The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  He smiled in a knowing way. ‘That’s how I work, too, which is lucky for you. Did Tom tell you what I do?’

  ‘Vaguely.’ I was guessing as a wildlife ranger he was accustomed to not making his presence too obvious, especially when tracking poachers.

  ‘Good. I’ll fill you in as we go.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘You got everything you need?’

  ‘I have.’

  Nineteen

  Angela Pryce took a dislike to Xasan the moment she set eyes on him. He was short and rotund, with a curly black beard peppered with grey, and lightly tinted spectacles that veiled most of the expression in his eyes. He also smiled too much and seemed intent on staring openly at her legs and chest. When he wasn’t doing that, he addressed most of his comments to Doug Tober, who listened but said little. It seemed to be the way Xasan wanted to conduct things.

  They were seated in the bar of the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Upperhill, Nairobi, where Xasan had requested their initial meeting in a last-minute email message. Three other men entered the bar with him, two in front and one behind. They took separate tables, but kept their eyes on the two SIS operatives. They were young and slim and neatly dressed in short-sleeved shirts and pants, with large gold-coloured watches on their wrists, and could have passed for casual visitors. But to the trained eye they were too watchful, too intense. The waiters, Angela noted, stayed well away.

  She recognized the game, though: it was designed to intimidate, a gentle show of force from the outset.

  ‘Jesus,’ Tober growled softly. ‘What a bunch of cowboys.’

  Angela agreed. The taxi ride from the international airport had been just long enough for Xasan’s people to check if the SIS officers had company or not, so this display was simply theatrics.

  ‘Welcome to Nairobi,’ Xasan murmured, his voice gentle and measured, as he stopped in front of their table. ‘I hope we may conclude our business in a satisfactory way to all concerned. May I see some ID, please?’

  They took out their passports and slid them across the table, already aware that arguing wasn’t an option. Xasan picked them up and flicked through the pages, comparing photographs with faces. He nodded slowly, giving Tober a more studied look, then returned them, adding, ‘Excellent. It is an honour to have members of the Secret Intelligence Service here all the way from London’s Vauxhall Cross. It is well placed by the river, is it not? Very scenic.’ He waved a vague hand around. ‘As indeed is this city.’

  ‘What’s the agenda?’ said Angela. She wanted to cut short any idea Xasan might have of a guided tour. She knew that simple etiquette meant they were hardly in a position to make demands, but any show of easy compliance would be seen as weakness. Besides, any intel they got now about where they were headed might be useful later.

  ‘As soon as we get word, we go from here to Ras Kamboni. You know this place?’

  Tober remained silent, save for a flicker of an eyebrow.

  Angela said, ‘Isn’t that in Somalia?’

  ‘That is correct. You have done your research.’

  Angela didn’t like it. ‘There was no mention before of having to cross the border.’

  Xasan shrugged. ‘The borders here are … flexible, you understand. It is just a few kilometres, that is all. It is nothing. Nobody will notice and the police do not go out that far. Trust me. The man you will meet is anxious that all goes well. You need have no fears.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  Xasan didn’t react to that. ‘There is a place to the north of Kamboni called Dhalib. Beyond that is a house on the coast road, built by an Italian industrialist many years ago. It is comfortable and right on the beach, with very pleasant views. Also –’ he wagged a finger – ‘absolutely safe for our honoured guests.’ He placed his hands together. ‘A suitable place for a meeting such as this – a meeting, I hope, that will form the basis for many others.’

  Money-grabbing bastard, thought Angela, and stared blankly back at him. No doubt he would be doing well out of any deal struck between the UK, the US and the pirates, with a percentage sticking to his fingers on the way through.

  ‘As soon as you get word?’ Tober asked. ‘What does that mean?’

  Xasan’s smile didn’t shift. ‘We must be patient, Mr Tober. I regret to inform you that there is a slight delay in proceedings.’

  ‘What kind of delay?’

