Soldier N: Gambian Bluff

by David Monnery

  ‘You’re a real pro,’ Wynwood said, and got out the money Caskey had handed him. ‘What are these worth?’ he asked Franklin, who shrugged.

  ‘Well, a thousand seems a lot to me,’ Wynwood said, and handed the man one.

  It did not seem a lot to him. ‘More, more,’ he said.

  ‘You want the drum back?’ Wynwood asked.

  ‘No, I want more CFAs.’

  ‘Tough shit. Be seeing you, chum,’ Wynwood said, and walked off. Both Franklin and the Senegalese followed, the one feeling vaguely disturbed by the whole episode, the other more than vaguely annoyed.

  He stayed with them halfway round the square, and several blocks up Avenue Pompidou, which looked as close to a main street as any they had seen. Trees lined both sides, and many of the buildings were French in style, creating anew the impression of an African Paris. There were cafés as well, and of two distinct types: those with a primarily African clientele and those which seemed to cater mostly to the expatriate French population. The latter looked cleaner, more expensive and more likely to rid them of their Senegalese shadow.

  Wynwood chose one, walked in and took a window seat. A beautiful Senegalese girl took their order of omelettes and coffee, but the Frenchwoman behind the bar was obviously in charge. It felt strange to both men. If they looked one way they could have been anywhere in the developed world. The customers’ faces, with one exception, were white, and the fittings were modern, right down to an Elvis Presley clock on one wall, his hips swinging out the passing seconds. But if they looked out through the window there was no mistaking which continent it was. A group of men in long robes were crowded on a bench, smoking cigarettes and passing the time. A boy with two stunted legs was parked under a tree, hand extended with a cup to each passer-by. Buses packed beyond the worst nightmares of a sardine rumbled by, blowing dense black smoke from their exhausts into the dusty air.

  Franklin sat there, savouring the delicious coffee, watching and wondering.

  Wynwood asked a youngish-looking man at a nearby table if he spoke English.

  ‘A little, yes,’ the man said.

  Wynwood explained that they had only a few hours in Dakar and no idea what might be worth seeing. Could the man suggest anything?

  He shrugged. There was nothing special. The Íle de Gorée, perhaps, but that was half an hour’s ferry ride away, and they might have to wait an hour for the boat.

  ‘What is it?’ Franklin asked, feeling he had heard the name somewhere before.

  ‘It’s an island, two or three kilometres from the city. It’s very pretty, with the old colonial houses and the fort. And of course the Maison des Esclaves, the Slave House.’

  Now Franklin remembered. It was the place from where most of the West African slaves had been shipped. Maybe even his own ancestors.

  Wynwood asked whether there were any beautiful buildings to see in the city.

  ‘Maybe the railway station,’ the Frenchman said dubiously. ‘Dakar is not a beautiful city,’ he added, somewhat superfluously.

  Wynwood thanked him. ‘Let’s just walk around,’ he suggested to Franklin.

  For a couple of hours they simply wandered the streets together, soaking up the atmosphere, stopping for the occasional drink, and fending off the extraordinary number of men whose sons were being named the following day.

  They did stumble across the railway station, which pleased Wynwood. He had always been drawn to the atmosphere they evoked, and this one, with its magical blend of French and Islamic architecture, seemed no exception. A train was in the platform, packed and apparently about to depart. He asked someone where it was going, and was told Bamako, the capital of Mali. The journey was supposed to take twenty-four hours, the man said with a knowing smile. Wynwood asked him how long it really took. Thirty-six, he said, and cackled.

  A few minutes later the diesel blew its horn, and the train jerked its way out of the station along the uneven tracks. Franklin watched it disappear, thinking that here in Dakar they were simply standing on the edge of Africa, but that this train was headed out towards the continent’s heart. A part of him wished he was on board.

  ‘This is General N’Dor,’ a voice said on the other end of the telephone line.

  ‘At last,’ Jabang said. He had needed to threaten the immediate killing of a hostage to get the Senegalese commander-in-chief to the phone, and it had made him angry.

  ‘What is it you have such need to tell me?’ N’Dor asked, wishing his English was better.

  ‘Would you rather speak in Wollof?’ Jabang asked in that language, as if he had read the General’s mind.

  ‘It would seem sensible to be sure we understand what each other is saying,’ N’Dor replied in the same tongue. ‘I understood you were Mandinka.’

  ‘I am.’ Jabang wondered whether the General would be impressed by the fact that he had taken the trouble to learn his country’s other indigenous languages, and decided that it did not matter a jot.

  ‘So what do you have to tell me?’ N’Dor asked again.

  ‘I have to tell you that unless your forces on the Banjul-Bakau road return to the positions they occupied this morning we shall be forced to begin executing the prisoners.’

  There was silence at the other end for almost a minute, but Jabang resisted the temptation to speak again.

  ‘The forces you speak of have only moved a few metres since this morning,’ N’Dor said.

  ‘We know that. Moving back those few metres would seem a small price to pay for a hostage’s life.’ Don’t ask for much, Junaidi Taal had advised him, but make sure you get it. Somehow they had to establish a pattern whereby the enemy was prepared to reward them for not carrying out threats.

