The Somali Sanction Read online

‘So someone has tagged us,’ McCabe concluded, swerving around a shell-hole in the center of the road.

  ‘Looks that way, but who?’ Stowe wondered.

  Omar said nothing as McCabe fixed him a questioning gaze.

  Stowe tapped Omar on the shoulder with the muzzle of his weapon. ‘You know anything about this?’

  Jerking around, Omar yelled back at Stowe, ‘No! I know nothing of this.’ It seemed even the hint of suggestion had disgusted him. His eyes became wide and blazed his innocence.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ Stowe continued.

  ‘Stand to!’ Mooney yelled, sending Stowe into an immediate series of automatic actions. He brought around his weapon, the cloud of dust that had appeared on the horizon now fixed in his sights.

  McCabe narrowed his eyes as he again checked the rear view mirror, then kicking down his foot on the gas, he sent a cloud of their own dust barreling into the morning air.

  ‘What’s the call, boys?’ McCabe yelled.

  ‘Keep heading south,’ Stowe told him, ‘it’s the opposite way we want them to think we’re heading. If they gain on us, let’s try and fend them off. If that fucks up turn around and ram the bastards.’ Stowe was now fully pumped.

  ‘Nutter,’ Mooney observed.

  The first ting-ting-ting came seconds later, as a series of rounds bounced off the rear of the vehicle. McCabe swerved in response and sent Stowe, Woodrow and Mooney flying sideways in the rear seat.

  ‘Jesus, take it easy!’ Woodrow yelled as he extracted himself from Mooney’s armpit.

  ‘You want to me to drive straight…is that it?’ McCabe asked. He knew the banter now flowing among them was a way of easing the stress.

  ‘Here we go!’ Stowe warned them. The bonnet of the first pick-up truck emerged from the dust cloud. He quickly calculated the distance.

  ‘Sixty yards and closing,’ he shouted

  As he spotted the truck, Mooney went into autopilot and brought up his AK, aimed and squeezed the trigger. His rounds tore square into the truck’s grill, shattering the headlights – and almost shattering everyone’s ear drums in the process.

  The second barrage of rounds was delivered by Stowe and Woodrow. As the truck dipped and swerved violently off the road they instantly knew they’d hit the front tires. Nothing was said as they continued pumping sporadic bursts of rounds until the distance from the dust cloud had once again increased.

  ‘How are we doing, lads?’ McCabe enquired while focusing on keeping their own Jeep on the road; which was not easy at speed on such an uneven surface.

  ‘You just drive!’ Stowe replied.

  A second truck appeared, this time accompanied with a hail of bullets.

  ‘Fuck!’ Mooney yelled as a round ricocheted off the window strut mere inches from his face.

  Stowe turned. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry about me,’ Mooney fired back over the scream of the engine and clatter of bullets.

  ‘You okay, Omar?’ McCabe looked over. Omar was hunched down between his own knees.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he replied, though he didn’t sound it.

  Stowe took a moment then once again opened up, his rounds peppering the front of the truck and smashing its windscreen. The truck swerved and dipped for a few seconds but continued after them.

  ‘I count two in the front, maybe four in the rear,’ Mooney relayed.

  The next hail of rounds came in fast, one thudding into Woodrow’s shoulder. He screamed out in pain and slumped sideways.

  ‘Man down!’ Mooney yelled.

  McCabe darted his eyes in the mirror and Omar popped up from his hiding place for an instant before quickly burying himself back down.

  Woodrow groaned as he sat back up. ‘Fuck it! I’m okay, just a flesh wound, I think.’

  By now the body of their Jeep was being hacked apart by relentless streams of automatic fire.

  McCabe made a call. ‘Okay…hold tight, boys – we’ll come around and take the fight to them, no other option left.’

  ‘Got it,’ Mooney replied.

  McCabe pushed hard down on the accelerator and dropped a gear. The Jeep shot forward, swirling two barrels of dust from out behind, temporarily obscuring them from view.

  The white pick-up truck continued until the driver suddenly hit the brakes. The sight of the Jeep coming straight for him moments later caught him completely off guard. As he yanked the wheel hard left, two of the men in the rear catapulted out and over the side.

