The Watchman (16 page)

Angela watched Xasan. He had his head turned away, but she could hear him muttering to himself. She hoped he was praying. The three guards were made of sterner stuff, although innocence probably gave them no idea of what would happen if the aircraft fell apart in mid-flight.

As they began to descend, she caught a glimpse of the ground below and, further on, the startling blue of the Indian Ocean. The contrast between the two was vivid: the ground was featureless, a brown-green camouflage patchwork with no visible signs of life, while the sea looked inviting and serene. She thought it was deserted, but on closer examination saw a couple of skiffs close inshore and a group of smaller craft with white sails heading out towards the horizon.

The aircraft banked sharply, turning inland, and she saw a villa below, standing alone on a bare expanse of land. Several men were standing around, looking up. They seemed neither interested nor excited. They were all armed.

The plane levelled out and dropped further. This time she glimpsed a sizeable sprawl of buildings in the distance, which she guessed was Kamboni. Moments later, the ground was rushing by, and all she could see was a blur of small trees, brushwood, coarse grass and what looked like dangerously large boulders just feet away from the plane's wheels.

The landing was bruising, the nose rearing up at one point, then going down again with a bump. The aircraft fishtailed alarmingly before the pilot brought it under control, but Xasan's men seemed unaffected, laughing and commenting as they were thrown around in their seats.

A flash of white through the window showed a large 4WD about a hundred metres away, with a man sitting on the bonnet clutching an AK-47.

Tober nudged her with his elbow. He indicated Xasan with a lift of his chin.

The Somali middleman was suffering, his shoulders bowed and lips moving in what could only have been agonized prayer.

As the plane bumped to a stop and the engine noise decreased, Angela couldn't help it. She said, ‘Are you all right, Mr Xasan? You don't look so good.'

He didn't respond, but the set of his shoulders told her she had scored a brutal hit.

I
checked the AK was ready to go and placed the Vektor within easy reach, the safety off. I made sure I had the spare magazines lined up and free of dust and sand. I had a good field of fire and the advantage of higher ground. It wasn't much, but you work with what you've got.

If the Somalis had seen something suspicious, and came up the hill to find out what it was, I'd have to put most or all of them down before they got here. If I let them get behind me or to the flanks, I'd be dead meat.

The problem was if they all began blasting away. A few isolated shots would be ignored as shooting practice or high spirits. But any higher than normal volume of fire would quickly attract attention from the town. Give it ten minutes and I'd have more trouble than I could deal with.

My mouth was dry with tension. I took a sip of water and waited for the men to move.

A shot whipped over my head, the crack following a split second later. I hadn't seen the shooter throw the rifle to his shoulder, so I was guessing it was a show-off round. The slug hit a rock somewhere behind me and howled off into space. I ducked instinctively, wondering how they had spotted me, and got ready to lay down a few bodies. Spaced as they were, with no direct cover, it would be a turkey-shoot.

Then I heard jeers and laughter. What the hell …?

Another shot went by, clipping the twigs above my head. This time there was a clang and I saw the shadow of a rusted tin can leap into the air and bounce away. Cheers this time, and lots of shouting. But no movement towards me.

Bastards. They hadn't seen me after all – they were using the trash around me for target practice.

I risked a quick look. One of the figures was walking up the slope. He was carrying a large plastic bottle with a bright red label, being urged on loudly by his friends all throwing hand signals telling him where to place the bottle.

I got ready. He was heading straight for my position. If he spotted me, he'd be the first one down. Then his friends would follow.

But it would mean the end of the mission.

I watched as the newcomer struggled over the rough ground, his sandals slipping on the shale, all the time grumbling and muttering back at the other men. One of them picked up a stone and threw it, hitting him on the back, and the others laughed.

He was young – about sixteen at a guess – and wearing a thin T-shirt and skirt. He wasn't armed, and I figured he was a general gofer used for menial tasks such as this.

