The Watchman (15 page)

Within seconds she was asleep.

Three hours later, Tober called her on the room phone.

‘Xasan sent a message. Kick-off in forty minutes.'

Angela levered herself off the bed and stretched to ease the kinks in her neck. So now it was all hurry. It was part of the game, she reflected, to keep the two of them on edge. After the long journey here, they would already be tired and stiff. Keeping them awake would leave them tired and slow to react in a negotiating situation.

She sent a brief text message to Moresby.
Leaving 40 mins for onward travel.
It was nowhere near specific enough to be of much use, but ballpark was all she had. If Moresby had the CIA's over-flight cameras going as promised, while they couldn't tell who was on which flight leaving Nairobi, they might be able to track flights moving into otherwise deserted or remote areas like Kamboni.

She switched off the phone with a growing feeling of unease. She was being pulled by forces over which she had no control, but that was part of the job. She went downstairs to the restaurant overlooking the hotel pool. Tober was already at a table, sinking a cup of coffee as if he didn't have a care in the world. She envied him.

They ate in silence, watched over by two waiters, then made their way to their rooms to collect their bags before heading down to the lobby. There were no signs of the other guests.

Xasan was waiting for them. He apologized for the delay and hoped they had passed a good night before explaining, ‘We return to the airport now and take a flight to the coast. From there we travel on to the villa by car. We should arrive by late afternoon. It will be perfectly secure.' He said this with a wry smile, as if reassuring children.

Angela said nothing. She couldn't recall having seen an airstrip on the map of the area, but no doubt Xasan knew what he was doing. Either way, she took his last comment to mean that their movements were secure and beyond any means SIS might employ to watch over them.

He appeared to guess what she was thinking. ‘The flight will be quicker and more comfortable than by other means, I assure you.'

‘Good.' She was tempted to ask why his men had been camped outside the hotel during the night, but decided against it. As instructors like Tom Vale had counselled her in her early days with SIS, never let the opposition know what you're thinking; any knowledge can be an advantage.

They followed him outside and round to the side of the hotel to a Mitsubishi 4WD. There was nobody else around and the air was surprisingly cool. Xasan trotted ahead, a phone clamped to his ear, and began flicking his fingers at the guards, who were leaning against the vehicle watching them approach. The men split up in what was clearly a coordinated move and surrounded Tober, staying just out of arm's reach. Up close, he dwarfed them and looked indomitable.

‘What's going on?' Angela demanded. The men were all armed with pistols under their shirts and were clearly not taking chances. But Tober showed no concerns, and signalled for her to stay back. One of the men stepped forward and did a fast pat down while the other two watched. The procedure had been expected, although where they thought he might have acquired a weapon was a mystery.

When the man doing the frisking made a move towards Angela, she shook her head and flashed a steely gaze at Xasan. ‘I don't think so,' she said coolly, ‘do you?'

For a brief second the middleman looked as if he might insist. But he smiled instead and inclined his head, waving the man away. ‘Of course not. My apologies. That will not be necessary.'

‘I need to use the bathroom.' She turned to go back into the hotel. In reality she needed to get an update to Moresby.

‘I think not.' Xasan's voice stopped her. He was holding out his hand. ‘You can use the facilities at the airport. And I must ask for your cell phones. Where we are going, there is no need of them.'

There was a brief silence, and Angela was on the point of arguing when Xasan clicked his fingers. One of the guards pointed a gun at Tober's head.

‘Please.' Xasan's voice was a quiet drawl. ‘I insist.'

I
was already awake when dawn came in a rush of cold air off the sea. It was tangy with salt and carried the smell of wood smoke from the villa.

I'd managed to cat-nap throughout the night, waking regularly by instinct to check my surroundings. But there was nothing to see or hear save for the background swish of the sea and the occasional rustle of a night creature.

In the thin light available I made double sure my cover was the best I could get. It had to stand up to more than just a casual survey, although the choices along here were limited. The terrain was low scrub and sandstone, with clumps of dry vegetation and prickly bush, the soft ground pushed into dips and hollows by the elements. I was in one of the dips.

