The Somali Doctrine

by James Grenton

  Another text came through. The target was only a few minutes away. Patrick looked towards him and did a thumbs-up. There it was, 100 metres away: a black BMW.

  The accident happened when the BMW reached the junction. A large brown 4x4 screeched out of the road that was perpendicular and rammed into the BMW’s side, sending it careering out and crashing into a parked car. Metal crumpled and glass shattered. The BMW’s horn got stuck and blared out. Steam emerged from the engine.

  There was a short pause, as though everything had been put on hold. Then the driver of the BMW staggered out, dazed but with a gun in his hand. Carjackings were frequent in Nairobi. Everyone was always prepared for the possibility.

  Patrick sprinted towards the BMW, his right hand inside his jacket. He was wearing a black balaclava. He came up behind the driver and shot him once in the head and once in the back. The driver collapsed. Patrick shot another man with a gun who was trying to get out of the BMW from the other side. Then he lobbed a grenade into the BMW before jogging back across the junction. The grenade exploded just as Patrick disappeared into a side street. Bits of metal and glass shot out amid a cloud of smoke.

  Meanwhile, the brown 4x4 had already reversed and driven off in the opposite direction, leaving the smouldering carcass of the BMW with the dead driver and bodyguard lying next to it. The traffic resumed as if nothing had happened, everyone driving round it, desperate not to be involved.

  Harry waited a moment, gripping his Beretta, just to check no survivors staggered out of the wreck. Satisfied, he started the engine of his vehicle and drove off towards the Stanley Hotel.

  He had work to do.

  An hour later, Harry was pouring himself a large Jack Daniel’s in the living room of his luxury suite when there was a knock on the door. It was George, all sweaty and out of breath.

  ‘Harry, it’s horrific.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Edward’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ Harry’s mouth dropped. ‘That’s not possible. Here, come in.’

  George stumbled into the room and slumped onto the sofa. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

  ‘Shot. Dead. Murdered. In his car, just down the road from here.’

  Harry leaned back into his chair, as though finding it difficult to take in the information. He took a large gulp of whiskey.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘His car was rammed. A hit man killed him, the driver and bodyguard. The police are on the case, but they’ve got no leads.’

  ‘Did you speak to them?’

  ‘Spoke to the chief policeman. No witnesses are coming forward, even though it was broad daylight. What are we going to do, Harry?’ George put his head in his hands as though he was about to cry.

  ‘This is terrible news,’ Harry said. ‘I’d better inform the board. They’ll probably want an emergency teleconference or something.’

  ‘What are we going to do? Who’s going to take over?’

  ‘Pull yourself together.’ Harry got up and put a hand on George’s shoulder. ‘We’ll get through this. I’ll ask the board to make me acting CEO while we sort things out.’

  George looked up. ‘Acting CEO? Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’m the most qualified. I’ve been leading the negotiations with the Security Council, with MainShield and the operations on the ground.’

  ‘I thought Edward was doing the UN negotiations.’

  ‘These are difficult times. As head of security, I’m best placed to make sure the organisation is safe. We wouldn’t want another murder of a senior member to take place, would we?’

  George’s face went white. ‘You?’ he said, his voice quivering.

  ‘Watch what you’re saying, George.’

  George stared at him.

  ‘If you spread any false rumours about me, I’ll make you pay,’ Harry said. ‘You understand?’

  George made a wheezing sound.

  Harry waved his hand towards the door, dropping cigarette ash on the floor. ‘Now run along and I’ll call you when the teleconference is on.’

  George rose to his feet, trembling. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he whispered, shaking his head.

  ‘You’re going to have to, George. I’m the only person who can keep this ship on course. I’ll expect you to back me when the board votes, understood?’

  George didn’t answer.

  ‘Understood?’ Harry repeated.

