Black Reef

by Nick Elliott

  The cops pushed and prodded us inside, down a long narrow corridor that smelled of sweat, urine and faeces. On our left were cells. We passed four, all crammed full of men, some with their hands clinging to the bars and their heads pressed up close to see who these strangers were. Large eyes peered at us. Thin black arms reached out. There was virtually no noise. It was a bleak, wretched place.

  José was taken to a cell at the end of the corridor but Grant and I were guided down another dimly lit corridor to a room where a uniformed officer was lounging with his feet on the desk, smoking a cigarette. He looked like he’d just woken up. On the wall behind him hung a photograph in a gilt frame. The man in the picture I recognised as Eduardo Loma, self-appointed, unelected president of the Republic of Kazunda.

  ‘Sit,’ said one of the cops who’d brought us in. He shut the door behind him. There were two metal chairs in front of the desk. We sat. The two cops took up position either side of the door, their rifles cradled in their arms. Then, in what looked like a carefully rehearsed movement, the officer slowly uncrossed his ankles and lowered his feet to the floor. He leaned forward stubbing the cigarette out in an ashtray that was already overflowing. He was short and fat. His grey cropped hair was like a wire brush, his eyes small and black, his nose flat. His jowls hung over the collar of his shirt, which was dark with sweat marks. I was searching for something in his behaviour that could be construed as goodwill. But if it was there, I was missing it.

  The cop who had driven us to this place spoke at length to his boss, who sat nodding. Then, with some effort, he stood up and leaned across the desk. The buttons of his black shirt looked like they would burst open at any moment to release his gut.

  ‘Espião,’ he said slowly, pronouncing the word in three distinct syllables. His voice was high-pitched and he wheezed every time he breathed in. ‘You are spies. American spies sent to interfere in our country? We have seen people like you before in our country.’ He came round the desk and looked down on us. ‘Our president does not take kindly to such interference. In fact, there are several foreign spies in our prison. They have been there for many years. Others though are no longer prisoners. They have been executed, but only after they have told us everything we wanted to know. I have personally interrogated some of these men and let me tell you, they have talked. In fact they have sung like little birds.’ He was clearly enjoying his performance but Grant had had enough.

  ‘Listen buddie,’ he said standing up and in the process knocking his chair over behind him. ‘We’re from an insurance company. We lost our passports with our visa stamps but you can check us out with the Portuguese Consul. We’re down here on behalf of the Caledonian Marine Mutual Protection & Indemnity Association to investigate a ship that’s carrying a cargo of arms and military vehicles. The ship’s been hijacked by a bunch of mercenaries who plan to topple your President Loma there.’ He spoke angrily, jabbing his finger at the photo behind the desk. ‘They’re planning to take over your precious country. It’s called a coup d’état and it’s coming right at you. The mercenaries on board our client’s ship have already blown up a rig belonging to a joint venture between your national oil company and a friendly American partner. Then they attacked our helicopter. It ditched just off the coast a few miles south of here, which explains our presence. And believe me, these guys are headed your way. Sooner rather than later.

  ‘All we’re interested in is getting the ship returned to her rightful owners. You can lock us up here and pull our fingernails out all you like, or you can work with us and turn yourself into a national hero. The choice is yours.’

  I was impressed by this masterclass and I could see the officer was listening.

  ‘Your choice,’ Grant said again for emphasis and reaching over he took a cigarette from the pack of Marlboroughs on the officer’s desk. ‘Got a light?’

  It was hard to tell whether the cop believed him or not, but he flicked open his Zippo in one practised movement before lighting Grant’s cigarette. I’d never seen Grant smoke: he was a fitness fanatic. But he inhaled without balking and blew smoke right back at the cop. Somehow he’d detected something in the man’s body language, some doubt or hesitation that I had missed, and he was exploiting it.

  ‘We shall see,’ said the cop, not totally convinced by Grant’s story. Then, addressing the guards he said: ‘Lock them up with the pilot.’

