Soldier N: Gambian Bluff

by David Monnery

  For the first time that morning he let himself think about the man he had killed the night before. The man who was now rotting in the Atlantic surf. He had had no choice. None at all. Saying it, he felt like a character in a Western, but it really had been a case of ‘him or me’.

  He found himself wondering if the man had a wife or children, and then stood there for a moment, unclenching his fists, telling himself that he was being stupid. This was the sort of thing that happened in wars and revolutions. The dead man had put his own life on the line the moment he picked up the Kalashnikov.

  Franklin sighed, and became aware of the world around him again. Two boys, neither of whom could have been more than six years old, were staring at him.

  ‘Have you got a pen?’ one of them asked.

  Franklin’s hand went automatically to his pocket, although he knew he did not have one. ‘Sorry, no,’ he said. ‘What did you want to write?’

  The child who had asked looked up at him as if he was mad. ‘For school,’ he said. ‘A pen?’

  Franklin held out his arms to indicate he had none.

  ‘Give me something,’ the other child asked.

  The only thing Franklin had was money, and that only in notes that were worth a pound or more each. Why not, he thought. It was Her Majesty’s money; or Jawara’s – he was not sure which. He gave them both a note, and watched their faces go through a bewildering range of expressions, of which disbelief, contempt and joy seemed the most dominant.

  They did not stop around for him to change his mind. He watched them hurry back across the street and into the grassy area beyond, both clutching their notes for dear life. For all he knew he had launched two children on a lifelong career as beggars. Or maybe he had given their families food for a week. Who knew? Maybe the doctor could tell him.

  He retraced his steps, walking slowly to savour the strange sights and sounds, and purchased a bag of what looked like pastries from a roadside vendor. Back at the Palace he found that Caskey and Wynwood were no longer in their suite. The guard in the entrance hall pointed him towards a plain door underneath the palatial stairs, from which a narrower staircase led down to the staff quarters.

  He was standing at the bottom, wondering which way to go, when the sound of Wynwood’s laugh provided him with the necessary directions. Three rooms down he found the Welshman and Major Caskey sitting on one side of a huge wooden table, talking with a large African woman in a gorgeous blue and white robe.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked Franklin.

  He nodded and produced his pastries.

  ‘I think he’ll do,’ Wynwood said to Caskey.

  ‘He brought the buns,’ Caskey admitted, ‘but it was us who found the coffee.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘The Morecambe and Wise of the SAS,’ Franklin said, sitting down. ‘I can hardly see the join,’ he added, staring at Wynwood’s hairline.

  ‘This hair has been in my family for generations,’ Wynwood said indignantly.

  ‘Who was the last owner to comb it?’ Caskey asked with interest.

  Wynwood spluttered into his coffee.

  ‘You are supposed to drink it,’ the African woman told him sternly, as she placed a steaming cup in front of Franklin.

  ‘To business,’ Caskey said, once she had gone. ‘The first thing to say is that we don’t seem to have received our invitations to the Senegalese Embassy. I have a feeling this is one of those parties we’re going to have to crash.’ He smiled. ‘Fortunately, it may also be one of those where the host will be too embarrassed to throw us out once we’ve got our feet inside the front door. So I suggest we just turn up at the Embassy in …’ – he looked at his watch – ‘in an hour or so. Sound OK?’

  ‘We all like parties, boss,’ Wynwood said.

  ‘Right. The next question is deciding what we want from the Senegalese. I did some thinking last night, while we were coming back from our stroll, and it seems to me that one of our squadrons could wrap this all up in an hour or so.’

  The other two tried not to eye him too warily. Both troopers knew that Caskey had a reputation for taking big risks. Usually with considerable success.

  ‘We don’t have a squadron with us, boss,’ Franklin observed.

  ‘No, so we’ll have to create one on the spot. Look, the route we took last night – it seems to me that there’s no reason why sixty men couldn’t arrive opposite that depot the same way we did. And if they kept going straight through the gates, then, provided we knew exactly where the hostages were, we could have them out of there while most of the bad guys were still wondering what woke them up.’

