Dead Centre ns-14

by Andy McNab

  Joe had picked me up in Nairobi. We’d headed east back to Malindi, refuelled, then chucked a left at the coast and headed up towards Mogadishu. He didn’t know who I was going in to meet; who I was going in to pick up. And he didn’t want to know. That was fine by me.

  I reached for the stainless-steel Thermos and unscrewed the top. The coffee was instant, condensed-milky and sweet. I poured a cup and offered it to Joe. He shook his head. He was talking to somebody on the radio and concentrating on the approach.

  I rested the cup on my chest while the Cessna shuddered. I closed my eyes, trying to get a little rest. It had been a busy couple of days and the next few were probably going to be worse. I took a sip of coffee as soon as things calmed down again.

  It was the second day of Allied air ops over Libya. I’d called Anna from Nairobi to let her know what was going on, and to check she was all right. Everywhere had been bombarded. Syria had been sparking up. I was expecting her to say she wanted to stay on even longer and take in Damascus.

  2

  The aircraft took another pounding from the wind and Joe sparked up in my headphones. ‘It’s like a fucking cesspit, man. Look at it.’

  I opened my eyes. To the left was desert. To the right was ocean, gleaming in the sunlight. It could have come from a faraway holiday brochure. Unfortunately, stuck between the water and the sand, there were the ruins of Mogadishu. The city looked like a massive black scorch mark. A haze of smog hovered above it.

  The airport was at the southern end of the city. The runway was parallel to the sea and almost in it. As we came down through the heat haze I could see that the buildings were all low level, with roofs of Mediterranean tile and rusted tin. Only the mosques seemed taller. Mogadishu, Joe said: the world capital of things-gone-to-rat-shit.

  Joe punched a few buttons and flicked a few switches in response to the waffle from the tower. Not that he seemed to be listening. ‘Over a million fucking people, man, and every one of them kicking the shit out of each other. Did you know the Brits and Italians ran this place? It was supposed to be beautiful, man. Guys in Malindi remember when it was paradise.’

  The area beyond the runway couldn’t have been called heavenly. The crumbling grey remains of a concrete pier jutted out into the sea. Ships were anchored behind it for protection. Rusting hulks stuck out of the beach like rotten teeth. Further inland, a shanty town had sprung up. It looked like the world’s biggest scrapyard, but not just for the steel.

  The aircraft veered left and right as Joe sorted himself out for the landing. Surf broke on beaches that were covered with shit. It reminded me of the ones in Libya. The sea might look inviting but this was no holiday destination. The shoreline was there to launch boats from, but that was it.

  I knew a bit about Somalia’s history. I knew it had got its independence from Italy in 1960. Power was transferred from the Italian administrators and it became the Somali Republic. There was a lot of socialism going on in Africa in the 1960s. The continent was a proxy area for the Cold War. East and West fought each other for domination. The Soviet Union already had a foothold in the Somali Army, and became the dominant foreign influence in the 1970s. It armed, trained, and gave development assistance. Somalia became very pro-Soviet, as so many other African countries did during that time.

  The relationship with the United States was fucked. They suspended aid. Then the infighting began. The Somalis couldn’t seem to get away from the model Joe was on about, with everybody at everybody else’s throat. There was fighting between clans, between government troops and guerrilla movements, and between the whole country and neighbouring Ethiopia. The war spilt over into northern Kenya. Ineffective government and rampant corruption had put the tin lid on it.

  By the late 1970s, the Soviet Union had binned Somalia as well. All of a sudden it had nothing, and people were starving. They had to come creeping back to the West for help. The government was completely fucked. After another round of infighting and civil wars the clans had taken over in 1991. No sooner had they done so than they started to fight each other. In that year alone, hundreds of thousands of Somalis had died. Violence, disease and famine were relentless enemies. Half the children under the age of five died. Forty-five per cent of the population did a runner into neighbouring countries. Of the remaining 55 per cent, a quarter were on the verge of starvation.

