The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Somewhere near Amara - Somalia

  Daylight was fading fast as the packs of wild mangy dogs that scavenged the Amara wastelands began to herald in the orange dusk. Their howls could be heard for miles. It was as if some strange phanomina drew them out from the dirt scrapes and holes in which they spent the day avoiding the savage heat occurred at the same time every day. To the East, coming in at pace, curtained by a shroud of dust, settled into the front seat of his well guarded pick-up truck, Farid Bashir took in the melancholy sunset as if enjoying its serenity before his arrival at camp.

  As if on cue, the moment he had arrived, the sky darkened in the east and reddened in the west, marking the arrival of the devil incarnate. With the twilight came flurries of activity. The cooler evenings were a time when things got done. The scraggy guard dogs that patrolled the camp appeared from their dirt scrapes, preparing themselves for the night’s rat-hunt.

  Aziz stood in the middle of the compound; dressed in his typical attire of black singlet and Ethiopian-issue army trousers and black high-top boots. His men lazily started to gather around him. Each man armed with a Chinese-branded weapon.

  Aziz had heard the rumble of Land Cruisers in the distance long ago, and seen the dust cloud building on the horizon. Bashir’s arrival was not a surprise.

  Bashir climbed out of his vehicle and walked in silence to within a few feet of Aziz, sizing him up and down as he approached. His intense, almost void-of-life eyes, showed no emotion.

  ‘You were expecting me I see,’ Bashir announced while outstretching each of his arms to emphasize his submissive state and the fact he, personally, was unarmed.

  ‘Word is quick to spread about the man who killed Abdurrahman Ali.’ Aziz stood his ground and scanned his eyes across the array of men now flanking Bashir.

  ‘Hmm, well that is life, my brother – now, come let us drink together and talk of this westerner you have.’ Bashir lowered his arms to his sides and stepped forward.

  ‘The westerner is mine; and what I choose to do with him is not your concern.’ Aziz halted Bashir with his flattened outstretched hand.

  ‘Easy my brother, we are one no?’ Bashir bore the signs of a wolf who wanted to toy with its prey before snapping his jaws.

  His overly polite manner had not gone un-noticed by Aziz – nor did Aziz trust him. ‘You think I bow to you?’ Aziz snapped. ‘I have been a follower of Ali since I was nine-years old; you claim you are with us and that we are now one, but you are an insurgent, not Somali.’

  ‘Be careful, Aziz, I control the clans now; they answer to me and me alone. You could lead Mudug for me; fight and claim many ships, many hostages. All I seek in return is the westerner…that is all…but you do not ask of me why.’ Bashir tensed his posture.

  ‘No! He stays here…’ Aziz raised his weapon to waist height, each of his men stepped forward in turn, which caused a mirror reaction from Bashir’s own men.

  Raising one hand, Bashir half turned and halted his men. ‘Joogso, jog halkaaga.’

  He returned his attention to Aziz. ‘Adigaa ku xiga…you had best reflect, Aziz. I will be back tomorrow and I expect the westerner to be ready, no more negotiation. You can keep the woman. Fail me and I will not spare you.’ Bashir turned to leave, saying, ‘Bax bax,’ and walked back to his jeep with his men obediently following.

  A cloud of dust swirled around the compound; filling the air as a choking reminder of the devil’s visitation. Aziz stood, unfazed, for a few moments, watching them leave.

  Sarah Madden had witnessed everything. She could feel her own heart pounding as if in her throat. A layer of sweat had formed on her brow and began to trickle down her face; not that it was warm outside. She carefully closed the gap in the makeshift curtain door and knelt back down beside her husband to wake him. ‘Terry, Terry…wake up,’ she whispered.

  Slowly turning over, Madden opened his eyes. It had been a few days since his beating, but the savage black and blue skin around his rib cage still made it hard for him to sleep. ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ He adjusted his eyes to the gloom.

  ‘A group of men came…a horrible looking man with intense eyes…he wanted us, Terry – us!’ She gripped his hand tightly.

  Madden eased himself up to a sitting position. ‘Us? what did he look like?’ Madden was now fully awake.

