The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  More muffled sounds. Harry pressed his ear harder against the door.

  ‘Let me tell you this, my friends. I will deny any allegations made against me or Universal Action. You have no evidence. Jerome’s story is all hearsay and the inventions of a tabloid journalist under undue stress. As for you, Jim, Interpol’s on your case, according to what I’ve heard.’

  Another voice was speaking again. Harry heard his name mentioned, but couldn’t make out the rest.

  ‘Harry?’ Edward cackled. ‘He is a bit of a problem, to the say the least. I’m sorry he hurt you, Jerome, but that’s his style, you know.’

  Harry frowned.

  One of the other voices got louder. It was Jerome, in his heavy French accent, and he was nearly shouting: ‘So you accept that you have a thug working for you?’

  ‘Steady on, dear friend. Let’s be reasonable.’

  ‘After what he did to me?’

  ‘I realise that was a bit extreme. But I’m sure we can come to a gentleman’s arrangement.’

  Harry held his breath. What the hell was Edward doing?

  Edward continued in a calm, diplomatic tone. ‘Harry’s indeed a problem for us. He’s been useful, but he’s difficult to control. I’d like to offer a trade.’

  Another voice came closer to the door. It was Jim’s. ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate, Edward.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘UA’s going down, whatever you do. Hand us Harry and we may be able to reduce your sentence.’

  Edward laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Just you wait and see,’ Jim said with a confidence that worried Harry.

  ‘What kind of trade, Edward?’ Jerome said.

  ‘Something that’s mutually beneficial.’

  ‘Okay. Go on.’

  ‘Harry’s head of security, but he’s creating more problems than solutions, if you see what I mean,’ Edward said. ‘The attacks on the IDP camps, all that sort of stuff, it’s a bit too much for my liking. If you take out Harry, preferably literally, we’ll pay you a handsome sum.’

  Harry felt like he’d been punched. How could that son of a bitch speak about him like that? He’d always been loyal to Edward. He’d killed, maimed and massacred for him.

  ‘You’re trying to bribe us,’ Jim said.

  Edward chuckled again. ‘If you want to put it that way.’

  ‘What about my story?’ Jerome said.

  ‘Nobody cares about a news story on problems in the NGO world in Africa. Anyway, my legal team would sue you for defamation. It would be the end of your career.’

  ‘Why can’t you take Harry out yourself?’ Jerome asked.

  ‘Don’t you worry, we’re trying. But we’d like your assistance. He’s obsessed by killing both of you. We’d use you as bait, and then we’d get him.’

  ‘How much?’ Jerome asked.

  ‘Ten million dollars each, into an account of your choice. Five million now, five once he’s dead.’

  Harry gripped his Beretta. There was no way any of them would get away with this.

  It was Jim’s voice again: ‘Jerome, you can’t be taking this seriously. This man’s a crook.’

  ‘You insult me once more and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life,’ Edward said.

  Harry recognised the tell-tale signs of an outburst coming up.

  Jim was still speaking to Jerome: ‘We can’t just focus on Harry. It’s the whole of UA that has to be stopped.’

  Jerome said something that Harry couldn’t understand.

  ‘No, Jerome. There’s no way we can accept this,’ Jim said.

  Jerome came closer to the door, where Edward was standing. ‘It’s a deal, Edward,’ he said.

  ‘Good to see that one of you has brains,’ Edward said.

  Jim had moved closer to them. ‘Jerome, you’ll regret it.’

  ‘Shut up, Jim,’ Jerome said. ‘You’ll wake up the whole hotel with your wailing.’

  Edward sniggered. ‘You sound like an old married couple. So, it’s a deal?’

  ‘A deal,’ Jerome said.

  Harry heard a door slam: probably Jim leaving the room. He pondered whether to follow him, then decided against it. He’d get him later.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ Edward said. ‘He’s of no consequence. I’ll get Harry to deal with him tonight, before we then ditch him too.’

  Harry felt like charging through the door and shooting them. Edward would pay for this.

