The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  …His tie would not behave as intended, his fingers now frustrated with the entire primitive knotting process. What a stupid choice to make; why hadn’t he opted for the pre-tied style and made things easy on himself. The feminine hands that slid around his neck and gently squeezed his shoulders eased his anger. Then as if a magical wand had been waved he opened his eyes to find a perfect black bow tie had formed. Turning his eyes, he blew a whistle at the vision in Donna Kuran yellow that now stood beside him. Sarah had never looked more beautiful, her hair up, eyes sharp and lips full, Madden felt his mouth fall open.

  It was a night he would never forget; dinner with the Prime Minister and a host of other foreign dignitaries, but Sarah stood out. As they entered the formal dining room at Number 10, even the PM’s eyes widened; his own wife wrapped in a pink and yellow floral nightmare beneath a face sporting enough foundation to suggest it had been applied with a spade. The bright red lipstick did little to subdue the gaudy spectacle. Her full figure had not sprung back after the birth of their second son and wobbled under her dress as if she were a farmer’s wife hiding rabbits beneath her petticoat. Madden smiled with pride as he took his seat.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sarah could feel it, not that she could place a definitive finger on it, or even explain what it was she was feeling. Perhaps more a sense than a feeling. It was as if some strange psychic phenomenon had spoken to her. She could kind of feel Terry and somehow knew he was close.

  Pulling herself up with the little strength she had, she walked over towards the opening of her shelter and out into the savage sun. She looked left and instantly noticed a guard squatting like a stray dog underneath a thorn tree. He spat in the dust before rising and moved towards her, his weapon, as always, cradled in his willowy arms.

  ‘I’m just getting some air, okay?’ She placed her hands together to signal her submissive state, hoping to instill an element of humility. The guard stopped abruptly, mumbled something under his breath, turned and headed back towards the shade. She held her gaze for a few moments, observing him amble back; he seemed more bewildered than anything. Such an unrequested appearance outside of her shelter usually resulted in a barrage of abuse or an abrupt shove back inside and a sharp whack with a stick. She broke a strained smile at him as he glanced back over his shoulder before seating himself back down.

  Then, struck again by the same inner feeling, Sarah jerked her head around and looked westwards, narrowing and straining her eyes to focus beyond the shimmering mirage that danced through the heat of the day. Unsure at first, then her eyes started to focus more intently. A cloud of dust was building on the horizon, increasing in size as it sped directly towards her. The corner of her eye flickered as the same guard once again sprang to his feet. This time he moved with more haste as he walked past her line of vision and stood in front of her. He too had seen the dusty apparition. The sinewy bodies of her captors were now running in all directions and cocking weapons. Sarah moved out a few steps, away from the relative safety of her shelter, feeling the hot sand beneath her feet. Suddenly the camp had erupted with a gush of excitement, an atmosphere she had witnessed before. The sleeping dogs that were her jailers had gravitated to the torpor of laziness of late.

  She looked on as the white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled into the compound and slewed to a halt in a choking cloud of dust. As the rear door of the vehicle was wrenched open by one of the assembled pirates, she could just see the figure of a man being dragged out, his body limp and lifeless. As the realization struck, a wave of emotion took over. Rushing forward, her screams erupted from her lungs. The teeming pirate clan now swarmed around the shivering body of Terry Madden.

  ‘Terry. Oh my God, Terry,’ she cried.

  His lips moved but nothing came out. The glaze over Madden’s eyes told all of his deep state of shock. Sarah got down beside him, lifted up his head and placed it gently into her lap.

  Looking up at the pirates, she pleaded: ‘Water, for God’s sake water.’

  One of the pirates immediately darted off to a nearby well. Not that the words from Sarah had initiated the act. The look from Mohammed Far Aziz was enough for the pirate to comply.

  ‘Get him inside,’ Aziz snapped before turning towards Sarah. ‘Now you have your husband, for a while at least.’ His eyes radiated a cold, almost lifeless glare.

  In the shade of the tent, and after a tentative hour, his levels of hydration once again reached a point of stability. Madden opened his eyes. For the briefest of moments, he forgot the reality of the situation and broke a confused smile. The presence of Sarah in front of him had leaked into the remnants of the dream still playing in his head. He bit his tongue to check he was really awake.

