by Mark Powell
Ogilvy flicked his eyes into the rear view mirror – the black Audi A4 looked innocent enough to the uninitiated, but to Ogilvy it sang out like a canary. The two men in the front were too obvious for his liking. People these days didn’t keep such a healthy distance from other cars. That and the fact that when another car had cut in, the Audi kept on poking out every now and then as if wanting to regain its position. Flicking his eyes once again, he committed the registration to memory. The amber light just before the junction of Upper Thames Street afforded Ogilvy with his opportunity to test his suspicions. Slowing his own car to a snail’s pace he waited for a few seconds, before gunning the engine hard as the lights turned red and shooting across the junction. A glance in the mirror confirmed the Audi had hesitated before lurching forward, only to be cut dead by honking horns and the threat of angry dispatch riders as they streamed past in front of the Audi. Ogilvy took the next left and weaved his way back to his office.
It had to either be Sterling’s men or his own office. One thing Ogilvy knew now for sure, someone wanted to track his movements and that meant him taking extra care. Things were about to get interesting and he had to formulate a plan – and fast.
Back at the office Ogilvy seated himself and sparked a cigarette, taking a moment to draw in a lung full of smoke, savor, and exhale it, before logging on to his computer. The registration number he had memorized, “6789” was entered and within seconds the result came back. Not that Ogilvy was surprised to see the car had come from the 6 car pool. Who had commissioned the tail though?
He picked up the phone. ‘Maureen, can you call the car pool and find out who booked an Audi, 6789 either this morning or within the past few days, if you will.’ Ogilvy acknowledge her courteous reply and hung up. He turned his attention to Whitten, the name and file Astor had given him. He flipped open the standard intelligence file, of which every person in the UK has, and scanned his eyes across the basic information. Other than the expected private school education, bland parentage, the odd speeding fine and excessive credit card bill, he seemed clean enough. What Ogilvy needed was something that linked him to Langley as Astor had suggested. Riffling through the file, Ogilvy suddenly stopped. The face in the photograph was not one he had expected to see. Dressed, as was typical, in a well cut suit, the Rain Angel was depicted shaking hands with Whitten. The other face just visible in the background was Sterling. That was it, the connection he had been looking to find.
Interrupted by his phone, Ogilvy picked up.
‘Sir, the car you wanted to enquire about was booked out by Terry Clarkson this morning.’
‘Thanks, Maureen,’ Ogilvy replied. His brow furrowed as he pondered the name.
He knew Clarkson was a thug – unhappily, 6 needed such people. They were the mindless muscle that carried out the wet work and interrogations. Ogilvy knew enough about Clarkson to compute he could be trouble. But he also realized that Clarkson had to be instructed; and he suspected he knew by whom.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pirate Camp, 45 Kilometers South of Haradheere, Somalia, Mudug Region
Terry Madden had learned to play drafts on a wet Sunday afternoon during a camping holiday in Wales, aged six years. From that day on, for the next ten years he had played his father, Charles; a thirty-year-old civil servant, on every Sabbath until the day he had lost his battle with lung cancer. The twenty a day John Player Special cigarettes he had addictively consumed from within their distinctive black and gold packaging, whilst dutifully running the office of Special Affairs at the Foreign Office had ravaged his body with malignant tumors. Madden knew his father as a strong fit man, despite his dry cough. He could rough and tumble with the best of fathers and he loved his camping trips. Whereas his mother, Peggy, did not. She much preferred to sit in a rainbow colored deckchair and look on; or frequent one of the many tea shops located in the villages that populated the Wye Valley – to enjoy her own addiction of sweet and sticky fudge.
It had been hard on Terry, watching his father wither away to a skeletal nothing with a yellow pallor and skin that had turned to rice paper. Any puncture wound made by the hundreds of injections he’d endured caused a flow of blood that was almost impossible to stem. Terry recalled that he had almost felt pleased that Tuesday morning in May when his father had slipped away. His suffering was over. As the coffin lowered, Terry had recalled then, as he did now, one of the first things his father had taught him about the game of drafts – it only took one bad move to lose. A move that, once taken, would set the game on a certain path; a path that would lead to imminent failure for the person making it.