  There were muffled sounds as Edward and Jerome moved to the far side of the bedroom. A door slammed shut. There was silence for a while, followed by the sound of a TV.

  Jerome was probably by himself now, which meant Harry had an opportunity to deal with him first. Then he’d track down Edward, who was most likely staying at the Ritz, as always when he came to London.

  He attached his sound suppressor to the barrel of the Beretta. He was checking whether it was all screwed together firmly when the front door to the bedroom swung open.

  A woman screamed.

  It was the cleaning lady. Behind her were two hotel security guards in red and black suits and caps. They gawked at Harry’s gun.

  Harry fired three shots. The guards and the cleaning lady collapsed backwards against the wall, each with a bullet hole in the centre of their head.

  Harry burst into the corridor. The door to room 204 swung open. Jerome stood there, in the doorway, staring at Harry with wide, unbelieving eyes.

  ‘You!’ he said.

  Harry shot him once in the forehead and twice in the chest. Jerome slumped backwards and fell in a heap on the carpet, his glazed eyes still wide open, a trail of blood on the door behind him.

  Harry sprinted down the corridor. Bedroom doors opened. Curious guests peeked out. They shouted and screamed when they saw the bodies. Harry rammed open the door to the staircase. He guessed he had barely 30 seconds before the other hotel guards were alerted. He leapt down the stairs, burst through the landing door and raced through the reception area. The receptionist called after him.

  Ahead of him, Edward was just leaving the hotel, flanked by two of his bodyguards, a third one just ahead.

  ‘Edward!’ Harry yelled.

  They spun round. Edward’s mouth opened in silent shock as he recognised Harry.

  Harry lifted his gun. One of the bodyguards lunged at him. He knocked the gun from Harry’s hand, sending it spinning across the floor. His hand came down with a chopping motion, aimed right at Harry’s neck. Harry ducked, spun on his right leg and lashed out with his left. He hit the bodyguard squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the same group of young women who had been taking the elevator earlier on. Building on his momentum, Harry continued to twist round and kicked the other bodyguard, who collapsed with a howl.

  The third bodyguard tugged Edward forward, onto the street. Harry lunged, but the bodyguard shoved him away. Harry rolled and jumped to his feet.

  Edward was cringing behind the third bodyguard, peering over his shoulder.

  Harry jabbed his finger at Edward. ‘I’ll hunt you down and kill you.’

  Edward, regaining his composure, pushed his bodyguard to the side. He took a step towards Harry, hands outstretched, a disarming smile on his face.

  ‘Let me explain, Harry. It’s part of the plan. I was trying to help you in there. You need to trust me.’

  ‘You betrayed me.’

  ‘Would I do that to you? After all we’ve been through?’

  Harry hesitated. Maybe he’d misread the situation. Maybe this was indeed all part of an elaborate plan by Edward. Then Edward’s words in the bedroom flooded back into his mind, and Harry knew Edward was lying.

  ‘You’re a dead man,’ Harry yelled.

  The bodyguard yanked Edward out of Harry’s reach and dragged him up towards the hotel entrance, where the other two bodyguards were nursing their wounds.

  ‘You’re the dead man, Harry, not me,’ Edward shouted from the
top of the steps, shaking his fist.

  Police sirens were approaching. Harry spun round and sprinted, turning one corner, then the next, until he could no longer hear the sirens. It was raining hard and it was late evening. He flipped his overcoat inside out, so that it was light grey instead of black. He put on a New York Yankees cap instead of his floppy hat, which he dumped in a bin.

  He smiled grimly to himself as he descended into the underground. Edward thought he had power, but he was kidding himself. Harry was the one with the real power in Universal Action. Harry controlled the media, the African security team, the access to the warlords, the shipments of weapons, even the relief operations. Edward would ask his heavies to hunt Harry down.

  But Harry was better at that game.

  Chapter 43

  London, UK

  26 September 2003

  Harry took the tube several stops, checking to make sure nobody was following him. He walked out of the underground into the pouring rain. He’d killed that troublesome French journalist at last, but he felt no satisfaction. His mind was reeling from Edward’s betrayal. He’d been so loyal, so dedicated, so devoted to Edward, and this was how he’d been repaid. Had Edward been planning to drop him all along?