  ‘Are…you…okay?’ His words came out shallow and rasping.

  ‘Yes, yes I’m fine. I thought…’ She brushed away a tear. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘Me too,’ Madden said, his complexion beginning to return to a healthier pallor. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since we were captured,’ she told him. ‘It’s been over a month now.’

  Madden smiled – only Sarah would keep track so accurately. ‘I’ve been moved three times. Each time a new area, not sure where…north, I think.’

  He tried to recall his movements, but times and places were addled by the cruel heat and discomfort he’d endured.

  He took her hand. ‘We have to stay strong. They will find us – we have to believe that.’

  ‘Yes. But it may take a while…you know that.’ Sarah had been his wife for long enough to know when Terry was trying to make her feel better. Above all she knew how such situations would be managed. The special training, they had been through together, given who he was, at least prepared them for kidnapping. But nothing like this.

  ‘God help them when they do!’ Madden said fiercely.

  ‘Really?’ Aziz cast his menacing shadow through the opening. ‘It is very simple, Mr. Madden, they pay me or you both die.’ His white teeth bared in a hideous grin.

  ‘I’m the Home Secretary for God’s sake. You think they’ll just pay you off and forget about you?’ Madden heaved himself up onto his elbows. ‘They’ll hunt you down like a dog.’

  ‘Indeed, they might. Maybe I just shoot you now and be done with it, ha!’ Aziz snapped back. His hand lifted up from his right side to expose a pistol.

  ‘No!’ Sarah screamed. ‘Wait please!’ She looked pleadingly at her husband. The fear in her eyes deep and clearly evident. ‘Darling, please don’t say anymore.’ She pulled her husband close to her bosom.

  ‘Listen to your wife, Madden. She speaks sense. Shut your mouth. Today I spare you, tomorrow who knows…’ Aziz swept round and left them to consider his words.

  ‘Are you trying to get us killed?’ Sarah hissed. She knew her husband’s arrogant and stubborn traits only too well.

  Madden pulled away. ‘They have to know we are not intimidated.’

  ‘For God’s sake, look at us…fighting again…already.’ Sarah recalled the trigger that had forced the vacation. Months of her husband’s mood swings as the stress of his position took him further away from the man she had married. Now they were captives, thousands of miles from anywhere, separated, reunited and still fighting.

  After a few moments, Madden relaxed. ‘You’re right. Sorry.’ he slumped himself back into her lap. Deep down he felt helpless, unable to even protect his wife. It was a feeling he didn’t enjoy. Back in Britain his word was as good as law – almost everyone danced to his tune. But here, in this defiled, lawless and extremely hostile land, he amounted to nothing…

  ~ ~ ~

  Aziz leaned forward on the wooden crate he sat on. The pirates gathered closer, knowing it was a cue he had something to impart.

  ‘They will come and we must be prepared for it,’ he told them. ‘This man is worth money – much money, my brothers…you will see.’ He turned to the two men who had driven Madden down from the other camp. ‘Give them two more hours together and the
n take him back north.’

  They nodded in obedience.

  Aziz drew in a lung-full of blue tinted smoke from a hand-made cigarette, tilted his head back and exhaled lazily into the evening air, his eyes sparkling with the euphoric effect of his moment of pleasure.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nairobi, Kenya

  Having exited Wilson airport through the busy main doors, McCabe spotted the name board bearing his name; albeit spelled ‘CABE’. It was being held at chest height by a rather rotund High Commission driver, dressed in a white short sleeved shirt, baggy black trousers and orange Nike trainers. Behind him was parked a white Mazda mini bus that would spin them to the British High Commission. A large, plastic golden crown sat in the centre of the dashboard; wafting a sickly, laboratory manufactured aroma of forest flowers. Mooney let it be known he hated the smell of flowers as the trio boarded the bus.

