The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  ‘I’d like to buy a ticket for Nairobi,’ Jim said.

  ‘Hmmmm?’

  ‘A ticket. I need a ticket on your next flight.’

  ‘All booked, sir.’

  ‘Even first class?’

  She stared at her screen and moved the mouse around.

  ‘Even first class?’ he repeated. Last thing he needed now was an incompetent airline employee.

  ‘Nothing until tomorrow at 7.20am, sir.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  Not great. He paid, pocketed the ticket and walked towards immigration, his heart pounding. He’d have to sleep overnight in the airport and hope Mohammad didn’t catch up with him. He glanced back at the ticket desk: the woman was on the phone, speaking hurriedly and staring at him.

  Was he going paranoid?

  The immigration officer, a large man with weary eyes and rolls of fat flowing over his shirt collar, leafed through Jim’s passport, studying every page meticulously. Jim felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. The officer looked up at him and back at the passport. He typed something into his computer terminal. Then he stamped a few pages and bits of paper and handed the passport back to Jim with a perfunctory nod.

  Once through security, Jim slumped into a chair in a cafe. Still nine hours to go before he’d be out of the country. Even then, that wouldn’t be the end of it. Interpol had dropped him and were probably now trying to hunt him down. Sarah was out of contact, possibly dead. Universal Action was on his case and had a sinister web of influence that spread across Africa.

  He looked at the other people sitting in the cafe. The white couple arguing in a low voice in the corner. The family with the children running riot. The African businessman reading the International Herald Tribune. None of them were glancing his way or acting suspiciously. But that didn’t mean they weren’t on his tail.

  As the elation of his escape subsided, Jim stared at the tarmac runway through the airport window. A slow drizzle was covering it with a thin layer of water. He walked to the departure gate and found a seat where he had a good view of the area. He waited. He had to make sure nobody was following him. Three hours later, overcome by exhaustion, he lay across a row of three seats and closed his eyes. His mind was still racing, but eventually he drifted off into a fretful sleep.

  Jim felt a tap on his shoulder and jumped.

  ‘Hello there,’ said a voice that he instantly recognised.

  He sat up and spun round.

  It was Maxine, again.

  This wasn’t good. She must have escaped from the truck, made contact with Universal Action and tracked him down. His eyes darted to the left and right, planning an escape, but he knew it was futile. Universal Action probably had people at all the airport exits in the unlikely event that he did manage to blag his way back out.

  Jim rubbed the sleep from his eyes and tried to look calm.

  ‘Hi Maxine. How are you?’

  The greeting sounded pathetic. As if she’d be fine after having been tied up in the back of a truck for days. He glanced at the clock on the departure board: 6.24am.

  She sat down on the seat next to him, waving her long hair out of her face in a manner that reminded Jim of a glamorous movie star on an American TV series whose name he couldn’t remember. He gritted his teeth, expecting her to launch into a scathing tirade.

  All she did was place her hand on his.

  He flinched and pulled it away.

  ‘Jim, I’m on your side.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t want to kill you out there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jim looked at her guardedly.

  ‘I mean it. Harry forced me.’

  ‘How?’ he said.

  Tears formed in Maxine’s eyes. ‘He’s threatening to kill my sister, Lesley. She wouldn’t stand a chance against him. He uses me. He makes me do things, makes me manipulate people, then threatens me. He’s got me so mixed up in his mess that I don’t know what to do.’

  Despite himself, Jim was moved. Maxine looked lost. He wanted to hold her hand, to comfort her, but a part of him felt unable to—as though it would have been a betrayal of Carrie, his dead wife.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ he said.

  ‘I can’t go back to Universal Action. Harry doesn’t take kindly to failure. I prefer him to think I’m dead or something.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Come with you to Nairobi. I know why you’re going. I know about the Stanley Hotel.’

  ‘Is that what it is?’ Jim said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I thought it was… no, never mind.’

  She looked at him quizzically.

  Maybe Nasir had been wrong about the president. A thought struck him. ‘Maxine, did you drug that bottle of water you gave me the other day in my bedroom? I felt like shit afterwards.’