  ‘The gentleman you are meeting has been unavoidably held up by bad weather to the north of here. He sends his most sincere apologies but there is nothing he can do.’ He shrugged. ‘We are at the will of Allah in these things. Mr Musa has arranged as a measure of his regret that you be accommodated here in this establishment until we can meet.’ He waited for a response, but when there was none, he continued, ‘It is very comfortable and I am assured that they have a very high standard of western cuisine. However,’ he paused and looked towards the entrance of the hotel, ‘I must advise you not to leave the hotel under any circumstances. This is for your own safety. Nairobi is not as secure as some other cities, and we would not wish anything untoward to happen to you.’ This time his expression seemed loaded with insincerity.

  ‘How long do we wait?’ Angela asked. She had worked in the region before and, like in the Middle East, time was treated in a very different way to anywhere in the west. If Xasan said they had to wait, then that was it. But there were limits.

  ‘Until tomorrow, I think. I will telephone you as soon as I know. Until then, please be comfortable here and enjoy yourselves.’

  They watched him walk away, collecting his guards with a flick of his fingers. One of the men trotted out in front of him, checked the car park then turned and signalled that it was safe before Xasan left the building.

  ‘The fat little prick’s playing with us,’ said Tober.

  ‘Of course he is,’ Angela agreed. ‘And there’s not a thing we can do about it.’ She stood up. She needed to report in to London.

  Twenty

  I caught de Bont giving me the occasional look during our flight from Mombasa, as if checking my reactions. We were on our way to Malindi, about sixty kilometres north along the coast, in a battered cargo plane fitted with removable seats and webbing straps. It was like being thrown around in a hot spin dryer, with unsecured luggage sliding around the floor of the cabin and conversation between the other passengers being carried out in a constant screech.

  The truth was, I’d flown in planes like this too many times to be concerned. If it hadn’t received its last full service, or somebody had left out a few critical bolts, there was damn all I could do about it. The only thing worrying me was the sports bag under my seat. If a cop or security guard got conscientious and took a look inside, I’d have a hard time explaining the contents.

  The aircraft dipped and yawed incessantly, giving us occasional glimpses of brown-and-green swathes of land below, and endless stretches of blue sky above. We’d embarked with little or no apparent organization at Mombasa airport, shuffling up the steps surrounded by people carrying what might have been their lifetime possessions. If there was any aircrew save the pilot, we hadn’t seen them.

  We were seated separately. Piet was in his normal persona as a park ranger, while I was travelling as a tourist consultant from New York, checking out the coastal and National Parks region for extreme tour organisers in the States. There were plenty of people with the money and time who liked to go off-track to remote regions, so the cover wasn’t much of a stretch. I’d also arranged for a business accommodation bureau to answer any calls while I was away, so if someone did think to call up and check, they’d hear a genuine sounding business name and a request to call back another time.

  Piet hadn’t yet told me how we were going to travel on from Malindi to the border area with Somalia, but I wasn’t too concerned, since I figured he had something worked out. By sea would be one way, and shouldn’t take more than a few hours, hugging the coast to stay off any local radar. The Somalis pretty much ruled the waves around here, bu
t since their hunting ground was further out, often by hundreds of kilometres, we’d only be in trouble if we ran into one of their motorised skiffs coming in for supplies. White faces close to the border would undoubtedly raise their suspicions.

  We hit the ground at Malindi with a bump and careered down the short runway, which was surprisingly smooth. The airport was without frills: an L-shaped, east-west and north-south layout, with a collection of peeling sheds for a terminal, often used by adventurous tourists travelling to the Masai Mara game reserve. Beyond the perimeter, the town, which was substantial, lay baking in the sun, a mix of thatched houses, stucco-type buildings and, in the centre, the tall minaret of the local mosque.

  As we turned and taxied towards the terminal, we were watched by a few locals, seemingly unaware of the hazards of walking across the runway when a plane was coming in to land.