Madden drew in a sharp breath as the memory and the link between his fathers words and the reality of his own situation struck home.
‘You okay?’ Sarah asked, noting her husband’s thoughtful look.
‘Yes fine, darling…sorry…drifted off for a moment.’
Madden snapped himself back, whilst jumping the beer-bottle-top makeshift draft pieces across the board fashioned from an old polystyrene tray he’d found in the scrub. Flicking his eyes up to engage Sarah, he caught her empathic smile. It was a smile that he regrettably knew was forced, and had been for many days now, in an attempt to keep their spirits up.
Sitting back up on his haunches and placing his hands palms down on his knees, he looked at her and shook his head gently from side to side in a moment of inner despair. Seeing Sarah look so tired and thin was one thing, but being powerless to get them home was extremely hard to endure. Drawing in a breath through flared nostrils and blowing it out again through his mouth, he just knew he had to find a way to get them out of here. He also knew that he had to plan each move they made, moves that would perhaps decide if they lived or died. Steeling his nerves, he smiled back at Sarah, reached out his hand and placed it gently on her shoulder. He would be damned if he would let them win, beat them down, that was not the Madden style. His father fought to his bitter end, he would damn well do the same.
Almost subconsciously, Madden had begun to regard things from every angle; the changing of the guards; the access points to the ring-fenced camp; how high the fences were; did they leave the keys in the trucks when they parked up – just in case help never arrived. He had to be more observant, study their every move and ensure he could learn to predict it. He recalled that his own job, which seemed almost to have been a lifetime ago, demanded he could read people; know when they were lying to him. Many a politician had tried to corrupt him or steer him the wrong way and he’d seen it register in their sycophantic faces. Madden found the Somali highly unpredictable, he hadn’t managed to work them out at all yet…but he would. It was a matter of time, and time he had; at least he hoped as much.
As they finished the game, gathered up the pieces and stood up to stretch and enjoy the last few moments of their allotted time outside, Madden stopped and attuned his senses, he felt an uneasiness in the air, an almost electrical tension.
It could have been the manner in which Terry Madden had held his defiant gaze for a second too long, or the fact he had dismissed the order to return to the shelter by turning his back, or even just that his guard was having a bad day, but it came anyway. The first blow delivered via the butt of his guards weapon struck Madden hard between the shoulder blades, sending him immediately to his knees in waves of agony. The second, administered at a sharp downward angle, came in from the right and connected with his head, felling Madden to the ground instantly. It was as if his world had been suddenly switched off. Madden felt himself slipping from consciousness. Then as if jarred back from the brink of a dark abyss, he heard the ripping screams of Sarah rush through him. His eyes desperately tried to focus and lock on to her, only to widen in horror as she was grabbed and dragged away.
‘Let’s rape her!’ came the voice in broken English, as if to deliberately provoke a response – not that Terry had much left in him.
Pushing desperately with his hands, Madden forced himself up and over on to his back, squinting his eyes aga
inst the harsh sunlight. The intoxicated eyes of a pirate came into view, glaring down at him. Madden could feel his own lips moving, but his words were drowned out by the ringing in his ears; the fuzziness of his consciousness had enveloped his senses. He fought the rising darkness, but Sarah had vanished into the shelter. Every nerve ending in his body was ablaze, intensified by the barrage of kicks now raining in on his body. He instinctively drew up his arms and knees in an attempt to protect what he could and tried to absorb the sickening pain now racking his body. He prayed for darkness and peace. It came after what seemed an eternity; the nauseous fuzziness eventually carried him off.