  She looked down at her hands.

  ‘Did you find the message in my pocket and text yourself the details?’ he said. ‘Is that how you found out about the Stanley Hotel?’

  She looked away.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Nobody, except for Harry and Edward I expect.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know Harry’s attending a meeting in Nairobi and that Edward’s going to be there too.’

  Jim gazed out of the window at the Kenya Airways jet that was just landing. Probably the same plane that would take them to Nairobi.

  ‘Any idea what to expect at the Stanley?’

  ‘No, but it’s our only lead.’

  ‘Why do you want to come with me? I’m not even sure I trust you one bit. You’re better off going back to England and warning the police about your sister.’

  ‘They’d never believe me. Harry’s way too clever and charming. He can lie through his teeth. Anyway, there’s no proof against him.’

  ‘Does anyone know she might be in danger?’ Jim said.

  Maxine shook her head. ‘Better that way.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I dunno, to be honest,’ she said, rubbing the back of her head, where Jim had knocked her unconscious in the truck. ‘If we act fast, we could stop Harry before he gets my sister. You have to trust me, Jim.’

  ‘I’ll make up my own mind about that. Now, tell me your phone number in case we get separated.’

  Maxine gave it to him. Then they sat in silence. She kept on glancing round, clearly worried that they were being watched. Jim crossed his legs, put his hands behind his head and stretched back into his chair. Even if they were being followed, there was little they could do. They just had to sit it out, board the plane, and hope there was no welcoming committee in Nairobi.

  Chapter 22

  21 September 2003

  Gabiley region, Somaliland

  The convoy of relief trucks rumbled towards the IDP camp, leaving dark clouds of swirling dust in its wake. Large logos were emblazoned on the side of the vehicles in the red and black colours of Universal Action.

  Nine-year-old Khalid stumbled back, shouting feebly, ‘Food, food. They’re coming with food.’

  He was a small boy for his age, his growth hindered by malnutrition. Yet his dark brown skin, black eyes, high cheek bones and Roman nose gave him a noble look, despite the sunken cheeks. He’d survived better than most of his friends, many of whom had died of starvation over the past few weeks.

  His father, Abdi, moved away from one of the domed huts fenced by scrawny thorn bushes, from where he’d been watching his son. He was a tall man with similar features to Khalid. He was leaning on a stick and wore a traditional circular Somali hat. His four-month-old niece cried of hunger from inside the hut behind him. Her grandmother rocked her and sang, drip-feeding her water in a desperate effort to calm her cries.

  Abdi shielded his eyes from the noonday sun with his right hand and looked towards the cloud of dust. He counted the vehicles: nine of them, all of them sparkling white, the lead one bearing a grey flag with the UA
logo.

  His face darkened as he muttered: ‘Let’s hope they bring real food, not like the other convoys.’

  Khalid looked up at him questioningly.

  Abdi patted him on the head. ‘I’m sure it will be okay. Allah will provide.’

  Inside himself, though, he was worried. The previous three convoys, over the past months, had delivered hundreds of sack-loads of grain. Most of it had remained uneaten and was now rotting in large piles in the centre of the camp in the blazing heat. Nobody understood why. Even the local Universal Action staff were baffled and weren’t getting responses from their headquarters in Hargeysa.

  Some of the women said the food was cursed.

  Yet everyone had been so optimistic at first. After cooking and eating the grain, they had experienced a sense of elation. The hunger pains had stopped.

  ‘A miracle food,’ the women had shouted, ecstatic, full of energy and euphoria as they raised their hands in the air in thanks. Then it hit them: the insomnia, the sense of dislocation, the fear and paranoia. Some of the younger children died quickly. The older ones struggled to survive, weakened by whatever it was the grain contained.

  Abdi leaned on his walking stick and limped towards the entrance of the camp, his son right behind him. An NGO car stolen by bandits had knocked Abdi over years ago when he was living with his wife in the Dadaab refugee camp in Eastern Kenya to escape the Somali civil war. It had crushed his right leg, which had never recovered.