  George still didn’t reply. Harry watched George stumble out of the door, his shoulders hunched and his head down. Now that Edward was gone, Harry would be able to build his own team, totally loyal to him. He’d start by appointing Patrick as head of security. His first task would be to dispose of George quietly. He’d then have to deal with his other enemies. George wouldn’t be the only person to ask whether Harry had been involved in Edward’s death, but none of them had any proof, and the police wouldn’t find anything. Edward had not been particularly popular, and everyone knew he had countless enemies. Still, troublemakers like that French woman Fabienne would ask questions.

  Harry turned back to his laptop. The emails were already flooding in: condolences, questions, surprise, bewilderment. It was amazing how fast news travelled nowadays. Harry sent an email to the board, asking for an emergency teleconference at 2pm.

  He looked at his watch: 10.55am. It was time to meet Marion and sign the documents that would make Universal Action the world’s first ever international NGO to have its own full-scale army at its disposal: thousands of the best trained, highly skilled and superbly equipped mercenaries in the world.

  He poured himself a celebratory double whiskey and finished it in one gulp.

  Things were looking good.

  Chapter 47

  Mogadishu, Somalia

  29 September 2003

  Jim opened his eyes. It had been hours, possibly days, since they’d separated him from Maxine and thrown him into a dark cell with no windows. The welcoming committee had been there on their arrival in Mogadishu’s ruined K50 airport. Militiamen in full combat gear. Jim had half expected it, although he’d hoped all the way they’d manage to get through.

  The air was hot and dry with an overpowering stench of urine. The cell was bare apart from a hole in the corner. The only light came from the crack underneath the door—barely enough to light up a few centimetres of floor. He’d been given nothing to eat and the cramps in his stomach were becoming more intense by the hour.

  Nevertheless, Jim didn’t mind. Something inside him had definitely changed. The hurt of the past few years had faded away. The questions over his time in Iraq, the guilt over Carrie’s mysterious death in Afghanistan, everything was dissolving into the background, like snow on a warm surface. He felt the passion and energy of his former self—the one that never gave up, that believed in fighting whatever the odds—come back to the fore. It was as if the utter hopelessness of the situation was giving him strength.

  He knew what he had to do. Forget Interpol, forget the journalists. He could count on nobody except himself.

  The door swung open. Jim shot to his feet. A stocky guard with cruel, deep-set eyes marched in. He grabbed Jim’s arm and dragged him to a bare room with yellow walls crumbly from the dry heat. The guard pushed Jim into a rusty chair and handcuffed his hands behind his back. He went to stand by the doorway to the left, next to a battered AK that was leaning against the wall.

  Jim blinked. The light was bright after all that time in the cell. He tried to make himself more comfortable. The handcuffs were cutting into his wrists.

  A white man entered the room and plonked himself on the white plastic chair next to the wooden desk against the wall. He was dressed in combat gear, with a gun in a holster on his belt and a military cap on his head.

  Then Jim saw the man’s face.

  ‘You,’ Jim said, between clenched teeth.

  Patrick threw his head back and laughed. ‘Remember me? Last time we met was in the London tube. Shame about what happen
ed to your friend. Don’t look so tough now, do you?’ Patrick grinned, showing a few missing teeth, as though he’d just cracked an excellent joke.

  He moved forward and punched Jim in the stomach so hard the chair skidded and slammed against the wall.

  It was the start of a rough interrogation.

  ‘Put him in his cell,’ Patrick bellowed to the guard as he stormed out of the room. ‘This is a waste of my time.’

  The guard dragged Jim down the corridor. Jim thought fast. His face and chest were in agony, but he knew he only had seconds before he’d be locked up again, maybe indefinitely.

  He stumbled as though he’d tripped. He dropped to the ground on one knee. The guard leant forward to hold him, but Jim spun round and gave a side-kick that sent the guard crashing against the wall. Jim jumped onto him and kicked him in the face over and over again, until his head rolled to the side, unconscious. He knelt and turned round so he could search the guard’s pockets with his hands, which were still handcuffed behind his back. Jim gave a grunt of triumph and pulled out some keys, fumbling around until he unlocked the handcuffs. He went to the other cell further down, flicked the light switch dangling from the wall, and unlocked the cell door. Maxine was crouching in a corner.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling her to her feet.

