The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  ‘Try me.’

  Abdi felt the frustration of the past few days, weeks and even years boil inside him. It was this kind of person who was at the heart of all the problems facing his country: selfish, profiteering, unscrupulous men who cared only about themselves and money.

  He lashed out at Waabberi with both hands and pushed him backwards onto the bed. Waabberi let out a whimper of surprise. Abdi put his forearm under Waabberi’s neck and pinned him to the mattress, searching Waabberi’s clothes with his other hand. He pulled out a gun and a sharp knife.

  But Waabberi twisted out of Abdi’s grip and punched him in the side of the head, dazing him. He wrapped one arm round Abdi’s neck and yanked him towards him. With the other hand he hit Abdi’s wrist so hard that Abdi dropped the gun and knife. With surprising strength, Waabberi spun Abdi round, pushed him to the floor and kicked him repeatedly until ribs cracked.

  Abdi lay there, clutching his sides.

  Waabberi picked up the gun and knife. He opened the cabin door and called one of the crew, a large sailor with dark glasses.

  Waabberi pointed at Abdi. ‘Chain him to the deck. As an example to the others.’

  Abdi tried to crawl off, but the sailor caught him, kicked him, and dragged him onto the deck. He chained him to a metal ring. Abdi looked around, his mind dulled by the pain. The other passengers stared at him fearfully. Nobody came to help. Khalid was still lying in a corner. Abdi could see that his son was shivering. He tried to crawl towards him, but the chain was too short.

  Night came down. The passengers drifted off to sleep. Abdi lay on his back and gazed at the starry sky, his body burning, his mind racing. If they turned back to Somalia, he and his son would never survive. The militiamen would track him down. How could he escape from all this?

  Next day, Waabberi announced that they were turning back to Brava. Some of the passengers protested. Waabberi and his crew showed their AK 47s, which soon quietened everyone down.

  One of the passengers, an elderly relative of the woman who had died in childbirth, approached Abdi.

  ‘I think your son’s not well.’ She pointed at Khalid, who was lying on his back, unmoving, his eyes open without blinking.

  Abdi gasped for breath and tugged at the chain, clawing the air to reach his son. He shouted to be let free. Waabberi came running out of the cabin, saw Abdi, and kicked him in the stomach.

  ‘Shut up, you dog,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Abdi screamed.

  He threw himself onto Waabberi and pulled him to the ground. He clambered onto him and clawed at his cheeks, leaving deep gashes in his skin. Waabberi put his arms up to protect his face, but Abdi put his knees on them to pin them to the floor. Blinded by fury, Abdi gripped his hands around Waabberi’s throat and throttled him. Waabberi’s eyes bulged and his face went red. He made gargling sounds and rolled his head around. Still Abdi kept his stranglehold, even when Waabberi’s body went limp and other passengers tried prying Abdi away from it.

  The elderly woman knelt next to Abdi.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘You can let go now.’

  Abdi didn’t respond. His fingers were embedded in Waabberi’s throat.

  ‘I said he’s dead,’ the elderly woman repeated in Abdi’s ear.

  As though released from a spell, Abdi let go of Waabberi and looked at his bloodied hands.

  The elderly woman rummaged through Waabberi’s clothes and pulled out a set of keys. She unlocked Abdi’s chain. He struggled to his feet. For some reason, the crew hadn’t intervened in the fight. He’d heard they hadn’t been paid for weeks. Maybe they’d had enough of Waabberi and were glad to see him gone.

  He limped across the deck to Khalid, who was still lying in the corner on his back, staring up at the sky. Abdi knelt by his side and cradled his son’s head in his arms. His eyes had sunk into their sockets. His body was cold and light. His shoulder blades were sticking out and his skin was pale.

  ‘My son, my poor son,’ Abdi kept on repeating.

  The elderly woman was by his side.

  ‘He’s with Allah now,’ she said softly. ‘Nothing can hurt him anymore.’

  Abdi gently closed his son’s eyelids. He looked so peaceful, as though he was asleep and would wake up any minute. Why had Allah taken him? Why had Allah taken away everything he ever cared for? Abdi had lost many relatives: his daughters, his wife, his brother, his sister and many friends.

