The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  Scheider stared at Wishaw as the connection was cut, scarcely believing what he’d just heard. ‘Am I in fucking Disneyland? Did that asshole just tell me to go screw myself?’

  Wishaw shook his head in sympathy. ‘He offered a Herti, Jim. It’s a good platform. We should take it. If we do, it’s up to Langley to get it in position and start providing us with data.’

  Scheider stood up and walked around the room. He had to calm down. While he did so, he toyed with the idea of pulling details of Biggelow’s financial and credit records and making them disappear for forty-eight hours. That would make the jerk sit up and realize there was a real world out there. But that would hit the messenger, not the people who had made the decision to counter the use of a Hale.

  He sighed and went back to the table, his anger dissipating. Truth was, this was partly his fault. After hearing what Moresby was proposing, he’d had serious reservations about the sense of sending in anyone, let alone a woman, to negotiate with a prick like Xasan or any of his ‘contacts’ in such a deeply male society. Unfortunately, he’d allowed those reservations to seep into his report and he had the feeling it had been picked up by the analysts back in Langley and passed on up the line.

  But he’d made the Brits a promise and he was going to keep it – and the first person he owed it to was Tom Vale.

  He took a deep breath. ‘OK. You’re right. Ask them to get the Herti in the air, will you? You’ve got the coordinates. We’re already behind the mark on this, so make it quick.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘Before you go, do we have any idea of the local population?’

  ‘No, sir. A couple of thousand is a number we’ve had for a while, but that’s unreliable. It fluctuates all the time, especially since the KDF went through on their way to Kismaayo.’

  ‘Did the Kenyans leave any observers in Kamboni?’

  ‘A small unit. But when things went quiet they pushed them north to join the main force in Kismaayo. There are reports of armed men filtering south into the area during the past few days. It’s thought they’re al-Shabaab or clan sympathizers, stirred up against what they’re calling a Christian invasion.’

  Scheider pulled a face. ‘Tricky. Can’t the KDF stop them moving south?’

  ‘It’s almost impossible. They move overland where the KDF is spread too thin, or they come by skiffs or fishing boats. It’s a vast area.’

  ‘Are they all hostiles?’

  ‘We have to assume so. The predominant extremist force throughout Somalia is al-Shabaab, in spite of Federal Government and KDF forces having claimed they have control since 2011.’ He pointed at the photos, which showed a number of pickup trucks and armed men spread among the buildings. ‘These are definitely not Kenyan or Somali troops. They look more like extremists and the groups supporting pirates out at sea. They don’t exactly have the numbers to control the area completely, but they represent a sizeable force. The Kenyans are either unaware or unconcerned by their presence due to other commitments.’

  ‘Do we know why they’re in Kamboni?’

  ‘No. Our intel is that the KDF are focussing on bigger problems to the north, and don’t give too much credence to small groups elsewhere. That might be true. What we do know is that when the KDF passed through and hit Kismaayo, al-Shabaab melted into the hinterland where they can’t be monitored. We thought at first that these new arrivals around Kamboni were the result of being squeezed down there by the troops to the north, but they seem to be moving too freely for that – and they all seem to be armed and fed. They’re actually moving in a coordinated fashion, although we still don’t have a clear picture why.’

  ‘Could it have anything to do with the negotiations conducted by the British?’ Even as he posed the question, Scheider knew that there had to be a connection. Very little was done by al-Shabaab in the region without there being a solid reason. And the thought of gaining kudos of any kind from hostage negotiations would make the al-Shabaab leadership salivate with joy.

  Wishaw evidently thought not. ‘I can’t see how if these negotiations were being kept as secret as you say. I doubt everybody in the region wants individual cells selling off hostages to all-comers. It would weaken their overall bargaining position if the bargaining prices started going down.’

  ‘But they could be non-affiliated hostage-takers, right? This Musa guy may be al-Shabaab, but I bet he’d be happy to trade a fast buck on the side if he got the chance.’

