But the food did something to restore his spirits, and the wine something more. When Wynwood, glass of Burgundy in one hand and forkful of succulent steak in the other, happily exclaimed that this was indeed the life, Caskey could hardly find it in himself to disagree.
Chapter 9
Sibou Cham lay stretched out on the camp-bed in her office. She felt weary to the bone but sleep would not come – it was as if her mind had parted company with her body, the one racing madly along, the other abandoned for dead hours ago.
How many people had she treated in the last forty-eight hours? Eighty? A hundred? A hundred and fifty? She had no clear idea any more. The faces and the bodies were all jumbled up. This man’s face went with this shattered thigh, that woman’s face with that lacerated ear. Or vice versa. They all had red blood and fear-filled eyes and they were all praying to her, the goddess of healing.
Lying there, she felt more alone than ever. She wanted someone to share who she was, she wanted a body beside her that was not broken or bleeding, that needed no help to function but only love to make it feel whole. She wanted someone reaching out to her whom she could reach out to in return.
It was getting light outside, which did not seem right. Maybe she had slept for a couple of hours after all. She got up, walked to the window, and pulled the lever which opened the sheets of slatted glass. Outside two small grey lizards with yellow heads were chasing each other around a tree stump. On one of the mats which had been left to dry in the sun a small boy was curled up asleep, his bare legs caked with dust.
Africa, she thought. Who would care for Africa? It had nothing anyone wanted. Nothing to sell, nothing to bargain with. Only more and more people fighting over the same amount of land, more and more people angry at their inability to grab a foothold in that wonderful world of cars and TVs and hi-fi which the tourists parade before their eyes. African rulers had no power to transform the continent’s fate: all they could do – even the cleverest and the most well-meaning ones – was to try to soften the blow. No wonder there were coups. And no wonder they amounted to nothing more than a game of musical chairs. Except of course for those whose blood had been given to the dust.
In medieval times they had tried to cure patients by bleeding them; nowadays it was countries.
The Field Force depot in Bakau had always reminded Junaidi Taal of the prisoner-of-war camps depicted in Hollywood films. It was partly a matter of illusion: the watch-tower, which contributed so much to the effect, was actually part of the fire station next door, but the large trees which were scattered around the two compounds and overhung the wall between them, made visual separation difficult. From the road all that was visible was an impression of one-storey offices and barracks receding into the foliage, and the single, blue-painted tower rising above it.
It had rained heavily throughout the night, and as dawn broke on Sunday heavy drops were still falling from the trees, beating a sporadic tattoo on the corrugated roofs. This sound was mingled with the swelling dawn chorus of the birds and, rather more incongruously, the measured tones of a Bush House announcer reading the World Service News.
Taal looked at his watch, sighed wearily, and climbed laboriously from his bunk. He was getting too old for this sort of life, he thought. The sort which involved only about four hours’ sleep in each twenty-four.
He pulled on a shirt, draped a blanket round his shoulders against the chill of the dawn air, and walked out onto the verandah where, as he had expected, Mamadou Jabang was listening to the radio. One hundred and fifty yards away to the left the sentries at the gates seemed awake and reasonably alert. To the right a man was carrying what looked like a pail of eggs towards the kitchen.
Jabang looked up at Taal with what could charitably be described as a wry smile. ‘We didn’t even make the news this morning,’ he said. ‘As far as the world is concerned it’s all over.’
‘The BBC is not the world,’ Taal said shortly, and sat down on the chair beside Jabang’s.
‘I know, I know.’ Jabang gestured towards the map which had been spread across the table. ‘Tell me the situation,’ he said.
Taal got up again and leaned over the map. ‘At midnight,’ he began, ‘we controlled the whole of this road, from the Sunwing Hotel north of Bakau to the Bakotu Hotel in Fajara. On these two roads’ – he indicated the highways from Serekunda to Fajara and Banjul to Bakau, which made three sides of a square with the Bakau-Fajara road – ‘we have positions about a mile inland which the Senegalese have not really tried to shift.’
‘Why not?’ Jabang asked, more for confirmation than because he did not know.
