by Mark Powell
THE SOMALI SANCTION
By
Mark Andrew
NOTE FROM AUTHOR
Firstly, congratulations and thank you for purchasing this lovingly scribed book. I used only the good words, each one carefully selected to provide you with maximum reading pleasure, and of course to shamelessly encourage you to keep buying my books.
OK, so perhaps a little nauseous as an opening pitch, but it is appreciated as writing is something I deeply love. As such the purpose of this book is a simple one. It makes no pretense or attempt to aspire to literary heights or levels of excellence in writing. So, if you find the odd typo, please read on and keep enjoying. That said, I will shoot the editor and aspire to do better the next time. I simply wanted to give you a good read should you find yourself on a beach or on a long flight. And remember, it’s a work of fiction, nothing more.
Thank you.
Mark.
PRELUDE
London 2009 ~ MI5, British Security Service Offices
THE EYEWITNESS SAID SHE HAD HEARD TWO SHOTS.
Not long after eleven on the night in question a man in a blue jumper had gone into a small semi-detached house through the front door. One man in a black leather jacket and faded blue jeans had followed him a few minutes later. But he had entered the house from the back door of the house. The man in the black leather jacket and jeans had come out again a few minutes later.
The man in the blue jumper had not come out again. She observed.
The eyewitness had called 999 it was said at 11:20PM that night. Not that any record of the call was ever found.
Jarred Stowe observed the second hand on his watch sweep effortlessly round, as if allowing it to totally mesmerize his mind for a few moments. He took in his own reflection and questioned his sanity. Snapping too, he noted with some surprise that it was now close to seven o’clock in the morning. He had completely lost track of all time whilst seated inert and reclining in his expensive, and distinctly comfortable, ergonomic chair – but the weight on his mind accounted for his deep preoccupation.
His office was located on the third floor at the centre of the Grid; the affectionate name for the suite of secure offices within Thames House – the official home of the British Security Service. To Stowe, it represented a home from home; he rarely had the luxury of enjoying his own.
In an effort to change his pattern of thought, Stowe flicked his eyes to his large flat screen, which displayed a nauseous floating image that reminded him constantly of whom he worked for. Stowe’s cup was almost empty but still warm to the touch. Reaching, he lifted it up and tilted it towards his lips as if on auto-pilot. He watched the brown sludge move slow in the bottom. It did little to help raise his spirits. Neither did the thick, brown buff file with large bold, red text declaring its contents were “Confidential”.
Blowing out a sigh, he rubbed his face with his hands and closed his eyes.
Stowe could be described as a rugged man with broad shoulders and manly features; not overly handsome and not exactly ugly. Standing at five feet eleven inches, he comprised one hundred and ninety five pounds of well-exercised muscle. His hair – dark brown and cut army short – sported a hint of wax to give it an edge of life. He had an easy smile, which lent him an open and warm appearance. But he had, on occasion, the air of a man who had grown up too fast and seen way more than any man of his thirty-years should have; which in truth, he had.
Stowe broke the mold; he was a new breed of spook – not the caricature of the shoulder-tapped Oxbridge graduate, nor was he former Army fodder with a talent for turning grey. Stowe had grown up a wayward child, an orphan, with one older brother he had never met: Stowe was crafted from unpolished coal, with untapped diamond promise.
Today would not be like every other day. He knew the call would one day come one day. A spate of nasty incidents had conspired to congealed into a ball of shit, and all of it heading his way. The folks at ‘Lego land’ were after him; the real spooks, the hard men, the James Bond wanna-be types – or so they thought. The brass at MI6 had never really taken to him, and now? It had been so simple, he concluded as he tilted forward in his chair, clasping his head in his hands. He had walked right into a trap and hadn’t seen it coming. Closing his eyes, Stowe started to recall and replay the events that were now intent on dragging him down.
