The Watchman (20 page)

‘I don't think they were giving it much thought. There's a man named Xasan, a middleman, whose nominally in charge but he doesn't look like he's getting much respect from the men. He was probably trying to show how tough he is.'

‘Well, my wing's got a hole in it and I'm pretty sure there's a dent on one of my struts, so your Mr Xasan had better get ready; if I get him in my sights he's a dead man. Daisy cost me good money!'

Portman's dry chuckle echoed down the line. ‘Good to hear you haven't lost your sense of humour.'

‘Not yet, I haven't. So what's happening with you?'

‘Not much. A lot of talk, but I think somebody else is due to come in. Could be why they're jumpy. Stay in touch.'

‘Will do.' Piet switched off.

I
t was late afternoon when I saw Xasan step out of the front door. He was followed by two of his men and walked to the edge of the property and stared out to sea, shading his eyes against the dying sun. He turned and looked at them once and shook his head, and I could see he was sweating. Heat or nerves? Moments later they were joined by others who stood in the background, eyes on the horizon.

Then they all got skittish and started looking at each other and slapping arms like it was Mardi Gras … or whatever feast day they liked to celebrate. Even Xasan managed a grim smile as he turned and tried to join in the celebrations.

I saw what had aroused their attention: three skiffs were heading for land, their slim shapes head-on nearly invisible without the aid of the scope. No wonder the security guys on the tankers had such a hard time spotting them; hugging the waves, they had virtually no profile and offered little in the way of a useful target.

By the time they reached the shore, everyone was standing in a line across the garden overlooking the sand, a ragged welcoming committee of men waving their rifles like something out of a spaghetti western.

The skiffs came in fast and smooth, the first one disgorging three men. The other two beached either side and their crews each proceeded to unload a number of bags, which I figured were supplies, and three green metal boxes which looked military in design. I snapped a bunch of photos and hoped Vale could do something with them.

The men from the lead boat walked up the beach, leaving the rest to do the heavy lifting. The man in the middle was tall and thin and carried himself almost regally with long, steady strides, his eyes straight ahead as if unconcerned with whatever might be going on around him. And why should he? He was the boss man.

Yusuf Musa.

He wore a small skullcap with a scarf looped loosely over the top, and the traditional skirt,
kameez
shirt and a waistcoat. A belt across his chest carried a line of shells and a slim cross-strap holding a cell phone like a badge of office. It wasn't exactly traditional, but I guess if he was important, he could wear whatever he chose.

As he came nearer and I zeroed in on his face, the feeling of familiarity that I'd had before suddenly came rushing in on me.

He was a spit for Osama Bin Laden.

I settled lower in my hide and kept the scope on him. He approached Xasan and acknowledged him with a curt nod, giving the fat man something to get excited about at last. They embraced briefly and Xasan talked volubly, gesturing towards the other side of the house. When two of the men from the villa broke away and came back moments later dragging the loaded tarpaulin, it was obvious Xasan had decided to get in quick and spill the beans about the dead guard.

I watched Musa's face. As an authority figure, I reckoned he'd be bored by this little exercise in sucking up by Xasan. But I was wrong. His head jerked up at the sight of the tarpaulin and he snapped an instruction which had everyone jumping to attention. The two men carrying the tarpaulin flipping it open so that Musa could inspect the contents.

Then he said something and Xasan pointed to a man standing to one side.

The second guard.

Musa called him forward. The man shuffled over, the others parting to make way for him. Musa asked questions, using a lot of finger stabbing in the air, and the guard replied, looking miserable.

Then Musa held out a hand.

With a chill feeling I knew what was coming.

One of his men handed over his AK. Musa spun it round a couple of times, like a fancy marine guard of honour. On the third spin, he turned it and jabbed the butt viciously into the guard's face, knocking his head back and raising a spray of blood from his smashed mouth and nose. He said something else, but the guard was too stunned to answer, barely able to stay on his feet. With an almost casual air, Musa raised the AK and placed the top of the barrel against the doomed man's forehead and pulled the trigger.

