The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  Mrs. Charmant had her orders. It was here, this night that she would decide a man’s fate. She had for the briefest of moments debated the wisdom of the request, preferring to leave the job to a man she knew would take far greater pleasure. But she knew deep down that this job had to be done right, and with little to no emotion. The risk of getting caught did not faze her in the slightest; she had done this task more times than she cared to remember. That and any capture by the authorities would be abated within hours by those who owed her, and by those she had much to tell about.

  Charmant moved down the street towards Cadian Gardens at a casual pace. She was dressed in a fashion similar to a thousand women who had their husband’s money to spend. Expensive brown comfortable lace-up shoes, black slacks, white role-neck jumper, cashmere of course and a fawn Burberry raincoat. She looked as if she was out for a casual stroll or simply heading out for a late dinner.

  As she took up her position, the doorway of a former office just a few doors down from Harry’s wine bar, she reached into her pocket and fished out a pack of cigarettes. Standing in an empty doorway doing nothing would either get her wrongly tagged as a lady of the night, or simply look suspicious. But throw in a cigarette and you look just like any other nicotine addict getting a fix whilst waiting for a friend. She turned away from the street and faced the shop doorway, tilting the umbrella so it looked as if she was protecting herself from the wind whilst lighting her cigarette. Deftly her hands set to work and within seconds she was inside the empty office and out of sight. The custom-made snipers rifle that had hung without trace by her side was now revealed. The scope and barrel were snapped into place with ease and the weapon set down on a vacant desk just near the window. The single hollow-tip 7.62 round she needed was already in the breach. Looking casually out across the street, the target was sitting in one of the areas many restaurants’ big windows sharing a meal, a lot of booze, and what looked like way too much conversation with a man she couldn’t seek. Not that she cared who the stranger was, she was after the man who had out stayed his welcome and Langley wanted him dead. Despite the rain, visibility was good, the distance no more than 100 yards.

  The MI5 surveillance team had the restaurant wired for sound, and for the past two hours had been sitting in a van parked across the street listening. Ogilvy had given strict instructions that Whitten was to be followed and any move he made recorded. Madden was safe, now all Ogilvy had to do was expose the man who was to benefit from Madden never making it home. Upon his exit from the restaurant, he was to be picked-up and taken to a safe house for interrogation. What ever else went down was not there concern. The woman in raincoat was simply a stranger and of no interest to them, despite the fact they had seen her arrive and vanish into an office doorway.

  Having paid the bill Sterling collected his coat, hat and placed the soft brown calf leather gloves on his hands before shaking rather limply the hand of Astor. He then turned smartly on his heels and headed for the door. The tiny red dot, that signaled his doom, found its way to his forehead the second he stepped onto the pavement, it almost danced for the briefest of moments, followed by what can only be described as an eruption of bone and brain matter. Sterling’s body once moved backwards a few feet dropped to the ground as if it were devoid of all muscle function and not even human at all. What was left of his head was now festooned over the restaurants front window. The screams and panic that followed were expected, as was the reaction from Astor who simply stood motionless for a few moments amid the carnage. He was grabbed within seconds and whisked away by two men in plain cloths before anyone else would have even noticed.

  Mrs. Charmant, whose job was done, had reached the first street corner before Sterling’s decapitated body had finished twitching. It wasn’t the most discreet of killing’s she had administered in a while, in fact it had been brutally public. But that was how she wanted it. Sterling had to go, and the message sent along with it was simple. Sterling was not afforded a death of grandness, no last words, and no discreet abduction and then shot execution style to respect his standing. No he was to die hard and publicly as if he didn’t matter at all. The only tinge of remorse the Rain angel had, was for the owner of the tiny restaurant whose doors would surely close after such a brutal killing on its doorstep. Either that or it would flourish from tourists wanting to see the site of such a dramatic end to its dinner service.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  MI6 Safe House

  Ogilvy sat across the table from Astor and tried to make sense of it all. He’d seen a lot of weird and strange things in the twenty years he had been doing this, but this was a first. He had interrogated guys before many times, but this time it was different. Astor was one of them. So far he had held strong, even the strong arm tactics, water treatment and psychological mind bending had not shaken him. Astor was clearly in pain and discomfort, but determined not to talk.