  ‘That’s probably true. The independent gangs and clans steer clear of the main religious groups and do their own thing. Even al-Shabaab is made up of different clans with their own interests. I’m just not sure why this particular gathering is taking place.’

  ‘OK. Keep me posted, will you? And see what we’ve got on Musa. If he’s been running things for any time, we might have a voice file. He won’t stay silent for ever, and all we need is a match to give us a trace of where he is. Something else is going on here and I’d like to know what it is.’

  Thirty

  An hour after the plane had flown over, I heard the rumble of an engine from the north. It was the white SUV. This time it was moving slowly over the rough ground, and as it passed across in front of me and pulled up outside the villa, I could see why: it was full of passengers.

  A reception committee had gathered and stood watching as the doors opened. I counted three Somalis, all armed, and another man who climbed out and stood issuing orders like he wanted to exert his authority. Unfortunately, his lack of height and sizeable girth seemed to go against him, and none of the men from the house seemed that impressed. Unlike the men from the villa, these newcomers were dressed in light pants and western-style shirts, setting them apart.

  The two SIS representatives got out and the reception committee promptly played their part by levelling their guns at them. The woman was slim and of medium build, with dark hair cut short. I didn’t need her photo on my sat phone to know who she was. Angela Pryce wore a lightweight jacket and pants, and looked slightly pissed at the number of guns being pushed in her face.

  Her minder was a big guy, and looked like he could pick up a couple of the Somalis and swat the rest on to the beach in the background if he got really sore. But he wore the blank expression of a seasoned pro, and I was guessing he must have already worked out that he’d drawn the short straw here if anything went wrong.

  After a while, the fat man organized his three goons to get the Brits inside, and everybody followed, leaving two men on guard outside.

  The SUV drove away towards Kamboni, leaving a dust cloud hanging over the villa and a sullen silence in the air.

  I settled back down to wait and switched on my sat phone, and checked through a file of potential relevant participants supplied by Vale. I found the fat man immediately; it was Xasan, the middleman. None of the other faces looked familiar.

  Musa, the man holding the hostages, wasn’t here yet. I checked his photo again. He was unusually tall and thin, even for a Somali, with a hawk nose and eyes set close together, and looked oddly familiar, although I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before this photo. The shot had been taken covertly, and showed him at a sidewalk café table with two other men, hunched in conversation over small cups of coffee. Two others stood in the background, watching the street. Musa obviously didn’t believe in travelling without protection.

  By the time darkness was beginning to roll in, all the signs down at the villa indicated that nobody else was showing up today. First the guards began to look bored, squatting together and talking, their rifles on the ground beside them. Occasionally Xasan would put in an appearance and snap at them. They would stand up and shuffle their feet, but their response was grudging and lacked real respect. I figured he wasn’t part of their clan, so didn’t rate more than a nod and a grunt.

  Xasan himself seemed on edge and would go to the part of the garden overlooking the beach and stare out to sea with the frustrated appearance of a man wanting something important to happen.


  I knew how he felt. I was hot, tired and thirsty, and my water reserve was running low. I had to get more or another day out here and dehydration would become a serious problem.

  Eventually Xasan went inside. Moments later, the door opened and another figure came out. He was followed by one of the men, who said something and cuffed him round the head before shoving him on his way.

  It was the kid who had come so close to stumbling on my OP. He had a bag slung over his shoulder. He ducked his head as he passed the two guards, and headed out towards the track to town, holding one arm tight against his chest, as if injured.

  I got him in the scope before he disappeared from sight. He had the bearing of a whipped dog and I was pretty certain his arm had been fine earlier.

  It gave me an idea.

  I waited for the two guards to get bored again, then slid out of my OP and went after the kid.

  Apart from getting water, which I was going to have to steal, I needed to get a line on what was happening inside the villa with the two SIS personnel. I had two ways of accomplishing the second task: one way was hi-tech, the other wasn’t.

