by Andy McNab
I put the iPhone to Stefan’s ear. ‘It’s Daddy.’
He looked up. He didn’t believe me but he took the phone with both hands. ‘Papa! Papa!’
There was a chorus of oohs and aahs around the boat before he started gobbing off in Russian. He almost fell over his words as he raced to get them out.
They spoke for a couple of minutes while Awaale bollocked somebody for something over his radio. The two crew members in the bow were on their mobiles, sucking teeth, flicking fingers.
We’d left the lights of Merca behind us. There was no sign of land. No sign even of the other skiffs as we bounced out of the last of the surf and started to ride the heavier swell.
10
SEVEN OR EIGHT tracer streamed up into the sky. We heard the liberated 12.7’s heavy report a second later.
‘There she is, Mr Nick. The little one’s mother.’
Our boat turned in the direction of a second burst. The propeller left the water for a second as the skiff wallowed in the swell and the outboard went into overdrive.
Stefan held the iPhone to my face. ‘Papa wants to talk to you.’
‘Everything is ready at the airport. How long until you get there?’
‘We’ve been linking up again. I’m not sure where we are. But I’m guessing a couple of hours, maybe three.’
‘Very good, Nick. There will be transport waiting at Malindi airport. The pilot has the details.’
‘I’ll call you before we take off.’
There was a momentary silence.
‘Nick, thank you. Thank you very, very much.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. We’re still bobbing up and down in the middle of nowhere.’
There was another tracer burst. Stefan hugged me. I looked down at him. ‘It’s OK, mate. It’s just telling us where your mummy is.’
Frank barked, ‘What’s happening?’
‘Everything’s fine. They’re just showing us where Tracy is. She’s on another skiff. Would you like to talk with her when we meet up?’
That was a no-brainer. ‘She and I will talk later. Nick, I know you’re not safe yet – I understand that – but I do thank you.’
‘No drama. We’ll talk soon, OK?’
I slid the iPhone back into my pocket. We were closing on the other skiff. They treated us to another fireworks display even though we were only about ten metres away. The 12.7’s muzzle flash strobed the passengers. BB was down by the engine. Pissed-off was written all over his face. ‘Stop that fucking racket, you cunts! They’re on fucking top of us!’
Stefan gripped me even harder.
I hadn’t noticed it before in the frenzy, but he stank. He absolutely reeked. I supposed we all did.
‘Your mummy’s right there. You’re going to see her soon, yeah?’
He nodded into my chest. ‘Mummy?’
‘Yes. Not long now. Look.’ I pointed at the dark shape bobbing in the swell about five metres away.
The two lads in the bow got off their mobiles and grabbed the side of the other boat. We levelled off. Tracy was already leaning towards us, her arms outstretched. ‘Stefan!’
He almost wriggled out of my arms. ‘Let me help you, mate. It’s a bit late for a swim.’ The last thing I wanted was him falling between the two boats.
The 12.7 from the technical was hanging off the bow of Tracy’s boat. It was clearly Star-gigs’s turn at the trigger. He couldn’t have been happier if it was a giant marlin. There were empty shell cases all over the deck.
I hoisted the boy over the side. Tracy grabbed him and almost fell backwards into her boat. Star-gigs steadied her and eased them both back onto the centre bench.
They were soon stuck together like glue, crying into each other’s hair. She pulled back and stroked his cheek. ‘It’s OK, darling.’ Then, as Star-gigs fired up his lighter and lit something that smelt stronger than a cigarette, I saw her face in the darkness.
‘Nick …’
She tried to say more but her sobs were suddenly the noisiest thing in this part of the ocean.
BB had had enough of this shit. ‘Listen, those other two cunts are out there somewhere. How are we supposed to find them?’
I turned back to Awaale. He was on his mobile. ‘Mr Nick, is everything OK at the airport? The money?’
‘All ready to go. But where are the other two?’
He didn’t answer. He got busy with his mobile instead. And he wasn’t a happy bunny.
‘Awaale, you have got the other two, haven’t you?’
BB scuttled across the deck towards me. ‘What’s up?’