Stowe had been instructed to travel to Manchester. A simple reconnaissance mission, or so he thought, and had most certainly been informed. He recalled feeling strangely anxious that day, a rare emotion for an agent that had more than broken his half-century of missions. The brief was clear: enter the restaurant, eyeball the target and report back. For Stowe, it should have been apple pie and custard.
His mind now danced and flashed the vivid imprints of the actual events of that night: He’d sauntered in through the doors and paused inside the doorway. Having scanned the small restaurant he pinged his target, John Reynar, with ease – seated off to his left at the bar, a glass of red wine in hand. Stowe slowly took in his appearance as if to double-confirm his target; a thin man with a hawk-like nose, intense brown eyes with a sallow complexion and greasy, black hair that hung an inch or two above his shoulders and swept back over his overly large ears. Stowe observed as a second man appeared and sat himself next to Reynar. From the exchange of dialog in hushed tones, Stowe noted that Reynar appeared to grow more anxious with every word that passed between them. As if panicked, Reynar quickly stood up and hurried out of the restaurant. Stowe followed accordingly, whilst making sure he spat into his radio that he was now on the move. A crackle in reply confirmed HQ had noted his update. After twenty minutes of standard tail procedure, Stowe watched Reynar look furtively around before entering a semi-detached Victorian house; number 72 Claremont Road. Having given his brief situation report, Stowe took in the characteristics of the house, it seemed wrong somehow, not the seedy bed sit located on the second floor of a run-down terrace he had expected a man like Reynar to pollute. No, this was the home of a family, a 2.2 kids and a dog. Not a dwelling for a loner like Reynar.
His train of thought was soon interrupted by further orders, orders that took Stowe somewhat by surprise – a completely unexpected development – considering he hadn’t expected to change a man’s fate. Not on that night. But he of all people should never question an order. He’d killed far too many people to respond like an amateur. He recalled how he’d entered the house via the back door, breaking in to find Reynar in the front room trying to conceal himself by standing in a dark corner. How Reynar had made his final plea, on his knees and mumbling to himself liked a scared kid, that he was just an analyst. Something that had no effect on Stowe as he raised his suppressed Sig, squeezed the trigger twice, heard the cough, and watched impassively as Reynar departed from the land of the living with a double tap to his head. Stowe slipped out through the same door he had entered by and vanished into the darkness.
It took but a few days for the heat to build. The man Stowe had so expertly and dispassionately dispatched was in fact an American – worse still, an active member of the CIA. Stowe had realized the moment he heard from the brass, sitting two floors above him, that he would be sold out and used as the sacrificial lamb. The men with Etonian accents; the old-boy network with deals to do wanted Reynar dead and that was that. The CIA had been sent a message. Not that Stowe would ever know what it was in truth, other than he concluded Reynar was some form of rogue agent, but still useful to the Americans and in someway not so good for the Brits. His killing was somehow meant to even up a bitter score, the American’s had taken one of theirs. Stowe had somehow become expendable and the perfect man to take the heat, the sycophants that pulled his strings would certainly make sure of that.
As Stowe opened
his eyes, he took in the two-burley men now standing in front of his desk. The guys who were sent to fetch people from Section 20 had a certain swagger, a distinctive appearance that he could spot and smell a mile away. They were like robots, devoid of any real brain, just hired muscle in effect. These were the guys who broke kneecaps, smashed up your house or rammed your car of a cliff with you still in it and made it look like a suicide. He knew what it meant for them to be there.
Game over.
CHAPTER ONE
August 4th, 2010 ~ fifteen nautical miles off the Seychelles coast
The noonday sun beat down relentlessly on the bleached teak decks of Jambeau; a 46-foot vision of two-tone white and blue that Terry Madden and his wife Sarah had yearned to charter for what seemed an age. To them, the French-designed yacht represented three weeks of much needed freedom and tranquility. The soulful energy of the wind, the motion of the sea and the sheer beauty of their location embraced them seductively. Here they were at last; almost alone and for the first time at peace as a couple.
