The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  Cold air came in through the broken window. The traffic rumbled outside.

  He’d just have to try. He pulled towards him the office chair he’d been sitting on. It would serve as a diversion if he pushed it away.

  There was a knock on the door. A woman put her plump head round, opening her eyes wide when she noticed Jim crouching. She saw Victor’s dead body lying in a pool of blood. She screamed.

  She’d get shot if she kept standing there. Jim crawled forward, reached out for her skirt and pulled her down. She screamed even louder and fell to the floor. She wriggled and tried to push him away. Jim could hear the murmur of surprised staff in the next room.

  Plaster exploded above Jim’s head. Jim climbed over the woman and crawled through the open doorway. He jumped to his feet and sprinted through rows of open plan desks towards the staircase. Behind him, staff shouted.

  He elbowed his way through the people waiting next to the lift. Someone cried out and hit the fire alarm. It screeched. Jim kicked open the door to the emergency stairway. He rushed down, three steps at a time. He tripped and rolled down a flight of stairs, whacking his shoulder against the wall. He jumped to his feet and kept running, down more stairs, the alarm echoing in the stairwell.

  He burst onto the ground floor. Three security guards were looking around, baffled. One of them saw him and yelled. Jim rammed his way through them.

  He ran into the street into the crowd of DFID staff piling out of the entrance and milling around like lost sheep. Some were looking up as though they were expecting the building to blow up any minute. At least they provided him with protection from the sniper. He sprinted across the road, narrowly missing being run over by a car, and through a block of large glass buildings. He looked behind him. Nobody was following. Best to walk so as not to attract attention. He thought of trying to catch the sniper. Too risky. The place would soon be swarming with cops.

  His best bet was to get out quick, hide low, and plan his next move.

  Chapter 39

  London, UK

  26 September 2003

  Jim was looking the other way, trying to hide his face from the police cars zooming towards the DFID building, when he nearly banged into a man in a black shirt. The man glowered at him. Then they recognised each other.

  ‘Jerome!’

  Jerome wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘You scared me. I thought you were one of Harry’s guys.’

  He looked paler than when Jim had last seen him. His cheeks were even more sunken and his eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘You okay?’

  Jerome shook his head. ‘It’s a disaster.’

  There was shouting behind them. Jim grabbed Jerome’s arm and pulled him down the road.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Jim said. ‘Then we talk. D’you have your car?’

  ‘It’s down here.’

  Jim followed Jerome round the corner towards a parked silver Vauxhall. Police cars and a fire engine raced past towards the DFID office. Jerome threw the keys to Jim and opened the door to the passenger seat.

  ‘You drive,’ Jerome said. ‘Hurts too much.’ He pointed to his stomach.

  Jim did a mental body check. His shoulder was aching from the fall, but otherwise he was okay. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He looked around: nobody following them. They drove in silence down the back streets towards St James’s Park. Jerome opened the glove compartment and pulled out a gun.

  ‘Glock 17,’ Jim said, glancing over. It was a good weapon: reliable and effective. ‘Put it away before someone sees it.’

  Jerome was studying it like a new toy. ‘I wish I’d had this earlier.’

  ‘I said hide it.’

  Jerome nodded reluctantly. He put the gun back in the glove compartment. He rubbed his temples with his knuckles.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ Jim said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I met Anne as she came off the Eurostar. We were crossing the road when a car rammed straight into her. Just missed me, but she was dragged along. Then the car sped off down a side street. I ran up to her. She was dead.’ Jerome looked at Jim with large eyes full of fear.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ran. Had no choice. I couldn’t stay with her and wait for the cops.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you, Jerome. You did the right thing.’

  ‘I remembered you were going to DFID, so I came here.’ Jerome’s hands were clenched. His knuckles had gone white.

  They were driving through Westminster and into the West End, with its small streets, crowds of tourists and old English pubs.

  ‘Did you speak to her before they killed her?’ Jim said.