  At the other end of the line General N’Dor was in an impossible position. His Government had warned him to take no risks with the hostages’ lives, and the Gambian President would not be on hand to remove the restrictions until later that evening. The rebel leader might be bluffing, and N’Dor thought he probably was, but not with enough certainty to risk calling him on it. There was really nothing he could do for the moment other than concede what was being asked. It was only a few metres, after all.

  ‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘My men will be withdrawn to the position they occupied this morning. But no further. This is not an ongoing process. You understand that?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Jabang said. ‘Thank you, General. Now, I have here a list of the prisoners we currently hold, which I thought you might find useful. I am sure the families of the prisoners would like to know that they are safe.’

  ‘I will bring someone in to write them down,’ N’Dor agreed.

  ‘Excellent. Before you do that, can we arrange to talk again tomorrow morning, say at eleven o’clock? I think it must be in everyone’s interests that we keep talking.’

  Certainly in yours, N’Dor thought. And until someone told him he could take the gloves off, it was probably in his as well. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

  Jabang passed the phone to Sallah, who was waiting with the list, and with a wide smile on his face turned to Taal. ‘We’re not finished yet,’ he said exultantly.

  The flight from Dakar to Yundum in the forty-four-seater took under an hour. There were only eleven passengers on board; the President and seven assorted advisers in the front seats, the three SAS men in the back. Most of the President’s men seemed to be chain-smoking, and by the time the plane touched down at Yundum a thin fog separated the two parties.

  Two Senegalese officers were waiting on the tarmac beside a line of four vehicles: the presidential limousine and three taxis. Without much preamble everyone climbed in, the SAS men in the rear taxi, and the convoy took off, sweeping out through the airport gates past arms-saluting soldiers and onto an empty highway.

  And into Africa, Franklin thought, staring out through the windscreen. There was nothing European about this landscape. On either side of the road flat savannah stretched into the distance, dotted with t
rees that bore the continent’s distinctive style: tapering down from a flat wide top. A little further on a host of palms shaped like giant thistles rose from a stretch of cultivated land on the outskirts of a village. Here the dwellings were all white and of one storey, including the impressive police station with its colonnaded patio.

  Dirt tracks led away from the road, and down these, in the distance, Franklin could see people walking. But the main street seemed strangely deserted, as if the President’s path had been swept clear of those he claimed to serve. One group of three women did emerge from a house just as they went by, each with a large plastic bowl balanced on the head, but they turned only blank stares to the swishing cars, as if they were looking into the blind side of a two-way mirror.

  After ten minutes or so they entered a large town, which the driver told them was Serekunda. Here there were groups of Senegalese soldiers at the two main crossroads, but few civilians on the streets. Franklin asked the driver if that was because it was Sunday. He received a disbelieving smile in return.

  ‘Not exactly coming out in droves to welcome the man home, are they?’ Wynwood commented from the back seat.

  The driver chortled, and said something under his breath.

  ‘This town is ‘coming like a ghost town’ ran through Franklin’s head.

  Beyond Serekunda they traversed another couple of miles of open country, before motoring across the heavily guarded Denton Bridge and entering the outskirts of Banjul. ‘That must be the prison they emptied,’ Caskey said, pointing out a white building on the right. The words ‘Female Wing’ had been painted on one wall in huge letters. ‘I wonder if they let the women out too,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ the driver volunteered.

  ‘More discrimination,’ Wynwood murmured. Susan’s friends would have something to say about that.

  The convoy drove down Independence Drive, passing a line of Senegalese armoured cars parked outside the Legislative Assembly, before turning left and then right through the gates of what looked, in the distance, like a miniature Buckingham Palace. A long drive ran straight to the doors through grounds bursting with luxuriant tropical vegetation.

  ‘Nice garden,’ Wynwood said, ‘shame about the house.’

  ‘Enough,’ Caskey told him, but the grin on his face rather weakened the reprimand.

  The four cars drew up in the gravelled forecourt and disgorged their cargo. The SAS men followed the President’s party in through the front doors, where a posse of servants were doing their best to appear overjoyed by their master’s return. One of his aides came over to Caskey and asked the SAS men to take a seat in the first reception room.

  They sat there for ten minutes, sweating with the heat, wondering why ninety per cent of life in the Army was spent waiting for some wanker to get his finger out.

  The aide returned and escorted them through to another room, where the President was sitting on a sofa with a Senegalese officer. The latter, whom Jawara introduced as General Hassan N’Dor, did not, Caskey thought, seem particularly pleased to see them. In fact, he seemed reluctant to even shake their hands.

  Jawara was trying hard to be genial enough for both of them. ‘I have been telling the General,’ he said, ‘that you have been loaned to my country by the British Government to serve as my personal military advisers until the present problem regarding the prisoners has been resolved. He is of course aware of your Regiment’s experience and expertise in the matter of hostage situations.’

  ‘We will be happy to offer any assistance,’ Caskey told N’Dor diplomatically, ‘but of course we don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’

  N’Dor gave him a slight nod, as if in appreciation of the sentiment. ‘My English is not so good,’ he said, which made Caskey wonder if he had understood the sentiment.

