The Watchman (11 page)

‘We need those people back,' Moresby had continued smoothly, ‘especially the UN personnel. If they get moved further north, they'll be in the hands of extremists and beyond our help.' He meant al-Qaeda, but nobody wanted to hear that name. ‘Once gone, I fear we'll lose them until someone, somewhere, wants a substantial deal … or a huge publicity coup. We can't let that happen.'

‘What are the chances,' Angela had queried, ‘of them finding out that they're holding two UN people?'

Moresby had looked at Bill Cousins, Controller Africa, to answer that question. ‘Higher than we'd like,' Cousins replied. ‘Both of them have appeared on UN websites, and both have their photos on the internet if anybody cares to trawl through the archives or check out current photos of personnel in the field. We know al-Qaeda has access to IT personnel and equipment, so they could get lucky and identify them any day. We have to move quickly.'

‘We also know,' Moresby added, ‘that they are increasingly trawling the net for details on all western hostages, to determine their status and value. If they identify any with position, family or the slightest degree of importance, the price goes up.'

The briefing had continued, going over the plans with great care.

She and Tober were to fly to Nairobi, where they would make contact with a man named Ashkir Xasan. He was the first step in a chain of contacts and agreements going back two weeks – probably longer. It would culminate, if all went well, in the eventual release of the hostages. Xasan would take Angela and Tober via Mombasa to a point on the Kenya-Somali border, where they would meet a group headed by a clan chief called Yusuf Musa. It probably wasn't his real name any more than Xasan's was his, but that was beside the point. Knowing a man's real name in a game like hostage taking was usually the least of one's worries.

‘Any queries, Miss Pryce?' Moresby was looking at her, his eyes blank. She felt like standing up and saying, Yes, this whole bloody idea is insane and I don't want to go because I'm terrified we'll both end up dead. But she didn't. She could do this. She'd been trained and could handle herself in crisis situations. And in doing so, would enhance her career prospects in SIS. All she had to do was what most field operatives hoped to accomplish every time they were sent out: get through it successfully and come back in one piece.

‘No, sir,' she said, and wondered what Tom Vale would have thought. She also wondered why he hadn't been in on the briefing. ‘No questions.'

I
recognized De Bont as soon as he walked into the foyer of the hotel, if only because he stood out among the dark suits and floral dresses. He was of medium height, heavy in the shoulders and chest, like a weightlifter, with rust-coloured hair in a brush cut, a spiky moustache and pink, sunburned skin. He was wearing a tan shirt and shorts, which on him looked like some sort of uniform.

He saw me, hesitated for a moment, then came over to where I was sitting.

‘Mr Portman?' He held out a hand the size of a small shovel. ‘I'm Piet. Hope I'm not late.' His accent was pure Afrikaans, with a faintly harsh rumble in the throat.

‘No. Shall we get a drink?' It wasn't yet fully hot outside, which suited me fine, but the air was dry and gritty, and making my eyes sting. I nodded at the bar, which was full of a convention of businessmen and women. ‘We need somewhere more private to talk.'

‘Sure. I know a nice bar along the street here. Air-con and privacy guaranteed.' He turned on one heel and led the way out of the hotel, into the noisy, traffic-filled atmosphere of central Mombasa. Out here was a different world to the one in the hotel, and we were soon lost among a mass of humanity, honking vehicles and the smell of a busy city. If we'd had the time, I would have enjoyed the atmosphere.

We found the bar and settled at a table to the rear. It was gloomy, cool and deserted save for a barman, the air heavy with the smell of stale tobacco and alcohol. The barman wandered over and handed us a drinks menu without a word. Piet ordered beer and I had coffee. I needed to be awake for the next two days at least and didn't need alcohol to get in the way.

‘Tom Vale mentioned you,' I began, ‘and said you could help me move around. He said he'd settle the bill.'

He nodded but looked guarded. ‘Is Tom still keeping the empire safe?' It was a hint that he knew what Vale's job was. Up close I realized he was older than I'd first thought – somewhere in his early fifties at least – and he'd probably been around the block a few times if he'd served with the South African National Defence Force.

