The Devil's Handshake

23

Kenya, 2006

“God’s Place” is the loose translation of the word “Kenya”, and for Rebecca would forever represent both the place that she had fallen in love and the place that had then cruelly taken that love away from her.

After a challenging tour in Baghdad’s Green Zone liaising with the contractors tasked with the security of Iraq, the tracking and then relocating members of the failed state’s abandoned chemical weapons program to ensure that terrorists or States engaged in the development of weapons of mass destruction didn’t get their hands on them, she was then transferred to Nairobi. There she was to monitor the growing problem of Islamic terrorists from Britain and Pakistan that were making their way to Somalia for training to become the next the ‘lambs to the slaughter’ in the fight against the great Satan.

She had first met Chris Anderson on the famous Lord Delamare Terrace of the Norfolk Hotel where they were both staying while setting themselves up in Nairobi.

With his blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, sun-washed face scattered with one or two lines from his years spent in-country working for the Red Cross and at a muscular framed six-feet, to Rebecca he looked like her image of Hercules, and he had quickly swept her off her feet.

Until Chris appeared, relationships in Rebecca’s life were just moments in time. He changed that in the instant they met. A surgeon by profession, principled, committed to injustices of the world, he had said to her in their first night together that he could never leave Africa.

“Africa haunts your soul,” he had said and told her every time they discussed it.

Although they had been together for nearly two years, and despite knowing she was in love with him, Rebecca still hadn’t him told him what she did really for a living.

Her reasoning was simple—she was terrified of losing him.

He knew her as “Cathy Benson,” the Regional Asset Manager for London and Africa Loss Adjusters, not as “Rebecca Leriris,” East Africa Section Chief for MI6, despite HR clearing him.

In the past, she had often used the service’s regulations as justification for the ending of her relationships, as officers of the SIS weren’t allowed to marry non-British nationals or even disclose their real names until they have been security vetted. But because he had become such an important part of her life she took the plunge and had declared their relationship to her superiors.

With her tour ending in just a few months and fast approaching in the back of her mind if not in reality, she was resigned to the fact that she was either going to have to bite the bullet and tell him or end it like she had always done in the past and return to Britain back to her real life.

It was a prospect she couldn’t bear to think about but as was typical in their relationship he beat her to the punch so to speak. Lying in bed together after Chris had spent a hard month in South Sudan supporting the overworked doctors in the field, he had asked her to come to Lamu and Kiunga on the coast over the weekend with him so they could have a “mini-break.”

Ever the agent, Rebecca had jumped at the chance to go with him having been tasked for intelligence on the area on the growing influence the Al Shabaab that had taken over much of south and central Somalia.

“We need an on-ground assessment whether AQ has established training camps in the area,” Michael had said in their weekly briefings over the sat phone.

“I’ll get on the case,” she had replied without a second thought.

For adventure driven tourists of the world, Lamu is the epitome of what happens when the film the Arabian Nights has a relationship with the Blue Lagoon.

For the rich wealthy jet set of the world, it represents the end of a party circuit that starts in Gstaad and ends amongst the poverty of Lamu. The reason why the area had become so popular over the years amongst this unique set of adventure seekers was because for some of them who were backpackers in their youth in the 1970s, had returned to build their guarded villas on the Shela Beach, making the small little town Africa’s own “Sodom and Gomorrah” with an underground of sex and drugs, with some of the beach boys doing the delivering in more ways than one.

Yet for all its excesses, it is in its proximity the border with Somalia there is an area called Kiunga, which is the nearest thing on Earth to purgatory outside a gulag in North Korea. With its islands it shelters an extensive system of creeks, channels, and mangrove forests that were the perfect safe haven for smugglers and pirates alike who in turn were the lifeblood of the terrorists.

The fact that Chris had just asked her to come to Kiunga was too good an opportunity to turn down even if she did feel guilty using her lover as an intelligence source.

As a direct consequence from having worked for many aid agencies over the last ten years the simple fact was his intelligence sources were much better than hers would be.

As they drove up to Lamu, he had told her had arranged to meet one such pirate with a good reputation for always delivering to get much needed supplies into Ras Kamboni.

“How did you meet him darling?” she had asked, ever the intelligence officer.

“One of my runners set it up,” he had said without actually explaining how, despite her attempt to push him.

What Chris had told her though was that the little community on the Somali side of the border that had been on the U.S. radar since the early days after 9/11, when the U.S. had thought the town was used first for the bombings of the embassy in Nairobi and then the Mombasa hotel bombing by the Jihadist fighters, was in a desperate situation due to a takeover of the town by Al Qaeda.

Later on that night having had arrived at the little hotel while they had sat on the beach with a light wind brushing against her face looking at the map of the area Chris suddenly had said, “I know why my locals call it Dick’s Head now!”

“Pardon?” she had replied giggling.

“Because it’s a phallic spit of land extending out from the village!” he had added, showing her the map.

“Oh gosh! They’re right! It is!” she had said, still giggling.

“Marry me?” he had said out of nowhere, interrupting her.

“WHAT!” Rebecca had replied her laughter stopping dead in her tracks as her mind had processed what he had just asked.“You heard me Cath,” he had responded.

“I… I…” she had answered in s

hock.

“It’s okay. I know darling,” he had said, interrupting her and taking hold of her hand.

“Know what?” she had said, completely thrown by not just his proposal but also his line of questioning.

“That you’re not just a Lost Adjuster,” he had said squeezing her hand in the process.

A flood of emotions hit her all at once as her deception of the man she loved was out in the open and not because she had told him.

“How?” she had responded weakly.

“About a year ago, I sort of worked it out, when I had a series of probing chats with several friends from other NGOs, at the time it felt like an interview …and well I put two and two together when I suddenly realized that I had never met any of your friends or family.” He had smiled at her. “So, yes or no?” he had asked as she sat there in shock processing his words.

“This was why I fell in love him!” she had thought. “He has never put pressure on me to meet my friends or family, he accepted me warts and all.” Her mind had processed all at once.

“But But… You don’t know my real name” she had replied, tears in her eyes.

Suddenly dropping the map he had pulled her towards him. They had met in the middle and kissed each other.

“I am Chris,” he had said after breaking away brushing away her long hair from her face followed by a small smile as he looked into her tear filled eyes.

“I am Rebecca,” she had responded.

“Will you marry me, Rebecca?” he had asked this time using her real name, love in his eyes.

“Yes, my darling Chris. Yes!” she had replied as they kissed and then they had made love on the beach as the waves had rolled in around them.