The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  Mark McCabe was at the wheel, with Harry Ogilvy seated beside him. McCabe caught sight of Ogilvy wringing his hands together in agitation. Having known him for some years, he knew it as a sign that his craving for nicotine had reached breaking point. McCabe was secretly enjoying the fact that, despite Ogilvy’s seniority over them both, he wouldn’t dare succumb to his craving for fear of being beaten to a pulp by Mooney; who had a known aggressive dislike for second-hand smoke. Pulling over to relieve Ogilvy of his stress, the muddy Range Rover swung off on to the verge. Ogilvy almost leaped out onto the damp Highland turf. The other two men followed less urgently.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ McCabe mused, stretching his arms above his head and staring out across the loch and up towards Ardverikie House, its baronial towers now beginning to emerge like a ghostly mirage from the drifting mist.

  Ardverikie was indeed an impressive looking house, dating back to 1870. Its battlements had seen off many a marauding clan; its strong image tempered by the tall, majestic evergreen firs surrounding it on three sides. A wide sloping expanse of lawn, speckled with black rocks ran down to greet the edges of the water, to be gently caressed by the lazy waves breaking in on the foreshore.

  ‘Yeah, if you like that kind of thing,’ Mooney observed.

  McCabe turned and raised his eyes when he noticed the cloud of vapor lifting up off the damp grass in front of him. Mooney zipped up his jeans.

  Ogilvy had already inhaled half a cancer stick ‘Well we may as well get on with it. They’ll be expecting us.’ He drew in another lung-full of what he regarded as pleasure.

  Mooney glared at him in disgust, his deep-set eyes said it all.

  ‘Any idea what this is all about?’ McCabe asked.

  Given Ogilvy occupied the current head of Section 20 at MI6; he was either about to bare-face lie, or he really didn’t know jack shit. His six-foot one inch charismatic frame braced as he shifted his eyes towards McCabe. As if wishing to gather his thoughts for a moment longer, Ogilvy reached up with his right hand and swept back his blond hair – hair grown out to the point of now being floppy. He took a final drag from his cigarette, exhaled, and locked his gaze with McCabe.

  ‘Some Whitehall suit has managed to get himself kidnapped while sailing off the coast of the Seychelles. Somali pirates I hear. I suspect you’ll be sent in to get him back, considering your experience with such demons. As to who the suit is, I have no idea.’

  McCabe dropped his gaze and kicked up a sod of earth with the toe of his boot. He summed up what he’d been told: Ogilvy wasn’t completely lying for once. Well, apart from the fact he claimed he didn’t know the individual in question. A fact McCabe knew instinctively to be a bare face lie.

  ‘Come on, you two. I expect we’d better make tracks and find out the score,’ McCabe said, climbing back in behind the wheel.

  ‘Nice of them to bring us in through the tradesman’s entrance,’ Mooney quipped, hauling his broad and beefy frame into the rear of the Range Rover, sending its suspension down an inch or two.

  Negotiating the brimming puddles, Ogilvy walked around to the passenger door. He paused. ‘One more thing, don’t be surprised by who you see up there. Stay cool, okay?’ He got in, closed the door and neatly deposited the butt of his cigarette in the thus far unused ash tray. McCabe regarded him for a moment, expressionless. He flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror and caught sight of Mooney staring back at him with his telltale; we are about to get fucked expression.

  McCabe moved off with a kick of the accelerator, causing the rear tires to spit dirt and gravel in their wake as they proceeded up the winding road and towards the castle.

  ~ ~ ~

  The impressive stone fireplace, large enough to roast an entire boar should one be inclined, still contained the smoldering red hot embers from the night before. The distinct smell of expensive cigar smoke hung in the air, which gave the large baronial dining hall an almost cliché atmosphere.

  And under the vacant, almost sardonic stares of stuffed animal head trophies looking down from the imposing stone walls, the topic of conversation for the ten men and one woman seated around the large rectangular oak table was far from trivial.

  The Classically dressed lady at the head of the table, Mrs. Charmant, stood up and placed the palms of her hands flat on the table.

