The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  Samatar signalled for Abdi and his son to follow. He led them down alleyways and empty streets, through destroyed buildings and remains of houses. Eventually, they reached the outskirts of Mogadishu. They’d managed to escape the militiamen and their technicals, but they weren’t out of danger yet. Even if they reached the Dadaab refugee camps in Eastern Kenya, they still wouldn’t be completely safe, Abdi thought as they sat down to rest, but at least it would be better than this.

  A rusty and beaten-up truck rumbled by and stopped. It looked like it was about to fall apart in front of them. A family of five clambered into the back and quarrelled among themselves.

  Abdi ran up to the driver. ‘Take us with you.’

  The driver peered down at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘No room,’ he said, showing teeth stained by chewing qat.

  ‘Please!’ Abdi grabbed the door handle.

  The driver leaned over and tried to undo his grip. ‘Go away.’

  Abdi felt a tap on his shoulder. Samatar was behind him and stuffed some bank notes into his hand. Abdi opened the vehicle’s door and held the cash up to the driver.

  ‘Here, take this as payment.’

  The driver snatched it. ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Brava.’

  ‘Hop in.’

  Abdi felt a surge of hope. He gestured to the others to get into the back.

  Just as they were about to climb in, the truck drove off, nearly crushing some refugees who were walking along the side of the road. After 15 metres it shuddered to a halt, the driver swearing. With a shout of anger, Abdi ignored the pain in his leg and leapt forward. He reached into the truck, grabbed the driver’s shirt and dragged him to the ground. Samatar was behind Abdi, and soon both of them were kicking and punching the driver, who was trying to protect himself with his arms as best he could. Samatar kicked him in the head. The driver fell unconscious.

  The family in the back stopped arguing. The father, a man with a long beard and a bandage over his left eye, peered over the side of the truck at the fight below. The children looked down, their tired faces showing a mixture of fear and dismay. Their hopes of escaping were being dashed before their very eyes.

  The father climbed down from the back of the truck. He steadied himself and surveyed Abdi for a second. Satisfied that Abdi posed no more threat, he said: ‘Where you from?’

  ‘We paid him, but he was leaving without us. He had to be punished.’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Brava.’

  ‘So are we. Can you drive?’

  Abdi nodded.

  ‘Drive us to Brava,’ the father said. ‘Tell your friends to get in the back.’

  Abdi climbed into the driver’s seat. It was barely more than ripped strips of leather on top of a mouldy cushion. He fiddled around with the ignition and the gear-stick. The truck wouldn’t start. The petrol tank was probably empty. He leaned out. The father was already on the case, pouring petrol from a jerry can into the tank.

  A few minutes later, they were on their way. Abdi felt elated, but knew better than to put his hopes up. Along the road were more dead bodies, mainly men, probably killed because they were from the wrong clan. Crowds pushed forwards, carrying their meagre belongings.

  They arrived in Brava late afternoon. It was as bad as Mogadishu, with shattered buildings, bodies lying in the road, and a stench of rot. Women were running in the street wearing weer: white headbands signifying mourning. Abdi stopped the car.

  Samatar’s wife Haweeya called one of the women.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The woman, her wrinkled face squinting against the sun, shuffled up.

  ‘We’ve had enough,’ she said. ‘We’ve been telling the men to stop fighting or we will uncover our heads.’ A woman uncovering her head was a disgraceful act.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The men stopped fighting. They were too ashamed.’

  Abdi smiled. It meant the streets would be safer. He parked the truck next to a half-demolished wall. The family of five piled out of the back and walked down the main road, carrying their belongings, without saying goodbye or a word of thanks.

  Abdi turned to Samatar. ‘We want to get away from here.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Dadaab.’

  ‘Too far,’ Samatar said.

  ‘Or Mombasa. I hear that fishing boats are doing the journey.’

  ‘Too dangerous,’ Samatar said.

  ‘More dangerous than staying here?’

  ‘My brother and his wife tried. We never heard from them since.’

  ‘Maybe they made it,’ Abdi said.

  ‘That was 10 years ago. I think we’d have received a message if they’d survived.’

