The Kill Zone

by Chris Ryan

  He nodded. ‘You pay us before—’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘You get out. Go to the gates. I’ll pay you there.’

  The official inclined his head but didn’t argue. As the two of them left the truck, she felt the eyes of her travelling companions on her, but she hurried towards the gates. Once there, she removed her shoe and took out the bundle of notes that she’d stashed there. She counted out some notes, then handed them to the official. How he shared them out with the others was his own concern.

  The man shoved them in his pocket and nodded at her. Something seemed to pass between them. ‘Muqdisho,’ he said, ‘is not safe even for me.’ He looked in through the gates of the Trust Hotel. ‘You should not leave this place,’ he said.

  Siobhan looked at him from behind the black mask of her burka. ‘I might not have a choice,’ she murmured.

  The official shrugged, then turned his back on her. He looked strangely vulnerable as he walked back to the armoured car, his rifle slung across his back. But Siobhan didn’t feel inclined to watch him for long. From beneath her robes she pulled out her British passport and waved it at the guards. Their eyes widened slightly – it was clearly not what they expected to see from this burka-clad woman. But they opened the gates for her and let her in.

  As Siobhan Byrne stepped over the threshold of the Trust Hotel, she removed her headdress for the first time since Djibouti; and as the gates shut behind her, she began to feel safe for the first time since she’d landed, though she knew this place was just a fragile bubble around which the whole city was burning and bleeding. She hurried towards the main hotel entrance, her whole body aching to get inside.

  Past a gently swaying palm tree that stood sentinel in the courtyard.

  Up the steps.

  Through the door.

  And then she stopped.

  The reception room was large. Marble floors. Old mirrors on the wall. Plants in pots. But none of this caught her attention. Instead she was immediately transfixed by a small, neat figure at the long reception desk surrounded by four local bodyguards. He wore a dishdasha and had his back turned towards her so that his face was obscured. She recognised the voice, though, despite having only previously heard it over a crackly loudspeaker or on TV. It was quite distinct. That quiet, clipped, menacingly polite way of speaking.

  ‘I expect journalists from your HornAfrik radio station here first thing in the morning,’ he was telling the receptionist, speaking as though to a child. ‘Please ensure that they are afforded all possible courtesy. In the afternoon, a colleague of mine will be arriving. I wish to know as soon as she is here. We will be leaving the hotel after dark . . . Yes, I do understand the risks involved, thank you for your concern . . . No, no, it will not be necessary for the hotel to arrange security. I have already seen to that. Thank you for your help. You are most kind.’

  Siobhan waited, breathless, for Habib Khan to turn round.

  Their eyes met instantly. Khan frowned, then quickly regained control of his expression. He stepped through his ring of close protection and walked towards her.

  ‘Have we met before?’ he asked politely.

  Siobhan had to think fast. Their paths had crossed only once, outside O’Callaghan’s pub; he had seen her for only a matter of seconds. Siobhan knew how people’s memories worked. The chances of him placing her were small.

  She put her hand out. His palm was sweaty. ‘Alison Hoskins,’ she simpered. ‘Freelance journalist. Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV.’

  Khan smiled blandly. ‘I don’t really watch the television,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Khan, isn’t it? I’m interested in your reasons for being here.’

  ‘And I’m interested in yours, Miss Hoskins. It is a brave woman who travels here alone.’

  ‘I had a UN escort. I won’t be leaving this hotel.’

  ‘You are sensible,’ Khan said. ‘I didn’t notice you on the UN flight out here.’

  ‘I’ve come direct from Washington,’ Siobhan lied quickly. ‘I wonder if I might have an interview.’

  Khan seemed to relax. ‘Unhappily, my dear, my time is taken up. Unlike you, I am unable to enjoy the hospitality of this place for much longer. Perhaps tomorrow morning I can find a few spare minutes . . .’

  Siobhan simpered at him. ‘That would be very kind, Mr Khan . . .’

  But Khan was already turning his back. Siobhan could tell from his demeanour that he had already dismissed her as someone of no importance. He nodded at his men, then walked out of reception.