‘I don't work for Vale. Just doing a job for him.'

‘Sub-contractor, huh? I did that for a while, after the army. Paid well enough but the conditions were shit and there was no pension. Where is it you want to go?'

I told him. The details on the data stick Vale had given me showed a map of the very north-eastern corner of Kenya, where it butted up against the Somali border, about 150 kilometres north of where we were now sitting. The nearest Kenyan town of any note was Kiunga, on the coast. Further north and it was into what Vale had referred to as pirate country.

Somalia.

Piet grunted. ‘Long way to go for easy trouble. I'm guessing this is covert, right?'

‘Yes.'

‘You planning on stopping long?'

‘I don't know yet. I hope not. It depends on others.'

He stared at me without expression. ‘I figure. How soon do you want to get there?'

‘Today would be good. Are the roads passable?'

‘The roads are shite, my friend. They're mostly rock, ruts and rubble, and sandstone the rest of the time. They run out, in any case, before you get near that place, so it's overland and tough going. It'd take a couple of days – that's if you didn't break down or run into trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘Poachers, bandits … trucks on the wrong side of the road driven by guys high on booze or drugs who don't give a shit. It's not an easy place to travel. Does it have to be today?'

‘By this evening – tomorrow morning at the latest.'

His eyebrows lifted and he sank some beer. ‘Forget the roads, then.' He checked his watch, which was sunk into the skin of his wrist. ‘We can get a flight to Malindi up the coast in a couple of hours, then fly into the Kiunga area this afternoon.'

‘Is there a local strip?' I hadn't seen anything on the maps Vale had supplied, but landing strips were often nothing more than a beaten stretch of track or grass cleared of rocks and shrubs. In fact, other than deserted beaches and some dubious tracks, the whole area looked like nothing but scrub, acacia trees, thorn bush and rock-strewn patches of rolling grassland, with palm trees bristling along the coastal stretch. ‘I'd rather not turn up where everybody can see me.'

He smiled in a knowing way. ‘That's how I work, too, which is lucky for you. Did Tom tell you what I do?'

‘Vaguely.' I was guessing as a wildlife ranger he was accustomed to not making his presence too obvious, especially when tracking poachers.

‘Good. I'll fill you in as we go.' He drained his glass and stood up. ‘You got everything you need?'

‘I have.'

A
ngela Pryce took a dislike to Xasan the moment she set eyes on him. He was short and rotund, with a curly black beard peppered with grey, and lightly tinted spectacles that veiled most of the expression in his eyes. He also smiled too much and seemed intent on staring openly at her legs and chest. When he wasn't doing that, he addressed most of his comments to Doug Tober, who listened but said little. It seemed to be the way Xasan wanted to conduct things.

They were seated in the bar of the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Upperhill, Nairobi, where Xasan had requested their initial meeting in a last-minute email message. Three other men entered the bar with him, two in front and one behind. They took separate tables, but kept their eyes on the two SIS operatives. They were young and slim and neatly dressed in short-sleeved shirts and pants, with large gold-coloured watches on their wrists, and could have passed for casual visitors. But to the trained eye they were too watchful, too intense. The waiters, Angela noted, stayed well away.

She recognized the game, though: it was designed to intimidate, a gentle show of force from the outset.

‘Jesus,' Tober growled softly. ‘What a bunch of cowboys.'

Angela agreed. The taxi ride from the international airport had been just long enough for Xasan's people to check if the SIS officers had company or not, so this display was simply theatrics.

‘Welcome to Nairobi,' Xasan murmured, his voice gentle and measured, as he stopped in front of their table. ‘I hope we may conclude our business in a satisfactory way to all concerned. May I see some ID, please?'

They took out their passports and slid them across the table, already aware that arguing wasn't an option. Xasan picked them up and flicked through the pages, comparing photographs with faces. He nodded slowly, giving Tober a more studied look, then returned them, adding, ‘Excellent. It is an honour to have members of the Secret Intelligence Service here all the way from London's Vauxhall Cross. It is well placed by the river, is it not? Very scenic.' He waved a vague hand around. ‘As indeed is this city.'