  And now his only son.

  Abdi held Khalid to his chest. His eyes were dry, as though he was too shocked to cry. His chest felt like it was being crushed.

  It would take a few days for the ship to go back to Somalia. During that time, he would mourn. Then he would plan what to do next. For there was nothing left to live for, just revenge. Revenge against the warlord who had massacred his family and clan.

  He would find a way, against all odds, to avenge their death.

  Chapter 45

  Heathrow airport, London, UK

  27 September 2003

  Jim handed his passport to the British immigration official. The man flicked it open to the page with the photo and studied it. Then he went through the other pages, which had a variety of stamps on them, and put it on the scanner. He checked his screen and looked up at Jim again.

  Jim felt unnaturally calm, even though the consequences of being caught were huge. He knew what he needed to do: find Maxine, track down the two Somali IDPs, wait for Harry, and bring down the whole of Universal Action. The scale of the task seemed impossible, yet he felt a quiet resolve. He had no choice: Universal Action had to be stopped.

  He took back the passport and smiled at the immigration officer. Ten minutes later, he was in the departure lounge. He looked around at the other passengers. It was the usual mix of African families returning home, businessmen in suits and NGO workers and tourists in t-shirts and jeans. Any of them could be Harry’s men or women. He had no way of knowing, so he closed his eyes, leant back in his chair, and thought through his plans.

  He’d waited outside the hotel and seen the confrontation between Harry and Edward. A dispute at the top was excellent news. It showed weakness. He’d followed Harry back to his hotel, but had decided against a stand-off. It was too risky in London. If things got messy, the police would be there in minutes. With Interpol having disowned him, and Harry’s contacts extending everywhere, Jim wouldn’t stand a chance trying to explain the real situation.

  It was likely that Harry would track him down soon, which was good. Jim wanted Harry to follow him. If only Jim could find the escaped IDPs before Harry, he could then wait for him and trap him. Finding them was the difficult bit.

  Arriving in Mogadishu would be tricky. Harry would have his men there. Evading them would be challenging, but possible. Maxine could help if she’d managed to escape. But was she trustworthy? Part of him wanted to believe her. Her story seemed genuine and it was clear that Harry had been manipulating and controlling her. But who would she go with when push came to shove? Would she fall back into her past patterns of behaviour and follow Harry? Or would she choose Jim and the difficult path of resistance to Universal Action?

  At the moment, though, she was his only lead. So he had to make contact. But how?

  He looked around. There was a payphone in the corner. Then there was the woman sitting in front of him. She was reading a book with her handbag wide open on the floor and her pink phone sticking out. Jim pretended to drop his passport and plucked the phone from the bag. He strolled off.

  Jim switched on the phone. The battery was nearly flat and he didn’t have the charger, so he had to use the phone wisely. He sent a text to Maxine’s number: U there? It’s Jim.

  Within seconds, there was a beep. Jim was surprised to see how nervous he was as he pressed the ‘view’ button. He liked Maxine more than he’d so far cared to admit.

  Escaped from Harry. Hiding in Nairobi.

  Jim felt a flood of relief, then doubt. Had she really managed to escape? Maybe this was a trap?
He decided to trust the message. Maxine was resourceful, to say the least.

  He texted her: On next flight. Meet in Nairobi airport café. Get ticket for Mog on UN flight.

  OK! came the instant reply.

  Jim smiled. Maxine had a sense of adventure and a passionate temperament that he found exciting. Yet there was a lot to untangle between them. Maybe they’d find time to do this over the coming days. Although then again, probably not.

  He looked around. The woman with the book was searching through her bag. He felt guilty stealing other people’s things, but it was necessary at times.

  Eleven hours later Jim was waiting in a café in Nairobi airport. Maxine was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t answering texts or phone calls. His phone’s battery had now run out. He glanced at the clock on the wall: 11.12pm. Still a few hours to go before the early morning UN flight to Mogadishu.

