Harry stepped off the afternoon train at Banyuls Sur Mer station. He’d come to meet Othman and someone else who was equally important. They had things to discuss that would change the shape of Africa. He smiled to himself. This would be his very own mini-Yalta conference, deciding the fate of Africa just as Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin decided the fate of the world after World War II.
Despite being past its peak, the sun was still beating down hard across a clear-blue sky. Harry glanced at his watch: 4.32pm. He was right on time. Perfect. He walked casually through the winding, narrow streets of Banyuls, down a set of cobbled steps, through the pedestrian area with its cosy restaurants and sea-side shops, to the Place Paul Reig, the town’s main square. Every so often, he stopped and pretended to admire the scenery, while checking that nobody was following him. A few tourists sat outside the cafés, sipping their drinks and watching children play. Everything seemed fine.
He crossed the main road and walked towards the tourist office. He looked at his watch again: 4.51pm. Still perfect. He smiled smugly at his ability to plan so smoothly. He was like Edward: he didn’t like wasting time.
He bought a ticket for the sight-seeing train that was scheduled to leave at 5pm from outside the tourist office. The train was waiting there, gleaming in white with yellow patterns, with a huge advert for the Cellier des Templiers, a major wine seller of the region, on its roof. At 4.54pm, Harry took a seat at the back and waited, studying the tourists sitting in front of him and walking past. There was a family with three children, an elderly couple, a group of German tourists. None of them paid him any attention whatsoever. He was confident there was no tail.
Three minutes later, a woman in her mid-40s, dressed in bright red shorts, a white t-shirt and a straw hat, strolled up to the train and sat down next to him. Well built and with a red face burnt by the sun, she looked like a typical American tourist. Harry nodded pleasantly to her, politely acknowledging the presence of a stranger. She nodded back and turned to her guide book, which she studied intensely.
Two minutes after that, at 4.59pm, a tall, well-built and handsome African man, dressed in a colourful shirt, mirror sunglasses and with a large camera round his neck, slipped into the seat next to the American woman. She shifted up to make space for the man, who waved to a group of African friends on the sidewalk as the train moved off at exactly 5pm.
Everything was going to plan.
The train followed the winding road up the hills, through the vineyards, with a rambling commentary in French and English about the region’s exquisite wines and glorious history. Harry, the American and the African sat in silence, gazing out at the rolling countryside and the glittering expanse of sea dotted with small boats. The train stopped at a small white chapel on top of a hill. The driver indicated they would have 10 minutes to walk around and view the scenery.
As the other tourists piled out of the train, Harry turned to his neighbours.
‘All okay?’ he said.
The African nodded. ‘No tail. My men are watching.’
There was no need for introductions. They all knew each other, even though the African and the American had never met. The African was Othman, the Somali warlord. The American was Marion Smith, the deputy CEO of MainShield International, the world’s largest mercenary outfit. A formidable woman, Harry admitted to himself, despite his ingrained scepticism of women in the military. The warlord’s militia and MainShield had already been working together under Harry’s direction, spreading terror in the IDP camps.
They stepped out of the train and walked around, pretending to chat idly, as strangers do when they first meet. Harry pointed to the top of the chapel, as though showing the others an architectural feature he found interesting.
When they were sure nobody was within earshot, Harry spoke first.
‘Othman, give us an update.’
Othman spoke unhurriedly, with authority. ‘We’ve got two witnesses. We’re taking them to Mogadishu.’
‘Make sure they don’t escape.’
‘We’re not amateurs,’ Othman said, his dark glasses glinting in the afternoon sun.
‘Keep them until I say so. Then we’ll release them to the media. It’ll be huge.’
Othman grumbled under this breath. The man had too much pride, thought Harry. He’d done well so far, but you could only trust a Somali warlord up to a point, if ever.
‘The guns?’ Harry asked.
‘Delivered to Mogadishu.’
‘All of them?’
‘AKs, RPGs, machetes, ammo, the lot.’