  ‘Fighting will start again.’

  ‘We have family here. It’ll be safer for us. You’re welcome to stay.’ Samatar turned to help his wife and daughter down from the truck.

  Abdi shook his head. ‘Thank you, but the militia are looking for us. We need to leave the country.’

  ‘Why do they want you?’

  ‘Because of what we saw when they attacked the camp.’

  ‘Why did they let you live? Why not kill you with the others?’

  Abdi shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  He took his son’s frail hand. They knew nobody here except for Samatar. They had no belongings. They had nothing. He looked at the wall next to him, marked with bullet holes and dark patches of dried blood. Dadaab or Mombasa would be a bit safer, if they could get there.

  They said goodbye to Samatar and his family and drove to the harbour, with its shell-ravaged buildings and crumbling wharf. Travelling to Dadaab would be overland—slow and dangerous, with bandits and militia roaming the roads. Going to Mombasa would be by sea—faster, but still dangerous, with the risk of pirates, shipwreck and drowning. He looked down at his son, who was quietly playing with small stones. Abdi’s aim was to get them away from the militia, fast. By sea would be better.

  Abdi spoke to a toothless fisherman called Waabberi who owned a small barnacle-encrusted vessel that was already packed with next to 100 people. They haggled and haggled, but Waabberi was having none of it.

  ‘My ship’s full.’

  ‘But we have nowhere to go here.’

  Waabberi chewed on some qat and looked at them with dull eyes. He started undoing the ropes that tied the boat to the harbour.

  Khalid tugged at Abdi’s hand. ‘Daddy?’

  Abdi ignored him, lost in worry.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘What?’ Abdi looked down at his son’s injured face.

  ‘The truck.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Give him the truck.’

  Abdi pulled out the keys. He’d forgotten about the truck.

  He walked up to Waabberi, who turned towards him with a snarl.

  ‘Take these,’ Abdi said. ‘The truck’s yours if you take us on your boat.’

  Waabberi eyed him dubiously. He swaggered over to the truck and inspected it. It was clearly a battered old vehicle, but it still had a few years left of life, which was valuable here. He climbed into it and drove it inside an old warehouse.

  ‘Alright,’ Waabberi grumbled as he emerged from the warehouse and locked the gate behind him. ‘Get in.’ He jabbed his thumb at the boat. ‘We leave now.’

  The passengers were mainly women and children, crowded together in the open. Abdi and Khalid found a place to sit in a corner of the boat and gazed out at the ruined town. The boat chugged away. Abdi squinted. There was some commotion on the harbour. Technicals were drawing up and men were jumping out of them, running up to the other fishermen and pushing them around. He ducked down, out of view, and peered over the side of the boat. A group of the militiamen had gathered on the edge of the harbour, pointing towards their boat, which was now drifting out to sea.

  Abdi groaned. A knot clamped his stomach.

  It was the militiamen from the roadblock.

  Chapter 34

  London,
UK

  26 September 2003

  The black cab pulled away from Heathrow airport. Sarah handed Jim a large brown envelope.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘A thousand quid cash.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Jim put the envelope into his jacket pocket, next to the false passport she’d given him in Nairobi airport. He felt exhausted. They’d flown first class, but he’d been unable to sleep.

  ‘Are you going to answer my question?’ he said. ‘Who’s Harry?’

  Sarah smoothed her hair back in a gesture Jim had come to recognise as a precursor to a serious talk. She pressed the button that switched off the intercom with the taxi driver.

  ‘He’s not who you think he is,’ she said. ‘He worked in Afghanistan with the CIA’s paramilitary arm, the Special Activities Division, in the eighties and nineties.’

  ‘That’s what Maxine said.’

  ‘Harry’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Kind of. So Harry wasn’t in Afghanistan last year?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Jim gazed out of the window at the endless rows of London houses. Was Sarah telling the truth? Memories of Carrie’s dead body flooded back. He pushed the thoughts to the darkest corners of his mind. He couldn’t allow them to take over again. Not now.

  ‘Why are we in London?’ he said.

  ‘By now Harry must know you’ve escaped.’

  Jim nodded. That seemed rather self-evident.

