He was the first to fire, as Langan took a flying dive across the nearest wall. He might have been the first to die too, but it was hard to tell. All three Provos were shredded by fire from Stanley, Wynwood and Sansom before they had gone three paces. The driver of the car was still wrestling frantically with the gear lever when the windows of his vehicle were blown away by the redirected fire, and there was a momentary glimpse of something red collapsing out of sight.
A dreadful stillness settled on the scene.
Langan was already in the front seat of the van, talking on the radio, telling someone or other to seal off the road. ‘They’re all yours,’ he was saying. ‘We’ll be out of here … yeah, well, we’re all a bit shy, you know how it is …’
Sansom walked across, having examined the body in the car. ‘His head would make a great pincushion,’ he reported laconically. He looked down at the other three, spread-eagled across the grass verge. ‘Looks like the Armagh Brigade will be needing some new recruits,’ he added.
Wynwood forced himself to look at the men he had just helped to kill. He did not know their names, had never even seen their faces. He had an urge to tear off the balaclavas, and at least get some sense of who they were – who they had been – but he restrained himself. It was partly, he admitted to himself, that he did not want to appear concerned in front of the others, but it was also partly because he knew it was unnecessary. He had no need to see their faces to know they had been human beings. He had just helped to kill four men – four terrorists who would have killed them with an equal lack of compunction. No matter what the fucking government in London said, this was a war. The IRA said it was, and the SAS believed them.
But Wynwood had never killed anyone before, and he was not quite sure what he was supposed to feel. It had been so quick. Ten hours of waiting and about ten seconds of death. He did not feel like throwing up – nor guilty, angry, excited or happy. If anything, he just felt sad. And maybe a little numb.
Stanley put a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘All part of death’s rich pageant,’ he said. Wynwood became aware of the sound of an approaching helicopter, and almost immediately a Lynx hove into sight above the hill behind them. The pilot put it down in the field behind the barn, and at Langan’s signal the four SAS men trotted across to climb aboard.
Wynwood had one last glimpse of the shattered car and scattered corpses, before the pilot swung the Lynx away to the east.
Taal arrived at the Legislative Assembly in Banjul shortly before noon. The rest of the twelve-man Revolutionary Council was in session around the long table in the conference room, discussing the changes in educational policy they wanted to introduce. Taal felt a pang of sadness. It was with such intentions in mind that he had joined Jabang and the Socialist and Revolutionary Labour Party, and yet it was hard to imagine a less appropriate subject for discussion on this particular morning. Mamadou Jabang, he noticed, even had a smile on his face. Taal felt like a – what did the Americans call it? – a party pooper. In more ways than one.
‘Comrade,’ Jabang cut short the young man who was speaking, ‘we must interrupt this discussion for a report from the Defence Minister. Junaidi?’
Taal thought about standing and decided not to waste his energy. ‘I have not brought any good news,’ he said shortly, and watched eleven faces react to the statement. ‘As you no doubt know, the Senegalese have landed several hundred paratroops in the area to the north of the airport, around Kerewan. They are advancing on the airport, and will take it sometime within the next few hours …’
‘What happened to our troops?’ one voice asked, more in confusion than anger.
‘They are fighting bravely,’ Taal said, though since his departure they could, for all he knew, have scattered like rabbits. ‘But they are outgunned and outnumbered. The enemy has mortars and air power, and the most we can hope for is to slow them down. They will take the airport, probably wait while they fly in more troops, and then they will start advancing along the road to Serekunda and …’
‘How long do we have, Junaidi?’ Jabang asked quietly.
‘I would guess that they will be in Banjul by tomorrow morning,’ Taal said. ‘At the latest.’
Everyone seemed to start talking at once, and for almost a minute it seemed to Taal as if a collective panic was seizing hold of all those present.
But not Jabang. He got to his feet and stood there, not saying anything, reducing the rest to silence merely by the force of his personality. ‘Comrades,’ he said finally, ‘we never believed this would be easy. And now we know for certain it will be hard. Jawara and his Senegalese friends have the military power – that is plain. There is no way that we can win on that battlefield. So …’ He looked round at them all. ‘What power do we have? What can we use? How do we stop their soldiers if not with soldiers of our own?’
