by Mark Powell
Brad Sterling was a dangerous man, and not only because he was CIA to the core. He was known to stray to the dark side on occasions and frequently abuse his powers of office. He had marinated in the CIA’s toxic juices like a bloated beef steak for almost twenty years; so much so his every pore oozed vitriol for anything that wasn’t CIA America. Sterling was a professor of the game and took every opportunity he could to mix it up with the British. Ogilvy knew him also as the man who had called for Stowe’s head after killing one of his analysts. All the sweeter for Ogilvy to now use Stowe against him. Sterling’s recent appointment to the Head for Operations in Africa and the Middle East had sent ripples through the spook network, because of his tendency to use his organization for less than orthodox matters. To the observer, he resembled a reincarnation of Jack Welch, the famous head of GE Capital, the icon of capitalist America. Sterling was balding, round-faced with small, beady, almost pig-like eyes. His frame carried perhaps a few more pounds than were good for his blood pressure and he walked with a slight gait, but always trimmed out in an off the peg suit and a cheap nylon tie; more often red. His demure was bullish, his tongue sharp and he had an ego the size of Texas.
Ogilvy knew Sterling well enough to know that any request to meet spelled impending trouble. The two had clashed on a prior occasion, and Ogilvy had felt the pain. A simple exchange of an informer had been on the table. Sterling had managed to sideline it at the last minute on the grounds national security and forced Ogilvy to give up his man in Washington. Mysteriously, the British informer was assassinated the very next day and Sterling was rumored to have been behind it.
As Ogilvy sat in the main lounge of the Caledonian club, a room reeking of stale cigars and overly used lemon furniture polish, he was hidden, somewhat stereotyped, behind a copy of the morning Times. He was prepared mentally for a verbal jousting session and no doubt an attempt to tarnish the SIS reputation. As the minute hand made its way towards ten minutes past ten, Ogilvy didn’t have to look up; the overpowering aroma of duty-free Hugo Boss cologne wafted into his nostrils. It was the cologne he had noted during their last encounter and was now mentally stored.
‘Good morning, Ogilvy. Glad to see you are here.’ Sterling had a habit of making anything he said sound sarcastic. That and the distinct lack of an open and warm handshake to indicate any semblance of enthusiasm when meeting.
‘Let’s get on with it shall we, Sterling. You intimated on the phone that my men may be causing you trouble,’ Ogilvy said in his clipped Etonian style. He folded his newspaper.
‘Yes,’ Sterling said, sitting himself down in the leather chair opposite – though not reclining back into its soft leather shell. He preferred to remain perched on the edge, as if to appear more intimidating and bear down on his guest.
‘Tea would be good. That is if your membership stretches to such courtesies.’ Ogilvy wanted to annoy his host by stalling.
‘Tea?’ Sterling paused, surprised and drew in a short breath. ‘Yes…okay…tea it is then.’
He waved his hand and immediately hooked one of the attentive lap-dogs; dressed in tartan trousers and a crisp white jacket and standing eagerly awaiting an order to fetch something. Sterling favored the Caledonian club on account of assuming a link to his own, questionable, Scottish ancestral roots.
‘Pot of tea and a black coffee,’ he snapped, yet his eyes never left Ogilvy. The attendant took the order and hastily scurried off.
‘Okay,’ he resumed, ‘now that we have covered that, allow me get to the point. You have a team in Somalia. I want to know why?’ Sterling widened his eyes.
Ogilvy said nothing for a while. He just leaned forward and held his gaze; he wanted to see Sterling’s reaction to silence.
It worked. ‘Well?’ Sterling bit again.
‘I have teams in many locations, what of it?’ Ogilvy finally responded.
‘Somalia, you heard me say Somalia so no games, Ogilvy – so what are they up to?’ Sterling was clearly getting agitated, a fact that amused Ogilvy.
‘Nothing to do with you, that much I can tell you,’ Ogilvy declared, maintaining his cool.
The response did nothing to abate Sterling, whose face was beginning to flush with a pink bloom.