Satisfied my position was good, I ran a quick eye over my weapons before taking a drink of water and chewing on an energy bar. It was too sweet for my tastes, and made me thirsty, but it would keep me going for the hours ahead.

My first sighting of the villa after crossing the Mogadishu road had been a single yellow light flickering in the dark. Beyond it I could hear the sea, a gentle hiss in the darkness. I'd homed in on the light and made my way forward with care, checking the ground every few steps for traps, wires and other man-made obstacles. I'd already seen enough trash lying around to know that the locals weren't too eco-friendly. Old tyres, plastic bottles, coiled clumps of rotting fishing nets, discarded fragments of cork floats and bits of metal too small, thick or rusted to be used for anything else. Any of these were enough to trip an unwary person. The closer I got to the coast, the more I saw.

I'd eventually come to a slight dip in the ground on a slope overlooking the villa. It was little more than a couple of feet deep, but big enough for an observation post. All I needed was some cover to go over the top.

I moved back a ways and gathered a collection of dried branches, then slid into my new home and spread them over me, twisting them together to stop them flying away if a sea breeze sprang up. With the ghillie net over me I was pretty certain I'd be invisible unless somebody actually fell in on top of me.

Next I dug out some of the sand beneath me with a small trowel, then took out a couple of small plastic bags from my backpack. Disposing of waste in a hot zone observation post can be a problem. Flies will soon zoom in on any fresh matter and attract attention.

I carefully scraped away at the earth in front of me to give me a better field of observation and to avoid breaking the skyline. Anybody looking up from the building would notice even a slight movement against the sky, but if I had some soil behind me, I would just about blend in. Once I was happy with my field of fire, I sat back and allowed the sun to do its bit drying the upturned spoil to the same colour as everywhere else.

I checked my surroundings every fifteen minutes, including the villa. The smell of wood smoke was enough to tell me that there were people down there and they were up and about. I had no idea how many, but I'd soon find out if I made the wrong move.

I used the sniper scope to give the building the once-over. It was a simple villa, vaguely European by design and single level, with a flat roof. The walls had once been plastered but were now showing the inner lining of cinder blocks, some crumbling under the combination of neglect and the elements. Tacked to the back was a small outhouse which I guessed had been used in better times to hold a generator.

An attempt had been made to build a wall around the property, but any decent blocks had been taken away once the property had been abandoned. The grounds had no discernible border, but ran into the interior beyond where I was hiding, and extended out on to the beach a hundred metres on either side. And there was no cover anywhere. It put a serious dent in any plans I might have had of getting closer, unless I got lucky under cover of dark. But that was a problem to deal with later.

My sat phone gave a soft buzz. It was Piet.

‘Can you talk?' His voice sounded low and gruff. I couldn't hear any engine noise, so I figured he was on the ground somewhere.

‘For now. I'm inside the target area.'

‘You better get ready for company. I took an early dawn flight, to keep up appearances.'

‘And?'

‘There's a stretch of track outside Kamboni. You probably crossed it last night. It runs out of the town, then veers directly north, following the border. About four clicks from there I saw a pickup and a group of guys clearing the track. It's been used as a landing strip before, but not for a while.'

‘Somebody's flying in.'

‘Yeah. I hope you got good cover, man; they'll probably make a fly over first to check it out. These guys are suspicious, believe me.'

‘I hear you.'

It made sense. Fly the SIS personnel in by small plane and truck them to the villa. Anyone else moving in the area, especially in vehicles, would stand out like a camel on a sand dune.

‘Where are you?' I asked.

‘Running the fence, like always. It's what they expect. At most I'll be twenty minutes out from your position.'

‘I thought you didn't want to get involved.'

‘I don't. But if things go balls-up you'll be needing a lift. You call and I'll come pick you up.'

I thanked him and switched off. It was good to know I had help out there. As I settled down again, I heard the sounds of an engine.