  Siobhan exhaled deeply. Her head was spinning as she tried to piece together what she’d just learned. Khan had said he would be leaving tomorrow after dark. But he’d said more than that. A colleague was arriving. He wanted to know as soon as she was here. Siobhan remembered the words of the girl in the hospital bed. They ship them out. Africa, they say. Places where white girls fetch a price . . .

  Where would Khan be taking this newcomer after sunset? Siobhan didn’t know, but she had a pretty good hunch and she was damn well going to find out.

  She pulled herself up to her full height and checked in.

  4 JULY

  17

  Jack managed two hours of sleep, lying on a hard bunk in one of the huts usually occupied by safari guests. It was still dark when Markus’s voice woke him. ‘Hands off cocks, on to socks,’ the American drawled. ‘We got to get going.’

  Heavy with tiredness, Jack swung his legs off the bunk. Next to him was a pile of items he’d taken from Markus’s stores. He took off his top and pulled on some body armour first. The plates were heavy, the material rough, but it felt like a second skin to him. Round his neck he looped a blade attached to a piece of cord so that it was hanging down his back, then he put his shirt on over the top. In most parts of the world, it was advisable to keep your weapons hidden. But Markus had told him that Somalia was different, that you’d attract attention if you weren’t obviously tooled up. For this reason, he fixed his Colt M1911 45 mm in a holster round his waist. Jack had also selected a smaller snubnose .38, which he strapped to his lower leg underneath his trousers. American stash, American weapons.

  It was in a canvas bag small enough to be slung over his shoulder that he stored his main weapon: a Colt Commando. He added a Claymore anti-personnel mine with its clacker and 100 metres of det cord, a small quantity of plastic explosive, plus two fragmentation grenades and ammo for the weapons. Markus had also given him a camera, which he slung over his shoulder. ‘There ain’t much in the way of authorities over there,’ his fixer had said. ‘But if you come across any, tell them you’re a journalist. Grease their palms enough and they might decide to believe you.’

  Outside he heard the sound of an engine starting. He left the hut and saw Markus behind the wheel of a 4 x 4, the headlamps bright in the darkness. Jack hurried up to it, took his place in the passenger seat and the former Delta man immediately hit the gas. He glanced sideways at Jack’s bulky bag. ‘Secret to a successful vacation,’ he said. ‘Preparation.’

  ‘Where’s your aircraft?’

  ‘Ten minutes. Relax, buddy, and enjoy the journey.’

  Markus’s laid-back attitude was getting on Jack’s nerves. ‘Did you speak to your people?’

  ‘Sure did. Seems your man flew in on a UN flight and has got himself holed up in the Trust Hotel. Good news for you. The hotel is kind of an anomaly – just about the only place in that piece-of-shit city where you don’t have hoods with guns trying to put holes in you. Owner of the place pays off the leaders of the different warring factions. Keeps the place clean. Well, kinda. Ain’t the Waldorf, but you weren’t expecting room service, were you?’

  ‘What about a vehicle?’

  ‘I put the word out. There’ll be someone at the airstrip to meet you.’

  ‘Trustworthy?’

  Markus snorted. ‘What do you think I am, a fuckin’ Avis rep?’ On the dashboard he indicated what looked like two large mobile phones with thick sturdy aerials. Iridium sat phones. �
��Take one of those babies,’ he said. ‘Number of the other one is scratched on the back. Means you can get in touch if the shit hits the fan.’

  ‘They secure?’ Jack asked.

  Markus shrugged. ‘Company says so. They’re probably bullshitting, though. Don’t use it if you don’t have to, else you get me in the crap.’

  06.30 hrs. Dawn was just beginning to creep into the air when they arrived at a nearby airfield. It was deserted apart from a couple of Kenyans smoking cigarettes by a small twin prop. As Markus stopped the car, the noise of the engine was replaced by the sound of a deafening dawn chorus: birds, of course, but also unfamiliar cries and shrieks from the surrounding countryside still blanketed in near blackness.

  They approached the two men and Markus threw his car keys to one of them. ‘She ready to fly, boys?’

  They grinned widely and nodded.