‘Two reasons. One, they have been busy taking and securing Banjul. Two – and this is only guesswork – they haven’t made up their minds whether or not to risk us killing the hostages. And I said midnight but I’m assuming that this is still the situation. No one woke me with bad news.’
‘I heard no gunfire during the night,’ Jabang agreed. ‘What about our radio van?’
‘Let’s find out,’ Taal suggested, reaching for the radio. A few seconds later Jabang’s own voice was coming out of the speaker. It was the original proclamation of the new government, now somewhat outdated.
‘Where are they?’ Jabang asked.
‘Somewhere in Banjul. With the Senegalese holding the Denton Bridge there’s no way they can get out.’
‘I’d love to have seen the Senegalese commander’s face,’ Jabang said. ‘They take the radio station, think that’s the last the people will hear from us, and like witch doctors there we are again. I don’t suppose we can reach them with a new tape?’
Taal smiled. ‘We would have to find them first …’
‘If we could find someone with a recorder in Banjul then I could talk into it down the telephone.’
‘Maybe …’
‘No, you’re right, it’s not worth it.’ He turned back to the map. ‘Can we hold the position we have for a few days?’
Taal shrugged. ‘We can try, but …’
‘If they are hesitating because of the hostages, then perhaps we should encourage them to think the worst,’ Jabang said, as much to himself as to Taal.
‘More threats?’
‘Why not? They …’
‘But what happens when we fail to carry them out again?’
‘They will think we don’t know what we are doing.’ Jabang smiled. ‘You have read the books, Junaidi. The hardest thing for the authorities to cope with in a situation like this is not knowing how far the opposition is prepared to go.’
‘That is true,’ Taal agreed. It was significant, he thought, that Jabang was now calling the other side ‘the authorities’ again. Even in the leader’s mind they had recrossed the divide which separated government from rebellion. ‘But, I must ask you, Mamadou: what can we hope for in the few days such threats might buy us?’
Jabang’s mouth seemed to set in an obstinate line, the way Taal remembered it had done when he was a child. ‘I still believe Libya may send us some assistance,’ he said. ‘They sent troops into Chad,’ he added, almost belligerently, as if defying Taal to argue.
‘Have you heard anything new?’ Taal asked.
‘No. But our friends in New York will still be working for us.’
Taal scratched his eyebrow and stared out across the wakening camp.
‘I know it is not likely,’ Jabang admitted.
‘It will serve no purpose for any of us – for you, in particular, Mamadou – to be put on trial and hanged by Jawara.’
‘I know. I have not lost my reason, Junaidi. When it really is hopeless …’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘But that hour has not arrived. This morning I shall talk to the Senegalese commander, and give a good impersonation of a deranged terrorist who thinks nothing of killing Jawara’s family and a hundred white tourists. Then maybe we can negotiate some sort of amnesty for our people. Yes?’
The SAS men’s Air Afrique plane landed in Dakar soon after dawn. It seemed to taxi for ever be
fore pulling up a good two hundred yards from the terminal building. Just like the old days, Caskey thought, as he walked bleary-eyed down the steps to the ground. Nowadays only the Pope ever touched the tarmac in modern airports, and that was just because he wanted to kiss it.
As it happened, the three of them were the only passengers who did not have to take the long walk. A man from the Gambian High Commission – resplendent in a Hawaiian shirt – was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps, his Renault parked a few yards away. After making sure they had no luggage other than what they were carrying, he ushered the SAS men inside the car and set off at a breakneck pace across the tarmac.
As at Heathrow and Charles de Gaulle the formalities were not so much dispensed with as trampled on. Here at Dakar’s Yoff Airport, there was no need even to enter the building. The Renault was stopped at one gate, as much, Caskey reckoned, for the sake of Senegalese pride as anything else. A uniformed officer looked at all three of them in turn, as if checking their faces with the passports he had not seen, and waved them through.
Franklin, watching the exchange between him and their Gambian escort, felt suddenly aware that he was somewhere he had never been before in his adult life – in a country run by black men.