  Then, in 1992, the USA had stepped in. Operation Restore Hope was where it all began. The infamous Black Hawk Down incident was where it ended. After that, the US withdrew completely and left the country with no hope at all. The clans carried on fighting each other, and I supposed they’d continue until no one was left.

  The aircraft bounced across a stretch of dirty, rubber-stained concrete. The sea crashed against the rock defences to my right. Goats tried to pull berries off some scrub to my left.

  The terminal was ahead, with the airport’s one pan immediately in front of it. It looked exactly as I was expecting — a low-level, two-storey Soviet-style concrete block. What I wasn’t expecting was for it to be in such good condition. The white paint and fields of glass gleamed out at me.

  Joe had been waiting for my reaction. ‘I know, man — great, isn’t it? Until last year it was like the rest of the city. But the UN paid for the place to function.’

  A banner below the control tower read: SKA. Doing a difficult job in difficult places.

  I knew SKA. They were based in Dubai, and also had the contract to try and make Baghdad and Kabul airports function too. I liked the understatement of their message. It was a bit more subtle than Where there’s muck there’s brass, or Give war a chance.

  I could make out more of the runway once we’d turned and faced back along it. What I’d thought were rocks protecting the edge nearest the sea turned out to be concrete that was crumbling into it. Maybe that would be the next phase of the build.

  We taxied closer to the terminal. A ropy-looking Russian airliner stood on the pan. A mass of people huddled with loads of luggage in the shade of the wing. I didn’t know if they were getting on or getting off.

  Beyond them was an old military hangar. The metal sheeting had been ripped off. The frame was rusty. Inside was an equally rusted-up MiG fighter from the 1960s with a big circular intake at the front. It had probably fought the Americans over the skies of Vietnam. Now it rested on blocks as if the wheels had been stolen.

  The revs dropped and the prop slowed as we turned onto the pan. Joe looked around in disgust like it was the first time he’d been here. ‘See what you’re going into, man. This is the most dangerous city on earth.’

  ‘I know, mate.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want the AK? I’ll give you the fucking thing. You’ll be dead without it.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’d be dead with it.’

  The propeller did its last few revolutions and shuddered to a stop.

  ‘You definitely got my number, man?’

  He’d given it to me on a card, made me put it in my iPhone, and even wanted me to hide it in a plastic capsule up my arse.

  ‘Yep, got it.’

  ‘This fucking shit-hole has nine fucking mobile networks. You can call from anywhere in this fucking country, man. Can you believe that? These flip-flops, they can’t stop fucking talking, man.’

  He nodded at something behind me. ‘Good luck.’

  I turned to see what he was looking at. Three technicals, two with 12.7mm heavy machine-guns mounted on the flatbeds, were heading our way.

  ‘I’ve got to pay these cunts three hundred fucking dollars just to land here. My tax to the clan.’ He pulled out a brown envelope and passed it to me. ‘You give it to the bastards. I hate talking to them. Hopefully see you soon, man. Just remember, don’t piss off the flip-flops.’

  3

  There were six or seven bodies on the back of each wagon, their legs dangling over the sides. A couple of them stood up, manning the machine-guns. The equivalent of our.50 Browning, they could penetrate light armour or the engine block
of a truck and punch a hole the size of a man’s head in a wall at a thousand metres.

  These things were the stock weapon for Africa, South East Asia, Iraq and Afghanistan. The Russians started building them in the 1930s to take Vickers’ machine-gun ammo. We’d donated millions of rounds to them during the Second World War to hammer the Germans. They’d carried on making them until the 1980s. Some donations you live to regret.

  The sun burnt through my long-sleeved T-shirt and roasted the back of my neck. The Cessna’s engine exhaust turned the oven up a few more degrees, as well as filling my nostrils with the stench of Jet A1.

  I retrieved my day sack. There was nothing in it but a toothbrush, a solar Power Monkey I’d bought in Millets, and a plug-in mobile charger. All I had on me was my passport and two thousand dollars in fifties, my goodwill and escape money. I’d taken to wearing my passport and cash like an American tourist in Mexico, in a waterproof pouch around my neck. It made sense. I could always feel it, and never had to worry if my sweat was going to make it soggy.

