The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  This wasn’t looking good.

  I eased back in my hide and placed the tip of my rifle barrel on the rim, just inside the covering of branches. I made sure the ghillie was in place and made myself as comfortable as I could. If I had to, I could stand up and be on the move faster this way than lying prone. The Ka-Bar was in my belt and I could have it out in a flicker if push came to shove.

  Thirty metres.

  I could hear the hiss of his breathing now. He wasn’t particularly young, and I put his age at forty or more. He had the grizzled look of a hardened fighter, a man who had seen and done things that had earned him his place close to the head man. It made him a more formidable opponent than the guard last night, and I began working out my tactic for taking him down if he came too close.

  Twenty metres.

  He stopped barely fifteen paces away and looked over his shoulder, taking in the sweep of the beach, the villa, and the line of the coast away to the right. Then he spun and looked across the slope, checking out the ground from left to right either side of my position, quartering it in segments and not missing a thing.

  He started forward again before spotting something on the ground. He stopped and bent down.

  I held my breath and got ready to move. Had I left footprints at the front of the hide? I couldn’t recall. If so, it was a dead giveaway.

  But he bent down and picked up something with a flash of red. It was the water bottle dropped by Madar. He examined it, unscrewed the top, sniffed at the contents, then tossed it away.

  The bottle landed on the edge of my hide with a dull slap. It teetered for a moment, the water inside sloshing noisily, then tipped over and rolled down, slipping beneath the covering branches. It came to a rest against my leg.

  I stayed absolutely still, not daring to blink, my eyes half closed. He was now so close, if he caught as much as a gleam off an eyeball, he’d be in on top of me before I could move.

  Then he yawned and rubbed at his face, waving away a fly. My luck was continuing to hold. He had one empty eye socket, the flesh around it twisted and puckered, joining a long scar down the side of his face. An old battle wound.

  A voice floated up the slope, and he turned his head.

  It was the other guard, calling and waving an arm. He and a couple of other men were walking away from the villa towards Kamboni. They were all armed and looked eager to go. It looked like they had received orders, and I wondered what they were. Whatever they were doing, they clearly weren’t going far, and One-eye was expected to go with them.

  He turned and walked away, and I breathed easily, thanking my lucky stars that his eyesight hadn’t rivalled the younger Madar’s. Maybe now I could snatch a brief sleep.

  Ten minutes later I was jerked awake by the sound of gunfire.

  Thirty-Seven

  It took an effort of will not to overreact. Leaping up in my position would get me killed. Instead I grabbed the rifle and hugged the earth while I tried to locate the source of the gunfire. That’s not an easy thing to do when you’re crouched in a hole, half asleep and with your head clouded in cotton wool. Sounds get distorted and deflected every which way.

  I figured I’d heard at least four or five shots in rapid succession. But they’d been faint, so not from anywhere close by. Then came another burst, and I pinned it down.

  Dhalib.

  I risked a quick look. Was this an attack? Or had the men with One-eye run into trouble with the locals? The light was still good but beginning to drop, and I couldn’t see any signs of activity towards Dhalib. If the Kenyan army or police had decided to pay a visit, and the shots had been a first encounter, no way was I going to hang around. The army would come in heavy-handed and mop up anybody in the area. And that would include me.

  Then I saw smoke drifting into the air.

  I checked the villa. A single guard was standing near the front door, scratching his butt. He didn’t seem concerned by the gunshots or the smoke, so I figured he knew what was going on. But I didn’t.

  I waited for him to move out of sight, then lifted the cover overhead and slipped out of the hide. It was probably nothing to be worried about, but I had to make sure I wasn’t going to be caught in a pincer movement. I crept away towards Dhalib, sticking close to the ground and with the ghillie net over my head and shoulders to break up my outline.

  Twenty minutes of slow crawling later, I heard voices and laughter. The smoke was pungent and black and hanging close to the ground, shifted inshore by the breeze. An occasional slurry of sparks was being pushed into the air, and I guessed I must be close to the huts.