They roared out of the airport, past a scrum of orange taxis and a crowd of people scrambling to board a bus, and out onto a dual carriageway. In the distance, down at the end of long side-roads lined with rough-looking, one-storey dwellings, they could see the ocean. The sky was clear of clouds, but the blue was tainted with brown, and a patina of dust already seemed to hang in the morning air.
‘How far is it?’ Caskey asked the driver. Unlike the other two, he had found sleep hard to come by on the plane. It was a matter of age, he supposed.
‘Twenty minutes, maybe,’ the Gambian said.
From the back seats Franklin and Wynwood were getting their first impressions of Senegal. A large sports stadium loomed into view, bare concrete rising out of the yellow earth, its ugliness turned into something else by the profusion of brilliantly coloured bougainvillaea clinging to its lower walls. Elsewhere the ubiquitous concrete was unadorned, fashioned into block houses, turning the landscape into a sandpit for giants. In front of the houses old car tyres had been half-buried in the sand to provide seats.
They raced down an open stretch of highway, with electricity pylons marching overhead, sand verges littered with rubbish, sand hills spotted with scrub receding into the distance. Giant cigarette advertisements loomed out of the dust, as if on a mission to leave no lung unscathed.
‘Pretty, it ain’t,’ Wynwood murmured.
They entered the inner suburbs, where large blocks of flats and relatively modern-looking shops lined the road, then turned down a long, tree-lined avenue between what looked like government buildings of one sort or another. At its end they had a glimpse of a market that sprawled down several narrow streets as far as the eye could see, but the Renault honked its way down another tree-lined avenue. This section looked like Paris, Caskey thought; a seedy, half-finished, tropical Paris.
The car pulled to a halt outside a nondescript building in a nondescript street. ‘We are there,’ the driver said, climbing out and gesturing them to follow. He seemed determined to do everything at a hundred miles an hour.
Caskey walked slowly after him, shouldering the blue holdall. A brass plaque by the doorway announced the Gambian High Commission. Inside a flight of steps led upwards to a desk area. It reminded Caskey of the Inland Revenue offices in Hereford.
‘Please,’ the driver said, indicating a waiting area in which comfortable chairs surrounded a large conference table. Seated in the chairs the table’s surface was at eye-level, which meant that holding a conversation with someone on the other side of the room required the talkers to either sit bolt upright or slouch.
Caskey closed his eyes. ‘Wake me if anything happens,’ he told the other two.
‘The President will see you now,’ a voice said from behind him.
It was a different Gambian from their chauffeur, this time one more formally attired, in a beige suit, white shirt and red tie. He escorted them down a short corridor and into a well-lit, pleasantly furnished room. A large African rug lay in the centre of the floor, and around it had been arranged several armchairs and two sofas. The President was sitting on one of the latter, a pile of papers by his side. He was not a large man, and although he was not particularly good-looking there was a friendliness in his expression which was appealing. He got swiftly to his feet and walked across to greet them, his right arm outstretched. After he had shaken each man’s hand, and they had introduced themselves by name, he invited them to take a seat.
‘I am very grateful to the British Government for sending you,’ he began, smiling at each of them in turn. ‘And of course to each of you for accepting such a mission.’ He paused as if expecting a response.
Caskey nodded.
‘I’m happy to say,’ the President continued, ‘that the situation in my country is improving by the hour. Our Senegalese friends have secured the airport and the capital and the road between them. In fact, all the rebels now hold is a small strip of land along the coast.’ He grimaced. ‘Unfortunately they also hold a number of hostages, including my own wife and several of my children, so bringing the whole business to a successful conclusion will not be a straightforward matter. Which is where I hope your expertise will come into play. Tell me, did any of you take part in the Iranian Embassy business last year?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Caskey lied. He was afraid Jawara might feel he had been fobbed off with duds if he found out that none of them had been at Princes Gate.
