Savage tide, p.1
Savage Tide, page 1
part #2 of Marika Hartmann Series
Dedication
for Catriona
CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
1. SOMALIA
2. SOMALIA
3. SOMALIA
4. UNITED KINGDOM
5. SOMALIA
6. DJIBOUTI
7. DJIBOUTI
8. UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
9. SYRIA
10. SYRIA
11. UNITED KINGDOM
12. KURDISTAN
13. IRAQ
14. SOMALIA
15. IRAN
16. UNITED KINGDOM
17. UNITED KINGDOM
18. IRAN
19. UNITED KINGDOM
20. SOMALIA
BOOK TWO
21. IRAQ
22. IRAN
23. UNITED KINGDOM
24. IRAN
25. IRAQ
26. IRAN
27. FRANCE
28. UNITED KINGDOM
29. ARABIAN SEA
30. IRAQ
31. IRAQ
32. IRAQ
33. IRAQ
34. ARABIAN SEA
35. IRAQ
36. SOMALIA
37. IRAQ
38. UNITED KINGDOM
39. UNITED KINGDOM
40. WORLD
41. IRAQ
42. IRAQ
43. UNITED KINGDOM
44. SOMALIA
45. UNITED KINGDOM
46. IRAQ
47. IRAQ
BOOK THREE
48. SOMALIA
49. IRAQ
50. IRAQ
51. UNITED KINGDOM
52. SOMALIA
53. IRAQ
54. UNITED KINGDOM
55. UNITED KINGDOM
56. SOMALIA
57. UNITED KINGDOM
58. UNITED KINGDOM
59. SOMALIA
60. SOMALIA
61. SOMALIA
62. SAUDI ARABIA
63. SOMALIA
64. UNITED KINGDOM
65. SOMALIA
66. ETHIOPIA
67. SOMALIA
68. ETHIOPIA
69. SOMALIA
70. ETHIOPIA
71. SOMALIA
72. SOMALIA
73. SOMALIA
74. UNITED KINGDOM
75. SOMALIA
76. UNITED KINGDOM
77. SOMALIA
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
EXCERPT FROM ROTTEN GODS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY GREG BARRON
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
Istikaan found the technician hanging from a beam; face blue, tongue distended, and eyes misted with dried blood from burst capillaries.
On the concrete floor nearby sat a pair of government-issue patent leather shoes, laces untied, and a folded square of notepaper. On the top fold was written the salutation To the Living from the Dead in beautifully scripted Arabic. Words, it seemed, from beyond the grave. Istikaan slipped the note into his pocket, promising himself that he would read it later.
Later, however, there was no time. While a squad of engineers laid their charges at the bunker entrance, unravelling a coil of wire far out over the bare desert, Istikaan walked the rubber mats of the facility for the last time. Sealed the last seals. Locked the last doors. The unread note had upset his equilibrium, already strained at being forced to abandon his work.
The captain waited for him outside, a cigarette pinched between lips as pale as scar tissue. Blood, Istikaan saw, had splattered just below the breast pocket of his blue serge jacket — the uniform of Amn al-Khas — the Special Programs Unit of the Mukhabarat, the secret police.
From deep underground rose the clamour of the hundreds they had left in the holding cells to die. Istikaan could picture them clawing at the walls with their nails like animals. Women’s shrieks, crying children, and the angry, helpless shouts of men.
Animals indeed, thought Istikaan, his lip curled in disgust. They are nothings. Sub-humans. Kurds, criminals and marsh people.
Finally, flanked by his most senior assistants, and escorted by the captain of Amn al-Khas, Istikaan boarded a steel-grey Polish-built Mi-2 chopper. The side doors closed behind him, and he settled into the rear seat. The Mi-2 rose five hundred gut-wrenching feet in the air, then hovered while the engineers on the ground did their work.
The explosion was designed not to destroy, but to throw earth and stone over the entrance. The blast showed through the canopy as a puff of dust against the stony desert hillside.
The chopper gathered speed, taking Istikaan back towards the capital.