  McCabe looked out through the dusty windows to notice that Nairobi, despite the relatively early hour, already thronged with Nairobians starting to go about their daily lives. He had not been back there for some time. Mooney, on the other hand, had more far important things to occupy him. He was busy sliding a warm Tong beer effortlessly down his parched throat. In a brief sortie to the small terminal building, he’d managed to acquire three bottles of the local beer on his way through the terminal – from an excited native offering the elixir to any suspected tourist. Who was Mooney not to reward his entrepreneurial spirit given his overwhelming thirst?

  Stowe and McCabe glared at him, sighed and settled down to take a nap. Now was the time to crab every available moment, once in Somalia, they both knew sleep would be a luxury they could ill afford.

  It took no time at all to reach the High Commission located on Upper Hill Road, a yellow building of modernistic arched design that McCabe had been to before. Timothy Bates the fresh faced, Eaton educated High Commissioner reached out his hand and greeted each of them in turn as they were shown into a meeting room. McCabe could sense instinctively he was not entirely happy they were there, from his nervous and slightly distant state. His clammy hand was one that McCabe instantly withdrew from as soon as he could, for any man with a less than firm hand was insincere in McCabe’s book.

  ‘Well, make yourselves at home and if I can help in anyway shout. Must dash I’m afraid. Not sure what your plans are…hush hush and all that…but good luck.’ And with that he dashed off.

  ‘Was it my breath you think?’ Mooney chirped.

  ‘More like our combined stench, I suspect,’ Stowe replied, who realized that Bates had no time for what he suspected was a hit squad.

  ‘What he thinks is not our concern, we are here to meet our fourth member, obtain our aid worker identity passes and be on our way.’ McCabe closed down the banter because he wanted to focus. He wandered off in search of the administrator he’d been asked to make contact with. Mooney and Stowe exchanged glances and got down to checking their gear; now was as good a time as any to do it, for tomorrow morning they would board some clapped out old plane full of rice and flour, chartered by the World Health Organization bound for Somalia.

  Having met with the administrator; a local Kenyan whose only instruction was to hand over an envelope, McCabe returned to the others and handed out the identity badges – not that either Mooney or Stowe looked anything like a typical World Health Organization volunteer. As Mooney eloquently put it, they would stick out like the balls on a dog.

  The slight but deliberate cough at the door sent all three heads turning, as Izzi Woodrow filled the doorway with his towering athletic frame. His obvious physical similarities to a well know hard arse footballer were obvious from a first glance, the same deep set cold eyes, chiseled features and thousand-yard stare did not go unnoticed as Mooney, Stowe and McCabe eyed him up and down like hungry dogs staring at a fresh bone. The obvious diversion from his famous lookalike was the fact Woodrow sported ginger hair. Which most likely explained why it was shaved to almost zero, thus adding to his hardened and threatening look.

  ‘Izzi Woodrow, told you guys needed me.’ He out stretched his hand for anyone to shake. After a moment of animalistic sizing up, McCabe was the first to step forward and shake his hand.

  ‘Mark McCabe, nice to meet you.’

  Stowe and Mooney followed the lead with polite yet brief introductions.

  ‘So, which unit you from, Regiment?’ Stowe started the expected interrogation; given any new member to the team was at that point an unknown, and as such, a risk.

  ‘No, not regiment,’ Woodrow replied.

  ‘Para then?’ Mooney suggested.

  ‘No, not a Para,’ came the short response.

  Mooney took another bite. ‘Boot neck or Sally Army?’

  ‘Okay that’s enough,’ McCabe declared. ‘We could all go on like this for days, so why not just give us your origins and be done. Ogilvy backs you, so in my book you must be okay.’ McCabe had once again taken the initiative to help things fall into place.

  ‘Foreign Legion, twelve years, that’s it.’ Woodrow seated himself at the table and waited for further questions, the first of which came from Stowe, delivered in the form of a stream of fluent French dialog, taking even McCabe by surprise. Woodrow responded as fluently and the two started to laugh; which Mooney detected to be at his expense.

  ‘Okay, so what’s the joke?’ Mooney asked.

  ‘Nothing mate…for us to know…’ Stowe replied.

