The Watchman (33 page)

‘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 to do what was needed. All he had to do was find a way of asking.

W
alking 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.

Just like that.

I felt the hairs on my neck prickling all the way. I felt vulnerable like never before, as if stepping across a minefield. I was counting on being mistaken in the poor light for a patrolling guard. Not that I looked anything like a Somali pirate, but the rifle held loosely over my shoulder might throw off any suspicion.

I reached the boats unchallenged and checked them out. They looked and felt ready for sea, and held the same kind of water and fuel containers I'd found in the boats I'd destroyed what felt like a lifetime ago. There were floats, nets, extra clothing, and even coils of rope with grappling hooks and rope ladders. Everything a pirate could wish for. Even the shelters were rigged with the canvas coverings in place, which I took to mean they were ready to move come morning.

It made me even more determined; if I was right, come morning the boats would be gone and we would have no way out.

I checked each of the engines by feel. One had a stripped-down feel, with sharp edges and recesses covered in thick grease and oil and layered in dirt, and was fitted with an extra-long propeller shaft. Tober had warned me to avoid these, as without silencers they were very noisy, slow and difficult to use in a strong sea. The other two were very different beasts; they were fitted with twin outboards, which felt like newer models, but I couldn't tell if they had been disabled or not as the casings were in place and impossible to shift.

Now was not the time to debate the issue. I ripped the power leads from the stripped-down engine and tossed them into the water. If we couldn't use it, there was no point in allowing anybody else to do so. I couldn't tell if either of the other two was in working order, so I'd have to get Tober to advise on them when we got back.

Then I walked back up the beach and replaced my shoes, before making my way back past the villa and back into the bush.

I reached the pickup and watched it for a few moments in case the searchers had come out this far and discovered it. Then I gave a brief whistle and walked across to the far side, where I'd left Tober.

He was gone.

I
checked inside and underneath the cab in case he'd heard a noise and ducked under the only cover available. No dice.

I began searching the area around the truck, gradually widening the circle and hoping to pick up a trail. I kept telling myself that he couldn't have gone far. Even if he was confused by shock and pain, he'd looked too done in to go anywhere without falling over.

Ten paces out from the truck, I found the Vektor.

It was nose down in the dirt, showing a glimpse of starlight off the barrel. I brushed it off and stowed it away. A little further on I found a scrape in the dirt where Tober must have stumbled and dragged his injured leg. At least I was on the right track.

Another fifty paces out and I heard a low snuffling sound in the night somewhere ahead. Instinct told me it wasn't human, but I couldn't identify it for certain. I should have paid more attention to the National Geographic channel.

It came again, this time followed by a bunch of squeaks and squeals, and my neck bristled. I knew what it was now, and it wasn't good news. If Tober had stumbled on them, he was in grave danger.

It was a warthog with young. Warthogs tend to avoid contact with humans, but when they have young with them, which this one did, and felt threatened, they'd attack anything that moved without hesitation.

I stood very still and waited for the noises to be repeated so I could pinpoint their position. Neither the Vektor nor the AK were any defence against a charging adult warthog, especially in the dark. They could move with devastating speed and a hog's tusks were a formidable weapon against soft human skin.

Eventually I heard a crackling noise and a series of low grunts, gradually moving away.

Then silence.

It took me another ten minutes to locate Tober. He'd fallen into a small hollow, and lay almost hidden in shadow. I reached down and checked his pulse. It was there but weak.

He was a lot worse than I thought.

I risked using the flashlight. The side of his shirt was dark with fresh blood. He was leaking again. I shook him gently and he eventually lifted his head and looked up at me. He moved as if he were drunk. I couldn't tell if that was because of the pain or exhaustion, but I was guessing falling into the hollow hadn't helped.

I eased him on to his feet and got him back to the pickup, where I propped him against the cab. If he went down again, I wasn't sure I could lift him another time.

‘Stay with me, Doug. We've got to go.' I gave his cheek a gentle slap. It was rough on him in his condition, but I needed him mobile and focussed for at least the next twenty minutes, otherwise we were done for.

‘OK, OK,' he mumbled and swatted my hand away. It was a good sign.

I collected the trauma kit and put it in my backpack and slung Tober's AK over my shoulder, then pointed him towards the coast. I intended taking the most direct route I could find. It would place us uncomfortably close to the villa, but with Tober getting noticeably weaker and in no condition for a lengthy route march, I had no choice.

We approached well away from the area where I'd seen the guard, but he'd changed his patrol route. The first indication I had was hearing a faint cough and a spit right where I thought would be clear space. Then I saw him. He was walking along the track, still looking fully alert, a rifle slung over his shoulder and head turning to listen over the noises of the night bugs. I froze and held on to Tober. Fortunately he got the message and went still.

Getting us both across the track without being seen was going to be tough. It was wide here and Tober couldn't move fast or stealthy any longer. And we didn't have the time or energy to circle round.

There was nothing for it. I let Tober sink slowly to the ground and put the AK down beside him.

I didn't want to have to do this, but it was the guard or us. I took out the Ka-Bar and moved forward, then waited for the guard to come back along the track.

It didn't take long. I heard the soft slap of his sandals on the hard earth. He was probably walking briskly to keep himself awake.

I waited until he was almost past me, then stepped out behind him. He sensed my presence and began to turn, but too late. I slapped my free hand over his mouth from behind and thrust the knife into his ribs.

He struggled momentarily, then stiffened and went still. I eased him down and dragged him off the track for some twenty paces, dumping the body into a dip in the earth. I took his spare AK magazine and stuffed it in my pocket, then hauled Tober back to his feet and we scuttled across the track into the bush.

After that it was a relentless shuffling of one foot in front of the other until we hit the slope above the beach. I paused for a moment, out of breath and feeling nauseous. I hadn't eaten enough to keep up my energy levels, and my arm around Tober was aching with the strain of holding him up. I checked our surroundings. I couldn't see the villa guard from here due to the lay of the land, even though there was way more light than on my earlier trip.

Great timing; just as we were going to have to walk right across the open beach to the water.

Still, we had what we had. It was time to move.

The trip across the sands seemed never-ending, and I was expecting to be challenged every step of the way. With the cloud cover shifting and exposing us, we would have looked an odd shape if anybody had been keeping an eye on the boats. I kept up a whispered commentary all the way to keep Tober in touch, letting him know how close we were. He didn't respond but his legs kept moving, so I figured he was still in there somewhere, doing his bit.

We passed the first boat with the stripped-down engine, the water slapping gently off the hull. I steered Tober towards the middle vessel. Maybe it was the familiar noise or the smell of the sea, but suddenly his feeling for boats seemed to kick in. He lifted his head and looked around at the long dark shapes and gave a nod of approval.

‘You picked a good one?' he asked, his words slurred. At least he remembered what he'd said to me earlier. Another good sign. His mental faculties were still in working order.

‘Two,' I said. ‘Neither of them are dogs but you'll have to check the engines and get one started. Can you do that?'