The Watchman (14 page)

‘What does the chatter say?' Wishaw was referring to the buzz and rumour that inevitably peppered the airwaves when something big was in the wind.

‘That's the problem: there is none.'

Wishaw blinked. ‘What, at all?'

‘Not a peep. Whoever's controlling it – this guy Musa, whoever he is – he knows how to keep things under wraps.'

‘If Vale doesn't like the plan, why doesn't he say so?'

‘He tried. Nobody's listening.' Scheider shifted in his seat. ‘I owe him for past favours so I said I'd do what I could.'

‘So why look so worried?'

Scheider squinted at him. ‘You've never heard of this Kamboni before?'

The younger man looked uncomfortable. ‘Actually, I have, but I can't recall where.'

‘It's been on the watch list of terrorist training areas for several years, since the Nairobi embassy bombing in '98 and Mombasa four years later. Nothing was proved, but local intel has it as a jumping-off point for border crossings into Kenya and beyond.'

‘I'll read up on it,' Wishaw promised.

‘You do that.'

‘But if it's that hot, why have the Brits agreed to send people in there?'

‘Because some hotshot thought it was a good idea.'

‘Not Vale, I take it.'

‘No. But that's where we come in. He's got a plan running on the side, without Moresby or anyone else knowing. He's sending in a shadow to watch their backs.'

‘A shad— you're kidding. Is he serious?'

‘Absolutely. It'll be off the books and completely deniable, but he's going for it.'

‘How does it affect us?'

‘I agreed to run any intel or personnel checks he wanted to make. He came across a name he wanted to use, so I ran it through the database to see what we knew. It came up warm.'

‘Anybody we know?'

‘Portman.'

Wishaw lifted an eyebrow. ‘Now that name I do know. Isn't he one of ours?'

‘Not strictly. He's freelance. His background is military. He's very good.'

‘It sounds risky.'

‘He's done work for a number of approved US contractors and people are happy with that. We've used him, as have other agencies, but strictly on a contract basis.'

‘We. You mean Langley?' Wishaw sounded almost shocked.

‘Who else would I mean – the Vatican?' Scheider was beginning to wonder how Wishaw had got this far. The younger officer seemed to have a desire to dot all the tees. While not running foul of the appropriate oversight committees was one thing, in this business there were limits. Sometimes sailing close to the line was the only way to move forward. Wishaw, on the other hand, was showing signs of coming down on the wrong side of the fence – the side where the rule-book sticklers and time-servers lived their narrow lives. He was going to have to watch him.

‘Of course. I take it that was in Iraq and Afghanistan?'

‘Yes, but you wouldn't know it. He's a deep cover specialist; works in the background, makes his own moves, stays loose and off the records. Nobody knows for sure where he got his training – the data doesn't go deep enough. There are rumours he did time with the French Foreign Legion's Second Parachute Regiment, but you know what rumours are like.'

‘Can't we ask the French?'

Scheider pulled a lopsided face. ‘I tried. They don't talk about their people past or serving. In any case, Portman's proved himself sufficiently over the years, and it's Vale's call, so that's good enough for me. What's up?' he added. Wishaw was frowning.

‘I just wondered how come, that's all.'

‘How come what?'

‘How come we use someone we know so little about.'

Scheider stared at him. ‘We use people like Portman all the time, you know that. They're easier to find, require less training and are cheaper to stand down when we don't need them. If it wasn't for the Portmans of this world we'd be in a heap of trouble.' He shook his head in mild exasperation, reminding himself that Wishaw's background in the NSA would have been very different to what he was now experiencing. ‘If you have any different ideas, let me know – I could use the input.'

‘Sure. And this Portman's gone along with it?'

‘Yes. He'll be close enough to touch them. Not that they'll ever know it.' He shook his head in admiration. ‘Sooner him than me.'

‘What does Vale want from us?'

‘Whatever we can supply, like real-time photos and any intel chatter we pick up. But what he really wants, we can't give.'

