Dead Centre ns-14

by Andy McNab

  He rang off. I passed the phone to Awaale. ‘Your father says he loves you.’

  ‘I know. I love him too. He’s a great man.’

  It was smiles all round in the front of the cab as we drove past the Olympic Hotel. The streets came alive with movement and light. Everybody had a weapon. It was like we’d just come back from a carnival, all on a high, and we were the three winning floats.

  12

  We were soon passing the airport. The same guards sat on the wall and smoked under the hand-painted sign. They didn’t even look up as our convoy drove by. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil was the secret of survival round here.

  Only the shells of once-great buildings remained each side of the boulevard. In this part of town, even the trees were fucked. Maybe this was what the Italian Riviera would have looked like if it had been carpet-bombed in the Second World War. This had to be the old city, where the Italians and other ex-pats had hung out on the beach in their all-in-one bathing suits in the 1920s. Now there wasn’t even a dog to be seen. It was a ghost town.

  We bounced over mortar craters and potholes, slaloming to avoid big lumps of concrete picked out by our headlamps. They provided the only source of light in this part of town.

  Awaale started gobbing off on his mobile again. I wasn’t sure how anyone would hear anything that was being said. The driver waffled away. The music blared. Awaale closed down and shouted, ‘Nearly there, Mr Nick.’

  We bumped over what was left of the central reservation, down a side road and into a large square with an empty concrete plinth at its centre. It would once have borne a statue of a Somali puppet dictator or an Italian general with a hat full of plumes. Bodies were silhouetted against the flames of a fire beside it.

  As we got closer, I saw we were inside a compound of sorts. Stacks of tyres filled the missing doors and windows of a large colonial building. There was movement inside.

  There was no gate. There wasn’t even a barrier into what looked like the coach entrance for this grand building. The wagon stopped next to four or five other pickups and cars. Burnt-out vehicles littered the area.

  Awaale was already out of our wagon before the technical behind us had stopped. He sounded excited. ‘Come, Mr Nick. Now it is your time. Come.’

  I followed him inside. It must have been a hotel once. A lobby the size of a football pitch opened onto a pair of sweeping staircases that, like everything else around here, had seen better days. The place had been stripped of everything that wasn’t nailed down. The glass in the windows had gone. Wiring had been pulled. There wasn’t a door in sight. Everything transportable had probably been sold as scrap or used to build the shacks we’d spent the afternoon beside. I was getting used to the smell: decomposing rubbish and burning rubber were once more the order of the day.

  The staff and customers had been replaced by legions of young guys off their tits, eyes glazed behind their Elton Johns. Their smiles were gold-toothed and khat-stained, and that worried me all over again. I knew they couldn’t be controlled; I’d now seen it up close and personal. This was Mad Max country. I was in the Thunderdome.

  Awaale led me into a ballroom. The whole environment changed. I could hear the hum of a generator somewhere. Arc lamps had been hammered onto the walls. The room wasn’t completely bathed in light but there was enough. Four young guys in Western dress were hunched over ancient PCs. One of them was keeping up to speed with Facebook. Another was admiring a picture in an online brochure of a happy couple at the big wheel of their even bigger yacht. This was Mog’s answer to GCHQ.

  I followed Awaale to where two minging old brown settees sat either side of a US Army aluminium Lacon box the size of a coffee-table. The green paint was worn away and the metalwork looked like it had been dropped out of a helicopter.

  ‘Sit here.’ He pointed to one of the settees. ‘Not long now.’

  Dust rose and caught in my throat as I followed his instruction. I shoved my day sack on my lap.

  Awaale moved away. He gobbed off to one of the PC geeks and then checked everyone’s screen.

  A minute or two later an old wooden tray arrived and was deposited without ceremony on the Lacon box. A pewter pot and two empty glasses took pride of place. Another glass contained sugar and a plastic spoon. I caught the aroma of mint as a man in his mid-sixties — seriously old for this place — sat opposite me. Awaale came and stood between us.