‘Listen, we have operations going on…sensitive operations. Your men, by poking around are beginning to foul them up. Two dead pirate clan heads I hear. That is what’s to do with me, Ogilvy.’
‘Really, I had no idea they were doing quite so well.’ Ogilvy held back a smile.
‘Damn you, Ogilvy. Pull them out now, or I will…’ Sterling barked as the tea and coffee arrived. The waiter scuttled off as soon as he finished serving.
Ogilvy pointed a finger. ‘Let’s be clear, shall we. I’m not intimidated by your bullying tactics, Sterling. What’s more you have no authority over my men as you imply. Touch them, and this goes far beyond you and I,’ he warned in a calm but firm tone.
‘I’m asking you nicely damn it, pull out won’t you?’ Sterling was being more cordial but equally insistent.
‘Not possible, I have my orders too. You have given me no valid reason to comply. That and I prefer my men to stay breathing,’ Ogilvy replied, knowing his response would touch a nerve. He rose to his feet. ‘Now if that is all, I have important things to attend to.’
‘No that is not all!’ Heads turned at Sterling’s bellowing. ‘I need not remind you how sensitive things are out there. Listen…I know all about Madden, it’s regrettable. I will do all I can to help using my own tactics, is that understood?’
Ogilvy stood up. ‘Two things, Sterling. Firstly, shout at me like a common thug in public again and you’ll have trouble talking to me again. Second, SIS can handle its own issues; is that clear? I have a mission, a mission approved at a meeting attended by the CIA, as I recall.’ Ogilvy stood firm. His hands now clutching the newspaper which he’d rolled up tight as if to swat a fly.
Sterling jumped to his feet, screwed up his face and jabbed a finger. ‘That’s as maybe Ogilvy, but I do not sanction a hit on the Clan head’s just because your dumb-ass politician gets himself kidnapped whilst on vacation. I will go above you, Ogilvy, I warn you…last chance…’
‘Then get on with it, man, and stop wasting my bloody time.’ Ogilvy sidestepped him and headed for the door.
Sterling turned and watched Ogilvy leave. After a few moments he drew out his phone. ‘It’s me Sterling, activate the asset in Somalia with immediate effect.’ he then collapesed back into his chair in frustration.
Having left Sterling to stew, Ogilvy grabbed his blackberry, walked outside, and began to listen to the four messages that had been left during the meeting. Not that in Ogilvy’s option it had been a meeting where anything of any real value had been gained. As usual, Ogilvy would have to take some heat from the top, while the political elite inoculated themselves against any fallout. The brass at MI6 hated getting complaints from the suits in Langley. Sterling loved to stir up shit with anyone he could at the top and try to bring down anyone that didn’t play ball with him under his rules. Sterling was a professional handicapper and Ogilvy and his team were seen as wildcards. Sterling was used to assessing his chances for success in a game where people played by a set of uncertain rules. The players of such games all moved along a path where their incentives were power and money. Power within the CIA meant supremacy, and Sterling knew it. Ogilvy on the other hand still believed in Queen and Country, doing the right thing. Such ideals had no place in the World Sterling controlled. In fact Ogilvy knew that such values were also fast disappearing in his own. As he walked off back towards his car, he knew he would have to change his style of engagugement. Ogilvy would have to play dirty to win this battle.
CHAPTER TEN
The Republic of Somalia, twenty miles north of Mogadishu
The fifty-mile section of road was not a road at all, more a twisting, treacherous dirt track. Known to the locals as the Bone Trail on account of the number of sun bleached bones of Somali’s past t
hat littered its edges. The putrid stench of death hung in the air as a permanent warning. Not that it deterred the hundreds of emaciated half-dead souls that wandered aimlessly along its sides begging for hope. The four men – two in the front and two in the rear of the white Toyota 4x4 drove past the sorry natives. The clouds of dust and black diesel fumes that billowed out from behind them obliterated their misery from view. The man in the passenger seat was Farid Bashir, Hezbollah master terrorist and instrument of death. He was capable of unspeakable violence and feared nothing other than his own limitations. Limitations he had not yet reached. His face was bony and austere with bright sharp eyes and a weary smile. A black beard edged his jaw line and topped his lip, partially hidden behind a red and white Keffiyeh. His skin was distinctly lighter than that of the other men, more olive – and less weathered. Their expressions were as casual as their clothes – dirty jeans, old T-shirts and second-hand Ethiopian army boots. Their lean, tough frames effortlessly nursed assault rifles and bandoliers of ammo.