  ‘I have suggested,’ the President said, ‘that we set up a group to oversee the hostage situation. It would include someone to represent the Gambian Government – probably the Vice-President – General N’Dor and his second in command Colonel Ka, and you, Major Caskey. General N’Dor has offered a room at the Senegalese Embassy for the group’s headquarters.’

  I bet he has, Caskey thought. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea,’ he said. ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘the first thing we shall need is some current intelligence of the situation on the ground in Bakau. And for that we shall need some form of written authority from both yourself and the General, which will give us the freedom to pass through the lines.’

  ‘Of course,’ the President said. ‘I’m sure the General will have no objection to that.’

  N’Dor’s face said he had, but he acquiesced nevertheless. An aide was sent to type out appropriate papers for him and Jawara to both sign. While they waited Caskey asked the General for his opinion of the current situation.

  ‘There is nothing difficult about it,’ N’Dor said. ‘We could destroy the rebels in a few hours …’

  ‘The General spoke to the rebel leader on the telephone this morning,’ Jawara volunteered.

  N’Dor scowled at the memory. ‘He threatened to kill a hostage if I did not withdraw my men to a position further in the rear. I have orders not to risk hostage lives, so I agree.’ He shrugged. ‘That is all.’

  ‘What kind of man do you think this Jabang is?’ Caskey asked, thinking that the General’s English was not much worse than his own.

  ‘Not right in the head,’ N’Dor answered without hesitation.

  It was not the sort of analysis Caskey had in mind, but it would probably have to do.

  The aide returned with the written authorities, and a reminder to the President that he was scheduled to make a radio broadcast within the next half an hour. ‘I am coming,’ Jawara told him, before turning to the SAS men. ‘Rooms have been made ready for you here,’ he told them. ‘Please ask Saiboa here’ – he indicated the aide in question – ‘for anything you need.’

  He left, accompanied by the Senegalese commander.

  ‘Ever get the feeling you’re not wanted?’ Wynwood asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Caskey said. He had also just realized that no time had been set for the first meeting of the new hostage crisis group. ‘I think we’re going to have to write our own agenda on this one, lads. Which is why I wanted these pieces of paper. Let’s find out what’s going on and make a plan. Then we can decide which part of the General’s anatomy to shove it up.’

  ‘Sounds good to me, boss,’ Franklin agreed.

  ‘You know, I’ve never lived in a palace,’ Wynwood said.

  Chapter 10

  ‘My fellow Gambians …’

  The President’s voice, never impressive at the best of times, sounded positively squeaky emerging from Lamin Konko’s tiny transistor radio. Konko himself was snoring noisily in the upper bunk, which made it even harder for Moussa Diba to follow what the President was saying.

  One thing seemed certain – he was not offering anyone anything. ‘It’s all over – get back to work’ seemed to be the gist of his message. No mention of leniency for anyone who offered helpful information or switched sides, no mention of amnesty at all. Diba was not surprised, but he did feel vaguely disappointed. He really was going to have to leave the country. And probably for good.

  Jawara was making a final plea for the rebels to surrender, but still not offering them any incentive to do so. It was just window-dressing, Diba thought. Just propaganda.

  He wondered what he would do if he was in Jabang’s shoes. Just empty out the bank in Bakau and run for it, probably. What else could they do – they could not make the hostage thing last for ever, and what else did they have to bargain with?

  Diba turned the radio off and sat there listening to the snoring Konko, aware that time was running out.

  It was an hour or more before Caskey got through to the British High Commission on the telephone. He asked for Bill Myers, whose name he had been given in London.

  ‘You’ve arrived,’ Myers said enthusiastically. ‘I was beginning to think McGrat
h would have it all sorted out before you got here.’

  ‘Why, what’s he been doing?’ Caskey asked, feeling distinctly envious.

  ‘Oh, shooting his way through roadblocks, capturing radio stations, you know the sort of thing.’

  Caskey laughed. ‘So why wasn’t he at the airport to meet us? Where is he?’

  ‘No idea. He knows you’re coming – I told him yesterday. He was staying at the Carlton Hotel. Probably still is.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Independence Drive. Where have they put you?’

  ‘Where else? The Presidential Palace.’

  Myers grunted. ‘Jawara probably wants you on hand in case he suddenly needs some bodyguards,’ he said. ‘Has he given you any instructions?’

  ‘We’re supposed to be liaising with the Senegalese, but their CO doesn’t seem any too keen on letting us in on the act. I don’t think he’s a glory-hogger. He’s either someone who likes to keep command lines simple or he’s one of those Africans with a chip on his shoulder when it comes to accepting any kind of help from the old colonial powers.’

  ‘Bit of both, I’d say,’ Myers observed. ‘I met him at some reception or other. He seemed to improve with each glass of wine.’

  ‘Your glasses or his?’

  ‘Both, I think. It’s hard to remember.’

  Caskey laughed again. He was already growing fond of Bill Myers. ‘How are things out there with you?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you only about half a mile from the Field Force depot?’