‘Why’s nobody doing anything about it?’ Jim asked.
‘Because they’ve got UN Security Council backing.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘Just today. They got a Chapter VII resolution. A real tour de force. They’ve even declared certain parts of Somaliland UN safe areas under Universal Action’s control. UA’s got connections right to the top of the US government and used them all the way.’
‘The US president?’ Jim said, keeping his eye on the road. It was getting dark and the road was bumpy.
Abdullah shook his head. ‘The vice-president. He’s passionate about fighting poverty. And when I mean fighting, I mean it in the literal sense. A warmonger. A Christian fundamentalist. Believes in the End Times and Judgement Day and the US’s divine mission to bring Christianity to the world. He’s got close links to MainShield.’
‘How come you know all this?’ Jim said. ‘You’re here, in the middle of Somalia, and you know more about it than us, who’ve just arrived from London.’
Abdullah smiled. ‘I have my contacts.’
‘Is that so?’ Jim said.
‘Someone high up in UA. A woman called Jenny.’
Maxine gasped. ‘You mean Jenny Rugers, Edward’s personal assistant?’
‘You know her?’ Jim said.
‘She’s former MainShield. Tough as nails. Well connected to the religious right, as is everyone from MainShield.’ Maxine turned to Abdullah. ‘Why did she tell you this? She’s as loyal as they come.’
Abdullah looked at both of them. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’ Maxine said.
‘Edward’s dead. Killed in a carjacking in Nairobi. It’s all over the news.’
There was a stunned silence. Jim stared at the road ahead, his thoughts racing. Had Edward been assassinated? Was Harry somehow behind this? How would this affect UA’s plans for Somaliland? He gripped the steering wheel, driving as fast as he could without crashing. They were now heading on a pot-holed road towards the west.
Maxine broke the silence. ‘Jenny got in touch with you directly?’
‘By email at first,’ Abdullah said.
‘Don’t you find that suspicious?’
‘Maybe. She must have somehow known I was in touch with you.’
‘Which means she already knew about the escaped IDP. Which means they’ve been tapping your phone or bugging your house. Or someone told them.’ She stared at Abdullah with narrow eyes.
‘Don’t worry.’ Abdullah put his hands before him in a gesture of defence. ‘I didn’t tell anyone. You know you can trust me, Maxine. We’ve worked together for years.’
Maxine shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem to mean much here.’
‘Maxine! You can’t seriously doubt my word.’
‘Sorry, Abdullah. I’m not doubting you. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have picked you up. Still, I’m intrigued by Jenny.’
‘She hates Harry.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘With her, it’s more personal. I spoke to her by phone. Her voice was shaking every time I mentioned his name.’
There was silence again. Jim’s mind was working fast, trying to make sense of what Abdullah had just told them. They passed the town of Afgooye and accelerated down another straight road through the desert. Occasionally, they would pass a group of IDPs huddled by the side, their eyes eerily lit up by the headlamps.
A thought struck Jim. ‘So Harry’s now…’ His voice trailed off in horror.
‘He is,’ Abdullah said. ‘It was announced on the news this morning.’
Maxine raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s what?’
‘Harry’s now CEO of Universal Action,’ Jim said. ‘He planned it all along. I bet he killed Edward.’
Maxine held her head in her hands and groaned.
Chapter 49
Nairobi, Kenya
29 September 2003
‘You incompetent fool,’ Harry shouted down the phone. ‘Find them quick, or you’ll pay for this.’
He threw the handset across the room. It crashed against the coffee table, shattering the glass. How could Patrick have failed such an easy mission? Letting Jim and Maxine escape was a disaster. Was there nobody he could rely on anymore to do a good job?
He reached for his whiskey and downed it, desperate for the soothing sensation of the alcohol. He glanced at the television, which was switched onto CNN with no sound. It was showing images of starving babies and stick-thin adults holding out shaking hands as white UA aid workers distributed food. ‘Famine in Horn of Africa: UA responds’, said the sub-title below.
He poured himself another large whiskey and sipped it more slowly this time. Better take it easy on the drink this evening. There was still work to do. He took a long drag on his cigarette. The board had reluctantly agreed to him taking over as acting CEO, but he knew they were suspicious. He doubted George had spread any rumours. He was too frightened for that. But Harry realised he had a reputation, and it wasn’t too hard to put two and two together. Still, there was no evidence, and Nairobi—or Nairobbery as some called it—was renowned for being a place where random acts of violence happened frequently. Anyway, the trustees knew he had enough dirt on each of them to send them to jail for life. They hated him, but they’d always do as he said.
Harry picked up his handset from among the bits of glass and checked its screen. It was still working. He dialled a satellite phone number in Somalia.
‘Yes?’ came the abrupt answer.
‘Othman, we have a problem. Some guys are heading down your way.’
‘And?’
‘You need to stop them.’
‘Why?’
Harry hesitated. His was a secure phone, so he wasn’t too concerned about potential eavesdropping. But he wasn’t 100 per cent sure.
‘It’s to do with the escaped IDPs.’ He stubbed out his cigarette on the desk, leaving a black burn mark on the wood.
