Jim glanced at his watch. He walked back towards the hotel. He took position next to a tree behind some bushes, from where he could watch the hotel’s entrance while keeping himself hidden.

  He waited. He’d attempted to contact Sarah several times over the past 24 hours, every time he’d had a signal on his phone, but no luck. She wasn’t answering, which was a problem: she was his only contact for this operation. She’d said it was safer that way.

  Frustrated, he’d rung up the 24-hour Command and Coordination Centre at the Interpol headquarters in Lyon. They said Sarah was busy, but that she’d left a message for him to contact Mohammad, Interpol’s Head of Bureau for Ethiopia. Mohammad had sounded friendly enough on the phone, although whether he was trustworthy in practice was a different story. Mohammad promised he’d be at the hotel at 5.30pm. That was now 15 minutes ago. Maybe he was delayed by the rush-hour traffic, which was as bad in Addis Ababa as in any major developing city.

  Just then, a tall Ethiopian man with a moustache and stripy pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up walked up the steps of the hotel, followed by two Ethiopians built like wrestlers.

  Jim walked back to the truck. Nasir rolled open the window.

  ‘Did you see them?’ Jim asked.

  Nasir nodded.

  ‘I’m going to speak to them,’ Jim said. ‘If I’m not out in 15 minutes, or if anything happens, you get out of here and hide low until I make contact.’

  ‘Do you want your bag?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘What about the gun?’

  Jim hesitated. It’d been a long time since he’d handled a weapon. After leaving the army, he’d promised himself never to use one again.

  ‘Hand it over,’ he said.

  Nasir reached into the glove compartment and handed the gun to Jim, who tucked it into his belt under his shirt. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

  He entered the hotel. Immediately, the tall Ethiopian walked towards him.

  ‘Agent Jim Galespi, I presume?’ he said in impeccable English.

  ‘Himself.’ Jim shook the man’s hand. ‘You must be Mohammad.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Agent Galespi.’

  ‘Call me Jim.’

  They marched into the lounge and sat down in armchairs across from each other with the coffee table in the middle. The two Ethiopian cops were nowhere to be seen. Mohammad called out to a waiter to bring two beers. He crossed his legs and fixed Jim with a sceptical stare.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself into a spot of bother.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jim said. He hadn’t explained anything to Mohammad over the phone, just that he needed to see him urgently.

  ‘The CEO of Universal Action has put in a formal complaint against you.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘To the Interpol Executive Committee.’

  Jim didn’t answer. Was that why Sarah wasn’t responding? Because he was becoming a liability?

  Mohammad shrugged. ‘They claim you endangered their team at a vehicle check point by causing an argument with the soldiers, which led to the shooting of a BBC journalist.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You can’t believe—’

  Mohammad lifted his hand. ‘They’ve asked to be alerted as soon as you made contact.’

  ‘Since when has Universal Action dictated what Interpol does?’

  ‘My good friend, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Everyone’s reliant on Universal Action here. The UN, the African Union, the European Union, USAID, all the African governments. We can’t have things getting disrupted by small-time agents causing havoc. Especially when they’re working outside their jurisdiction.’

  ‘What are you on about? The militia were looking for trouble. And before you ask, they definitely were militia, not soldiers.’

  Mohammad raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You have to listen to me.’ Jim leaned forward. ‘UA’s planning some nasty stuff. A full-scale famine.’

  The waiter arrived with the pints and placed them on mats on the table. Mohammad sipped his and looked at Jim over the rim of his glass.

  ‘You don’t really believe this, do you?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve seen the aid camps where they bring the media. IDPs dying of starvation everywhere. Then UA delivers the food and takes pictures for the TV appeals. It’s a complete set-up.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Mohammad chuckled. ‘They have famines every other year in
this region. Couldn’t they wait for a real one to turn up, like all the other NGOs do?’

  ‘I guess they want to be able to control it all: where the famine happens, who gets to see it, what the response is. They’re the only ones doing this appeal, so they don’t get competition from the Oxfams.’

  ‘Just to raise more money? Seems rather far-fetched.’

  Jim rubbed his temples with his knuckles. He was tired. The beer was strong. He couldn’t think straight.

  ‘I know it’s been a difficult few days, Agent Galespi,’ Mohammad said.

  ‘It’s Jim.’

