by Greg Barron
‘No, that is not the way to lift a box, let me show you …’
A man in a long, white thoub says to the man beside him, ‘When I am finished this evening I will go to al-Rayyan restaurant in Crater, with my brothers, if it pleases God …’
‘I and my sons will go to the cinema …’
Simon remembers his and Isabella’s visit to the open air cinema here, years earlier on their long honeymoon, travelling virtually free by nature of his profession. Back then he was the established wage earner and she fresh out of university, starting with the FCO as an administrative assistant.
The women he sees, almost without exception, wear the niqab face covering, along with an abaya robe to the ankles, sometimes studded with beads or tiny faux diamonds, or worn with sunglasses and discreet jewellery.
These women live in one of the most gender divided societies on earth — where even in a court of law the testimony of two women is required to equal that of one man — yet Simon has discovered, over the years, that these women are not as timid or powerless as Westerners might believe. Now and then one will turn her eyes brazenly on him as he passes, while he is simultaneously trying to avoid looking at them. Just for an instant, dark eyes swing towards him, promise unimaginable delights, then turn away demurely as if it had never happened, and by then they are gone down the concourse.
As he passes through the main corridor, Simon continues to scan. Workers on breaks chew qat — the narcotic leaf popular in the region — noticeable via one bulging cheek. Though Simon should be tired, he feels distraught but energised — every sense wide and receptive, soaking up each nuance, not ceasing to explore until he reaches the main doors, walking outside to look at the taxis: dusty Toyotas, Fiats, Renaults and Nissans competing for space with elongated white buses with Arabic lettering on the sides. He inhales the night air, stares out towards the lights of a city as foreign as any on earth, with jagged hills as a backdrop.
Simon has to fight a sense of despair. Once the children and their abductors left this airport they could have gone anywhere in the Middle East or Africa without trace. The Western mania for record keeping, Simon knows, is not de rigueur here. There will be few, if any, clues to their whereabouts. He has just one lead and this is it. With that thought he turns and walks back inside the building.
Day 1, 21:30
Marika’s eyelids are rimmed with red, and if she allows herself the luxury of closing her eyes, even at the computer, she finds herself drifting away from the world of shrill telephones and chattering keyboards into something more appealing.
With Abdullah bin al-Rhoumi’s name opening doors, she has an FBI team from the Tactical Support Branch of the CIRG on their way into a New York apartment, managed by radio waves beamed halfway across the world. The sense of power is dizzying, and dangerous. Marika frowns with concentration so intense it gives her a headache. There can be no mistakes. Lives hang on her decisions, her instincts, and reactions.
Abdullah appears beside Marika’s chair, accompanied by a tall and lean figure. He wears a goatee beard trimmed close to his face, and the same blue overalls as the other members of the security team. She has seen him around the centre, one of many hundreds, yet has not exchanged a word with him.
‘Miss Hartmann. Have you met Madoowbe?’
Marika stands, shaking the man’s hand. ‘No, not yet.’
The grip is dry and firm. Long fingers. His voice is deep, and smooth as honey. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Madoowbe is a very experienced operative indeed, so he may be of help up here,’ Abdullah explains. ‘He is Somalia’s Transitional Federal Government’s contribution to the security force. I’m assigning him to you for the moment.’
Madoowbe’s eyes are black, owl like, glistening with curiosity and intelligence. Marika hands him a spare pair of headphones from the desk, and plugs them in. ‘You better listen in,’ she tells him. ‘We might need help if the woman we are chasing is at the apartment.’
‘Who is she?’ he asks.
Marika tries to sum up the situation in as few words as possible. ‘The woman in question is the wife of Dr Abukar. We are unsure of her whereabouts.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Sufia Haweeya. She might have played some part in the plot, or if not, might be used as leverage. In either case, she is worth finding.’
An electronic voice crackles through the headphones and Marika slips them over her head, the frame so light she can scarcely feel it.
‘This is Rabi al-Salah control, go ahead HRT.’