  Jim’s gaze wandered to the TV screen in a corner of the room. BBC News was showing images of Somaliland again. The sound was off, but it looked like there’d been another attack on a camp. Hundreds dead according to the news ticker, plus 20 aid workers from a hijacked convoy found massacred. So that’s what had happened to them. The images were particularly gruesome, with piles of dead bodies. The journalist was that woman Marie again. She was wearing a perfectly ironed blue top and was interviewing Edward, who looked like a former colonialist in his cream suit and slick back hair.

  Jim walked to the TV and turned the sound up. Passengers sitting at other tables glared at him, but he ignored them. He sat down again.

  Marie was speaking in that typical neutral reporter-style tone. ‘Why do you think the UN is not intervening?’

  ‘Because the UN is no longer fit for the job of caring for the world’s poorest people,’ Edward said. ‘It’s too bureaucratic and cumbersome. That’s why we need organisations like Universal Action to have the power to intervene fast.’

  ‘You mean intervene with aid?’

  ‘I mean military intervention as well as aid. If we just distribute aid, the warlords will take it and sell it. We need to have our own armed forces to allow us to enforce peace in failed states, so we can then distribute aid fairly.’

  ‘Isn’t that stepping outside your mandate?’

  ‘Who else is going to protect the poor people of Africa?’ Edward looked straight at the camera. ‘The UN does nothing, the G8 doesn’t care, the African Union is a mess, and nobody else wants to help. We are by far the best equipped to do this. We need to do it urgently if we want to prevent more famines and massacres like this one and stop a genocide taking place.’

  ‘You really think this could be genocide?’

  ‘Absolutely. We saw what happened in Rwanda when the world failed to take action. The same could happen here. Governments have a duty to act when genocide is being committed. If they don’t want to, we will.’

  The whole interview felt so artificial: as though Marie and Edward had agreed beforehand exactly what the questions and answers would be. Jim shook his head. He’d seen some serious media manipulation, particularly by the army, during his time as a war journalist. But nothing so blatant. Raising the spectre of genocide was a bold move on Universal Action’s part. It would increase the pressure for something to be done. With no government or the UN willing to intervene, Universal Action’s campaign to have its own army to invade Somaliland would be well received by the public and politicians.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun round. Maxine stood there, her long blonde hair framing her pretty round face. Jim had an urge to kiss her on the lips.

  ‘Watching that garbage on TV?’ she said, sitting down next to him at the table. ‘It’s sure getting good coverage.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Jim said with a sigh. ‘Depressing.’

  ‘Although Edward’s got a point.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only joking.’

  ‘Sorry. Bit stressed.’

  ‘Come here.’

  She pulled him to her and kissed him gently. He responded enthusiastically, and within moments they were kissing passionately.

  ‘I missed you,’ Jim said. Then he thought of Carrie and felt guilty.

  ‘What we doing?’

  Jim told her about his plan to find the two IDPs in Somalia.

  ‘Sounds tricky, but we can do it,’ she said. ‘I’ve a friend at the Red Crescent who can help. Name is Abdullah. Very reliable. Based in Mogadishu. If anyone can find those two IDPs, he can. He has contacts throughout the aid sector in Somalia, as well as the clans and some of the militia. Should help get safe passage if we need to go overland.’

  Jim felt his spirits lifting. Then pictures on the TV screen caught his eye. Wasn’t that the hotel where Jerome and he had met Edward in London? Maxine followed his gaze.

  The newsreader was saying something about the murder of a French journalist. Jerome’s face flashed onto the screen.

  Jim’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh my God.’

  The image changed to a photo of a man walking in the street. It zoomed in.

  It was Jim.

  The next picture was of Victor.

  ‘Scotland Yard is looking for the presumed serial killer, an American by the name of Jim Galespi,’ the newsreader said. ‘He was seen leaving the hotel just after the last of the two murders. Interpol has put out an Orange Notice, which is an international security warning. Jim Galespi is wanted in relation to other murders in France and Africa. Any information is to be reported straight to the police.’

  A number appeared on the screen. The news moved onto the weather forecast.

