McGrath laughed. ‘They should put up one of that Senegalese with the wicked back-heel. It would make an interesting tableau.’
‘My uncle told me about that. I’m going to see him now, at the police station. Want to come along?’
McGrath looked down. Whatever Mansa Camara was doing, it was bound to be more interesting than the stuff lying on the desk in front of him. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
During the two-minute drive Jobo filled in McGrath on his uncle’s sudden elevation to the position of Field Force commander in the capital. ‘It must have been the radio station capture,’ Jobo said, ‘though I guess my uncle had a good reputation before the coup. Anyway, the President just promoted him on the spot.’
It was unlikely to be a long-lasting position though, as Mansa himself explained over coffee in his new office. ‘That is the worst of this business,’ he said. ‘The Gambia has never had an army, but now we will have one. So that the next time this happens the President will be able to use his own troops rather than the Senegalese.’ He grimaced. ‘Always assuming that next time it is not his own army mounting the coup.’
‘Uncle!’ Jobo protested.
‘What, boy?’ Mansa asked. ‘You expect me to forget about truth because the President gives me a good job? I’d rather go back to the village.’
‘The Gambia will still need a police force,’ McGrath interjected diplomatically.
‘Yes, of course. But something good has ended. Maybe …’
There was a knock on the door, and a Field Force officer burst in, excitedly clenching his fists in front of him. ‘It has been seen,’ he cried. ‘Sir,’ he added as an afterthought.
Mansa was halfway out of his seat. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘In the Albert Market.’
Mansa was reaching for his uniform jacket.
‘What has been seen?’ McGrath asked.
‘The mobile radio van that the rebels have been broadcasting from. We have been looking for it since Saturday.’ He was on his way out of the door. ‘Mr McGrath, I’m sorry to leave so suddenly but …’
They followed him down the stairs to where five men were waiting, all carrying Kalashnikovs. Mansa strode out through the door, beckoning the three men after him.
McGrath followed at a more leisurely pace, sorry to be missing out on whatever excitement was about to take place. He need not have worried – this was obviously the week for his guardian angel to keep him in the thick of things.
On the other side of the door he found Mansa waiting patiently for someone to bring a vehicle round. A few seconds later an officer emerged at a run from around the building. ‘All the cars are out,’ he told Mansa, who stood there looking like he could not believe it for a good ten seconds.
‘You can borrow the Ministry jeep,’ McGrath offered, ‘provided you also borrow the driver.’
Mansa rolled his eyes at the sky. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said.
A minute later they were careering north along Wellington Street, McGrath and Mansa in front, three men in the back, and two more clinging to the sides.
‘What does it look like?’ McGrath shouted.
‘Just a small Leyland truck. It has Radio Gambia written on the side, or at least used to have. If it’s transmitting there will be an aerial …’
McGrath took the left fork onto Russell Street on two wheels, narrowly missing a lorry going in the opposite direction. There was no aerial, no Radio Gambia on the side, but it did look as though it had been recently painted, and it was a Leyland. He slowed sufficiently to make a U-turn without losing his passengers.
‘What are you doing?’ Mansa asked in surprise.
McGrath pointed at the truck, which was now about a hundred yards ahead of them. ‘That’s them,’ he said, hoping to God he was right.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Ninety per cent,’ he said, ‘but there’s one easy way to find out.’ He rammed his foot on the accelerator and simultaneously sounded the jeep’s horn. The driver in front took a sudden right turn, and then left at the next crossroads, before accelerating up Buckle Street past the fire station.
McGrath was now only fifty yards adrift. Both vehicles were doing about sixty, which was quite a speed for a main street that was only about half a mile long.
The van slowed dramatically to turn, shrinking the distance between them and giving McGrath a glimpse of two worried African faces in its back windows, then accelerated away. A rifle went off almost in McGrath’s ear – one of the Field Force men had got overexcited and shot out a shop window. Mansa shouted at the man to sit down, and McGrath had a mental memory of Keystone Kops films he had seen as a child.
