The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  He stood up and walked towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Moresby called after him.

  He turned his head but didn’t stop. ‘I’m going to make sure that we at least have one person coming out of this alive.’ He wanted to add that he was going to talk to Scheider, but he didn’t trust Moresby not to wake up and jump in first and tell the American to keep out of it. Once he recovered his equilibrium, Moresby would be looking to rescue the situation and start the process of clearing up the mess. And that would entail making sure that there were no embarrassing stories circulating afterwards. ‘Don’t wait up,’ he added, before closing the door firmly behind him.

  He returned to his office and slumped behind his desk, exhaustion beginning to invade every fibre of his body. If he didn’t get some proper sleep soon, he’d start to unravel like a badly-spooled ball of wool. And that would suit Moresby just fine.

  His phone rang and he picked it up, nearly dropping it in the process. Christ, he felt like an old man. What the hell was he still doing this for? It certainly wasn’t for the money or the kicks. Perhaps this call was going to put a stop to it.

  ‘Vale.’

  There was a slight delay, then a familiar voice floated down the line.

  Portman.

  He sat up immediately while the American brought him up to date in a few terse sentences stripped to the bare bones.

  ‘We had a couple of hot contacts, but we’re out and away. Tober’s taken two. He’s mobile for now.’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘He’s got one in him and I think a busted rib. He’s lost some juice but I’ll patch him up as best I can. He’s tough – he’ll make it.’

  ‘How will you get out?’

  ‘By sea. We’ll aim to head down the coast and make landfall somewhere near where Piet keeps Daisy.’

  Vale caught on immediately. Malindi. The town was located on a small bay and easy to spot from the sea. The airport was about a kilometre inland. The two men could get a flight from there to Nairobi. ‘It’s a long way down.’

  ‘It’ll take a few hours, but any further north and they’ll stand a greater chance of picking us up. Once at sea we’ll lose ourselves. If not we’ll hug the coast as much as we can. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Do that. There are two frigates on the way with marine detachments, but I can’t tell how long they’ll take.’ Vale didn’t want to add that policy and politics might actually get in the way and prevent them from getting too close to Somali or Kenyan land; Portman had enough on his plate without negative information putting a dent in his spirits. ‘Thank you, by the way, for getting Pryce out.’ It was the least he could say under the circumstances, and he hoped he would be able to enlarge on it at a later date.

  ‘All part of the service.’ Portman sounded almost cheerful, and Vale wondered how the man kept going under the circumstances, with no backup and no guarantees other than his own skills and experience to draw on. But then, he’d been like that himself once, back when nothing seemed impossible and danger was a welcome break from tedium.

  ‘Once we’re out of here,’ Portman continued, ‘you might have one of your flying robots take a close fix on the coordinates of this place.’

  Robots. He meant drones.

  ‘I can do that. But why?’ He couldn’t – not directly – but he knew a man who could.

  ‘I think they’re making it a base for operations in the south. It’s filled with supplies. Be good if it fell over, don’t you think?’

  Vale breathed out. So Musa hadn’t moved out yet. It meant he was planning on staying in the area for a while. And while shipping off the Kenyan coast might feel it was safe down there, away from the traditional pirate hunting ground around the Gulf, they would soon find out how wrong they were. He wondered if the government was aware of that. Plainly the Kenyans weren’t planning on doing much to tackle the pirates just yet.

  He toyed with the possibilities, the rights and wrongs, the moral imperatives of taking the fight to Musa’s front door. Whether he could get the UK’s own recently set up Remotely Piloted Air Systems drone team to do it, or persuade the Americans to use one of theirs, was a big question. If he could, it would certainly send a very clear message to others like Musa, who might try to do what he had done: You can be reached. Whoever and wherever you are, you can be touched.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Fine. But give us time to get clear first. I’d hate to see one of those Hellfires coming in head-on.’

  Vale nearly choked when he realized what Portman was saying. ‘You mean you’re actually right there? How close?’

  ‘Close enough to start a war.’

  Then he was gone.

  Sixty-Two

  ‘Jesus,’ Tober muttered, watching as I produced a small green box from my backpack and flipped open the plastic tabs. ‘You came ready. Were you a boy scout in a former life?’

  ‘No. I didn’t rate the uniform.’ The box contained a basic gunshot trauma kit. I’d hoped I wasn’t going to have to use it, but the dice falls the way it does.

  We were about a click away from the villa, and I was being ultra-careful with the use of a small LED flashlight to see what I was doing. Tober was sitting propped against the rear wheel of the pickup, which should hopefully shield us from anybody looking out this way. It would also be easier to hear somebody approaching than it would inside the cab.

  I lifted the lid and took out shears, rubber gloves, bandages and some vacuum-packed wipes, and did my best to gently clean the area around the wounds with the addition of iodine for good measure. I slapped on gauze packs and trauma wound dressings and wrapped a bandage as tightly as I dared around his torso and tied it off, then did the same for his leg.

  He didn’t say much, didn’t even grunt at what was surely painful, but nodded when I’d finished. He looked pale but game to go on. I handed him some cephalexin tablets to ward off infection, and he swallowed them without question. It wasn’t certifiable medical treatment, but if I could stop him bleeding out and keep any bacteria at bay until we got some proper help, he stood a good chance of making it.

