Abdi sat completely still as the carnage continued. The militiamen were systematically going through all the huts, dragging out anyone they found, man, woman or child. They seemed in a hurry now, no more raping, just screams and gunfire as each person was summarily executed.
‘Father, what’s happening?’
Khalid was sitting up beside him.
‘Why are they doing this?’ Khalid said.
‘They are evil men, my son. Allah’s judgement will be on them. Now lie back down and don’t watch.’
The young boy was staring ahead, transfixed. Abdi followed his gaze. There, 20 metres in front of them, was Abdi’s sister, Faadumo, being dragged by the hair by a young militiaman with a hungry look in his eyes. She was screaming and trying to break free.
Khalid opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Faadumo had been like a mother to him since his own mother had died. Abdi had turned to Faadumo for help to care for his only son, and she had done so kindly and willingly.
Khalid pulled the door handle and kicked the door open with astonishing strength, sending it crashing against the guard, who yelped.
Abdi shouted, ‘No!’ but his son didn’t listen.
Khalid jumped out of the truck and ran towards his aunt, who by now was being viciously kicked in the sides. The young boy hurled himself at her attacker, clinging to his back and tearing at his face with his long finger nails that had hardened years ago into tough claws. But Khalid’s benefit of surprise didn’t last long. The militiaman spun round so fast the boy was sent flying and landed in a heap.
Khalid tried to get to his feet, but he was concussed. With three long strides, the militiaman was standing over Khalid, his rifle raised high above him, the butt pointing at the boy’s head.
Abdi felt like his heart had stopped beating as he watched the scene unfold. His son raised his arm in a futile gesture of self-defence. The rifle butt smashed through it into his upturned face. Abdi thought he could hear the crack of metal against bone from inside the truck, although he knew he was just imagining it. Khalid collapsed backwards and remained motionless on the ground. The militiaman turned his rifle round and pointed it at him.
Abdi put his head in his hands. He couldn’t bear to watch what he knew was coming next: his only son being executed by a militiaman who was barely 18. A wave of hatred came over him. He’d lived years in refugee camps across East Africa, but he’d never felt so helpless and bitter.
He heard a shout. He peered through the gaps in his fingers. The warlord was barking orders. The militiaman had run off, leaving Abdi’s son lying on the floor, blood streaming from his head. Faadumo was lying next to him, heaving with sobs. Her robes were ripped, revealing parts of her battered body that in normal circumstances would have been unacceptable.
The militiamen had wandered off into the centre of the camp. The gunfire seemed further away. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Abdi stumbled out of the truck and limped over to his son’s body. He tapped Faadumo with his stick, but she didn’t respond. He leant down to shake her shoulders. She shrieked and spun round, lifting her hand to protect her face. She lowered it when she saw who it was.
Abdi had to summon all his remaining willpower in order to speak. ‘Is he dead?’
Faadumo nodded and started crying again, her body shaking. Abdi bent down to pick up his son, who was so thin that he felt like a bunch of sticks wrapped in clothes. He carried the boy back to the truck. Abdi didn’t have a clue why they’d decided to put him in the truck, when they were so intent on massacring everybody else in the camp, but he’d make sure his son’s body was with him whatever happened. It was all he had left.
He sat in the passenger seat, stroking Khalid’s hair, as he used to when his son was a toddler and couldn’t sleep because of nightmares. He watched Faadumo crawl into a hut to hide, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Two salivating dogs followed her.
Abdi looked down at his son. His cheek bones and nose were smashed and his right eye was all puffed up. But suddenly Khalid coughed, and Abdi cried out.
‘You’re alive. Praise Allah!’
The boy coughed again. His father studied his head and body. There were no bullet wounds. For some reason, the militiaman had decided not to shoot. Abdi thanked Allah and felt his determination come back.
This must be a sign not to give up.
The driver’s door swung open. The warlord peered in, his face one big dirty grin behind his shiny sunglasses. He spat out some qat leaves and said: ‘Good to see you’re still with us. It’s time to go soon.’
The warlord turned round and bellowed more orders. Abdi could see the militiamen walk back towards their trucks, carrying whatever loot they had found, which wasn’t much. Some of them were laughing, probably recounting stories of raping and killing.
The militiamen crowded round the rear of his truck. Abdi looked in the wing mirror. They were leaving their AK 47s on the floor. Someone was handing them machetes from the back of the truck. They gathered in groups, still chatting and laughing and chewing qat. Some of them hit the flat of their machetes against the palm of their hand. The three white men were here again, pointing and speaking to the warlord, as though giving instructions.
The warlord nodded and stepped out to face his militiamen.
‘You know what to do now, so do it well and do it quick,’ he commanded. ‘We’ve no time to lose. Come back here once you’re done. We’ll build the display over there, near that row of huts.’ He pointed to a spot a few metres away.
The militiamen sauntered off. Abdi held his breath. They’d already massacred most of the camp’s population. What more damage could they do?
Then he saw it, and cried out in horror.
A militiaman was dragging Faadumo out of her hut by the hair. She wasn’t moving. Abdi prayed to Allah that she was unconscious or dead. The man placed her on the floor, lifted his machete and hacked off her head in three strokes. He lifted her head and threw it behind him, where it landed with a dull thud.
