‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I just cannot believe it.’
‘Tell me, Maxine. Tell me now.’
‘I saw that name the other day on an old passport lying around his office.’
Jim had an uneasy feeling growing inside him. ‘Whose passport?’
‘That Adam Geriff, that platoon captain…’
‘Yes?’ He knew what she was about to say.
She looked him straight in the eyes. ‘That was Harry.’
Chapter 51
Bay region, Somalia
30 September 2003
Jim drove most of the afternoon while the others slept. His AK was on his lap. The going was slow on the dirt track. Painfully slow. He was in shock. Yet part of him felt that he’d known this all along.
Last year, he’d studied the photo for hours, if not days, but it had been grainy and unclear. It showed Adam Geriff—Harry—standing in army gear, leaning against a ruined wall somewhere in Kabul. Jim had studied the face with a magnifying glass and could remember the distinguishing features as though they’d been burnt into his brain: the blond hair, the sharp chin, the pointy nose, the dark, shark eyes.
But today, Harry had darkish hair, a greying beard and a rounded nose. Only the eyes were the same. Indeed, Harry’s eyes had struck Jim from the time he first met him at Hargeysa hospital. He’d felt right from the start that he knew Harry from somewhere.
Maxine stirred next to him. She was resting her head on his shoulder.
‘He must have had plastic surgery,’ Jim said to himself out loud.
‘Hmmm?’ Maxine opened bleary eyes.
‘He must have had his nose done. Maybe other parts of his face too. He looks different to the photo, except for the eyes.’
Maxine sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. ‘The passport photo looked like him, but was also quite different. I was going to ask him if he had a brother when he snatched it from me. I noticed some scars under his chin once, when he’d shaved his beard off.’
‘I expect he had it all done when he escaped from the army, in some back-street place in India or somewhere. Maybe the army was on his trail.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Maxine put her arm round Jim’s shoulders and kissed his neck gently. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing you can say.’ He put his arm round her while driving with the other hand. ‘It just confirms what I have to do.’
Chapter 52
Hargeysa, Somaliland
30 September 2003
The single-engine 12-seater Cessna landed with a bump on the tarmac of Hargeysa airport. It taxied to a stop next to a smaller five-seat Cessna and a line of white four-engine Hercules cargo planes, with a large black and red UA logo painted on their tail. Harry was the first to exit and marched straight to the broad-nosed Humvee that was waiting by the side of the crumbling pile of stones that acted as a terminal building. He nodded to the driver, a muscular, square-jawed man dressed in black who was leaning out of the vehicle’s door and smoking a cigarette.
A woman was already in the Humvee: short cropped hair, sun-burnt face, wrap-around sunglasses and dressed in an all-khaki uniform with an ammo vest and a security ear-piece. Marion Smith, deputy CEO of MainShield International, looked every bit the army instructor she used to be.
The driver started the engine and drove off. Three other Humvees joined them: one in front and two behind. Their windows were tinted, but Harry knew they were full of MainShield guards, all kitted up for their protection.
‘Where’s the cash?’ Marion asked.
‘It’s coming. Don’t worry.’
‘You said that last time we spoke. ‘
‘We’ve had a few glitches with the financial system.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We’ve had trouble wiring transfers. Interpol’s been on our case. We have to be careful.’
‘Look, Harry,’ Marion said. ‘We’ve invested a lot into this mission. But our cash flow isn’t infinite.’
‘You’ll get it by close of play tomorrow.’
Harry felt Marion’s gaze bore through him, as though she was reading the depths of his soul. He shrugged and searched his pockets for his pack of Marlboro.
She adjusted her glasses. ‘There’s something else I wanted to discuss.’
‘Uhuh?’
‘The mission. We’re starting with securing the IDP camps. The media crews are already there to film the troops arriving and distributing food.’
‘Make sure the UA logo’s prominent.’ Harry lit a cigarette and puffed smoke in Marion’s direction.