  Joe was still worried. He leant over and shouted, ‘You sure you don’t want an AK, man?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ll be standing by for your call. But, fella, be quick making that deal if you want to stay breathing.’ He pointed down at the weapon. ‘Last chance …’

  This time I just raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Fucking crazy, man. Good luck!’

  I closed the Cargomaster door and he taxied away towards the fuel truck. The driver was beckoning him urgently, like a shopkeeper in a souk — as if Joe had anywhere else to fill up.

  Now the smell of engine fuel had gone, another took its place: the sulphurous odour of rotting garbage and burnt rubber. Combined with the heat, it was so minging I could almost taste it.

  The technicals were black or maybe blue. It was hard to see under the layers of rust and dust. Arabic music moaned and shrieked out of the two wagons packing the 12.7s.

  Most of the heads bobbing around in the back were swathed in multicoloured headscarves, LA-gang style. Some of the legs hanging over the sides were jeaned, some trousered. Others were just bare, with white-chapped knees and scabs. The footwear ranged from trainers to plastic shoes and flip-flops. A mixture of T-shirts, football shirts and charity hand-outs from the disco era completed the cutting-edge Mogadishu look. Some wore canvas chest harnesses over their AC Milan or Newcastle colours; others had just shoved a spare mag into a shirt pocket. Backpacks bristled with RPG rounds.

  These lads seemed keener to give each other a hard time than to give me one. There was lots of tooth-sucking and flashing eyes. It took me straight back to my own schoolyard — on the days I bothered to turn up. They weren’t happy memories. I used to ask Sharon King out at least twice a week. But I didn’t stand a chance. I was white and a minger.

  Back in the real world there were two items that they all had in common. The first was an AK. You name the variation and the style, they had it. The second was a pair of outrageous sunglasses. Mirrored, star-shaped, wraparound or John Lennon, China’s rejects had found a home here. Elton John and Edna Everage would have been green with envy.

  A fair number of them were gobbing off into handheld radios. Joe was right. They did like to talk. A 1990s Nokia ringtone came to join the party.

  Not one of these guys was older than twenty-five. It wasn’t because they were early achievers: most of the older ones were probably dead. And they were grinning like idiots. Either they were happy to see me, or high as fucking kites.

  What worried me most was that their nervous energy came not from a lack of bravery but too much of it. Their teeth were stained black and orange from a lifetime’s khat, the chewing leaf of choice. They were probably paid in food and drugs, just like the insurgents in Iraq — or anywhere that needed its warriors to be fed, fearless and fuckwitted.

  The boys went quiet as the passenger door opened on the technical nearest to me, the one without a heavy gun. A pair of real leather shoes emerged, then trousers and a clean blue shirt, tucked in but unbuttoned like a 1970s porn star. Their owner unhooked his wraparounds and welcomed me with a Colgate smile and a warm handshake. His fingers and right thumb were ringed with chunky gold.

  ‘Ah, Mr Nick. It’s me, Awaale.’

  The guy giving a welcome as if we were old mates was about the same height as me, but skeletal — rather in keeping with the Twilight accent I’d heard on the mobile. He had deep, hollow cheeks, a goatee perched on his narrow chin, and the air of a man who might have been around since the sixteenth century.

  I took my shades off too as he brought his other hand out towards me, but not just to shake.

  ‘Do you have the airport tax, Mr Nick? Otherwise your friend can’t take off.’

  He held out his left while still shaking my right.

  I’d made yesterday’s call from Nairobi, something Awaale wasn’t expecting. I told him I was sure none of us wanted to waste time, so I would come to Mog and do the deal. He rang back after talking to the boss. He liked the idea. So here I was. What he didn’t know was that I was coming to get them out anyway — with or without a smile and a handshake. But this way was better and safer for all of us.

  I handed over the envelope. He let go of me so he could open it and start counting. No one was going anywhere until he had the right money. The lads behind him passed around cigarettes and started to waffle into their radios all over again.