‘The other two lads. I think they’re Georgians. They speak English? You get anything out of them?’
He shook his head. ‘We weren’t allowed to talk. But so what?’
He stank as bad as Stefan did.
‘We’re going to find out for Frank who they are, then hand them over to these lads. We think they killed the clan boss’s brother.’
I left out the bit about Jan. Now wasn’t the time for Tracy to learn about that. She had enough shit to deal with.
11
AWAALE FINISHED HIS call. ‘OK. We split up now.’ He gobbed off to the crew and they pushed us apart.
Erasto was smart. It was probably why he was about to become even richer. These three weren’t coming ashore until Awaale had confirmed the money was at Mog airport and the deal was in the bag.
I could still hear mother and child sobbing to each other as their skiff was swallowed by the darkness.
‘Tracy! It’s OK. We’re all going to the airport. A plane is waiting. We’ll be back together soon. Just a couple more hours. I’ve got to go ahead and make sure everything’s good when we get there. BB will look after you.’
BB grunted. ‘My fucking name is Justin.’
We headed out to sea as Star-gigs continued his love affair with the 12.7.
Awaale sparked up his radio and a dozen different voices jibber-jabbered back.
Another line of tracer peppered the sky behind us.
‘You see, Mr Nick? Everybody will be together soon. But we have to make sure the money is there first. Me, I trust you with my life. But Erasto – he doesn’t know you like I do.’
I didn’t bother turning back. ‘Mate, the money will be there. But I’d feel a lot happier if we knew where Nadif’s killers were. Have you made contact?’
He had to shout as we picked up speed. ‘Do not worry, Mr Nick. I’m not worried. I’m not worried about a thing. We know the sea. I’m happy. I’m a great commander. Everybody is talking about me. Everybody knows about the attack. Even Lucky Justice will hear about it very soon.’ He nodded. ‘Yes sirree.’
One of the crew was hunched below the bow, out of the wind. He talked excitedly into his mobile.
I moved closer to Awaale. ‘That is fantastic news, mate, but remember – success breeds enemies. Just be careful now you’re big-time. Some people don’t like to be upstaged. You know what I mean?’
We bounced about on the waves. I didn’t have a clue if we were pointed in the right direction.
He thought about what I’d said and eventually nodded. ‘You’re right. But I’m Somalian. We know these things. Erasto will not be pleased. Once he has the money, he’ll try to have me killed. But I’ll be quicker than him. My father will give me advice. Everybody loves me for the great fighter I am, just like my father before me. Thank you, Nick.’
I smiled politely. I was getting a lot of thank-yous tonight. That always meant a drama was just around the corner.
12
THESE GUYS STARTED life as fishermen. I shouldn’t have doubted their prowess at sea. Two hours later I began to see the lights of the city over the bow. We were coming in from the east. I didn’t have a clue how far out to sea we’d had to divert during the RV with Tracy, but that didn’t matter now. All that did was that her skiff made it back too. Ant and Dec’s? I still had no idea.
Awaale perked up now he could see land. He had spent most of the time curled
up on the deck holding his stomach. ‘I told you so. You don’t have to worry about anything, Mr Nick. Everybody is now safe.’
We started to approach the airport. The runway was lit up like a UFO landing pad. We headed for the bit sticking out into the ocean. As we got closer, I spotted two technicals. The crews looked excited to see us. Their new conquering hero was home. There was change in the air.
Awaale got on his radio. Then he hauled his mobile out. ‘You see, Mr Nick? Everybody loves me.’
We pulled the skiffs into the beach. The sting of salt water reminded me that, after a day in my socks, my feet had taken some serious cuts.
The technical driver shouted down at us through the glare of his own main beams. He thought he was helping, but he was just killing our night vision. Blinded, we felt our way up the rock and clambered onto the runway.
We scrambled into the back of the technical, dodging the 12.7’s dangling ammo belt, and set off between the twin lines of landing lights that seemed to converge as they headed for the terminal.