  He nodded to a group of young men sitting next to a hut. They staggered to their feet and followed him at a respectable distance, some of them carrying battered old AK 47s that probably had no bullets in them. Despite being a cripple and only in his early 30s, Abdi was considered to be one of the sub-clan’s elders. The older generation had all died.

  The three lead vehicles came closer. The rest of the convoy divided into two, with half driving off to the right and the other half to the left.

  Just what were they playing at? Didn’t they have food and medicine to deliver?

  The three lead vehicles accelerated as they approached. The young Khalid cried out in alarm. Abdi looked at the men around him to judge their reactions, but they were too tired and hungry to express anything apart from a blank stare. He looked back at the approaching trucks. The other sets of vehicles were encircling the camp. This wasn’t the usual behaviour of relief convoys. It felt more like how he’d seen militias operate.

  His fears were justified when armed militiamen jumped out of the trucks that had encircled the camp. They were dressed in green army fatigues, with chequered red scarves round their heads covering all of their faces except for the eyes. They had belts of bullets round their bodies and carried AK 47s.

  These most definitely were loaded.

  The militiamen ran towards them and opened fire. Abdi shuddered as the man beside him was shot in the head and crumpled to the floor. Bullets flew past so close that he heard the loud crack of the displaced air. Abdi’s son shrieked. Another man fell to the ground, a fountain of blood spurting from his neck in bursts all over Abdi’s legs. Abdi knelt down and tried to stop the flow from the gaping exit wound. The man stared at him, clutching Abdi’s arms and making gurgling sounds. The white of his eyes went red, and Abdi knew he was dead.

  Screams and cries went up throughout the camp as news of the attack spread and more victims fell. It was a small camp, barely a thousand people, all from the same sub-clan of the Isaaq clan. They had little to defend themselves with. It would be a massacre. Abdi grabbed his son’s hand, spun round, and limped as fast as he could back to his hut.

  It was too late. The lead trucks had caught up with them. Abdi glanced over his shoulder. A truck hit two of the young men in the back. There was a crunch and shouts of surprise, then it crushed them with its large wheels.

  The first truck overtook Abdi and Khalid. It came to a sudden halt, blocking their way. Its passenger door swung open. An imposing man in full military gear jumped to the ground. He had an army-green cap, dark mirror sunglasses and wore a belt of ammunition round his neck. Abdi’s heart sank even further: the man looked like the typical warlords he’d seen across Somalia, looting and pillaging their way to power. There would be no pleading for mercy with this murderer.

  The warlord took slow steps towards them and stood there, studying them. Abdi’s pulse raced and even more sweat than usual poured down his face and into his eyes, making them sting. He didn’t dare wipe the sweat away in case the warlord misinterpreted the movement as a threat. His good leg shook with fear. He put more weight onto his stick, but his arm was tiring too. His head went faint. The ground seemed to be moving. People’s voices and the sound of gunfire fell into the background.

  All he knew was here. Now.

  He clenched his fist round the stick to stop his arm trembling. Next to him, Khalid whimpered, like a frightened puppy. Abdi tightened his grip on his son’s hand in a gesture of comfort, but it only succeeded in making Khalid whimper even more.

  The warlord took several steps closer until he was just a few inches from Abdi, both of them face to face. He had cold, dark eyes. He was chewing a ball of qat, occasionally turning away to spit out some leaves. Abdi could smell the warlord’s putrid breath as he opened a mouth full of rotten and blackened teeth with bits of qat stuck between them. Abdi shivered involuntarily, despite the midday heat. He looked down in a gesture of submission. Khalid started to cry.

  Two militiamen appeared behind the warlord. The warlord pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Abdi’s head. He pushed Abdi to the ground, forcing him to kneel. The warlord and the two men laughed, clutching their bellies as though this was all a joke.

  ‘Are you a weakling, like the rest of them?’ the warlord said.