  ‘I heard about the murdered man in your room and I realise the roadblock must have been traumatic, but let’s not get carried away. Come to the office. I’m sure we can get UA to calm down. You’ll get a good rest and then hop on a plane home.’

  Jim played with the loose threads on the arm-rest. Going home was indeed tempting.

  ‘So?’ Mohammad said.

  Jim let out a deep sigh. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay what?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Mohammad patted Jim on the knee. ‘Good man. Now, just a minute.’

  He went to a corner of the lounge to speak on his phone. Jim looked around again. The Ethiopian cops were sitting at a table a few metres away, drinking tea. Jim hadn’t seen them come in. In their black suits, shoes and tie, they looked like undertakers at a funeral. Neither said a word.

  Jim switched his phone on. There was a text from Nasir: What’s up?

  He texted back: Not sure yet.

  Mohammad was speaking heatedly into his phone. Jim couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it sounded like an argument. After a few minutes, Mohammad walked back to the table and sat down.

  ‘Right, looks like the situation is more complicated than we thought.’ Mohammad gulped down his beer. ‘Come on, drink up. We’ve got to go.’

  Jim finished his beer and left the empty glass on the table. He hadn’t eaten all day and the alcohol made him lightheaded. As they got up, Mohammad nodded to the two cops, who followed them out of the hotel.

  Jim prodded a thumb in their direction. ‘Friends of yours?’

  ‘Armed escort. Orders from head office.’

  ‘What was the call about? Sounded pretty bad.’

  ‘You’ve made quite a mess. Universal Action’s furious. It’s pushing ahead with its complaint. Some top guys there are causing a stir. They want to speak to you. They’re sending one of their people over.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  They entered the car park with its handful of large four-by-fours gleaming in the sunlight with NGO logos plastered all over their doors. Jim looked around for Nasir and the truck, but they were nowhere to be seen. He turned back to Mohammad, who was frowning.

  ‘Where’s your vehicle?’ Mohammad said.

  ‘I never said I had one.’

  Mohammad moved closer. ‘Stop messing around, Galespi. You’re in enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘It’s Agent Galespi for you.’

  Jim took a step back, preparing to spin round and escape. But he was too slow and dizzy and tired. He reached for his gun, but the two Ethiopians rushed forward and grabbed him, one holding each arm. They pulled him towards a parked Land Rover with tinted windows further down the road. Jim struggled, twisting left then right. He kicked one of the cops in the shin, making him howl. He spun his elbow at the other cop’s jaw, but the cop dodged sideways, tucked his arm round Jim’s neck, and pulled. Jim gasped for air.

  Mohammad opened the car door and gestured inside. ‘I have orders to bring you in. Please don’t make it difficult for us.’

  The cops tightened their grip on Jim’s arms and neck, making it clear that he had no chance of escaping. They grabbed his gun from under his belt and shoved him into the back of the car, whacking his head against the side of the door. Mohammad sat down on one side of Jim while one of the cops sat on the other side, crushing Jim between them. The other cop took the driver’s seat.

  The engine started. Jim had a sinking feeling. Was this Harry’s doing? Had something happened to Sarah? Was Interpol trying to shut down the operation?

  He looked out of the window as the car drove off. A woman caught his eye, standing on the steps of the hotel 30 metres away, just where he’d exited with Mohammad a few moments before. From afar, she looked just like someone he knew, with her long blonde hair and curvy figure. She took off her dark glasses and gazed at them as they drove by.

  It was Maxine.

  Chapter 20

  Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

  21 September 2003

  They drove through the university area of Addis. Students milled around on the brown, dry grass by the side of the road, some of them chatting in groups, others reading textbooks and writing in notepads. Addis was rather hilly, not quite as Jim had imagined it. The sky was an indistinct dark grey mass of clouds as night started to fall. Not exactly the spotless sky most people associated with Africa.

  He looked again at the cop sitting next to him. He hadn’t moved an inch. How did he do it? Such self-control. Maybe he had an internal on-off switch.

  The traffic slowed to a standstill. There was a beaten-up grey car behind them and a muddy and battered bus in front, overflowing with people. Car fumes filled the air, creating a swirling brown-black mist that dissipated in the faint wind.

  Jim looked left and right. Just more cars and pedestrians.