  Sarah recalled his image. ‘Not Somali; although his men were. He looked Middle Eastern.’

  ‘So, not a westerner?’ Madden asked.

  ‘No, this man looked like trouble.’ Sarah’s eyes were now alight with fear.

  Aziz entered the doorway. ‘No – he is the devil!’

  Looking up with a start, Madden hugged Sarah to his side. ‘Listen, I want no more trouble…please…I have done all you asked.’

  ‘I will have to once again separate you; I’m sorry. But Bashir is trouble.’ Aziz then turned to leave.

  ‘Wait! Please who is he?’ Madden asked, doubling over in pain as he tried to get up.

  ‘Insurgent, he will kill you if he gets his hands on you, whereas I will merely try to sell you, at least for now…’ Aziz said, before returning to his men.

  ‘Jesus, Terry what are we going to do?’ Sarah was teetering on the verge of hysteria.

  Madden looked intently in to his wives eyes. ‘Take it easy. I’ll figure something out, I promise – we have to hold it together.’

  ‘Promise me, Terry. Don’t let them take you away again. I would rather die.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’ Terry embraced his wife and held on tight, wondering what the hell was going to happen next.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The narrow parched ditch, edged with thorn trees, that only once a year ebbed with water, was just wide enough and deep enough to conceal the two men. Stowe and McCabe had remained in position all day. All through the morning, and all through the afternoon. Evening was now thankfully upon them, and with it the cooler temperatures. Fourteen straight hours in the arid heat and dirt, sweating like pigs and fighting off the copious swarms of flies had taken its toll. McCabe felt his throat constricting and his mood darkening. Stowe on the other hand seemed relatively un-effected by it all, other than his urge to do something other than observe skinnies wandering about chatting and smoking was ebbing to pressure point.

  Every movement, every coming and going from within the camp that day had been carefully noted and committed to memory by both men. The last of which was the convoy of jeeps, now viewed though the green tint of their night vision glasses at it vanished over the small ridge. It had concluded their observations for the day.

  ‘So who was that you reckon?’ Stowe asked whilst slithering, snake-like to get closer to McCabe.

  McCabe frowned. ‘No idea, but not one of the good guys.’

  ‘Yeah, he looked a bit of an evil bastard.’

  ‘Okay, enough of this, let’s head back and debrief the others.’ McCabe then slid himself up and over the lip of the ditch, closely followed by Stowe. Within moments they had both vanished into the darkness.

  Having navigated a path through the thorn-tree-cluttered terrain for a kilometer, McCabe halted Stowe in his tracks with a clenched fist. McCabe then gestured North-East with two outstretched fingers. Stowe simply, without fuss, shifted his eyes to detect what McCabe had spotted.

  The speckles of flickering light through the scrub and a distant murmur of voices hit Stowe's senses.

  ‘Come on…’ McCabe whispered. Crouchting low, and with stealth McCabe started to pick his way through the scrub and rocks, closer to the voices. Stowe held back for a few moments before following on. As the voices grew louder McCabe noted they were speaking Somali, but then one voice stood out, it was distinctly English. Without making a sound McCabe lifted and placed each footstep with care, one in front of the other, being careful not to announce his arrival. Within fifty yards of the voices, McCabe stopped and lay down flat on his stomach between two bushes, and then raised his night vision glasses to
his eyes.

  Stowe moments later, and without sound appeared beside him.

  ‘It’s the jeep from earlier…look,’ McCabe muttered without moving his gaze.

  As McCabe focused in and panned his field of view, the austere face of Bashir came into view. He was seated with his legs hanging out of the passenger-side door of a white Toyota, speaking into a light-grey satellite phone. To his left, the source of the voices. Two men chattering in Somali were leaning against the bonnet with their backs to McCabe. Beside them, propped against the wheel-arch, as if nothing more useful than two walking sticks, were two AK-47s.

  Bashir spoke into the phone, ‘I will go in tomorrow and get him, what do you want me to do with him?’ After a pause: ‘And the woman…okay I will kill her. What of the men that are looking for him?’ Bashir paused again.