  Abdi shut his eyes and prayed under his breath. ‘In the name of Allah, with whose name nothing can cause harm, on earth or in the heavens. Allah is the Hearer and Knower of all things.’

  ‘I asked you a question,’ the warlord said. Abdi felt a sharp blow to his cheek, but he stood his ground, refusing to fall over. ‘Have you lost your tongue? Or shall we slice it out?’

  The warlord and his men laughed again. Abdi clenched his teeth. Rage poured through him like hot lava, mixing with the ice cold fear. He forced himself to stay still. Any movement, any sign of aggression, would certainly end in their immediate death. He repeated his prayer and waited. But nothing happened.

  After a while, he opened his eyes. Three white men had joined the warlord, who had put his pistol away. They were dressed in black combat gear, with a small badge with two rifles and a shield on their chests. They wore sunglasses and their hair was short. They had knives and guns and grenades and ammunition hanging from their belts and were holding ugly-looking machineguns. They weren’t dressed quite like the American soldiers Abdi had met 10 years ago. Maybe they were secret agents or mercenaries. They chatted with the warlord just out of earshot, occasionally glancing at Abdi and Khalid.

  ‘They’ll do,’ the warlord shouted, pointing at Abdi and his son. ‘Put them in the truck.’

  Two militiamen grabbed Abdi and Khalid by the arms and dragged them towards the lead truck while the three white men walked away. Khalid screamed in protest. One of the militiamen punched him once in the side of the head and a second time in the mouth. Abdi gasped as his son collapsed to the ground, blood pouring down his chin. The other man grunted and kicked Abdi in his bad leg, sending him sprawling head-first into the dust, his mouth filling with dirt and pebbles.

  The militiamen picked them up and threw them into the front of the truck. Abdi scrambled round to check his son, who was still unconscious, his head lolling around over the edge of the front seat. He carefully shifted his son into a more comfortable position and cradled his head in his lap. Both of them were covered in blood: their own and those of others.

  The whole sequence of events had only taken a few moments, yet Abdi felt like time had stood still. He’d been oblivious to everything else around him. But now the s
ound of the truck door slamming shut brought him back to reality. He watched the two militiamen check their guns. One of the militiamen stayed next to the truck. The other ran ahead with the warlord into the camp.

  Abdi’s vision had always been good, but for once he wished he was blind. People screamed and ran in all directions, trampling whoever fell to the ground. The militiamen laughed, shooting into the air and then at the IDPs. Mothers called for their children. Fathers pleaded on their knees for their families’ lives before being shot at point blank range.

  A group of militiamen pulled a screaming woman out of a hut, still clutching her baby. They tore the baby from her grasp and threw it to the ground. One of the men crushed its skull with the butt of his AK 47. Then they fired a round of semi-automatic fire at it, ripping it apart and splattering bits of flesh and blood and bone all over the woman, who shrieked. Tears poured down Abdi’s face as he recognised the woman as one of his elder brother’s daughters. Anger rose within him as the men repeatedly raped her, sparking a flood of memories of his own wife’s rape and murder years ago. A sense of helplessness washed over him.

  The guard just outside the truck was stuffing more qat leaves into his mouth, glancing in the direction of the violence as though it was nothing special.

  How could humans sink so low? Was this Allah’s punishment for their sins?

  In Abdi’s lap, Khalid stirred and tried to sit up, but Abdi forced him down again.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, attempting to sound soothing while stroking his hair. ‘Just rest.’

  The last thing he wanted was for his son to see these atrocities. He’d seen enough already in his short life. Khalid vomited what little was in his stomach all over his father’s lap.

  More militiamen poured into the camp. Some of them drove their relief trucks, crushing the huts under the large treaded wheels, sending bits of wood flying and leaving a wreck of plastic sheeting in their wake. Abdi’s younger brother escaped from a hut just before it got run over. His brother was running as fast as he could, and for a few seconds it looked like he might get away. Then one of the militiamen leant out of a truck and pointed his AK 47. There was a short burst of gunfire. His brother collapsed, his arm sticking up at an odd angle.