  ‘Where do we get sixty men, boss?’

  ‘We borrow them from the Senegalese.’

  Wynwood and Franklin both looked doubtful. ‘They’re not …’ Wynwood started to say.

  Caskey had anticipated the objection. ‘We’d have to give them a rush training course,’ he admitted, ‘but they are professional soldiers. A few hours’ instruction from ours truly, and …’ He shrugged. ‘We’re not dealing with a professional enemy here. Think about it.’

  The other two did just that. Caskey was the one with the experience, and he was probably right. There was no doubt his plan went to the heart of the matter.

  ‘Will the Senegalese buy it?’ Wynwood wondered out loud.

  ‘Will Jawara?’ Franklin asked. ‘It’s his family that’s under the gun.’

  ‘Let’s ask them,’ Caskey suggested.

  It turned out that a meeting was scheduled for ten a.m., though whether they would have received any notification of it before the afternoon remained a moot point. As it was, the SAS men’s arrival could have been taken as evidence of their possessing a thought-reading capability.

  But if General N’Dor was surprised to see them he did not show it. He introduced the SAS men to his second in command, Colonel Aboubakar Ka. The younger man seemed happier to see the British soldiers, offering his hand to each of them with a wide smile. ‘I have heard much about your Regiment,’ he told Caskey.

  Five minutes later Jawara’s Vice-President arrived, and the meeting got under way. Colonel Ka confirmed that there had been no substantial change in the overnight situation, and the General then asked Caskey for any thoughts he might have.

  ‘We have come up with a possible course of action,’ Caskey said. He recounted the story of their reconnaissance mission the previous night, notably omitting any mention of their unexpected encounters on the beach, and then went through the plan he had already outlined to Wynwood and Franklin.

  General N’Dor’s face remained mask-like throughout, but Colonel Ka’s seemed torn between enthusiasm and something less sympathetic. The Vice-President showed no sign that he was even listening.

  ‘Let me understand this,’ N’Dor said in his awkward English, and then aimed several sentences in French at Ka, who replied in kind. ‘You wish to train sixty of my soldiers?’

  Caskey was nodding, but Franklin saw what had happened, and jumped in. ‘We wish to give them special training for this special operation,’ he said.

  The General looked at Ka, who again told him something in French. This seemed to mollify N’Dor somewhat.

  Caskey had also caught on. ‘This is not a comment on your troops, General. If they were regular British soldiers we would still want to give them special instruction for an operation like this.’

  ‘Alors,’ N’Dor said. ‘Good.’ He looked at them for a moment, then at the table, then at Ka. ‘I think there is no problem with this,’ he said at last. ‘But you understand, the negotiations are Number One. If they fail, or if there is no progress for many days, then we will consider the action you suggest.’ He turned to the Vice-President. ‘This is acceptable?’ he asked.

  ‘The President does not want any action taken which will unnecessarily put the hostages at risk,’ he said, as if reciting a line he had learned off by heart.

  It was what N’Dor wanted to hear, at least in so far as the three Englishmen were conce
rned. If anyone was going to take decisive action he wanted it to be his own men, led by his own officers.

  He looked at his watch. ‘I shall be talking to the terrorist leader in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘He may have something new to offer.’

  In the Field Force depot’s command room Jabang was receiving a report from Taal.

  ‘They made no attempt to advance during the night,’ Taal said. ‘And there is no sign of any this morning.’

  Jabang’s eyes lit up. ‘Stalemate,’ he said contentedly. ‘So.’ He got up and started pacing to and fro across the bare wooden floor. ‘Do we try and force them back?’

  ‘Not unless you want to start killing the prisoners,’ Taal said.

  ‘Not unless I have to,’ Jabang muttered, as if to himself. ‘So what do I tell this General? And how do we know that Jawara will accept any deal the Senegalese make?’