‘Reading you, Rabi al-Salah. Position outside apartment building in question. We have identified unit nineteen. Ground floor.’ The voice is male, east coast American.
Ground floor. A passage from a well known al-Qa’ida terror manual comes to mind, a publication named Declaration of Jihad against the Country’s Tyrants – Military Series. According to this tract, It is preferable to rent apartments on the ground floor to facilitate escape and digging of trenches …
Marika forms a mental image of what is happening in New York. Despite the name, Hostage Rescue Team, this group has a wide variety of responsibilities, including high-risk searches, counter-terrorism, manhunts and personnel protection. The team will be dressed in black, equipped with Springfield 1911 automatic handguns in side holsters. Many will carry M16 rifles while others sport Remington 870 shotguns or even a 7.62mm sniper rifle. One or two operatives will be explosives experts, equipped to locate and disarm anti-personnel weapons encountered in the course of the job. Each man or woman is wired up for hands-free communications. It is just past noon over there now. They will deal politely but firmly with members of the public who come to gawk or obstruct.
‘Does the apartment show any signs of occupancy, HRT?’
‘Negative.’
‘Then please approach and seal building. Detain any personnel trying to enter or leave. When area is secure I want you to penetrate apartment.’
‘Understood, please stand by.’
Ten minutes of nothing passes. Marika taps her pen on the desk and waits. The inactivity irks her; she is a physical woman, and would rather be there on the ground. The headphones crackle back to life.
‘Building secure.’
‘There is a possibility of claymore-type mines or other set hazards in apartment. Proceed with caution.’
‘Understood.’ A longer pause. The sound of booted feet on tiles. ‘We are outside apartment door. Confirm that no lights show from inside. Listening devices detect no sound from the interior.’
‘Ring the bell.’
‘No response.’
‘Try it again.’
‘No response. Door swept for attachments. No set hazards.’
‘Proceed to force entry.’
Even across thousands of miles, Marika hears heavy blows from a Zak ram on the door. For the first time she hears her contact breathing. ‘The apartment is dark. Light switch does not work, moving to personal lighting.’
‘General impressions?’ Marika glances across at Madoowbe, who is also listening, making no sound.
‘Room is tidy. Musty but clean.’ Nothing for thirty or forty seconds. ‘Table surfaces free of clutter. I am now entering the kitchen. The refrigerator door is open, turned off, and it is empty. Linoleum floor clean.’
‘Secure the other rooms and start checking drawers and cupboards.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Travel plans, brochures, maps. Anything. Have you come across any computer equipment?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Tell me if you do.’
Marika reaches for a tissue from the half-empty box beside her workstation. Blowing her nose, she waits for the operative to recommence communications. Beside her, Madoowbe shifts in his seat. For a few more seconds she allows herself the indulgence of watching him. He is an attractive man: tall, with Nilotic features. Lean, but wiry. It is the smouldering eyes, however, that hold her attention.
‘How long hav
e you been in Dubai?’ she asks, taking advantage of the break in radio traffic.
‘A little over a month.’
‘Do you like it here?’
The expression on his face is comical, as if he finds her question amusing. ‘Strangely, no.’
Aware that she is still holding the used tissue in her hand Marika stands up and drops it in the nearest bin. ‘A little too hectic for you?’
‘Not exactly.’
Again that expression, and Marika finds herself growing angry. You patronising bastard. Wish I’d never asked.
The earphones crackle into life. ‘The apartment is clear. I’ve got men combing it now, and forensics on site.’
‘Good, can we find out if the neighbours know anything?’
‘Affirmative.’
Marika glances again at Madoowbe, who has found something interesting to look at on the far side of the room. Dismissing him from her thoughts, she finds herself thinking of home, imagining a good clean southerly swell rolling up the coast to Bondi. There are dolphins cruising just behind the break, and cormorants diving. Quite often, these days, the microbe count is so high swimming is not recommended, but with all her heart she wishes she was there — soaking up the winter sun in her favourite spot just down from the RSL club walkway.
