He spoke the name softly, as if in awe. Even Madar, a young, innocent boy from the city who did not know of al-Shabaab, had heard of them. ‘al-Qaeda.’
So the terror group was using al-Shabaab to do their dirty work for them. But the reaction to the killings would be the same, whether their dead hand was seen on the sword or not.
‘You had better go,’ I told him, ‘before you are missed.’
He nodded and looked relieved. ‘What should I do, Mr Marc? This is a bad thing they do.’ He nodded towards the ruined huts of Dhalib. ‘To the fishermen also. Many people have already left Kamboni. They believe airplanes and soldiers will come and there will be much fighting.’
I didn’t want to tell him that was unlikely, so I said, ‘At the first opportunity, you should leave. Go home. The only thing waiting for you here is death. How did you get here?’
‘By sea. They said that is the only way to avoid the Kenyan army around Kismaayo.’ His face twisted at the memory. ‘I was sick all the way. They thought I was weak, like a girl, and threatened to throw me overboard.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I told him. ‘Some of the greatest sailors in the world were often seasick.’
‘True?’
‘Absolutely. Can you go back that way?’
‘Yes. There are always boats looking for men to help. And I can cook.’ He thrust his chest out, a boy wanting validation among men.
‘Then do that. At least in your home town you have a sister. She will be pleased to see you again.’
‘That is true.’ His eyes grew large. ‘Are you going to attack the house?’
‘No. There are too many men.’ That wasn’t quite true, but I didn’t want to give away any plans I might have. ‘But if they execute the English, everybody in the house will die. You don’t want to be here when that happens.’
‘I understand.’ He frowned, processing the information. It must have been hard for him to take in, and I wondered whether I’d gone too far. If the thought of the house being flattened really freaked him out, he might run back and warn the others.
‘Before you go,’ I said, ‘show me where the two English people are being held.’
He sank to his knees and drew a square on the floor, dividing it roughly into four sections. He prodded the right-hand square at the front of the house, facing the sea, and said, ‘That is the room I have prepared.’ He then pointed to the one behind it, at the rear. ‘This is where I prepare food. Under this floor are steps into a hole – another room. The English are down there.’
‘Locked in?’
He shook his head. ‘No. There is a flat door, but always with two guards watching over it. The English have mattresses and water in buckets. It is not a good place. It smells of death.’
‘Lighting?’
‘They have one flashlight. They asked for candles but Xasan said they might try to burn down the house. He does not trust the big Englishman. I think he is scared of him.’
As well he might be. Tober was in a hell of a situation, but he wouldn’t have been picked for this job if he wasn’t capable of thinking on his feet.
The situation hadn’t been good to begin with. Now it was far worse. I had to let Vale know, although I had no idea what he could do with the information.
‘Get out of here,’ I told Madar. ‘Do it now. When you reach town, keep going and don’t look back.’
He stood up and held out his hand. I shook it gravely. He turned towards town and scurried away into the gloom.
Thirty-Nine
Pryce and Tober listened as the talk went on above their heads. The voices were muted by the thickness of the floor between them, but it was evident that somebody important had arrived and that feelings among the men upstairs were running high, like a charge of electricity.
‘Musa,’ said Angela. She automatically looked towards Tober, although it was so dark down here that she needn’t have bothered. And the flashlight had to be saved for later.
‘I reckon,’ Tober agreed. ‘Excitable bunch, aren’t they? I’m wondering what the gunfire was about.’
Angela waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. She took it as a bad sign.
‘You don’t think this is going to end well, do you?’
‘If I was a betting man, I wouldn’t expect good odds, no.’ His voice was surprisingly calm, and she wondered how he managed it. She had worked with others like him before, but not in situations quite like this. It made her realize that she had been incredibly naïve to have gone into this so willingly. What the hell had she been thinking? She gripped her fists tight to prevent a tremor running through them, and was glad of the darkness to hide in. What chances of a career progression now, she thought? ‘Is there going to be any backup?’