  He got up and left the room leaving his two subordinates to march us down the corridor to José’s cell.

  As we walked Grant carried on the charade for the benefit of the cops: ‘Gus, we gotta get word back to the owners. Their ship’s being used as a weapon to attack this country.’

  I turned back to the smarter of the two, who clearly had some English: ‘Did you guys see that oil rig go up in flames? And the helicopter go down? You must have, right? That’s how you knew where to find us. We appreciate it but you need to let the pilot go. We’re all just doing our jobs here. No way are we spying on your country.’

  One of them shrugged. ‘The boss will decide.’

  ‘Can you bring us drinking water? Something to eat?’

  He laughed and with that we were ushered into the cell with the help of a rifle barrel prodded into our backs, and locked in.

  The cell was filthy, the stink from a bucket in the corner overpowering. José seemed glad to see us. I sat down beside him on a crude wooden bench along the wall while Grant paced up and down.

  ‘Did he believe you?’ José asked after we’d told him of our encounter with the officer.

  ‘I don’t know. Looked like he went off to confer with someone – his superior presumably.’

  Grant was getting agitated. ‘We could just be left in this shithole to rot, you know.’ he said.

  And so it seemed. We were in that cell for the whole day and the night and day that followed, with neither water nor food; and no visitors. José struck up conversations with some of our neighbours in the adjoining cells but with little effect. From time to time we’d hear the guards doing their rounds. Occasionally a cell door would open and clang shut as some poor wretch was dragged off. Not to face any recognisable kind of justice, I was sure.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ Grant croaked desperately on the sweltering afternoon of the second day. All that day we’d been aware of what sounded like a sustained offensive in the vicinity of the police station: the thump of heavy ordnance shaking the building. And as if by divine intervention, moments after Grant had spoken there was a flash of light outside the barred window high on the cell wall, accompanied by a whistling sound and the crash of mortar fire right outside. It was followed by another and another until it became a continuous volley. The whole building was shaking under the attack now. Then as we stood frozen and barely able to process what was going on, a shell exploded right outside our cell throwing us to the ground in a cloud of muck and dust. I couldn’t hear a thing except for the ringing in my ears. As the dust cleared I looked around. Grant was on the ground on one side of the cell with his hands placed over his head. José lay on the other side looking up. And as we caught each other’s attention we were grinning like school kids. For between where we were and where Grant lay was a gaping hole in the outer wall of the cell.

  Coughing from the dust, we staggered out and onto a patch of bare land where two old police pickups were parked. Other prisoners had found their way out too. The whole side of the prison block had been blown apart. Three of the prisoners were crowded around one of the pickups trying without much success to hotwire it.

  Another mortar struck and this time it hit the pickup sending it flying into the air. When it landed men were running from it in all directions. Two lay still and bleeding on the ground.

  The mortar fire was coming from the east, which meant those doing the firing, presumably Mendesa’s mercenaries, were gaining control of territory on both the seaward and landward sides of the city.

  We moved fast across the open land and away from the bombardment.

/>   Chapter 15

  Our shoes and clothes had dried out, but we were hungry, thirsty to the point of dehydration and exhausted from lack of sleep. The police station was now under sustained attack and the prospect of being recaptured was the least of our worries.

  While we were in the cell I’d asked José whether he knew where the Da Cunha family home was. He was pretty sure where to find it and agreed that it might provide a temporary safe haven if we ever got out. He also thought there might still be someone there – old retainers perhaps who had survived the city’s upheavals. So now we headed inland towards a range of hills and away from where the mortar fire was coming. The terrain was mostly scrubland interspersed with rough tracks and unmetalled roads. There was little cover, but darkness was falling fast now and the sounds of the assault below faded as we climbed. José led us in a south-easterly direction until we hit a potholed road that wound up the hillside. We followed it, darting off into the undergrowth every time a vehicle appeared. But there was little traffic and after two hours of slogging our way upwards into the cloud forest, we began to see houses: big old colonial bungalows, their timbers rotting away in the inhospitable climate and from the relentless invasion of termites and other wood-eating insects of the forest. Most of these once impressive homes had long since been abandoned. A few looked as if they might still be occupied. All of them were in darkness.

