Piet swore. ‘Damn. I shouldn’t have been so generous. One thing, though; you want a piece of advice from an old border hand?’ He was referring to the guerrilla incursions over the years from South Africa’s neighbouring lands. They had become increasingly bitter and hard fought, and the army had learned some valuable lessons in bush warfare.
‘I’m always happy to listen.’ I took out the magazine and put the rifle to one side.
‘Make damn sure you hit what you aim at first time out. The Somalis don’t go in for targeted shots; they spray everything with as much ordnance as they can get. You don’t want to be on the receiving end, trust me.’
‘Why do you mention Somalis?’
‘Because at this end of the world, my friend, there’s only one group you’ll come up against – and it ain’t the Kenyan army.’ He hesitated then said, ‘What are we talking about here – pirates?’
‘Something like that. Didn’t Vale say?’
‘Vale doesn’t say more than he needs to, which suits me fine.’ He shifted his feet, a sign he had something on his mind. ‘I have to say this, Portman – I carry a rifle, too. But it’s legal and for self-defence – not like that thing you got there.’ He nodded at the sniper rifle. ‘That’s a man killer.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is, I’ve got a wife and kid in Mombasa and I don’t want to leave them alone in this world. I’ll get you in and get you out again, I’ll even come in and move you on further, if you need it. But that’s all I can do. I ain’t the cavalry so don’t count on any suicide missions.’ He waited while I loaded the Vektor and fired off three rounds at a spindly acacia tree about fifty metres away. Two lumps of bark shot off into the bush and I figured that was good enough.
A man at the same distance would be a much bigger target.
‘That’s fine with me,’ I said. He was right. Now we both knew where we stood, there would be no confusion if things got hot. I put the gun under my jacket; the rifle went into a sling at my side. I transferred the other package and some essentials along with water, a small medical pack and some energy bars, to a folding backpack, and I was ready to go.
Piet grunted and climbed on board.
As we took off, the earlier niggle that had been tormenting me suddenly mushroomed into something real. I wondered why the airport guard, who must have seen Piet taking off and landing hundreds of times, had suddenly decided that today was a good day to take a photo.
Twenty-One
There wasn’t much to do while we flew, save listen to Piet’s occasional commentary, check out the scenery, and try not to dwell on the fact that I was sitting in an open bucket seat with bits of aluminium tubing, fabric and wires holding us in the air. I occupied myself instead by counting the number of people or vehicles down below, and wondering what kind of reception committee we might run into if we got unlucky.
‘Where do they come from?’ I said over the intercom. ‘The people on the track.’ The ant-like figures were moving slowly in line along a thin trail of bare earth, heading towards Malindi. I couldn’t see any signs of habitation and wondered how far they had walked. It was a common enough sight in Africa, where people had to walk kilometres for food, water, medicines or schools – all stuff we take for granted in the west. But it still amazed me every time.
‘Some are traders off the offshore islands, like Lamu and Kiswayu,’ he said shortly. ‘The rest are mainland locals. Any heading south are probably Somali illegals. If they’re lucky and miss the army and police patrols, they’ll get through to Mombasa and disappear.’
I wondered how he could tell. To my untrained eye the walkers were dots against the landscape. He’d said earlier that we would be flying at 1,500 feet, which gave us a spectacular view of the countryside below, but no real detail save for endless patterns of greens and reddish-brown, of grassland and scrub through a shimmering haze. Off to our right was a silver sheen where the sun was reflecting off the sea, and I could just about make out the curved scimitar-shapes of sails as local boats moved offshore. The sky above us was a brilliant blue all the way to the horizon.
‘Going down,’ he said after another thirty minutes. ‘There’s a section of fence out and I need to check it. If we’re being watched it might look odd if I don’t.’
We lost height and began to circle round, and I tried to spot the damaged fence, but couldn’t. Piet brought us to within a hundred feet of the ground, his shoulders working to keep us level, and I saw we were running parallel to a long stretch of wire fencing. He stabbed a finger out and I saw a gaping hole where the wire had been cut and peeled back. Tyre tracks were plainly visible in the soft earth running in a north-westerly direction away from the coast.
‘Poachers,’ Piet said. ‘I’ll have to call it in to HQ.’ He regained height again and levelled off, then got on the radio and gave the details and coordinates to somebody on the other end.
‘What will happen?’ I queried, when he switched off. If Piet was forced to divert or drop me off early somewhere, I’d be behind the band.
‘They’ll send out an armed patrol. Be lucky, though, if they find them. They could be anywhere. It’ll be down to the trackers.’
We flew on until he took us down again, this time just short of the town of Kiunga. We drank water and stretched our legs, and Piet showed me a map of the area.
‘We’re about ten kilometres from the border. I can drop you about here.’ He showed me a position north of the town and right up against the border with Somalia. It would put me about two kilometres from the town of Kamboni. ‘I pass this way often enough checking the area around the Kwaggavoetpad and Boni reserves, so the locals know my machine. The area on the other side is a park, too, but I’ve got no business over there. Any closer than this and the spotters on both sides of the border might start wondering what I’m doing.’
‘Spotters?’