A short silence. ‘I wouldn’t count on it. You know what Moresby said.’
‘Yes.’ Moresby had said they would not be in any danger. Assurances had been given by Xasan and the people behind him that their safety would be guaranteed. That all they were doing was talking. Negotiating. Even so, there was a chance, wasn’t there?
‘So we’ll join the hostages.’
‘Most likely.’
She felt a ripple of irritation at the brevity of his responses. ‘You don’t talk much, do you?’
‘Never felt the need. Why – do you think talk will get us out of here?’
‘No. I don’t. But it might help … to … help.’
She heard a shuffle in the dark, and then felt Tober’s presence alongside her. He didn’t touch her, but stayed a heartbeat away.
‘This any help?’
She smiled and felt reassured. It was enough, under the circumstances.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t sweat it. First op I went on I pissed myself.’
She didn’t believe him but said, ‘Aren’t you scared about what might happen?’
‘A bit. But scared is good; it makes you ready for fight and flight. You give in to fear and you might as well lie down and die.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘Be ready, that’s all. When the time comes, you might get one chance only. If it comes, take it and go.’
‘I will if you will.’ She touched his hand, grateful for the support. When he spoke, she could tell he was smiling.
‘No worries. I’ll be right in front of you.’
Forty
‘I want to know what your contingency plans are if you fail to hear from Pryce and Tober within the next few hours.’ Vale barged into Moresby’s office, past caring what the ops director might do or say. A bad situation had been allowed to deteriorate, and with no word from the two operatives in Somalia, nor from Musa or Xasan, the outlook was looking increasingly grim. They should have heard something by now.
Moresby looked startled, and put down the phone he’d been using. Behind him, lights glowed in the darkness across the river. It was a reminder to Vale that he himself hadn’t been home in days and he was running on reserves of energy that would soon become too depleted to function effectively. He’d done it before, many times – but he’d been younger then, with energy to spare. Now things were different.
‘What do you mean crashing in here?’ Moresby demanded, rising from his seat.
‘Sit down, you idiot.’ Vale threw himself into the visitor’s chair and stared at the senior officer. ‘You’ve fucked up and you know it. You’ve put two people in the wind and have no way of knowing whether they’re alive or dead. It’s time to stop pretending you’ve got a hold on this farce and do something.’
‘The first thing I’ll do if you don’t leave is call security!’ Moresby’s face twisted at the idea. ‘It’ll be quite a scene, having someone of your length of service hauled along the corridor and kicked out of the building.’ He reached for the phone.
‘No, you won’t.’ Vale stared at him with an air of calm. ‘You pick up that thing and I’ll activate a prepared internal memorandum copied to the Joint Intelligence Committee giving chapter and verse of the botch-up you’ve made of this operation.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Of course I would. What do I have to lose? I’ll list the mission and engagement rules you’ve trampled over, the complete absence of any risk assessment or support for the personnel involved, and the way you’ve completely overruled my warnings. In fact, it’s my very length of service and experience that’s your biggest problem right now. I’ve been here, remember; I’ve done it, wrote the bloody book on it – and all without your fancy title.’ He leaned forward. ‘I know I’ll get shunted out immediately as a whistle-blower, probably with an arrest warrant waiting for me before I hit the street. But your career would be over, too. Even the cousins aren’t convinced this was a brilliant idea.’
Moresby finally sat down. ‘What do you mean?’
Vale’s face twitched. ‘The cousins? It’s what we used to call the Americans?’
‘I know that!’ A fleck of spittle left Moresby’s lips. ‘Who said they’re not convinced? Scheider promised coverage, so he’s on board.’
‘Really? What coverage was that?’
‘Over-flights, drones with cameras – you were there; weren’t you listening?’