The van turned again, and again. This chase could go on indefinitely, McGrath thought, or at least until one of them ran out of petrol or misjudged a corner. And sooner or later some hapless civilian was going to step out onto the wrong street at the wrong time.
And then the driver in front made his mistake. Maybe he did not know Banjul as well as he thought he did, or maybe he just lost concentration at the wrong moment, but what he expected to be an open street turned out to be full of market stalls, with only a narrow, tunnel-like space between them. He negotiated this with aplomb, scattering pedestrians and bringing down at least two stalls in his wake, but the lack of an obvious path out of the area was his undoing. Reaching open ground he instinctively accelerated, only to find that the street in question ended about twenty yards later, on the ramp that led onto the River Gambia ferry.
Since, by order of the Senegalese authorities, the ferry was still anchored in midstream, the driver of the Leyland van had only his brakes to stop him. These squealed furiously but in vain, and the van skidded over the edge of the ramp and into the water with a mighty splash.
McGrath pulled the jeep up some ten feet short of the edge, and its occupants leapt out to scan the river for the van’s occupants. Three at least had managed to get out, and were swimming sheepishly towards the waiting arms of the law.
The van itself was no longer visible, unless one counted the series of large bubbles it was sending to the surface.
Rebel Radio had gone off the air with a vengeance.
In the command room of the Field Force depot the atmosphere was a strange mixture of the electric and the funereal. Eleven men were sitting round the room while the twelfth kept guard at the door. No doubt some of their men could have been trusted to overhear the Council debate Jawara’s latest offer, but no one could be certain of knowing which they were.
Jabang had decided to hear the opinions of the other Council members before expressing his own, a decision which he now realized had been a mistake. Three men had so far spoken, and all of them were for at least considering the offer, subject to various safeguards. As one of them said: if they handed back the hostages and laid down their arms, what was to stop the President simply having them all shot? He wanted the children as a token of faith, but what was he offering in return?
For the first time since the business had started Jabang felt a sense of despair gnawing at his heart. ‘Junaidi,’ he broke in, before a fourth man could counsel surrender, ‘what do you think?’
Taal sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘We cannot accept such an offer,’ he said straightforwardly, ‘and retain any dignity. Or any political credibility.’
‘What choice do we have?’ Sallah asked him.
‘We have several,’ Taal answered him. ‘We can fight and die for what we believe. We can attempt to escape without first betraying the men under our command. Or we can continue negotiating – I do not believe they can expect us to accept a deal like this.’
‘Is there …’ Jabang began.
‘One last thing,’ Taal said. ‘We should keep all our people informed as to what the other side is offering. Because the other side may tell them anyway.’
‘How could they?’ Jabang asked, surprised.
‘There are radios in the camp,’ Taal said. Sometimes he wonder
ed how someone as clever as Jabang could also be so obtuse. ‘Of course, we could confiscate them, but that would look like we don’t trust our own men.’
‘We don’t,’ someone pointed out. ‘Not all of them. And certainly not the prisoners.’
‘We should never have released the prisoners,’ Taal said quietly. ‘I am not blaming anyone,’ he added, ‘I agreed to the decision at the time.’ He paused. ‘I have a suggestion. Let us accept the offer of free passage for ourselves, but only on condition that a general amnesty is granted for all those who have been involved. Except for the prisoners. Look at it from Jawara’s point of view – he’ll have us in exile, and the prisoners to take out his rage on. Which is hardly unjust, for they were responsible for ninety-nine per cent of the killing in Banjul.’
‘And if he agrees we can immediately release the children,’ Jabang added.
Twenty minutes later only he and Taal remained in the command room for the call to General N’Dor.
