The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “We want to know if he is dead,” said Xaashi bluntly.

  “My sister has to know,” agreed Cawaale matter-of-factly. “He is her favourite.”

  One of the men began to wail when the boy’s possible death was mentioned. The others patted his back until he was quiet.

  “I can only tell you many kids died in the mine,” I said. “Maybe fifty or so, but the army officer we captured said his men set the others free. Even they seemed unhappy at what happened.”

  “And the army officers and the Chinese engineers?” he asked.

  “All dead,” I replied. “The rebels made sure of that.”

  “That is only proper,” Cawaale nodded. “I have seen this video but I did not see my nephew. Maybe he is in the countryside.”

  “He might have joined the rebels,” said Xaashi hopefully.

  “I was with one of Abasi’s men at the mine, a rebel officer called Tony Ismael. He’s Anglo-Zambutan, a good man. If you can get word to him, he’ll ask around.”

  Cawaale said something in Swahili. Two of the men nodded respectfully before leaving the room. “I tell them to speak with someone close to General Abasi,” he explained. “I have decided to support the rebels. We will help drive Aziz’s men out of Afuuma.” There was nothing triumphant in his words, just sad resignation.

  “Good,” said Xaashi. “I’ve seen bad things over the years, but letting those bastards dynamite children like that?”

  Cawaale nodded at his brother’s words and gripped my hand. “I thank you for coming to speak with me,” he said gravely. “There is nothing more you can do. Please understand that before I make a decision like this, I needed to speak with a witness.”

  “I understand,” I said. And I did. As far as I was concerned, my country had gone to war on flimsier evidence than Cawaale Warfa had asked for.

  “Good,” he replied. “Now, you wish to travel north on the Via Roma?”

  I explained that I wanted to meet my friends near the villa known as The Red House.

  “This can be dangerous, I’m sure you’ve heard about the Jihadis,” Cawaale said. “Xaashi will take you with one of my cousins here.” He said a few words in Swahili and one of the men stood up, slinging a heavy black rifle.

  “Yes,” Xaashi replied, looking at his watch. “Let’s go.”

  “Thanks Mike,” I said to the journalist.

  “Hey, thank you,” he replied, a knowing smile on his lips. “I might see you around.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  The kid who was watching the cars burst into the room, rifle slung across his chest. He was shouting excitedly in Swahili, the other men swarming around him.

  “What is it?” I said to Mike.

  “The Presidential Commando 2nd Regiment is here, to reinforce the army,” he translated. “The kid says there are hundreds of them, and they’ve brought tanks. The 2nd Regiment is Aziz’s own bodyguard, an elite unit.”

  “What about the rebels?” I asked.

  The journalist smiled, “Abasi’s forces have been reinforced in the south, are advancing on Afuuma. I’d better get down there.”

  I looked Mike up-and-down, taking in his scruffy suit and cowboy boots. “You’re going to war like that?” I said.

  “Sure I am. Look at yourself, mate,” he laughed. “You’re the one dressed up like a pimp who wandered off the set of Miami Vice.”

  “This is no time for jokes,” grunted Xaashi, grabbing my upper arm and steering me towards the door. “We will take you to the Red House.”

  “Sounds safer than here,” I replied.

  The Zambutan’s laugh was bitter. “If you think heading north is any safer than going south, then you are an even bigger fool than you look.”

  I heard the crump of shells as I was bundled into the Mercedes.

  The war had reached Afuuma.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Xaashi drove fast along bumpy roads, vehicle suspension groaning in protest. Black smoke billowed from the docks, tinged with flame.

  “That’s the rebels?” I asked.

  “Yes, they have sympathisers in Afuuma, people willing to, how do you say in English? Make sabotage.”

  Then we were speeding along the Via Roma, the road crossing orange-tinted desert. To the east, the Indian Ocean glittered under a late afternoon sun. Army trucks and APCs trundled south, carrying soldiers of the Presidential Commando. They wore red berets and pristine combat uniforms, their weapons modern and well-maintained. They looked battle-seasoned and dangerous, not like the men we’d fought at the bridge.

  They ignored the battered taxi.

  “Bastards,” hissed Xaashi.