  This was his best chance.

  He casually lifted his right arm as though he wanted to scratch his back. He rammed the elbow into the face of the cop sitting next to him. There was a dull crunch as the cop’s nose crumpled. Jim struck again, fast, ramming the tip of his elbow into the cop’s temple. He slumped, unconscious, his head lolling forward. Mohammad shouted, but Jim swung his left elbow into Mohammad’s chest, winding him.

  The driver spun round. Jim caught the man’s head in both his hands and head butted him. He felt the man’s skull crack. He shoved the driver away by elbowing him in the face, sending him reeling against the steering wheel.

  Mohammad was whimpering. Jim ignored him.

  He took his gun back from the inside pocket of the cop next to him. He leant across and opened the car door.

  A hand grabbed his arm.

  It was Mohammad. ‘Jim, don’t do this. They’ll kill you.’

  Jim tried to shrug him off, but Mohammad’s grip tightened.

  ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘They’ll hunt you down.’

  The driver was stirring. Jim knew he had to escape. Now.

  ‘Let go, Mohammad.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Jim tugged his arm away, but still Mohammad held on.

  ‘They’ll punish me.’

  Jim rammed his fist into Mohammad’s throat. Mohammad made a small groan and collapsed backwards against the window, gasping, both his hands clutching his neck, staring at Jim in disbelief. Jim punched again.

  Mohammad passed out.

  Jim saw movement in the front seat. He lifted his arm to block the driver’s fist, but too late. The blow hit him hard on the jaw. He saw stars. He grunted in pain. He leant back, but the driver was already climbing over the handbrake between the front seats and lunging at him while pulling a gun from his jacket. The driver paused for a split second to stabilise himself and wipe the blood that was pouring from his face into his eyes.

  Jim caught the driver’s arm, twisted and yanked it downwards. The driver howled. Jim pulled him forward and held him in a clinch. He curled his arm round the driver’s neck and tightened it abruptly, blocking the flow of blood to his brain and the air to his lungs. The driver went limp.

  Jim climbed over the unconscious cop next to him and stepped onto the street. He slammed the door behind him. The traffic ahead crawled forward. The car behind hooted its horn, its driver leaning out of the window, banging her car door in frustration.

  Energy flowed through Jim’s veins. It was the a
drenaline dump. The fight or flight response. He had to make the most of it. He sprinted past the university and down a hill, glancing behind him. Nobody was following. Probably still out cold.

  He ran a while longer, then decided to slow down. People were looking at him. They weren’t used to seeing a white man running around in the middle of Addis. Better to walk confidently as though he knew where he was going, although he realised that he didn’t have a clue.

  He was on the run, with no escape plan.

  He arrived at a road where the traffic was more fluid. He hailed a rusty old cab. He swung open the door and clambered onto the moth-eaten backseat.

  ‘Airport,’ he said, out of breath.

  That seemed like the best he could think of, although he expected the airport would soon be alerted to stop anyone fitting his description. He patted the money belt under his trousers. It was still there, with his passport, credit card and cash. The cops had been too useless to frisk him properly. If the taxi was fast enough, he could maybe escape on the first plane out of Addis.

  He pulled out the note in his pocket: 212 Stanley 2pm 23 9.

  That was in less than 48 hours. Was the Kenyan president really involved in all this? Were the time and date indicating a meeting? If so, where? Kenya? Nairobi?

  ‘All okay, my friend?’ The driver looked at him in the rear-view mirror with a wide smile on his face.

  Jim nodded, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His body ached. His mind was reeling from his discoveries of the past few days. There was no way Universal Action was going to get away with this.

  Chapter 21

  Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

  21 September 2003

  The taxi pulled into the airport. Jim stepped out, feeling like a wreck. He dumped the gun in a waste bin and walked into the terminal. He went straight to the public toilets and wiped the dried blood off his elbow. He checked the bruise on his jaw and tried to make himself look presentable. It was no good attempting to get through immigration and customs looking like an escaped convict.

  He looked up at the departure board. There was a Kenya Airways flight to Nairobi leaving in 55 minutes. He walked to the Kenya Airways desk and waited anxiously for an employee to turn up. Five minutes later, a young, slim Ethiopian woman in a red Kenya Airways suit strolled forward and plonked herself in front of a computer terminal.