  ‘So what’s it to be Charles. You can try and hold out for as long as you can, but we’ll break you in the end you know that,’ Ogilvy leaned forward.

  Astor remained silent, just a flick of his eyes to acknowledge he had heard Ogilvy.

  ‘You give me no choice Charles, Sorry’ Ogilvy turned to one of the officers in the room with him. ‘Bring his daughter to the next room.’ Ogilvy instructed and waited for the reaction. It came fast.

  ‘You leave her out of this, she had nothing to do with it,’ Astor spat.

  ‘I don’t doubt it Charles, but she is your weakness and I will use it to break you, unless you talk, and do it now,’ Ogilvy darkened his eyes.

  ‘I have nothing to say,’ Astor held out.

  ‘Listen Charles, do you really want to sit here and listen to her scream in the next room, begging for us to stop. But I’ll tell you I will do what ever it takes to get the truth out of you, even if we break her in the process.’ Ogilvy then stood up and headed for the door.

  ‘Wait!,’ Astor said. He then took a deep breath and looked up at Ogilvy.

  ‘It was never meant to go this far. They were only meant to be held for a few months and then let go,’ Astor started to talk.

  Ogilvy took a seat. ‘Go on?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Closure

  Jarred Stowe sat alone and hunched over on a wooden bench. A discreet brass plate screwed to the back rail stated it was a memorial bench to someone called Joe Stevens. Lifting his gaze just a little Stowe regarded the granite headstone just a few feet in front of him. His eyes were intense as a stream of emotions flooded his sensory system. The words ‘Brian Stowe, Died September 10th 2009’ etched in gold italic letters burned into his eyes. The similarity of their past and how they lived their lives was indeed strangely identical, yet they had remained elusive to each other. The array of beer cans, stroon at the base of the headstone, left in place of flowers by McCabe and Mooney during their visits hadn’t even registered. His mind was desperately trying to recall anything, anything at all about his past and bring back a glimpse of his brother. Nothing at all came forward, only visions created by his own mind from what he had been told.

  Jolting his mind back, he felt himself chill and shiver, as if his body was now reacting to the past eight months. Hugging himself against the now biting wind Stowe reflected once more. It had indeed been a roller coaster of events. Having been burned and cast into oblivion by a few sycophantic dickheads within MI6 who only cared about the political game they played, and the large junk yard dog they called the CIA who seemed to have power over their allegiance. He had almost drank himself into a bottomless pit of no return as a result, then hauled out by his ears by a group of men, strangers who had served with his brother. A group of men that had nothing to prove; only to serve what they believed was the greater good. They had somehow rescued him from not only himself, but from a corrupt pool of men who claimed their interests were national security. ‘What a screwed-up world’ he thought.

  He had at least now found a connection to a brother he knew he had, never met and
heard so much about. But given what he had heard, he felt close and connected. For him it was closure.

  McCabe stood back fifty or so yards away and looked on, as Stowe remained deep and lost in private thought. It was a time to leave the hard man alone. His own memories of Brian rampaged in his mind and brought a wry smile to his face. Brian was a man whose stubborn nature and defiant spirit had left its own impression upon those who knew him for the man he was.

  ‘So, what now?’ Ogilvy appeared suddenly.

  ‘For him you mean?’ McCabe turned his head as if un-phased by Ogilvy’s sudden appearance and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.

  ‘Can you use him?’ Ogilvy already knew the response. McCabe only had to raise his eyebrow to seal the deal.

  ‘Thought so’ Ogilvy turned to leave.

  ‘Wait! So, what happened this morning? Any fall out from what happened with Sterling and the guy that pulled your strings’ McCabe asked.

  ‘I hear sterling was well taken care of. As for my puppet master, I hear he’s taken a long-awaited vacation,” Ogilvy mused, shot a wink and moved off.

  That was all McCabe needed to know, at least for now.

  THE END