The driver stuck his head out of the window and shouted to Awaale, who was sitting directly behind the cab on the flatbed. Awaale leant forward and treated him to a blow-by-blow account – complete with ‘boom, boom, boom’ sound effects. Then he leant even further so he could deliver a high-five. The accelerator pedal never left the floor. It was like the guy was trying to take off. All around me, the boys were back on their mobiles, spinning more shit.
Down-lighters in the roof space made the newly painted terminal building look like it was suspended in its own star system. A Cessna Cargomaster stood in front of it, a weapons-mounted technical alongside. Further down the apron were a couple of closed-down Yemeni airliners.
Another technical had parked up a hundred metres beyond them. The Toyota’s headlamps were aimed at a nearby Skyvan. Winner of the Ugliest Plane in the World Award for the last thirty years running, it was basically a train carriage with a tail ramp to freefall out of, a wing and an engine slapped on each side. The twin props had chugged about all over the world since the 1980s, and this must have been one of the originals; the H tail rudders were held together with gaffer tape.
Awaale pointed at the wagon by the Cargomaster. ‘Erasto. He’s here for the money. I do not want to disappoint him, Mr Nick.’
‘Nor do I, mate. Nor do I. But what about Erasto? Will he disappoint me?’
He looked at me from the other side of the flatbed. The 12.7’s barrel cut a line between us. Finally he put his hands up and shrugged. ‘I’m not in his head.’
I pushed the cold steel barrel skywards to clear the obstruction between us and leant across the back of the cab. I wanted Awaale to hear every word of what I was about to say. ‘The other two white guys, the boy and the woman, they’re important. They’re important to someone who can come up with that sort of cash straight away. If this all goes wrong, he’s told me that he will declare war on you, on you all. Now that’s going to fuck up your future, big-time. And you’ve got enough on your plate already. Lucky Justice is not a big fan, and now you’ve got AS on your arse as well. We’ve got to make this run very smoothly, mate. For both our sakes.’
Fuck it. Things had moved on too far to hide the fact there was a lot of cash flying about, and managing Erasto’s expectations had gone completely out of the window. But solving one problem will always present you with another.
‘Mr Nick – there’ll be no problems from me. Trust me.’
‘You’ve got family in the US, right? You’ve got to be careful, mate, because my man can get to them. But all he wants is his family back. He gets what he wants, and you get what you want, and everybody’s happy. Yeah?’
Awaale nodded. ‘I understand, Mr Nick. But you don’t need to tell me these things. You’re my friend.’
‘You’re my friend as well, mate. But let’s not fuck up now that we’re so close to the finish, OK?’
Awaale smiled and leant back. The wind ruffled his hair. I still only trusted him as far as I could throw him. It wasn’t as if we were old schoolmates. We slowed. We were almost at the terminal.
Awaale leant back towards me, hand up at the side of his mouth like we were co-conspirators. ‘Mr Nick, my money … I will need it to pay for loyalty from my crew when I take over the clan.’
‘One thing at a time, mate. Let’s get in the air before you go and conquer Mogadishu.’
He smiled, and thought for a bit. ‘I’ll give it some time. I’ll let Erasto kill those two guys, of course. I’ll give him that satisfaction.’
13
Wednesday, 23 March
04.55 hrs
THE SECOND TECHNICAL faced the Cargomaster head on, its 12.7 aimed at the airframe. We pulled up alongside it. The third one drove across from the Skyvan. Bob Marley sang louder and louder the closer it rolled. Its headlights cast shadows around the Cargomaster; with no windows in the hold area, all I could see was Joe sitting in the left seat. I tried to signal that everything was OK. His head turned behind the Perspex. I couldn’t be sure he’d noticed.
The Bob Marley fan jumped out of the driver’s seat with a wad of US dollars. He passed it through the cigarette smoke billowing from the rear window of the other double cab.
‘Come, Mr Nick, come. We’ll go and talk with Erasto.’
We followed the same route as the dollars. Erasto was settled in the centre of the bench seat, his arms up along the rear.
Awaale waffled away and Erasto nodded slowly. But he wasn’t happy. He pointed his cigarette at the Cessna and gobbed off.