  We left the highway, onto a pitted track. “The Red House is another two miles,” he said. “It used to be the compound of a pirate, a Somali. He was killed by the Americans. They said he was with the Shadow of Swords or Al-Shabaab.”

  “Who lives there now?”

  “Nobody, the place is abandoned. To live there is to invite bandits, bastards like the Xaboyo.”

  I remembered the Xaboyo tribesman we’d shot out near Buur Xuuq, the mercenaries Tony Ismael described. The Xaboyo scout didn’t strike me as especially fearsome, but I wouldn’t want to fight a battalion of them on their home ground.

  I saw a long line of spiky trees, fringing dead ground between a series of baked earth hillocks. It’s where I’d have hidden if I were establishing a secure RV. “Is the terrain like this all the way to the Red House?” I asked.

  “No, it is barren beyond this point. There used to be fields and an orchard, now it is just dead land.”

  “Pull over,” I said. Opening the car door, I walked to the side of the road and waved.

  Alex Bytchakov emerged from the bushes nearby, expertly camouflaged with foliage. A smile split his dusty, craggy face.

  “These are my people,” I explained to Xaashi.

  “The others are nearby,” Bytchakov reported. “We’ve run recon.”

  “I’ll be OK now,” I said to Xaashi. “Thanks for your help. I hope your brother finds the kid.”

  The Zambutan grunted in acknowledgement. I peeled off a wad of banknotes and passed it to him.

  “No, I do not take your money,” he replied gruffly. “My brother told me to do you a favour. Any debt was paid when you agreed to meet him.”

  I nodded respectfully. He turned the car and headed back towards Afuuma.

  “Who the hell was he?” asked Bytchakov.

  I explained about my visit to the Warfa clan and the army advancing on Afuuma. “We’re well out of it,” I said.

  The American led me through the trees, to a shady gully. Oz, Bannerman and Ruben were sitting in the shade, brewing tea. They wore a mixture of fatigues and civilian clothes under their body armour. I felt glad to be back with them and began to relax.

  “I thought it was a cliché, you Brits and the tea thing,” Bytchakov chuckled.

  “Have they got you drinking tea yet?” I asked.

  “Hey, I’m half-Russian, I love green tea. Just not that milky shit you guys drink.”

  “Ah, Steve-fucking-McQueen returns,” said Bannerman. “You made it over the Swiss border, then?”

  Oz laughed and emptied sugar into his steel mug of tea. Banter was a sign of good morale, although I was sure Bannerman would crack jokes stood in front of a firing squad. Ruben was still quiet, sharpening a combat knife with a whetstone.

  “You found your way here OK then?” I said.

  “None of us are officers,” Bannerman shrugged. “So we can read a map.”

  Oz explained they’d dropped Ibrahim and his daughter in the old town before escaping. Ruben had mysteriously found ten thousand dollars in his kit, which he gave them for their trouble. They encountered no police and were given directions to the Via Roma by friendly locals, who had no love for the paramilitary police. “We used the micro-drone to recce the Red House when we arrived,” Oz continued. “Then I went for a look myself.”

  “First t
hings first,” I said. “Please tell me you brought my stuff.” I looked down at my tragic shoes, which pinched my feet. To corrupt Woody Allen’s old dictum, Hell’s fine as long as you’ve got the right footwear.

  The guys laughed and pointed at my assault pack. Inside were my precious Lowa boots and fatigue pants. I changed, strapping on my belt kit and zipping a dusty windcheater over my polo shirt and body armour. Sipping tea, Bytchakov passed me an energy bar, which I wolfed down in two bites. I had a brew, some calories and comfortable boots. Happy with these luxuries, I sat on my pack, using it as a cushion.

  Oz drew a map in the earth with a stick. “It’s an old villa, three floors with some crappy old sheds and out-buildings to the rear. There’s a compound to the front, with a three metre wall. That’s old mud-brick, covered in plaster. The villa itself is sort of Arabian Nights, you know, domes and stuff with satellite dishes on the roof.”

  “What about the enemy?” I asked.

  “Yeah, we’ve seen at least six gunmen cutting about on the plot. They spend most of their time smoking spliff and lazing about in front of the villa.”