  ‘We have limited choices as I see it, gentlemen.’ She had a clear view of the men seated around her like obedient dogs – five on either side of her. She most certainly had their attention.

  She continued: ‘The British public will hang you all out by your balls if you send in an official team. These things have a habit of leaking out. And consider...there are at least two other couples also being held at this time – which in the eyes of the public you have done precious little about.’

  A loud cough came from the left of the table. Philip Carter-Jones, Head of MI5 spoke up, his face unforgiving and stern. ‘I think there is a difference here. This is the Home Secretary for God’s sake – not some retired accountant and his stay-at-home wife. Not that it will make a blind bit of difference to the Press. God help us when they get hold of this story. Bloody parasites.’

  Mumbles rippled around the table in quick succession. Heads turned in all directions.

  ‘Order, gentlemen...please!’ The lady slammed her hand down on the table. ‘Does anyone else have objections?’ She cast her eyes with laser like precision around the table. The men either looked directly back at her, or gazed at their own knees in an attempt to avoid eye contact. These were men of significant power; the Shadow Men could sanction almost anything short of going to war – though they’d most likely caused a few between them. The joint Heads of the Secret Service and Security Service, SAS Commander-in-Chief, various Whitehall henchmen and joint heads of the armed forces were all now sitting in subdued silence.

  Timothy Morley, who wore the inevitable grey, hand-tailored wool suit in accord with his status as the Head of MI6, cleared his throat and leaned forward, hands clasped, to break the silence with his well polished English tones.

  ‘Aside the fact he was a fool to even be out there, section twenty, in association with the SAS, is thoroughly trained for this type of situation. We all know this. If the public doesn’t like it, we can simply point out the security risk of having the Home Secretary on the loose. As you say, Philip, this is not some retiree off the street. Having said that, I have no wish to alienate the public over this. As such I’m willing to support a hand-picked team to go in. If it blows up in our faces, we can simply suggest that a band of over-eager mercenaries were behind it.’

  Voices again...now mumbling, but in agreement with Morley.

  ‘Very well, it seems we are all agreed,’ the lady concluded before sitting back down.

  ‘Not quite,’ Morley broke in.

  ‘If I am to sanction this, I want some additional leverage.’ He cast his eyes around the room.

  ‘I should have known you’d have a condition, Morley,’ Carter-Jones piped up in a highly sarcastic tone.

  Morley ignored the snipe. ‘I have a list of five men, each one of them a known Al-Shabaab leader. I want them sanctioned out.’

  ‘You mean assassinated?’ Carter-Jones muttered.

  Morley snapped back. ‘Grow up, Philip. Yes terminated, killed, annihilated – does that do it for you?’ He stood up, scraping his chair back in the process. ‘Now if we have all finished bickering, I have taken the liberty of inviting up a few men who are ideally suited for the task in hand. I want them to receive their orders directly from us.’

  ‘Seems you anticipated our vote, Morley,’ Clarke, the SAS Commander observed in his distinctive gruff tone.

  ‘Indeed, time is short, gentlemen. Now if you turn to your files you will see photographs of the targets. Al-Shabaab leaders, their path is simple, to corrupt the various pirate clans and encourage their disdain for the West, thereby employing them for terrorist activities.’ Morley had begun to pace around the room like a manic peaco
ck.

  ‘So where are these sacrificial lambs you have brought to meet us?’ Clarke enquired, now bored with the desperate-looking pictures of austere terrorists.

  Morley gestured to an administrator waiting patiently by the door at the far end of the hall. ‘Send them in would you...’

  Mooney, Ogilvy and McCabe made their entrance, every eye now upon them.

  ‘What are we, the after-dinner strip-show for fuck sake?’ Mooney quipped from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Shut it, Mooney, these people won’t get your humor,’ Ogilvy muttered back.

  McCabe said nothing; his gaze fixed firmly on the one person he had not expected, or indeed ever wanted to see; the woman seated at the head of the table. He knew her by only one name – the Rain Angel.

  As they reached the table Morley stepped forward. ‘May I introduce you to Mark McCabe, Mike Mooney and Harry Ogilvy, members of section twenty. Each man has, shall we say, sufficient experience to complete this mission.’ Morley flashed his eyes around the various faces now examining the three mystery guests.