  Mooney opened up first, as his bulk hung out the side window. His rounds ripped savagely into the two men left standing towards the front of the open truck as they tried to hang on to the flimsy rail that normally supported a canvas cover; given the sudden divergence of the vehicle they were in, they stood no chance.

  Stowe had pumped his rounds into the cab of the truck, killing the driver and the other passenger instantly. They watched with satisfaction as truck collided with a thorn tree and tipped over on its side.

  McCabe hit the brakes and swerved once again before pulling up short twenty yards from the battered, steaming truck.

  Mooney leapt from the Jeep like an exploding bull – he squeezed the trigger and felled two of the men who had been ejected from the rear and were now trying to limp off. Stowe found the other two in the dirt, semi conscious. Without hesitation he brought the butt of his weapon down onto the prostrate man’s back. This one he wanted alive. The other was so out of it Stowe finished the job.

  ‘Come on, let’s get going, the others will be close behind,’ McCabe yelled.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ Stowe shouted to Mooney, who was busy regarding the bloodied faces of the front passengers. His final burst made sure they’d never move again.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, flicking the safety on his hot machine-gun.

  They dragged the limp body of the man Stowe had put out and hauled him into the rear of the Jeep and climbed in.

  ‘Hit it, lets get out of here.’ Stowe slammed the door and they moved off.

  ‘Jesus, I need breakfast,’ Mooney proclaimed

  The others just looked at him and laughed.

  ‘Lets get clear and then have a chat with our friend here,’ McCabe suggested.

  ‘Like he speaks fucking English?’ Mooney said.

  Stowe said nothing as he eased himself back in the seat and closed his eyes.

  An hour later, having patched up Woodrow and pulled off the road, satisfied they were not being followed, they stood around the captive; who was now bound and sitting in the dirt. His face bloodstained and defiant as he looked up at them.

  McCabe began the interrogation. ‘Omar, ask him how they found us.’

  Omar moved forward, knelt down in front of the man and spoke. ‘Waa maxay magacaagu?’

  The captive said nothing, just dipped his head. Mooney stepped forward and delivered a hard kick to his side, sending him screaming and writhing on the ground.

  Omar waved Mooney off. ‘Easy…he will never talk this way.’

  ‘I can make the fucker talk – trust me.’ Mooney had no reservations about proving as much.

  McCabe stepped in. ‘Stand down, mate, let him try.’ With that Mooney grunted and moved away.

  Stowe looked at Omar. ‘What did you ask him?’

  ‘I asked his name, we are not all animals, Mr. Stowe.’ Omar couldn’t hide his displeasure for hard tactics. ‘I’m here to help you, not beat men to death.’ Omar turned back to question the prisoner again. ‘Aabayeel.’

  ‘lacag.’ Mohammed hands showing the universal sign for money.

  The man began a frenetic conversation with Omar, which continued for many minutes as the others sat around and looked on.

  Omar stood up. ‘Okay, you need to let him go…trust me.’

  ‘What’s the story?’ McCabe asked.

  Omar drew a breath. ‘It seems we are being hunted. This man was paid, as such he has no loyalty. A man called Bashir seeks you, he does not know why.’

  Stowe cut
in. ‘Not hard to guess why, hardly wanting to sell us a bloody insurance policy is he?’

  ‘He also said the American want you.’

  McCabe looked at Stowe, the exchange of looks said it all.

  ‘The American?’ Stowe said.

  ‘You mean to tell me the fucking yanks are out to kill us?’ Mooney said.

  ‘Yeah,’ McCabe reflected, ‘it seems us wanting to kill off a few pirates has pissed them off. She was right.’ He paced around in a small circle and then looked up.

  ‘What?’ Woodrow asked.

  ‘Been here before. The Americans use these guys, and we have interfered in the wrong place.’ McCabe looked at Mooney.

  ‘Not with you?’ Stowe asked.

  ‘CIA, my friend – they use the pirates to move arms. Maybe, just maybe, we have walked right into their supply line and now they want us out the way. The woman I met in Nairobi said as much.’ McCabe recalled her words of caution.

  ‘And you trust her…the CIA? Fuck me dead.’ Stowe was in some ways not at all surprised.