  “No sign of Hugo?” I asked. “Are there any vehicles?”

  Bannerman pointed at the sketch, towards the furthermost point of the building. “We’ve seen at least one person in civvy clothing, they look European but the imagery on the drone is’nae good enough to confirm ID. There are some pick-ups parked in the compound and a jetty to the side of the building. I saw a couple of wee boats at the end of it.”

  Ruben looked up from his shadowy perch, combat blade gleaming. “We ain’t got time to wait for dark,” he growled. “Let’s slot the locals and get in there, do the business and go home.”

  He may have been motivated by revenge, but he had a point. I’d learnt the hard way that an average plan executed with aggression and speed is better than a complex plan carried out slowly. The philosophy served me well on The Firm, where we were used to being dropped in the shit and expected to make the most of it. “Oz, what do you think?”

  “The walls at the western apex of the building line are weak as fuck, held together with chicken wire and baked mud,” he nodded. “I say Alex pulls sniper duty again to keep the guards busy. Meanwhile we ram the wall with the Toyota, win the fire fight then time for tea and medals.”

  “Shock an’ fuckin’ awe,” Bannerman grinned. He unsheathed the Claymore, the double-edged fighting blade gleaming. “It’s about time this beauty saw some action.”

  Bytchakov shook his head and cackled, “Jesus, Bannerman, you crack me up.”

  “I’m serious, ‘tis the weapon of my forefathers.”

  “I thought that was the head-butt,” Ruben sniped.

  Banter is like a morale gauge. As long as the men were trash-talking, we were fine. I’d start worrying when they stopped. We readied our weapons and kit until we were happy to go. The only issue was ammunition: I only had four full magazines for the AK, and three for my Walther. We had one grenade each.

  “Five bombed-up magazines,” said Bannerman, making his G36 ready.

  “Four,” shrugged Ruben.

  “Ditto,” said Oz.

  “Twelve,” said Bytchakov, sharing out his spares, “American ingenuity in action.”

  “More than I had on the start line in Iraq,” I shrugged. I climbed into the driver’s seat, gunning the Toyota up onto the track leading to the villa.

  We drove slowly for a mile, peering into the distance until the domed roof of the villa appeared on the horizon. The Red House was painted in a dark ochre colour, like dried blood. Looking for cover, we drove along a series of sun-baked irrigation channels, stopping a hundred metres from the gate. I parked in the shade of a gnarled tree, providing some cover from the spiteful sun. Bannerman wiped the sheen of sweat from his face with a forearm. Even though we were only an hour from dusk, we steamed inside our body armour. The gentle ocean breeze was gone. Smoke curled from a fire from somewhere inside the compound.

  In the back of the Toyota Ruben crouched, like a pit-bull straining at its leash. “Come on,” he hissed.

  “Cool it,” I said, keying the mic on my PRR. “Alex we’re ready when you are.”

  “Listen to Cal,” Oz agreed. “We’ll make it right for Raph, OK?”

  “OK,” said an American accent over our PRR net, “let’s get this party started.” Our heads whipped around as we heard the familiar whoosh as Bytchakov opened fire with the RPG. A shimmering flash erupted along the first floor balcony of the Red House, a vortex of crumbling masonry and smoke. A ribbon of smoke curled along the domed roof.

  “Go!” Oz barked.

  I gunned the Toyota’s engine. Bannerman saw movement to our right and opened fire, single shots whipping across the top of the walls. Ruben joined in, both G36s spitting fire. A ragged figure standing on a balcony spun out of sight.

  “There,” said Oz, pointing to the apex of the walls. As he’d described, they were badly in need of repair. Wire and wattle-and-daub had been slapped on to keep them intact, ossified mortar crumbling from jagged gaps in the masonry.

  Aiming the Toyota like a battering ram, I braced myself for impact. In the back, Bannerman and Ruben curled up on the deck of the old truck. The truck smashed into the wall, the dull smack of metal-on-stone ringing in my ears. The force of the collision snaked from the steering wheel and along my arms, like an electric shock.

  Then we were inside the compound, debris from the wall in our hair and at our feet.