As he did so, he smiled.

The shot was flat and already fading as it carried up the slope to me, like it didn't want to make a fuss about what it had just done. The dead guard was carted away by two men on Musa's instructions, and seconds later I saw it being tipped into the waste pit.

For a long moment nobody moved. It was like they were stuck in the sand, not daring to be the first to break ranks. Then Musa pointed to the beach and some men moved away and fetched the three metal boxes, which they placed on the sand just down from the house. Musa watched them, nodding in approval, and after posting his two companions on guard outside, he followed Xasan into the villa.

I realized that I'd been holding my breath and let it out in one go. I'd seen summary justice before, but never witnessed it done so casually. Musa had clearly been intent on making a point, even stamping his authority on the men. But he'd also enjoyed it, as if it were an act of theatre.

It left me with a bad feeling.

Everything eventually settled down and the two supply skiffs cast off and disappeared towards the south at speed, their powerful engines echoing across the water. They were hugging the coast and probably heading for Kamboni. The new guards went inside and were replaced by two more. Suddenly everything about the place had taken on a fresh buzz, as if the atmosphere had been injected with a sense of urgency.

Two more guards came out after a while and took up positions, this time with a snap and fully alert. One of them, older and darker than his companion, began walking across the rear of the villa, studying the terrain around him and sniffing the air like a hunting dog. His AK-47 had an extended barrel like mine – a shooter's rifle. Unlike the other men, his was cleaned and oiled, and he carried it across his body, leading me to suspect that he'd seen military service somewhere.

I watched as the range of his patrol became wider and wider, moving inexorably up the slope towards me, his face sombre and focussed.

Fifty metres and closing.

This wasn't looking good.

I eased back in my hide and placed the tip of my rifle barrel on the rim, just inside the covering of branches. I made sure the ghillie was in place and made myself as comfortable as I could. If I had to, I could stand up and be on the move faster this way than lying prone. The Ka-Bar was in my belt and I could have it out in a flicker if push came to shove.

Thirty metres.

I could hear the hiss of his breathing now. He wasn't particularly young, and I put his age at forty or more. He had the grizzled look of a hardened fighter, a man who had seen and done things that had earned him his place close to the head man. It made him a more formidable opponent than the guard last night, and I began working out my tactic for taking him down if he came too close.

Twenty metres
.

He stopped barely fifteen paces away and looked over his shoulder, taking in the sweep of the beach, the villa, and the line of the coast away to the right. Then he spun and looked across the slope, checking out the ground from left to right either side of my position, quartering it in segments and not missing a thing.

He started forward again before spotting something on the ground. He stopped and bent down.

I held my breath and got ready to move. Had I left footprints at the front of the hide? I couldn't recall. If so, it was a dead giveaway.

But he bent down and picked up something with a flash of red. It was the water bottle dropped by Madar. He examined it, unscrewed the top, sniffed at the contents, then tossed it away.

The bottle landed on the edge of my hide with a dull slap. It teetered for a moment, the water inside sloshing noisily, then tipped over and rolled down, slipping beneath the covering branches. It came to a rest against my leg.

I stayed absolutely still, not daring to blink, my eyes half closed. He was now so close, if he caught as much as a gleam off an eyeball, he'd be in on top of me before I could move.

Then he yawned and rubbed at his face, waving away a fly. My luck was continuing to hold. He had one empty eye socket, the flesh around it twisted and puckered, joining a long scar down the side of his face. An old battle wound.

A voice floated up the slope, and he turned his head.

It was the other guard, calling and waving an arm. He and a couple of other men were walking away from the villa towards Kamboni. They were all armed and looked eager to go. It looked like they had received orders, and I wondered what they were. Whatever they were doing, they clearly weren't going far, and One-eye was expected to go with them.

He turned and walked away, and I breathed easily, thanking my lucky stars that his eyesight hadn't rivalled the younger Madar's. Maybe now I could snatch a brief sleep.