Abdi’s head was reeling. He thought he was going to pass out. His mouth was as dry as the desert sand. He cried out to Allah for strength and put his hand on the dashboard to steady himself. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes.
When he opened them a few minutes later, he saw what the warlord had ordered his men to do. Hundreds of militiamen were walking back towards the convoy, carrying the decapitated heads of dead IDPs. The ground was dark and muddy with blood. Even the sky had gone dark, as though the sun was ashamed of what was happening on earth. Some of the men were neatly piling the heads on top of each other, like a war trophy from hell. They stood back and admired their work: a mound of severed heads.
The warlord walked in front of the truck, speaking heatedly to the tallest of the white men. They shook hands, and the warlord climbed back into the truck, holding a walkie talkie.
He grinned again at Abdi: ‘One day, you’ll thank me for saving you and your son’s life.’
There was a crackle on the walkie talkie. The warlord barked more orders. The convoy drove away, leaving behind it a nightmarish scene of devastation and death.
Chapter 23
Paris, France
22 September 2003
Jerome was feeling a bit better. The stitches in his stomach hurt like mad, and he was incapable of eating much, but he felt better in his head and the painkillers helped. Anne had moved him to her small flat in Rue de l’Etoile, just near the Arc de Triomphe in central Paris. It was a lovely little place, with a dark red carpet with elaborate motifs, high ceilings, a wooden coffee table that unfolded to become a backgammon table, and a small balcony with curved metal railings. Best of all, it had access to the internet, which meant that Jerome could continue researching and writing up his stories about Universal Action. Today was the second day he’d found the strength to sit up in bed with the laptop on his knees to do some work.
Anne stepped into the bedroom and stood there, studying him with her sparkly blue eyes. She was dressed in a long
black robe, had an old shawl draped round her neck and was holding a paper notepad to her chest.
‘What you looking at?’ Jerome said.
Anne smiled gently. ‘I’m looking at you. Good to see you’re well enough to do some work. Breakfast?’
‘Not hungry.’
‘No complaining please.’ She winked. ‘You should be grateful you’re alive.’
He pointed at her notepad. ‘What’s that?’
She handed it to him. He winced in pain as he took hold of it.
‘It’s my diary,’ she said.
He leafed through it. Her writing was so neat and typically French, with beautiful curls for the capital letters. The dates were written in pink and the text in black, with sections underlined in red for emphasis. One word jumped out instantly.
Harry.
It was all over the pages of the past few days, underlined repeatedly in red. An entry from a couple of days ago said: ‘Chased after man who intruded on Jerome in the hospital. It’s the infamous Harry of UA. Called Interpol and gave Harry’s description and car details. They despatched a team.’
Jerome shuddered. The very thought of Harry made him break out in cold sweat. Last night he’d dreamt about the incident on the Kibera rubbish tip and woke up with his heart thumping like a pneumatic drill. Harry’s sneering face remained embedded in his brain. Feelings of helplessness, bitterness and revenge swelled up inside him. He tried to bottle them up. He was having enough problems coping with the pain from the injuries.
‘What happened to the Interpol team they sent after him?’ he said.
‘Carnage.’ Anne’s faced clouded over. ‘He shot two of them in the middle of Gare du Nord, then escaped. Nobody knows where he is.’
Harry on the loose was not good news. He had connections into every part of the worst of French society: from the secret service, to the police, to the mob. It was just a matter of time before he found Jerome’s trail again.
Anne sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you getting on with your story? Is it publishable?’
‘I spoke to my editor at the AFP. He reckons Le Monde may be interested in buying it. We just need to check a few facts.’
‘The UA lawyers will land on you like a tonne of bricks if your story isn’t watertight.’
‘They’ll land on me like a tonne of bricks anyway.’
She gazed out of the window. ‘Why do you think it’s come to this?’
‘Come to what?’
‘Why’s UA sunk so low so quickly?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Since Edward and Harry joined UA, they’ve turned it into a criminal enterprise.’ Jerome started counting on his fingers to emphasise his points, his hands shaking with barely controlled indignation. ‘First, they hired private detectives to spy on the rest of the senior management team. Second, they got Frederic Grantely to step down as CEO of Universal Action, citing family reasons, so Edward could replace him.’
‘They blackmailed Frederic? How? The man’s a saint.’
‘Harry set up a bank account in Frederic’s name and transferred money from UA into it. Claimed Frederic was committing fraud and threatened to go to the press.’
Anne shook her head in disgust.
‘Where was I?’ Jerome said, massaging his forehead. The pain was confusing his thoughts. ‘Oh yes. Third, they linked up with that mercenary outfit, MainShield International.’
‘Now they’re a dangerous bunch. Who are they in touch with there? Marion Smith?’
‘Correct,’ Jerome said, annoyed at Anne’s constant interruptions.
‘A tough bitch. One of the few women in the world of private military companies. Any idea what they’re planning?’