  Harry climbed the steps to his hotel. Jenny was in the lobby, with her suitcase, searching in her handbag.

  ‘Lost something?’ he said.

  He grabbed her arm and suitcase and hauled her towards the elevator, past a group of guests who looked at them in surprise. She struggled to release herself, but he tightened his grip and whispered in her ear.

  ‘If you make a scene, I’ll kill you right here.’

  She hesitated long enough for him to drag her into the empty elevator. The doors closed, the elevator began to rise, and he pulled out his Beretta.

  ‘Just do as I say.’

  Once in the bedroom, he locked the door and threw her onto the bed, where she lay, eyeing him fearfully. He marched to the half-full bottle of whiskey on the desk, poured himself a large glass and downed it. Then another. And another. Eventually, the bottle was empty. He smashed it against the wall, stumbled round and stared at Jenny with dull eyes. His drunken mind was filled with suspicion. Hadn’t Edward recruited her?

  ‘You bitch,’ he said, waving his gun at her. ‘You knew Edward was going to betray me. You set it up, didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Jenny backed away. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Harry vaguely realised she was probably telling the truth, but he didn’t care either way. He was tired of trying to seduce her. He needed release. He slapped her hard and ripped her top off. Jenny fought back, kicking him in the chest and sending him against the wall. A fighting girl? That turned him on even more.

  He jumped onto her and twisted her round. He grabbed her arms and yanked them behind her back. He put his arm round her neck and tightened. She gasped and bit his forearm, her teeth sinking in deep. He felt nothing, the pain deadened by the alcohol. He stuffed her face into the pillow. She thrashed around. He put his full weight onto her until she stopped moving.

  He pulled her head out of the pillow. She was unconscious. He undid his belt and tied her wrists behind her back. He pulled off his trousers and ripped away her skirt and underwear.

  He raped her.

  Once he’d finished, he took his belt back. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out some cable ties. He tied up her hands and feet. He rolled her off the bed and onto the floor and used more cable ties to attach her to the radiator. He ripped a bed sheet and gagged her mouth. He went to the mini-bar and grabbed a beer. Then he lit a cigarette and slumped into the armchair. His head was swimming. He felt sick.

  He finished his beer and tried to think through the alcoholic haze. There was no point tracking down Edward yet. He’d have increased his personal protection ten-fold. The real problem was Jim. He knew too much and seemed too willing to talk. He needed to find out where he was.

  Harry gaped at his phone, trying to focus on the screen. Then he scrolled through his contacts list. Michael Cambell. That was the one. He rang him.

  ‘Michael Cambell, British immigration.’

  ‘Michael, it’s Harry.’

  There was a pause. ‘Why are you calling me on this number?’

  ‘Did you get the photos?’ Harry said.

  ‘I did. I’ll keep an eye out. Just don’t ring on this number again.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Mikey. Or you’ll live to regret it. You’ve got contacts in the Met Police, don’t you?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Michael said.

  ‘This is what you need to do.’

  Harry explained his plan, then hung up. He lit another cigarette and rested his head back.

  The phone’s beep woke Harry up. He glanced at his watch: 7.14am. His head hurt and his mouth felt parched. He looked at his phone. It was a text message from Michael.

  He’s at airport. False passport. For Mog via Nairobi. Stop him?

  Harry thought for a second. He texted back: Let him go. Will get him in Mog.

  Jenny was moving on the floor. She was awake and was trying to escape from her bonds. Harry towered over her. Her eyes flashed with defiance. He grabbed her cheeks with one hand and squeezed them.

  ‘If ever you tell anyone what happened, I’ll hunt you down and slaughter you like a dog. Got it?’

  She moaned.

  He put his face right next to hers. ‘Thanks for last night. You were fun.’