With MainShield’s help, Harry had arranged for five containers of small arms to be delivered via a Universal Action cargo ship, hidden underneath sacks of grain, barrels of cooking oil and other relief supplies aimed at the camps of the Horn of Africa. They’d handed out a few bribes, and nobody had batted an eyelid. They’d paid for the weapons with Universal Action’s general funds—from the tens of millions of dollars donated each month by the generous American and European public for use by Universal Aid ‘where the need is greatest’, as it stated in its fundraising literature. After a few wire transfers via false NGOs in Kenya and shell companies in the Cayman Islands, the money had made its way to the Libyan arms dealer who had supplied the weapons.
‘I thought it was important for us to meet in person,’ Harry said. ‘It’s not something I’d do often. Too risky.’
Marion nodded in agreement. Othman looked away, across the hills.
Harry continued: ‘Negotiations with the Security Council are going well. We’ll have an answer soon.’ He counted off the fingers on his left hand. ‘The Americans are in favour; the Brits are coming round to the idea; the French are dubious but convincible; and the Russians and Chinese don’t give a damn.’ He looked at Marion. ‘Once the Security Council gives the go ahead, that’s when you move in, fast. Coordinate it with Othman.’
The train driver rang a small bell to indicate time was up. They strolled back and sat in the same seats. The train rumbled on, stopping a few minutes later outside the entrance to a wine cellar that had a sign saying ‘Cellier des Templiers’. A guide took them through darkened caverns, filled with large wooden barrels and piles of dusty bottles, explaining the superiority of the Banyuls wines and their centuries-old process of production.
‘Harry,’ whispered Marion when Othman was out of earshot near the front of the crowd. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Not here.’
‘Yes, here.’
‘Later. Too many people.’
‘No. Now.’
Harry sighed and stepped back, away from the crowd. ‘What is it?’
‘When will you pay?’ Marion said.
‘Shortly. Don’t worry. The transfer’s on its way.’
‘We need the cash. The equipment and troops are ready.’
‘I said don’t worry,’ Harry hissed. Marion was getting irritating. Harry had asked Edward to authorise the payment, but for some reason it hadn’t happened yet.
‘It needs to come through quick. Or the deal falls apart.’
Harry shoved his way to the front of the crowd next to the guide, who was explaining the ageing process for wine.
Harry felt a tap on his arm.
‘Another thing,’ Marion whispered.
‘What?’ he snapped, a bit too loudly. Some of the tourists glared at him.
‘About the convoy.’ She pulled him by the arm into a corner of the wine cellar. ‘The one we hijacked with Othman.’
‘What about it?’
‘What do we do with the team we captured with it?’
‘Not my problem.’
‘Harry, they’re your guys.’
‘Dispose of them. Get Othman to do it. He’s good at that. That’s why we pay him.’
Before she had time to reply, Harry stepped away and followed the guide to the tasting area. It was a brightly coloured room where Othman was already discussing the merits of different wines with the attractive young woman behind the wo
od-panelled counter. He was whirling some wine around in a glass, smelling it before tasting it. Harry was surprised: he thought Muslims didn’t drink alcohol. Othman was obviously an exception.
Harry and Marion shuffled around. The woman was batting her eyelashes at Othman and giggling at some comment he’d just made. Harry sighed in exasperation. He hadn’t come here to watch Othman flirt and drink. He tapped Othman on the shoulder.
‘Let’s talk outside,’ he said.
Othman took off his sunglasses and scowled at Harry. ‘Just a minute.’
‘We don’t have a minute.’
‘I’m busy choosing wine and speaking to this lovely young lady,’ Othman said, flashing a smile at the young woman, who blushed and stroked her hair.
‘Hurry up then.’ Harry stomped away towards Marion, who was studying her guidebook again.
‘Not buying any wine?’ Harry asked her.
‘It’s against my religion.’
‘Oh yes. Of course.’
Harry had forgotten that Marion was a conservative evangelical Christian. How she managed to marry her religious beliefs with leading a mercenary outfit was beyond him. Then again, George W Bush was a religious nutter and warmonger. Bush and her were probably best friends.