  ‘No I don’t,’ McCabe said. ‘but she wanted me to know – which means she has another agenda; just have to figure out what. We move on Madden as agreed, leave the other parts of our plan to the paper pushers. Trust me, I have no wish to be caught in the middle.’

  ‘Like we have a choice. If they’re hunting us then we may not have a say in the matter.’ Mooney, for once, spouted logic.

  Stowe smiled. ‘Then we must hunt the hunter.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, I’ll get on the horn and alert Ogilvy.’ McCabe walked off.

  Omar pointed at the bemused-looking prisoner. ‘Wait, what will happen to him now?’

  ‘Kill him, that’s what.’ Stowe spat and raised his weapon.

  ‘No, I cannot allow that.’ Omar moved in front to shield him.

  ‘Listen mate, we cut him loose and he’ll run straight back to the skinnies.’ Mooney moved forward.

  ‘Haradheere, Haradheere,’ the man started to rant.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Stowe aimed his AK at the man’s head.

  McCabe sensed something. ‘Get him the map, now!’

  As the map was spread out, the man’s hands were cut loose and he immediately jabbed his finger repeatedly on a spot west of Haradheere. Omar looked up, his eyes wide. ‘He says the westerner is here.’

  ‘How do we trust him?’ McCabe asked.

  ‘It does not matter to him if we do or do not, he is buying his life,’ Omar said.

  Having stood in silence for a few moments, McCabe said: ‘Let him go.’ He gave one of his looks that said; not up for debate.

  Mooney ignored the look. ‘Are you serious?’

  McCabe gave his last order. ‘We won’t stoop to the level of some, and he’s no threat right now.’

  As they watched the liberated prisoner vanish into the scrub McCabe looked over at Stowe. ‘I should say thanks.’

  A simple nod in return was all Stowe offered. But McCabe respected the fact Stowe had done his job, stayed alert and saved them from being sitting ducks that morning.

  McCabe looked long and hard at him. ‘You remind me of someone.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and who would that be?’ Stowe broke a smile. It was a smile McCabe knew well, but not from this Stowe.

  ‘No matter…another time.’ McCabe turned back to the Jeep and left Stowe wondering.

  ‘Come on, you lot,’ McCabe said, ‘we have an appointment of our own to keep. Shall we?’

  They all exchanged glances, climbed back in the Jeep and headed off. This time north.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  London – Thames House

  Harry Ogilvy parked his navy-blue Audi in the visitors’ bay of basement two; as instructed by the first security officer he encountered. He then made his way towards the bank of lifts at the far end of the carpark. It wasn’t often he visited Thames House, in fact the last time he had was well over two years ago. He pondered that his last meeting had been conducted on a windswept bridge, covered in pigeon-shit, just down from the London Eye on a bleak winter’s afternoon.

  He wondered why spooks liked to meet in the dead of winter as he pressed the button for level one in front of him. His eyes automatically glanced at the camera dome in the back left hand corner. No doubt the pasty faces of internal security who wished they were something more were already studying him. He exited the elevator sharply and paced the few yards to the security desk, where he held out his pass.

  ‘Ogilvy, I have a meeting with Charles Astor.’ He took in the faint smile of the guard as he dropped his eyes and scanned the appointment log.

  ‘Thank you, sir, please proceed to the third floor.’ The guard gestured towards a further bank of lifts off to the right. Ogilvy nodded an affirmative and continued his ascent.

  Having stood in the obligatory silence that most lifts seemed to command, Harry worked his eyes up and down the few mortals that occupied the elevator with him. All of whom were administrative staff. Harry could smell field officers as well as his own cologne, that is aside one, a rather pretty petite brunette who cast a wry smile and dropped her eyes downwards as soon as Ogilvy pinged her. To Harry she had something unique, a shy confidence that most likely covered a far colder interior. As the elevator reached the third floor, she instinctively looked back up and locked her gaze, smiled once more, only this time more fully and mouthed the word “Bye”. Harry smiled back and stepped out of the elevator, pausing to absorb her image in his mind before continuing on.

