The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  Stowe reached for a mug of tea and held it out for McCabe. ‘Sounds like he was quite a guy.’

  ‘You’re just like him, an arrogant bastard, but capable enough.’ McCabe took the tea.

  ‘Thanks…’

  ‘You’re most welcome; we leave in two hours.’ McCabe wandered off towards the rear of the Jeep.

  As dusk fell, McCabe and Stowe moved out. The short but dusty four-kilometer journey to the town was made in silence. They didn’t need to say anything to each other; auto-pilot was set to “on”. McCabe swung the Jeep into a dusty square, which was the closest thing to a car park, placed the keys under the floor mat and slid out. He then placed his 9mm into the rear waistband of his jeans and waited for Stowe to join him. The sound of voices could be heard drifting in from their right – from a narrow street, lined with food stalls and a mixture of people selling pots, pans and basic produce.

  As they entered the shanty market, it was as if a siren had gone off and all eyes were now upon them. Two Caucasian lunatics had just tossed themselves like snowballs into hell and were waiting for the devil to come and play.

  ‘You feeling it?’ Stowe whispered to McCabe

  ‘Nah, we blend in perfectly, what you worried about?’ McCabe mused.

  A few yards on, Stowe made for a stall on his right and sat down at a red plastic table with tiny matching stalls around it. The tall, skinny stall-keeper was an aging man with very little hair. His eyes were big and dark. His nose was flat to his face. His long fingers shook Stowe’s hand delicately. He flashed them a winning smile before nervously rattling off a string of Somali. Stowe gave a return smile accompanied with the universal sign for “hungry” and waited to see if the wide-eyed man understood him. He darted off back behind a tatty curtain as McCabe sat down.

  ‘Not sure what’ll come back – but let’s wait and see,’ Stowe said, as his eyes casually scanned the street.

  ‘My guess is we are about five minutes away from having visitors.’ McCabe reached around to his pistol and cocked the hammer, withdrew it from his waistband and brought it around to his lap, holding it under the table out of sight.

  The stall-keeper appeared suddenly, causing Stowe to jerk around. He carried over and placed on the table a steaming pot of what looked like chunks of meat submerged in a thick lentil mush. Another stream of Somali and a beaming toothy smile came with it.

  ‘Looks like you scored,’ McCabe said.

  ‘Yeah, looks like it.’ Stowe sniffed the pot of food and looked up at McCabe. ‘Well, it may be the only food we get for a while…’ McCabe dipped in a slice of dry bread and sampled it, wincing at the degree of salt that had been added, but it was clearly edible so Stowe followed suit and ploughed in.

  McCabe paused mid way between mouthfuls first. Stowe tuned in his senses. The need for food had distracted them – two men had appeared and were now seated across the street. Their focused gaze was evidently on them. The first man’s appearance was obscured by a cloth wrapped around his face to protect it from the savage dust. His dark beady eyes just visible above it. The second man’s face was more aged, leathery and thin. Both had automatic weapons slung over their shoulders; which Stowe had already calculated gave them enough time to drop them should they need to. His own 9mm, like McCabe’s, was already in his hand under the table.

  ‘Looks like we’re in business,’ Stowe muttered, whilst still conveying that he was enjoying the goat.

  ‘They do seem interested don’t they, and not just because we look like two fucking aliens.’ McCabe flicked his eyes to take them in.

  ‘Shall we?’ Stowe made ready.

  McCabe nodded. ‘On three…’

  They stood up, smoothly concealing their weapons, paid the stall keeper and moved off at a slow and casual pace down the street, flowing with the stream of locals going about their business.

  McCabe nodded to a cross street looming up in twenty yards. ‘Let’s see what’s down here shall we?’