Gofer or not, he had eyes and a mouth and would shout if he saw me. He got to within ten paces of my hide and hesitated. He was looking for a spot to place the bottle, which I could see was half full of water.

Then his eyes flickered past me, ran on for a moment, and settled right back on me.

I breathed easily and centred the sights of the AK on his chest. I was applying the first pressure on the trigger, ready to knock him over, when an ear-splitting roar blasted out of nowhere. Next second the ugly shape of a flying box van passed at about three hundred feet right over our heads, a tremor going through the air and the ground around me.

The kid gave a shrill cry of alarm and dropped the bottle, covering his head with one arm. If he was anywhere near normal, he was probably pissing himself.

The men at the bottom of the slope were staring up in confusion, the shooting practice forgotten. Then they started shouting at the kid, urging him to get back down, and began running towards the house.

The kid didn't waste any time. He galloped down the slope like a gazelle and within seconds they were all out of sight.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

It meant one thing: somebody important had arrived.

J
ames Scheider bit hard on his tongue, telling himself to remain calm. He was in a conference call with CIA HQ in Langley, Virginia, and was just hearing that the promised camera support for the British operation over the Somalia/Kenya border was now in doubt. Across from him, Dale Wishaw winced in sympathy.

‘I gave my word on this, Ed,' Scheider said softly, his words aimed at the console in the centre of the table. Forceful language was unnecessary here, as the unit fitted to this room could pick up every nuance and tone in a speaker's voice. ‘I agreed that we would give cover for the Brits' operation. You know how important this is. All I'm asking for is a single Hale.' The Hale (High-altitude, long-endurance) unmanned drones were most useful where surveillance and reconnaissance missions were required over extended periods in remote areas. Scheider had suggested using one of these craft because he knew there were at least five currently not assigned to any specific programme.

‘Can't do, Jim. Sorry.' Ed Biggelow, one of the Langley-based Staff Operations Officers responsible for supporting field operations, sounded calm, even bored, although Scheider was so far willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He'd met Biggelow a few times, and had an image of a neat, buttoned-down individual who was probably going to get his ass kicked one day by a field officer he'd let down by being too devoted to the rules of engagement. ‘The Hales have been labelled restricted-use only for active operations involving our own field personnel. What you're describing doesn't fit that scenario. Our best evaluation is that if we can avoid the use of direct over-flights in the region, we should do so unless and until the threat impact becomes directly counter to US interests. This is an observation mission only. The best we can do at the moment is a Herti.'

Scheider sat forward so fast, Wishaw thought he was going to propel himself at the console and grab Biggelow by the throat all the way down the wire.

‘A Herti? What good's that, Ed? It's four years old, for God's sake and flies like a camel for what – twenty hours max? Hell, it's not even one of ours!'

‘Precisely. It's British. But this is a British operation, isn't it? I'm sure they wouldn't object.'

‘That's not the point. We have Reapers based in the region, don't we?' He waved aside Wishaw's signal to keep his cool. The Reaper was one of the most effective drones available, loaded with cameras and capable of carrying Hellfire missiles and bombs. ‘Dammit, I know we have because I've used them! Are you telling me I've got to go back to the Brits and tell them I can't provide intel on the hostages because somebody thinks it doesn't
fit
? What happens next time we need
their
help?'

‘Sorry, Jim. That's not my call. If you have any further intel which pushes this to a higher level, I suggest you take it further up the chain of command. Let me know what you decide.'

Scheider stared at Wishaw as the connection was cut, scarcely believing what he'd just heard. ‘Am I in fucking Disneyland? Did that asshole just tell me to go screw myself?'

Wishaw shook his head in sympathy. ‘He offered a Herti, Jim. It's a good platform. We should take it. If we do, it's up to Langley to get it in position and start providing us with data.'

Scheider stood up and walked around the room. He had to calm down. While he did so, he toyed with the idea of pulling details of Biggelow's financial and credit records and making them disappear for forty-eight hours. That would make the jerk sit up and realize there was a real world out there. But that would hit the messenger, not the people who had made the decision to counter the use of a Hale.