‘Not yet, but I’m looking,’ Jerome said. ‘Fourth is their links with the Somali warlord, Othman Ali Hassan. From what you’ve told me, Interpol thinks Harry and Othman had some kind of involvement in the massacres. Fifth—’
‘Okay, okay.’ Anne waved her hand dismissively. ‘I get it. Still, it’s not that easy to corrupt a whole organisation like that. I mean, for God’s sake, UA was a respected charity, like Oxfam or Care International. It wasn’t exactly the mafia.’
She opened a draw in the coffee table and pulled out a packet of filterless cigarettes. She started smoking energetically. Soon the room was filled in a thin cloud of smoke. Jerome coughed, but she either didn’t notice, or just chose to ignore him.
‘D’you mind opening the window? I can’t stand that stuff.’
‘Sorry.’ Anne walked across the room, her long black robes gliding behind her, making her look like some kind of sorceress with her short white hair. She unslid the lock and opened the window. A gust of fresh air flowed in.
‘That’s better,’ Jerome said. ‘Hiring Harry as head of security was a stroke of genius from Edward’s perspective. Military background, ruthless character, outwardly a charmer, believes the ends justifies the means.’
‘Although I hear Edward wasn’t too impressed with Harry when you escaped from Kibera.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘Can’t you tell me?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus, Anne.’ Jerome sighed. ‘What does that mean for me?’
‘It means you’re in even more danger than you think. Harry’s a bastard at the best of times, but he’s a complete bastard when he’s bitter. He needs to prove to Edward that he’s worthy of his trust. I suspect that’s why he’s here to kill you.’
‘To prove himself to Edward?’
‘Exactly.’
Jerome fell back into his pile of pillows, exhausted again.
‘I don’t think you should be publishing anything yet,’ Anne said, stubbing out her cigarette on a glass ashtray.
Jerome was shocked. This wasn’t like Anne. Usually, she was belligerent and energetic, always ready to denounce injustice and the excesses of power. Students crowded into her lectures at the Institut de Sciences Politiques and thousands read her articles in Le Monde Diplomatique for her strong views on the imminent collapse of the global capitalist system and the rise of a new democracy.
Anne must have noticed his surprise, because she frowned and continued: ‘Look, this isn’t any old article. It’s not your average piece of work criticising the G8 or the EU or whoever. This is Universal Action you’re writing about. The world’s largest NGO, with an annual budget of 10 billion dollars, and two psychos running it.’
‘Why then wait to publish? The longer I wait, the more chance they have of killing my story, and probably me too while they’re at it. I can’t let them get away with this.’
Anne picked up a paper cutter from the small table next to her and played with it. ‘I don’t think you’ve got all the intel you need to make a strong story.’
‘What you talking about? The story’s solid.’
‘Hmm. What’s your angle?’
Jerome pressed the space bar on his laptop to wake it from sleep mode.
‘The story’s going to be that Universal Action is exaggerating claims of a famine in the Horn of Africa. I quote sources from within UA and other agencies such as UNDP saying the famine isn’t as bad as UA claims. I’m going to show how no other agency is putting out an appeal, not even the UK’s Disasters Emergency Committee.’
Anne pursed her lips. ‘Are your sources on the record?’
‘All except one.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A woman in UA.’
‘Her name?’
‘Fabienne Duponchel,’ he said.
‘Good old Fabienne?’
‘You know her?’
‘We studied together at the Sorbonne. She’s a wonderful person to have on our side. Honest, but quite a temper.’
A bit like you, he felt like saying. ‘She’s told me about the massacres in the IDP camps. She discovered the first one. Says it’s terror tactics. To scare the population.’
Anne put the paper cutter back on the table. ‘Sure, but that
can’t be everything. There’s something else behind this.’
‘But what?’
‘That’s your job to investigate. The real story resides there. It’s not surprising Fabienne doesn’t want to go on the record. It would jeopardise her position and prevent her digging further.’ Anne frowned. ‘What evidence do you have apart from the quotes? Any hard data?’
Jerome rolled his eyes. Anne was treating him like one of her students. He opened another document on his computer and started to skim through it.
‘I’ve got a report from UNHCR about food security in Somaliland from earlier this year. They say there are risks of famine, but no cause for alarm.’
Anne lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘What do you think?’ Jerome said.
‘Not good enough.’
‘For God’s sake, Anne, we have to start somewhere.’
‘UA will deny all that. What about everything else we just discussed?’
‘I have no evidence for that,’ he said. ‘Just hearsay. Can’t you give me anything more substantial? Some real evidence for once?’
‘I’m not the journalist here. You are.’ She threw her arms in the air, sending cigarette ash flying everywhere. ‘If you publish now, you lose your chance to make a big splash when you find out what’s really going on. They’ll know you don’t know what they’re up to. They’ll roll out all their PR machinery to stop you saying anything else. That’s if they don’t kill you before.’
A phone rang. It was the landline. Anne picked up the receiver and spoke into it. She handed it to Jerome. ‘It’s your editor. How does he know you’re here?’
‘I told him.’
Jerome mumbled a few yeses and nos, then handed the phone back to Anne.
‘You can hang up,’ he said. ‘He has.’
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