‘What's the agenda?' said Angela. She wanted to cut short any idea Xasan might have of a guided tour. She knew that simple etiquette meant they were hardly in a position to make demands, but any show of easy compliance would be seen as weakness. Besides, any intel they got now about where they were headed might be useful later.

‘As soon as we get word, we go from here to Ras Kamboni. You know this place?'

Tober remained silent, save for a flicker of an eyebrow.

Angela said, ‘Isn't that in Somalia?'

‘That is correct. You have done your research.'

Angela didn't like it. ‘There was no mention before of having to cross the border.'

Xasan shrugged. ‘The borders here are … flexible, you understand. It is just a few kilometres, that is all. It is nothing. Nobody will notice and the police do not go out that far. Trust me. The man you will meet is anxious that all goes well. You need have no fears.'

‘I'm pleased to hear it.'

Xasan didn't react to that. ‘There is a place to the north of Kamboni called Dhalib. Beyond that is a house on the coast road, built by an Italian industrialist many years ago. It is comfortable and right on the beach, with very pleasant views. Also –' he wagged a finger – ‘absolutely safe for our honoured guests.' He placed his hands together. ‘A suitable place for a meeting such as this – a meeting, I hope, that will form the basis for many others.'

Money-grabbing bastard, thought Angela, and stared blankly back at him. No doubt he would be doing well out of any deal struck between the UK, the US and the pirates, with a percentage sticking to his fingers on the way through.

‘As soon as you get word?' Tober asked. ‘What does that mean?'

Xasan's smile didn't shift. ‘We must be patient, Mr Tober. I regret to inform you that there is a slight delay in proceedings.'

‘What kind of delay?'

‘The gentleman you are meeting has been unavoidably held up by bad weather to the north of here. He sends his most sincere apologies but there is nothing he can do.' He shrugged. ‘We are at the will of Allah in these things. Mr Musa has arranged as a measure of his regret that you be accommodated here in this establishment until we can meet.' He waited for a response, but when there was none, he continued, ‘It is very comfortable and I am assured that they have a very high standard of western cuisine. However,' he paused and looked towards the entrance of the hotel, ‘I must advise you not to leave the hotel under any circumstances. This is for your own safety. Nairobi is not as secure as some other cities, and we would not wish anything untoward to happen to you.' This time his expression seemed loaded with insincerity.

‘How long do we wait?' Angela asked. She had worked in the region before and, like in the Middle East, time was treated in a very different way to anywhere in the west. If Xasan said they had to wait, then that was it. But there were limits.

‘Until tomorrow, I think. I will telephone you as soon as I know. Until then, please be comfortable here and enjoy yourselves.'

They watched him walk away, collecting his guards with a flick of his fingers. One of the men trotted out in front of him, checked the car park then turned and signalled that it was safe before Xasan left the building.

‘The fat little prick's playing with us,' said Tober.

‘Of course he is,' Angela agreed. ‘And there's not a thing we can do about it.' She stood up. She needed to report in to London.

I
caught de Bont giving me the occasional look during our flight from Mombasa, as if checking my reactions. We were on our way to Malindi, about sixty kilometres north along the coast, in a battered cargo plane fitted with removable seats and webbing straps. It was like being thrown around in a hot spin dryer, with unsecured luggage sliding around the floor of the cabin and conversation between the other passengers being carried out in a constant screech.

The truth was, I'd flown in planes like this too many times to be concerned. If it hadn't received its last full service, or somebody had left out a few critical bolts, there was damn all I could do about it. The only thing worrying me was the sports bag under my seat. If a cop or security guard got conscientious and took a look inside, I'd have a hard time explaining the contents.

The aircraft dipped and yawed incessantly, giving us occasional glimpses of brown-and-green swathes of land below, and endless stretches of blue sky above. We'd embarked with little or no apparent organization at Mombasa airport, shuffling up the steps surrounded by people carrying what might have been their lifetime possessions. If there was any aircrew save the pilot, we hadn't seen them.