A terrible secret lay hidden. War came and went, leaving the country a wasteland, a million refugees on the march. Then a decade of internecine warfare. Yet it was never forgotten. Not by those who knew.
The seeds of murder lay unsown beneath the earth.
BOOK ONE
‘I knew that its police force was searching for psychopathic killers and sadistic serial murderers, not in order to arrest them but to employ them. I knew that its vast patrimony of oil wealth, far from being “nationalized,” had been privatized for the use of one family, and was being squandered on hideous ostentation at home and militarism abroad.
‘I had seen with my own eyes the evidence of a serious breach of the Genocide Convention on Iraqi soil, and I had also seen with my own eyes the evidence that it had been carried out in part with the use of weapons of mass destruction. I was, if you like, the prisoner of this knowledge. I certainly did not have the option of un-knowing it.’
Christopher Hitchens, Hitch-22: A Memoir
1 SOMALIA
Chakula Refugee Camp
Fourteen kilometres from the white tents and makeshift tukuls of the camp, just past the rutted, muddy crossing place they call buundo, Khadija Onyango emerges from the yellow school bus into the open air, slow with her pregnancy and a languor brought on by the warmth of the day. Forty-seven children aged from five years to twelve mill around the bus, their teachers nagging and haranguing them into lines.
The sky is clear and razor sharp. The broad Jubba River winds through desiccated plains and stone ridges. The scent of mud and hippopotamus dung mingles with that of fragrant yellow and white iris flowers, scattered on the high ground among the dry stubble.
This is a perfect day, Khadija thinks, hugging her shoulders in anticipation, for dragonflies, birds, and children singing on the bus. A day for holding hands, childish secrets, and first kisses. A day to forget the realities of the camp, if just for a few hours.
While the children dance and chase, the driver distributes the provisions that had been carefully hoarded for the picnic. Teachers direct the children into a rough line and set off. Khadija follows, carrying a box of oranges over her swollen belly. Workers from the camp who have elected to join the excursion walk nearby, one American, one French, and it is good to hear their banter — doctors from Médecins Sans Frontières.
Looking ahead at the laughing children, Khadija lifts a fold of her yellow kikoi. Dabs first at one eye, then at the other. Soon she will be leaving them. This afternoon she will catch the World Food Program delivery plane, the Antonov 32, to Nairobi, Kenya for the last four weeks of her pregnancy. Travelling such a distance is a frightening thought, but there are complications to her pregnancy. A Type 1 diabetic, she is now showing signs of pre-eclampsia.
Matthew Doni, another helper at the school, catches up to her on the beaten earth of the track, clicks his tongue, and takes the oranges from her hands. He is a big Tanzanian, broad across the shoulders. A brass disc hangs from a chain around his neck, nestling just below the muscular notch of his collarbone.
‘I can manage it,’ Khadija says, hands flying to her hips, mock-offended. ‘I’m pregnant, not crippled.’
‘I said nothing.’ Matthew smiles at her, his voice deep and honey-sweet to her ears. ‘But why should you carry so much when I have so little?’
The gentle Tanzanian is in love with her, she knows that. Seems not to care that he isn’t the child’s father. Yet she does not love him. When Anyap, her husband, was killed in inter-clan fighting in the camp, she vowed never to love again. Now she is not so sure — but she knows that Matthew is not the one.
Khadija smiles at how the children leave their lines and dance around the adults, unable to control their excitement as they move over a crest and towards the rounded glade, grassy and fertile alongside the dense scrub that hides the river.
Originally Khadija came to Chakula Camp with Anyap after gunmen from the Islamist group al-Muwahhidun had terrorised the farming district where they scraped together a living. After Anyap’s death she was able to get a job helping at one of the UNICEF-run schools. Khadija can read and write, in English and Somali. These skills are prized by the foreign aid workers running the schools.
Finally reaching the glade, with glimpses of the brown flowing river through the crouton bush and ficus trees, Khadija watches Matthew throw the picnic blankets, sunshine slanting through from the trees. She laughs, hands crossed over her middle, aware that this is one of those moments that she would like to freeze and keep in her heart. Hibo, one of the boys, exhorts her to sit on the folding chair he carried for her from the bus.