  “Move,” said Oz calmly, hopping out of the shattered truck as bullets zinged off the bodywork. The wall had crumbled low enough to scramble over but provide cover. The front wheels of the truck were perched on a pile of rubble, engine fluid pissing from the engine.

  More incoming rounds splashed against the chassis. Oz stalked across the compound, Bannerman close behind. Both opened fire, calmly putting down aimed shots at unseen enemy shooters.

  “I’m with you,” said Ruben, weapon shouldered.

  I accelerated forward, the truck’s belly-plate groaning as it scraped over the rubble. Ten metres from the front door, the engine finally died. Looking into the compound, Oz gave a signal for us to move.

  Darting towards the Red House, I saw three bodies splayed on the packed-dirt floor. Another ran towards a pair of ornate double doors at the front of the villa. Ruben fired a burst, the shooter falling to his knees. I aimed and fired a single shot from my AK, the bullet blasting through his ribcage. His twitching body rolled into a blood-soaked ball.

  “No shoot!” said a heavily-accented voice from the doorway. A wiry Somali appeared, wearing a long grey cloak and sandals. He looked shit-scared.

  “Down, on the floor,” I barked in Arabic, “Lasfl 'ela alard!”

  The Somali hit the deck. Ruben covered me as I searched him, Oz and Bannerman taking position at the doors to the villa. The guy was unarmed, an abandoned AK lying in the doorway. Patting him down, I took two spare magazines and stuffed them in my pockets.

  “Sorry mate,” Ruben shrugged. He smacked the Somali on the side of the head with his rifle butt, knocking him unconscious.

  “Come out,” shouted Oz into the villa. “Before the grenades go in.”

  “It’s OK,” called a shaky voice. It was Hugo Jackson. “I’m OK, come in. Thank god you’ve arrived.”

  “Let me do the talking,” I said. “And Ruben, cool it and wait for my signal.”

  “Yes Captain,” he glowered.

  We ducked into the hall and advanced upstairs, onto a landing with marble floors. Another of the guards was curled up in a corner, lying in a glistening pool of blood where the RPG had struck. I gestured for Oz and Bannerman to cover the stairs while Ruben and I walked towards a cavernous room overlooking the sea. It was empty apart from some camping equipment, a breeze gusting through broken windows.

  I saw movement within a deep swathe of shadow. It was Hugo Jackson, sitting on a rickety wooden chair, head in hands. He looked in good shape to me, wearing clean outdoor c
lothes and new-looking boots. At his feet lay a laptop computer and a satellite phone. “We were taken hostage,” he said, looking up at us.

  “You look in pretty good shape for a hostage,” I replied. “Are you armed?”

  He shook his head. His usual friendly demeanour had gone, replaced with naked suspicion.

  I nodded at Ruben, who covered Hugo while I patted the SIS man down. A P-226 was tucked in his waistband. I pocketed the pistol, “funny bit of kit for a hostage.”

  “My brother was killed, Hugo, because you’re a fucking wrong ‘un,” said Ruben. His voice was raspy, laden with menace.

  Hugo’s face was a mask, eyes focussed on an imaginary point on the far wall. He said nothing.

  Ruben’s voice was larded with scorn. “Oh, you’ve had counter-interrogation training? What a load of bollocks. Do you think I’m going to shout at you or just give you a slap? Or put you into a stress position, play you white noise?”

  A strained noise came from Hugo’s mouth, the SIS officer drinking up the malice in the ex-marine’s eyes.

  “No,” Ruben continued, “I’m going to peel you. I’m going to cut your lips off, and your ears and your nose and your fucking eyelids.” He pulled his double-edged fighting knife from its scabbard, the matte blade gleaming dully.

  Hugo started rocking on the crappy wooden chair. It looked like it might collapse. He gazed at me, eyes wide and wet.

  “Are you looking at me for help?” I said quietly. “Tough shit, son, you rolled the dice.”

  “And you lost, Hugo,” Ruben smiled. “Do you know what a sky burial is?”

  “Yes,” Hugo replied, lip quivering.

  “Tell me, college boy,” Ruben smiled. “Impress us with your knowledge.”

  “It’s the practice of leaving dead bodies in high places instead of burying them. They used to do it in parts of Mongolia and Tibet. They let the birds and elements pick the body clean.”