The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  ‘So?’

  ‘He wants to publish tomorrow. He wants the copy by the end of today.’

  Anne walked towards the open window and looked at the street below. ‘You can’t do this, Jerome. It’s a huge mistake. Why didn’t you make your case?’

  ‘I can’t argue with him. Just like I don’t want to argue with you. You’re both too opinionated and neither of you listen.’

  ‘You think I’m opinionated?’

  ‘Look, please, just stop it, will you? I’m going to send in my story and go and hide in the Alps or somewhere until it all dies down.’

  Anne turned away from the window, her mouth wide open. ‘It’s too late for that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’ve tracked us down. In the grey Ford across the road. Keeps on looking up. I think he saw me.’

  ‘How do you know it’s one of Harry’s guys?’

  She turned back to look out of the window.

  Her voice was shaking.

  ‘Because it is Harry.’

  Chapter 24

  Paris, France

  22 September 2003

  Harry hung up his phone and stared out of the car. How could people be so incompetent? He’d made it perfectly clear to Jenny yesterday that he wanted the contact details of all of Jerome’s friends and colleagues in Paris. He’d emphasised the ‘all’, but it obviously hadn’t registered in her dense brain. Edward had told him to use her for this assignment because ‘she’s trustworthy’, although it was more likely that Edward just enjoyed screwing her and didn’t really care whether she had brains or not.

  Jenny had compiled a list of Jerome’s friends, including with photos. None one them even remotely looked like the woman Harry had crossed outside Jerome’s hospital room. It was obvious she was a close friend or colleague of Jerome’s. Why else would she be there?

  The phone rang.

  ‘Hi Harry, it’s Jenny again.’

  Harry grunted.

  ‘I’ve located them through a contact at the Agence France Presse,’ she said. ‘He’s staying with a woman called Anne Gaillac. She’s a professor and runs the political science department at Sciences Po. Heavily critical of NGOs. Wrote a book about them last year that was well received in the press, although the NGOs didn’t like it.’

  ‘What did she have to say about them?’

  ‘Here’s what the Guardian said: “Anne Gaillac offers a much-needed critique of the global aid industry, dominated by a handful of NGOs that control public perceptions of global poverty. She argues that the aid elite imposes an outdated model of development based on hand-outs that promote dependency and poverty, and that they are as much a part of the dominant political economy as are the multinational corporations that they frequently criticise.” Shall I continue?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I get the gist of it,’ Harry said. ‘So, where does she live, this professor Anne Gaillac?’

  ‘Rue de l’Etoile, off the Avenue de Wagram, half way down. I’ll text you the details.’

  Harry hung up. Maybe Jenny wasn’t quite that thick. Either way, it didn’t matter. His phone buzzed. The text with Anne’s address popped into the inbox. He hoped Jerome would still be there. Or at least, if he wasn’t, someone who knew where he was—preferably Anne.

  The phone rang again. It was Laurent. Harry gave him Anne’s address and agreed to meet him outside. Thirty minutes later, Harry was parked in his rented grey Ford across the road from Anne’s apartment.

  Rue de l’Etoile was a typical Parisian side street, with its row of cars on each side, the tall stone buildings with the quaint balconies, the narrow pavements, the baker’s shop on the corner and the see-through plastic dustbins. A white-haired woman opened a window on the first floor and disappeared back into her apartment.

  Harry smiled to himself. That was definitely the woman from the hospital. He hadn’t liked the way she’d followed him into the car park and played around with her phone, quite clearly taking pictures of him. Had she put Interpol on his tail? Did she really think she could outwit him?

  Laurent appeared, walking down from the Avenue de Wagram. He looked like a bulldog, with his broken nose, flattened ears and grim expression. Yet looks were deceiving, because the guy was smart. Harry still wasn’t sure whether he trusted him. Laurent harboured an unhelpful sense of morality. He’d seemed shocked when Harry had shot the two Interpol agents in the Gare du Nord, yet it had been necessary. The more enemies you took out of the game, the less chance you had of being caught. It was simple warfare strategy. Morality played no part in this.