‘I love you, Miss Khadija,’ he says, bringing her a sandwich and packaged fruit juice, white teeth showing as he smiles.
‘I love you too, Mister Hibo.’
‘If Farsameeye Matthew does not marry you,’ he declares, ‘
Khadija smiles and pats her belly. ‘First I have to go and have my baby.’
Hibo’s forehead creases with worry. ‘Why must you go?’
Khadija stares, trying not to let him see that she, too, is afraid. The outside world is a complicated and threatening place. In Somalia women give birth in their own homes, with the local midwife brewing her potions and drawing new life with practised hands. There is no mystery to it. ‘Because the shisheeye in Nairobi,’ she says at last, ‘have engaged for me a favoured dhaliye — a midwife who is very skilled.’
Hibo appears to take this information in. ‘You have your baby, Miss Khadija, then bring him back here. I will be a father to him. I will teach him everything I know. I will …’
The boy is still talking when one of the little ones comes to sit on Khadija’s lap. The young woman runs one hand through wiry hair, then kisses the little girl’s scalp, loving the firesmoke smell of her.
‘How are you, my precious one?’
‘Well, thank you, Miss Khadija.’
‘Have you had something to eat?’
‘Yes, Miss Khadija.’ Her head tilts back and eyes as dark as eclipsed moons stare up at her. ‘You will not stay away for a long time, will you?’
‘No, child, I won’t.’
‘You will not forget us?’
‘How could I forget you? Now, hop off and Farsameeye Matthew will give you an orange.’
The promise of fruit is enough, and the child slips off Khadija’s knee to the ground, joining the line of clamouring kids shoving sandwiches into their mouths. Khadija watches the desperate pace at which they eat, sucking the fruit dry, chewing the pith, dropping the peels on the ground. Their bodies are desperate for nutrition; calories. She thinks of the new life inside her. Wonders how she will feed and clothe a child.
Looking up at the sky, she sees a lone cloud, puffy with changing animal shapes, and highlights of white and cream. No hope of moisture in it, not yet, still a month from the short rains, but it is beautiful, nonetheless, and Khadija watches it for a moment before turning her attention back to the child on her lap and the others scattered across the river glade.
Matthew has brought a football, and the older children take charge, marking out a field and goals with sticks dragged in the dirt.
Hibo is striker for the knotted-shirt team, long legged and athletic with his T-shirt tied at the front. ‘Miss Khadija,’ he shouts. ‘I will score a goal for you.’
The cloud passes in front of the sun. Khadija clasps her hands under her chin, fingers interlocking as if about to say a prayer. ‘Good boy. I will be watching.’
2 SOMALIA
Chakula Refugee Camp
Pulling the brim of her cap lower over her eyes, Marika Hartmann turns into the morning sun, weapon slung over her right shoulder, moving briskly towards the cluster of transportable buildings that make up the garrison admin centre.
The message she had just received was flagged as urgent, sent by the young Kenyan Defence Force officer assigned as her aide. There is a hint of worry in the crease of her eyes.
Chakula is the third major refugee camp Marika Hartmann has visited in five weeks. The last was the even larger, and much older, Dadaab. Before that, the new Setareh camp on the Iran–Iraq border, where millions of Iranians fled, first from coastal flooding, then war with Israel and the West.
Improving procedures for the garrison here has proved difficult but rewarding. They are good soldiers, here under the banner of AMISOM — the African Union’s ongoing mission in Somalia, drawn mainly from Kenya, Burundi and Uganda. Marika’s role includes site assessments, training courses and active patrols in the camp itself.
A veteran of the Dubai hostage crisis of a year earlier, and with five years’ service as a field agent at Britain’s DRFS — Directorate of Resource and Future Security — Marika was a natural choice for the program. She has always been most comfortable in khaki, and the company of hardened soldiers suits her just fine.