  ‘Mr Nick, this is Erasto. He will help get your loved ones released.’

  Erasto wore a cotton skirt with a black and white check shawl around his shoulders. His feet, which stuck out of a pair of old flip-flops, looked like they were covered with elephant skin. An Omega stainless-steel Seamaster glinted on his left wrist. It was one of the watches I’d looked at when I bought my Breitling in Moscow. It had been way out of my price range.

  Awaale handed him the envelope containing Joe’s airport tax. Erasto shoved it under his leg without taking his eyes off me. I felt like I was under a microscope.

  Awaale poured the tea, just like Nadif had done in Bristol.

  13

  Erasto continued to stare at me. ‘Parla Italiano?’

  The sandpaper voice sent me into a time warp. ‘No.’

  He looked as disappointed as he probably had when we’d talked on Saturday morning. He turned to Awaale and waffled away in Somali. Awaale passed him a glass of hot water that smelt strongly of mint and nodded so much I thought his head might fall off.

  ‘Erasto wants to know who killed Nadif.’

  The old man’s deep-set eyes bored once more into mine.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Now wasn’t the time to complicate things. I was talking to someone who might have the three bodies I was here to collect. That was all that mattered to me.

  Awaale translated.

  Erasto sat for a while, deep in thought. Then he fired off another question.

  ‘When will Erasto have his three million dollars?’ Awaale handed me a glass.

  I watched Erasto’s thumbs roaming over his iPhone screen.

  ‘Erasto, your expectations of me, your expectations of Tracy’s family and Justin’s family are just too high.’ I kept looking at him. I was talking to him, not his interpreter. ‘We are not the people you think we are. We do not have the sort of money you’re asking for. Erasto, we will never, ever, have that amount of money.’

  Erasto’s thumbs got busy again. By the look of it, he was starting to text. All I cared about was that Awaale was passing on exactly what I had said.

  Erasto looked up at him, then shrugged and gobbed off as if he was turning down a dodgy piece of fruit from the market.

  I heaped a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into the brew and got a mouthful down my neck.

  Behind me, one of the geeks started playing what sounded like a YouTube clip. A group of women sailing round the world were telling their mates — and any strangers who felt like listening in — that they were on the way from Oman to Zanzibar. Fucking good luck to them. That might be the last video blog they posted for a while.

  Awaale nodded. I watched Erasto as I listened to his response.

  ‘Erasto says that unfortunately, if you do not have the money, he cannot do anything to help you. You must pay him. This is the only way your loved ones can go free. He wishes to help you, but this money must be paid. When you spoke to us before coming to Somalia, you said you had the money. So how soon can it be delivered?’

  Erasto took a sip of tea and tucked the iPhone beside his ear. He mumbled away as if we no longer existed. I needed to be respectful, but I also had to make sure I was expressing myself extremely clearly. Any fuck-ups should stem from a crumbling negotiation, not a fundamental misunderstanding. I looked him in the eye. He fixed his on me for a second, then carried on with his waffle.

  ‘Erasto, I think we may have a misunderstanding. When I spoke with Awaale, I said the families were getting money together. We have managed to raise three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars. Bu
t you must know we will never be able to get one million, let alone three.’

  I waited for Awaale to pass Erasto the news of the ‘misunderstanding’. The old man closed down his iPhone and continued drinking his tea. But I knew I had his full attention now.

  ‘Three million is an impossible amount for us. I believe that was a misunderstanding on my part, and I apologize.’

  Erasto leant forward, placed his glass on the tray and allowed Awaale to refill it until he indicated that he wanted no more. He examined the tea minutely.

  Awaale splashed some more into mine.

  ‘Erasto says that if you deliver the money now, you can have the boy first. The price is three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars each.’

  I bent so low that Erasto had no choice but to renew eye-to-eye. I didn’t see a flicker of emotion, not even a hint of what was going on in that head of his. Erasto and Frank must have come from the same gene pool.

  ‘I’m sorry, Awaale. I can’t negotiate for individuals. The price must be for all three.’