‘The problem is afterwards,’ Marion said, waving the smoke away. ‘Othman knows we’re up to something. We need to hit him hard and fast.’
Harry looked away. Marion was getting too bossy. ‘Get Harim first,’ he said. ‘That was the deal with Othman. He’ll help you.’
‘That’s madness. Our sources tell us Harim’s in Somalia. If we go down there now, we’re leaving Somaliland open to Othman for the taking. We need to finish him off first.’
‘That’s out of the question. Othman’s got work to do in Somalia too.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Finding an escaped IDP,’ Harry said.
‘What?’
‘A witness to the camp massacre.’
‘Doesn’t sound too relevant.’
‘Trust me. It is. Your men were there. You should be worried too.’
‘I’ll be judge of that.’ She crossed her arms. ‘So, you’ll be flying in with the first troops to the camp tomorrow?’
‘I’ll also be in Somalia.’
‘That’s not good, Harry. You need to be in on this first operation.’
‘Not possible. We need to get this IDP before others do.’
Marion shot Harry a strongly disapproving look.
The convoy of Humvees passed through rows of barbed wire into a military camp made up of large pods connected by collapsible wire-mesh Hesco barriers. Behind them were a dozen MD-530 Boeing helicopters and rows of armoured vehicles. Groups of men in full combat gear were milling around, preparing themselves.
A true military operation, Harry thought proudly as they stepped out of the vehicle. It was a shame Edward was no longer here to see it. They could have both enjoyed watching the fruits of their labour. But Edward had betrayed him and had paid the price, so Harry pushed the thought out of his mind.
Marion turned to him. ‘As you can see, we’ve put a lot of resources into this op. Make sure the cash is in our account by end of tomorrow.’ She frowned. ‘And stop smoking. It’s a filthy habit.’
Chapter 53
Bakool region, Somalia
30 September 2003
‘We’re just a klick away from Maslah,’ Jim said to the others.
He veered off the track and drove a few hundred metres into the desert. He hoped to hell he wasn’t in one of the many minefields that littered Somalia. He hid the vehicle behind a withered tree and fetched the binoculars out of the back. He told the others to stay alert in the car and handed them some pistols. He scrambled to the top of a small mound, lay down and roamed the horizon with the binos.
Half a klick ahead of them, three technicals with black machineguns on the back were blocking the track. Behind them was a barricade of coiled razor wire and steel antitank crossbars. Half a dozen militiamen in dark glasses, some of them with baseball caps, were standing in front, looking bored. A few others were leaning on their rifles by the side of the road in the shade of a large tree.
Behind them, the Maslah IDP camp went on for miles. Row upon row of domed tents stretched into the distance, casting long shadows in the desert in the evening sun. From where Jim was, the camp looked relatively orderly, but he knew this was deceptive. IDP camps were renowned for being hives of criminality, rape and murder. The traditional social structures that usually kept a society together fell to pieces in the mindless disorder of an aid camp, where bandits ruled.
The buzz of a motor broke the
desert silence. A single-engine Cessna was approaching the camp from the north. There was a clear line of vision to the runway. Jim zoomed in and watched the plane land with a bump. A man jumped out. Jim recognised him instantly.
Jim crawled down the mound and sprinted to the Land Rover. Maxine and Abdullah sprung open the doors.
‘Harry’s arrived,’ Jim said.
He swung open the back of the vehicle. He waved them over and started going through the pile of weapons.
It was time to plan the attack.
The technicals raced round the aircraft in a show of force that failed to impress Harry. The kids manning the machineguns on the back of each vehicle had crazed looks in their eyes. Some of them nearly fell off as the technicals skidded to a stop a few metres from the plane. Othman jumped out and marched towards Harry.
‘Have you found him?’ Harry said.
‘Not yet.’
‘Then what the hell are you waiting for? Get your thugs to search the camp again.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that.’
‘I’ll speak to you how the fuck I want to speak to you, Othman boy,’ Harry yelled. ‘You find that damn IDP. Then I’ll speak to you differently.’
