Dead Centre (27 page)

I released some of the pressure. He fought for oxygen. His Adam’s apple would feel like it was stuck in the back of his throat.

I let him have just enough air to stay conscious.

‘Where – are – they?’

At first he just gulped.

Then he whispered a word.

‘Again.’ I moved my ear closer to his mouth.

‘Merca.’

‘They’re in Merca?’

‘Yes, they—’

I didn’t let him get the last bit out. I drew back and punched him in the face. I didn’t want him to make the mistake of thinking we were new best mates. ‘Who has them?’

‘Al-Shabab. The—’

I punched him again. ‘You know where they are?’

His head shook. ‘No, no.’

‘Then you’re no good to me.’

I retightened the vice momentarily to make sure he knew this was a tap I could turn on and off at will.

‘I do! I do know! They have them in the town. Please, Mr Nick.’

The lads round the fire were really going for it. Bottles were smashed and the girls swayed against the flames. Sweat dripped off my nose and chin and dropped onto Awaale’s face.

‘Why have they been taken?’

‘We had no choice. We have to pay them not to come into the city. They wanted the whites. It was a good deal for us. Erasto had another buyer, I don’t know who. But this was better for us. To keep al-Shabab away from the city. We don’t want them here.’

The girls were really going for it, gyrating their arses in front of the lads, hoping to get more than another bite of flatbread.

‘So Erasto was getting me to pay up for nothing?’

‘It’s business, Mr Nick. Erasto still needs payment for the boat. Al-Shabab have the boat. He wants payment for it. He wants money for the work.’

‘What about the video you showed me?’

‘I shot it before we handed them over. And recorded the message. Erasto wanted payment for the boat. They wouldn’t give him anything for the boat. We thought we’d get payment this way.’

A couple peeled away from the group and headed towards us, laughing and joking. I could smell the smoke on them as they came closer. I gripped Awaale.

They weren’t interested in us. They clambered into the back of a 4×4 and music soon sparked up in the cab. The laughter and clink of bottles back at the fire was soon drowned by moans and groans and heavy breathing. The wagon started to rock.

‘Give me a number. I want to talk to them.’

‘It won’t work, Mr Nick. They will not listen. This is not about money.’

‘Then you’re going to take me there and I’m going to get them out.’

I got up and pulled him to his feet. ‘You make a noise, you go down again, OK? Remember, you can die like a man or you can die like a dog in the sand.’

I dragged Awaale past the 4×4. Its suspension was now taking a serious pounding. I picked up a bloodstained AK from the back of the technical. I turned towards the glow of the fire and pulled the cocking handle to make sure there was a round in it. I motioned for Awaale to take the magazines off all the weapons and put them in my day sack.

I kept a grip of him and steered him towards the nearest technical with a 12.7. The 4×4 kept on rocking.

‘Mr Nick, they’ll know that we’ve gone.’

‘Just do it.’

I shoved him into the driver’s seat and sat opposite with the AK on my lap, the muzzle pointing towards him. ‘Merca. Let’s go.’

He had both hands on the wheel. ‘Mr Nick, you don’t understand. Maybe Erasto can talk to them. Maybe he can—’

‘
No
, Awaale.
You
don’t understand. If you don’t do what I say, I’ll do it myself, without you. And that means I will kill you. Now turn the engine on. Chop-chop.’

He did as he was told. He breathed heavily as I checked the fuel gauge. It was just under half full.

‘How far is it?’

‘It’s so far, Mr Nick. We’ll never get there. The roads are dangerous. Al-Shabab have checkpoints.’

‘Just get on with it. Start driving.’

We rolled past the party boys, who threw a couple of bottles at the wagon for a laugh. The girls wiggled their arses.

We bounced on through the darkness of the square, heading for the main. I sparked up my iPhone.

‘Awaale – stop here. Turn off the lights.’

He did so.

I dialled Jules. It didn’t ring for long.

‘Nick?’

‘AS do have them. Have you any contacts? Will they negotiate? Any way I can get hold of them?’

‘We’ve had no negotiations with them. Ever. No success liberating anybody from AS.’ He went quiet for a moment.

‘How far is it by road to Merca?’

‘Nick, it’s dangerous. Please, think about this …’

‘How far?’

