The Watchman (25 page)

They reached the burning boats and ran around excitedly, but there was little they could do to stop the destruction. The middle skiff was in pieces and the other two were already beyond help and burning fiercely.

After another fuel container exploded with the heat and shot into the night sky, one of the men seemed to take control and they backed off and hurried up the beach, chattering away angrily.

I waited for them to reach the point where I estimated the old netting to be, then picked up the next trigger and pressed the button.

This time there was no delay. The explosion lit up the villa and caught three of the men with the full blast, knocking the fourth on to his back.

I didn't wait to see what happened next; I already had the AK to my shoulder and was sighting on the two guards who had stayed close to the villa. I fired twice, placing my shots carefully. Then a third.

Both men went down.

Another man appeared out of the shadows and ran around, searching desperately for the source of the shooting. With no sound from the suppressed AK to fasten on, and with the noise of the explosions still ringing in his ears, he must have been thoroughly disorientated. Then he turned and ran towards the building, screaming wildly at somebody inside.

I felt the hairs on my neck stand up. I didn't understand a word he'd said, but the implication was as clear as crystal.

He was telling the man or men inside to kill the hostages.

I couldn't allow him to get back inside; I waited until he entered the flare of light from the door of the villa and hit him with a head shot, knocking him off his feet. He sprawled close to the door, his rifle falling beside him.

Then I was up and off at a full run, my momentum carrying me down the slope past the hide at full speed.

This time I was carrying the Vektor. For what I was about to do, I needed speed and manoeuvrability in a tight space.

And I was no longer concerned about noise; with the explosions and the rifle fire, I doubted anybody within a five kilometre radius was going to dwell too much on the sounds of one automatic pistol.

D
own in the basement, the percussive effects of the explosion jolted all three prisoners awake. A split second later the sound rumbled by overhead and a thin veil of debris rained down on them from the ceiling and walls as the building continued to vibrate.

‘Get ready,' Tober said calmly. He turned on the flashlight again and beckoned Angela to follow him towards the steps. He gave Madar a warning tap on the leg as he passed by. ‘Stay close, kid.'

Edging up the steps, he waited, listening for the first sounds of anyone coming to open the trapdoor. The explosion had been some distance away, although he couldn't tell by how much. He guessed it had been a diversionary tactic, to draw the men upstairs outside. He was pragmatic enough to know that if it worked, a rescuer would appear. If it had failed, there might be a brief flare of light as the trapdoor opened, followed by a burst of automatic fire pouring in on them from their angry or crazed captors.

Then lights out.

The men upstairs were shouting in a frenzied panic, and he heard the sound of running footsteps heading for the door to the outside. If anybody was coordinating their response to this surprise attack, they were being ineffective.

The shouting diminished as the men moved away. Two shots sounded close by. Then another explosion shook the structure and somebody began screaming.

The door slammed shut and footsteps sounded near the trapdoor.

A man's voice called out. ‘
Khaalid
?
Saalim
?'

Silence.

Tober reached up and tested the trapdoor. He had already tried it shortly after being put down here. Now, as then, it was solid. He got his legs underneath him and put his back against the wood. If the gunman upstairs was watching the door, he might be able to take him by surprise. It was a risky thing to do, but better than waiting for the man to open the trapdoor and blast the basement with gunfire.

He heaved, testing the rigidity of the trapdoor, his leg muscles creaking from lack of exercise in the cramped conditions. The door shifted slightly, dust cascading down on his neck, but he couldn't get sufficient power in his awkward position on the steps to really move it.

He had to try again. He handed the flashlight to Angela. ‘Take this and stand to one side.'

As he braced himself for another push, he heard a rush of approaching footsteps and a crash as the front door was kicked in. The man on the other side of the trapdoor cried out in alarm, then came a burst of automatic fire.

Silence. Then two shots in quick succession.

More silence.