Othman stepped forward until he was eye to eye with Harry. Harry held his stare. For a few moments, Othman seemed about to attack him. Instead, Othman spat on the floor and turned on his heels. He barked orders to his men, who had been watching the scene with apprehension, and jumped back into the technical. Harry hopped into one right behind him. The technicals drove off, leaving three qat-chewing militiamen next to the aircraft.
Harry fingered his gun. The relationship with Othman was wearing thin.
Jim had been walking for a half-hour, his boots crunching the sand and pebbles. The sun had set. The scattered lights of the IDP camp were a few hundred metres away. He crouched and looked round, back towards where he’d come from. The lights of Abdullah and Maxine’s Land Rover moved slowly towards the camp. Then it stopped. There was the glow of flashlights. They’d reached the roadblock.
Jim lifted his binos. One of the militiamen was next to the driver’s window, speaking to Abdullah. The others followed, plucking qat leaves from stems and stuffing them into their mouths. Jim held his breath. A few moments later, the first militiaman stepped back and waved the Land Rover through.
Abdullah and Maxine must have bribed their way successfully. So far, so good, although this was the easy bit. The rest of the plan involved Abdullah and Maxine making contact with Abdullah’s Red Crescent colleagues and finding the escaped IDP before Harry did. Meanwhile, Jim was to head for the aircraft, stay low, and then secure it as soon as Abdullah and Maxine turned up with the IDP. If they could hijack it along with the pilot, they could then escape before all hell broke loose.
Jim hadn’t told Abdullah and Maxine that he had no intention of flying out with them. Once they’d escaped, his mission would be to hunt down Harry.
And kill him.
The convoy of technicals tore through the dirt tracks between the rows of huts, crushing anything in their way. Children and adults scattered. Harry grinned.
A vehicle was stopped ahead of them, its headlamps on. A person was leaning against it, smoking. Harry guessed it was Patrick. Behind him were two other 4x4s with armed men standing around them.
Harry’s technical skidded to a halt. He jumped out and marched over.
‘Did you get them?’
‘Not yet.’ Patrick crushed the stub of his cigarette with his heel. ‘Our car broke down. We couldn’t catch up with them.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the camp. The roadblock let them through.’
‘Well then, you’d better start searching, you idiot,’ Harry shouted. ‘Find them, and that IDP. Now!’
Jim made his way through the scattered undergrowth and dispersed huts on the outskirts of the camp. He paused to take his bearings, then walked into the camp towards the landing zone. He hoped he looked like an aid worker to anyone who noticed him in the dark. He kept the AK close to his body and patted his trousers to keep the bulges of his Glock and ammo mags from sticking out too much. He’d left the other weapons behind. The AK 47 was by far the best assault rifle in the world and he didn’t want to burden himself with the other kit.
Women in loose robes were cooking outside their huts. They barely looked up as he wandered by. Men sat around, drinking tea and chewing qat. Twenty minutes later, he was within sight of the plane. He crouched. The stars were out, illuminating everything with surprising brightness, including the outline of the aircraft. He edged closer, hiding behind a hut. He peered round. A man with a helmet, probably the pilot, was leaning against the side of the plane, looking the other way. Behind him was a large tent.
Jim scouted round, observing the plane from all angles. Two militiamen with AK 47s slung over their shoulder were chatting on the side near the tent. He knew he could take them out if needed. Most militiamen he’d seen around the world were pretty crap shots.
Jim found some bushes. He lay in them to wait, shifting in his flak jacket to get comfortable. He had a good view of most approaches to the aircraft. This would be a perfect spot from which to launch his assault. He prepared himself for a long wait.
A light wind rose, generating clouds of dust that hid the plane from view. He crawled closer.
There was a crunch behind him.
He spun round.
Chapter 54
Maslah IDP Camp, Somalia
30 September 2003
Jim sprinted through the alleys between the huts, crashing into camp fires and knocking over cooking pots, spilling broth everywhere. People pushed him away, shouting what sounded like insults. Still he ran, clutching his left arm. He tripped and fell flat. He struggled to his feet and kept running. He had to find a safe place to rest a second, from where he could plan his counter attack.