  It took me another five minutes to reach the first one. Or what was left of it.

  It was too smoky to see much, but it looked like the men had raided the fishermen’s huts and got carried away. I figured three of the small buildings had been destroyed by fire and another two were smouldering. The smell of burnt wood and plastic was pungent, overlaid by the heavier stench of burning rubber, which I guessed was from old rubber tyres used as fenders and thrown into the flames by Musa’s men.

  I crawled closer and found two bodies lying in the bushes. They were older men, lean and stringy, dressed in tattered clothing. They’d been shot several times.

  Voices floated up from the beach. I moved back into the bushes and made my way closer to the water.

  The pirates were milling around the fishermen’s boats, tossing out anything they couldn’t use, like nets and floats, and unfurling the sails to check for holes. An engine roared into life for a few seconds before cutting out. Compared to the engines used by the pirates, it sounded feeble and ancient.

  A body lay in the shallows, covered in blood, and further along the sand, another man had tried to flee and got cut down.

  Musa obviously wasn’t playing at being friends with the locals. He must have decided they needed more boats and sent his men out to get them. At whatever the cost.

  I relaxed my grip on the rifle. It would have been easy to dish out the same treatment these men had given the fishermen. Satisfying, too. But there was nothing I could do for the dead men without compromising my position, so I slid back to my hide and got busy sending Vale the photos I’d taken earlier. Then I called him with an update. He answered the phone immediately.

  ‘What can you tell me?’ He sounded tired. ‘These photos are disturbing.’

  ‘It’s Musa. He just arrived with more armed men and supplies.’ I wasn’t sure how to proceed so I said, ‘Are you sure this is just a negotiation?’

  There was a longer delay this time. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because they look as if they’ve come for war, and they’re already killing locals.’ I described what I had just seen in Dhalib – or what remained of it.

  He grunted. ‘This isn’t good.’ Like me, he would have recognized some of the boxes unloaded from the skiffs as being of the kind used to carry ammunition, even small rockets. If Musa was planning on stocking up local members of his clan with some extra firepower, his men were in a position, placed behind the Kenyan forces in Kismaayo, to inflict some serious damage on their supply lines. It wouldn’t be a prolonged fight, but a quick hit-and-run exercise to unnerve and destabilize the soldiers in the area, followed by a rapid retreat to sea. It explained why he had decided to acquire more boats and why he wasn’t concerned about letting a few local fishermen stand in his way. This was part of a campaign and collateral damage was incidental.

  ‘It won’t help immediately,’ Vale continued, ‘but I got some information about the Skytruck. It was on a watch bulletin from the Kenyan and Nigerian border police. The pilot’s a Russian, said to fly anybody anywhere, no questions asked. He’s been in the region for a couple of years but nobody’s been able to pin anything on him yet apart from a couple of minor infringements. Any sign of our two people?’

  I told him about the snatch of conversation I’d overheard earlier. He didn’t say anything, but I was certain by his silence that he shared the same reservations about Pryce’
s outburst as me.

  ‘If it all goes wrong,’ I said, ‘and I get them out, we’re a long way from nowhere. I can put Pryce on the microlight, but Tober and I will be on foot in bush country.’ I let him work on that one for a bit; he knew the position we’d be in.

  ‘Yes.’ That was all he said.

  ‘I know what you said about rescue,’ I said, ‘but what are the chances of an extraction for Tober?’ I was thinking about the Russian pilot and the Skytruck. If he could set down right on the border near here, surely another pilot could do the same.

  Vale was ahead of me. ‘Close to nil. I’m sorry. I wish I could hire a man to do it but my hands are tied. Piet will have to do what he can.’

  At least it confirmed that he hadn’t been able to work any miracles behind the scenes.