‘They keep an eye out for army, police patrols and anti-smuggling units, and sell the info to whoever will buy it – including your pirate fellows. Spotters can be farmers, homesteaders, fishermen – anybody.’
‘The guard at Malindi?’
He gave me a quick look. ‘Why do you say that?’
I told him about the man taking a snapshot on his cell phone. It had seemed such a natural thing to do, I hadn’t thought anything of it until we were in the air. In common with others in my line of business, I’m wary of having my photo taken, especially when on assignment on foreign soil.
‘He was probably unused to seeing me go two-up,’ he said eventually. But he didn’t sound convinced. ‘Can you manage from there?’
I nodded. It would be easy enough. I’d walked bush country before, and in hostile territory. Some things are like riding a bike; as long as you don’t get cocky, you’ll survive.
Piet replenished his fuel from the spare tank to avoid having to stop again until he was well clear of the area, then we took off for the last leg.
‘We’ll be going in low,’ he explained over the roar of the engine. ‘Anybody down there will hear us but won’t see us until we’re right overhead.’
As we cleared a line of thin trees and levelled out, this time disturbingly close to the ground, I caught a glimpse of the sea less than a kilometre away to our right. Seeing it all this close was a reminder that this was where things started getting serious.
Twenty minutes later I was alone and on foot, watching from the sparse cover of an acacia tree as Piet took off. Behind me was the border, a vague no-man’s land marked by an occasional line of posts running into the distance.
On the other side lay bandit country.
I waited for Piet to get clear, then checked my bearings. Night-time falls quickly in Africa, like God throws a switch, and I needed to get across the border before it was fully dark. But being prepared before you move is a must-do thing. A gun is no good if it doesn’t do what you want the first time of asking, and having to search for something vital in the dark can seriously slow you down if you
can’t put your hand on it right away. I checked my weapons again to make sure they were fully functioning, then opened my backpack.
What I needed first was a lightweight ghillie net. By itself it was no use unless I wanted to catch fish; by adding bits of local foliage, it would become part of the background, under which I would hide if anybody came along. Ghillies were commonly used by snipers and forward observers, some made up in the form of elaborate suits. I preferred something easy to pull over me, yet quick to throw off if I needed to respond suddenly to a threat.
With the ghillie ‘shrubbed up’, I called Vale. He picked up on the third ring.
‘I’m about an hour out from the RV,’ I reported. ‘I’ll be going in on foot, crossing the border in fifteen.’
‘Good to hear.’ He sounded relieved but concerned. ‘Our people are still at the hotel in Nairobi. We’ve had a man checking flight bookings out of Jomo Kenyatta International for tomorrow but he hasn’t found anything yet. If they take an air taxi or a private flight, which is the most likely, we won’t know when they leave until too late.’ He sounded frustrated at the lack of hard information, and I guessed he was having to take a back seat at SIS headquarters and not ask too many questions.
I sympathized. It would have helped to know more. A lot more. With no idea of how or when his people would get to the coast, I was in danger of going in blind. And if the other side changed the venue of the meeting, I would be left sitting out here with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I couldn’t watch over them until I got a visual, but I also needed to be close to the meeting venue early, to assess what forces I was up against. For that I would need to find the villa and get right up close to it before morning.
I shut off the phone and packed it away, then threw the ghillie net over me and set off towards the border.
What I didn’t know was that I’d already been spotted.
Twenty-Two
Vale replaced the receiver and looked up to see Moresby standing in the doorway to his office, leaning against the frame. He wondered how much the new Ops Director had heard.
He clamped down on his surprise and said, ‘Can I help you?’
Moresby unhitched his shoulder and stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
‘What are you playing at, old man?’ His voice was cold, the familiarity an insult. A faint tic was visible in one cheek, something Vale had noticed before when Moresby’s emotions were running high. Not a good indicator for a man in his position. Show a sign of weakness in this game, he was tempted to tell him, and the wolves will have you.
‘Is something bothering you?’
‘You’ve been to New York.’
‘So?’
‘I checked your log. You weren’t authorized.’
Vale didn’t react. There had been a time when he could go anywhere, at any time, at the drop of a hat; it was a requirement of his position as a field officer and agent runner. Now, not so much, especially since people like Moresby had introduced new rules about foreign travel assignments needing authorization, even to ‘friendlies’ such as the US. It was partly to do with a need for greater control over SIS officers’ activities, and to avoid embarrassing questions when the press picked up on something involving intelligence operations.
‘I was there on my own ticket. I took leave. Is that a problem?’
Moresby pursed his lips. ‘You sure you didn’t drop in on our friends while you were there?’ He meant the CIA, FBI, NSA and all the other acronyms peppering the US Intelligence community.
‘As I said, I was on leave.’
Moresby sniffed and turned his head to study a photo on the wall. It was a bleak study of the iconic Kaiser-Wilhelm Memorial church in central Berlin, in profile against the evening sky. Vale had been given it many years before by an opposite number in the German Bundesnachrichtendienst – the Federal Intelligence Service – after they had worked together on a lengthy and complex insertion operation against the Russians. It had been a wry acknowledgement of shared history and of future co-operation. By return, Vale had sent him a framed copy of Mason’s iconic wartime photo of St Paul’s Cathedral. They had been friends ever since.