  There was a burst of automatic fire in the mid-distance, followed by a loud bang less than a kilometre away. The birds jumped out of the trees, but nobody else took a blind bit of notice.

  He finished counting and gestured to the double-cabbed technical he’d arrived in. ‘It also means that you will not require a visa today.’

  I nodded my thanks. ‘Am I going to see them now?’

  He echoed my smile and patted me on the back like a long-lost mate. He opened the rear door for me. Cold air hit my face.

  ‘Soon, Mr Nick. First we will drink tea and discuss their freedom. You have the money?’

  ‘Some of it. I’m doing my best. The families are doing their best. We’ve got some money together.’

  His grin widened. He knew I was bluffing. There was going to be no three million. We were both playing the game.

  I stepped up into the air-conditioned cab.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve been to my country, Mr Nick?’

  ‘It’s not got the best reputation as a holiday destination, has it?’

  He laughed. Shouting at the crews in local, he jumped into the front. The driver wore a green military-style shirt. He turned the wagon in a wide circle and tucked in behind the first technical as it headed past the terminal. The other lads fell in behind us. We had ourselves a convoy.

  The dash and steering wheel were covered with cut-to-shape felt to stop them melting in the African sun. The whole cab reeked of cigarette smoke. Every surface was caked with dust and nicotine.

  Awaale spoke without looking at me. He just leant back a bit in his seat so he could make himself heard above the music.

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Mr Nick. I think we have much here to delight the tourist. I’ll show you.’ He slapped the driver’s shoulder and waffled away in local. The two of them had a good laugh.

  ‘Will I be seeing Tracy, Justin and Stefan today? I need to know they’re OK.’

  He put up his hand. ‘Yes, of course. No problem. But later.’

  I leant forward. ‘Are they OK? On the recording Tracy said she was ill.’

  ‘Yes, everything is OK. You bring the three million, and you take them home to their loved ones. Easy.’

  He planted the mobile in his ear and started waffling. The happy tone had disappeared.

  4

  The moment we left the airport compound, all I could see was dust, decay and destruction. Even the exit onto the main road was just a bunch of breezeblocks and a pile of sandbags. A couple of lads lazed against them. One sat astride a crumbling wall. All the si
gns were hand-painted, even the one that said Security. Nobody gave a fuck.

  We turned onto a wide boulevard. I couldn’t tell which side of the road they drove on here. Nor could the driver. We bumped over the remains of the central reservation and continued into the face of the oncoming traffic. Mountains of festering rubbish and the rusted remains of burnt-out vehicles lined each edge of the crumbling tarmac.

  Coming towards us were four green Russian BTR armoured personnel carriers, their massive petrol engines belching out clouds of exhaust. Lots of helmeted heads stuck out of the tops.

  No one gave the eight-wheeled monsters a second glance as they moved off to the side of the road and stopped. We carried on past. The black stencilling on the sides told me they were UN troops from Uganda. Not that I could see any troops any more. The helmets had dropped down into their APCs, only popping up again once we had passed.

  Awaale tapped my shoulder as I peered back through the cab’s rear glass. ‘They are no trouble, Mr Nick. They just want to go home to their wives and not die in the dust.’

  He sat back and he and the driver had a laugh at Uganda’s expense.

  Any building that was anything more than a shell or a heap of grey rubble looked like it still had people living in it. The ads on their walls had either faded or been shot away by AK and 12.7 rounds.

  Every open space was clogged with makeshift shelters, round stick huts covered with layers of rags, or shacks made of scraps of wood and rusted wriggly tin.

  I saw now where the smog came from. Tyres were burning everywhere, sending plumes of black smoke over the low rooftops.

  The pavements were filled with people just lounging about, doing nothing. What was there to do? Most of the women were burqa’d up in black or bright orange, with scabby kids at their heels. Old men in loose cotton skirts and worn-out plastic sandals crouched in the uneven shade of the acacia trees. The Italians must have planted them years ago, and they still hadn’t quite given up the struggle. Telephone poles leant at crazed angles, with a metre or so of wiring hanging loose.