The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  Ismael shouted for his men to advance. The rebels established fresh fire positions, siting their Dushkas, RRs and RPGs. Three men scurried forward, hurriedly laying mines on the road. The assault had gained three hundred metres of killing ground out from the bridgehead.

  I watched the mortar team cross the bridge and men treated for gunshot wounds near the old ambulance. “You OK?” I said to Ismael.

  He nodded. “I’ve been on the radio. Our scouts say 21st Brigade stopped five miles further up the road due to the fighting here.” The rebels had lost a dozen men, with more wounded, but had taken a good defensive position with ample support weapons. “Our support is on the way,” he added, “two hundred more men.”

  The enemy needed air support and artillery. Without those I guessed the rebels could hold the bridge for some time, with tanks being especially vulnerable in the wooded terrain. “You can hold here,” I replied, “but you need cover. Get the men to dig in.”

  Ismael grabbed my shoulder. “Cal, go to Afuuma, find Colonel Murray. The army will need to regroup, but there’s an old herding trail you can use to skirt around them.”

  We studied the map. The trail meandered parallel with the highway, threading through wadis, culverts and rough ground. It met the outskirts of Afuuma sixty miles from our current position.

  “Take whatever vehicle you need,” Ismael said.

  “That’s very generous,” I replied.

  The rebel captain lit a cigarette and smiled, “I want it back.”

  After I’d found the others, we went to the ambulance. One of the medics, a stick-thin Kenyan, cleaned and bandaged our injuries. We gave him our spare ketamine, keeping enough for a dose each.

  “Shukrani,” he said. “I’m running low on supplies, especially morphine and blood plasma.”

  The best we could do was to give the medic spare field dressings and a sleeve of cigarettes. We headed for the pick-up we’d chosen, a dirty white Toyota Hilux. We chose it not only because it was ultra-reliable, but because it looked distinctly un-military.

  “You’re heading to Afuuma, yes?” the medic smiled. “Afuuma can be dangerous for westerners.”

  I nodded, but doubted it could be any worse than where we were right now.

  “My name is Jimiyu. My cousin’s husband owns the Turtle Beach hotel, he supports General Abasi. If you mention my name he might be able to help you.”

  “Does he have beer?” said Bannerman.

  “Of course,” Jimiyu replied.

  “He can help us then, mate.”

  “We need civilian clothes,” I said.

  Jimiyu looked around at the rebels. “You are wearing good uniforms. These men are wearing rags. Of course they will swap if you ask.”

  He said something in Swahili, and soon the rebels were bartering for our German army-surplus fatigues. I kept my trousers and boots, but swapped my combat jacket for a black heavy metal tee-shirt and a faded blue windcheater. Oz, being smaller than me, did better and bagged a South African rugby shirt and knee-length orange shorts. Bannerman, Alex and Ruben managed to scrounge civilian shirts and jackets. We looked like tramps, but at least we looked less like soldiers.

  Bannerman and Ruben still had most of their original kit. They dug out wet-wipes and toothpaste as we tidied up, Ruben even shaving his beard into a goatee. Finally, I pulled a roll of black duct-tape from Bannerman’s assault pack and spelt the word ‘TV’ and ‘PRESS’ on the bonnet and doors of the Toyota. We stored our rifles, a machinegun, RPG and other kit under a tarpaulin and studied the map again.

  “Brew up for five minutes,” I said. “I’m going to make a call.”

  Oz pulled a face but said nothing.

  I sat by the rusting tank near the bridgehead and called Marcus. He answered immediately. “I’ve got you on GPS, located seventy miles southwest of a place called Afuuma,” he said. “Apparently, there’s a war on.”

  I explained about the bodies we’d found at the Buur Xuuq mine, that Afuuma was our likeliest bet to find the CORACLE team.

  “Less than an hour ago we intercepted a signal from the Chinese anti-piracy taskforce,” Marcus replied. “They’ve docked in Afuuma, reporting the loss of four helicopters and fifteen men to unprovoked rebel action.”

  “What’s the Chinese reaction?” I asked.

  “They don’t want to get drawn into fighting. The tone of the SIGINT suggests that the commanding officer was too gung-ho. I’d say he’s in deep shit with his chain of command.”