There was a silence.
‘What do we have?’ Jabang said softly, as if he was asking himself. ‘We have the support of the mass of the people, but that will mean nothing if we cannot hold onto power. We have our dedication, and our willingness to work for the regeneration of our country, but all this will mean nothing if we cannot retain power. You see, Jawara and the Senegalese put no value on what the people want, or on our dreams for the country. So what do we have that they do put a value on?’
‘His wife and children,’ Sharif Sallah said.
‘The Senegalese envoy,’ said another voice.
‘And all the white tourists,’ a third man added.
There was another silence, as the meeting contemplated such a step.
‘They will call us terrorists,’ someone said.
‘They already call us that,’ another replied.
‘That is not the point,’ Junaidi Taal said quietly. He now knew he had been expecting this moment, without realizing he was expecting it, ever since they had known that the Senegalese were on their way. ‘Whether or not they call us terrorists or criminals is of no importance,’ he went on. In any case, they had already crossed that line when they emptied Banjul Prison. ‘What matters is whether it will work.’
‘How will we know that unless we try?’ someone asked.
Taal grimaced. ‘What are we going to do – threaten to kill Lady Chilel and the Senegalese envoy? In what circumstances? Does anyone really think the Senegalese will stop their army because of one man and his family? Or that Jawara will agree to give up the country in exchange for the life of one of his wives? And the fattest and ugliest one at that?’ He allowed himself a smile, but there was no humour in it.
‘Perhaps the white tourists would make better hostages,’ Sallah suggested. Jawara and the Senegalese would not dare to go against the wishes of the English and French.’
‘There are no French tourists,’ Taal said. ‘And it is the Senegalese we have to stop.’
‘This is true,’ Jabang agreed. ‘And I think Junaidi may be right in this matter. But …’ He paused, looking sadly at Taal. ‘I’m afraid I can see no other course of action open to us. If threats do not work, we have not lost anything …’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Except for the good reputation we already lack. I recommend we put Mustapha Diop and Lady Jawara on the radio, and try to bluff them. At the very least it may win us some time. And who knows what can happen then? Perhaps the Senegalese opposition will come out for us, and make it more difficult for Diop to help Jawara.’ He looked pointedly at Taal, as if asking for a response.
Taal was trying to remember another of those English phrases – his head seemed full of them today. Whistling in the dark – that was it. Highly appropriate in Banjul. ‘No one will be happier than I will if we can stop the Senegalese with a bluff,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘But in the meantime I must be getting back to Yundum.’ And to the real world, he said to himself.
Alan Caskey made his way to Records, where he found the formidable figure of Sergeant Rainey with his feet up, a half-eaten ham roll in one huge paw, listening to the cricket on a small transistor radio. If Caskey h
ad not already known it was a quiet time for the Regiment, the sight of Rainey taking it easy, even in his lunch hour, would have convinced him. Since his disablement in Oman, Rainey had set about duplicating the raw data of Regimental Records in his own mind, and of pursuing avenues of cross-checking of which no one had previously dreamed. It was rumoured that he occasionally went home to his wife, but no one could actually swear to seeing him leave the barracks.
‘Any wickets yet?’ Caskey asked, making himself a seat by moving a stack of files to the floor. He idly wondered how Rainey would adapt to the imminent computerization. Like a fish to water, probably.
‘No, boss. Is this a business call?’
‘Yep. But keep eating. I need someone who has been to The Gambia, preferably in the not too distant past.’
Rainey was silent for a while. ‘I may be able to help you there,’ he then said, carefully balancing the remains of his roll on the corner of a typewriter and getting up. He limped down the line of filing cabinets, opened the one at the end, and extracted a file. A quick glance inside it made him smile.
‘Success?’ Caskey asked rhetorically.
Rainey limped back and handed him the file. It belonged to one Trooper Joss Wynwood.
