The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  ‘Your mother is a whore and she is over there in the bushes with a dozen men,’ Mooney jested as if to mimic the chatter of the two men which he had also been observing.

  Stowe and Woodrow laughed as Mooney continued: ‘Yes, yes she is free, please help yourself!’

  ‘Very funny, lads,’ McCabe mused, trying desperately not to laugh himself.

  After a few more minutes of Mooney’s banter, they watched as Omar thanked the two men for their time and handed over a few twenty-dollar bills, a gesture that drew beaming, toothless smiles. He strolled back towards the others.

  ‘Okay so what’s the news?’ McCabe enquired. The others curtailed their laughing and listened in.

  ‘According to the elder, the westerners are being held forty kilometers from here, in a camp run by a man called Aziz…the very cradle of piracy.’ Omar’s eyes showed fear for the first time. He continued: ‘They say he is smart, ruthless and has many men.’

  Omar squatted down on his haunches and began to draw a map in the dirt with a finger.

  ‘You believe them?’ McCabe asked whilst Omar completed his work of art.

  ‘Yes, they have lost sons to these pirates and have no loyalty,’ Omar confirmed. He jabbed his finger into the dirt. ‘Here, Amara, they are here!’ He looked up at McCabe.

  ‘Okay good, so what do we know, if anything, about this Aziz guy, aside he is smart?’ McCabe folded his arms and leaned onto the bonnet of the land cruiser.

  ‘He is young, tough, proud and commands around two-hundred and fifty men,’ Omar told him.

  After a pause and a glance from Mooney: ‘I know the type.’ McCabe looked across at Mooney and raised his eyes.

  Mooney stood up. ‘Yeah, we do indeed. So what’s the plan boss?’ He brushed off the sand from his trousers whilst shaking each leg.

  Stowe cocked his revolver. ‘We kill those two for a start…’

  ‘No wait!’ Omar sprang to his feet and spread out his arms as if to protect the elders from Stowe’s sights.

  McCabe frowned. ‘What’s the concern, Stowe?’

  ‘Lost sons aside, they just proved they will sell information for money. The next handful of notes may come from a pirate wanting our heads.’ Stowe looked at each man in turn looking for an acceptance of his theory.

  ‘He has a point,’ Woodrow voted in.

  Mooney stepped forward. ‘Yes, and we have a job to do, like it or not. If we keep letting these guys go…well, any risk we cant afford, is all…’

  McCabe considered the grim implications; deep down his team had a point – Madden was the priority and not a local popularity contest. That, and to go against his team now would not be a good thing. ‘Okay, make it clean, and then we go,’ McCabe ordered as he fixed his gaze on Omar.

  ‘No, no, you cannot do this. I gave my word,’ Omar protested in disgust. He turned and shouted: ‘Bax, bax!’

  McCabe knew enough Somali to realize he had shouted at them to run.

  Stowe was already on the move and within seconds had reached them; with no effort at all he dispatched both men with two suppressed shots each. Pausing as if to give his own respects, he lowered his weapon and started back.

  ‘You bastards.’ Omar fell to his knees and started to chant prayers.

  ‘So what do we do with him now?’ Mooney looked at McCabe and anticipated the response.

  Turning, with his eyes dark, he said: ‘Get loaded up, we leave in ten.’

  McCabe wheeled around and took the suppressed weapon from Stowe, wandering off a few yards to collect his thoughts.

  By the time the jeep was loaded and each man onboard, the double tap was heard. McCabe stood over the body of the one man he had trusted, but Omar’s charity had become his liability and that was not something they could afford. Getting in behind the wheel without a further word to anyone, he fired the engine and moved off. He knew where to head, and would soon update Ogilvy – that was all that mattered right now.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  London

  Harry Ogilvy ordered another cheap Mexican branded beer; light and with a wedge of lime placed in the neck of the bottle. Before it arrived he knew instantly he would have to change the course of a man’s life forever. It was simply instinct, the way the man had reached for his phone, taken the call and reacted. The gin and tonic – no lemon – he had ordered not five minutes before was left near intact as he hurriedly made his exit.