  Laurent climbed into the front passenger side.

  ‘All set?’ he asked.

  Harry grunted.

  ‘I’ve done a recce,’ Laurent said. ‘All clear. So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘We break quietly into the apartment. And I mean very quietly. Don’t want to alert the neighbours. We tie up the woman, extract information from her. We do the same to the journo. Then we finish them off. Simple.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just give them a good kicking?’

  ‘For God’s sake, quit arguing for once.’

  Laurent looked down, chastised, but his fists were clenched. Harry toyed with the idea of leaving him in the car, then decided to stick to the plan. Laurent was an expert lock-picker, and French locks were notoriously difficult. He’d sort out the situation with him another time.

  Harry glanced up. Anne was leaning on the balcony railing, looking straight at him, a look of horror on her face. He smiled and waved. He looked at the entrance to the block of flats: the door was opening and an old woman peered through. The timing was perfect, as most French buildings had electronic pass codes.

  He pulled on his gloves and checked his coat pockets for the sound suppressor, Beretta and Gaffa tape. He nudged Laurent in the ribs.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  He went for the door just as it was about to shut. The old woman looked at him suspiciously. He ignored her. Laurent followed him into the small hallway. On the right were shelves of post-boxes with the names of the residents written on them. Straight ahead was an elevator in a metal cage. Spiralling around the elevator cage was a stairway with a dark red carpet.

  ‘This way,’ Harry said.

  He leapt up the stairs three at a time like an excited boy arriving at a party. Anne’s apartment was the one to the right on the first floor.

  He pointed at the three locks on the heavy wooden front door. ‘Get a move on.’

  Laurent pulled some wires and small screwdrivers from his pocket. He fiddled with the locks. Twenty seconds later, he stood back and nodded. Harry turned the handle.

  There was nobody in the hallway or the living room. Just a few empty glasses and a half-full bottle of red wine on the table next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The curtains were drawn, making it difficult to make out the furniture, although it was hard to miss the bookcase that took up the whole far wall, laden with row upon row of books and tomes.

  There was a door next to the bookcase. Harry kicked it open. There was a blur of movement. He ducked. A large piece of wood sliced the air above him. Someone cursed. He spun round to the right, grabbed Anne’s throat and shoved his gun into her face.

  ‘What have we got here?’ he said. ‘A professor with a violent streak? Here, let me take this. You won’t need it anymore.’

  He plucked from her grip a long wooden carving of two Africans carrying pots on their heads. It was a typical curio that most tourists brought back from their trips to Africa.

  ‘You were hoping to knock me out with this?’ he said. ‘How sweet.’

  He shoved Anne away. She fell on her backside. She winced but bit her lip. Harry turned to Jerome, who was lying in the bed, propped up on his elbows, his eyes wide.

  ‘What’s this? The pesky little journo. Well, my good friend, I’m going to finish off what I should have done in Kibera. This time, I’m going to make sure it’s done properly.’

  Harry felt exhil
arated. It was the thrill of having others entirely within his power, the prospect of being able to decide whether they would live or die. His eyes glinted with anticipation. He pulled the sound suppressor out of his coat pocket and fitted it to the tip of his gun. This always sparked even more fear into the heart of his enemies as it signalled their coming execution.

  He glanced round at Laurent, who was standing in the doorway and staring at Anne and Jerome.

  ‘Guard the entrance,’ Harry said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the front door to the apartment.

  Laurent hesitated.

  ‘Move it,’ Harry commanded, taking a step towards Laurent, who hurried away.

  Anne was climbing back to her feet. Her face was twisted with barely controlled rage. She was a feisty one. Shame she was so old.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ she said. ‘You won’t get away with this.’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  ‘We’ve got enough material to put you away for the rest of your life.’

  ‘And what may that be, old woman?’ She was way too confident for someone whose life was about to end. He pointed the gun at her face, but she didn’t flinch. ‘I’ll say that again: what may that be?’

  Anne hesitated. Harry sneered.