‘IDP. Singular.’
‘What happened?’
‘The boy died. Nothing to do with us.’
Harry couldn’t hide the note of anxiety in his voice. ‘But you’ve still got the man?’
‘He’s with the Red Crescent. In Maslah camp.’
‘Don’t lose him. Or you’ll be sorry. Remember why we kept him alive.’
‘Sure. I’m not an idiot.’
Harry pursed his lips. ‘Another thing. MainShield’s moving into Somaliland.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you given them coordinates for Harim’s militia?’
‘All done.’
‘Othman, don’t mess this up,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve let the damned IDP slip through your fingers once. Don’t let this happen again.’
The line went dead.
Harry sank into the sofa. He stared at the TV. The images of death and starvation continued to roll across the screen, interspersed with interviews with tired aid workers in dirty t-shirts in the camps and pontificating experts in ties and suits in the TV studio.
Harry leant his head back and felt the fatigue seep through him. He knocked back another large shot of whiskey and spun the ice cubes round in the empty glass. They’d deliberately spared the IDP and his son when they’d attacked the camp in order to have witnesses to what happened. It’s no good using terror tactics if there’s no witness to tell others about them, Harry kept on explaining to Othman. The plan had been to release the IDPs to selected pro-UA journalists, not to let them escape. They’d nearly lost them for good. There was still a slim chance Jim and Maxine would get to the IDP first, but Harry was sure he could contain any fall-out. For a start, there was no proof of any link between UA and Othman.
At least the UN Security Council negotiations had gone as planned, thanks in no small part to the influence of the US delegation. Universal Action’s case to the US vice-president had been that UA needed a military force to impose peace in Somaliland and provide food aid to stop the famine. It was all part of the War on Terror. Harry had also
brought in a religious argument, about this being God’s war against Islam, promoting the Gospel of truth, winning hearts and minds through force and aid. The vice-president had loved that. All of George W Bush’s bunch loved that kind of fundamentalist bullshit.
Harry pulled out a file from a folder on his bed. It had details of Harim, the warlord rival to Othman. Harim controlled a militia of thousands of men that was involved in a brutal struggle for power against Othman. Both were attempting to invade Somaliland and re-unite it with Somalia. Harry’s agreement with Othman was that he would help him destroy Harim’s forces. Othman didn’t know—although he may have suspected it—that Harry would then use his new mercenary army to crush Othman and take control of all of Somalia as well as Somaliland. It was the only way to bring peace to the failed state.
Harry leafed through the file, taking in data about Harim’s forces, his weapons and plans. He stubbed out a cigarette on the sofa’s armrest, burning a clean, round hole into the fabric. He flicked the cigarette stub onto the floor.
His phone rang.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Silence.
‘Hello?’ he repeated.
A woman’s muffled voice came through. ‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Someone you know.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You.’
‘What?’
‘I want you dead, Harry, if it’s the last thing I ever do.’
The woman hung up. Harry looked at his handset, puzzled.
A message flashed on his laptop on the table. He clicked on it. It was the UA finance director. There’d been a problem acquiring the funds for MainShield again. Marion wasn’t happy and wanted to speak to him.
Damn. Just what he needed.
Then it struck home.
The voice had been Jenny’s.
Chapter 50
Bay region, Somalia
30 September 2003
The rays of the rising sun woke Jim up. He rubbed his eyes and blinked. Maxine was asleep, leaning on his shoulder. Abdullah was still driving, staring at the dirt road ahead. All around them was desert as far as they could see: rocks, sand, and the odd wiry plant or small, stumped tree. So far, they’d encountered no blood-thirsty warlords or qat-crazed militia, only the occasional group of IDPs, looking worn, starved and on the verge of death.
‘Subah wanaqsan,’ Abdullah said without glancing round.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Means “good morning” in Somali. Nice sleep?’
Jim stroked his face with the back of his hand. ‘My head hurts like hell where that psycho Patrick hit me with his rifle.’
‘I didn’t say anything when I got into the car, but it sure looks nasty. And you’re right about the psycho bit. A classic case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Harry, Edward and Patrick are textbook cases of psychopathy. It’s a mental disorder. They’re incapable of empathy. No conscience, no sense of morality, and no sense of responsibility. Impulsive, arrogant, manipulative and self-obsessed, but also at times charming and convincing.’
‘That’s them 100 per cent,’ Jim said. ‘Where did you learn about this?’
‘I did a degree in criminal psychology in London years ago. There’s no cure or effective treatment. People with psychopathy end up as fraudsters, scamsters, tricksters, wife-beaters, and sometimes murderers, like Harry.’
‘Sounds like my brother. He was always lying through his teeth and felt no remorse about it. Ended up in jail for fraud. He was still there last time I checked.’
‘It’s more common than you think.’
Jim shook his head. ‘Universal Action controlled by a bunch of psychopaths. Unbelievable, but explains a lot.’ He leant back against the headrest. ‘How are we doing?’
‘Still got a way to go.’