  ‘How does it look?’ he queried, touching his side and hissing in protest as the movement stretched his ribcage.

  ‘It could have been worse,’ I told him.

  ‘How?’

  ‘It could have been me.’

  He smiled through the pain and mimed a weak punch at my head. Battlefield humour; it works every time.

  ‘So who was the one you left behind?’ he queried. He was talking to keep himself alert. ‘The one you’re cut up about?’

  I didn’t want to answer but I needed him awake, too. ‘I was leading a four-man unit in a mountainous region. We’d been given bad intel and got ambushed and split up. One man went the wrong way and got shot, but we only found out later.’

  ‘That wasn’t your fault.’

  That was true, but it felt like it. We were all highly trained in escape and evasion, and capable of looking after ourselves. In such situations each of us was expected to make our own split-second decisions. But sometimes training isn’t enough. You need luck, too.

  Tober didn’t pursue it. Maybe he knew what it was like. ‘You rang London just now?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I take it they’re not sending a Chinook to give us a nice comfy ride home, then?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ I told him what Vale had said about the frigates being a long way off, and didn’t layer it with sugar. He was experienced enough to know what the political situation was, and that if there was going to be a fast pickup, it would have happened by now. We were going to have to make our own way out of here and the sooner we started, the better.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he murmured. ‘Shit happens, right?’ He lay back and was soon breathing evenly, if a little heavy. It didn’t sound great but at least he was still alive.

  Perspiration was making my ribs itch. I’d almost forgotten about th
e bullet skimming my side, and checked it out. I found a two-inch burn mark and a faint smear of blood. Not even a flesh wound. But it was going to hurt like a bitch later on, so I dabbed it with iodine and slapped on a plaster to prevent infection, and swallowed a couple of cephalexin tablets just in case.

  Next I moved out a short distance and took a few minutes to check our perimeter, using the scope to pick up any light clothing or movement where there shouldn’t be any. But everything was quiet and there were no signs of pursuit. I returned to the truck and found Tober awake and wincing with discomfort.

  ‘You OK?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Stings a bit when I laugh, that’s all.’ He gestured away with his chin. ‘We good out there?’

  ‘We’re fine. No signs of a search but we’ll need to make a move soon. Can you stay awake for a while? I’m going to check out the boats near the villa.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss. Find us a good one, will you?’ He told me what to look for: plenty of fuel, all the leads and cables in place and how to find them, and some water. ‘We could be out at sea for a while,’ he finished, ‘so don’t pick us a dog, right? I don’t swim so good with holes in me.’

  ‘I promise.’ I handed him the Vektor, which he’d find easier to use than the AK, and left him to it.

  Sixty-Three

  Vale rang the embassy in Nairobi, where Pryce was waiting for a transfer to the airport and a military flight out. He was put through to the military attaché, Colonel Prior, to check security was in place, and asked to speak to Pryce.

  ‘She’s exhausted,’ Prior told him. ‘Can’t you leave it?’

  ‘If I could, I would. Put her on.’ Vale’s tone was civil, but only just. Having a solicitous army officer get in his way was the last thing he needed.

  Angela Pryce came on. She sounded tired but alert.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he told her. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot.’

  ‘That’s OK, sir. How can I help?’

  ‘Tell me what happened. This is a recorded briefing, so keep it short and to the point. You know the drill.’

  She hesitated, and he sensed the puzzlement in her voice. ‘Sir, shouldn’t I wait to speak to Mr Moresby about this?’

  She was correct; operationally, she should be reporting to Moresby or one of his nominated de-briefers. The same with Tober, to cross-match the information. Asking her to speak to himself first was a violation of his remit, but since he’d already blown that out of the water from the start, what was another infraction along the way?

  ‘Of course. And you will. But I’d like an outline first – especially about your escape … and how you saw the situation developing.’

  When she replied, the tension in her voice was clear. ‘Haven’t you asked Portman that question?’

  ‘I’ll come to that later. Tell me what happened, from the time you arrived in Nairobi. It’s important.’

  ‘Very well.’ She cleared her throat and Vale punched a button on the desk console and sat back to let her talk.

  Ten minutes later, her voice tailed off with tiredness and, he guessed, a degree of shock at reliving the experience.

  ‘I’m sorry I put you through that,’ he told her. ‘But it was necessary.’ He didn’t need to remind her that she would have to go through it again when she arrived back at Vauxhall Cross – and in more rigorous detail. Debriefing was a necessary evil for all operatives returning from an assignment and she would have gone through the process enough times already to be aware of the format.

  ‘I understand, sir. Is there any news of Doug Tober?’

  ‘He’s still out there, but that’s all I can tell you. He’s being looked after, I promise.’ He had his fingers mentally crossed as he said it. In spite of Portman’s assurances, any medical problems could change dramatically within minutes, especially with untreated wounds. Tober was tough, as his job demanded, but he wasn’t in the best of locations to be walking around with holes in him.

  ‘Who is Portman?’ Pryce’s words brought him back. ‘He’s not one of ours, I know that.’