  Jerome unclenched his hands. ‘She said two Somalis escaped from that IDP camp that was razed to the ground the other day. One of her sources at Interpol told her about it. A man and his son. Captured by a warlord and taken to Mogadishu. But they’ve escaped. The warlord’s going crazy trying to find them. They have information that can be used against UA.’

  ‘Yes!’ Jim smashed his fist against the steering wheel, making the horn beep.

  Jerome jumped with surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘This is the break-through I’ve been waiting for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you realise?’ Jim said. ‘We now have witnesses. This could change everything.’

  ‘Could it?’

  ‘Of course it could,’ Jim said. ‘If we can find the two Somalis, we finally have proof. We need to go there.’

  ‘How do we find them?’

  ‘We’ll use our contacts.’

  Jerome didn’t answer. He gazed outside. Jim shrugged. The man was so shocked he hadn’t even asked about Sarah or what had happened at DFID.

  Jim looked out of the window at the tourists admiring the flashing advertisements on Piccadilly Circus. He felt a pang of envy: they had such a care-free life. When would his get back to normal? Going to Somalia filled him with dread. Yet they didn’t have a choice. He patted his pocket to check the passport and cash were still there.

  The traffic was getting worse. They came to a stop. The car in front, a bright red Porsche, had rock music blaring.

  A woman with a short skirt, blonde hair and long legs strolled up to the Porsche’s window and spoke to the driver. Jim was sure he’d seen her somewhere before.

  ‘It’s alright for some,’ Jerome said, jabbing his thumb.

  Jim laughed, and Jerome joined him. The atmosphere in the car eased. They were in this together after all, despite their differences. Jerome was obviously a good guy deep down, just a bit opinionated at times.

  The woman turned towards them, and Jim remembered. She’d followed them on the underground, with the red rucksack. Jim grabbed Jerome’s head and pushed it forward.

  ‘What?’ Jerome shouted, struggling against Jim’s strong grip.

  The window cracked. Jim’s grip relaxed for a fraction of a second.

  Jerome sprang up. ‘What the—’

  Jim pointed. Through the bullet hole in their cracked windscreen they could see the woman moving towards them, gun with sound suppressor in her hand. She was pushing through a crowd of people who had just appeared between them.

  Jim grappled with his seatbelt. It was stuck. He turned to Jerome, who was struggling with his seat belt too.

  ‘Get the gun,’ Jim yelled.

  The woman was a few metres away. Jerome flicked open the glove compartment. He grabbed the Glock.

  ‘Shoot, damn it,’ Jim shouted.

  He pressed the button to lower the passenger window. But Jerome was fumbling with the gun. Jim snatched it and pointed it at the woman just as she approached the side of the car.

  For a second, he looked into her wide eyes and dilated pupils. Then he pulled the trigger. She collapsed backwards. People around her screamed and ran in all directions.

  Jim kicked the car door open, managed to undo his seat belt and scrambled out. The woman was lying on the pavem
ent in a pool of blood. He’d shot her right in the forehead.

  Jerome stood on the side-walk with a blank look. Jim put the gun in his jacket pocket and grabbed Jerome’s wrist. A police siren shrieked

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ Jim shouted into Jerome’s ear above the commotion.

  They ran down Piccadilly Circus towards Leicester Square. Behind them, the screaming continued, but the police siren, stuck in traffic, was no closer.

  They kept running, breathless, pushing passers-by out of their way, until Jim slowed to a walk.

  ‘We’re attracting attention,’ he said, panting.

  Jerome nodded in agreement. He seemed to have recovered his senses.

  ‘Let’s get to my hotel,’ Jerome said. ‘There’s someone there we need to meet.’

  Chapter 40

  London, UK

  26 September 2003

  Twenty metres behind Jim and Jerome, Harry stopped and hid in a doorway. He clutched the guitar case with the sniper rifle with one hand and gripped his phone with the other.

  He glanced down at his phone’s screen. He’d taken several good photos of Jim and Jerome. He emailed them to his contact at British immigration.