  I followed Piet down the steps and across the tarmac. The heat was bouncing off the ground in waves, and I didn’t much like the idea of being inside a shed for long. So I nodded at the uniformed guard standing by the door, and waved my sat phone. He pointed behind the building across the access road, to a bunch of tables and chairs under some trees where two men and a woman were busy shouting into cell phones.

  I walked over to join them, leaving Piet to do his thing, and dialled Vale in London.

  ‘They’re in Nairobi, at the Crowne Plaza.’ Vale’s voice was tinny and faint. The time-lag while using a sat phone was like holding a conversation under water.

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘There’s been a delay. Xasan, the middleman, says the Somali gang holding the hostages has been held up by bad weather. Their main man is called Musa – his face is on the data I supplied. Xasan and our people will probably be heading out to the RV early tomorrow.’

  ‘Do we know where that is?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ Vale gave me the coordinates for the town of Kamboni, just inside Somalia. The meeting was to take place in a remote beach-front villa a few clicks north of the town, close to a fishing village called Dhalib.

  I was surprised they had been given such precise information so early. The usual way of these things was that locations for meetings were a closely guarded secret until the last minute to avoid compromising the site.

  ‘It’s a puzzle,’ Vale agreed. ‘Particularly since there’s been a strong Kenyan Defence Force presence in the region for the past eighteen months, centred on the port of Kismaayo to the north. They were sent in to put a dent in al-Shabaab’s activities and to stop them bleeding across the border into Kenya. But why Xasan and his crew have felt free enough to hold any kind of meeting so close to the border is a mystery.’

  ‘Could be they’re operating under the radar while the Kenyans are focussed on looking to the north.’

  ‘Maybe. Their National Security Intelligence Service aren’t supplying any useful answers, and claim the problem of al-Shabaab has been curtailed.’

  It seemed ridiculous that with a military force so close, these negotiations were being allowed to happen without any kind of protection from the army. I said as much to Vale.

  ‘That’s not in our control,’ he replied heavily. ‘Xasan came forward with the plan and we’ve gone along with it.’ His tone made it clear what he thought of that. ‘Even if I could, I can’t ask the Kenyans for help. There’s a risk they’d go in mob-handed and we’d lose the hostages – who probably aren’t being held close by, anyway.’

  He was right. All it would take was one phone call and the hostages would turn up dead.

  ‘We can’t send in our own people for the same reasons,’ Vale continued. ‘The Somalis have got armed boats in the area, so a seaborne approach would be difficult to hide. And the Kenyans won’t take lightly to our interference, no matter what the reasoning.’ He went on to explain that the area around the town of Kamboni was still thought to host limited elements of al-Shabaab and other groups, all with strongly suspected links to al-Qaeda. ‘If Xasan and his contacts are holding talks here, it’s with the tacit acceptance of al-Shabaab – which confirms what we’ve suspected for some time: that Musa must be one of their main players. Nothing moves in this region without their knowledge and his say-so.’

  ‘Could be a reason for the early release of the location,’ I suggested. ‘They’re checking to see if the news gets out.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he conceded. ‘Even more reason for you to be careful going in. They’ll be watching for you.’

  I saw Piet coming across the perimeter road, so I cut the call and went to meet him. He was carrying a gun bag, which I assumed he’d had locked away somewhere secure inside the terminal. He looked relaxed and led me to one side of the terminal building.

  ‘You’ll want to see how we go from here,’ he said. ‘How’s your head for heights?’

  ‘Heights don’t bother me; it’s landings I worry about.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He turned his head and nodded. ‘Meet Daisy. She’s your new best friend.’

  ‘Christ.’ Daisy was a surprise, but immediately made sense. I was looking at a microlight aircraft with a V-shaped wing above two open seats and an engine with a large rear-facing propeller.

  ‘She might not look much, but she’s my daily workhorse. She’s a flexwing, powered by a four-cylinder, four-stroke, eighty horse-power Rotax nine-one-two engine. I tell you that only so you know she’ll get us to where we’re going better than anything else.’ He looked at me. ‘You ever flown in one before?’