‘Yes, I was there, but only by chance. That’s something else I’ll be taking up with the powers that be; the fact that I was excluded by omission when I have a watching brief on all ops.’ Vale waved his hand. ‘But that’s for later. The simple fact is, have you received any hard information from the Americans? Any footage? Details on the ground? Radio traffic from the area?’
Moresby hesitated, then said, ‘I haven’t seen everything, no. Frankly, I’ve been too busy. The ops section will alert me if anything develops.’
Vale gave him a pitying look and wondered whether Moresby had ever been down to the ops section since the usual induction tour of the building by all recruits. The operations room in the basement had a twenty-four hour open link with GCHQ taking in their outstations and British embassies worldwide, especially Africa and the Middle East regions. They also collated regular updates from allied sources such as the CIA and NSA. Working on multiple active operations, the ops section analysed and cleaned all information received before passing it on to the relevant directors for further action.
So far, according to the section supervisor Vale had spoken to less than an hour ago, they had received no hard intelligence on the Somali/Kenyan border area, save for some chatter by known terrorist-linked sites and a handful of carefully-worded and obviously coded phone calls in the region which were being followed up and analysed. The supervisor had also mentioned a few brief calls made over an encrypted satellite phone, which they had been unable to unravel due to the sophistication of the system. Vale had expressed vague interest, but nothing more. He knew who was making those calls and calling attention to Portman would serve no useful purpose.
‘What’s with the look?’ Moresby prickled defensively.
‘The ops section has nothing. If you were on top of this operation, as you claim, you would know that. You’d have been down there watching the traffic. I happen to know that the CIA have been refused permission to activate any of their Hale drone units, but have offered a lower-grade drone instead … which isn’t available due to ongoing operational requirements.’
‘That can’t be.’
Vale stared hard in response to Moresby’s incredulous expression. ‘I’m afraid it is. Scheider’s been stamped on from a great height – something that could have been avoided if you’d activated the Special Ops protocol in the first place. That way they’d have been forced to provide cover under the existing Intelligence Share agreement. As it is, with everything else they’ve got going on since 9/11, they only have to share information in the normal way. Anything related to this job might get passed across – but only if they happen to be looking for it and see it. You’ve left that door closed, and with no prioritizing, Scheider’s promises have been countermanded.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Moresby looked furious, but Vale noticed he was making no move to check the facts. He already knew.
‘So what are you going to do about Pryce and Tober – or are you prepared to see their faces splashed all over Al-Jazeera’s next news bulletin?’
For the first time Moresby began to look uncomfortable, as if it was beginning to dawn on him that his planning had been flawed from the outset and was now falling apart.
Vale felt no sympathy for him. ‘Well?’
‘Nothing. I’ll …’ Moresby wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I’ll call Nairobi, get them to contact Xasan. He’s the middleman, he should know what’s going on.’
Vale could barely believe his ears. ‘Xasan’s about as trustworthy as a snake. He’s one of them, don’t you see that? He’s had his fingers in too many hostage deals, all of them making large amounts of money. We’re providing him with goods for his market stall and he’s flogging them right back to us; he can’t lose.’
Vale stood up and stared at Moresby, trying to judge what the man was thinking. But it was like assessing a window dummy. He just hoped to God that there was something other than self-interested jelly inside his head.
‘For Christ’s sake do something,’ he muttered. ‘Before it’s too late.’ With that he turned and walked out.
Moresby sat immobile for a few seconds, numbed by doubt and the ferocity of Vale’s words. Then he shook himself and reached for his phone. He spoke for two minutes, listened for slightly less, then replaced the receiver. A bead of sweat had formed across his brow as the awful realization began to sink that he might have miscalculated in his plans. If what he’d just heard from the MOD liaison officer were true – and he had no reason for thinking otherwise – the SBS detachments on board two Type 23 frigates, with their transport of Lynx helicopters, were still too far away from the coast of Somalia to be of any use for at least another twenty hours.