‘Honeymoon,’ Rainey said. ‘Last year. And I think he’s the only one, but I’ll check.’ He reached for one of several card-index boxes, and flicked through its contents. ‘He’s the only current member of the Regiment listed under The Gambia,’ Rainey confirmed. ‘But Simon McGrath – remember him?’ he asked.
‘I know of him, but we’ve never really met. I think our terms tended to alternate rather than overlap.’
‘Well, he’s out there now as head of a technical assistance team supplied by the Royal Engineers. In a civilian capacity, that is. Help with bridge-building, I think. Someone at REME HQ will know the details.’
‘Do you have a file on him?’
‘Of course.’
‘OK, well I need to borrow his, Wynwood’s here and Trooper Worrell Franklin’s. And I promise to bring them all back.’
‘You’d better,’ Rainey said over his shoulder. ‘Boss,’ he added as an afterthought.
Sibou Cham was halfway through extracting a bullet from a child’s forearm when the new Minister of Health arrived. The bullet’s force must have been almost spent, because it had simply gouged itself an inch or so into the softer flesh, far enough to cause the girl excruciating pain but not far enough to do her any lasting damage. As it was, she was being a lot braver than Sibou could imagine herself being at such an age.
The new Health Minister did not seem impressed by this delay to his progress, and Lamin Mansebe, the Royal Victoria’s chief administrator, was obviously keen to impress. ‘Dr Cham, surely that can wait for a few minutes,’ he said. ‘Mr Sabally does not have much time to spare.’
She looked up at the two of them: Mansebe with his tinted glasses and Sabally, a tall, wide-browed man who was probably younger than she was. ‘This will only take a few minutes more,’ she said, and went back to her work.
‘It is good to see there is still one place where ordinary people have equal access to health care,’ Sabally said. ‘We shall of course be expanding the state sector,’ he added quietly, as if he might be guilty of betraying a confidence.
What with? Sibou wondered, as she placed the gauze across the girl’s wound.
‘Of course, the Royal Victoria has a long tradition of serving the whole community,’ Mansebe said self-importantly.
And serving it badly, Sibou thought to herself.
‘It will be the model for the new service,’ Sabally said.
Sibou fastened the bandage and stood up. ‘How can I help you?’ she asked.
‘In your office, Sibou,’ Mansebe suggested.
She acquiesced, leading the way through the door and turning to find only Sabally had followed her. ‘I have an infection,’ he said, and started unzipping his trousers.
She considered pointing out that equal access to health care meant joining the queue of those still waiting for her attention outside. But she thought better of it. Mr Sabally might have the power to confiscate those stocks of blood and medicine which the black marketeers were hoarding. There was no point in offending him unnecessarily.
She was, perhaps, not quite as gentle as she usually was in her treatment of infections like his.
By the time Caskey got back to his quarters the teams had gone in for lunch, and after listening for the latest from The Gambia on the One O’Clock News – Senegalese troops had been airlifted in, though it was not clear exactly where to – he started looking through the three files he had borrowed from Records.
Joss Wynwood was twenty-four and, if appearances were anything to go by, seemed to be enjoying life. The smile that beamed out of his photograph seemed to say, this is fun. The eyes were slightly more watchful, the dark, tangled hair an anarchist’s dream. So much for photographs, Caskey thought.
Wynwood was a Taff, born and raised in Pontardulais, where his father had been a miner. He had gone to the local grammar school while it still existed, which suggested a certain amount of intelligence, though not necessarily of the type that was useful in the SAS. After taking and failing two A levels he had joined the Welsh Guards, probably as the single sure way of avoiding life down the pit, and five years of service later had applied to the SAS. In both Selection and Continuation Training he had shown outstanding aptitude in those skills considered necessary in an SAS trooper. He had celebrated selection by getting married, and taking his wife on honeymoon to The Gambia.
Caskey thanked fate for dealing him such a good card. The lad sounded ideal material. With rather less optimism, he turned to the file on Worrell Franklin.