  I had, as it happened. It had been with a madman of an army pilot at the controls, and hadn’t ended well. ‘Once.’

  He grinned and clapped a hand on my arm. ‘Great. So you know the drill.’

  ‘Drill?’

  ‘Once you’re in, don’t move around. If I jump out it’s because staying on board is the worst option.’

  I watched while he walked round the machine, checking out the rigging and engine. It didn’t look much, but if he used it on a daily basis for running the reservation fences and checking for poachers, it was the best I would get. The tyres were bigger than I recalled from the army flight, like giant doughnuts.

  He noticed me looking. ‘They’re called Tundras – they’ll cope with most terrains: sand, rocks, grassland – even beach if we get close to the water.’ He kicked the nearest tyre, then showed me where to stow my sports bag. ‘We can’t get your rifle out here – they’ll arrest you. I’ll put down later somewhere quiet so you can run your eye over it and check the sights.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He buckled me in and checked my helmet intercom was plugged in, then climbed aboard in front of me, the machine bouncing under his weight. We had developed an audience. The guard from the terminal building came over to watch, along with a couple of guys in mechanics’ coveralls. The guard grinned and held up his thumb, and took a photo of us on his cell phone. A kid of about ten appeared from behind a small storage shed, and Piet shouted and waved at him to keep clear before he got turned to mincemeat.

  Getting airborne took seconds, once we were given the all-clear, and Piet levelled out over the town and headed north.

  All I could do was sit there and admire the view, while trying to ignore the shattering noise of the engine behind me and a tiny voice of unease that was niggling away at my brain.

  The voice continued to niggle for the first hour out of Malindi. Then Piet signalled that we were going down. He circled once, peering over the sides to check the ground, then put us down on a deserted patch of grass and scrub. The landing was bouncy and short, and I figured he knew this area well enough to judge exactly where he could land safely.

  I unzipped the sports bag. The longest of the three packages provided by Khaban in Mombasa held an AK-47 sniper rifle. Of Hungarian design, it had an extended barrel compared with the weapon’s usual stubby design, a wooden skeleton butt and came equipped with a suppressor, optical scope and bipod. It fired 7.62mm rounds with a declared effective range of up to 600 metres. It wasn’t n
ew, but looked clean and ready to go.

  I was hoping I wouldn’t get to use it.

  The next package was smaller, and I put that to one side for later. The third package held a Vektor SP1 9mm pistol with spare magazines. Like the AK-47, it was commonly available in the region and wouldn’t point towards the origins of the user if they fell into the wrong hands. There was no suppressor, which Khaban had warned me about, but it was too late to go hunting for one now.

  ‘You planning on starting a war?’ Piet was transferring fuel from a spare tank, but had one eye on the guns. With his background, he must have used both weapons himself over the years.

  ‘I hope it won’t come to that.’

  I looked around. I needed to check the sights on the rifle. We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, but I didn’t want to find a unit of local police popping up if I let off a few rounds. ‘Are we alone out here?’

  Piet nodded. ‘As alone as you’ll ever be.’ He pointed at a rock about two hundred metres away, and another further back. Both were set against a sandy outcrop with a scattering of dry bushes. ‘If you hit those, I’ll buy you a drink when we’re back in ’Lindi.’

  I checked the scope on the AK-47 and inserted a magazine. Folded out the bipod and dropped into the firing position. Wiped the lens and set the butt against my shoulder. It felt familiar and easy. The rock jumped into view through the lens. I breathed out and squeezed off a sighting shot. A puff of sand flew up to the left and back of the rock. A couple of birds followed, disappearing into the sky with shrieks of alarm. I adjusted my stance and fired twice more. Two hits and a near miss, and bits of rock flew into the air. I shifted again, this time aiming at the second rock without adjusting the sights. One hit and a miss.