  Erasto sat back with his brew. He didn’t need Awaale to translate. He cut him off mid-waffle. Awaale faced me again.

  ‘Erasto wants more than you offer, and he wants it quickly. He’s willing to negotiate. He understands how important it is to get the family home. Can you get more money quickly, Mr Nick?’

  ‘I can arrange for the three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars to be here tomorrow. I will try and get more, but it will be difficult.’

  The lack-of-cash story seemed to be holding. I was expecting Erasto to ask why, if everyone was so poor, they were on such an expensive boat. BB must have done a good job of smoke-screening. ‘But to raise more, and to bring the money to you, to ask the families to do this, I must know that they are safe.’

  Erasto picked up his airport tax and got to his feet. He rattled off another set of instructions to Awaale. I wondered for a moment whether the Italiano question was just part of his performance. I wondered if he needed an interpreter at all. My iPhone vibrated in my jeans as he left the room.

  14

  Awaale motioned me over to the nearest PC. ‘Erasto says if you can find some more money then you can see them. But he wants the money here quickly. Then you can take them home, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. If you come up with more money, Erasto will help you. But come, I will now show you that your loved ones are OK.’

  The screen was covered with dust. There was a grinding sound as he tapped the keys. I watched a video clip upload. ‘See, Mr Nick, we are looking after them.’

  Tracy and BB sat on a patch of filthy concrete with Stefan between them. Tracy was wearing a red hijab. Only her face was exposed. It was clean and unmarked, but her holiday tan couldn’t hide the fact she was in shit state. Her eyes were red and sunken. She looked nervous and worried. She had her arm around Stefan. He clung to his mother. He was dressed in blue-striped shorts and a blue T-shirt, with nothing on his feet. They were black with grime. His legs were covered with insect bites.

  It was BB I most wanted to see. He sat cross-legged and kept his eyes to the floor until a flip-flopped kick in the back encouraged him to look up. His message to the camera lens was extremely clear: ‘You cunts …’

  This video wasn’t recent. He had less than a week’s stubble.

  The sound of traffic and birdsong filled the background, as it had in the phone message. Their captors, in ski masks or shemaghs, filled the screen behind them. They all had weapons clutched across their chests, and belts of linked ammunition around their hips.

  Awaale wagged a finger. ‘You see, Mr Nick? You find some more money for Erasto and your loved ones will be home before you know it.’

  I turned to face him. ‘I’ll try, Awaale. I’m doing everything I can to help you. You know that. Your father knows that. You both know I risked my life for you and your friends this afternoon. But I must see Tracy and Stefan first. Really see them. Speak to them before any money changes hands. Can you make sure that Erasto understands that?’

  He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘I know these things, Mr Nick. But this is business. Erasto’s business. You need to make calls, Mr Nick. I will take you to see your friends tomorrow. Now, you have a cell? You can use mine …’

  ‘No, I have one. Where am I staying? This could take a bit of time.’

  Awaale’s brow furrowed. ‘Staying? You will stay here, Mr Nick. You cannot leave. It is dangerous. There is nowhere to go. You must stay here until you have got Erasto some more money.’

  I knew this had more to do with keeping me until I came up with the cash than with my personal safety. And I knew the unspoken threat that I could be Erasto’s next fund-raising opportunity was hovering at the edge of our exchanges.

  ‘Can I charge up my iPhone from whatever the PCs are running off?’

  ‘Sure. Why not? Then please, make your calls.’ He pointed back at the settees. ‘Do not leave this area. I do not want to see you killed.’

  As if on cue, there was a burst of machine-gun fire in the city and tracer disappeared into the night.

  He headed out the way he had come, waving his hand. ‘You see, Mr Nick, we must keep you close.’

  I’d suggest another thirty-one K. If Erasto didn’t go for that, I’d come back with a further nine. I wanted him to understand that it was time to take the money and run. Why keep them any longer if the next tranche was going to be even less, especially if they were starting to get ill? BB didn’t look too good. If they died before we shook hands there would be no deal. Maybe that was why Erasto was in such a hurry.