He sighed and went back to the table, his anger dissipating. Truth was, this was partly his fault. After hearing what Moresby was proposing, he'd had serious reservations about the sense of sending in anyone, let alone a woman, to negotiate with a prick like Xasan or any of his ‘contacts' in such a deeply male society. Unfortunately, he'd allowed those reservations to seep into his report and he had the feeling it had been picked up by the analysts back in Langley and passed on up the line.

But he'd made the Brits a promise and he was going to keep it – and the first person he owed it to was Tom Vale.

He took a deep breath. ‘OK. You're right. Ask them to get the Herti in the air, will you? You've got the coordinates. We're already behind the mark on this, so make it quick.'

‘Sure thing.'

‘Before you go, do we have any idea of the local population?'

‘No, sir. A couple of thousand is a number we've had for a while, but that's unreliable. It fluctuates all the time, especially since the KDF went through on their way to Kismaayo.'

‘Did the Kenyans leave any observers in Kamboni?'

‘A small unit. But when things went quiet they pushed them north to join the main force in Kismaayo. There are reports of armed men filtering south into the area during the past few days. It's thought they're al-Shabaab or clan sympathizers, stirred up against what they're calling a Christian invasion.'

Scheider pulled a face. ‘Tricky. Can't the KDF stop them moving south?'

‘It's almost impossible. They move overland where the KDF is spread too thin, or they come by skiffs or fishing boats. It's a vast area.'

‘Are they all hostiles?'

‘We have to assume so. The predominant extremist force throughout Somalia is al-Shabaab, in spite of Federal Government and KDF forces having claimed they have control since 2011.' He pointed at the photos, which showed a number of pickup trucks and armed men spread among the buildings. ‘These are definitely not Kenyan or Somali troops. They look more like extremists and the groups supporting pirates out at sea. They don't exactly have the numbers to control the area completely, but they represent a sizeable force. The Kenyans are either unaware or unconcerned by their presence due to other commitments.'

‘Do we know why they're in Kamboni?'

‘No. Our intel is that the KDF are focussing on bigger problems to the north, and don't give too much credence to small groups elsewhere. That might be true. What we do know is that when the KDF passed through and hit Kismaayo, al-Shabaab melted into the hinterland where they can't be monitored. We thought at first that these new arrivals around Kamboni were the result of being squeezed down there by the troops to the north, but they seem to be moving too freely for that – and they all seem to be armed and fed. They're actually moving in a coordinated fashion, although we still don't have a clear picture why.'

‘Could it have anything to do with the negotiations conducted by the British?' Even as he posed the question, Scheider knew that there had to be a connection. Very little was done by al-Shabaab in the region without there being a solid reason. And the thought of gaining kudos of any kind from hostage negotiations would make the al-Shabaab leadership salivate with joy.

Wishaw evidently thought not. ‘I can't see how if these negotiations were being kept as secret as you say. I doubt everybody in the region wants individual cells selling off hostages to all-comers. It would weaken their overall bargaining position if the bargaining prices started going down.'

‘But they could be non-affiliated hostage-takers, right? This Musa guy may be al-Shabaab, but I bet he'd be happy to trade a fast buck on the side if he got the chance.'

‘That's probably true. The independent gangs and clans steer clear of the main religious groups and do their own thing. Even al-Shabaab is made up of different clans with their own interests. I'm just not sure why this particular gathering is taking place.'

‘OK. Keep me posted, will you? And see what we've got on Musa. If he's been running things for any time, we might have a voice file. He won't stay silent for ever, and all we need is a match to give us a trace of where he is. Something else is going on here and I'd like to know what it is.'

A
n hour after the plane had flown over, I heard the rumble of an engine from the north. It was the white SUV. This time it was moving slowly over the rough ground, and as it passed across in front of me and pulled up outside the villa, I could see why: it was full of passengers.