  ‘It’s up here somewhere,’ said José. We were in a thick, swirling mist now and the air had turned chilly. Back in the days when Portuguese expats sought relief from the heat of the city, this hillside must have offered a welcome retreat. Now it was unloved and forgotten.

  We were beginning to doubt whether we were on the right road when we came across an old man sitting on a veranda that looked so rotten it might collapse under his weight. He was watching the city under mortar attack far below as what we’d figured were not the mercenaries alone, but an insurgent force fighting with them battling Loma’s forces. It was like some surreal firework display he was watching.

  José spoke with him, seeking directions. The old man seemed to know the place we were looking for and we pressed on, cold now, exhausted, but spurred on by the old man’s assurances.

  Eventually we found it, almost the last residence on the road. The house that had once been Mariana’s family home still radiated charm despite its dilapidated state. A winding driveway led steeply up from the road through a riot of flowering trees and bushes. The bungalow itself was large, with a surrounding veranda making it look bigger. Even in the dark I could see the place had been cared for over the years since the family had been so violently torn from it. As we approached a light appeared on the veranda and a woman wearing a loose white dress, carrying an oil-filled lantern and accompanied by a man with an ancient shotgun held in his arms, came down the steps towards us. It was not the first surprise of the day, just the most welcome.

  As recognition dawned Mariana Da Cunha cried out: ‘Angus! I had no idea whether you were here or where you were. Meu Deus! Who are these men with you?’

  I introduced Grant and José. ‘Welcome to Kazunda,’ she said, without missing the irony. ‘Come, I cannot say we are safe, but anyway safer than those poor people down below. This is Marco, a dear friend from my childhood days. We played together in this very house. But look at you! Where on earth have you been?’ She spoke rapidly to Marco and then to José in Portuguese. ‘We can get you cleaned up and fed at least. After that, God only knows!’

  As we climbed the rickety steps and followed her across the veranda into the house, Grant asked in a low voice, ‘Is she for real?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You never said she was a goddess. And here she is in this hell-hole? Jesus!’

  Mariana, even under these difficult conditions, was a commanding presence. Within minutes we were sitting in rattan chairs, their cushions faded and musty, clustered around a wood-burning stove with large glasses of water and Aguardente de Medronhos, the fruit brandy I’d last tasted with Pedro in the Alfama Fado restaurant, what seemed like a century ago.

  ‘We can offer you only cold showers I’m afraid. We have no electricity and the water would take all night to heat on the stove. You all smell terribly, so Marco here will show you the bathroom and find you some almost fresh clothes. We have food and wine. And then we talk while we eat. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds absolutely fine, Ma’am,’ said Grant suddenly discovering his smooth-talking and charming, old-style manner. ‘You are a gracious host and we thank you sincerely. But this doesn’t seem like a secure kind of place for a woman to be.’

  ‘Mr Douglas, there are many good people in this country who only ask to live their lives in peace. If I can do anything to help them, I will. That is why I am here.’

  ***

  I stood under the cold shower for a long time trampling my filthy clothing under foot and wondering once more where this ill-fated enterprise was leading us.

  Marco had laid out a faded, loose-fitting old dashiki shirt and baggy trousers on the bed for me. I dressed and went back through to the main room, passing by the kitchen from where the smell of cooking came. The cook, another old retainer who had resurfaced upon Mariana’s recent arrival, served us food in the dining room where the five of us now sat, an incongruous gathering that circumstances had drawn together in this strange setting.

  We were served cassava leaf stew with pieces of emaciated chicken washed down with warm Nocal beer. ‘I can’t remember having a better meal,’ said Grant, echoing my own thoughts.