‘As in any bargaining process,’ Jabang began ironically, ‘the first counter-offer is also refused. We are prepared to accept the offer of free passage, provided that a full amnesty is granted to all members of the Socialist and Revolutionary Labour Party. In return, we will release all our hostages and take all the former inmates of Banjul Prison back into custody. If you wish to accept these terms, then have the offers of free passage and amnesty announced on the radio at ten a.m. tomorrow, and we will release all the children at midday.’
‘You don’t wish us to mention the rearrest of the prisoners?’ N’Dor asked, managing to keep most of the sarcasm out of his tone.
‘That would not be in our interest or yours,’ Jabang said coldly. ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No, that seems clear,’ N’Dor said. He did not suppose for a moment that Jawara would accept such terms, but they were certainly clear.
‘Ten a.m. tomorrow,’ Jabang repeated, and hung up.
After the unsatisfactory discussion with N’Dor, Caskey had returned to the prison, where Wynwood and Franklin were still attempting to hone the skills of the Senegalese. Some had taken to the course like fish to water, while others had proved more resistant to developing a capacity for instant decision-making. Rank seemed to play little part in this, and the two SAS troopers were busy trying to gather together their best students in the first assault teams without ruffling any feathers.
‘No joy?’ Wynwood asked, seeing the look on Caskey’s face.
‘No. I have a feeling the bastard would rather have all the hostages shot than accept any help from us.’
‘He hasn’t called it off?’
‘No,’ Caskey admitted. ‘But he might as well. How are they doing?’ he asked, meaning the Senegalese.
OK, Wynwood thought. ‘If the General gave them the chance I think he’d probably end up feeling proud of them.’
Caskey sighed. ‘Well, let’s keep them at it. We’ve got nothing better to do.’
For the next two hours they continued with the simulated assaults, noting a steady improvement in their trainees’ reflexes when it came to distinguishing hostages from jailers. Caskey was about to call it a day, and wondering whether to try using praise of his troops to change N’Dor’s mind, when one of the prison guards – all of whom had greatly enjoyed watching the exercises – came up to tell him that an Englishman was at the gate asking for him.
Not surprisingly it was McGrath. ‘Thought you’d like to know,’ McGrath started without preamble, ‘one of the rebel leaders has been arrested. Apparently just walked across no man’s land and gave himself up.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At N’Dor’s HQ in Serekunda. I imagine he’s spilling a lot of useful information about his comrades’ state of mind, not to mention the layout inside the Bakau depot and the exact location of the hostages.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Caskey agreed. ‘How on earth did you find out – have you got spies everywhere?’
‘I have,’ McGrath said modestly. ‘No, his name’s Sharif Sallah, and he used to be number two in the Banjul Field Force unit, so someone at Serekunda must have phoned the Banjul police station with the news. That’s where I heard about it.’
‘And what were you doing in the Banjul Police Station?’
‘Oh, just coming back from fishing Radio Gambia out of the river.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a long story. And I’ve got to get back. I’ll tell you later.’
He disappeared back through the gate. Caskey called over Wynwood and Franklin, told them the news, and announced that he was off to pay General N’Dor a visit.
‘Good luck,’ Franklin said.
‘Be tactful,’ Wynwood advised.
Caskey considered this advice as he drove the jeep across the Denton Bridge, and decided to hell with it. If the defector, whatever his name was, had any information which made it either easier or more imperative to launch their operation then he was going to tell General N’Dor so. And if the General did not like it, he could stick it up his Senegalese arse. And Caskey would take it straight to Jawara.
Diplomacy was for the diplomats.
At the Serekunda HQ General N’Dor was less than pleased to see Caskey, and angry that someone should have informed the Englishmen of the rebel defection without express sanction from himself, but he remained as politely dour as ever.
‘Colonel Ka is interrogating him now,’ he told Caskey, who immediately asked if he could join the interrogation team.
