The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Yeah, no sweat.’ He read out the number. ‘I’ll leave it until this evening. Take care and keep your head down. I’ll be in the area for a while yet, keeping an eye on things.’ He clicked off and I switched on the hearing device and tuned in. Nothing at first, then I picked up a mumble of voices speaking in Somali and the clatter of movement. Early morning stuff, slow and sleep-heavy. No English voices, though.

  I checked through the scope. Two guards patrolling, looking like they’d been up all night. One of them stopped by the waste pit and stared at the ground around it, but didn’t check inside. Then he stared off towards the beach for a moment before shaking his head and continuing his patrol. It looked like the guard had been posted as a runner.

  I called Vale. He sounded as if he hadn’t slept much, either. ‘Our people failed to report in as scheduled yesterday evening,’ he explained without preamble. ‘Moresby received a text from Pryce early in the morning, saying they were leaving Nairobi, but he’s heard nothing since then.’

  ‘They’re here at the villa,’ I told him. ‘I’m monitoring talk in the building but haven’t picked up anything useful yet.’ I mentioned what Madar had said about Musa coming in by sea, and gave him the number of the Skytruck. It was up to him what he did with the information.

  ‘Good. I’m not sure what I can do with this without revealing your presence, but I’ll talk to the Americans. They might be able to spot the plane’s movements on their cameras.’ He hesitated. ‘Did you say you’ve bugged the villa?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks to the wonders of the open market in hi-tech gadgets.’

  ‘Christ, you’re a tricky bugger.’ He sounded almost impressed. ‘The bodyguard’s name is Doug Tober, by the way. He’s ex-Special Boat Service.’

  ‘Good.’ Being ex-SBS carried no guarantees that they would get out of the situation they had been placed in, but it did mean Tober was of the calibre to think fast if the situation arose. I just hoped he wouldn’t have to.

  Vale said goodbye and clicked off and I went back to watching the villa and listening to the audio. There was no sign of anybody leaving to meet up with the Skytruck, and I wondered if it had been told to stay away. At one point Madar came out with food for the two guards. I held my breath as he looked my way for a moment before going back inside. I hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts about telling his colleagues about me. If he did, I was cooked.

  I studied the terrain around me through the scope, and thought about the area inland. I hadn’t seen anywhere better than this on my way into town, but I figured it would be good to have a fall-back position in case things got hairy. Having a large empty space to hide in gave me only a slight advantage if they came looking for me; I’d be able to use the cover of dead ground, and if they got too close, I’d see them coming. But once blown, I’d be out in the open with only that large empty space to run to.

  The sun came up and the heat settled on the ground like a heavy woollen blanket. It brought flies and other bugs, and I sipped water in between squirting military-grade insect repellant around me. It was guaranteed aroma-free and had been developed especially for forward observers in hostile territories where alien fragrances would be instantly noted. I hoped the manufacturers had got genuine Department of Defence approval, otherwise I was going to have a bunch of Somali gunmen sniffing around my hide like dogs on heat.

  Even the guards began to look lethargic, and I tried not to look beyond the villa at the ocean, where birds resembling gannets were swooping and diving into the clear blue water. Above my head a couple of birds I thought might be drongos flitted about in the branches, and I wished them a long and pleasant stay. Anything that smacked to the guards of normality was fine by me.

  Still no recognizable talk from the bug on the house, just a lot of chatter in Somali and the sounds of a bunch of men talking about stuff. Occasionally I heard a drumming sound in the background, but it was impossible to determine what it was.

  But I did recognize the sounds of weapons being dismantled and cleaned. Some things sound the same in every language.

  It was close to midday when things got busy.

  Everything had been quiet for a while, and even the birds had gone to lunch, when I heard engines coming from the direction of Kamboni. I checked my cover and pulled the ghillie around my head and shoulders, and waited to see what was happening.

  From inside the house I could hear a babble of voices, and Xasan trying to get some order.

  Moments later, two pickups skidded to a stop near the villa. They were full of armed men toting AKs, some wearing bandoliers of ammunition slung across their chests. Something told me they weren’t here on a casual outing.

  Some of the men inside wandered out to meet them, and they all exchanged greetings and hugs like long-lost pals. Xasan showed his fat face but stayed in the background like a kid who hadn’t been invited to the party.

  There was a lot of talk, with much gesticulating from Xasan’s men towards the area around the building. I took this to be about the missing guard. But it clearly didn’t interest the newcomers much, and they soon piled back into the pickups and roared off back the way they had come.

  A short while later, as everyone was settling down, a Kenyan military transport plane flew over. The sight of it had the guards and some of the other men running around like chickens, shouting at each other and pointing their rifles at the sky. I watched through the scope as the plane flew out to sea and banked to the right, before making its way back inland and disappearing from sight.

  At that point one of the guards decided he’d had enough excitement and decided to take a pee in the waste pit.

  He stood there doing his thing and eyeing the scenery, then finally he did what all guys do in these circumstances: he looked down to check nothing important had dropped off.

  Then he began shouting.