‘What's that?'

‘Boots on the ground. Portman's by himself, God help him.'

I
sensed trouble less than two hundred metres from the border. Using a line of trees as cover, and with the ghillie net over my shoulders to break up the line of my body, I was moving quickly towards the line of posts, pausing every few metres to scout my back trail. I had a faint tickle going on in between my shoulders, which had helped me spot trouble in the past before it hit me. Trouble was, this time I didn't know where it was coming from, or whether the potential threat was man or beast.

I'd asked Piet earlier if there was any danger from wildlife in the area.

‘You mean big cats? No, not here. Too close to the coast. Your biggest threat is poachers on their way inland or Somalis looking for tourists to shake down and take hostage. And snakes: mambas and puff adders, mostly.' He grinned. ‘Best watch where you sit down.'

I stopped, scouring the area ahead of me. The light was beginning to fade and I couldn't take too long to get across and approach the area around Kamboni. If there was a threat right here, I had to identify it, avoid it … or neutralize it.

I eased the AK off my shoulder. The long barrel was cumbersome for close-quarter action, but the suppressor was its main advantage. This close to my target, and with the occasional farm buildings or fishermen's houses scattered throughout the area, an un-silenced rifle shot would be like sending up an air-raid siren.

I waited, convinced someone was ahead of me on the other side of the border. If the Somalis had posted watchers to warn of intervention forces coming this way, it made sense that they would be stationed here, behind me on the Kenyan side, or just into Somalia.

Keeping low and with one eye on the tufts of long grass and spindly shrubs around me, I moved carefully. Ahead of me was a clump of bush, bare of any greenery but thick enough to mask anything waiting inside or behind it. I decided to give it a miss, and moved sideways.

As I did so, a shape rose up out of the grass not ten paces away.

It was a young Somali, dressed in cut-off cotton pants and a loose shirt, with a small bag over his shoulder. He was holding a rifle, an AK-47 like mine, but with the conventional stubby barrel. It looked beaten up and dirty, with a battered magazine and stock. He was no farmer or fisherman, and from the wild expression in his eyes, I guessed he'd been waiting here for some time for somebody like me to happen along.

There was no time for niceties. If he pulled the trigger on the AK, I was done for, even if he missed. I dropped the rifle barrel and fired once before he could get off a shot. The sound was no louder than a slap, and the bullet took him in the chest. He was built like a long-distance runner, all skin and bone, and the bullet was enough to knock him over on to his back. As he fell, I ran forward and followed him to the ground, using the rifle butt to make sure he was dead. It was brutal and personal, but I couldn't afford to waste bullets.

I checked his shoulder bag. No cell phone or radio, just a plastic bottle of water and some dried fish. Field supplies. I breathed a sigh of relief. It meant he wasn't expected to check in on a regular basis, so his silence wouldn't be noticed for a while.

I rolled him into some long grass and kicked some dried vegetation over him. It wouldn't hide him for long come daylight, and the flies that would surely feed on him would eventually attract the attention of larger predators, then men. But it would have to do.

I turned away towards the border and jogged across into Somalia.

The going was easy enough; rough ground for the most part, it was mostly covered in coarse grass and clumps of bush. Even in the gloom I was able to make out sufficient detail to avoid falling flat on my face. But after the experience I'd just had, I stopped more often, watching for signs of movement in case the Somali had backup waiting. I skirted a clutch of small dwellings and crossed a track leading away to the south as quickly as I could. Tracks were too dangerous, even at this time of night. If the locals had all been clued in to keep their eyes open, it made movement even more difficult.

I had to get under cover as a soon as I could.

I stopped to take a drink of water and check my direction from the GPS on my sat phone. I was heading directly east, towards the Indian Ocean. If I continued on this course, I would meet up with the coast road from Kamboni to Kismaayo in the north, and beyond that, Mogadishu, the capital some 400 kilometres away. The village of Dhalib should be somewhere up ahead.