  Clarke spoke first. ‘Yes…yes, I know these men. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, sir, thank you,’ Ogilvy replied. Mooney and McCabe nodded a silent response.

  ‘Yes, me too.’ The Rain Angel broke a smile and eyed McCabe up and down. ‘Long time, Mark, you are looking well…’

  McCabe returned a spurious half-smile.

  ‘Well, how is it we can help you?’ Ogilvy opened, up wanting to get on with proceedings.

  ‘Seems we all know each other,’ Clarke said.

  ‘I’m getting rather confused as to what is going on here,’ said Paul Long, one of the Whitehall puppets.

  ‘Is it that hard to follow, Long?’ Morley asked him. ‘Look, I need all of you to support these men in leading a mission to rescue Madden from his captors and eliminating the five targets you have sanctioned.’ Morley jabbed his finger at the photographs lying on the table. ‘In accordance with the powers we all have, and observing the operating rules we all agree to stand by, and avoiding any political games being played – I need these men to hear they have your support directly.’ Morley punctuated his request with a steely stare around the table.

  McCabe spoke up: ‘Do we have a say in this plan of yours, as in what is this all about?’

  ‘Of course you don’t, man. Orders are orders – even you understand that McCabe.’ Clarke, sensing the decision had been made, now wanted to be supportive.

  ‘McCabe, listen in,’ Morley said, ‘you’ll take the orders as given here and get on with it…all right?’

  McCabe shook his head slowly. ‘From my experience, wherever that woman pops up there is always a hidden surprise and one hell of a shit-storm about to blow up.’ McCabe shifted his eyes to the Rain Angel.

  All eyes were now on McCabe.

  ‘That’s enough, McCabe,’ Morley snapped, striding around the table. ‘Mrs. Charmant carries our full support; as such she has the highest security clearance and authority. Is that crystal clear?’

  After a pause ‘That still doesn’t tell us what it is you expect us to do, Sir.’

  Mooney gave one of his expressions and muttered, ‘Bloody pricks…’

  ‘Your orders are to prepare your team, and extract Terry Madden from these bloody savages – alive – and eliminate, if possible the five targets within this file whilst you are there.’ Morley handed out the dossiers. Mooney didn’t bother to open his; he knew they had little choice in the matter.

  ‘No. This is not approved yet,’ came the Angel’s sharp tone, cutting through the prevailing chatter. Faces turned in succession, like a Mexican wave, all shocked at the sudden outburst. The room’s attention now returned to the Angel.

  ‘I’m not sure I like this idea, I will need to take this back to my people.’

  ‘What?’ Morley fired back. ‘The whole purpose of us being here is to make such decisions. I object to you wanting to defer this, damn it.’

  ‘I agree. Something to hide, have you?’ Carter-Jones had joined the turning tide.

  ‘I will remind you, sir, of whom you are speaking to. I have a voting right here–’

  ‘Then use it madam,’ Clarke interrupted.

  The atmosphere in the room hung heavy and oppressing. Shirt collars and shoulder muscles were getting tight. Mooney, McCabe and Ogilvy exchanged glances, smirks of humor evident as they witnessed the ensuing anarchy.

  ‘The orders are we go. All those in favor…’ Morley raised his hand, wishing to bring the debate to an abrupt and conclusive end. The rally of support by virtue of raised hands easily carried the motion.

  Stony faced, the Rain Angel strode a few paces away from the table, turned and waited.

  McCabe and Mooney both felt it. They exchanged fatalistic glances. Their faces said it all, no words were required.

  ‘Very well,’ Ogilvy said, ‘we shall simply get on with it, as per usual.’ Ogilvy had heard enough.

  ‘Shall we?’ He gestured towards the door for them to leave.

  McCabe and Mooney exchanged one final, rueful glance and nodded.

  As they reached the door McCabe paused and looked back over his shoulder, his eyes dark and menacing. Aside from the Rain Angel, no one else caught it. It was a look she knew – had seen before – and it meant McCabe wasn’t easily fooled. She broke a wry smile in return as the huge oak doors swung open before them.