  Lowering his glasses, McCabe shot a glance at Stowe, the realization of what they were listening to struck home.

  ‘They’re after Madden,’ Stowe whispered.

  ‘Yeah…and us by the sounds of it.’ McCabe raised his glasses once more.

  ‘Okay, it will be done, my American friend.’ Bashir lowered the phone, disconnected the call, and seemed to ponder the conversation he’d just had. Then, as if triggered into action, he swung his legs around and closed the door. ‘Dhaqaa, dhaqaa,’ was shouted and McCabe observed the two men jump to, grab their weapons and head to the rear of the Toyota.

  Cries of ‘Halkan!’ followed then Bashir climbed out and looked directly in the direction of McCabe. ‘Aad tooskaaga,’ he said, and the two men moved out, walking carefully towards McCabe.

  ‘They pinged us,’ Stowe whispered.

  ‘Hold,’ McCabe told him and lowered his glasses very gently. Then slowly turning onto one side, he reached down to his waist and pulled out a 9mm and quietly cocked it before rolling back – holding the gun out in front of him – never once taking his eyes of the approaching men.

  ‘Twenty yards,’ whispered Stowe, who was counting down the distance.

  As McCabe heard the slight click of a 9mm being primed beside him, the leading man stopped, turned and shrugged his shoulders.

  Bashir jabbed a finger to urge his men forward. ‘Bax, bax!’

  McCabe slowed his breathing and pushed his face deeper into the ground. ‘Easy, easy,’ he whispered to ensure Stowe stayed put.

  Within five yards, McCabe could almost smell them, his finger now twitching on the trigger; every sinew and muscle tightening in readiness to explode, and running through his head was the intended action – take out the first man, leave the other to Stowe and charge forward and take on the boss-man.

  ‘On three,’ McCabe whispered, before drawing in a breath and closing his eyes for a second.

  He counted down: ‘One…two…’

  ‘Come…we go!’ Bashir shouted to his men.

  McCabe let out his breath and tilted his head to look at Stowe, but he had gone. Holding still, McCabe darted his eyes around – no sign of him. As McCabe mentally recorded the last few moments of chatter and the two men getting in the Jeep and driving off he surged up and moved quickly forward. Only the rear taillights of the Toyota could be seen dimming in the distance.

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  McCabe spun around to face Stowe, who’d crept up behind him.

  ‘Jesus, where did you go?’ McCabe asked.

  ‘I panned around the other side – figured if it went down I could take out the Jeep while you managed the others.’ Stowe winked.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I need to contact Ogilvy and let him know we’re not alone.’ McCabe motioned with his hand and they moved off into the scrub to rejoin the others.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  London; offices of the Secret Intelligence Service

  The upper echelons of the British Secret Intelligence Service were a place where very few men dared to tread; that is, without an escape route of the political cast-iron kind. Without such a bolt-hole, should anyone dare to convey any form of news or accusation that was not well received, or would benefit in some way those who sat in god-like judgment, it would spell certain death of the ostracized kind. In essence, there would be no get out of jail free card, no place to hide, no identity, assets frozen, no job, and a host of contacts who would most vehemently deny they ever knew you – for fear of the same treatment. Harry Ogilvy knew all of this as he stepped out of the elevator with as much confidence as he could muster and paced the route towards Morley’s inner sanctum located on the sixth floor.

  Harry also reflected, as he gently swallowed and adjusted the knot of his tie in nervous anticipation and waited to be shown in, that on occasion, some had even met with a spot of intensive waterboarding or even a serious physical demise. Morley was a political player of the most perfected kind; a fifteen-year veteran and Oxbridge graduate, a venomous cobra that could bite – and bite he did, to maintain his lofty position. He was an ice cold soul who wouldn’t hesitate for a second to burn one of his own if his own life or the interests of what was known as the ‘Service’ became compromised or threatened.

  It was rumored he had ordered the arrest of his own wife, Mary, whose zealous use of social media to promote family photographs and loose lips at parties had tried his patience. No one knew for sure what happened to her, other than she simply vanished.

  ‘You may go in now,’ the monotone voice of Margaret, Morley’s loyal guard-dog, announced over the top of her computer screen.