  Patrick joined him in the doorway. ‘Shame about Fiona.’

  ‘Her damn fault. Too wired on coke.’

  ‘What about Victor?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Harry grinned. Shooting the traitor had felt good. Harry had been planning it for ages: renting the room across from the DFID office, sourcing a Dragunov sniper rifle. Jim’s appearance had only accelerated the process to its inevitable conclusion.

  ‘I got the Interpol bitch,’ Patrick said.

  ‘About time. Here, take this.’ Harry handed him the guitar case. ‘Dump it. I’ll meet you once I’ve dealt with these two.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive. These two are mine.’

  Patrick strolled off. Jim and Jerome started again towards Oxford Circus. Night was falling. Harry stayed a good 10 metres behind them, stopping every so often to pretend to look in a shop window. He was dressed in a long black overcoat with glasses and a floppy hat, so not easily recognisable. Jim and Jerome were probably in such a heightened state of tension that it was unlikely they’d have spotted him anyway.

  They entered a hotel on the other side of Oxford Circus. It had large columns at the front and gold rimmed doors. Harry waited until he was sure they’d gone to their room. Then he went to the front desk.

  ‘I’m here to meet Jerome Sablon.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ The receptionist reached for the phone. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  ‘No need. Just tell me his room number. He’s expecting me.’

  The receptionist glanced at his screen. ‘Room 204, sir.’

  Harry headed for the lifts. When he was sure the receptionist was no longer looking, he turned and entered the bar. He ordered himself a double whiskey, sat in a secluded corner with a good view of the elevators, lit a cigarette and waited. He was good at this. Chasing and waiting. It’s what he enjoyed the most in his job.

  His phone rang. It was Patrick.

  ‘What now?’ Harry said.

  ‘It’s Maxine. She’s disappeared.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘She slipped out. The guard rang me. He fell asleep. He’s been looking for her all day.’

  ‘Incompetent fool.’ Harry hissed into the phone. ‘Tell him to find her, quick. Or he’ll suffer.’

  He hung up and looked around. A few people on neighbouring tables glanced at him. He ignored them. Maxine had gone too far. She’d have to pay.

  But first, he had to deal with Jerome and Jim and make sure nobody else was following them.

  Twenty minutes later, Harry was on his third double whiskey and fourth cigarette. A group of young women had congregated outside the elevators, dressed in ridiculously short mini-skirts and giggling like schoolgirls. The doors opened and they bundled in. An oldish man dressed in a pinstriped suit and a man built like a heavy-weight boxer tried to follow them in. The doors closed in their face. The big man jabbed the button to call the next elevator. The man in the pinstriped suit looked around.

  Harry nearly choked on his whiskey. He ducked his head under the table.

  It was Edward.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  Chapter 41

  London, UK

  26 September 2003

  Jim followed Jerome into the plush hotel bedroom. There was a polished wooden desk on the right, a double bed with a dark blue bedcover in the middle, and a large leather sofa and two armchairs in the corner next to the window. There was another door in the wall to the left. Jim checked it. It was locked.

  Jerome opened the mini-bar. ‘Beer?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Jim looked out of the window at the traffic crawling along below. His heart was still racing from the fight in the street.

  There was a sharp knock on the door. Jim spun round and looked at Jerome.

  Jerome opened the door. A large man in a suit with dark glasses and short hair marched in. Jim’s hand went for the Glock in his pocket. The man whipped out a gun. An instant later, they were both pointing their weapons at each other.

  ‘Stop!’ Jerome cried.

  A second man with slick black hair and a pinstriped suit entered the room.

  Edward Ostely.

  ‘Just what are you playing at, Jerome?’ Jim said, still pointing his gun at the first man, who must have been Edward’s bodyguard.

  ‘Jim, it’s okay.’ Jerome held his hands up. ‘Put away your weapons, both of you.’

  Jim and the bodyguard lowered their guns. Edward walked over to Jim and smiled.