  By the time Jack and Markus were both sitting up front in the aircraft, they had about twenty metres visibility. Jack strapped himself in while Markus started up the engines and checked his instruments before handing him a set of shades. ‘You’ll need ’em,’ he said. In a matter of minutes they were taxiing to the end of the runway. The plane turned and came to a halt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Markus announced. ‘Welcome on board this flight to hell on earth. In the event of an emergency, say your fuckin’ prayers.’ He turned to Jack and winked. ‘Happy fourth of July,’ he said.

  And with that, the aircraft gathered speed, lifted off and rose into the early morning African air.

  The flight time was three hours. They flew in silence.

  There was nothing to mark their crossing from Kenya to Somalia. Nothing to tell them they had passed over the border into the most dangerous country in the world. Beneath him, Jack saw the sun light up the African plains. He was glad of the shades as he surveyed beautiful patches of gold and green and brown, and to the east, the blue of the Indian Ocean.

  It was only when they started to lose height that Markus spoke, and then only briefly. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said.

  Jack looked out towards the horizon. In the distance he fancied he could see the edges of a built-up area, shimmering hazily by the ocean.

  Mogadishu.

  It looked so harmless from up here. Like it was asleep in the sun. Jack found himself wondering if Siobhan had made it there. And if she had, whether she was even still—

  ‘We’ll be getting in at a good time. The city tends to be relatively quiet before three p.m. After that, the technicals come out to play. When it gets dark, place is a goddamn war zone.’

  Markus turned to look at him, a shrewd expression in his eyes.

  ‘Ain’t too late to turn back, my friend,’ he said.

  Jack didn’t even answer.

  The airfield where they touched down was as deserted as the one from which they had taken off. A single hut, but it had been burned out long ago. Certainly no officials. Just a vast expanse of low bushes surrounding a long strip of hard-baked earth on which the aircraft bounced and jolted as Markus brought it in to land. He taxied round to the side of the strip and they sat there while the engines powered down.

  Silence surrounded them. Silence and heat. The countryside was flat and bare, with just a few trees dotted around them. Up above, Jack saw two vultures circling. He set his jaw. They could circle all they liked. He wasn’t carrion. Not yet.

  ‘Welcome to Somalia,’ Markus said, ‘where the sun always shines.’ He handed Jack a detailed satellite map of the area and showed him a circular pencil mark. ‘You are here,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

  Jack folded the map and put it into his canvas bag as a vehicle drove into view, emerging slowly out of a heat haze.

  ‘Friends of ours?’ Jack asked.

  Markus shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’

  Jack wasn’t taking any chances. He opened the side door of the aircraft, climbed out and then, using the door as cover, aimed his rifle in the direction of the approaching vehicle. It was a green Land Rover, probably thirty years old, with dust-caked windows and a canvas backing. It stopped twenty-five metres from the plane, and for a while Jack wondered if the driver was ever going to show himself.

  After a minute or so, the driver’s door opened and a man got out. He was young, maybe still a teenager, and he wore dark glasses, a black bandana and desert camo. The sleeves had been ripped off his jacket and round his left bicep he had tied a bandage which was bloodied and dirty. The wound, whatever it was, didn’t seem to worry him. In his right hand was an AK-47, which he carried nonchalantly, the barrel pointing down at the ground.

  ‘That your man?’ Jack hissed at Markus.

  ‘Could be,’ the American replied. ‘At least, he hasn’t started shooting.’

  Jack called out. ‘Drop your weapon!’

  The kid just grinned and continued walking towards them.

  ‘Drop it!’ Jack repeated. ‘Take another step forward and I’ll kill you.’

  That brought him to a halt. The kid slowly bent his knees, then deposited the weapon on the ground.

  ‘Turn around!’

  Only when the kid was facing the truck did Jack emerge from the protection of the door. He strode quickly up to the newcomer, pulling his M1911 from its holster as he went. When he was behind the driver, he jabbed the butt of the pistol sharply into his cheek. ‘You speak English?’

  The kid nodded.

  ‘Good. Word of advice. Do what you’re told when I’m around if you want to make it till bedtime. Understand?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Get in the car. You’re going to drive. I’m going to sit next to you. Walk.’