  The urban scene that followed did little to confirm Ogilvy’s suspicions or in fact cause anyone else to focus their attention, as the man unlocked his car from ten feet away using his key fob, got in and drove away. That was all. It was an act a thousand people had performed across London that very second. But the man was Clive Whitten, the man whose silver spoon résumé and social arse-kissing skills had been polished to ensure he was the favored replacement for Madden in the event anything happened to him. And that caused Ogilvy to follow, because that was enough.

  Sterling and Whitten ambled back towards their car, parked on the yellow line alongside the embankment. It now sported a parking ticket, stuck centre windscreen for the avoidance of doubt. Sterling spotted it and wasted no time in ripping it off arrogantly; screwing it up and tossing it to one side while muttering expletives. His attention moved towards discussing where to go for dinner. Just as Whitten was about to suggest a favored place, Sterling took a call. He listened, his face grim, and then said: ‘Idiot. Tell him to be more careful.’

  He handed his phone over and Whitten listened in, his face darkening.

  ‘This doesn’t look good, I thought you said he could take care of it.’ Whitten thrust the phone back at Sterling.

  ‘Relax, I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.’ Sterling broke a weak smile and patted Whitten supportively on the back.

  ‘Really…don’t worry, Ogilvy is just a flatfoot made good, I can tie him up in knots and bury him in paperwork with one phone call,’ Sterling proclaimed.

  His arrogance even made Whitten wince.

  ‘You had better be right. If this goes wrong I’m finished.’ Whitten’s eyes had become pools of fear.

  Sterling froze for a second, as if sensing something, and raised his hand up to halt Whitten in his tracks. Almost motionless Sterling ran his eyes around the street, but nothing.

  ‘Okay it’s nothing.’

  He unlocked the car and climbed in.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Whitten asked as he got in next to Sterling and shut the door.

  ‘Thought I saw something move, just shadows.’

  Sterling started the car and pulled out into the slow moving evening traffic.

  Having watched the car move off, Ogilvy came from out of the shadows and followed it with his eyes. He had what he wanted and his instincts had been right. Ogilvy hurried across the well lit road, across an expanse of grass verge on the other side and up a series of steps. He made his way towards the rear entrance of the Savoy hotel, his pace brisk and deliberate. A few minutes later the main entrance loomed, so he entered via the main doors and paused just inside of the lobby. He scanned his eyes quickly around the foyer and spotted Astor off to his left, partially hidden behind a copy of Country Life.

  As if on cue Astor looked up from his seated position and smiled.

  Strolling over, Ogilvy said: ‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. Shall we?’ He gestured towards the bar with his eyes and a slight tilt of his head.

  ‘Indeed, after an hour looking at the comings and goings of people, I could do with an evening sharpener,’ Astor said courteously before standing up and reaching out to shake Ogilvy firmly by the hand.

  The neat single malt scotch slid down with ease as Astor readied himself to receive Ogilvy’s update.

  ‘The team has located Madden to the south of a town called Amara. They predict they can attempt an extraction in a day or two, once they have completed their reconnaissance.’ Ogilvy doodled on the table with his finger as if to demonstrate the accuracy of his report.

&nb
sp; ‘Have they seen him physically?’ Astor enquired, whilst waving for another drink.

  ‘No, Not yet,’ Ogilvy told him. He took a sip of whisky.

  ‘Shame, I was hoping to hear they were safe. The wife, Sarah, must be finding it very hard.’ Astor’s face was etched with obvious concern.

  ‘You know her well?’ Ogilvy had to ask.

  Astor reached for his refreshed glass, drained it, waved for another and drew in a deep breath. ‘Listen, Ogilvy, this goes no further…okay?’ His eyes widened to punctuate the importance.

  Ogilvy leaned forward. ‘You can trust me…I think you know that.’

  Astor opened up. ‘Old flame, known her for years – good pals with my sister. In fact I always thought I would marry her.’

  ‘I see, well…’ Ogilvy was about to offer what sympathy he was capable of when Astor interjected.

  ‘I know the score…that you can’t spend time looking for her; Madden is the priority. Just hoped you had news, that’s all.’