  But then she spoke, slowly and confidently: ‘We know all about the false appeal and what’s happening in Somaliland. We know about your links to Othman Ali Hassan and MainShield. We’ve got hard evidence. Bank transfer receipts, photos, confidential documents. We’ve been building a case, and it’s going to come out sooner than you think.’

  Harry frowned. Was she bluffing? She looked like a tough one: interrogating her would take too long. Jerome, on the other hand, looked like a good candidate. Harry whacked him in the face with the butt of his gun. Jerome tried to let out a cry, but Harry muffled it with his hand.

  ‘Sshhh. No crying out, or I’ll shoot your kneecaps off.’

  Harry pulled out the Gaffa tape. He twisted Jerome round and secured his hands behind his back. He did the same to his feet. He ripped a piece of cloth from the bedcover, stuffed it into Jerome’s mouth and wound some Gaffa tape round Jerome’s head to keep it in place. He did all this in a few expert moves, barely giving Jerome the time to register what was happening.

  ‘Bring that over here,’ he barked at Anne, pointing to a wooden chair in the corner. She glared at him, but did as she was told.

  Harry picked Jerome up and dropped him onto the chair. Tears welled up in Jerome’s eyes and he let out a stifled cry. Harry threw the Gaffa tape to Anne.

  ‘Now, you old hag, you’re going to tape his arms and legs to the chair, to avoid him falling off like this.’

  Harry kicked out with his left foot, landing it hard on Jerome’s chest and making the chair topple over backwards with a crash. The back of Jerome’s head smashed against the floor. Anne rushed to pick him up.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Harry said. Anne glared at him. He waved his gun at her. ‘Come on, tape him up.’

  Anne fumbled with the tape and attached Jerome to the chair.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, pointing his gun at Anne. ‘Now, tell me everything. What you’re writing, what you’re publishing, who your contacts are.’

  Anne glanced at the bed when Harry mentioned writing. There was a lump in the middle of it, under the covers.

  ‘Aha, what’s this?’ he said.

  He rummaged under the sheets and blankets and pulled out Jerome’s laptop. He flipped open the cover. It was still on.

  ‘What’s the login and password?’

  ‘No idea,’ Anne said, looking crestfallen.

  ‘Don’t mess with me, missus.’

  Harry ripped the Gaffa tape and gag from Jerome’s mouth. Jerome cried out. Harry punched him in the stomach and the face with such force the chair nearly toppled over again.

  ‘Login? Password?’ Harry said.

  Jerome gasped for breath. Blood poured from his nose. ‘Geronimo. AFP123.’

  Sirens echoed in the street. Harry rushed to the window. ‘Cops. Damn. Armed response. What they doing here?’ He shouted: ‘Laurent, what’s going on?’

  Laurent rushed into the room, clutching his phone. Harry caught a flicker of gratitude in Anne’s eyes. He snatched Laurent’s phone and looked at the last number called.

  ‘You son of a bitch,’ Harry said. ‘You called them.’

  Laurent spread out his hands in a gesture of ignorance. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You’re still with Interpol, aren’t you? Just like this piece of shit here,’ Harry said, pointing at Anne. ‘I should have guessed.’ Harry aimed his gun at Laurent.

  Before Harry could blink, Laurent had stepped to one side and pivoted on his left foot. His left hand shot out to grab Harry’s wrist. His right hand fell on Harry’s hand in a chopping motion to knock the gun to the floor.

  Harry lifted his elbow and twisted to release his wrist from Laurent’s grip. He continued with his movement, the tip of his elbow crashing into Laurent’s nose. There was a sharp crack as bone broke bone. Laurent grunted, but kept moving, pummelling Harry with both fists in the chest and head.

  Harry knew he had little chance in a straightforward fistfight against Laurent. He ducked and blocked the blows with his arms. He took a step back and heard a crack as he crushed the laptop, which had fallen to the floor. He dived to where the gun had fallen.

  It wasn’t there.

  Harry looked around, trying to locate it.

  The police vans screeched to a halt outside.

  ‘You looking for something, Harry?’ Anne said.