The thrashing of legs and flailing of arms before being pinned down had all but exhausted Sarah, but the fear of what was to come now paralyzed her with fear. The satanic intensity of the eyes now only inches from her own were a harbinger of violence and death. The white teeth, now clenched, were animalistic and savage. The strong, sickly body odor that now filled her nostrils induced a gag before finally triggering her to reach and bring up bile into her mouth. Tightening her thigh muscles as hard as she could, Sarah forced her legs shut, but no sooner had she managed it she felt them being roughly prized apart. She struggled as one of the animals forced his way between them and bore down with his weight. Hearing herself scream as if the essence of life depended on it, she strained her neck and bit down hard into the wrist that was now within reach. As the beast sang an oath and released the grip on her wrist, Sarah lashed out, but only connected with the air. The fist that came back delivered a blow so severe it shattered her nose instantly. Feeling the flow of warm blood rushing hotly down her throat, Sarah coughed and spluttered and spat outwards to allow for a gasp of air.
Then it was over. As if the man on top of her had simply vanished; which in a way, he had – two men had dragged him away amid a swirl of loud voices now filling the tent.
Aziz squatted down beside her. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
Drawing herself up into a tight ball, Sarah sat up, wiped away what she could of the blood now streaming down her chin and backed herself into the corner. She hugged herself to cover her exposed breasts.
‘My husband, where is he!’ she screamed, darting her eyes around and breaking into tears.
A group of men burst in carrying Terry, dumping his limp battered body on the ground in front of her. Sarah took in the horror of her husband’s condition as she ran her eyes over his injuries. His hair matted with blood, his face swollen to the point of disfigurement and his limbs almost looking as if they had been twisted in every direction.
‘My God, have you killed him…what have you done?’ she screamed.
Forgetting her own injuries, Sarah dived forward and lifted her husband’s head into her lap. She ran her fingers around his swollen face. The briefest of murmurs came out before he once again slipped from the pain of reality. At least he was alive.
Sarah shot her eyes towards Aziz. ‘He needs a doctor, please.’
‘No doctor! you take care of him.’ Aziz sprang to his feet and looked down at her.
‘Why have you done this…he’s no use to you dead is he?’ Sarah knew the power of the truth in her words.
‘Okay, I will get you water and something to clean him up with.’ Aziz turned, snapped his fingers and sent off one of his men.
‘You bastards,’ she snapped, ‘he did nothing to deserve this – and you try to rape me, what kind of animals are you?’
‘My men get carried away…the frustration of their situation…I’m sorry,’ Aziz explained quietly.
‘Their situation! You expect me to accept that. You should work like honest people, there is no excuse for what you do.’ Sarah was enraged at the wholesale unfairness of it all.
‘You know nothing of our hardship, but I accept this was too much. I will deal with the men responsible, you have my word.’ He turned and left the shelter as if Sarah’s observations had in some way embarrassed him.
Turning her attention back to Terry, Sarah shook him gently, ‘Terry, it’s me, Terry.’ She shook again. Nothing happened, his body felt almost lifeless. Only the shallow gasps of his breathing bore evidence to the fact he was still alive.
A red plastic bowl of water and a few cotton cloths, as promised by Aziz, were deposited by one of the pirates; Sarah recalled his name was Jamal. His eyes were not cruel like the other men’s; she had observed him before – he was gentler, more sensitive than the rest of them. He held his gaze for a few moments, then half smiled before he darted off.
It took but seconds for the water to turn red as Sarah washed away as much of the blood as she could from Terry’s wounds. Despite the water being warm and most likely less than sterile, it was enough to bring Terry back around, his eyes half opening and closing as he focused in on Sarah’s face.
‘Don’t move okay, just rest.’ The softness of her words soaked into Terry’s ears. He let out a deep breath.
‘How long have I been out?’ Terry forced his words out, his face now bearing the hallmark of pain as his body protested the savage beating.
‘An hour at least.’ Sarah adjusted his head in her lap and held him down gently.