He too was twenty-four, and had arrived in the UK in 1957, as a baby. His father had worked as a guard on the London Underground until his death in an unspecified accident twenty years later. His mother still worked as a sister at the South Western Hospital in Clapham. Worrell was the oldest of three children, all of whom had attended the local comprehensive. He had gained two A levels – in History and Economics – before enlisting in the Royal Engineers. He had seen service in Northern Ireland, West Germany, and already, after only a year in the SAS, had proficiency marks in demolition and medicine. Like Wynwood he had almost sailed through Selection Training. Franklin had also, Caskey noticed in passing, been second in the British Army of the Rhine Championships 400 metres for two successive years.
The photograph showed a handsome West Indian face, wide-set eyes over high cheekbones and a straight nose. The effect would have been almost ingenuous but for the mouth, which seemed set in defiance, as if daring the photographer to do his worst.
Another good card, Caskey thought. What had he done to deserve such luck?
Don’t count your chickens, he told himself. First he had to find the two of them, preferably in Hereford and good health. He picked up the internal phone and dialled the operational roster desk number.
‘Franklin’s on a week’s leave,’ he was told. ‘Due back Sunday night.’
‘Where is he?’ Caskey asked, half-afraid that the man would be up a mountain or down a pothole. He would be hard to spot down a pothole, Caskey thought. He hoped Franklin was not going to be unduly sensitive about such remarks.
‘The contact number’s a London one,’ the adjutant told him. ‘But Wynwood’s more of a problem. He’s on operational assignment in Armagh.’
‘Bugger.’ Caskey thought for a moment, and decided he could clear it with Weighell later. ‘Get him back here, will you,’ he said. ‘ASAP. As in tonight at the latest.’
He hung up the phone just as the English team took to the field on his silent TV. Resisting the temptation to turn up the sound, he opened the file on Major Simon McGrath.
Beyond confirming what he suspected – that McGrath had served his two terms as an SAS officer in the gaps between Caskey’s own three terms – the file told him next to nothing. The photograph showed a man with
short, dark, curly hair and prominent eyebrows over dark eyes. He had a slightly upturned nose, a smallish mouth and the look of someone who had to shave twice a day. Despite this, he had a notably cheery expression on his face.
Caskey scratched his chin, realized he himself had not yet shaved that day, and wondered who could tell him more. The CO seemed a good place to start.
‘Oh yes, I know McGrath,’ Weighell told him, and suggested Caskey should come over for a cup of tea.
Both the tea and a suspicious-looking rock cake were waiting for him when he arrived at the CO’s office for the second time that day. Ever since the day several years before when a shortfall in grenades had led to their substitution in a training exercise by the canteen’s rock cakes, a vengeful kitchen staff had been devoting their not inconsiderable ingenuity to producing the hardest cakes in Britain, and perhaps the world. It had even been rumoured that they used cement.
Weighell, however, was a known devotee, claiming that the cakes reminded him of the boiled sweets of his childhood.
Caskey pushed his to one side and tried to ignore it.
‘McGrath’s a difficult man to describe,’ Weighell said. ‘But then a lot of our chaps are. He’s … well, I suppose he’s a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde … I don’t mean he’s two people, one good and one evil. More like … No, let me put it this way: he’s a very gregarious man, gets on well with most people. He always says exactly what’s on his mind and he seems to operate on a short fuse, but no one holds it against him because the outbursts never last more than a few minutes. He’s unconventional to a fault. And he’s had more women than I’ve had rock cakes.
‘All of which might lead you to expect someone who always acts on the spur of the moment, and never stops to think before he acts. In short, a loose cannon. Which he is, at least to some extent. But he’s also a devoted family man with three children – they live in Leominster – and a fanatical mountaineer. Note the mountaineering. That’s a hobby for people who like taking risks, but it’s also a hobby which demands real planning and precision. Then add the final piece of the puzzle – the man’s an engineer, and a specialist in bomb disposal at that. You see what I mean?’
Soldier N: Gambian Bluff Page 9