Once Othman had bought a crate of the most expensive wine, they sat on wooden benches outside the wine cellar.
‘Where’s the train?’ Othman asked. ‘I need to get back. My men arrive in Mogadishu tomorrow evening and I want to be there to greet them.’
‘It’ll be here soon,’ Marion said. ‘I think it’s gone to pick up another load of tourists.’
‘As I was saying,’ Harry said, ‘once the UN Security Council approves the use of military force by Universal Action, we announce that we’re working with MainShield to implement this. Marion, that’s when your troops move in to invade Somaliland, allegedly to protect all our IDP camps and aid convoys. Othman, that’s when you do a hasty retreat back to Mogadishu. Then wait for my signal. I’ll put you in touch with the right journalists so you can send the two IDP prisoners their way. Once the public hear their story, everyone will be backing our military intervention.’ He looked at Othman and Marion. ‘Got it?’
They both nodded. Othman pried open his crate of wine, picked a bottle and read the label.
‘Once we’ve shown it’s a success and we’ve brought stability back to the region, we then make the case for replicating this across Africa,’ Harry said. ‘Congo, Sudan, every damn place where there’s conflict. Universal Action moves in to restore peace and takes control of government.’
Neither of the others responded. Harry frowned. Were they listening to him? Or maybe they didn’t know what to say. Few people could understand the scale of what he was trying to achieve, apart from Edward. Ending colonisation had been the biggest mistake the West had ever made in its relationship with Africa. Universal Action, the world’s largest NGO, with a presence in every African country, could resume the role of a new coloniser and bring peace and prosperity to the struggling continent.
Othman put the bottle back in the crate and settled his sunglasses back on his nose. ‘Harry, we need to discuss the Greater Somalia at some point. I want to be president.’
Harry nodded, pleased that Othman was showing interest after all. ‘Of course. You help us impose ourselves. Then we delegate day-to-day government to you, so long as you help us replicate in other countries.’
‘Delegate?’
‘UA will maintain overall responsibility for the reunited Somalia. A bit like a protectorate.’
‘That’s not what we agreed with Edward.’
‘In which case, you misunderstood. That’s the deal. Somalia remains under UA’s control and we allow you to govern.’
Othman shot to his feet. ‘We will never accept to become a colony again. Ever.’
Harry also stood up, slowly and surely, until he was nose to nose with Othman, gazing back at his own reflection in the warlord’s sunglasses.
‘Really, Othman?’ he sneered. ‘You already are a colony of ours in all but name. So get used to it. We control all the aid deliveries into your country: all the food, the clothes, building materials, medicine, and just about everything else. We control your schools, your hospitals, your camps. We build your roads. We own your phone network. We run your fucking country.’ Harry prodded his finger at Othman’s chest. ‘Without us, you’ll never win your stupid little war. We’re giving you the guns, the money, and soon the backing of a professional military outfit.’ He nodded towards Marion, who’d shuffled away.
Othman grumbled again. Despite his MBA from Stanford and his massive villa on the Mediterranean coast, Othman was nothing more than a small-minded warlord leading a motley crew of bandits bent on looting and pillaging all they could, Harry concluded. He’d have to ask MainShield to deal with that son of a bitch at some point.
The train pulled up and the driver rang the bell, as if to mark the end of a boxing match. Othman spat on the floor, picked up his crate of wine and headed for the train, followed by Harry and Marion. They sat in stony silence as the train drove them back to Banyuls’s tourist office. Without saying goodbye, Othman stomped off down the street, his crate on his shoulder.
Harry glanced at his watch: 6.58pm. He had two hours to get to Perpignan airport and hop on Universal Action’s private jet to Nairobi for the UA meeting. In the meantime, he needed to touch base with Gérard, the head of Paris police, about the French journalist.
Marion studied Harry with her small, dark eyes. ‘I’d watch out about that warlord if I was you.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Don’t trust him.’