  The kid, his arms still in the air, stepped towards the truck as Jack picked up his AK and looked over his shoulder at Markus. ‘Midnight,’ he called.

  ‘Midnight, my friend,’ Markus shouted back. ‘And may the Lord guide you every step of the fuckin’ way.’

  There was no air con in the Land Rover – just a flap above the dashboard that let in hot air. Jack and his driver sweated in the heat, breathing in the fumes of stinking petrol and oil from the jerrycans of fuel that were loaded in the back of the vehicle.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Asad,’ said the boy. He stank of sweat and had the habit of licking his lips quickly. It made him look anxious. Jack needed to get him onside.

  ‘I’m going to the Trust Hotel. You know it?’

  Asad nodded.

  ‘You’d like enough money to take a girl there, right?’

  Asad smiled. ‘Yes, boss.’

  Jack handed him a couple of notes. ‘Stick with me,’ he said, ‘you’ll get more. Every girl in Mogadishu will want to be with you.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Asad repeated.

  They drove in silence.

  Finally Asad spoke. ‘In the back,’ he said. ‘A scarf. Cover your white skin. If someone sees it, they will kill you.’

  It was Jack’s turn to nod. He grabbed the keffiyeh that lay on the back seat and wrapped it round his head so that only his eyes were visible. It made the heat even less tolerable, but that was better than the alternative. When they approached a roadblock manned by three ragged-looking men, Asad gave an aggressive sneer. Jack pulled a couple of notes from his pocket. ‘Pay them,’ he said.

  ‘It is not necess—’

  ‘Pay them.’

  Asad shrugged and when they stopped, he handed over the notes. The men were so surprised that the ‘tax’ had been paid without complaint, Asad was able to drive away quickly.

  Jack had seen some war-blasted places in his time. Places where destruction was a matter of course. In Helmand, the deserted ruins of Now Zad were a brutal testament to the fighting that had gone on there; in Iraq, he’d wandered through villages where the Republican Guard had slaughtered all the inhabitants for some imagined slight against Saddam. But this was different. As the parched countryside gave way to the outskirts of Mogadishu, Jack saw women and children with ragged clothes and fearful eyes, bundled against pi
les of rubble that clearly had to make do as houses. The air stank of shit and rubbish and cordite, a thick, sickening stench. Every person he saw looked scared or aggressive or both. He saw children as young as ten or eleven carrying AK-47s, but as the sun was hot, there were few people moving around. Jack knew not to let that lull him into a false sense of security, however. It wouldn’t take much for the sun-induced sleepiness to be disturbed. Still, it meant that Asad was able to drive quickly into the centre of Mogadishu, negotiating the confusing maze of streets in which Jack was immediately lost, and avoiding roadblocks and dangerous areas. Before long they had stopped outside the imposing gates and bullet-sprayed walls of the Trust Hotel.

  ‘You pay me now?’ the young Somali asked.

  Jack fished out a hundred-dollar bill, which Asad grabbed quickly. Then he fished out two more and handed Asad his AK. ‘See these?’ he said, waving the notes under the kid’s nose. ‘I’m going into that hotel. I don’t know how long I’ll be – maybe ten minutes, maybe two hours, maybe more. This money is yours if the vehicle is still outside when I return. Understand?’

  Asad licked his dry lips and looked nervously up and down the street. Two hundred bucks was a lot of money to him. He nodded. ‘Yes, boss,’ he said, touching the bloodied bandage on his arm almost instinctively.

  Jack winked at him. ‘Think of the girls,’ he said.

  Jack jumped down from the Land Rover and ran across the street, stopping outside the hotel gates. There were guards on the other side, wearing body armour and helmets. They looked edgy and had already raised their weapons in his direction. Jack peeled off the headscarf to reveal his white skin, then flashed his UK passport at them.

  ‘Journalist,’ he said.

  ‘You have weapons?’ one of them announced in a thick accent.

  ‘No weapons,’ Jack said.

  ‘We must search you.’

  Jack handed him money. ‘You don’t need to search me,’ he said.

  The guard grinned, revealing a mouthful of wonky yellow teeth. He opened the gates for him, then quickly closed them again. Jack crossed the large courtyard towards the main entrance of the building on the far side.