  Ogilvy sat back and changed tack. ‘Let me talk to my team later, see what they can find out. That much I can do.’ It was enough to draw a flash of hope on Astor’s face.

  ‘Now on to other matters, I just confirmed Whitten and Sterling suspect I’m on to them. I may need some air cover on your side.’ Ogilvy looked at Astor.

  ‘Are they indeed? Of course, count on me. If I get any rumblings they’re up to anything I’ll let you know immediately. Anything else you need?’ Astor asked.

  ‘Yes, there is. No better way to put the hounds off the scent than to kill off the quarry,’ Ogilvy suggested.

  ‘Sorry not with you?’ Astor frowned as if not wanting to have understood what Ogilvy had just implied.

  ‘We kill off Madden ourselves. At least as far as anyone needs to know that is. We report he has been found dead.’ Ogilvy’s eyes had taken on a twinkle.

  The penny dropped for Astor. ‘Brilliant!’ he said. ‘It will draw him out in to the open and force him to make his move.’

  Astor seemed to like the idea.

  ‘Absolutely, it’s the fastest way to confirm what his real agenda is.’ Ogilvy had already convinced himself of the plan’s validity.

  ‘Just one small detail,’ Astor said.

  Ogilvy raised his eyebrows. ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘They still have to get him back alive – and how do we make sure his men on the ground don’t blow our plan?’ Astor sat back.

  ‘Leave that to my team to figure out…and pray he can.’ Ogilvy waved over the waiter. ‘Two more please,’ he said as he sat back to ponder his plan.

  ~ ~ ~

  Whitten sipped his wine and pondered the offer Sterling had made him. ‘So you think money is what I’m after,’ he dryly replied.

  Sterling raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that not what makes us all tick?’

  ‘Not for me…in return for making sure you are afforded the latitude you need to conduct operations on our sovereign soil, I agree to keep the MI5 dogs muzzled when required, in addition I want the names of the spies you are willing to sacrifice, so that I’m seen to be exerting a firmer level of control on homeland security than Madden did.’

  Sterling played with his fork, pushing the last scrap of steak on his plate around in circles before looking up. ‘We have a deal.’ He raised his glass to signify the matter was concluded.

  ‘Yes we do – but first you have to make sure Madden never makes it back.’ Whitten wanted to be clear.

  ‘Agreed. I think Madden has reached the end of his usefulness. The public will conclude the pirates have grown tired of him and the no-negotiation tactics have failed him.’ Sterling’s eyes darkened. ‘I’ll make the call later.’

  ‘Let’s hope the PM does what we expect,’ Whitten concluded.

  ‘You are the next in line, so I think that is assured,’ Sterling replied.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  London

  Harry Ogilvy stood in one corner and panned his gaze around the room. From there he could observe the meeting’s attendees, a mixture of Army brass, Intelligence Service wool suits and a smattering of open-neck shirted bespectacled analysts. All but one pair of eyes were intently focused on the large flat screen TV. The somewhat shaky image of Terry Madden reading aloud from what was obviously a cue card held their attention; that is, aside from Sterling, whose attention was fixed on his Blackberry.

  Ogilvy stepped forward and moved to one side of the screen.

  ‘The boffins have already analyzed the video for signs of originality, background noise and even deduced Madden’s stress levels. It is, in their opinion, genuine.’ Ogilvy waited for the inevitable questions.

  Sterling raised his eyes and spoke. ‘So how are you going to handle the ransom demands?’

  ‘We have procedures for such matters; have no fear of that, Sterling. In fact we have already relayed a message to the group holding Madden stating we will review their terms and respond, ’ Ogilvy calmly responded, despite internally wishing to rip the throat out of Sterling – who was only in the meeting out of courtesy and public relations.

  ‘Via whom may I ask?’ This time the question came from Morley.

  ‘The messenger who delivered the tape, sir, was interrogated. A London taxi driver named Mohammed Kadar. He runs a Somali help group here in London, as a point of note.’ Ogilvy paused to make sure Sterling was listening. ‘London has a population of three thousand Somali living and working here; most of their families are still in Somalia. This man has access to one of the pirates by way of his brother-in-law.’ Ogilvy stuck up a photograph of Kadar on the room’s whiteboard.