  It took them ten minutes of arguing and gesticulating before they found a way of getting the dead man out of the pit. It involved two lengths of wood and some rope, and nobody seemed too keen on handling the body or the muck it was covered in. They eventually managed to spill it on to the ground, where they stood and yakked over it at length as if it might suddenly spring back to life.

  Xasan played no part in the proceedings, but he made it pretty clear what he thought: that some idiots can’t walk in a straight line without tripping over their feet. He eventually waved a hand in disgust and waddled away, leaving them to it.

  After more talk, three men wrapped the body in an old tarpaulin and took it out of sight, while the others went back inside the house.

  Minutes later I heard some banging and shouting through the audio feed, and a very English female voice.

  ‘Why have you got us shut in down here?’

  Angela Pryce, and she sounded pissed.

  The next voice I heard was in heavily accented English. I assumed it was Xasan.

  ‘You have five minutes to clean yourselves. Then you can eat.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Pryce’s voice was hoarse and dry and I guessed they had been locked in somewhere since arriving yesterday. It couldn’t have been pleasant with the heat and the rough conditions, and whatever they had been fed would have been cold rations. ‘What was all the shouting about?’

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ Xasan said snappily. ‘If you do not do as I say, Mr Tober will be shot. It is your choice.’

  ‘Like you ordered the ranger shot down, you mean?’

  Piet.

  I grabbed my sat phone and hit the speed dial to call him, thinking Pryce really shouldn’t have given away the fact that they had understood Somali. You never, ever let the opposition know you understand more than they think. Once you do that, you’ve lost whatever small advantage you might have had.

  As the phone began ringing at the other end, I heard the distant pops of gunshots drifting in on the air.

  Thirty-Five

  The shot was a fluke, Piet de Bont figured. Nobody got that good first time, not against a moving ta
rget high overhead. It zinged off one of the wheel struts and set off a vibration through the framework, and that was close enough for him.

  ‘Bastard!’ He automatically put the nose down, taking the microlight to starboard while searching below for signs of drifting gun smoke. He’d been shot at enough times by poachers to know the signs, and most were merely a warning to stay away. The poachers knew he was in no position to shoot back. They also knew he had radio contact with his base at the KWS and experience told them that it would take time for an armed patrol to get out here. By then they’d be long gone.

  But this was different. There were no poachers in this immediate area so close to the border – he’d already checked. And the sudden appearance of a bullet hole in the fabric of the wing just above his head meant this was no warning. They were shooting for real.

  They wanted him dead.

  The engine howled as he struggled to lose height fast enough while getting as far away from the shooter as possible. Over-committing and folding everything around him wouldn’t do him any good; with over a thousand feet to go he’d be dead. He looked down, checking for signs of a vehicle; the poachers didn’t walk in to pursue their trade, but drove in and out, ready to move fast if a patrol showed up.

  Nothing. The heat haze was making everything shimmer, and although he thought he caught a glimpse of a pickup at one point, he’d shifted position before he could zero in on it.

  He aimed for a point about a kilometre away, dropping as fast as he dared to give the shooter the impression that he was damaged and going in hard. He wasn’t too concerned about the hole; the fabric was unlikely to tear unless it got hit on the trailing edge, then it would rip right through. But damage to the frame was more serious. No frame, no flight.

  End of game.

  As he coasted in above a section of narrow track, he felt his cell phone buzzing in his breast pocket. Not his base, then; they’d have used the radio. Had to be Portman. He focussed on the ground ahead as the wheels clipped some long grass at the side of the track. It was safe to land here and he’d got a fuel and water cache nearby for emergencies. He came to a stop and leapt out, reaching for his rifle. If the shooter decided to come visit and finish him off, he’d be in for a surprise. Piet knew the bush and was expert at using the most minimal of cover as camouflage. After spending a couple of years on border patrol with the South African NDF, dodging poachers, smugglers and groups of armed intruders, often out for a couple of weeks at a time, he could vanish as effectively as any wild game.

  He took out his cell phone and rolled beneath the cover of a dried thorn bush.

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘You OK? I heard shots.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. What makes you think they were firing at me?’

  Portman relayed the brief conversation he’d overheard in the villa.

  Piet muttered an oath. ‘I thought it was poachers. What the hell are these people doing? The moment I get on the radio, they’ll have the KWS, army and border patrols all over them.’ He took the phone away from his ear for a moment to listen for sounds of an approaching vehicle, but everything was quiet save for the buzz of insects.

  ‘I don’t think they were giving it much thought. There’s a man named Xasan, a middleman, whose nominally in charge but he doesn’t look like he’s getting much respect from the men. He was probably trying to show how tough he is.’

  ‘Well, my wing’s got a hole in it and I’m pretty sure there’s a dent on one of my struts, so your Mr Xasan had better get ready; if I get him in my sights he’s a dead man. Daisy cost me good money!’

  Portman’s dry chuckle echoed down the line. ‘Good to hear you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

  ‘Not yet, I haven’t. So what’s happening with you?’

  ‘Not much. A lot of talk, but I think somebody else is due to come in. Could be why they’re jumpy. Stay in touch.’