After what seemed like an eternity of wandering around in the camp, he came to the edge. Ahead of him was desert: stones, sand and shrubs. He crouched down and made a mental check of himself. His body ached everywhere. He felt his arm: it was cut and bleeding.
But he was okay. The bullet had only grazed him. Unlike the shot to his chest, which had seriously bruised him despite the flak jacket.
He’d been stupid. Being crept upon like that by a militiaman was a sign of his own amateurism. He’d lost his touch since leaving the army. At least he’d managed to gain the upper hand and killed the militiaman before he killed Jim.
He had to think of a new plan, and quick. The other militiamen must by now have found their comrade’s dead body in the bushes and alerted Harry. The camp was probably crawling with his thugs with orders to shoot on sight.
But Jim had no intention of dying here.
The camp had gone unnaturally quiet. Families huddled together in their huts, children curled up, asleep on the floor. Mothers stood in the doorways and stared into the night, gathering their robes round them. He crept through the rows of huts. Nobody was looking at him. A few fires were still burning, but not enough to make much light. The wind had risen again, creating a dust cloud that obscured the stars.
He’d use the darkness to his advantage.
He walked back from where he’d come until he reached the lights of the big tent and the silhouettes of half a dozen men holding weapons—reinforcements to guard the aircraft. A man was walking towards him. Jim hid behind a hut and knelt down. The man walked straight past. Then he turned. Something must have attracted his attention. He stared straight at Jim and lifted his rifle.
Jim sprang up. One hand went over the man’s mouth. The other hand twisted the man’s head. There was a crack as the man’s neck broke. Jim lowered the body to the ground. He searched it. Just a hunting knife. He put it in his pocket. He hid the body behind a hut. Nobody would be surprised to find it in the morning. People were murdered all the time in IDP camps. Feuds between rival gangs were commonplace.
Jim crept forward. Another militiaman
was standing with his back to him, smoking a cigarette, an AK in his other hand. Jim stood still for a second, assessing the situation. He didn’t like to do this, but he had no choice. He had to eliminate the plane’s guards one by one.
The militiaman was oblivious to his presence. Jim trod slowly, rolling each boot onto the ground from the heel to the toe in order to make as little noise as possible. First one step, then another. He pulled out his knife. He was within one metre of the militiaman. He could hear his breathing, see the smoke rising from the cigarette, catch the faint glow of burning ash against the man’s cheek.
There was a crack of gunfire in the distance. The militiaman tensed, lifted his rifle. Jim pounced. One hand went over the mouth again. The other pushed the knife into the militiaman’s armpit, straight to the heart. He died instantly.
Jim checked the militiaman’s pockets. A few magazines of ammo. Some Somali bank notes. A pack of cigarettes. He rolled the body behind another hut.
Jim looked around. Nobody had seen him. He kept on walking, slowly, cautiously, towards the plane.
He stopped. A gang of boys was watching him from a few metres away. One of them, the eldest it seemed, came up and spoke in broken English.
‘You lost, mister?’ The boy extended his hand. ‘Come with me.’
Jim glanced around. A woman was bent-over a cooking pot, turning some kind of mash. She stared at him indifferently. He looked back at the boy. His friends gathered round Jim, studying him as though he was an exotic fish in an aquarium. The boy ran off. Jim tried to extricate himself from the children, but they clung to him and wouldn’t let go.
Headlamps appeared. Vehicle engines rumbled.
Damn. The boy had alerted someone.
Jim tried to pick his way through the tents again, but the boys hung onto his clothes, pulling him back.
‘Come, come,’ said one, grabbing Jim’s hand and pulling him towards the approaching vehicles.
‘Let me go,’ Jim said, brushing them off.
Still they kept pulling him, until Jim pushed one of them away with such force that the boy fell over and shouted out. The others backed off.
The Somali Doctrine Page 25