It was small consolation that he had already reacted, albeit without telling Vale. Alarmed by the silence from Pryce and wary of Vale’s potential for causing waves, he’d requested the MOD just yesterday to have the two frigates currently on pirate patrol in the Gulf region to approach the area and remain on stand-by.
Now it looked like too little too late.
Forty-One
When I was sure Madar wasn’t going to double back, I turned and walked away from the rotting boats and down on to the beach. I took off my shoes and socks and tied them round my neck to avoid leaving shoe prints in the sand.
The fishermen’s boats, I noticed, had been taken away, no doubt for kitting out as attack craft. Only one lay in the shallows, an ancient vessel with its hull deliberately caved in. The pirates’ methodology was as old as time, the message bluntly psychological: take from the population what you can use and destroy the rest.
I moved slowly, wary of wandering locals. But the beach was deserted. The only obstacles I encountered were discarded fishing nets half-covered by sand and a collection of plastic bottles washed up on the shore. I stepped carefully over these; exposure to the sun had baked most of them into a highly brittle state, and stepping on them would set them off like a bunch of firecrackers in the night.
The air by the water was several degrees cooler, and I resisted the temptation to wade in for a refreshing dip. I stopped every few paces, listening for movement and straining my eyes to identify some dark shapes ahead of me. They turned out to be another couple of wrecks gradually being absorbed by the sand, and two ancient and rusted oil drums filled with concrete used to tie up boats when rough weather hit the shore.
Somewhere in the gloom was the skiff that had brought Musa and his bodyguards. That was my marker. From there I only had to take a sharp left turn and move up the sand, and I’d find where the men had stacked the three metal boxes.
My main problem was that it would bring me uncomfortably close to the villa, albeit down in a hollow. But that was something I’d have to deal with. I had to find out what was in those boxes.
After a stop-start progression along the beach, I finally saw a vague
banana shape against the white sand. I stopped, sinking to a squat.
No movement. I crept closer. Beyond the skiff were two more, returned from their earlier journey.
Satisfied that there were no guards watching, I checked out the first boat. It was sleek and narrow, about twenty feet in length, with some kind of light metal framework and folded canvas lying in the bottom, which I guessed was a dismountable shelter. There were two 5-gallon containers of fuel amidships, and two others holding fresh water. I found bundles of clothing and blankets stashed away beneath the bench seats, and the tools of the pirates’ trade – a pile of grappling hooks and rope ladders. A large outboard motor was clamped to the stern and tilted at an angle off the sand.
The other two boats were similarly equipped, and looked ready for spending long periods at sea.
I jumped out of the last skiff and inched my way up the beach until I came to where the boxes had been stacked. They were laid out adjacent to each other but separated by about a foot. Somebody was being very careful to keep them apart.
I wondered why.
I ran my hands over the sides, checking for catches or locks. But they were standard military issue, with simple spring catches and hasps for rapid opening and deployment in battlefield conditions.
I was running one hell of a risk here, because if they were wired with some kind of anti-theft alarm, there was no way I’d spot the mechanism in time. But I figured Musa’s men had no worries about thieves daring to steal from them, so I carefully opened the catch of the first box and eased the lid back, slipping my free hand inside to feel for wires.
All clear.
My fingers came into contact with a flat, cold fabric. Plastic sheeting. I ran my hands along to the ends and sides, which were bound with some kind of sealing tape. I counted five oblong strips, each about ten inches long and three wide. I lifted one of the strips and judged it to be nearly an inch thick. When I was certain there were no wires attached, I gently lifted it out of the box, easing it free from its neighbours. It felt reasonably weighty, and solid to the touch, but not hard. I put it to my nose and sniffed. The only smell was a disturbingly familiar one: faintly chemical, like grease, which probably came from the wrapping, it was the kind of smell that hovers around almost any kind of military equipment, from uniforms to heavy artillery. I had a pretty good idea what I was holding in my hand.
The Watchman Page 17