  Sweat poured down Jim’s forehead, despite the air conditioning. His heart was beating like a machinegun. He looked around the café: nobody seemed to have been watching the TV, or if they had, they didn’t recognise him.

  Maxine was staring at him. ‘What happened?’

  He placed his hands on the table to stop them trembling. He explained what had happened in London: the meeting with Jerome in the pub; Sarah’s murder; Victor’s assassination; the street shooting; Jerome’s deal with Edward; Harry and Edward’s argument.

  ‘What about the France and Africa stuff?’ Maxine said.

  ‘They’re blaming me for Harry’s trail of carnage.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘We’d better get going.’

  As they walked out of the café towards the UN Humanitarian Air Services’ departure gate, a thought struck him.

  ‘How did you escape from Harry?’ he asked.

  ‘He took me to a house outside Nairobi and left me with Patrick and a Kenyan guard.’

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘A white Kenyan. Ex-military. Does lots of Harry’s dirty work. Scarface I call him.’

  ‘I know the one.’

  ‘Patrick left and the guard fell asleep. I took the keys to the handcuffs, grabbed my phone, and legged it. I hid at a friend’s place.’

  ‘That was lucky,’ Jim remarked wryly.

  She held his arm and stopped him. ‘Jim, look at me.’ She stared him in the eyes. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’m telling you the truth. I know I’ve messed up a lot, but you can trust me.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jim said, turning away.

  ‘I mean it, Jim. I’m with you in this. It’s not a set-up. Harry has no control over me anymore.’

  ‘What about Lesley?’ Jim said.

  ‘I rang the home yesterday. They’d been celebrating her birthday. Punting on the river in Cambridge, would you believe it. Wish I’d been there.’

  ‘Punting?’

  ‘Punts are the boats you push along with a big pole in Oxford and Cambridge. It’s great fun. You should come over one day and try.’

  Chapter 46

  Nairobi, Kenya

  28 September 2003

  ‘The thing I hate the most about Africa,’ Patrick said, as he screwed the sound suppressor onto his gun’s barrel, ‘is that you can’t trust anybody to do good work. I mean, I took this car to the garage for a check-up the other day, and they gave it back
to me in worse condition than when I gave it in.’

  Patrick and Harry were sitting in a black Land Cruiser by the side of a main road in central Nairobi, not far from the Stanley Hotel. Through the tinted, bullet-proof windows, Harry was scrutinising the traffic. It was sluggish, but nowhere near the traffic jams that often plagued Nairobi’s streets.

  ‘After two miles, the car just broke down,’ Patrick continued. ‘I opened the bonnet and couldn’t believe it. They’d replaced all the good parts with a pile of crap.’

  Harry breathed out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette and checked his watch.

  Only 15 minutes to go.

  Patrick grinned. ‘They soon realised they’d picked on the wrong guy. I beat the shit out of them. You should have seen them.’ He cackled. ‘They were on their knees begging for mercy.’

  Harry glanced at Patrick. He had a boxer’s face, with a stubby nose, cauliflower ears, a long scar down the left side of his face and two small eyes that fixed you with an uncompromising stare. Harry didn’t particularly like him, but he was useful.

  A text message came through on Harry’s phone.

  Target 10 minutes away.

  Patrick was still chatting away: some story about a girl he’d met in a bar the other day.

  Harry interrupted him. ‘Take up position, now.’

  At least Patrick knew when the time for chit chat was over. He hid the gun inside his jacket, left the vehicle and crossed the road. He leaned against a concrete wall, half concealed in the shadow of an over-hanging roof, right next to the junction.

  Harry’s phone rang. It was Marion Smith.

  ‘I’m busy,’ Harry said.

  ‘Just to confirm the paperwork’s ready. Are you still okay for meeting at eleven hundred hours to sign it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will Edward be there?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘We need the advance, Harry. It’s getting urgent.’

  ‘I said chill out. The payment’s happening as we speak.’

  ‘Don’t think you’re indispensable for us. We’ve got lots of demand for our services in Iraq, you know. So no more delays.’ She hung up, leaving Harry grinding his teeth.