Emerging from the hatchway and setting foot on deck, Sarah felt the subtle midsummer breeze gust in from the windward side and caress her face. She froze, captivated, and listened for a moment as the rigging tinkled and chimed above her, as if wishing to mesmerize her deeper into the harmonious serenity.
From his position at the helm, Terry Madden admired the smile of wonder on the face of his long-time wife. Her beauty still radiated bright and clear as the day he’d first set eyes on her. Whilst he certainly didn’t recall every stuffy dinner party attended, he distinctly remembered that particular one. Her petite frame, shoulder-length blonde hair, ice-blue eyes and warm, friendly smile had thoroughly enchanted him – a spell bound for eternity. Best of all she telepathically understood him. Her gentle nature smoothed his often arrogant and bullish posture. He too felt relaxed as the Jambeau cut through the teal-blue water and the sound of the wind beating across the mainsail filled his ears.
Madden was too tall to be considered short, and too short to be considered tall. His average frame, with rounded-shoulders, weighed a hundred and eighty-five pounds. His grey-tinged brown and usually short, groomed hair had a less pristine style today. In fact, Terry Madden hadn’t shaved or combed his hair in a while now. On closer examination, he bore the look of a man who had much on his mind, a hidden stress lurked behind his evergreen eyes – eyes less sharp than they used to be; more tired and baggy, though for the past few days his face entertained a slight smile. Madden looked somewhat younger, somehow.
‘You can’t get better than this, darling,’ Madden chirped. He glanced down at the compass and verified his heading. ‘Tanzania, here we come!’
Sarah sidled up behind him and wrapped her slender arms around his waist. She enjoyed seeing her husband, for once doing something he loved for once. His day job commanded such attention and enforced that he wore each day a suit of stress each day.
‘Would you like another cup of tea, dear?’
‘That would be perfect, thanks.’ Madden closed his eyes and breathed in a deep lung full of the salt-tinged air.
Blinking for a second, Madden focused and narrowed his eyes. What appeared to be a small vessel, glinting on the horizon, caught his attention. Nothing to worry about, he supposed, as he corrected his course by a degree or two.
Having tacked twice, drained his second cup of earl grey tea – with lemon, not milk – and listened to Sarah recite a whimsical poem from Keats; he suddenly stiffened his posture. There was the same vessel he had spotted half an hour ago and it was now gaining, at speed, off to his starboard side and getting ever closer.
‘Darling, hand me those binoculars, would you?’ He reached out a waving hand to emphasize the request.
‘What is it?’ Sarah asked as she handed them over.
‘Not sure…probably nothing, darling.’ Madden raised the binoculars to his eyes, and focused in. He began to study what he could now determine was – a dark and rusting fishing vessel. He fine-tuned his field glasses and mentally recorded its characteristics.
Whilst he was no expert, he had been sailing for long enough to know that because she was carrying a high freeboard, she had few or no fish onboard. Moving fast, too hasty in fact. No flag. Dark figures standing almost rooted on the bow, looking back at him?
Madden’s mind raced off in all directions – anxiety clashed with instincts as the horrible truth dawned – kicking him into action.
‘Fuck…pirates!’ he yelled.
Sarah snapped her head around; eyes blinking confused terror back at him. Her mouth fell open as she shook her head at the surreal scene.
‘Get below and issue a mayday – now, Sarah…’ Madden urged whilst dropping the binoculars and heading at speed towards the hatchway; prompting Sarah down the few steps in front of him.
Sarah grabbed his sleeve. ‘How can this be happening?’
‘Just focus and get on the radio, okay?’ Madden grasped her shoulder and squeezed in an attempt to steel her nerves before quickly pressing passed her and darting towards the forward cabin.
Nick Jones, the police bodyguard assigned to Madden, suddenly appeared from the stern cabin – all six feet of him – clearly trying to wake himself up, having pulled the night watch.
‘Erm…what is it, sir?’