  Taal shrugged. ‘We get him to make a public announcement. And we’ve already agreed what to ask them for …’

  ‘No deadline?’ Jabang asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK.’ He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. ‘Get me the number now,’ he told their man at the Bakau exchange.

  It rang almost immediately – once, twice, three times. Jabang was beginning to think the idiot had got him a wrong number when someone at the other end answered, and the gruff tones of General N’Dor barked ‘yes!?’ in Wollof – ‘waaw!?’

  ’Jamanga fanaan, General,’ Jabang said.

  ‘Good morning,’ N’Dor echoed, with an equal lack of sincerity.

  ‘I would like to commend you on moving your troops back as we requested,’ Jabang said.

  N’Dor said nothing.

  ‘Let me be completely honest with you, General,’ Jabang continued. ‘Our coup has failed. Not because the people of The Gambia wanted it to fail, but because the leader they do not want had already arranged to have a foreign army on hand to put him back in power. I …’

  ‘I am not interested in political speeches,’ N’Dor interrupted him.

  ‘Of course not,’ Jabang agreed sardonically. ‘What soldier can afford to be? The point I am making is that we are realists here, not starry-eyed idealists who wish to die in a blaze of glory. We accept that this time we have failed.’

  ‘We can agree on that much.’

  Jabang ignored the sarcasm. ‘We would like transport for three hundred men,’ he said. ‘However many planes that requires. And of course free passage to the airport. If this is arranged then we will release all the hostages – with the exception of Lady Jawara and the wife of the Senegalese envoy – at the airport. Lady Jawara and Madame Diop will be released when we reach our destination.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That has not yet been finalized. But the planes must carry enough fuel for a four-thousand-mile journey.’

  Cuba rather than Libya, N’Dor thought. ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

  ‘That is all,’ Jabang agreed.

  ‘Then I will pass on your demands to my government, and to the government of The Gambia. I would guess they will have decided their reply by this time tomorrow.’

  Jabang said nothing for a moment, wondering whether to challenge the length of time. No, he decided. ‘We shall be waiting,’ he said, but could not resist adding: ‘and the hostages too.’

  There was a click at the other end as N’Dor hung up.

  ‘When?’ Taal wanted to know.

  ‘This time tomorrow. Do you think they will buy it, Junaidi? Surely the man wants his children alive more than he wants us dead?’

  Taal shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

  Some six miles to the west N’Dor was recounting the conversation to Ka, the Vice-President and the three SAS men. Caskey had originally asked if he could listen in on the other line, so as to get some idea of what sort of man they were dealing with, but N’Dor had refused, ostensibly because there was no point in an Englishman listening in to a conversation in Wollof.

  ‘There were no new threats?’ Caskey asked.

  ‘They still threaten to kill the hostages,’ N’Dor said.

  ‘But there are no new deadlines?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And no deadline for providing them with their planes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They are bluffing,’ Caskey said.

  ‘Why do you say so?’ Ka wanted to know.

  ‘If they had any intention of really killing the hostages then they would be tying themselves to deadlines, and killing one each time we failed to deliver. They are deliberately not putting themselves into a corner where they have to kill somebody. Because they don’t want to.’

  ‘You are not suggesting these are model citizens?’ Ka asked with a smile, translating his remark into French for the General.

  ‘Of course not. They may have just worked out that a dead hostage is no use to anyone, including them. As long as they don’t do anything too barbaric,’ he went on, ‘they are giving us the chance to say – well, they’re not so bad, why not let them go?’

  ‘You may be right,’ N’Dor interjected. ‘And if you are, then it seems less risky for the hostages to continue the negotiation, n’est-ce pas? If we follow your plan to attack the depot they may start killing in the panic.’

  ‘I think we could have the hostages safe before there was any chance of that,’ Caskey insisted.

  ‘Maybe,’ N’Dor said in a tone that implied the opposite. He stood up to indicate the meeting was over. ‘Colonel Ka will give you the men you need for this special training,’ he said. ‘Pour I‘éventualité. But I do not think we will need this operation.’