  ‘What did he do to you?’ she gasped when she saw Jim’s bloodied face.

  ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t say anything.’

  They crept into the interrogation room. It was empty. Patrick must have been outside or gone. The AK was still leaning against the wall. Jim picked it up, undid the safety catch and headed out of the door. They were in a deserted compound, with white-washed one-story buildings next to a nine-foot high wall nibbled with bullet holes and topped with sandbags and concertina wire. There was a row of soft-bodied Land Rovers to their right. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Jim tried the door of the Land Rover that had brought them here. It was locked. So were the others. He tried the keys he’d taken from the guard. None of them fitted.

  ‘Go back to the guard and check for other keys,’ he whispered to Maxine. ‘Hurry.’

  Maxine darted back into the building. Jim checked the vehicles. One of them was stashed full of weapons.

  Jim stayed next to it. Maxine emerged moments later with a ring of keys. Jim tried several of them, eventually finding the right one. He yanked open the door and climbed in. He put the AK on his lap and rolled down the window.

  ‘Open the gate,’ he said to Maxine as he started the engine. ‘Quick.’

  Maxine sprinted to the gate and tugged it open. On the other side, a guard was half asleep, leaning against the wall with his rifle. The sound of the gate opening woke him up and he looked around confused. He saw Jim and pulled out his weapon.

  Without lifting the AK from his lap, Jim pulled the trigger and fired a long burst. The high velocity rounds blasted straight through the Land Rover’s door. The guard collapsed backwards, eyes wide.

  Jim leaned over and pushed the passenger door open. He grabbed Maxine’s hand and pulled her in. Shouting erupted behind them. Jim looked in the rear-view mirror. Three men were running out of the buildings: one was Patrick and the two others were guards. They raced towards Jim’s Land Rover. Jim hit the accelerator. His vehicle lurched forward and raced down the dirt track towards the road. Behind them was the sound of gunshots.

  Jim put his foot to the floor, nearly losing control as the Land Rover hit a pot-hole. They sped down the half-made road towards a cluster of buildings ahead of them.

  ‘Where now?’ shouted Jim above the noise of the engine.

  ‘Straight down, towards the west of Mogadishu. We need to meet Abdullah.’

  ‘The guy from the Red Crescent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He helps us find the IDPs.’

  The windscreen shattered. A bullet had gone through it. Jim spun round to see two Land Rovers catching up.

  ‘That’s if they don’t get us first,’ she said. ‘Here, give me that.’

  She grabbed the assault rifle from his lap, rolled down the window, and sprayed the vehicles behind with bullets. Some of them must have hit, because one of the Land Rovers skidded and crashed into a wall, black smoke billowing from under its bonnet.

  ‘One down,’ she shouted. ‘One more to go.’

  She fired again, but nothing happened.

  ‘Damn. No more ammo,’ she said. ‘We need to outrace them.’

  ‘There’s ammo in the back,’ Jim said.

  But the other Land Rover was right behind them.

  ‘Brace yourself,’ he said.

  He hit the brake. Their vehicle came to an abrupt halt and the Land Rover behind them crashed right into it. Maxine was flung forward into the dashboard.

  ‘What?’ she shouted, as she lifted her dazed head.

  Instead of answering, Jim hit the accelerator again and sped off. The Land Rover behind them didn’t move.

  ‘Looks like we’ve stunned them for now.’ He turned to Maxine with a grin.

  ‘Not just them.’ She held her head with both hands.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said. She turned to face him. ‘You’re okay. Just bruised.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ she replied.

  Chapter 48

  Mogadishu, Somalia

  29 September 2003

  They headed through rows of destroyed houses and shelled-ravaged buildings. The streets were quiet and the sun was coming down. They passed an old man limping beside a wooden cart pulled by a donkey. A goat ran in front of their Land Rover, forcing Jim to hit the brake.

  A few turns later, Maxine told Jim to stop in front of a compound with high cement walls and a green steel gate with barbed wire on top. She hopped out and banged the gate. A guard peered through a peephole.