‘Scene of one of your triumphs, was it? You and all those other Cold War warriors?’ He gave a twisted smirk. ‘It’s over, don’t you know that? Your time has passed. Why don’t you retire and leave the rest of us to get on with business.’
Vale sat back, surprised by the venom in Moresby’s words. They had never got on well, being of different generations and outlooks – even education. But this was a whole new level of hostility, signalling that the gloves were off. He guessed his continued presence must be getting under the new man’s skin.
‘I will, soon enough,’ he said quietly. ‘Is there a point to this visit or are you merely bored?’
Moresby’s eyes flashed and his jaw went tight. ‘You don’t like the way I’m doing things, Vale – and that I can understand. After all, it’s a whole new game, isn’t it? Things are moving at a faster pace than you and your generation ever witnessed. But that’s the world we live in now. I know you went into bat against my proposals; I know you went upstairs and tried to stop me; I know you had a cozy little chat with Scheider the other day. What was that about – sticking a spanner in the works? No, don’t tell me – I’m not interested.’ He breathed heavily, then added, ‘I don’t care what you think of me or my plans. And who I send out into the field is no longer your concern. So back off.’ He walked to the door, then turned back. ‘You’ve had your time in the limelight, old man. It’s time to step back.’
‘You’ve made that quite clear,’ Vale murmured. They had been down this road before, only in a more formal and outwardly civilized manner, documented and recorded for posterity, an example of the bureaucratic jousting which Moresby and his kind seemed to enjoy. He saw no reason to prolong it just because teeth were now bared. ‘Close the door after you.’
Moresby gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Think you’re so hard-nosed, don’t you?’ His face went tight. ‘You get in my way, old man, and you’ll find out what hard-nosed really is. I promise.’ He walked out, pulling the door closed behind him.
Vale waited until he was certain that Moresby wasn’t coming back, then picked up his phone and made a call to the US Embassy. He asked to speak to James Scheider.
Twenty-Three
Inside the citadel that was the US Embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square, James Scheider listened carefully to the call from Tom Vale, then said goodbye and cut the connection. The deputy station chief for the CIA looked across his desk at his new assistant, Dale Wishaw, who had just entered.
‘Tom Vale, MI6,’ he explained. ‘The British are running an operation in Somalia, near Kamboni. We were given an eyes-on out of courtesy because of two UN people caught up in the hostage situation out there. The Brits have been made an offer to negotiate for their release, and they’ve sent out two reps to see if they can work out a deal.’
‘UN? That’s not good.’
‘No. But with no US citizens involved, we get to stand back and watch. The UN people probably work out of the New York headquarters, but can’t be seen to interfere unless they make a formal request for us to do so. And frankly, I don’t trust anybody in State or the UN to stay quiet on this issue long enough to resolve it. If it got out that talks were being held with pirates, I think the media coverage would sink it dead.’
‘But we’re talking to the Taliban. What’s the difference?’
‘The Taliban as a whole have shown willing. This bunch of pirates isn’t the same. They could easily get frightened off if the media shows up.’
Wishaw eyed him carefully. ‘But you’ve promised to help?’
‘I did, God help me. Limited to over-flight capabilities and supplying whatever intel we can get, using drones for real-time footage of anything that moves.’
‘NSA?’ Wishaw himself had transferred across from the National Security Agency, the equivalent but far bigger cousin to Britain
’s GCHQ. With vaster resources and capabilities and, some cynics were fond of saying, fewer official scruples about privacy rules when it came to intelligence gathering, it spent its life and budget trawling the incessant and growing amount of phone traffic, message boards, chat rooms, forums, blogs and websites used by terrorist and other extreme organizations.
‘I promised I’d copy Tom separately on all material.’
‘How come? Doesn’t he already get it?’
Scheider chose his words with care. If any of this ever got out, he would be shipped back home to a senate committee hearing accused of engaging in back-door operations counter to official policy. It was a surefire career killer and one he wished to avoid.
‘You would think so, right? I get the feeling Vale’s no longer part of the inner circle. This is Moresby’s operation and he’s new school. Vale is old school and not far off retirement.’
‘Problem?’
‘Yeah. He has bad feelings about this whole negotiation thing. To be honest, I don’t blame him. It smells bad. Why should the Somalis offer to negotiate for any group after months of silence? They don’t know that two of their hostages are UN, so why make an exception right now?’
‘What does the chatter say?’ Wishaw was referring to the buzz and rumour that inevitably peppered the airwaves when something big was in the wind.
‘That’s the problem: there is none.’
Wishaw blinked. ‘What, at all?’
‘Not a peep. Whoever’s controlling it – this guy Musa, whoever he is – he knows how to keep things under wraps.’
‘If Vale doesn’t like the plan, why doesn’t he say so?’
‘He tried. Nobody’s listening.’ Scheider shifted in his seat. ‘I owe him for past favours so I said I’d do what I could.’
‘So why look so worried?’
Scheider squinted at him. ‘You’ve never heard of this Kamboni before?’
The Watchman Page 10