This is a great time of year in the mountains, too — freezing at night, so she’d pack her treasured Black Wolf sleeping bag, rated for ten below, and the Salewa tent. Yet it rains less in July than most other months, and there are few people on the trails. A great time to sit on the boulder-strewn banks of the Shoalhaven, deep in the gorge where only the tough and well-prepared penetrate, and watch the platypus at play. Her mind roams, planning a solo trip — no one else to get in the way, particularly not a man. That kind of complication, she muses, sneaking another glance at Madoowbe, she doesn’t need.
The voice over the radio brings her back to reality. ‘The apartment is clean. No computers. No toothbrushes. Even the bed sheets look brand new. Forensics are beginning to think that there’s not a fingerprint in the whole damn place — and that’s not possible unless it’s been swept clean, and by someone who knows what they’re doing.’
‘That alone tells us something. Look at the curtains, and the paintings on the walls, the books on the shelves. What kind of people are they?’
There is a long pause. ‘Intellectual types.’
Marika endures thirty minutes of waiting — risking a visit to the female bathrooms outside the massive hydraulic doors, acknowledging, on the way back, security staff swarming like bull ants around a nest. Hurrying back to Madoowbe, who shakes his head to indicate that no transmissions have come through. She makes notes and waits.
Finally, the headphones come to life again. ‘We have some information, Rabi al-Salah. The male occupant, Dr Abukar, left three weeks ago, followed by the female, Sufia Haweeya, seven days later. One of the neighbours spoke to the woman before she left and asked her where she was going.’
Marika is almost frightened to ask the question. ‘Where?’
‘Home. The woman said that she was going home. That’s all.’
‘Great,’ Marika says, ‘just great.’ She turns to Madoowbe. ‘What should we do?’
‘The woman, Sufia, must be very important to Dr Abukar. He has placed her out of danger.’
Marika taps at the keyboard and brings up all the information she has collected on Sufia. Her home village is the same as that of her husband. She turns to Madoowbe. ‘Are you familiar with the village of Bacaadweyn?’
‘Very much so. My mother’s cousins are from there. Many times when I was young I visited them.’
‘Any idea on the political situation in the area?’ The question seems almost redundant. All Somalia is dangerous. A graveyard for foreign armies.
‘Technically it’s part of Puntland — governed by the Harti and Tanade clans — but in practice it’s lawless, with a few local subclans and their warlords vying for power.’
Marika turns to Abdullah, hovering a few yards away. ‘We’ve got a lead on the location of the woman.’
The gaunt face stares back at her. ‘Deep in Somalia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then she is inaccessible. We will have to think of something else — other angles.’
‘Perhaps,’ Marika says, ‘it is worth a try. To pick her up, I mean.’ Her heart beats hard against her chest. What the hell am I proposing here?
‘No, Miss Hartmann. There is nothing to say that Sufia Haweeya’s presence here will change the situation one iota. Besides, even a battalion of troops could not fight their way out of trouble in the Somali interior. I cannot throw lives away.’
‘No, but what about sending just me?’
‘Do you understand how much of a risk you’d be taking? You cannot speak the language.’
‘I speak pretty good Arabic — it’ll get me out of trouble, and …’ She turns to the tall Somali. ‘Perhaps Madoowbe would come with me?’
The dark eyes settle on her for a moment, then a nod. ‘I would be pleased to.’
‘Can you parachute?’
‘I was trained by the English SAS many years ago.’
‘You were SAS?’
‘Yes, for a time.’
Abdullah sighs. ‘Miss Hartmann. You are a good agent, and you are under my care. The answer is no.’
Marika stands up, almost as tall as Abdullah. Despite having worked under the man for less than a month she feels a strong connection with him — his methods are as efficient and up-to-date as any in the world, yet his leadership is compassionate and thoughtful. ‘Sir, with all due respect, I have a feeling that this woman may be the key. I feel responsible for what happened. I should have acted on my gut — just one minute earlier and none of this would have happened. You must give me the opportunity to make amends.’
‘I think, with my help, we would have a strong chance of success,’ Madoowbe adds.