  ‘I’m here to see Abdullah. Tell him it’s Maxine. He has to hurry.’

  The guard studied her with dreary eyes, then dragged open the gate. He popped a qat leaf in his mouth. She pushed past him and entered the house. Moments later, she was back with a tall Somali man in traditional robes and a round hat. He climbed into the Land Rover after Maxine.

  ‘Abdullah, this is Jim,’ she said.

  Abdullah shook Jim’s hand East African style: the palm, then the thumb, then the palm. He had dark, stern eyes, but a wide, friendly smile. Jim immediately felt he could trust him.

  The guard handed Abdullah several jerry cans of petrol and an army rucksack.

  ‘You’ve come prepared,’ Jim said. He stepped out of the vehicle and wrenched open the back, which had been seriously dented by the crash.

  ‘You too,’ Abdullah said, pointing to the stacks of weapons in the back of the vehicle.

  Jim grinned and counted: five greased and unused AK 47s and two boxes of 30-round mags, two Heckler & Koch G3A3 assault rifles, three Glock pistols and four boxes of 12-round mags, five flak jackets and a pair of 10x50 military binoculars. He checked the ammo: it was all dry, with none of the blue-green colour on the casings that would indicate dampness.

  ‘How did the militia get such good kit?’ Jim said, putting on a flak jacket. He handed one to Abdullah and Maxine and grabbed one of the new AKs.

  ‘Through Universal Action,’ Abdullah said. ‘They’ve been importing weapons with MainShield’s help, then selling them to Othman’s bunch.’

  ‘Bastards. Come on, let’s go before the others catch up.’

  ‘Got fags?’ Maxine asked, as they drove off.

  Abdullah searched in his rucksack and tossed her a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

  ‘Camel Lights,’ she said, ripping the pack open. ‘That’ll have to do.’

  She lit a cigarette and inhaled as though her life depended on it.

  Abdullah looked at Maxine. ‘So what’s the latest?’

  ‘Not good,’ she said, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Harry’s thugs are after us. Just managed to escape. They�
��re probably on their way again.’

  ‘You don’t seem that worried,’ Abdullah said.

  ‘I’m scared to death.’

  ‘So we drive all night?’

  ‘I think so,’ Maxine said.

  ‘It’s going to be risky going all the way to Maslah camp,’ Abdullah said. ‘It’s in Wajid, a good 340 kilometres west of here. We’ll be fortunate if we don’t get attacked by militia or bandits.’

  Maxine shrugged. ‘If that’s where they are, then that’s where we go. Did you get assurance of safe passage?’

  Abdullah held out a piece of paper with writing scrawled all over it.

  ‘Will that help?’ Jim said.

  ‘Who knows,’ Abdullah said.

  ‘Are the two IDPs in the Maslah camp?’ Jim asked.

  ‘The one IDP. He’s called Abdi Karim Abdul. His son died when they tried to escape by boat. A Red Crescent team found the boat’s survivors. They’d been drifting at sea with no food or drink. Fuel had run out. It was horrific.’

  ‘How did you know it was him?’ Jim said.

  ‘He told his story to the team. He wants protection from the militia. They knew I was looking for him, so they told me. He’s hiding among relatives in the Maslah camp.’

  ‘He doesn’t stand a chance,’ Maxine said, opening the window to throw out her cigarette. ‘The militia control the camps. They’ll find him, torture him, then kill him.’

  Abdullah nodded. ‘That’s my fear too. We need to get there fast.’

  Jim slowed down. The road was clogged with people fleeing Mogadishu. He hit the horn to fray a way through the crowd.

  An hour later, they’d left Mogadishu behind them and were driving on a dirt road. Abdullah turned to Maxine. ‘I’ve done more research into what you told me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s worse than I thought. Much worse. MainShield’s already started bringing its material into Somaliland. Planes loaded with small arms, rocket launchers, 8,000 troops, even some helicopters. They’re planning a full scale war. The first attack’s planned for tomorrow evening.’