None of them had spoken for a while, until the truck bit hard into the dirt and propelled them all forwards. The skeletal figure of a woman who was barely clothed, exposing her saggy almost parched dry breasts had stepped out in from of them. Her big yet dull eyes hidden behind her sunken cheekbones were now looking directly at them. She walked fearlessly across the track, holding the hand of her emaciated child. The driver broke silence first, sending a barrage of abuse in Somali out of the window. Bashir turned his head; he didn’t have to say anything. The intensity of his eyes was enough to signal to move on. He had business to attend to and no time to waste on the soon-to-be-dead.
~ ~ ~
As the driver switched off the engine and got out, Bashir remained seated and lit himself a cigarette. As he exhaled the smoke through the window he observed his men exit the vehicle and move cautiously towards the white painted villa, their weapons purposefully tilted downwards so as to indicate respect and not cause alarm. It was one of four villas on this stretch of coast. They had sprung up out of the parched poverty-enriched soil, built from the spoils of piracy. This one in particular was more heavily guarded than the rest. Bashir noted the two hardy looking men with tough leather skinned faces standing blatantly on the steps brandishing their automatic weapons. He knew this was the home of Abdurrahman Ali, one of the lucky few, and deeply revered pirate elders who controlled two of the most prominent pirate clans north and south of Mogadishu. He was also an Islamic insurgent, which meant he didn’t mix with the clans in the far north. His profits alone from the twelve hijackings and three western kidnappings in the past year were into the millions.
As the wave came, signaling the all clear, Bashir slowly slid himself out of the Toyota and began to walk towards the villa. Ali appeared a few moments later and stood arrogantly between his two guards at the top of the rough concrete steps leading to the front door.
‘Welcome, my brother, welcome.’ Ali held out his hands to gesture an open and non-threatening posture. Bashir said nothing for now, as he unwrapped his Keffiyeh and pulled it down around his shoulders.
Once he had reached the bottom step he stopped and raised his eyes. ‘Thank you, brother for welcoming me.’ He too then held out his hands.
‘You come with the blessings of Allah, my friend…please how can I help you?’ Ali dropped his arms to his sides, his face now bearing a more serious look.
‘I have traveled far, brother. Is it not customary to invite one’s brother inside for tea?’ Bashir placed one foot on the bottom step, which drew an immediate reaction from the two guards, whose posture tensed.
‘Easy, easy!’ Ali waved them back with soft tones. ‘Forgive me, brother, but a man in my position has to be careful, these are troubled times. Please come…’ Ali gestured for him to continue up the steps.
The few seconds in which Ali and his dogs relaxed was long enough for Bashir to make his move. Snatching the AK-47 from one of his men, he raised the weapon into position and flicked the selector lever to automatic. Adopting the firing position, he squeezed the trigger. The thunder of 7.62 mm rounds struck the first guard on the left, tearing a deep gash across his chest and sending him sprawling backwards. His blood spattered up the whitewashed walls of the villa. Ali caught the second wave, which ripped into his head. His skull came apart like a watermelon struck by a sledgehammer at close range. Fragments of skull and brain matter flew in all directions as he dropped to his knees and fell forward. His half decapitated body now hanging down over the top step and spilling his blood in torrents down the dusty steps. The third man was knocked back and sent spinning over the stone ornate wall that edged the small terrace. As the legs of Ali continued to twitch, Bashir lowered his weapon.
‘Bring him to me,’ Bashir ordered his men.
‘The second guard was still alive as he was dragged over, despite the fact his intestines were hanging out.
‘Where is the Briton they call Madden?’ Bashir knelt down, his tone soft.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know, honest…’ the man’s words were weak and pleading.