  An hour later four lorries containing sixty-four Senegalese troops rolled up outside the Victoria Sports Ground, which Caskey had chosen as the only available piece of open ground in the immediate neighbourhood. While waiting for the Senegalese to arrive, however, he had become more aware of its primary disadvantage – openness to the public eye. Too many people seemed to be hanging around its edges wondering what the Englishmen were doing.

  ‘You’re a runner, Frankie,’ Caskey said as the Senegalese disembarked. ‘How about taking this lot for a run while Joss and I find somewhere more private for the training? We need some idea of how fit they are.’

  ‘OK, boss. A couple of miles enough?’

  ‘Perfect. Take them on a tour of sunny Banjul.’

  Caskey gathered together the NCOs, explained what was happening, and handed them over to Franklin. He led them off at a jogging pace, down Leman Street towards the centre of the town. The streets still seemed half-deserted, but those Gambians who were up and about all stopped to stare at the sight of a man in civilian clothes leading sixty-four African soldiers down the middle of the road.

  He took them down about three-quarters of a mile, cut through to the river, and led them back up Wellington Street. Several men were breathing pretty heavily, but it was a hot and humid morning. No one had collapsed with exhaustion or fallen far behind. They were fitter than Franklin had expected.

  Back at the Sports Ground, Caskey had disappeared and Wynwood was busy loading two tins of paint, one red and one orange, into the cab of one of the lorries. ‘Let’s get them all aboard,’ he told Franklin. ‘It’s prison for them,’ he added with a straight face.

  Caskey returned, and they set off in convoy for Banjul Prison, which he had managed to borrow from the authorities for their training ground. On the way he explained what he had in mind. ‘This has to be a belt-and-braces op,’ he began, ‘because that’s about all we’ve got. Guns and half a dozen stun grenades. We didn’t bring anything fancy with us, and there’s sod-all chance of finding anything around here. So … that’s the bad news. The good news is that the enemy is probably no better off. We’re not likely to be worrying about remote detonations or anything like that. It’ll just be in and at ’em.’ He paused for breath. ‘Now as you two youngsters probably know, the most likely way to get shot in these situations is by y
our own side. And that goes for the hostages too – they’re more likely to get shot by one of their rescuers than they are by the terrorists. So what we need to do with this lot is just concentrate on making them aware of what they should be shooting at and how. With the aid of those tins of paint we can turn one of the cell blocks here into a rough copy of the Killing House back home. No fancy mirrors of course, and no live targets either, but it should give them an idea. OK?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ the other two said in unison. Both were secretly impressed.

  They arrived at the prison, met and overcame the warden’s expected resistance to their plans – ‘but who will pay to have the cells redecorated?’ – temporarily transferred the two murderers to the female wing, and lined up the Senegalese for Caskey to explain the morning’s activities. He had to do this twice, since none of the Senegalese admitted to not understanding his French until after he had finished. The second time round one of the NCOs translated, although exactly how well no one was sure.

  In the meantime Franklin and Wynwood had been busy painting figure outlines on cell walls in both red and orange, the idea being that the red ones represented the enemy, while the orange ones stood for the hostages. The Senegalese would be expected to fire bullets into the trunk of each rebel without injuring any of their captives. Since the two colours were not that dissimilar, particularly in light conditions which varied from cell to cell, it would not be an easy task.

  The Senegalese seemed to enjoy it though, and by the afternoon had shown a substantial improvement. The morning’s training had decimated the hostages, but in the session after lunch – which arrived by Senegalese mess lorry, and which proved considerably less tasty than the meals-on-wheels Wynwood’s grandmother received – only two were killed.

  Shortly after lunch the architectural plans Caskey had been waiting for arrived by motorcycle, and he used one cell wall and the remainder of the paint to copy out a large diagram of the Field Force depot layout. Through the afternoon groups of Senegalese were brought in to familiarize themselves with the basic layout, so that when more detailed information became available it would be easier to assimilate.