  Back on the settee, I checked my iPhone. Jules had rung. He’d also left me a text.

  Call me. It’s important.

  It still freaked me out that even in a shithole like this I could talk to anyone, anywhere.

  The phone buzzed twice. Jules didn’t hang around.

  ‘I think I’ve found them. All three of them. But it’s not good. The int says that al-Shabab have three whites: an adult female, a young male, who we think is her son, and an adult male. They were lifted from a yacht just over a week ago and sold on by the clan. It has to be them.’

  I kept my voice down, my hand covering the phone. ‘I’m in the city. I’m with the clan now. They’re claiming they still have them.’

  ‘Jesus, Nick, why didn’t you call? Have you seen them?’

  ‘No. But they want money fast. I guess we now know why.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ve got them, Nick. Not any more, anyway. They must have sold them on. Or the clan had a debt to AS, and faced a zero option. Either way, unless you’ve seen them, it looks like AS are now in control.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘As of yesterday, Merca. South of the city. That’s all we know. AS control most of the south. If AS do have your three, you must get the boys you’re dealing with to start telling the truth. Like I said, when it’s not about money, it’s time to get out your worry beads.

  ‘They use hostages to control the locals. The message is, they’re white pigs who don’t adhere to Sharia law. This is the punishment they deserve. In other words, if you don’t shape up, this is what’ll happen to you.’

  There was a peal of laughter in the next room. I asked Jules to keep in touch and hoisted my day sack onto my shoulders.

  15

  I wandered out into the darkness.

  Awaale was by the empty plinth in the courtyard. He’d joined his crew around the fire. They were chewing khat and drinking from big litre bottles of Haywards 5000 as they relived the events of the day. That was one ship that would never be hijacked: the beer boat from India.

  A few women had joined the group. They were young and attentive — to anyone who would give them a swig of lager and a mouthful of the flat bread that was piled up with lumps of veg on a nearby tray. Awaale tore himself off a piece, wrapped it round a tomato, and took a bite.

  ‘Ah, Mr Nick.’

  ‘I need to talk to you, mate. I’ve got some good new
s.’

  I stopped about two metres from him. The others looked up and cheered. Their eyes were wide, dilated pupils shining in the firelight. I guessed they were busy telling a couple of the girls how they’d kicked Lucky Justice’s arse, the sort of stuff that made us all look good.

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ Awaale jumped up, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Very excellent, Mr Nick.’

  I started towards the technicals. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, mate. How about over there?’

  We headed past the back of the technical we’d been in today. The captured AKs and the body of the lad who’d been zapped still lay on the flatbed. He looked like a rabbit that had been tossed aside on a night shoot. He couldn’t have been any older than fifteen.

  I carried on waffling encouragingly as we went further into the shadows. ‘I got the OK to offer more money. But one thing I need, mate …’ I put a friendly arm round his shoulder — then grabbed him and spun him round in an arm-lock, tucking the back of his head into my shoulder. I squeezed my right arm tighter and slapped my left hand over his mouth.

  His legs trailed behind him as I dragged him into cover. I could feel moisture on my hand as he tried to shout. His heels kicked up sand as he tried to keep control of his legs. I kept moving fast enough to stop that happening, then hooked them out from underneath him. I went with him, keeping the arm-lock in place as we fell. He took my full weight on his back, losing all the air from his lungs.

  We were about forty metres from the fire. Girls giggled. Bottles clinked. The lads carried on with their banter.

  I turned Awaale’s head just enough to see the side of his face. I made sure he could see mine. He’d be getting very little air. He’d be feeling the strain on the vertebrae in his neck. He’d think his brain was about to explode.

  I made sure my mouth was right up close to his ear. ‘All that matters to me are my friends. You mean nothing to me. If you make a noise, you will die just before I do. But I will die a man, because I’m going to fight. You will die like a dog, here in the dust. So honour your father, and stay alive. Stay alive to fight the battles he fought. Do you understand me?’