  “An officer called Colonel Zhang Ki was in charge,” I said. “Marcus, he had pre-prepared statements for us to sign, implicating SIS. He even brought two Chinese intelligence guys to meet us.”

  “This whole thing reeks. Find the team and don’t spare the rod. Find out what the hell they’re up to.”

  “A location would help,” I replied. Marcus had the habit of making his office-based battles as difficult as the real one, and it was starting to piss me off.

  “I’m sure it would.” Marcus’ voice softened, “I’m working every angle, Cal. You have my word I’ll get you out of there. But the fan is my office is so covered in shit I’m wearing a rubber raincoat.”

  He ended the call.

  I found Tony Ismael standing next to his truck, listening intently to instructions on the radio. “Things are happening quickly,” he said, keying off the mic. “Our spies report Aziz reckons we’re the advance element of a major offensive.”

  “What does General Abasi think?” I replied, leaning against the bonnet and lighting a cigar stub with my Zippo.

  “He says if they want a major offensive then he’s happy to give ‘em one,” Ismael grinned. “With two hundred more men I reckon we can harass the south of Afuuma while the General loops up the coast and attacks from the east.”

  “Just be careful,” I said, “and watch your flanks.”

  “I will, and I love that look,” he laughed, motioning at my ragged clothes.

  I shrugged and laughed with him. “Take care, Tony.”

  “Don’t worry, Cal, I’ll see you in Afuuma, we can drink beer and tell war stories, right?” The young Londoner offered me his hand, which I gripped.

  We mounted up, waved goodbye to the rebels and crossed the bridge onto the herder’s path. My compass said we were headed due northeast. Oz drove, and after an hour on the road we saw a convoy of military vehicles in the distance on a parallel route. Trucks, armoured personnel carriers and towed artillery rumbled by, stirring up a miasma of orange dust.

  After another two hours, I estimated we were fifteen miles from Afuuma. To the east we could see a hazy strip of blue, marking the coast. The herder’s path ended abruptly, feeding us back onto the metalled road. The terrain became greener, dotted with groves of palm and fruit trees.

  “Checkpoint,” said Bytchakov. He reached for the AK hidden in the foot well.

  “Let’s see if we can talk our way through,” I said.

  “Good luck with that,” said Bannerman, who’d been dozing in the back of the Toyota.

  The checkpoint consisted of two battered Land Rovers and six khaki-uniformed security police. They’d put two oil drums on either side of the road, joined with a heavy duty chain covered in spikes. One of the Land Rovers had a whip aerial, and I could hear the crackle of voices on a field radio. I waved as we approached. The cops were scruffy, with dirty uniforms and old FN rifles. Their sergeant stepped towards us. “Where are you going?” he said suspiciously, in sing-song English.

  “Afuuma,” I replied.

  The cop looked us over and crossed his arms. “What is your business?”

  “My name is Adrian Clay,” I lied. “I’m a freelance journalist. These guys are my security team. I went to cover a story near Hagadifi, but our guide disappeared and we got lost.”

  “That is rebel country,” he sniffed. “Show me your papers.”

  “That’s where the story is,” I shrugged, “but all our stuff was stolen by rebels, two of us are injured. Our cameras, laptops
, passports are gone…”

  Ruben motioned to his bandaged arm and groaned theatrically. The sergeant smiled at our stupidity. He turned to his men and said something in Swahili.

  They laughed.

  I watched Ruben’s hand disappear underneath the tarpaulin. I shot him a look.

  “This serves you right, you are lucky to be alive,” chided the sergeant. “But if they took everything, how will you pay the tax for travelling on this road?”

  I’d been asked for bribes more blatantly, but not by much. I reached into the waistband of my fatigues and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. “Listen to me,” I said wearily. “Here’s eight hundred US dollars.”

  “I thought you only found trolls under bridges,” Oz sniffed.

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow as he counted the banknotes.

  “I’ve had a terrible day,” I continued. “Can you just radio ahead and say that we’ve paid our taxes and that we’re heading back to our hotel?”

  “Of course,” the sergeant beamed. “In any case, the road will be closed by order of the army. You are very lucky to be alive.”

  Oz drove us through the checkpoint, the police eyeing us warily as we passed.

  “Ruben,” I said. “Cool it.”