  As soon as they reached the cross street, they turned and broke into an immediate sprint. They came upon a jumble of rubbish; junk and collapsed wood, emanating a gagging smell of decaying rubbish and shit. They hid either side of the narrow street – and waited. Stowe winced as he tried to acclimatize to the stench. He could see McCabe squatting down and looking back at him, his eyes wide and wild. Stowe checked himself mentally. No shaking. No sweaty palms. He wasn’t even nervous. He knew they were about to get into a skirmish of some kind and he had calculated his abilities to deal with it within the uncharted surroundings. Normally he would have walked around, assessed the street layout, how to escape – but they had thrown themselves into it, knowing that the maze of streets was just that; a maze – and when the shit came down they would both have to deal with it as best they could.

  The two figures moved cautiously and deliberately up the street, their weapons at waist height and in firing position. Any other inhabitant had by now cleared out to flee the impending trouble. The local Somali were used to it and knew when to stay out of the way. As they inched forward, their shadows were spotted by McCabe and Stowe well in advance of them being within striking distance.

  McCabe drew in a breath and picked his moment. He stood up, raised his hands and stepped out. ‘Okay, here I am. I give in,’ he cried, taking a step forward which caused a defensive reaction jerk from the two surprised assailants.

  A barrage of guttural Arabic came back at him. McCabe noted the anger in their eyes, which were now darting around trying to find Stowe.

  He lowered his tone. ‘Okay, okay, easy.’

  Stowe rolled out and plugged the first man with a double tap to the head, dropping him to the group instantly. The third round took out the left knee cap of the second man, who let out a sickening scream as he fell backwards. McCabe was on top of him within seconds, covering his mouth with one hand and beating down into his face with the other. McCabe dragged him off up the street while Stowe checked and hid the other body.

  Stowe joined them and got down beside the man, who was beginning to come to. ‘Let’s hope he can speak fucking English.’

  ‘Too right. Else we’ll have to bait another,’ McCabe spat, getting his breath back.

  ‘Qofna af ingiriisi ma ku hadlaa?’ Stowe asked in what little Somali he had. He figured the guy was an insurgent and could at least understand Somali. Nothing came back. Stowe eased up his own knee and came down on top of the mans shattered knee cap whilst McCabe clamped his mouth shut. The shrieking moan that leaked out through McCabe’s fingers indicated it was doing the trick.

  ‘Ask him again,’ McCabe said.

  Stowe forced down his weight and again the moan oozed out. ‘Ku hadlaa?’ Stowe asked again. Still nothing.

  ‘Hard bastard, this one. Either that or stupid.’

  Stowe aimed his 9mm and blew off the second knee cap. McCabe held the man down as he jerked and screamed.

  ‘Ku hadla?’ Stowe persisted.

  This time the moans turned to agonizing forms of words. As McCabe removed his hand, the man groaned, ‘Yes, yes, please.’

  ‘Who sent you?’ Stowe asked as he poked the shattered knee with the muzzle of his pistol.

  ‘Arrghhh! Please…Bashir, Bashir.’

  McCabe looked at Stowe.

  ‘The westerner, where is he?’ Stowe asked.

  ‘He is near to here.’ The mans shaking hand pointed westwards.

  ‘Good, then you will show us.’ McCabe got up. ‘Looks like our rat will lead us to the cheese…’

  Stowe nodded. ‘Let’s get out of here before more turn up.’

  They hauled the semiconscious man to his feet and dragged him down the street before circling back towards the Jeep and heading off for camp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  London

  Charles Astor owned a good many suits, but the charcoal grey wool one was his favorite. The cut made him seem slimmer and the narrow slit-angled side pockets of the jacket were timeless in style. He was wearing it tonight bec
ause, to a man like Astor, appearances were extremely important. He lectured his people all the time about the importance of being well turned out and presentable. The field officers, whilst he understood their need to blend in with members of the public, at times disgusted him. He had noticed that, even when office-bound, they used their operative status to become lazy and scruffy. Their two days of facial stubble he felt was more akin to a faded pop star than a member of Her Majesty’s Security Service. Perhaps what bothered him more was the way people these days had abandoned the art of dressing properly, and society had in itself become tainted. At forty-nine, he was still in reasonable shape, or at least he was not hideously out of shape. His Windsor knotted university tie sat well with his crisp white shirt. He was ready, and felt good on account he loved meeting this particular lady – he should really make the effort to meet her more often.