Abdullah’s face changes little. If anything he looks even older and more tired than usual. ‘You are a brave young woman,’ he says, then turning to Madoowbe, ‘and you are a credit to your people. May God go with both of you. Give me details of what you need. Rest assured that Dubai’s armed forces will be at your disposal.’
When Abdullah has gone Marika turns to Madoowbe and shrugs. ‘I kind of dropped you in it, there. Thanks for the support.’
He gives no visible sign of displeasure at his involvement in the mission. ‘I am happy to be of service to you.’
Marika is about to turn back to the desk when she again catches that sardonic twinkle in his eye, gone again so fast she might have imagined it.
Day 1, 23:50
The pub is as dark as a cave, subdued now as it winds down into the early hours. The barman, drying wine glasses on a chequered tea towel, glares around the room as if to say, When are you people gonna piss off?
A middle-aged man and woman are kissing, pressed together like wax statues against the wall near the toilet doors. A quartet of young travellers guffaw. One stands, gripping a chair for balance, and makes for the gents.
PJ Johnson takes a sip of his whisky, the raw liquid stinging where he has been chewing his lips — he always chews his lips when drinking, which is one of the reasons he doesn’t imbibe too often. Don Lockyer lays a hand on his shoulder.
‘Come on, it’s two in the morning. We’ll be in the shit for sure.’
PJ shrinks away. ‘One more, OK?’
‘The bar’s closed.’
‘Just let me finish this one.’
Two other men occupy the table. Tourists. Both hold cards in their hands. One is short and squat, and the other so tall his hair, when standing, almost touches the ceiling.
‘Come on. Captain Pennington will get the shits — we’ll be on a charge for sure.’
PJ stands, swaying on his feet like a tree in the wind. ‘He doesn’t like me, does he?’
‘Who?’
‘Captain Bloody Pennington.’
Don s
hakes his head. ‘He’s young. Trying too hard. Officers can be like that. He’ll relax after a while, you’ll see.’
PJ thinks about what Don just said. The previous Troop Commander had been a man in his forties, veteran of Bosnia, Kosovo, and Iraq, and a harder nut than any of them. PJ had hero worshipped the man, and his retirement from the forces had come as a blow.
Don grips the meat of PJ’s shoulder. ‘Come on, stop arsing about, it’s time to go.’
PJ drains his glass, slams it down, takes the first step, pauses to regain his balance, then strides to the doorway, where he steadies himself on the frame. From that vantage point he turns back to look at Don. ‘Well come on, you said you wanted to get going.’
‘Smart bastard.’
Few people are about as they walk down the street to the Land Rover. Gibraltar never really closes down, with its combination of naval base, garrulous locals, and tourists, yet tonight the atmosphere is quiet, even subdued. For three weeks, M Squadron, Special Boat Service, has been posted here, ready for God alone knows what.
PJ opens the passenger door, collapses inside and waits for Don, conscious of the engine starting, half dozing on the short drive. They cruise along Winston Churchill Avenue, with its airport and stadium, then turn downhill, past tightly packed houses with their balconies and Georgian charm. Now the darkened port area spreads out before them, straddled by the sea on two sides — a British naval base since before the time of Nelson, sitting on the entrance to the Mediterranean, and one key reason why the British became such an important sea power. A few people, such as PJ himself, know that it is also a SIGINT listening post and a staging point for Special Forces units heading into the various and ever-changing war zones of the Middle East and Africa. A few more know about the nuclear submarines in their Z berths, but that fact is omitted from the tourist brochures.
Gibraltar, it seems to PJ, is a brooding outpost, with its views across the strait to Morocco, the cliffs of Jebel Musa, and of the fleet of patrolling warships attempting to stop the dozens of ancient boats that each night run the ten-mile gauntlet, fleeing desperate Africa for what they see as the halcyon life of Europe, decks piled with families and their possessions. Families who have pawned their last valuables for the chance of a better life. Many of the boats sink under the strain, and bodies wash up on the shore like driftwood. The hopeless and dispossessed, giving their lives for a dream.