  The ex-marine glowered at me, but said nothing.

  Bannerman put his hand on Ruben’s arm. “You’ll put this right for Raph, son. Don’t worry.”

  “I know I will,” he hissed. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Afuuma was a ramshackle port, built in a scoop of land overlooking the Indian Ocean. Zambute’s only deep harbour, it was strategically crucial to the regime. During the annexation of the disputed zone, Aziz’s army had ousted the Shadow of Swords and Al-Shabaab militants who’d held it for several years.

  Now it teemed with the usual suspects: aid workers, journalists, UN hangers-on, merchants, spooks, mercenaries, whores and thieves. The local people made their living servicing the foreigner’s whims, desires, and agendas. The economy would collapse if the foreigners left, which they would as soon as a new disaster or war zone became du jour. Then Afuuma would return to its old industries: clan-feuds, smuggling, kidnapping, piracy and terrorism.

  “Looks like the fleet’s in,” said Oz. Three warships sat in the ‘L’-shaped harbour. Two were sleek, dangerous-looking destroyers, the third a boxy helicopter carrier. All flew the red and gold banner of The People’s Republic of China. I saw a few Chinese sailors as we drove into town, outnumbered by seedy-looking local cops. The Zambutan police wore grubby army-surplus, stood on street corners in armed packs.

  The Turtle Beach hotel was a bullet-riddled dive. Still, inside it smelt of home-cooking, mothballs and bleach, a peeling relic of happier times. The reception boasted cracked tile floors, peeling fire regulations printed in Italian and faded seventies décor. We found the owner, a wizened old guy called Ibrahim. He spoke broken English, but better Italian. I switched to that language to tell him about the medic we’d met with the rebels. Ibrahim was delighted to meet friends of his cousin, and even more delighted when we gave him a thousand dollars and suggested he keep his mouth shut. He sent up a tin bucket full of ice and a crate of Tusker beer.

  It was a thousand dollars well spent. Eyeing the booze, my alcoholic’s logic figured it was only beer. I groaned with pleasure as I chugged a bottle before showering, shaving and re-treating the scratches, gashes and bruises that covered my carcass. I suggested the guys waited in their rooms and did the same until I’d had a look around.

  “That’s the best fucking order you’ve given since we bloody well hit the LZ,” said Bannerman. He climbed into bed, sighed happily and popped open a beer. “Call me when it’s time for tea and medals.” He’d taken a bayonet to his dreadlocks and got Ruben to shave his head in an attempt to look less conspicuous. He’d held onto his Claymore, still sheathed in its camouflaged scabbard. A sword-wielding Scottish skinhead was going to be conspicuous anywhere in Africa, but I wasn’t going to argue.

  Alex Bytchakov was bandaging a shrapnel injury to his shin while Ruben quietly cleaned his weapons. Oz had gone to buy food and clean clothes with a bundle of crisp dollars from our escape funds. Our weapons, cleaner than any of us, lay on a towel on the floor. We had the MG4 and a G36 plus a RPG, three Kalashnikovs, pistols, grenades and enough ammunition to start a small war. I hoped we wouldn’t need to, but the prognosis suggested we would.

  Oz returned from the local market, a bustling souk we’d passed on our way to the hotel. “You can buy more or less anything there,” he reported. “It’s like the world’s biggest knock-off car boot sale.”

  “Car-boot?” said Bytchakov quizzically.

  “Swap-Meet,” I translated.

  Oz dished out clean Chinese copies of popular Western clothes.

  “Fucking hell, this ain’t bad for snide gear,” said Ruben, holding up a pair of not-quite-Diesel jeans.

  “Snide?” asked Bytchakov.

  “Jekyll and Hyde, y’know, snide, as in counterfeit, I thought Yanks spoke English.”

  “They do, they just don’t speak your fucking gutter language, you Cockney wanker,” Bannerman drawled.

  The American scratched his head. “How many languages do you speak in your freaking country?”

  “One,” Ruben chuckled, “except for the Sweaties. Fuck knows what they speak.”

  “Fuck off,” said Bannerman, popping open another beer. “I speak a wee bit of Gaelic, language of bards and fucking kings. I’ll give you fucking Sweaties…”

  “Sweaties?” asked the exasperated American.