  It was time to try low-tech first.

  Thirty-One

  Taking the Vektor and Ka-Bar knife, with the ghillie net around my shoulders, I followed the kid along the rough beach-side track leading to town. It was hard, packed dirt for most of the way, with ruts where vehicles had driven out along the coast. It made walking relatively safe in the near dark, but risky if guards had been placed along the way.

  I moved off the track at one point when I heard a noise ahead of me, and ran into the wrecks of two skiffs, half buried in wind-blown sand. I had to feel around to get my bearings. The wood was sticking up like rotten teeth, and coarse grass had sprung up between the base boards. I turned back and got on to the track, and hurried to make up lost time.

  Fortunately, the kid had slowed down, and I got close enough to hear him mumbling to himself, which I guessed was to bolster his nerves. It meant I’d get plenty of notice and be able to get off the track in time if he came across anybody.

  We were soon passing Dhalib, which was in darkness. Little more than a few ramshackle huts clustered above the beach and used by fishermen, it was dwarfed by the nearby town of Kamboni, which began with a few houses and was well spread out. The sea was close by on the left, with the long sleek lines of skiffs just visible against the near-white of the sand, lying on the shore like beached sharks. We passed several low bungalows scattered in a seemingly haphazard manner, some with rough fences, some with lights on from gas or oil stoves or the telltale rattle of generators.

  Most of the houses were of a simple plaster construction, with thatched or corrugated-steel roofs and overhanging verandas. Spindly-looking palm trees poked up like curved fingers in between, the only show of vegetation.

  The kid was acting more nervous the closer we got to the centre, constantly turning to scan his surroundings. It was probably his first time in town, and I was guessing he’d been told to talk to nobody, to watch his back and stay out of trouble. I allowed the gap between us to grow, using whatever cover I could to stay out of his sight. All the time I was watching out in case I ran into trouble myself.

  I lost him when he moved between two houses to avoid a group of men, but soon picked him up again. He’d got well ahead of me and was hurrying, his shoulders hunched to reduce his profile. I put on a spurt and nearly ran into three armed men standing alongside a beat-up Mitsubishi pickup.

  I dived sideways into deep shadow. Luckily for me, they were too busy giving the kid a hard time to notice me.

  When they eventually let him go, I was ahead and parallel to him, checking his progress through the gaps between the houses. By now I guessed we must be close to the centre of town. The alleyways here were narrow, the houses jammed close together. But everything was deathly quiet, and I figured the presence of the pirates was not universally popular.

  Along the way I passed three or four more vehicles, and heard laughter from inside a couple of larger buildings, which I guessed had been taken over by pirates. Experience made me check the back of the vehicles, but none showed signs of carrying spare water containers.

  I knew from the map Vale had supplied that Kamboni stood on a small peninsula jutting out into the Indian Ocean. The main part of the town was slightly inland, with a concentration of houses behind the local mosque, which had a commanding position overlooking the water. I couldn’t be certain, but my guess was that the kid was on an errand for food. We had already passed a couple of stalls which were closed for the day, and among the aromas of cooking and the more acrid smell of fuel oil, there was a lingering tang of fish.

  A flare of light showed me where the kid was heading. It was a food stall selling fruit, vegetables and – the thing I had come for – bottled water and juices. A number of men were bunched around the front and a couple of gas-powered lights strung overhead gave the scene an unreal edge, picking up the sheen of fruit, packaging, smooth skin … and AK-47 rifles. A dog sniffing around the sides of the stall was an added danger.

  The kid fronted up to the stall and the men made way for him. I watched as he pointed to some fruit and bottled drinks, and paid with some notes out of his bag. He had trouble using his right hand. Then he turned and began to make his way back through town towards the villa.

  I jogged to get ahead of him on the outskirts of town, where we weren’t overlooked, but where a faint splash of light made it easy to see me. I took out the Ka-Bar.

