The Watchman (21 page)

‘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?'

D
aylight 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 recorded 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.

He spoke the name softly, as if in awe. Even Madar, a young, innocent boy from the city who did not know of al-Shabaab, had heard of them. ‘al-Qaeda.'

So the terror group was using al-Shabaab to do their dirty work for them. But the reaction to the killings would be the same, whether their dead hand was seen on the sword or not.

‘You had better go,' I told him, ‘before you are missed.'

He nodded and looked relieved. ‘What should I do, Mr Marc? This is a bad thing they do.' He nodded towards the ruined huts of Dhalib. ‘To the fishermen also. Many people have already left Kamboni. They believe airplanes and soldiers will come and there will be much fighting.'

I didn't want to tell him that was unlikely, so I said, ‘At the first opportunity, you should leave. Go home. The only thing waiting for you here is death. How did you get here?'

‘By sea. They said that is the only way to avoid the Kenyan army around Kismaayo.' His face twisted at the memory. ‘I was sick all the way. They thought I was weak, like a girl, and threatened to throw me overboard.'

‘Don't worry about it,' I told him. ‘Some of the greatest sailors in the world were often seasick.'

‘True?'

‘Absolutely. Can you go back that way?'

‘Yes. There are always boats looking for men to help. And I can cook.' He thrust his chest out, a boy wanting validation among men.

‘Then do that. At least in your home town you have a sister. She will be pleased to see you again.'

‘That is true.' His eyes grew large. ‘Are you going to attack the house?'

‘No. There are too many men.' That wasn't quite true, but I didn't want to give away any plans I might have. ‘But if they execute the English, everybody in the house will die. You don't want to be here when that happens.'

‘I understand.' He frowned, processing the information. It must have been hard for him to take in, and I wondered whether I'd gone too far. If the thought of the house being flattened really freaked him out, he might run back and warn the others.

‘Before you go,' I said, ‘show me where the two English people are being held.'

He sank to his knees and drew a square on the floor, dividing it roughly into four sections. He prodded the right-hand square at the front of the house, facing the sea, and said, ‘That is the room I have prepared.' He then pointed to the one behind it, at the rear. ‘This is where I prepare food. Under this floor are steps into a hole – another room. The English are down there.'

‘Locked in?'

He shook his head. ‘No. There is a flat door, but always with two guards watching over it. The English have mattresses and water in buckets. It is not a good place. It smells of death.'

‘Lighting?'

‘They have one flashlight. They asked for candles but Xasan said they might try to burn down the house. He does not trust the big Englishman. I think he is scared of him.'

As well he might be. Tober was in a hell of a situation, but he wouldn't have been picked for this job if he wasn't capable of thinking on his feet.

The situation hadn't been good to begin with. Now it was far worse. I had to let Vale know, although I had no idea what he could do with the information.