‘Maybe a hundred kilometres. You’ll be dead by morning. It’s crazy.’

‘So what’s new? I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’ll be dead by morning. Jules, I’m going because I made a promise to a mate.’

‘But, Nick – think of Anna …’ There was an edge of desperation in his voice.

‘Jules, listen. I made a promise to my dead mate that I’d look after his wife. So that’s what I’m going to do.’

‘Nick, hang on – we need to talk.’

I closed down, and got straight through to Frank. ‘Are your boys in Nairobi? Will they be able to get hold of cash within a couple of hours?’

‘Yes. The pilot is at the ready. Your problem … the problem you had in the UK. Did you lose them?’

‘Dunno. I’ll call again when I have something solid to tell you. Stand by.’

Awaale sat there, trying to make sense of it all.

‘Right, we’re going to Merca. You’re going to stay with me. I need a local speaker, and I need a black guy. And that means I need you.’

He flapped his hands anxiously in front of me. ‘But, Mr Nick, the roads – please … It’s so dangerous …’

He slapped his cheeks. ‘No face hair … and you, you will not make it. Erasto can help you. Maybe he—’

‘Stop. It ain’t going to work. Dangerous roads?’

‘Yes, they are dangerous. But Erasto—’

‘Awaale, shut up. We’re not going to take the roads. Let’s go.’ ‘Where?’

‘Erasto’s a fucking pirate, isn’t he? We’re going to get ourselves a boat. Come on – chop-chop.’

16

FLAMES FLICKERED BEHIND crumbling walls each side of the deserted streets. It reminded me of Aceh, only here the devastation was man-made.

‘Where are we going now? How far?’

Awaale hit the airport road and followed the unlit strip around the perimeter beyond the terminal. ‘We take the boats from the beach, Mr Nick.’

‘The pirate boats?’

He nodded.

That was good. If they could travel five hundred miles out to sea in those things, hugging the coast would be a piece of piss.

‘But Erasto, he will be very, very angry, Mr Nick.’

‘No, he’ll be very, very happy – because I’ll pay him when we get back.’

I studied Awaale’s face in the glow from the dash. His sensitive, intelligent features didn’t belong in a place like this. ‘Why did you come back to Somalia? Things must have been a lot better in Minneapolis. You’re an American citizen, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He shrugged. ‘But I am young, and I am a Muslim. It doesn’t matter what passport you hold. My father wanted me to stay, to keep on trying. Even a McJob …’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘It may not look like it, but it’s better here. I send money to my father, he sends it to others in Minneapolis who need it. It’s better here.’

Our headlights splashed across the line of decaying hangars and dilapidated Soviet fighters on concrete blocks. Soon we were in the world of sand and rusting hulks that separated the top of the runway from the docks. A shanty town had grown up around the large commercial ships that had long since been run aground. The closer to the beach we got, the deeper the rusting wrecks had settled into the sand. Threadbare men huddled around the small fires that glowed in the darkness. Keeping a firm grip on their bottles and AKs, they shielded their eyes from our main beams as we passed.

Awaale pulled up alongside one of the groups and tilted his head at me, looking for permission to jump out. I nodded. He stepped down onto the sand and rattled away in Somali. Erasto was mentioned more than a couple of times. The locals didn’t rush forward. I couldn’t work out if they were being cautious or frightened.

‘Mr Nick, this way.’

I also didn’t know whether Awaale was basically just a very good guy, or if the mention of payment had made all the difference to our relationship. It wasn’t long since I’d been threatening him with the AK; now he was leading me willingly to a row of skiffs. I could just make out their shape a few metres short of the surf.

We waded into a foot of water. It was warmer than I was expecting. The wooden craft were maybe five metres long and a couple of metres wide. A Mercury 150 outboard was bolted straight into the wood at the back of the nearest one. There were no fancy fuel bladders or metal tanks, just three white plastic twenty-litre drums. A hole had been drilled into the black screw caps to accommodate the fuel line.

There was a rubber squeeze pump about halfway along the pipe to propel the fuel into the engine without an air blockage, and that was it on the technology front. The three containers were tied together but not secured to the boat. Sixty litres, I reckoned, would equate to about a 150-kilometre round trip. That should be all right. And it could easily take five of us.