‘A wonderful piece of work,’ the President said. ‘But of course I hope we can resolve our problem less … less dramatically.’ He paused again. ‘What I really wanted to make clear to you – the main reason for wanting to see you before we all fly to my country – is that you are my personal advisers, and that you carry my authority. The Senegalese – how shall I say this? – they may be – I think “touchy” is the English word … I am sure their commanders will be more than willing to listen to any advice you may have, but they will not want to appear as if they are taking orders … You understand? It is one of the legacies of colonialism. In the old days a white man’s orders were obeyed no matter how stupid, and to compensate for this there is a tendency nowadays to ignore a white man’s advice, no matter how sensible.’ He smiled at Franklin. ‘And I’m afraid in this matter you will be seen as an honorary white man,’ he said.
Franklin smiled politely back, but said nothing.
‘Very well,’ the President said. ‘We can deal with any particular problem if and when one arises. Now, unless something extraordinary happens in the meantime, I plan to fly to Banjul this afternoon. There is room for you on the same plane. We shall leave here at around four o’clock, and until then you can either rest in one of the rooms here or go sightseeing, whichever you wish.’
‘I’d like some sleep,’ Caskey said, getting up.
The President got up too, and shook each man’s hand again. ‘Until this afternoon,’ he said.
The man in the beige suit was waiting outside to escort them to the next floor, where a large double bed shared a room with a single. Caskey annexed the latter, claiming privilege of rank.
‘I’d like to go out for a look round, boss,’ Franklin said.
‘Me too,’ Wynwood agreed.
Caskey looked at them. ‘Bloody youngsters,’ he said with a sigh. He reached inside his pocket for the CFAs Mathieu had given them at Charles de Gaulle. ‘OK. But don’t spend it all. And don’t get lost and don’t start a war. And don’t touch anything. Particularly the women.’
‘Did you get all that?’ Wynwood asked Franklin.
‘Yeah. We’re not to spend it all on women.’
They left Caskey groaning and went downstairs.
‘Any idea which way?’ Wynwood asked Franklin as they emerged into the street.
�
�To where?’ Franklin asked.
‘To where we want to go’ Wynwood said.
‘Where do we want to go?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
Franklin decided. ‘Well, let’s try this way then,’ he said, pointing east.
‘Suits me.’ Outside in the street the temperature was on the rise. Still, it was not as hot as Wynwood had expected – perhaps Dakar’s situation on the coast kept things cool. It would have been nice to have had some time to find out something about the country before they arrived. ‘Hey, Frankie,’ he said, struggling to keep up with the other man’s long stride, ‘do you know anything about this place?’
‘Not a thing. Used to be French, that’s about it.’
‘You mean they speak French here?’
‘Yeah.’
Wynwood looked round. ‘Who would have guessed?’
‘The word “Aéroport” in letters twenty feet high was a clue,’ Franklin told him.
‘I thought they were just bad spellers,’ Wynwood said.
They walked on, conscious of the stares they were getting from the locals. Franklin wondered whether he would have been as noticeable on his own, and decided he probably would have. His clothes were different, for one thing. The Senegalese seemed undecided whether to wear African robes or European suits, but none of them seemed to be wearing jeans and T-shirts.
The street they were on debouched into a large rectangular space surrounded by multi-storey buildings.
‘The Place de l’Indépendance,’ Wynwood read off a sign. ‘You reckon this is the centre of town?’
‘No idea,’ Franklin admitted.
‘Hello, hello,’ a Senegalese greeted them.
‘Hello, hello,’ echoed Wynwood.
‘You are American?’ the Senegalese asked them both.
‘English,’ Franklin said.
‘Welsh,’ Wynwood corrected him.
‘You are in Dakar how many days?’
‘One hour.’
More questions followed, and somehow it came up that the Senegalese had a naming ceremony for his son the next day, and that it was customary for a man in such a situation to find a foreigner and offer him a gift. As chance would have it he had on his person such a gift, and here were two foreigners! What luck! He insisted that Wynwood accept the gift, a miniature drum on a thong. The Welshman took it reluctantly, thinking there must be a catch. There was. It turned out that it was also customary for the foreigner to give the baby a gift. Wynwood regretted that he had no gift to hand, but it then transpired that cash was the most appropriate gift of all. The two SAS men looked at each and burst out laughing.
Soldier N: Gambian Bluff Page 14