The General could think of no good reason for saying no, and a minute later Caskey was being escorted by an NCO out into the yard behind the building, where Colonel Ka was sitting behind a collapsible table in the shadow of a huge baobab tree. A few yards in front of him, and sweating profusely in the fierce sun, the defector perched uneasily on an upright wooden chair.
Things were not going quite the way Sharif Sallah had wanted. He realized now that he had acted somewhat precipitately, but sitting there in the Field Force depot command room, listening to Jabang and Taal throw away what seemed like their last chance of escaping retribution, he had inwardly succumbed to panic. If they would not accept Jawara’s offer, he had reasoned to himself, then that was their affair. There was no reason why he should have to pay for their determination to martyr themselves. Why should he not simply accept the offer for himself?
He had waited half an hour and then simply asked one of the drivers to take him to the front line. The man had not thought to question him, for he was, after all, one of the leaders. And the rebel soldiers at the front had accepted his story that he was delivering a message to the enemy under a flag of truce. He had marched down the road with the white shirt held over his head and surrendered himself.
Once he had been driven to Serekunda, Sallah was told in no uncertain terms that no deal had been struck, and in rather vaguer ones that an unpleasant choice between jail and the noose was still his to make. If he cooperated fully, it was hinted, he might live to enjoy a life in Banjul Prison.
Sallah had not been prepared for this, and, rather than think things through, he had found himself entangled in the coils of self-justification. Since he could not admit to betraying his friends merely to save his own skin, he found it necessary to paint a highly exaggerated picture of his fellow Council members as confused, dangerous and unpredictable. If the negotiations failed, he said, they would undoubtedly kill both the hostages and themselves. He could not be part of such actions, he said. He was and ever had been a revolutionary, he emphasized, but history had always shown that revolutionary change could not be bought at the price of killing women and children.
He was going through this story again when Caskey arrived, and by the second time it had gained something in the telling. Caskey realized Sallah was trying to save his own hide, and thought him despicable on account of it, but he had no reason to doubt the traitor’s description of the rebels’ state of mind as a mixture of the desperate and the resigned.
‘There’s no know
ing when they’ll blow a fuse,’ Caskey told N’Dor.
The General did not understand Caskey’s meaning, but he had a shrewd idea of what was being said from the Englishman’s red face and aggressive tone.
‘We have finished the training programme,’ Caskey went on. ‘They are excellent soldiers,’ he added diplomatically. ‘All we need to mount the operation tonight is your say-so.’
‘That is not possible,’ N’Dor said.
‘Why not, for Christ’s sake?’ Caskey asked, rapidly losing the battle to keep his temper in check.
N’Dor eyed him coldly. ‘For one reason, I am not convinced that yours is the best plan for the situation. And I am the man responsible for the conduct of operations, for the lives of my troops and the lives of the hostages.’
Caskey stared back at him. ‘Did you ever have any intention of allowing this operation?’ he asked.
‘It is one of the options,’ N’Dor said. ‘And that is all.’
Caskey drove back to the prison, where Wynwood and Franklin had ordered a break in the training programme. ‘They’ve had enough,’ Wynwood told Caskey.
‘Then send ’em back,’ Caskey said. ‘It doesn’t look like we’ll be needing them.’ He told them what Sharif Sallah had said, and what N’Dor’s reaction had been.
‘He wants to do it his way,’ Wynwood muttered.
‘You can see his point,’ Franklin said. ‘Even if he’s wrong,’ he added in response to a glare from Caskey.
Wynwood and Franklin informed the Senegalese NCOs that the day’s training was over, and watched them load their charges into the three lorries for the trip back to their camp near the airport. Then they joined Caskey, who was sitting motionless in the jeep’s driving seat, apparently watching the sun go down across the distant sea.
‘So what now, boss?’ Wynwood asked.
‘That’s what I’ve been wondering,’ Caskey said, making no attempt to start the engine. ‘Any ideas?’
The three men sat in silence for a minute or more, each going over the situation in his mind.
Soldier N: Gambian Bluff Page 20