  José decided to take off in search of his parents, who lived on the coast and whose safety he was worried about. We thanked him warmly. Adversity and danger of the kind we’d faced had brought the three of us together in a bond of camaraderie. We told him to keep in touch if possible and wished him well. Then, further fortified by the brandy, the rest of us returned to the living room and, seated round the stove, talked late into the night.

  Mariana had only arrived from Lisbon two days earlier having decided not to wait any longer. Although the situation in the country was volatile and news sketchy, she had her sources, mainly via Marco, and had discovered that Mendesa’s mercenaries had established a beachhead north of the city from where they were launching mortar attacks with the aim of dislodging Loma and taking the capital. She’d been told that it was there at the beachhead that a ship had been seen discharging vehicles and men. The convoy had then driven inland to form a northern flank. It would have been from there that the attack on the police headquarters, which had given us our freedom, had been launched.

  But to take the capital meant capturing the real prize, Recife Preto or Black Reef, the old Portuguese fort built back in the seventeenth century and so named because of its location on a jagged outcrop of volcanic rock offshore and connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. Nowadays, Black Reef was the stronghold of Eduardo Loma, the command centre of his regime as well as his presidential palace. On the landward side of the causeway his presidential guard were stationed in a redoubt, a stronghold again dating back to the earliest colonial times and intended to repel any attack before it reached the fort itself.

  On the seaward side, the jagged reef provided an effective defence in itself as it stretched for half a mile westwards out into the Atlantic barely submerged under water, making any seaborne assault from that direction risky if not impossible.

  Based on what Mariana had learned we surmised that the Dalmatia Star, having discharged her lethal cargo and the mercenaries, was performing a logistical support role in preparation for the final offensive against Black Reef. It seemed likely that she had also been fitted with weaponry of her own and might be moved further south to provide cover for the land-based mercenary force as they mounted their raid on the fort.

  I had thought that the loss of the Sea-En Resolution along with all the sophisticated equipment and manpower on board, which collectively would have made the task of warding off Mendesa’s assault relatively
straightforward, would have devastated Grant; that and what followed with the harrowing experience of being ditched into the Atlantic, maltreatment at the hands of the Kazundan police and the exhausting trek out of the city. The CIA’s black op to prop up Loma’s corrupt regime had failed spectacularly, and no doubt with alarming geopolitical ramifications to follow. Mendesa was simply a proxy for the Russians, who were out to gain a further boot-print on the continent. From everything we were learning it looked likely Loma’s grip on power was weakening by the hour. And that didn’t look good for US strategic interests, for Big Oil’s Kazundan offshore energy resources, for the CIA or, not least, for Grant Douglas’s career prospects.

  But Grant was a wily old pragmatist and I could see that his Plan A was rapidly morphing into Plan B as we talked through and attempted to analyse these unfolding scenarios.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, draining his brandy glass, ‘I’m not going to lose control of this operation. I don’t give a rat’s ass for Loma and his cronies. And I don’t give a rat’s ass for what Langley might think of this whole debacle. We can only do what we can now, given the current situation on the ground here.’

  He didn’t tell us whether he felt the IMTF or MI6 would give a rat’s ass either.

  ‘Mariana,’ he continued, ‘you said the good folk of this country wanted peace and stability. Why don’t you tell us your version of how that might be realised?’

  Whether Mariana approved of what she was hearing or not, she did not say. She just sighed as if she’d heard the question a thousand times. ‘I warn you, it is complicated,’ she began. ‘You know that Africa, perhaps more than anywhere, is a continent of tribes – over three thousand of them. Some tribes get along with other tribes and some don’t. Some live alongside other tribes as friendly neighbours, some don’t. They fight for power and control instead.

  ‘Here in Kazunda we have many tribes but mostly they are of Bantu origin. The Ambundu, Ovimbundu, the Bakongo – these are some of the Bantu tribes indigenous to the country. But then we have Benga people, and some others who have emigrated here over time from other regions.