  As he approached the restaurant his experienced eyes immediately picked out Sterling’s men. There were two for sure, and most likely another two at least would be inside. The two outside may just as well have bracketed the entrance like a pair of book ends for all the good their attempts to blend in had been. Only people who smoke loiter outside restaurants, and strangers that meet only talk for a few short seconds. These two buffoons were in conversation. Astor entered the restaurant, handed over his coat and took his seat. The fact he had already scanned the small Italian Bistro for other CIA operatives had passed un-noticed. They were also in conversation and posing as a devoted couple off to his right in the far corner. Body language was something that was extremely hard to fake, and couples were either in love or fighting, these two were neither and that was as good as a red flag to Astor. As Amanda entered, her first action was to kiss Astor fully on each cheek, thus identifying her as a close friend or relative to anyone observing. As she took her seat her eyes conveyed that she too had pinged the foreign bodies in their midst.

  Astor broke a warm smile. ‘Indeed, busy tonight.’

  ‘So, we appear to be popular,’ Amanda remarked, unfolding her napkin and dropping it on to her lap. A sign Astor knew to mean she was alone and had not been followed.

  ‘Are you okay with Italian? Although this menu looks more American than anything.’

  ‘Yes fine with me, but maybe something light.’ her smile oozed sweet, indicating she had understood her father’s coded indications that the eyes around them belonged to the CIA.

  ‘So tell me, how’s that boyfriend of yours.’ Astor sat back and proceeded to break open his bread roll. Another sign it was okay to talk openly and that their conversation was safe.

  ‘Not really a boyfriend, but I do hope to see him this week, been a while actually.’

  Astor nodded. ‘I see, well a likeable chap.’ He waved for the waiter, who came within moments and waited expectantly for the order.

  ‘My dear, after you…’ Astor knew his manners.

  ‘Just the garden salad for me, thanks.’

  ‘And I’ll take the ricotta ravioli and a bottle of mineral water, no gas, thank you.’ Astor turned to Amanda, leaned forward. ‘I’m not sure I want you to get too involved, okay?’

  ‘Dad, I’m old enough to know my own mind…’

  Her smile was a polite way of telling her father to back off. She had been in the service for only two years, having graduated as a clinical psychologist. Much to her father’s initial disappointment, she had enlisted to join the service, passed the entrance tests and multiple interviews with ease. But one thing she had learned was that her father granted her no special favors; in fact he was far harsher on her. At least she didn’t work directly for him. Not that the service would ever allow that.

  ‘Well, just be careful and don’t blame me if you get hurt.’ Astor decided to change the subject. ‘Now how are you doing at work?’

  ‘As you well know, fine. I start field work next week.’ she dipped her gaze.

  ‘And when were you going to tell me that?’ Astor’s voice had taken on a more fatherly tone.

  ‘I just have, haven’t I? You could at least be pleased for me. Running psyche tests on your staff and kidknapped VIP’s is hardly exciting and not why I joined up. I want to experience being a field officer.’

  She raised her posture and stared back at her father. The arrival of food provided a welcome interruption from further questioning.

  ‘By the way, Mum’s fine,’ Amanda said, hating her father’s reluctance to ask how her mother was.

  ‘Good. Still spending money I trust – like water?’ His eyes didn’t leave his plate.

  ‘Dad, come on…she always asks after you.’ She reached out a hand and placed it on his.

  After a brief pause, he said, ‘Well, send her my best will you.’ Astor had to drag those words from his gut. The affair had been going on for years before he’d finally found out. The smell of another man’s cologne was as easy as a self confessed note to Astor. The weeks of tailing her simply gave him sport rather than the specific need for proof. But his daughter was everything to him and that was all he cared about.

  Sensing the reluctance to talk further about her mother she changed tact. ‘So how is it going with the Maddens?’ Amanda knew her father cared deeply for Sarah, who’d always been very warm towards her and was practically one of the family.