  It made our chances of survival very slim. Always assuming I got Tober and Pryce out safely in the event of trouble, we would still have to get back across the border and keep moving until Piet could make a pickup, followed by a second and third trip.

  It would be pushing his luck – and ours – to the extreme.

  ‘There’s been a development from our cousins,’ Vale said calmly. ‘The CIA have failed to get camera coverage of the area. They had an offer agreed, then they were blocked at source. It seems certain elements in the administration don’t want to upset the Kenyans by overflying drones, which most people in that neck of the woods regard as attack vehicles.’

  With all the news reports of terrorist leaders and others being taken out by drone attacks controlled by keyboard handlers, hundreds, even thousands of kilometres away, I wondered why anybody should be trying to kid themselves otherwise.

  ‘Well, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. But that doesn’t help you or us.’ He hesitated. ‘What’s your position?’

  ‘I’m good. But I’ve already had two near misses and these guys have shifted up a gear now Musa’s arrived.’

  ‘You’ve had a contact?’ His instincts were good, telling him that something bad had happened.

  ‘Yes, but they think it was an accident. You didn’t expect this to be trouble-free, did you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ I heard his sigh all the way down the line. ‘It would help if we knew what was in those boxes on the beach.’

  I knew what was coming next. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Any chance you could take a look?’

  Thirty-Eight

  Daylight was fading fast when I saw Madar come out of the house. I watched through the scope as he talked to the guards and gestured over his shoulder towards town. He had a bag slung over one shoulder and I figured he’d been given orders to go shopping again. As he walked towards the footpath, he glanced my way briefly and flicked his hand. He probably thought it would look to a casual observer as if he was brushing away flies, but to me it looked exactly what it was – a sign for me to follow.

  I gave him a head start in case one of the more switched-on new arrivals had noticed his signalling efforts, then slid out of my hide and followed.

  This time I had the Vektor and the Ka-Bar, although their potential for any real protection was limited. If this was a trap, I’d be caught in open terrain against men with rifles. But I didn’t think so; Madar was a simple city-bred kid caught up in something over which he had no control and didn’t understand. But he wanted an out, which was good. All he needed was a gentle push in the right direction.

  I found him waiting for me by the wrecks of the two skiffs I’d seen on the last trip, a short walk away from the huts of Dhalib. Smoke was still hanging in the air and he looked scared to hell. I wondered if it was because of what had happened to the fishermen or something else.

  ‘Mr Marc,’ he greeted me politely, although his voice was shaking. ‘I am pleased you have come.’

  I smiled in an attempt to settle his nerves. If he got too wound up he wouldn’t be able to string two words together. ‘I got your signal loud and clear. What’s going on?’

  He looked around and sat on the ground, pulling the bag into himself. It made him look even younger and I felt rough for using him this way. But I had to find out what was happening to the two SIS personnel. I squatted beside him, one eye on the track.

  ‘They say there is to be no talking with the two English spies.’ The words came out in a rush. He looked frightened, and he was obviously parroting what he’d heard the other men say.

  ‘Did they say why?’ This was new. Referring to them as spies wasn’t a good sign. It shifted their position from negotiators to something very different. No talking meant no deal.

  Things suddenly didn’t look too rosy for Pryce and Tober.

  ‘Before, there was much talk of ransom and barter for some other people they had taken from a big boat to the north. I do not know who those people are. But now they say they will not do this.’ His eyes were huge with fright as he looked at me.

  ‘What, then?’

  He swallowed, then whispered, ‘The tall man who came earlier in the boat – you saw him?’ He made a cross sign over his chest. The bandoliers. ‘He is a very important man. Everybody says so. It was he who ordered the men to attack the fishermen and take their boats.’

  ‘I saw. Did he say why he needed them?’

  ‘He told the men that they will be using them as vessels to strike at the hearts of the unbelievers at sea.’

  Nothing different there, then. Definitely a planned campaign. But what did it mean for the negotiations?