Ten minutes later I was jerked awake by the sound of gunfire.

I
t took an effort of will not to overreact. Leaping up in my position would get me killed. Instead I grabbed the rifle and hugged the earth while I tried to locate the source of the gunfire. That's not an easy thing to do when you're crouched in a hole, half asleep and with your head clouded in cotton wool. Sounds get distorted and deflected every which way.

I figured I'd heard at least four or five shots in rapid succession. But they'd been faint, so not from anywhere close by. Then came another burst, and I pinned it down.

Dhalib.

I risked a quick look. Was this an attack? Or had the men with One-eye run into trouble with the locals? The light was still good but beginning to drop, and I couldn't see any signs of activity towards Dhalib. If the Kenyan army or police had decided to pay a visit, and the shots had been a first encounter, no way was I going to hang around. The army would come in heavy-handed and mop up anybody in the area. And that would include me.

Then I saw smoke drifting into the air.

I checked the villa. A single guard was standing near the front door, scratching his butt. He didn't seem concerned by the gunshots or the smoke, so I figured he knew what was going on. But I didn't.

I waited for him to move out of sight, then lifted the cover overhead and slipped out of the hide. It was probably nothing to be worried about, but I had to make sure I wasn't going to be caught in a pincer movement. I crept away towards Dhalib, sticking close to the ground and with the ghillie net over my head and shoulders to break up my outline.

Twenty minutes of slow crawling later, I heard voices and laughter. The smoke was pungent and black and hanging close to the ground, shifted inshore by the breeze. An occasional slurry of sparks was being pushed into the air, and I guessed I must be close to the huts.

It took me another five minutes to reach the first one. Or what was left of it.

It was too smoky to see much, but it looked like the men had raided the fishermen's huts and got carried away. I figured three of the small buildings had been destroyed by fire and another two were smouldering. The smell of burnt wood and plastic was pungent, overlaid by the heavier stench of burning rubber, which I guessed was from old rubber tyres used as fenders and thrown into the flames by Musa's men.

I crawled closer and found two bodies lying in the bushes. They were older men, lean and stringy, dressed in tattered clothing. They'd been shot several times.

Voices floated up from the beach. I moved back into the bushes and made my way closer to the water.

The pirates were milling around the fishermen's boats, tossing out anything they couldn't use, like nets and floats, and unfurling the sails to check for holes. An engine roared into life for a few seconds before cutting out. Compared to the engines used by the pirates, it sounded feeble and ancient.

A body lay in the shallows, covered in blood, and further along the sand, another man had tried to flee and got cut down.

Musa obviously wasn't playing at being friends with the locals. He must have decided they needed more boats and sent his men out to get them. At whatever the cost.

I relaxed my grip on the rifle. It would have been easy to dish out the same treatment these men had given the fishermen. Satisfying, too. But there was nothing I could do for the dead men without compromising my position, so I slid back to my hide and got busy sending Vale the photos I'd taken earlier. Then I called him with an update. He answered the phone immediately.

‘What can you tell me?' He sounded tired. ‘These photos are disturbing.'

‘It's Musa. He just arrived with more armed men and supplies.' I wasn't sure how to proceed so I said, ‘Are you sure this is just a negotiation?'

There was a longer delay this time. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Because they look as if they've come for war, and they're already killing locals.' I described what I had just seen in Dhalib – or what remained of it.

He grunted. ‘This isn't good.' Like me, he would have recognized some of the boxes unloaded from the skiffs as being of the kind used to carry ammunition, even small rockets. If Musa was planning on stocking up local members of his clan with some extra firepower, his men were in a position, placed behind the Kenyan forces in Kismaayo, to inflict some serious damage on their supply lines. It wouldn't be a prolonged fight, but a quick hit-and-run exercise to unnerve and destabilize the soldiers in the area, followed by a rapid retreat to sea. It explained why he had decided to acquire more boats and why he wasn't concerned about letting a few local fishermen stand in his way. This was part of a campaign and collateral damage was incidental.