  “Sweaty-socks: Jocks. Scotsmen,” Ruben grinned. “You really don’t speak any English, do you?”

  “I give up,” said Bytchakov. “Captain, can you order these monkeys to shut the fuck up?”

  “Fat chance,” I replied, rifling through the clothing. I chose khaki cargo pants with plenty of pockets, a counterfeit Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a pair of sunglasses. I was keeping my own boots. I unzipped one of the side compartments of my pack and stowed my satellite phone, video camera, remaining cash and bottled water inside. Shouldering it, I left the room. My Walther was in a pancake holster, covered by my shirt tails.

  It was time to start making shit happen.

  Ibrahim told me Graziani Beach was where Westerners hung out. The wreckage-strewn beach hugged a shabby strip of Italianate shops, a café and two seedy-looking bars, patrolled by feral-looking soldiers. Locals hawked trinkets to Scandinavian aid workers while Chinese businessmen drank coffee and chain-smoked, barking instructions into their cell phones. Rusting taxis, held together with duct-tape and optimism, lined the streets. There would be a brisk trade in evacuations to the airport when the rebels advanced.

  The Afuuma Lounge appeared to be the most popular joint in town. Faded pink stucco peeled from the shrapnel-scarred walls like a snake shedding its skin. A gaggle of journalists sat in the shade outside, drinking cold Tusker and gossiping.

  As a rule, I don’t like The Media. Most journalists are lazy and dishonest, a bit like me. I’ve found their relentless quest for truth utterly conditional, and secrets are something they tell ten people at a time. But when you were in the shit in a hostile environment, I’d found two groups of people who could usually help you out. Prostitutes were one, journalists the other.

  There didn’t appear to be any whores with high-speed internet access nearby.

  Perched at the bar, I sized up the room as I knocked back chilled lager. A surly waiter suggested grilled local mutton. The Anglosphere media, made up of British, Antipodean and American journalists, sat in a noisy gaggle in the middle of the terrace. There were seven guys and five women drinking beer and babbling into satellite phones. Their local stringers sat at the next table, chain-smoking and playing backgammon. The journalists wore expensive outdoor clothing, a pile of blue-covered body armour and helmets at their feet.

  Their cameramen, bodyguards and producers stood nearby, slaggi
ng off the talent. More than a few production teams I’d met took a jaded view of the Muppets in front of the camera. A few of the TV guys I knew from the Balkan wars and Middle East had been injured because of an ambitious correspondent’s vanity.

  On the other side of the bar sat a gaggle of ripe European blondes in their twenties. I made them as workers for an NGO or charity. They were surrounded by a pack of predatory diplomats, aid workers and gnarly PSC operators. I was pleased to see the PSC guys doing the best job of chatting them up.

  The last group were freelancers. I’d met plenty of them in war zones, young journalists who got a buzz out of the drama, War as an extreme sport. They were having a noisy drinking competition, ignoring the rest of the room. As far as journos went, the war-junkies were OK, a fair few of them ex-military.

  But I’d already spotted my man. He lurked solo, in a shady corner. An ageing lounge-lizard dressed in a crumpled beige safari suit, cowboy boots and a black AC/DC tee-shirt, he exuded been-there, done-that. Lank yellow-grey hair trailed over his shoulders, eyes obscured by a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Bans. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a month, a Romeo Y Julietta smouldering at the corner of his mouth. A half-empty bottle of local Scotch, probably ethanol with caramel food colouring, sat in front of him. He was scribbling notes in a yellow legal notepad with a pencil, oblivious to the end-of-war party going on around him.

  I ordered another beer and took a bar stool next to him. “Hi,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m Adrian Clay.”

  “Nice to meet you Adrian,” he replied in a raspy Australian accent, “Mike Turpin.” He took of his sunglasses, revealing deep-set brown eyes. Offering me his hand, he looked relaxed but amused, like life was a complex practical joke only he understood.

  “I’m looking for a journalist,” I said easily. “I’ve got a story.”

  “Everyone’s got a story in Zambute,” Turpin guffawed. “There’s a fuck-load of journalists over there, mate. They’ll chew your arm off for a story, as long as they don’t have to leave the bar.” He gestured to the foreign correspondents holding court on the terrace.