Insects were a problem. I'd hoped they would be silenced by the fall of evening, but they seemed intent on all coming out together and singing my presence. The noise made it hard to discern what was animal movement or human, and distorted the sounds of voices travelling over the breeze from the buildings in the distance.

I pressed on, determined to find the villa and get under cover before it got too dark to see. I came to a track, but this was narrow, heading directly into the interior. I gave it a count of twenty before walking across.

By now I could hear another sound above the insect noises: it was the sea less than 500 metres away. This was the area of maximum danger, where locals would be moving around and where the Somalis would be most watchful.

I veered to the north-east, heading away from the few houses scattered on the outskirts of Kamboni. The ground here was soft, with less vegetation underfoot, and made for easier going. Then I hit the main coastal track, which was wide and flat, beaten down by the movement of traffic. I hunkered down a couple of metres back and waited.

Voices.

I lay down flat, slipping the rifle off my shoulder. I couldn't tell at first where they were coming from. They sounded all around me. I twisted round, scanning my back trail, then checked to the north. Then I heard a burst of laughter and a familiar rattle.

It was the sound of someone slapping a magazine into a rifle.

It was enough to pinpoint the direction, and it wasn't good news. They were standing just a few metres away.

I breathed carefully and felt a prickle of perspiration run down my face. By some miracle of luck, I'd avoided walking into a couple of sentries.

I started to inch away to the north, planning to cross the track further along. Then I stopped as something rustled nearby. I craned my head to see what – or who it might be.

And felt my skin crawl.

It was a snake. A big one, uncoiling from beneath a large tuft of dried grass.

I held my breath. Shoot it or back off? But this close even a silenced shot would be heard by the sentries, and there was no guarantee that I'd hit it. On the other hand, if I tried to move away and it took off after me, there was no way I'd outrun it.

We stayed like that for an age, and I tried not to torture myself with wondering if it was better being bitten by a mamba or a puff adder.

It must have been my lucky night. The snake eventually got tired of the game and slid away towards the track, disappearing into the shadows on the other side.

I did the same, giving the area a wide berth. Once near cover, I stopped again and checked my position. I had approximately half a kilometre to go to the village of Dhalib and a further kilometre to the villa.

‘T
here are men in the car park.' Moments ago, Doug Tober had knocked softly on Angela's door. It was 3a.m. and the hotel was quiet.

Angela let him in and padded over to the window. At first she saw nothing; just a few parked and silent cars, and no sign of life other than a scrawny dog trotting along the road past the hotel grounds.

‘Under the trees,' said Tober. ‘Behind the white Mercedes.'

She saw them; two men, standing very still. They were watching the hotel. Then another figure appeared off to one side, moving across to join them. She couldn't tell if they were the same three men Xasan had brought with him, but she wouldn't have bet against it.

‘What do you think they want?'

‘They're probably keeping an eye on us to make sure we behave,' Tober ventured. ‘It's probably nothing, but best get ready.' He was already dressed, and she noticed for the first time that he was carrying a length of metal tubing in his hand. He caught her look and said, ‘Shower curtain rail.' Then he left the room saying he was going to check out the corridors.

Angela stripped off her T-shirt and grabbed her clothes, which were already laid out on a chair. She went into the bathroom and threw some water over her face, then dried herself and dressed quickly. Tober was right to be cautious; if anything was going to happen, they had to be ready.

When she came out, she was dressed in a tan jacket and pants over a white blouse.

A tap at the door announced Tober's return. ‘All quiet. It's probably OK but I don't think I'll be going back to bed. Those jokers are out there to keep us unsettled.' He said goodnight and left the room again.

Angela debated calling London again. The duty officer in the ops room would get hold of Moresby if she needed him. But beyond saying there were men watching them, she had nothing concrete to report. She slipped off her jacket and lay down on the bed, and tried not to think about the results of the talks not going well. There were hostages depending on her getting this right, and her own bosses back in London watching to see how she handled it. Dealing with unexpected delays and disruptive tactics by others was all part of the game.