Jim pulled out of the glove compartment a map of Somalia and tried to study it. Maxine stirred next to him but went back to sleep. Jim gazed out at the scenery. Every so often, they’d drive past a burnt-out vehicle or a discarded ex-Soviet tank, vestiges of the war that had destroyed so much here for so long. His mind went back to the deserts of Iraq 12 years ago: the M1-A1 tanks with their mine ploughs driving through the barbed wire, minefields, bunkers and trenches north of the Iraqi-Saudi border; the screams of the Iraqi soldiers as the American combat earthmovers buried them alive under tonnes of earth and sand. So long ago, but still the memories remained, etched into his mind like engravings on a rock.
A little later that morning, Maxine took over driving from Abdullah, who went to sleep.
She gave Jim a worried look. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Your face is all white and your hands are trembling.’
‘I occasionally get flashbacks, that’s all.’
‘Flashbacks?’ she said.
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Okay.’
They kept on in silence, until Maxine spoke again. ‘What happened in Afghanistan, Jim?’ She had one hand on the wheel, while the other one pulled a cigarette out of a packet. ‘You avoided answering my question when I asked you the other day.’
Jim had never spoken about this since Carrie died. He’d tried to push the guilt and the memories to that part of his mind where all the bad things lurked, along with the nightmares from the Iraq war.
Maxine glanced over. ‘Would you rather not talk about that too?’
After all they’d gone through over the past few days, Jim felt closer to Maxine than to anybody else since Carrie had passed away. Maybe now was the right time to talk. Maybe Maxine was the right person to talk to.
‘I was married at the time,’ he said.
‘When was that?’
‘A year ago, in Afghanistan. I was doing an assignment for the New York Times to investigate how the war was affecting civilians. My wife was a staff reporter for Reuters.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Carrie.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Wonderful. Always positive, laughing. We had our moments, but we got on well. We loved being together.’
Maxine looked at him again. Her eyes were wide and bright. ‘What happened?’
‘An accident, or so the army told me. She was embedded with a platoon of marines in Helmand Province. A last minute thing. I didn’t even know she’d gone. I was doing an interview with a general at the time. I went back to the hotel, wondering where she was, when there was a knock on my door. A soldier was there and told me she’d died in an accident. Fallen down a cliff.’
‘Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.’
Jim paused, expecting the grief to come up again. But it didn’t. Not this time.
‘At first, they said they couldn’t find the body. But then one of my army sources said they’d brought it back, but they didn’t want me to see it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Eventually, I did see it. Her body was broken to pieces.’
Maxine put her hand on his lap. She held the steering wheel with her other hand, which still held the unlit cigarette in its fingers. He put his hand on hers and clasped it.
‘Something didn’t feel right,’ he said. ‘None of the marines wanted to speak to me about what had happened. I used all my contacts to investigate, but got nowhere. Her body was flown home to California. I went back with it for the funeral, then returned to Afghanistan to keep digging. I went to the place where they said she’d had the accident. I found a huge bomb crater and signs of a gunfight.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I managed to speak to one of the marines. The guy was drunk and not that coherent. I only had a few minutes by myself with him. He said none of them had seen what had happened to Carrie, which is what I’d already been told. They’d just been in an ambush. Two marines died, but she was fine, he said. But he kept on telling me that it was the captain of the platoon who’d found h
er. Now, I knew that already. I’d tried to track him down and speak to him, but I’d never managed. This drunken soldier then told me something that set all my alarm bells ringing. He said that Carrie had found out things about the captain that were best left unsaid.’
‘What did he mean?’
‘He wouldn’t say anything more. After a few weeks, I ran out of cash and my investigation wasn’t progressing. I had to return to New York. One evening, I was going through Carrie’s things when I came across a notepad of hers. It had her email login and password. I logged in and found an email she’d sent to herself with a few notes on what she’d been researching in Afghanistan. She hadn’t told me about it.’
‘What was it?’
‘She’d just found out that this platoon captain was involved in the heroin trade. He had contacts with Afghan chiefs who were growing the poppy crop and turning it into heroin. The guy was exporting it to the US via army planes with the help of MainShield.’
‘Why didn’t she tell you?’
‘Maybe she didn’t have the time. Her email was dated the same day she left on the mission with the platoon. She’d had to leave in a hurry that day.’
‘You think they knew she was investigating them, so they killed her?’
‘Most likely.’
‘Why didn’t you expose them?’
‘I couldn’t. I had no hard evidence. Just her notes. And the captain disappeared. I tried to find him, but all I had was an old photo of him that I managed to buy off some army admin guy. Nobody knew where he was.’
‘What was his name?’
Jim swallowed. He’d never pronounced the captain’s name since he’d left Afghanistan. It brought back too many memories and angry feelings.
‘Don’t you remember his name?’ Maxine said.
‘Adam Geriff.’
Maxine slammed on the brakes. The Land Rover skidded to a stop. Abdullah stirred.
Jim looked at Maxine, shocked. ‘What are you doing?’
‘No. That can’t be right.’ She stared at him, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell me his name again.’
‘Platoon Captain Adam Geriff.’
Maxine gripped the steering wheel so hard it looked like she was going to tear it off.
The Somali Doctrine Page 24