  ‘Will do.’ Piet switched off.

  Thirty-Six

  It was late afternoon when I saw Xasan step out of the front door. He was followed by two of his men and walked to the edge of the property and stared out to sea, shading his eyes against the dying sun. He turned and looked at them once and shook his head, and I could see he was sweating. Heat or nerves? Moments later they were joined by others who stood in the background, eyes on the horizon.

  Then they all got skittish and started looking at each other and slapping arms like it was Mardi Gras … or whatever feast day they liked to celebrate. Even Xasan managed a grim smile as he turned and tried to join in the celebrations.

  I saw what had aroused their attention: three skiffs were heading for land, their slim shapes head-on nearly invisible without the aid of the scope. No wonder the security guys on the tankers had such a hard time spotting them; hugging the waves, they had virtually no profile and offered little in the way of a useful target.

  By the time they reached the shore, everyone was standing in a line across the garden overlooking the sand, a ragged welcoming committee of men waving their rifles like something out of a spaghetti western.

  The skiffs came in fast and smooth, the first one disgorging three men. The other two beached either side and their crews each proceeded to unload a number of bags, which I figured were supplies, and three green metal boxes which looked military in design. I snapped a bunch of photos and hoped Vale could do something with them.

  The men from the lead boat walked up the beach, leaving the rest to do the heavy lifting. The man in the middle was tall and thin and carried himself almost regally with long, steady strides, his eyes straight ahead as if unconcerned with whatever might be going on around him. And why should he? He was the boss man.

  Yusuf Musa.

  He wore a small skullcap with a scarf looped loosely over the top, and the traditional skirt, kameez shirt and a waistcoat. A belt across his chest carried a line of shells and a slim cross-strap holding a cell phone like a badge of office. It wasn’t exactly traditional, but I guess if he was important, he could wear whatever he chose.

  As he came nearer and I zeroed in on his face, the feeling of familiarity that I’d had before suddenly came rushing in on me.

  He was a spit for Osama Bin Laden.

  I settled lower in my hide and kept the scope on him. He approached Xasan and acknowledged him with a curt nod, giving the fat man something to get excited about at last. They embraced briefly and Xasan talked volubly, gesturing towards the other side of the house. When two of the men from the villa broke away and came back moments later dragging the loaded tarpaulin, it was obvious Xasan had decided to get in quick and spill the beans about the dead guard.

  I watched Musa’s face. As an authority figure, I reckoned he’d be bored by this little exercise in sucking up by Xasan. But I was wrong. His head jerked up at the sight of the tarpaulin and he snapped an instruction which had everyone jumping to attention. The two men carrying the tarpaulin flipping it open so that Musa could inspect the contents.

  Then he said something and Xasan pointed to a man standing to one side.

  The second guard.

  Musa called him forward. The man shuffled over, the others parting to make way for him. Musa asked questions, using a lot of finger stabbing in the air, and the guard replied, looking miserable.

  Then Musa held out a hand.

  With a chill feeling I knew what was coming.

  One of his men handed over his AK. Musa spun it round a couple of times, like a fancy marine guard of honour. On the third spin, he turned it and jabbed the butt viciously into the guard’s face, knocking his head back and raising a spray of blood from his smashed mouth and nose. He said something else, but the guard was too stunned to answer, barely able to stay on his feet. With an almost casual air, Musa raised the AK and placed the top of the barrel against the doomed man’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

  As he did so, he smiled.

  The shot was flat and already fading as it carried up the slope to me, like it didn’t want to make a
fuss about what it had just done. The dead guard was carted away by two men on Musa’s instructions, and seconds later I saw it being tipped into the waste pit.

  For a long moment nobody moved. It was like they were stuck in the sand, not daring to be the first to break ranks. Then Musa pointed to the beach and some men moved away and fetched the three metal boxes, which they placed on the sand just down from the house. Musa watched them, nodding in approval, and after posting his two companions on guard outside, he followed Xasan into the villa.

  I realized that I’d been holding my breath and let it out in one go. I’d seen summary justice before, but never witnessed it done so casually. Musa had clearly been intent on making a point, even stamping his authority on the men. But he’d also enjoyed it, as if it were an act of theatre.

  It left me with a bad feeling.

  Everything eventually settled down and the two supply skiffs cast off and disappeared towards the south at speed, their powerful engines echoing across the water. They were hugging the coast and probably heading for Kamboni. The new guards went inside and were replaced by two more. Suddenly everything about the place had taken on a fresh buzz, as if the atmosphere had been injected with a sense of urgency.

  Two more guards came out after a while and took up positions, this time with a snap and fully alert. One of them, older and darker than his companion, began walking across the rear of the villa, studying the terrain around him and sniffing the air like a hunting dog. His AK-47 had an extended barrel like mine – a shooter’s rifle. Unlike the other men, his was cleaned and oiled, and he carried it across his body, leading me to suspect that he’d seen military service somewhere.

  I watched as the range of his patrol became wider and wider, moving inexorably up the slope towards me, his face sombre and focussed.

  Fifty metres and closing.