  The Rain Angel turned to face the men at the table. ‘Well it seems, gentlemen, that this matter is closed. At least for now.’ She gathered up her files, tucked them carefully under her arm and didn’t look back as she exited the room.

  As Ogilvy, Mooney and McCabe walked back towards the Range Rover, McCabe eyed Mooney with an unsettling gaze. ‘We don’t have any choice…you know that.’ He could guess Mooney’s thoughts. ‘Its madness I know, but we have to run this operation ourselves. No one else can move faster than us, or knows how to slither around in that hell-hole.’

  ‘Did I say I wouldn’t go?’ Mooney said.

  ‘I agree, it’s us or nothing. But you know that if anything goes wrong, that lot in there will claim we never existed. That’s the only reason you lot are here’ Ogilvy was, for once, in accord and spoke the truth, causing both McCabe and Mooney to stop in their tracks.

  ‘Us you say?’ McCabe raised his eyes, fully aware that Ogilvy had no intention of breaking sweat or being in harm’s way. ‘We need a crack team for this. I have no intention of being collateral damage for that lot. Just so they can claim they tried if it all fucks up. We either do this right or not at all. Either that or you find me a bunch of certified lunatics.’

  Ogilvy sighed. ‘Back to London we go then. And lunatics I can find you, gentlemen.’ He turned and continued on towards the car.

  Mooney raised his sullen eyes skywards. ‘Well that’s bloody great, not even a free lunch and already we’re off, lot of good your Scottish name did us. Love Scotland, not!’

  McCabe grinned. ‘Come on, you winger. Let’s go and land ourselves in deep shit.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  September 1st, 2010 ~ Republic of Somalia, fifteen miles west of Haradheere

  Hearing the sound of foreign voices approaching, Sarah Madden drew her knees up close to her chest and edged back into the corner. Covering her face with her hands, she allowed herself for a moment the childish hope that she might simply curl up and disappear and all once again would be safe.

  Dr. Mohammed Helmi stepped inside the makeshift fabric shelter, narrowing his eyes before making out the now frail and exhausted Sarah Madden. She was very pale, he noticed. He was flanked by two willowy-armed pirates, following close behind. Examining the shelter, Sarah’s prison, he could see it was constructed from nothing more than orange netting, a filthy tarpaulin and a few blankets. It did little to protect her from the savage 39-degree heat, dust and insects, but at least it kept the prying eyes of the pirates at bay.

  Mohammed counted amongst the very few local Somali doctors who we
re permitted entry into the heavily guarded camp. Not that the pirates cared much about the wellbeing of the western woman. As long as she kept drawing breath, her value to them remained; a matter of simple economics.

  ‘How are you today, my dear?’ The doctor’s deep U.K. educated tones and easy broad smile made her feel slightly less endangered, at least for a few fleeting moments.

  This was the second time he had been called to see her, but this time the location had changed to thirty kilometers north-west of Ceel Huur.

  ‘I have a cough and last night a high fever.’ Her voice dry and weak crackled out from the barely shaded corner.

  ‘Okay, then we had better examine you.’

  Kneeling beside her, Helmi reached out his hand and gently placed it on her shoulder. With his other hand, he deftly adjusted his stethoscope into each ear and leaned forward. ‘I have news, your husband is alive,’ he whispered as he placed the scope to her chest.

  ‘Really?’ she couldn’t help but let out her relief, which drew the glares of her guards.

  ‘Shsssh, please – you will get me killed.’

  Sarah affected a fake cough and hushed her tones. ‘Sorry. Is he okay?’

  The doctor nodded and continued to run the end of his scope over Sarah’s rib cage, which was prevalent after her weeks of captivity on limited rations.

  Helmi turned his head and looked up at one of the guards. ‘This woman needs water,’ he said.

  The guard glared at him defiantly and didn’t flinch.

  ‘Bax, bax,’ Helmi snapped, waving his hand.

  This time the guard turned and left the shelter.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out, now rest.’ He pushed her gently back onto the pile of stinking blankets that now sufficed as her bed.

  Sarah jolted up again. ‘Have you examined me yet?’