  ‘So this chap Kadar can verify where they are being held then?’ Morley commented.

  ‘He claims not, sir. The tape was handed to him via a third party during a trip to visit his family. Their location, he claims, was not given to him.’ Ogilvy ran his eyes around the room before halting momentarily on a face he was glad to recall.

  ‘Very well…you know what you’re doing I suppose. I take it you have updated the team on the ground?’ Morley asked.

  ‘Err, Yes Sir, all in hand.’ Ogilvy returned his full attention having been distracted for a second or two.

  ‘Can you tell us where they are?’ Sterling jumped in.

  ‘No, that is a need to know basis, and you don’t need to know.’ Ogilvy had recovered his focus and ensured Sterling got the point.

  ‘Well…let’s just see about that. Morley, I assume you can authorize disclosure to me?’ Sterling paused, waiting for a favorable response.

  ‘Yes, yes, tell him, Ogilvy we’re all on the same side here.’ Morley raised himself out of his seat and started to gather his papers.

  ‘Thirty miles north of Haradheere, a town called Quicad,’ Ogilvy bluntly replied. His unblinking eyes focused on Sterling.

  ‘Now that wasn’t so hard was it?’ Sterling joked as if to show he’d won the point. But he held his gaze long enough to determine whether Ogilvy was bullshitting him, which of course he was.

  ‘I will update you all once I have further news.’ Ogilvy gestured to the door, signifying the meeting was now over.

  As Ogilvy made his way through the huddle surrounding the exit, a hand touched his shoulder. ‘Amanda Holt.’ The introduction was soft, short, yet distinctly formal.

  Ogilvy turned to take in the brunette who had distracted his attention during the meeting, the same brunette he had encountered in the elevator when visiting Astor at Thames house. Ogilvy decided she was as beautiful now as she had been then, only this time he drew in her scent and studied her eyes more closely. Her smile had a captivating charm.

  ‘Well hello, I thought it was you…how nice to put a name to the face. I’m Harry…’ Ogilvy presented his best smile and outstretched a friendly hand.

  ‘Yes, I know who you are. Nice to meet you, Harry,’ she replied with a cheeky smile.

  ‘So, you are here…why?’ Ogilvy had changed his tone to be slightly more formal.

  ‘W
ell I could tell you right now or perhaps over a drink, Harry?’

  The boldness of her reply caught Ogilvy off guard and he noted the use of his name was purposely informal.

  ‘Why not, I know a place just round the corner, shall we?’ Ogilvy gestured to the lobby and they followed the steady procession from the meeting.

  They had started in the St, Julian, a quaint wine bar Ogilvy used for informal meetings with contacts. The single glass of French red wine had been enough for Harry to establish Amanda was a psychologist working for 5. More specifically in their Special Persons Kidnap and Ransom team. Not that either had gone for a drink on the grounds of work.

  Amanda lived in a two story warehouse conversion, located on Wapping Street EC1, on the third floor of a building that had once been a warehouse for corn. It had vaulted brick ceilings, iron girders and walls two feet thick. Her apartment was painted mainly with a warm yellow, aside from the walls that had been left as exposed reddish brick. There was an open-plan kitchen, a living room with vistas across the river Thames, walls of psychology and travel books, modern chrome and black leather furniture, a slate clad bathroom and a large mezzanine bedroom on the second floor. Small framed photographs of young children were dotted amongst the shelves, which Harry guessed would be of nephews and nieces. It was a single woman’s place. That was clear. The warm red Persian rugs, silk throws and the delicate scent of vanilla candles pervading the air.

  Harry noted that the hand that led him upstairs to the bedroom was gentle, but also insistent, making it clear she wanted him to follow. The image of her undressing and slipping beneath the white sheets entranced Harry for a moment, as if he were a schoolboy watching a strip show for the first time. His inner conscience also screamed caution. But it had been three years since he’d been in this position and he so wanted to let go. It was natural; he hadn’t felt such an urge in years. As he unbuttoned his shirt and leaned over her, her lips came up to meet him, her arms gently pulling him down. Harry let go.