  I’d thought about this carefully. The kid might run screaming for the hills, but it was a risk I figured worth taking. I was trying not to think about what I would have to do if he freaked out on me, but something told me he wasn’t about to go out of his way to help the men who treated him so badly.

  I stepped out in front of him.

  He was pretty cool, in spite of his earlier show of nerves coming into town. He took one look at me and stopped dead. He made no attempt to shout or run, but eyed the knife in my hand.

  ‘I saw you,’ he said calmly, ‘watching the house – when the men wanted to shoot at cans.’ Hearing him speak English was a stunner. It was heavily accented, and hesitant, but good. I guessed he’d been to college or university, which made him city-bred.

  ‘You’ve got sharp eyes. Yet you didn’t tell your friends I was there.’

  ‘They are not my friends. Also, I did not know who you were … and you did not do me harm, even though I saw your gun. Are you French, sir? American? I have not seen Americans here before.’

  I considered my reply. Trying to explain why I was helping the two SIS people would take too long, and I wasn’t sure what his reaction might be to me owning up to being an American. Pretending I was French was also risky; their recent venture in Mali had caused uncomfortable ripples throughout the region.

  In the end I took a gamble. I went for the middle ground. ‘I’m English.’

  ‘Ah. The man and the woman from the plane, they also are the English. Are you a friend of the English, sir?’

  ‘No. They don’t know me.’ It was an easy truth. But something was bothering me. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘They call me Madar.’

  ‘Madar, why didn’t you tell the others about seeing me?’

  ‘Because they do not listen to me. I am less than nothing to them, here to do their bidding. They beat me when I do not do something right.’

  ‘They hurt your arm?’

  He held up his right hand and winced. ‘Yes. The man Xasan did not like some rice I had prepared. He beat me with a stick. I tried to protect myself. They say bad things about my uncle. He was an important man in Mogadishu, a professor of political science in the university. And he liked the English,’ he added proudly, tinged with sadness. ‘He taught me English and said I would need it one day to travel and work.’

  ‘He’s a wise man. Why don’t they like him?’

  He hesitated and shrugged. ‘They tell me I am not worthy of being he
re because of him.’

  ‘Why are you? It’s a long way from Mogadishu.’

  ‘A friend told me I could earn much money coming here.’

  ‘With the pirates?’

  ‘Yes. There is no work in Mogadishu. Many men have come to the coast, like me.’

  ‘And your uncle allowed you to come?’

  He shook his head. ‘My uncle was killed last year and I do not have other family, save for a sister, Amaani. She lives in Mogadishu. She says my uncle was killed because he criticized those who would hold back our country from its future. I do not know why they would do that.’ His breathing was coming in short bursts, and I got the feeling he’d been waiting for some time to talk about it.

  I felt sorry for him. There were plenty of militant groups in the region accused of hurling the country back several hundred years by supporting piracy and allegiances to terrorism. His uncle must have fallen foul of one of them and it had cost him his life. It also explained why they were using Madar as some sort of slave – a punishment by association.

  ‘What about the English – what do they intend doing with them? Will they trade them on?’

  He shook his head. ‘I do not know. They do not speak to me of these things. But I heard them talking. An important person is coming soon, tomorrow.’

  It must be Musa. ‘To do what?’

  ‘He is a chief of many people and he will decide what is to happen to them.’

  That didn’t sound much like any negotiation I’d ever heard of. ‘Where is this chief coming from?’

  ‘From the north. Everybody here comes from the north.’ He waved out towards the sea. ‘He comes on a boat.’

  More intel to relay to Vale, although I wasn’t sure what he could do with it. By the time he acted, any boat would be lost among the other craft on a vast expanse of ocean.

  Madar had put down the bag, which was heavy with the goods he’d bought. It reminded me that I was thirsty. I pointed at the bag and took out some Somali notes. ‘Can I buy some water from you?’