  ‘You must be the infamous Interpol agent,’ he said. ‘Good to see you at last.’

  He held out his hand. Jim shook it warily.

  Edward sat on the sofa and crossed his legs. ‘How wonderful of you to find the time to meet me. We have lots to discuss.’

  Chapter 42

  London, UK

  26 September 2003

  Once the elevator doors had shut behind Edward, Harry rose to his feet and peeked around the corner into the lobby. Sure enough, there were Edward’s two other bodyguards. They were studying the guests entering the hotel. Harry couldn’t remember their names. Edward always hired his guards directly, without going through Harry, which suddenly struck him as rather odd. They were sitting on armchairs trying to look inconspicuous in their dark suits, short cropped hair and sunglasses. When would Edward realise that his bodyguards made him look like an East End gangster? Maybe that was his intended impression.

  Harry strolled back into the bar and took a secondary exit that led to a staircase. He had to find out what Edward was up to. He went up to the second floor and peered round the corner. The corridor was empty.

  Harry knocked at door 203 and hid. The door creaked open, someone went ‘hello?’ and then shut it again. Harry knocked on door 205 and hid again. Nobody. That was good.

  He went to the third floor and searched the corridors. Where were the cleaning ladies when you needed them?

  He entered the fourth floor. A trolley was up ahead. He sauntered up and peered into the open doorway of a bedroom. He knocked on the door.

  ‘Anybody here?’ he said.

  A largish middle-aged woman with tangled long hair and a white apron poked her head out from the en-suite bathroom.

  ‘Yes?’ she growled.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ Harry put on his friendliest smile. ‘I’m in room 205 and I’ve lost my key.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could be so kind as to open it for me please?’

  ‘Get a new key at reception.’

  Harry entered the bedroom.

  The woman stepped forward to block him. ‘I said get a new key.’

  Harry took out a roll of £20 notes from his pocket. ‘There’s
a huge queue at reception and I need to get into my bedroom urgently. My wife’s going to kill me if I don’t pick up her bag. She forgot it. She’s waiting for me in the bar and it’s our wedding anniversary.’

  The woman eyed him up and down. Her gaze strayed to the roll of bank notes.

  ‘What d’you want me to do?’ she said.

  ‘I’d appreciate if you could open room 205 for me, just this once. Here’s a tip for your efforts.’ Harry counted out two £20 notes and put them into her hand. Probably more than she earned in a day.

  She stuffed the notes into her pocket. Harry had a quick look around: the bedroom was small and had a doorway that led into the next bedroom for guests who wanted a two-room suite. If rooms 204 and 205 were set out in the same way, he’d be onto a winner.

  ‘What we waiting for?’ snapped the woman. ‘I don’t have all day.’

  She led the way down to the second floor. She unlocked the door to room 205 and went in ahead of him. There was an open suitcase on the bed, with a shirt and trousers lying around, but no sign of women’s clothes or bags. The cleaning lady stood with her back to the wall, arms crossed, studying Harry suspiciously again. He had better get her out of the room or he’d end up hurting her.

  ‘Thank you.’ He put on his friendliest smile again. ‘Here’s another tip.’ He stuffed two more £20 notes into her hand and hurried her out.

  The layout was the same as the other one. Fortunately, the adjacent door was linked to room 204. He moved closer and put his ear to it. No sound. Maybe they’d gone. Or maybe it was all a big coincidence and Edward wasn’t here to meet Jim and Jerome.

  Harry pinned his ear flat against the door. There was a clink clink—the sound of somebody pouring a drink—and a male voice with a posh English accent. It was Edward’s.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Edward said. ‘Hardly worth me coming over.’

  There was the muffled sound of someone else’s voice. Harry couldn’t quite make out the words. Edward’s voice became louder as he moved towards the door.

  ‘Oh really? Do you think so?’ Edward chuckled. ‘I doubt my lawyers would be convinced by such an argument.’