Awaale turned back to me. ‘Erasto says that the men in the plane, they will not let him count the money. They say they will burn it if we attack or try to come aboard. The money was in— Wait a minute, please, Mr Nick.’ He asked the boss to clarify something before turning back to me. ‘They told him the money was in “De-Arab” bags?’
‘Deniable bags, mate. They’ll torch everything in them. It’s to stop cash and valuable documents being stolen.’
Awaale looked offended. ‘Erasto wants you to talk to them. Tell them that the money must be counted before he’ll let anyone else come ashore. As soon as he has the money, Mr Nick, no problems – in they come.’
For all I knew, Erasto might have set out with other ideas. As he drove to the airport, he might have been thinking of ways to have his cake and eat it.
I nodded, turned, and headed for the Cessna as Bob sang about being a buffalo soldier. The guy draped around the 12.7 in the back of Erasto’s wagon joined in with the chorus.
Joe leant over and opened the cockpit door. He had his AK on his lap.
I climbed up. In the dim lights, I saw Mr Lover Man – on his mobile – and Genghis in the hold. They were dressed for war in green fatigues and Kevlar body armour. Mr Lover Man had a black set, Genghis a green one. They’d inserted both front and back plates. They clutched M4 assault rifles with telescopic butts, firing handles on the stocks, and the shorter eleven-inch barrel for close-quarter work. No eastern shit for Frank’s lads, only state-of-the-art USA. Most telling of all, the magazine pouches on their armour sets were well worn. They’d done this shit before. They looked like they’d been born into it.
At their feet were two black nylon holdalls. Thick steel wires protruded from them, with ring-pulls at the end. Mr Lover Man and his mate had also come prepared. There were six-packs of two-litre water bottles; a Bergen-sized medical kit; big plastic zip bags holding spare saline drips and field dressings. Other bags held mountains of chapattis and bananas. There was milk in plastic one-litre containers.
Joe was his normal politically correct self. ‘Fucking flip-flops, man. I told you, don’t fucking trust them. They would have had the money – and us – if it wasn’t for these two in the back. They were going to take the fuckers on. All you people are mad, man. You’re fucking mad.’
It looked as if Erasto had had other plans, and these two lads had fucked them up.
Mr Lover Man came forward to study the technicals through
the Perspex. He waffled in Russian on his mobile.
Joe eyed me. ‘You look shite, man. Where are your shoes? Did the flip-flops fucking steal them as well? Where’s the other three? We were told you’d got them. Where are they? I want to get out of here, man. It’s a fucking nightmare.’
‘They’re on their way, mate.’ I got eye-to-eye with Mr Lover Man in the dimmed cockpit lights. ‘Tell Frank they want to count the cash before they let Tracy, Stefan and Justin come ashore. Tell him it’s under control. Once you’ve done that, get off the mobile – we’ve got work to do.’
I glanced back into the hold. ‘You speak English?’ Genghis shook his head and slowly stretched out his legs. This lad was so laid back he literally was almost horizontal.
Mr Lover Man closed down and gave me a nod. ‘We’re ready. I don’t trust that old man.’
‘Nor do I, mate. I’m going to bring one of them over. We get him to count the cash, then we hold tight until everyone is delivered. They hold us tight, we hold the money tight. Those bags in the back, they really have deniable devices installed?’
Mr Lover Man waffled to Genghis. He unzipped the bags to reveal the shrink-wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills. Two black plastic containers, about twenty centimetres square, sat on top of them. Thick steel wire protruded from the corner of each. There were two in each bag, in case one didn’t kick off.
Frank probably used them all the time to make sure no fucker got hold of any information he didn’t want to share. After all, knowledge is power. If the ring-pull was triggered, the incendiary devices were detonated. The agent was magnesium. It burnt with unbelievable intensity. The problem, especially with two of them in each bag, was that they’d keep on burning – and take out the plane as well.
Mr Lover Man was certainly in no mood for compromise. Even if he was, his deep growl wouldn’t make it sound that way. He was as cold and clear as his boss.
‘If they try to fuck with us, we will burn the cash.’