‘Wake up, man, and get your bloody gun out. We have trouble,’ Madden snapped, and vanished into the forward cabin. Reaching into the cupboard above the bed, he withdrew a wooden box and flipped open the lid – inside was a Glock 9mm and a clip of ammunition. Lifting out the dense and deadly metal weapon, Madden went into autopilot, recalling every ounce of the close protection training he had received from those far more competent than he now felt.
Jones was already on his way towards the steps, his own firearm now retrieved and cocked for action.
Sarah hammered out the distress message: ‘Mayday, mayday, this is Jambeau. I repeat…mayday. We are under attack, over!’ She waited for a reply over the hissing static.
‘Give them our position and stay below…okay?’ Madden looked at her, holding his gaze for a few moments before rushing back up and onto the deck.
‘Look…’ Jones directed Madden’s line of sight with his outstretched arm and pointing finger.
Madden watched in dismay as two inflatable boats, both bristling with automatic weapons, shot out from behind the black trawler. In no time, they were only 800 meters away.
Madden turned to face a wide-eyed Jones. ‘Well, you’re the bloody bodyguard, what do we do?’
‘Not resist if you want my honest opinion, sir.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My job is to keep you safe, not draw you into a gunfight. Now get below with your wife.’ Jones gestured towards the hatchway with a stabbing urgency.
‘What? Are you bloody serious, man? They’ll kill us all…’ Madden slammed in the clip and cocked his pistol.
‘Sir, with respect, you’re the Home Secretary – not John bloody Wayne. These boys are heavily armed and outnumber us four to one at least. Negotiation is our only hope. Think of your wife…’ Jones moved to the edge of the port side and leaned over the guardrail to get a better view.
Sarah popped her head up out of the hatchway. ‘I got through! Help is on the way.’
Madden pushed her head back down. ‘Stay down there and don’t come up until I say.’
‘Sir, use that if there is no other choice, okay?’ Jones bellowed, pointing to the Glock. ‘Now get below…that’s an order!’
Before Madden had time to react, the zipping sound of incoming rounds filled the air. A ricochet glanced off the port winch, narrowly missing his leg. Dumping himself to the deck, Madden crouched as low as he could. Then, looking up, his eyes widened as Jones spun around crazily – the force of a lethal 7.62 round had struck him centre mass, sending him pitching over the guardrail and into the water.
‘Jones!’ Madden screamed, but nothing.
Not daring to move, Madden froze, listening to the rounds as they cont
inued to zip across the deck and over his head, ripping into the yacht. The screams coming from Sarah down below cut into him like a knife, twisting his gut into knots.
Then silence, except for Sarah’s muffled sobbing.
A loud bump came from a few feet away, and then as if a swarm of black ants had erupted from the sea, the dark forms of the pirates hauled themselves aboard. A second bump came off the starboard side; more swarthy figures appeared.
Keeping his head down, Madden realized he had no choice but to remain still. His entire body had frozen solid. His mind turned painfully to Sarah, how could he leave her alone? But he couldn’t move.
‘Ha dhaqaaqin, ha dhaqaaqin,’ echoed around the decks.
It was now or never. Madden felt every muscle in his body erupt as he thought of Sarah stranded alone. He exploded upwards and raised his pistol with a shaking hand, his eyes widening at the intense faces before him.
The impact as he was struck from behind sent him sprawling forward onto the deck.
Squinting his eyes, Madden felt his head becoming light; a kaleidoscope of colored dots now peppered his vision. Ears ringing, he closed his eyes tight, focusing his mind before opening them again; the blurred, dark torsos of the pirates swirled before him as they descended the hatchway; then his world faded away to black.
CHAPTER TWO
August 8th 2010 ~ Scottish Highlands
The August morning rain had just abated as the metallic silver Range Rover pulled off the main road and continued alongside the black still waters of Loch Laggan, splashing through the muddy puddles that had formed along the pitted track. Whatever summer had been lingering in that remote part of the world had now been suffocated by a thick mist and looming thunderheads. Mike Mooney occupied the entire rear seat, sprawling his bulk as best he could to ensure he at least could sleep like a baby on the way up from London.