  Ogilvy took in Astor’s characteristics through the tinted glass wall of his office as he waited outside. Astor was a twenty-five-year veteran well into his final lap before retirement, well into his middle fifties, the last echo of the old days. He was still tall, still fairly lean and athletic, but graying fast and softening in some of the wrong places. He wore off the peg suits every day of his life without exception, but he was considered capable of flexibility in his tactics. Best of all, he had never failed. Not ever, and he had been around a long time, with more than his fair share of difficulties. But there had been no failures, and no bad luck, either. Therefore, in the merciless calculus of the intelligence world, he still had much to learn in the eyes of some. Perhaps that was why he was still only number two in MI5. Astor had had to kow tow to Carter-Jones for years.

  His office was small, and quiet, and sparsely furnished, but very clean. The walls were all glass and lit with halogen. There was a large window to the outside world, with white vertical blinds half closed against gray weather outside.

  Having been shown into Astor’s office by a rather youthful looking girl clad in a tight top, and given Astor a closer once over, he couldn’t help but think Astor reminded him of a slightly more filled out version of Michael Parkinson. He was certainly as demure.

  ‘Good morning, Harry, do sit yourself down,’ Astor said, gesturing towards a chair.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ogilvy replied, and then relaxed into the modernistic black leather and chrome chair and crossed his legs.

  ‘Listen, Harry, I’ll get to the point. I have it on good authority that I can trust you, so here it is. We have a situation.’ Astor launched straight into the core subject of the meeting. ‘Madden, you know about – and thank you by the way for your ongoing efforts to get him back. Clive Whitten I suspect you may not know?’ Astor paused.

  ‘Whitten?’ Ogilvy narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Yes, Whitten.’ Astor pushed forward a buff colored file. ‘You can read that later, but for now he is someone you and I do not want to see pushed into the still-warm seat of Madden…you follow me, Harry?’

  Ogilvy did indeed follow. ‘So you’re saying that certain parliamentary players want Whitten to assume the Home Sec role?’

  ‘Exactly, Harry and that can’t happen. At least not while Terry is still breathing.’

  ‘Since we are being open, Charles, who exactly?’ Ogilvy raised an eyebrow.

  ‘An unsavory American, Brad Sterling; a name I am sure is of no surp
rise to you, and I suspect someone within Six is linked in too. I have no idea who yet. This chap Whitten, who aims to replace Madden, has connections at Langley. Now this could place you in a rather sticky situation, Harry. Just talking to me may get you in the soup, so to speak.’ Astor clasped his hands out in front of him and rested on his forearms.

  ‘Good God. Have you spoken with Carter-Jones on this?’ Ogilvy asked.

  ‘No, this is a concern only shared among a few. So please keep it that way for now’ Astor looked across at Harry.

  ‘I see’ Ogilvy examined the carpeted floor as he pondered for a few moments before looking back up. ‘My team have come under attack and we suspect CIA assets are behind it. Now this, damn it.’ Ogilvy sat forward.

  ‘Indeed, you chaps at 6 are not so clean.’

  ‘Hang on; how do I know this is not just some elaborate MI5 play?’ Ogilvy had to ask.

  ‘Because, Harry, I too dislike Sterling and want him gone – nasty, vile man. In case you didn’t know, Jarred Stowe was one of mine. I trained him myself, and a good agent he was too. But Sterling managed to have him thrown to the wolves, something I take personally. Not to mention Madden and I are very good friends…good enough?’ Astor narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Sorry…had to ask. So what do we do?’ Ogilvy knew Astor spoke the truth, he could sense it and was trained to detect it.

  ‘You get Madden back, Harry, at all costs. Deliver him to me and I promise you I will be vigorous in taking care of Sterling. Leave Carter-Jones to me. The others will fall around him and you, my boy, may well be left at the top.’ Astor seemed to have it all mapped out.

  ‘Okay, will do my best, but double-cross me and I’ll bite too…’ Ogilvy stood up. As he reached the door he turned. ‘Thank you, have an enjoyable day.’

  ‘Be safe, Harry, talk soon okay?’ Astor said, picking up the next file of his workload.

  Ogilvy ran the salient points of the meeting through his mind as he headed back along Southwark Bridge Road. Astor seemed sincere enough. One thing was for sure, letting McCabe know the stakes were now higher was a top priority. He would wait for the eight p.m. time slot to call him, for now he assumed McCabe and his team would be either sleeping or on route somewhere.