  Harry picked up his black rucksack from the armchair, checked it for his false passport, and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at Jenny again, on the floor, half naked. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken her so violently. But then again, she deserved it. Whether or not she had betrayed him was irrelevant in the end. She was one of Edward’s lot and had to suffer for it.

  His mobile beeped again: All done. Got flight tickets ready 4 u 2 pick up.

  Michael was good, or just plain scared. Harry knew all about Michael’s illegal immigration scam. Just a few phone calls and Michael would be in jail. Michael knew that too.

  Harry glanced at Jenny again. She was lying with her eyes closed. Would it be safer to kill her? He shook his head. Too messy. He headed for the door, hanging a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the handle. He paid cash at the front desk for an extra night, just to ensure nobody would discover Jenny until he was well away from the country. He walked over to Kings Cross train station and checked the train times to Cambridge.

  He had a final visit to make before flying back to Africa.

  Chapter 44

  Indian Ocean

  27 September 2003

  Conditions on the boat were deteriorating fast. Stocks of food and water were low and many people were sick. A pregnant woman had already died. The crew had let her and her relatives use the cabin for her to give birth. A few hours later, the relatives came back covered in blood. The bodies of mother and baby were thrown overboard.

  Abdi leaned back against the side of the boat. He stroked Khalid’s head, who was lying on his side, staring ahead of him. Khalid had lost more weight and barely had enough strength to stand. His elegant face was now a mass of bruises, cuts and scabs. His nose and left cheek bone were visibly broken.

  At least the militiamen had not chased them. After a while, the harbour had disappeared into the horizon. No boat had followed. The militiamen probably expected them to die at sea from shipwreck, pirates or starvation. As if to remind him, a cramp tore through Abdi’s stomach. It felt like something was eating his insides. But he knew it was just hunger pains—the same he’d felt for years now on a frequent basis.

  The thoughts flooded back into Abdi’s mind like a battering ram. Images of hordes of militiamen massacring his family with guns and machetes, piles of severed heads, babies being torn from their mothers and their heads crushed. A migraine gripped his head like a vice that was being slowly tightened. A familiar sense of helplessness washed over him. He knew he had to act, to do something. It wa
s the only way to push the thoughts and the migraine away. He needed to feel like he had control over his life.

  He placed his son’s head gently on the wooden deck. He went to see Waabberi, the boat’s captain, who was hammering some half-rotten planks to the floor.

  ‘When do we land in Kenya?’ Abdi asked.

  ‘They won’t let us.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They don’t want more refugees.’

  ‘But you told us it’d be fine,’ Abdi said.

  A crowd was gathering around them to listen.

  Waabberi glanced at them. ‘The Kenyan authorities don’t want you.’

  A woman with a crippled arm shouted: ‘We’ll die if they don’t let us land.’

  A murmur of fear rippled through the crowd.

  ‘Calm down everyone,’ Abdi said. ‘Let me discuss this with the captain.’

  The crowd went quiet. Waabberi gave a grateful look to Abdi. He didn’t want a riot.

  ‘Come into my cabin,’ he said.

  The cabin was sparse, with a filthy mattress on a wooden bed-frame on one side, and a battered table with a chair on the other. Waabberi sat on the edge of the bed and indicated that Abdi could sit on the chair. The fisherman had dark bags under red eyes and deep lines in his face.

  ‘It’s not looking good,’ Waabberi said.

  ‘You’ve known this for ages, haven’t you?’

  Waabberi didn’t reply.

  ‘You knew this before we set off,’ Abdi said. ‘That’s why there’s not enough food or water. But you wanted the money anyway.’

  Waabberi’s eyes narrowed. Whatever goodwill he had towards Abdi seemed to vanish.

  ‘Watch your accusations,’ he said.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m the captain of the ship. I could have you thrown overboard.’

  Abdi rose to his feet. He was a tall man, despite his bad leg. He towered over the fisherman. ‘Just you try, you thieving bastard. Wait until the others find out. You’ll be the one thrown overboard.’

  ‘You do that and I’ll order my crew to shoot.’

  ‘You wouldn’t shoot helpless women and children.’