Tober held his breath and waited, hoping against hope. Even muffled by the trapdoor, he was sure the last shots had come from a semi-automatic pistol. Yet none of the Somalis carried pistols.

Then the trapdoor was lifted, flooding the steps with light, and he prepared to launch himself forward.

‘Y
ou need to see this.' Dale Wishaw hurried into Scheider's office as the deputy station chief was finishing a call. They had both pulled a late-nighter, monitoring three ongoing operations across Europe and liaising closely with other CIA stations and the headquarters at Langley. Wishaw fought off a yawn as he walked over to a high-definition monitor on one wall and switched it on. Instantly the screen was flooded with a sequence of rapidly changing images bearing the unearthly glow of thermal imaging camera footage.

Scheider stood up and joined his assistant. The scene reminded Scheider of a Hamburg nightclub where one of his more lurid informants had arranged a meeting a couple of years ago. What little light there had been was of a nightmarish quality, not helped by the pounding bass and what passed for music. He'd got out of there darned quick but with a blinding headache.

This was no nightclub, however, and whatever was taking place was clearly far more deadly than a few strobing lights and loud music.

‘Sorry,' Wishaw murmured, and fiddled with the remote control. ‘I'll start again. This is footage taken by a drone camera coming in on a south-westerly heading over the Somali coast north of Kamboni.'

There was a scrolling pattern of dark and light, showing little in the way of ground detail at first. Then Scheider began to pick out the regular pattern of open water, quickly changing as the camera passed over land. Instantly, as if timed to perfection, the scene lit up with dazzling flares of light that bounced around the screen.

‘What the hell is that?' said Scheider, although he was pretty sure he knew. See enough explosions at night and you only had a couple of choices to make: were they big bangs or small?

‘This is the area around the villa where the SIS people are meeting with Musa,' said Wishaw. ‘The larger flares are explosions; my guess is C-4 or similar – the pattern is too spread out for landmines or grenades.' He stopped the film and re-ran it, then pointed to an area at the top of the screen. ‘That blank area is open water – the ocean.' Moving the film forward, he shifted his hand lower down, where two indistinct objects like cigars showed up briefly on either side of a flash of light like a giant flower opening out. ‘That's the beach. We think two, possibly three fishermen's boats have been destroyed or torched.'

‘Fishermen?' Scheider looked sceptical, and Wishaw shrugged.

‘Make that pirates. From a mapping run earlier, they were beached close to the villa.' The images shifted and he pointed to a number of white shapes moving around the top of the beach, near what was clearly a building. ‘Armed men, some spilling out of the building.' A series of small flashes occurred near each of the dots. ‘We can't tell what they're shooting at until we have a full analysis later today, but it looks like somebody engaged them by setting off explosives, then opening fire from higher ground inland as they came out.'

‘Do we know where?'

‘We do.' Wishaw pointed at the screen again, this time further inland. ‘This is the guy right here.'

Scheider stared hard at the image, his heart beating faster. The shooter showed up as a white shape, partially concealed by ground cover.

Portman, he thought. It had to be.

He made an estimate at the distance between the shooter and the sharp dots of muzzle flashes coming from the other men. ‘But that's what – about hundred, hundred and fifty metres? He's almost down their throats!'

‘He's a lot closer than I'd want to be.' Wishaw pointed at two static white shapes close to the building. ‘See here, two men down. He's got them running around like chickens and picking them off one by one. He knows what he's doing.'

Scheider nodded. ‘I hope he can keep it up.' He didn't need to see any more and stepped over to his desk. But why had Portman gone on the offensive right now? What had set him off? Had he been discovered or was something else forcing his hand? And where the hell had he obtained the explosives?

‘Me, too. There are a lot more men in Kamboni, likely to be affiliated to Musa's group, and they're only a short drive away. If he doesn't move fast he's going to have them pouring in on top of him inside fifteen minutes.'

Scheider felt his gut go tight. If Portman was planning on breaking the two Brits out of the villa, he was cutting it very fine. And any injuries would slow them all down. And where would they run to?