  She was pointing the gun right at him. He lifted both hands. She smiled, victory and determination written all over her face. Next to her, Jerome had somehow cut his bonds and was leaning against the wall, clutching his stomach with one hand, holding a paper cutter with the other. Laurent was blocking the doorway.

  Harry lunged at Anne, pushing the gun aside and punching her in the throat. A strange gargling came out of her mouth. She clutched her neck. The gun fell to the floor. Laurent dived for it, but Harry beat him to it. He spun round, fired two rounds into Laurent’s chest and one into his forehead. Laurent collapsed backwards.

  Harry pointed his gun at where Anne and Jerome had been, but they’d disappeared. He rolled out of the bedroom, aiming his gun in the direction he expected them to be. Just a half open front door. Car doors slammed outside. The cops were on their way.

  There was a window in the landing. He yanked it open. It led to an indoor courtyard. There was a metal ladder leading up the outside wall. Harry swung through the open window. He climbed the rungs rapidly. He hauled himself onto the roof. Behind him, the front door of the apartment crashed open. A cop’s head poked out beneath him. There was a burst of sub-machinegun fire. The bullets missed him by inches.

  Harry leapt onto the next roof-top and hid behind a chimney. He peered round. The armed police burst onto the roof where he’d just been. They looked around, but couldn’t see him. He crawled along the roof and let himself down a fire escape onto Rue de Wagram. He pocketed his gun and smoothed his jacket. His enemies were good, but they were no way near as good as him.

  Nevertheless, he had a problem. Jerome and Anne were still alive and now protected by the cops. Interpol was closer onto his case than he’d realised. Anne knew about his links with MainShield and Othman.

  Harry walked up to the Avenue des Champs Elysées. He entered a café and ordered a double espresso and a croissant. He had two options: either speak to Edward, explain the situation and face his wrath; or try again to kill Jerome and Anne.

  Better to try again. He couldn’t let Edward down.

  He scrolled through his contacts list on his phone until he came to Gérard Dechamps, the head of the Parisian police. He knew a thing or two about Gérard that he probably didn’t want made public.

  Harry smiled. Nobody said this would be easy. He downed his espresso, took a large bite fro
m his croissant, and marched off without paying. He’d ring Gérard and get him to track Jerome and Anne so that he could execute them once and for all.

  But first, Harry had to take the high-speed train to the south of France.

  He had to attend a meeting that would seal his plans.

  Chapter 25

  Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Kenya

  22 September 2003

  ‘Stanley Hotel,’ Jim said to the dreadlocked cab driver as they headed away from Nairobi’s international airport. He glanced over his shoulder through the back window. A wiry man with a green cap was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette and studying their car.

  Maxine squeezed Jim’s hand. ‘You sure it’s a good idea? Shouldn’t we stay at another hotel?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.’ Jim sounded more confident than he felt. He looked out of the window at the moving traffic. ‘Anyway, how did you escape from Nasir in the car park in Addis?’

  ‘You were gone for ages, so we had a long talk. I explained I was no more in love with UA than you were. He didn’t believe me at first, but eventually I convinced him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I explained my background, my parents, my sister and all that. He understood and decided to help. He knew I was no good all tied up.’

  ‘So he just handed back your phone and let you wander off?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Maxine said, a hint of exasperation in her voice. ‘We agreed I should look for you in the hotel while he got ready to follow you if they decided to bring you in. But we lost you in the traffic. We laid low for the night and decided I’d try the airport in the morning. I knew you’d be heading for Nairobi. If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.’

  ‘No need to get upset. It’s not as if your track record’s perfect.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Any idea how we can find him?’ Jim said. ‘I left my phone in his truck.’

  ‘He went off after dropping me at Addis airport. Didn’t say where he was going, and I didn’t ask.’

  The taxi was stuck in the typical Nairobi traffic jams. On the side of the road, squatters crouched in small groups while their children played in the dirt. Behind them was a ‘matatu’ minibus plastered with reflective decals and overflowing with passengers. In front, a taxi had broken down, the driver peering into the open bonnet amid a cloud of steam. Horns blared.