  ‘And he must know you’re in London,’ she added. ‘Or at least he must suspect it.’

  Jim nodded again, although this time he felt his pulse accelerate.

  ‘How come?’ he said.

  ‘Because he knows I’m after him, and I know he’s here. And he knows you’re with me, because he must know by now I helped you escape. Hence he’ll soon know you’re here, if he doesn’t already.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Get it?’

  ‘Clear as day.’

  ‘He may be on our trail already.’

  Jim stiffened. He hadn’t noticed a tail, and he’d checked carefully, as he always did. He started to turn round to look out of the back window, but Sarah placed her hand on his arm.

  ‘No need to worry,’ she said. ‘Everything’s under control.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem like that to me.’

  ‘Just trying to reassure you.’

  ‘How do you know he’s here?’

  ‘Because he’s hunting someone. And that person’s in London. The same person we’re here to meet.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Jim asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Come on, Sarah.’

  ‘I said you’ll see.’

  Jim started to argue. Then he stopped. Sarah wasn’t listening. She was busy checking emails on her Blackberry. He shook his head and looked outside. A large advertising billboard caught his eye. It had the picture of a starving African girl crawling in the dirt with her hand out, as though begging. Behind her was a desert landscape. Underneath was a caption in bold letters saying: ‘Millions of Somali children are starving to death. Donate now to Universal Action.’ Right next to it was another poster, showing a glamorous Hollywood celebrity holding an emaciated African baby with the caption: ‘I’ll be at the Feeding Somaliland concert. Will you?’

  ‘Charity marketing gone mad,’ Sarah said, her voice close to his ear. He turned round. Her face was nearly touching his. ‘The triumph of spin,’ she added, her parted lips drawing closer.

  Too close.

  Jim flinched.

  She pulled away.

  He rubbed his forehead with his hand. Now was not the time to get involved with his boss.

  Sarah pulled out her Blackberry and began typing as if nothing had happened. Jim shrugged. Maybe he’d just imagined it.

  Chapter 35

  London, UK

  26 September 2003

  The taxi dropped them outside Waterloo station. Sarah led them into the modern Eurostar terminal for high-speed trains to Paris. None of this had been here when Jim had lived in London briefly years ago, after leaving the army.

  Sarah entered a newsagent, racing round the bookstands, stopping every so often and looking around.

  ‘This isn’t the way to do it,’ Jim said, placing his hand on her arm. Despite all her strengths as an Interpol manager, field work clearly wasn’t one of them. ‘You’re way too conspicuous. Where do we need to go?’

  ‘A pub. Cambridge Circus.’

  ‘Follow me. Act natural.’

  He led her into the underground, holding her hand as though they were lovers visiting London. He caught her eye. She smiled. They hopped onto an overcrowded Northern Line tube. Jim stood near the sliding doors, holding a handgrip with one hand and Sarah with the other. He glanced at the other passengers. Most of them were reading the free papers. Nobody paid them any attention. They hopped off at Leicester Square. A 10 minute stroll later, they were sitting at a table in a dark corner of a cosy, carpeted English pub on Cambridge Circus. Jim made a mental note of where the exits were in case they had to leave in a hurry.

  Sarah got up. ‘I need a drink.’

  She came back with a pint of beer, which she handed to him, and what looked like a gin and tonic. On the next table was an old couple, the man sipping his pint and staring into nothingness while his partner did her finger nails. Behind them was a group of young people, probably students, arguing about which was the best nightclub in London. To their right was a middle-aged man with a tired face, a five-day stubble and a long nose, sitting by himself at a small round table. Dressed in a black shirt, he huddled over his orange juice as though he was trying to protect it from harm. The man kept glancing their way.

  Sarah leaned forward. ‘We’re meeting Jerome Sablon. He’s a journo from the Agence France Presse. Harry’s after him.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like journos.’

  ‘This guy’s different. He’s one of the few who’s prepared to stand up to Universal Action.’

  ‘Is it that guy in the black shirt over there?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Never seen him before. But he keeps on looking our way.’

  She nodded to the man in the black shirt. He picked up his drink and shuffled his stool to their table.