‘I know. I don’t.’
She used her guidebook to fan her sunburnt face, which was dripping with sweat despite the cooler evening air drifting in from the sea.
‘You asked us to find any other undercover agents,’ she said.
‘So?’
‘Name is Nasir Al Mara. One of your drivers. CIA.’
‘You sure? We uncovered a white guy named Graham Jones as CIA.’
‘Name doesn’t ring a bell.’
Harry’s features darkened. This could mean Graham had indeed been innocent. Never mind. He’d been asking too many questions for his own good.
‘This Nasir’s gone missing,’ Harry said. ‘Disappeared with an Interpol agent.’
‘You’d better find them then.’ Marion got up to leave, then turned round. ‘Listen, Harry, everything’s going to plan from our side. Logistics, weapons, troops, everything. We’re all set.’
‘Good.’
‘Just make sure payment comes through.’
‘I’ve already told you: it will.’
‘We’re not a charity, you know. We don’t do stuff for free.’ She sniggered at her own joke, the first time Harry had seen her express any sense of humour.
The snigger stopped as quickly as it had started.
‘It’s your call, Harry. No money, no war.’
Chapter 28
23 September 2003
Nairobi, Kenya
Jim woke up in a sweat. He glanced at his watch: 6.17am. He couldn’t remember his dream, but he knew it was a bad one: probably the severed head again. He’d hoped the previous night that Maxine would join him in bed. But she’d gone straight to her room next door, distraught. Jim guessed she was worried about her sister.
Jim stared at the cracks in the ceiling. The Stanley Hotel had been much smarter. This place looked like it was on the verge of falling apart. The brownish curtains were stained and hung off a broken railing above the window, letting the sun’s early morning rays light up the room. Plaster was crumbling off the walls, the desk was splintered, and the carpet was so worn out you could see the concrete underneath. Jim shifted position: a spring from the mattress was digging into his back.
He got up. There was no point hanging around in bed. He might as well go down for breakfast and start planning the day. Now that he knew about the UA secret meeting, what
was he going to do? He couldn’t just barge in and arrest them all. It’d be more like the opposite: he’d be the one arrested, and probably shot. He needed to find a way to know what was being discussed during the conference and to have that documented as evidence. Then he’d be able to feed that to the French journalist and professor, if they were trustworthy and still alive, and maybe even to Interpol, if it was still interested.
He pulled on his creased shirt and trousers and looked at himself in the mirror. He still had bags under his eyes, and for the first time ever, he noticed grey in his hair. Maybe this adventure had caused him to age prematurely. He’d make sure he got a calmer job next time round, if he survived this one.
Jim moved the table and chair he’d put behind the door as a makeshift barricade. He picked up his rucksack, left his room and walked down the dimly-lit corridor towards the staircase. As he went past Nasir’s room, he noticed the door was ajar. He looked up and down the corridor. Nobody.
He pulled his knife out of the rucksack and undid the t-shirt he’d wrapped around it. He pushed Nasir’s door open and stepped into the room, slowly, cautiously. Nasir’s curtains were more effective than his had been: he had trouble making out the furniture in the darkness. He stood still while his eyes adjusted. He didn’t want to switch on the lights in case Nasir was sleeping.
There was the outline of Nasir’s body in the bed. Jim was about to leave the room without disturbing him when he saw a glint of metal on the desk. He opened the curtains just enough to let some light in.
On the desk was a long knife, similar to the one he had in his hand. It had blood on it. He rushed towards the bed and shook Nasir’s shoulders. No movement. He turned the body over.
Cold dead eyes stared back at him.
But it wasn’t Nasir.
It was the man with the green hat who had attacked them the previous day. His mouth was twisted into a rictus of pain. Jim’s hands felt wet. They were covered with blood, which was still oozing from a large hole in the man’s neck. He switched on the bedside lamp. The sheets were all red. The man had knife wounds in his neck, chest and stomach. His broken arm was in a makeshift plaster.
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