  McCabe ran his eyes around what was now his full team. ‘Right you lot, listen in – we have a few hours to square away our gear and run over the plans for the next few days. Mr. Bates wants us gone, not good for his image us being here. So, at 07:00 we are washed, brushed and ready to board a WHO flight destined for Hobyo. Once on the ground we make contact with Omar, our guide. Okay?’

  ‘So once were done what then?’ Mooney asked hoping the reply was R&R.

  ‘I have a little surprise for you, so 14:00 we are out of here, okay?’ McCabe answered.

  It was enough to spur a flurry of activity. The rest of the day passed with planning, eating and generally squaring away what kit they had brought or stolen from the Commission, which included eight rolls of soft toilet paper, a tin of biscuits and one pack of 2HB pencils. Ammunition and weapons would have to be secured once in country. A task Stowe and Mooney had been assigned.

  ~ ~ ~

  From the day it opened on New Year's Eve, 1913, the Muthaiga Country Club has occupied a special place in Africa’s affections. Its distinctive blend of comfort, culture, charm, and trademark pink walls caused Mooney’s mouth to fall open. McCabe had promised a surprise, but this time he’d surpassed the expectations of his team. They had anticipated a whore-ridden rat hole hidden down some back street of downtown Nairobi, not somewhere that looked like you needed the right school tie and handshake to enter.

  ‘Make the most of it, lads. The next week or so will be dirt holes and no sleep.’ Stowe was stating the obvious, but everyone knew he was right as they strolled in.

  Stowe handed his canvas bag to an attentive bell boy dressed from head to toe in a crisp white suit before striding off in the direction of the bar. Mooney and Woodrow followed. They entered the colonial spender of the lounge, with its majestic ceiling fans wafting cool air in every direction. Stowe had already downed his first beer, though it was Mooney who had the reputation for being a beer barrel on legs. Not a word was spoken as each man settled in on a bar stool and allowed themselves to absorb the fleeting tranquility. McCabe stood in the doorway observing, wondering to himself which of them would not return.

  ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ The voice needed no introduction as McCabe spun around.

  ‘You!’ McCabe’s shock was evident on his face as he eyed the Rain Angel up and down. She was decked out in a cream linen suit and flat brown shoes, her hair neatly tied back. Only Stowe had noticed the woman approach McCabe, his own instincts could tell she was different, somehow dangerous.

  ‘Dare I ask,’ McCabe said
bluntly, ‘why you are here?’

  ‘You can ask Mark – but as to what I tell you…’ she toyed.

  ‘I don’t have time for your games.’ McCabe turned as if ready to leave.

  ‘Okay. So at least let us sit down like adults and not bark at each other in the open.’ She wandered off in the direction of the veranda.

  Mooney turned to see where McCabe was at and just caught sight of him departing. ‘Where’s he buggering off to?’

  ‘Business I suspect. He’s a big boy,’ Stowe reflected. Mooney grunted and spun back around.

  Woodrow waved his hand to signal for more beer. ‘My round I think…’

  Out on the veranda, they took a seat in the high-back rattan chairs. McCabe weighed her up as she crossed her legs and leaned forward.

  ‘Listen,’ she began. ‘I know you don’t exactly trust me, but remember…I was against this mission.’

  McCabe raised his eyebrows at this comment.

  ‘But here you are,’ she continued. ‘So, take heed and be aware that all is not as it seems.’ She sat back and waited for his reaction.

  ‘Cut the cryptic bullshit…what is it I need to know?’ McCabe had no time for spy talk, least of all from a woman he’d crossed paths with before; a path that had resulted in the death of his best friend.

  ‘The men you have been sent to kill are significant, they control the pirate clans, not Islamic insurgents. Kill them and you leave the clans open to be corrupted by new leaders – leaders the CIA want to influence.’

  McCabe took in her words and they orbited around in his head. ‘That makes no sense. Why would the CIA want to help propagate the Islamic power base?’ McCabe mused.

  ‘No, my dear Mark. They want to control the clans with their own people, maintain their control over how they smuggle arms, and worse, keep the ship attacks at a level that forces the price of oil up. They also, of course, want to make sure the clans are not taken over by the Islamic insurgents.’