Unless he had other orders.

Jesus, surely …?

He turned to Wishaw to blank out the unthinkable idea. ‘Make sure Moresby has this footage right away, will you? And copy Vale. I'm going to call him now.'

He went over to his desk and dialled Vale's number.

The SIS man answered immediately.

‘Don't you ever sleep?' said Scheider.

‘Sleep? What's that?' Vale sounded rough, and cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Too much coffee and not enough fresh air. What's up?'

‘Your man's gone on the offensive. He's blowing up boats and shooting people
as we speak
. He's turned the place into a war zone. I'm sending you and Moresby the latest footage just in. I suppose you wouldn't care to share, would you?'

‘Um, yes.' Vale's voice was flat, but he didn't sound surprised. ‘Portman found evidence that these talks are a scam. There was never any intention of releasing hostages; the negotiations were a ploy to draw in our people.'

‘Why?' Scheider could think of only one reason. Targeted kidnaps. The idea chilled him. It put anybody with official status or standing who went through the region in dire peril. But was it likely? ‘They can hardly need more hostages.'

‘It's worse than that. Musa's got the one he needs.'

‘I don't follow.'

‘Angela Pryce. He's going to execute her at dawn, along with Tober.
Adrabu fawq al-'ana
. You know what that is?' Vale sounded tired. He'd been right all along about the mission and Scheider felt for him.

‘Yes. I know.' As tough as he was, as accustomed to death and the deadly game played out by extremists, he felt himself shrink from the imagery Vale had placed in his mind. ‘Jesus, why?'

‘Propaganda, making a point – choose any reason you like. They're extremists; what they do doesn't have to make sense.'

‘I get that. But how do you know this?'

‘Portman got to somebody inside the villa. They've set up a camera ready to burn to DVDs. By tomorrow evening it'll be beamed around the world to every website prepared to take it. Another twenty-four hours and it will be on sale in every radical mosque, shop and bazaar in the region. This wasn't an impulse decision to change the game – this was planned.'

Scheider didn't know what to say. ‘What's Portman going to do?'

‘He's going to stop it happening.' A phone rang in the background at Vale's end, and he sounded relieved. ‘I'm sorry – I think that's me being called to a meeting. It's probably about your footage. Thank you for that, by the way. It's good of you. I appreciate it.'

‘Wait.' Scheider was stunned by this turn of events and by Vale's calmness. There was something the Englishman wasn't telling him. Men with Vale's experience didn't give up that easily. ‘You've given Portman fresh instructions, haven't you? What did you tell him to do?'

There was a long pause. ‘I told him not to let them suffer.'

Scheider's breathing became choked. He thought he'd come across every scenario possible in his time, but not this one. It was nothing short of a suicide mission. There was no way any man could pull this off. ‘And he agreed?'

‘He gave me his word … and I believe him.'

The line went dead.

‘I'
ve received disturbing reports from our American friends of unusual activity to the north of Kamboni, picked up with live footage from a CIA drone targeted over the area where the meeting is to take place.' The dramatic statement came from Colin Moresby forty minutes later. He was standing behind his office chair, addressing Vale and the controllers for Africa and Middle East, Bill Cousins and Peter Wilby, and the duty MOD liaison officer, Colonel Mike Ventura.

They had all been summoned from their beds by messenger and fast car, and Vale from his office, where he'd been mulling over the revelations of what Portman had told him and now Scheider's camera work.

‘What kind of activity?' queried Ventura. A slim man with a stern face and a scar down one side of his neck, the result, Vale had heard, of close proximity to an IED in Iraq, he had the directness typical of most military men and none of the fondness for equivocation of the civil service.

‘Explosions and small arms fire.' Moresby leaned forward and touched a button on his desk console, and a wall monitor behind him sprang into life. There was complete silence as the assembled officers watched, until Moresby switched it off again.