  ‘What else did he say?’ Madar was looking sick and I felt my gut go cold.

  ‘He said the English are to be executed.’

  It took a moment for the full shock of his words to sink in. Jesus.

  ‘How?’

  ‘They are saying we must abide by adrabu fawq al-’anaq, which means strike at their necks.’ He made a chopping motion to the back of his neck. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out what that meant.

  ‘Did he say why?’

  He looked unsure. ‘It is something they say they must do as instructed in the Holy Qur’ân. It is an act of payment – of Zakah – an act of obedience, to please Allah.’ His brow knitted. ‘I know the Holy Qur’ân, but I do not understand everything these men are saying. They are also very angry when they say these words.’ He ducked his head in apology. ‘I am sorry – I was too frightened to ask why they are doing this.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Madar. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’

  I felt numbed by the news, and wondered why I found it so easy to believe what Madar had just told me. Because it was so logical, perhaps. Why else, after all, had this elaborate charade been set up? My mind was already racing ahead, and I could only come to one conclusion about Musa’s intentions.

  Propaganda.

  ‘What are you thinking, Mr Marc?’ Madar sounded worried by my silence.

  I shook my head. Now wasn’t the time to go internal. I couldn’t change Musa’s plans, only the outcomes.

  ‘Will they do it, do you think?’

  Madar swallowed hard. ‘Yes. I am sure. The other men talk and say the tall man has come here for this thing only. He has also called others to come from the town, to see what is being done in the name of Allah. They are very excited by this, I think.’

  Witnesses. He wanted others to see it, to validate the event and spread the word. He’d planned a gory spectacular, but without other eyes and voices it would be a non-event. This way the ripples would spread outwards like a shockwave.

  So much for negotiations.

  ‘He made me prepare a room in the house,’ Madar continued softly. ‘I was instructed to clean it carefully and hang a flag on the walls, which he brought with him in the boat. He also brought a camera and a small computer to make disks. The man named Xasan knows how to do these things. He has done it before, I think.’

  Musa had told Madar to prepare a killing room. Complete with the usual backdrop of flags for propaganda purposes and a crowd of cheering onlookers, the beheading would be rec
orded on DVD and shipped around the world for eager followers to gloat over. And making victims of two SIS representatives – one a woman – would ramp up the tension higher than it had ever been. It wouldn’t matter a damn to Musa or his followers that the more hawkish elements in the west would demand a high level of retaliation; they would look on any response as merely symptomatic of increasing western aggression and to hell with collateral damage among their own people.

  By which time he would be long gone into the Somali interior, beyond reach.

  And Xasan would be in the background, making a quick buck from it any way he could.

  I needed to know more. ‘What was the flag?’

  ‘I am not sure. Someone said it the flag of al-Shabaab, but I do not know what that is. I have heard the name, but only from others.’

  Al-Shabaab. If anybody was going to benefit by such an extreme act, it was them. But were they the only ones? And what would happen to Xasan’s reputation for trading hostages afterwards? He’d be on every kill list around the world. Maybe it was going to be worth it to him; being in the middleman business was fraught with danger, especially when dealing with unpredictable characters like Musa. This might be his way of getting out.

  ‘Did they say what they are looking for in return?’ Propaganda was only one benefit. I didn’t hold out much hope of this kid knowing anything, but I was in for a surprise.

  ‘Much money,’ he said. ‘After the man spoke, the others were laughing and saying how they could buy new engines for the boats, much faster and more efficient, to out-run the foreign ships – and new guns, too. And rocket launchers.’ Just for a second he looked almost excited, as if sharing in the possibility of some new toys to play with. Then he looked ashamed. ‘Sorry.’

  I waved it away. He couldn’t help it. Excitement in such a closed environment was contagious. And the chance for these men to have access to more arms and equipment to pursue their piracy campaign was something beyond their wildest dreams.

  ‘Did they say where this money would come from?’ I had to ask the question, although I already knew the answer.