‘Bastards.’ Terry tried to ease himself up but the jarring pain made him slump back with a groan.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get out of this?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes, they will come…they have to,’ Madden assured her, attempting to smile momentarily with swollen lips.
It was a smile Sarah knew well enough to realize it was for her benefit and not on account of any certainty he had.
‘I will get you home, I swear…’ Terry raised his hand and placed it gently against Sarah’s cheek.
‘No, we will get each other home.’
She leaned over and kissed him. They both knew that at least for now, no matter what happened, they were together.
Aziz, despite his misguided profession and dark deeds was a man who didn’t like or take any amount of pleasure in witnessing the attempted rape of a woman or the near beating to death of an unarmed man. In fact he saw it as a distinct weakness in the men who had committed these acts. His eyes blazed now like his mood; dark and menacing. His abrupt tone summoned his men from their various hiding places or positions of guard duty. As they assembled in a disorderly manner in front of him, Aziz took in the euphoric state of some; whose glassy eyes and lackadaisical stance gave them away, whilst others were more alert, with weapons at the ready as if expecting news of a pending attack.
‘We are men of honor, we fight for what has been taken from us – we must carry ourselves with dignity.’ Aziz paced up and down, his anger clearly showing on his face and in his deliberate steps.
He paused and turned.
Found one of his targets.
‘You…you are nothing more than an animal,’ he hissed at the man who had attempted the rape of Sarah Madden.
He slowly leveled a 9mm handgun, aiming it directly at the man’s forehead, which was no more than two feet away. The eyes of the man widened in fear as the realization of his predicament dawned on him. The effects of his previously drugged state had since dissipated. As he made ready to plead his case the bullet had already entered his forehead, ripped through his brain and exited the rear of his skull taking with it large chunks of brain matter. The other pirates jolted and dispersed slightly before the order to stay put came from Aziz. Those who had stood closest to the rapist, now nothing more than a rag doll in the sand, were spattered with his blood.
‘Take him away and feed him to the sharks,’ Aziz commanded.
Two men – not taking their eyes off Aziz – picked up the corpse and dutifully carried it off towards one of the trucks.
Terry had sat up slightly and was now looking directly into Sarah’s eyes, having heard the single gunshot.
‘What is it? go take a look,’ Terry asked her.
Sarah carefully made her way towards the shelter’s entrance and peered through the gap in the fabric doors.
‘What is i
t, what’s going on?’ Terry asked having now rolled himself over onto his front.
‘Looks like Aziz has his men gathered together – wait!’ Sarah flinched as she watched the corpse being thrown into the back of the truck. ‘Looks like Aziz executed someone.’
Terry said nothing, his face more focused on what Sarah had to say. As she turned back a second shot rang out. Pushing her face through the gap, she saw a man slump to the ground. She also realized Aziz was now staring right back at her. Pulling herself back inside, she said: ‘He shot another.’ She hurried back to Terry, not wanting to see anymore.
‘It means Aziz has some moral code at least,’ Terry concluded. ‘Must have been the men that…attacked us.’ The full realization of what had happened dawned on Terry as he labored out his words and slumped back to the ground.
‘Maybe,’ Sarah said, ‘or maybe we now realize he’s not afraid of killing – and that could just as easily be us, dear.’ She looked at Terry, but he had passed out.
~ ~ ~
The two leather-faced men Omar conversed with in an animated fashion, were elders; men who were once revered and held power in the small villages they originated from. Today pirate money bought power and the loyalty of the young men eager to earn it. These men were now nothing more than emaciated visions of a bygone era whose days were spent herding goats, drinking bitter thorn-leaf tea and squatting under bushes to avoid the sun. But at least to Omar they were useful, they knew better than most the area – and everyone in it. They also knew the pirates and how they nomadically moved around the area.
As the chatter continued, Stowe noted the outstretched bony finger of the taller of the two men pointing south-west. The raised tone seemed to confirm how adamant the old man was of the direction he was now indicating to Omar.