  ‘Jerome, Jim. Jim Jerome,’ Sarah said, gesturing towards one then the other.

  Jerome leaned his elbows on the table. He had deep lines in his pallid face and dark bags under his eyes. He stared at Jim.

  ‘What do you know about Harry Steeler?’

  ‘That he’s a dangerous man,’ Jim said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of this.’ To Jim’s astonishment, Jerome lifted his shirt to expose a stomach covered in bloodied bandages. ‘This is what the bastard did. Drove a spike through me and left me to die in Kibera like a dog.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’ Jim said.

  He glanced at Sarah, who was twiddling a straw in her drink. She scratched her cheek and looked on, unmoved.

  Jerome tucked his shirt into his trousers. He winced. ‘No time for hospital. Sarah says you can help me build my story against Harry.’ He pulled a box of painkillers from his pocket and started popping pills into his hand.

  ‘Depends what you need to know,’ Jim said.

  ‘What you’ve heard Harry say. What you’ve seen him do. Anything that incriminates him.’

  ‘Who’s it for? The AFP?’

  ‘Le Monde,’ Jerome said. He gulped down a handful of pills with some orange juice.

  Jim glanced at Sarah again. Could he trust Jerome? Sarah seemed to think so, or she wouldn’t have brought him here. A media exposé of Harry’s deeds published at the right time could push him to make a mistake. Le Monde was a reputable French newspaper with international reach. It was worth a try.

  Jim took a deep breath and gave a summary of the events of the past few days, leaving out key details such as Maxine’s attempt to kill him. Jerome didn’t interrupt him. He just nodded every so often and sipped his orange juice until it
was gone. Once Jim had finished, Jerome banged his fist onto the table, making the glasses shake.

  ‘I’ve got the bastard,’ he said. ‘I’ll make him pay.’

  ‘That intel’s off the record for now. I’ll let you know when you can use it. We’re running an investigation. We don’t want it compromised.’

  ‘That’s your problem. This story’s mine. Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do.’

  Jim was about to launch into a vigorous response when Sarah put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Guys, we’re running out of time,’ she said. ‘Jim and I need to be at a meeting with DFID in an hour.’

  ‘Who?’ Jerome asked.

  ‘Victor.’

  ‘Him? Why?’

  ‘He’s senior advisor for the British mission to the UN,’ Sarah said. ‘They’re negotiating UA’s request for military force.’

  ‘Why didn’t UA ask the Americans?’

  ‘Because they’re already eating out of Harry’s hand. UA’s convinced them this should be part of Bush’s War on Terror, because of all the warlords and terrorists and other nutters in the region. Anyway, Victor wants out. He’s prepared to talk.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Jerome smiled, showing a row of broken teeth. ‘While you’re at DFID, I’ll go meet Anne. She’s arriving from Paris.’

  ‘Anne?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Anne Gaillac. From Sciences Po. Has Interpol connections.’

  ‘Never heard of her. Sarah, have you?’

  ‘She gave us information on Harry in Paris.’ Sarah turned to Jerome. ‘What do you think of Jim’s story?’

  ‘All makes sense. I need to use it to trap Harry.’

  ‘Through your article in Le Monde?’ Jim said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Jerome said. ‘But first, I need to arrange a meeting with someone important.’

  ‘Who?’ Sarah asked, echoing Jerome’s earlier question.

  ‘Can’t say right now. But it’ll be worth it.’

  ‘Come on. I’ve just told you all I know,’ Jim said, feeling an argument brewing again.

  ‘Sorry, a journalist can’t reveal his sources.’

  Jim was about to push the point further when he noticed that Sarah was staring with wide eyes at the TV screen hanging from the ceiling in the far corner of the pub. It was BBC News showing images of an IDP camp in Somaliland. Large trucks with the UA symbol were in the background amid glimpses of devastated huts and rows of dead bodies wrapped in cloth. A boy with a face like a skull and skin covered in rashes was staring into the distance with one eye, while flies feasted on his other one. Marie, dressed as always in a clean white shirt, was interviewing a small, fat UA official with beady eyes and sweat dripping down his face.