I shouldered the AK alongside my day sack, and helped Awaale pull the boat fully into the water. A light breeze brushed our faces. ‘Do you know exactly where Merca is?’

‘Sure. It’s the first town.’

The last foot or two of keel cleared the sand and the skiff bobbed up and down at chest height beside us.

‘We can’t miss it?’

He stared at me. ‘
We?
No, Mr Nick – I have to go back. The technical, I have to—’

I heaved myself over the side and onto the worn wooden deck. There were two cross benches, one at the back by the engine, and one mid-ship.

‘No, mate. You’re coming.’ I grabbed the shoulder of his shirt and gave it a tug. ‘Come on.’

He was suddenly very concerned about the mobile and cigarettes in his shirt pocket. ‘But, Mr Nick, I
must
go back. They will miss me …’

‘Tough shit, mate. You’re coming.’

I pointed to the fuel pump. ‘There you go, get squeezing.’

I released the retaining lever that kept the propeller clear of the water. As I tilted the engine down, the boat swung side on to the incoming waves.

There were no electrics on this thing. Opening up the choke, I tugged the rope starter cord until the outboard kicked off. I twisted the throttle on the tiller, turned the choke down to halfway, and revved some more. The stink of fumes washed over us; smoke must have been billowing from the exhaust. I let the revs drop, pushed the gear lever to forward and started turning back offshore.

I wanted to get beyond the surf before chucking a right. We should be in Merca in about three hours. Awaale sat forward of me. He just wanted to be back on the beach. The breeze was still warm, but his arms hugged his chest like we were in the Arctic.

‘Calm down, mate. It’ll be first light soon. Then you’ll wish it was cooler.’

His head dropped. I throttled up and headed south. I needed to keep the shore to my right. It would be all too easy to wander off to the east as the lights disappeared.

17

WE PASSED WHERE the runway jutted out into the sea. Whatever lights were there began to fade. We powered on into inky darkness. There were no points of reference. As long as we kept to the phosphorescent line where the surf started to form, we should be OK.

I checked the time on my iPhone. I’d left the Breitling with the 911. We had about four hours until first light. In this part of the world, sunset and sunrise were fairly consistent events, give or take ten minutes, at any time of the year. It was up at six and down at six. If we were still going by first light and the sun was directly to our left, we’d have overshot. We’d be on our way to Kenya and Tanzania. If the sun came up and we were facing it, I’d have seriously fucked up. We’d be heading east: next stop the Seychelles or, worse still, India.

I left Awaale to his own devices and checked the iPhone. I still had five full bars. Reception was better here than anywhere in the UK. It was another good indication that the coast was within sight. If I started drifting east I’d be losing signal.

I sparked it up. Anna took a while to answer.

‘Nicholas? Where are you?’

‘On a boat. I’ve just left Mogadishu. I think we’ve found them.’

‘Wait – when did you get to Mogadishu?’

I explained everything. I couldn’t really tell what she thought about it. ‘Jules thinks they’re in Merca. So does my Somali friend. I’ve got nothing else to go on. So that’s where we’re heading.’

Then it became very clear what she thought. She was angry. ‘Nicholas, AS, they’re dangerous. Even al-Qaeda won’t deal with them. They’d get taken hostage too. They don’t bargain. They don’t negotiate. Why didn’t Jules warn you?’

‘He did. But I don’t have a choice, Anna. I made a promise.’

‘What promise?’

‘To a mate.’

Her tone changed. If I’d had a mother who cared, she would probably have sounded like Anna. ‘Nicholas, I’m worried sick. Please think again.’

‘What would you do?’ There was a pause. I heard gunfire in the background. We both knew that was the answer. ‘You OK up there?’

‘Everything’s fine. It’s just anti-aircraft fire trying to hit the French bombers.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Mistrata. We got a lift on one of the casualty ships from Benghazi. Gaddafi’s navy is attacking the port. The US Sixth Fleet are firing on them. The French are bombing from the air and the rebels are fighting street to street. It will be a long battle. But, Nicholas … Please, please,
please
be careful. You need to stay alive. You really do.’

‘What for? For you?’

There was a pause. ‘Of course.’

‘Well, in that case, you’ve got to stay alive as well, for me. Deal?’

‘I need a call from you every day, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Promise me? Every day?’