  Harry stood up, nodded politely and when he reached the door he knocked gently and entered. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he announced and waited for the invitation to be seated.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’ Morley looked up from his papers and peered over the top of his half-spectacles as he leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Madden, sir.’

  ‘You have news I take it. And for God’s sake sit down, man.’ Morley gestured with an outstretched arm towards a vacant chrome and leather chair just in front of his mahogany desk. The desk seemed out of place amid the modern architecture of the bland, grey angular concrete building in which it resided. Ogilvy, as instructed, maneuvered himself into the chair and crossed his legs.

  ‘Yes in a way,’ Harry said. ‘You may like to know that certain people may not wish him to return.’ He waited for the onslaught to begin.

  ‘Have you gone mad? explain yourself.’ Morley bored his eyes into Harry.

  ‘My guess is it’s the CIA.’ Harry waited for the inevitable reaction. It came at first via raised eyebrows and then a deep furrowed frown.

  ‘The CIA! Do you have any idea what you are suggesting here, Ogilvy. Why on earth would the CIA care about Madden?’ Morley leaned forward on his elbows and clasped his hands firmly in front of him.

  ‘That is what I intend to find out, sir. The team on the ground has intel that suggests the insurgents will make an attempt on Madden’s life. Insurgents backed by the Americans, sir.’ Harry had made his case as clear as he could.

  ‘Good God!’ Morley sat back. Harry held his gaze in an attempt to read his body language for any signs of guilt. ‘Does anybody else know of your suspicions?’ Morley enquired.

  ‘No, sir…only you.’

  ‘Good, keep it that way for now, will you?’ Morley punched a key on his phone. ‘Find out if Mrs. Charmant is still in the building will you; if she is, send her up here pronto.’ Morley turned back to Ogilvy.

  ‘Is that wise, sir? I mean she is after all the CIA liaison.’ Ogilvy stood up and placed his hands on the edge of Morley’s desk.

  ‘Quite, and I want to know what she thinks, so sit down.’ Morley waved Harry back to his seat. ‘Now, Harry share with me what you know.’ Morley’s tone, was now more cordial and it did not go un-noticed as Ogilvy took his seat.

  ‘The team intercepted a group of insurgents who are planning, as we speak, to invade the pirate camp where the Maddens are being held. That’s it really, other than I have instructed my team to stand-by pending your approval to go in.’
All true; aside the fact he had not instructed the team to hold.

  ‘Good, now–’ Morley was cut short as the buzzer on his phone interrupted. ‘Yes Margaret?’ he snapped.

  ‘Mrs. Charmant to see you, sir.’

  ‘Very well, show her in will you.’

  Ogilvy turned to be greeted with the sight of the Rain Angel as she walked in; slender as ever and moving well. She turned the chair next to him slightly to face him and sat down.

  ‘I take it you two know each other,’ Morley said before covering the formalities.

  ‘Indeed, how are you, Harry? Haven’t seen you since Scotland.’ Her voice was low and husky. She offered a smile.

  ‘I’m good,’ Ogilvy reciprocated, offering only what he felt was required.

  Morley jumped straight to the point. ‘Right then. Harry here has intel that suggests your lot is up to something, what say you?’

  ‘Really, Harry…’ she turned and smiled again, her eyes showing a hint of amusement.

  ‘Sir, I…’ Harry paused.

  ‘Come now, Harry, if you have something to share…out with it.’

  Harry knew this was the point of no return, his political escape route was now about to be tested. ‘My team–’

  ‘Ah yes – Mark!’ she observed.

  ‘My team have intel that suggests the CIA may be attempting to extract Madden.’ Harry selected his words carefully, noticing the pupils of the Rain Angel’s eyes dilate. After a moment of reflection she finally responded, ‘News to me.’

  ‘Really.’ Harry held his gaze.

  ‘Well there you have it, seems your chaps may have it wrong.’ Morley stood up, walked around his desk and sat on the corner of it.

  Morley gave his final word on the subject: ‘Ask around will you, just to be sure, and do let us know if you come across anything.’