‘We can do this the hard way, or the easy way, my brother. Tell me and I will make it quick. Or you can writhe in pain for the next two hours.’ Bashir knew injuries and he knew he had time to get what he wanted.
‘I don’t know.’ The man’s eyes started to fade.
‘No, that is not what I want to hear!’ Bashir then pushed his hand hard into the man’s stomach and took hold of his entrails and yanked, resulting in a spiraling string of guts spilling out. The screams could be heard ricocheting off the walls of the villa.
‘Har…harad…’ The man struggled to talk, his body now cramping up into a ball, as he tried to hold in his own guts with his hands.
‘What, what you say? Tell me.’ Bashir got down close and placed his ear to the mans now quivering lips.
‘Haradheere,’ he croaked.
For Bashir, this was enough. Getting up, he held out his hand. A 9mm pistol was placed in it. ‘Now go and meet Allah, my brother.’
Raising the pistol, he fired two rounds, turned and started back towards the Toyota. His plan had begun. He would now take control of the two clans Ali had spent so much time and money to train. Not only did he now have access to a number of well-trained men who could help him hunt down the man he was looking for and meet his employer’s needs, but he also had the location of his quarry, Madden.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Somalia - Puntland
Sunrise came just before six in the morning. The entire landscape became slowly enveloped and bathed in a warm orange glow. Had it not been for where this particular sunrise shone down upon, it would have almost been memorable.
McCabe emerged to greet the dawn like some hunched over old man. He stretched himself out – clasping both hands together and reaching as far above his head as possible. He sighed as his spine snapped gradually back into place, one vertebrae at a time. Sleeping in the backs of vehicles was a young man’s game, he reflected. Too many years of sleeping rough in ditches had riddled his body with rheumatism, arthritis…well something like that anyway.
The Jeep had been parked in a small gully about a hundred yards off what they called a main road, in this part of the world. They lay completely hidden behind an array of thorny trees and scrub, which, considering the sparseness of the terrain, made a reasonable hiding place for the night. Stowe had volunteered to keep watch, just in case anyone came looking.
As Mooney’s shadow loomed over him like that of some Neanderthal monster, McCabe turned to greet him. ‘Good morning, mate.’
Mooney raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Is it?’ He shook his head and bent down to tie his bootlace.
‘Where’s the boy wonder?’ McCabe asked.
‘He went off a few hours ago.’ Mooney shifted his eyes in the general direction beyond the bushes, only to be startled as Stowe came crashing through the scrub.
The intensity in Stowe’s eyes was unmistakable as he joined them. ‘I suggest we
get going – right now!’
‘Why…where’s the fire?’ McCabe realized Stowe’s expression had some serious intent behind it.
‘We have company – and it’s not the Avon lady, I’d venture – and it’s coming our way in about fifteen minutes.’ Stowe had already thrown his belt kit into the back of the Jeep and he quickly climbed in behind it.
Mooney jumped in alongside him and cocked his weapon. Woodrow had triggered himself into action the moment he heard Stowe’s update, and had already located and loaded two of the M16s. He handed one to Mooney.
‘Omar, get in now!’ McCabe shouted, moving swiftly around to the front of the Jeep. He took the wheel and fired up the engine. A cloud of black diesel smoke belched out from behind, polluting the fresh morning air. Omar had been sitting a few yards away on his hunches drawing lines in the sand with a stick; which he dropped like a hot coal before scurrying over to join them. Once in the passenger seat, he closed the door, looking around in alarm. McCabe shoved the Jeep into first gear and tore off over the dusty terrain. For a few moments they bumped and twisted over a succession of dirt mounds and shallow trenches between them and the primary road. They headed south, the opposite direction they wanted to go in.
‘Talk to me!’ McCabe spat out.
‘I pinged two pick-up trucks,’ Stowe sang out, ‘ten miles west and coming in fast. Maybe a dozen or so men, automatic weapons.’
‘Okay.’ McCabe checked the mirror as he took in the information.
‘My guess is they’re not here to give us fucking breakfast,’ Woodrow offered.
‘Just what we need…’ Mooney said, turning to cover the rear of the vehicle.