  ‘Still in the hands of the savages, I’m afraid.’ Astor’s disappointment darkened his face.

  ‘It’s me, Dad, you don’t have to hide your concern.’ She tried to relax him, knowing he’d be worried about them.

  ‘I know. Not much more I can do, I suppose. Your man Harry can hopefully get her out and back safe.’

  Amanda looked carefully at her father for a few moments. ‘You mean them, Dad.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Amanda softened her tone. ‘Never mind. Listen I’m a bit tired shall we…’ She sensed that her father had now closed down and, given the eyes that kept scanning them from across the room, it was hardly the best discourse she could hope for with her father. Although she did wonder why the CIA were so interested in them.

  ‘Right then, let’s be off,’ Astor said, snapping himself back to reality. He stood up, took his daughter by the arm and escorted her out.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said and kissed him gently on the cheek. As the taxi moved away he dallied for a second or two, scanned his eyes and drew in the cool night air into his chest. A silver BMW parked a few yards up the street caught his attention. Pulling up the collar of his coat, he stepped off the curb and crossed the road. Keeping his pace slow but deliberate, he walked towards the rear of the vehicle, keeping his eyes on it the entire time. He quickly determined it had two people in it, both seated in the front. As he drew alongside he stopped, bent down and peered in through the passenger window. As the glass lowered, he took in the thirty-something male now looking back at him.

  ‘Do say hi to Sterling for me won’t you…’ Astor offered a weak smile. The raised eyes in return confirmed they had been identified and were mortally embarrassed.

  Astor continued on his way and could only imagine the conversation now taking place in the car behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  Brad Sterling breezed his way in through the glass doors and paced across the distinctive checkerboard marble foyer as if he owned the place. He had been summoned to meet with the Puppet Masters; his name for the group of five men that populated the offices on the upper floors; that should they so choose, could pull his strings in any fashion they so wished and be dammed with the consequences. He flicked his eyes respectfully right to take in the wall of remembrance, as almost everyone that passed did. He continued on, stopping only briefly at security for a pat down conducted by a well-made security guard with a bald head above a poker face. Sterling then took the elevator and ascended to the fifth floor.

  Becket, Ryan, Stockheart, Cooper and Flynn waited in silence. They knew Sterling was on his way up before he had even passed through the front doors. They we
re the men in black hats, the Puppet Masters – men whose decisions could start wars, end lives and most certainly without so much as the stroke of a pen finish a man’s career – including the President’s…

  Today there was one more face at the table, a female face that caused Sterling to falter in his confident stride as he entered the room, taking in the faint smiles before heading to the opposite side of the beech wood table.

  The Rain Angel was not someone he had expected to see, at least not today. He studied her with suspicion. He checked each face in turn, caring little who they were. All he wanted to know was why he’d been called in like a disobedient school boy and what, if anything, they wanted of him. He also wanted to know why the Angel was there – specifically. Her wry smile and raised brows unnerved him; she was never, in his experience, without an agenda – the question now on his mind was what said agenda would be.

  His mind jumped back to when he had first met her – a chilly November evening in Prague, a simple gathering of the G10 power houses. Sterling was in charge of the U.S. Intelligence detail, making sure the Secret Service were well prepared to babysit the U.S. contingent of senate stuffed shirts and the President himself, who was scheduled to give the opening address. It also afforded him with an opportunity for the CIA to infiltrate certain quarters with their agents. The topic of the main agenda was about as interesting as cold sick to Sterling, bio-fuel and carbon emissions were not subjects he much cared about. But he recalled her, the instant her eyes had captivated him when she entered the dining room for the opening meet and greet. Something about her made the hairs on his neck stand up, his skin prickle and his mouth go dry. He marveled at how effortless her line of conversation flowed with Kimbala Toka, the Zambian head of National Development. Kimbala was an arrogant man, a Bantu ancestor who was rumored to have been a strong supporter of Kanyembo Butaba, a ruthless dictator with ties to the Congo. Kimbala’s hands had shed the blood of many, yet she seemed at ease with such a man, and he with her.