The administration area occupies a low, central hill, with views over the camp for kilometres in either direction. A high cyclone fence topped with razor wire surrounds it on all sides. The path winds up through a garden, maintained by a dozen busy camp dwellers, towards the door of the barracks. Two guards at the doorway recline on white plastic chairs, AK47s resting on their laps, swiping away flies, playing with old Nokia phones. They scarcely look up as she walks through.
Kifimbo meets her in the corridor, wringing his hands; highly agitated. He is slender but wiry, with heavy brows and deep-set eyes. He wears no watch or jewellery apart from a broad copper ring with embossed designs traced with verdigris.
‘Tajiri,’ he says, using the Swahili word for boss, ‘we’ve had a report of armed men moving down the river bank near the village of Kafee.’
Marika feels a chill, knowing that a busload of kids and aid workers had set off for a picnic in the area that morning. ‘Where?’
‘Come in, come in. I’ll show you on the map.’
She walks behind him into the briefing room. Louvred windows, lino tiles and steel-framed furniture. Empty Pepsi cans and stale cigarette smoke. Rifles lean against walls. Uniformed men slouch in chairs, drinking coffee from polystyrene cups.
The wall has two large-scale maps. One of the region: the Lower Juba district of Southern Somalia. The other is of Chakula Camp. Twelve square kilometres. Six hundred thousand people.
Kifimbo jabs a forefinger at a bend of the Jubba River on the district map. ‘The gunmen were seen here.’
‘And where are the children?’
He looks at her uneasily, then slides the finger down two grid squares along the river. Two kilometres. ‘Here.’
Marika becomes intensely aware of her own heartbeat, her lips suddenly dry. ‘Mobilise the duty Ranger platoon. We’ll assemble at the helipad in five minutes in full battle rig.’
Kifimbo says something, but she doesn’t hear, already out the door and running towards the barracks.
While the children play, Matthew unfolds another chair next to Khadija. They watch the game together. Cheering, talking and arguing over the rules and their interpretation.
Matthew says, ‘I have been thinking about your … situation.’
Smiling, Khadija says, ‘Thank you, but please don’t worry. You know I’ll be fine.’
‘Yes, but you will return here with a child.’
‘That’s true.’
Hibo dances in front of the midfielders. He has real talent, Khadija realises, and if he were in London or Madrid, instead of Somalia, the talent scouts might have already knocked on the door to speak to his parents. Watching him dribble the ball through two defenders like a conjuror, she wonders how she could help get him somewhere where these skills might change his life …
Matthew is still talking. ‘Your baby will need a father.’
Khadija does not turn now, aware of where he is heading. She has been expecting and dreading this.
‘I don’t want to pressure you. It must be your decision alone,’ he goes on, so nervous that Khadija feels a surge of tenderness for him, a desire to spare him further embarrassment.
Hibo passes to Sameh, hustles forward then accepts a return pass, feet skidding on the earth, raising a little puff of dust. He stands poised for the goal attempt. Khadija feels herself tense. Hibo balances his weight on his left foot, using his right to jab at the ball.
Just as he does so, movement in the riverside foliage catches Khadija’s eye. At first she thinks it must be a couple of straying children, but then she sees the headgear, the para-military clothing. Most of all she sees the guns.
The first shot sounds like a thunderclap followed by a wailing demon. A shout of fear and warning comes to her lips, blending with the storm of gunfire that follows.
Marika clicks the webbing belt into place around her waist as the Blackhawk rocks, sweeping over the camp. From the chopper she can see people squatting around tukul shelters, cooking on dung-and-charcoal fires, staring up as they pass overhead. She checks the load on the Heckler & Koch UMP, dropping the black curved magazine, heavy with 9mm rounds. Slams it back home, the mingled scents of gun oil and avgas filling her senses.
The growing Almohad organisation roams outside the accepted moral sphere of any functioning society. She has seen a translation of one of their signs posted in a village square. The playing of secular music or dancing — banned. Alcohol — banned. The playing or watching of football — banned. Accepting foreign aid — banned. Like the Taliban, who once shot a schoolgirl who criticised Islamists on her blog, who have murdered people for singing and dancing, these men have guns and will use them on those who do not obey.