  Vale wondered how much to tell her. Not that it made much difference to himself if the attack dogs came after him following his talk with Moresby. But the less he revealed about Portman the better; he owed the man that much and more.

  ‘He’s someone I sent out to watch your backs,’ he said simply. ‘A professional shadow.’

  She was silent for a second, then said, ‘Thank you. I’m glad you did. He sounds American. Is he one of their black ops people?’

  ‘To be honest,’ he said candidly, ‘I’m not sure what he is. Does it matter?’

  ‘No.’ She sighed down the line. ‘I suppose not. I’d like to thank him one day, though. And apologize. I was snarky when he first got us out; he must think me an ungrateful bitch after all he did.’

  Vale chuckled. He could imagine it. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll make sure he knows.’

  He replaced the phone and sat back. He felt adrift, unable to decide on the next course of action. So much now depended on Portman and Tober making their way out of Somalia any way they could. What could he do to help them?

  He reached for a sheet of paper in the centre of his desk. Under the right circumstances, it was the kind of document which, in a certain light could be used to end a career. In this case, Moresby’s.

  He read it through again. It was a briefing document which had come his way through uncertain channels. Six months ago, a proposal was put before a Special Committee on Security to actively pursue certain groups involved in kidnapping in the Gulf region, effectively to neutralize them. The operation was code-named ‘Adventure’, after, it was suggested without irony, the legendary pirate Captain Blackbeard’s last boat at the time of his death.

  The proposal suggested using a small but highly mobile group of former special forces personnel with SAS and SBS backgrounds, supported by drone coverage and a rapid reaction force stationed offshore. Ostensibly there for public knowledge to counter pirate activity, in reality they were to be used as added firepower as and when needed.

  The budget would be considerable and highly secret. Several precedents would be used for employing such personnel and tactics outside the remit of the MOD and approved government procedure, but for the most part the lines would be suitably blurred.

  There had been criticism of the scheme from the Joint Intelligence Committee, but in the face of a growing threat, it was making its way through the various committees and looked like getting the nod.

  The person with overall responsibility for selecting the targets and focussing the Adventure on them was generally recognized as someone with an intelligence background and with access to and familiarity with the latest intelligence resources, in the UK and elsewhere. One cynical observer had already suggested that the person in charge would be catapaulted up the totem pole to honours and status, and would almost certainly be a lead contender as a future Director of SIS.

  A keen backer of the scheme and, it was said, the initial proposer and almost certainly the first name in the hat, was Colin Moresby.

  Vale was uncertain. If he was honest, it was a scheme for which he felt empathy. Too much ground had been lost over recent years by bowing to legislation and political correctness; ground that was going to be hard to win back from extremists and rogue elements assisted by naïve law makers.

  Had Moresby been secretly using the possibility of SIS losses in the meeting with Musa as a springboard to gaining full approval for his plan – for ‘Adventure’? If successful, it would undoubtedly have made his career. Or was Vale’s own desire to see the man brought down leading him to see things that were not really there?

  He reached behind him and dropped the sheet of paper in the shredder, where it vanished into tiny fragments. If he had any time left, and had to reserve his scheming for anybody, let it be the real enemy.

  He picked up the phone. As Portman had suggested, he knew the coordinates of the villa. He also knew the resources available t
o do what was needed. All he had to do was find a way of asking.

  Sixty-Four

  Walking through the bush at night is not as idyllic as it might sound. Sure, there’s no traffic, no street lights and no man-made noises like air-conditioning units to disturb nature’s serenity. But you could hardly call it quiet. Insects have a volume button in direct inverse proportion to their size, and most of them only fall silent when you walk close by. Otherwise it’s bedlam, which makes checking for voices or human movement harder than it should be.

  I stopped with reluctance every few metres, aware that the clock was running. I not only had to keep moving through hostile territory, but had to avoid the villa by a pretty narrow margin if I was to use it as a landmark and find the boats.

  I came across the first guard near the track. He was humming to himself, which was lucky for me. I sank down and watched him moving around. He was walking in a wide circle, covering the track and an area either side, then coming back the other way. I debated taking him out there and then, using the Ka-Bar. But as I didn’t know how often the guards would be changed or if he might have been told to call in on a regular basis, I moved back a ways and skirted around his position by a good margin.

  I came up to the villa not far from my previous hide. A faint light was glowing in the open doorway, enough to show a patrolling guard moving across the rear of the building. I gave it a few minutes to check his routine, then moved down the slope, giving the grounds a wide berth in case other guards had been posted further out.

  I reached the dunes above the beach and stayed low for a couple of minutes, listening.

  It looked quiet and peaceful, the insect noise now replaced by the hiss of the sea. It could have been any idyllic, exotic vacation setting had it not been for the rifle in my hand and the still lingering smell of explosives in the air.

  I counted three boats, vague slug-like shapes against the sand and frothy tideline. I took off my boots and socks, then tied the laces together and slung them round my neck. If any eagle-eyed guards came this way and saw the shape of western-style footwear where there should be none, the game would be up. Then I stepped off the dunes and walked across the beach.