It was a white 4WD. It came overland from the north-east, drawing a dust cloud behind it, and skidded to a stop close by the villa. Three men got out of the vehicle, and others came boiling out of the building, rifles at the ready and primed for action. When they saw who it was, they waved greetings as if they hadn't seen each other in years. Another man popped his head out of the generator shed at the rear of the villa to see what the noise was about, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If I'd ventured out of my hide I'd have tripped right over him.

I counted nine men, all armed. They were dressed in traditional wrap-around skirts and a variety of western T-shirts or the lightweight
kameez
. With the likelihood of more men on the plane with the SIS negotiators and others on call in Kamboni, it made for a substantial force if anything went wrong.

An hour later, three of the men came outside and stood talking. One of them checked a big gold watch on his wrist, then climbed behind the wheel and took off in a dust cloud. He passed my position two hundred metres away, heading towards the border.

Back to where Piet had seen the track being prepared.

I checked my position and overhead cover. The men in the villa must have got word that the negotiators were on their way in. Time to buckle down and stay still.

I checked through the scope as the remaining men stood chatting. One of them pointed and said something, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck move.

He was looking right at me.

‘W
e are nearly there!' Xasan turned in his seat and shouted at the two SIS representatives. As he did so, the engine noise decreased and the plane's nose began to drop.

After relieving them of their cell phones outside the Crowne Plaza in Nairobi, Xasan had ordered his driver to take them at speed to the airport. Instead of pulling in at the main terminal, they had driven to a side entrance and through a cargo gate manned by a single security guard. The man had nodded them through without bothering to run a security check. After driving a short distance along an access road past a line of warehouses and hangars, they had pulled up alongside a plane with its engines running, puffs of dark smoke issuing from the engine nascelles.

At a word from Xasan, they climbed out into the acrid smell of aircraft fuel and burnt rubber.

‘What the hell is that?' Angela muttered. ‘A flying horsebox?'

A chunky, twin-engine design, the plane had seen better times and had the ingrained scars of reddish dust along its undercarriage and on the large rubber tyres and nose wheel. Small repair patches had been riveted at various places on the skin, no doubt concealing incidents in its chequered past.

‘Pretty apt description,' said Tober, ignoring a sharp reprimand from one of the guards nearby. ‘It's a Skytruck – a variation on the Antonov. They call it a STOL – short take-off and landing. This one's a Polish M Twenty-eight. Good plane.'

She stared at him. Was he showing off or trying to take her mind off the idea of going anywhere in this flying death trap?

He read her mind. ‘I've jumped from one just like it – and not because I had to.'

‘Where?' She realized she knew nothing about Tober save that he had an extensive background in Special Forces, and was now employed to use those skills on SIS operations.

‘In the States, then Venezuela. They can land pretty much anywhere, and unless the pilot woke up this morning and decided this is the day he wants to die, we should be fine.'

‘
Quiet
! No speak.' The guard who had spoken before didn't like being ignored. He pulled out his pistol and shoved it towards Tober's head, eyes wide with anger.

Tober looked coolly at the gun, then at the man, and said, ‘OK, Bonzo. Will do. But first go fuck yourself.'

‘Enough.' It was Xasan, holding out a restraining hand towards the gunman. He flicked a hand to make him go away, then looked at Tober. ‘I would remind you, Mr Tober, that you are not the … what do you call it – the lead, in these negotiations. You are here as a courtesy. And the use of obscenities is extremely offensive.'

He turned and issued orders to his men, and they all filed on board the plane and took seats in the cabin. Two of the guards sat at the back, their eyes firmly on Tober, while Xasan and the other guard took seats at the front.

The pilot watched them without comment, then turned and got ready for take-off. Minutes later, they were racing down a secondary runway, the airframe around them rattling with the thrust of the engines. After leaving the ground, the plane seemed to hang in the air for too long before levelling off, and the note of the engines changed from desperate to merely urgent.