The Watchman (23 page)

I wondered why.

I ran my hands over the sides, checking for catches or locks. But they were standard military issue, with simple spring catches and hasps for rapid opening and deployment in battlefield conditions.

I was running one hell of a risk here, because if they were wired with some kind of anti-theft alarm, there was no way I'd spot the mechanism in time. But I figured Musa's men had no worries about thieves daring to steal from them, so I carefully opened the catch of the first box and eased the lid back, slipping my free hand inside to feel for wires.

All clear.

My fingers came into contact with a flat, cold fabric. Plastic sheeting. I ran my hands along to the ends and sides, which were bound with some kind of sealing tape. I counted five oblong strips, each about ten inches long and three wide. I lifted one of the strips and judged it to be nearly an inch thick. When I was certain there were no wires attached, I gently lifted it out of the box, easing it free from its neighbours. It felt reasonably weighty, and solid to the touch, but not hard. I put it to my nose and sniffed. The only smell was a disturbingly familiar one: faintly chemical, like grease, which probably came from the wrapping, it was the kind of smell that hovers around almost any kind of military equipment, from uniforms to heavy artillery. I had a pretty good idea what I was holding in my hand.

It was a strip of C-4 plastic explosive.

I used the strip to measure down the side of the box. If my measurements were correct, the box held approximately 40 of these strips. That was enough C-4 to make a very large hole in something. Or a lot of smaller ones.

I realized that I'd been subconsciously holding my breath. I let it out and replaced the strip, then closed the lid.

The next box was much lighter and not so full. A gentle feel around told me I was holding a slim, tube-shaped object wrapped in soft, cotton-like fabric. It was about four inches long, with a squared-off section at one end, and I knew instantly what it was.

A detonator.

I checked the rest of the box, hoping I was missing something in the dark. I wasn't. I sat back on my heels, worrying. Every detonator needs a power source. Of the kind used in bringing down buildings or bridges, for example, the power is with the operator and involves an electrical charge from a battery. The old method was a plunger; now it's a simple button. With a remote detonator, something like a simple 9-volt battery would be sufficient to power it up and send the required signal to do its job. But it's an extra component involving packaging, storage in transit, checking the wiring and fixing securely in place prior to use. It's messy and open to failure.

Musa had got round that. He had sourced a high-level, ready-made detonator, and the square section I'd felt on the end must be the power source. But you don't just buy that stuff off the shelf of your local Walmart. This level of sophistication had echoes of a military supply warehouse somewhere, and I was betting on Eastern Europe.

I carried on looking. With the detonators were a number of lightweight objects made of a rough nylon weave.

I lifted one out, letting my fingers identify the shape. As near as I could make out it was a pouch. One side was thicker than the other, with a flap at one end covered in a Velcro strip. The thicker side of the pouch was sticky around the edges and backed by a greasy paper strip. I tested the sticky gunk with a fingertip and felt the immediate grab of a powerful adhesive. When I sniffed my finger, I caught a pungent smell that reminded me of PVC glue.

I moved on to the third box. It contained a bunch of cell phones with stubby aerials. More technology. No, not cell phones; there were no keypads. Just a serrated knob next to the aerial, and a button.

Remote triggers.

I closed the last box and sat back. The stuff in these boxes wasn't intended for a normal battlefield engagement. They were going to be highly efficient and lethal IEDs – improvised explosive devices. The pouches were tailored to take the strips of C-4, which would each be fitted with a detonator. By removing the protective strip on the back of the pouch, they could be slapped on to the side of a target. Once safely out of range, a remote signal could be sent from the trigger to set off the bomb.

But what was the intended target? Government buildings? Armoured vehicles? Although C-4 came in a protective covering, I had never seen it so heavily taped at each end. And the plastic sheeting covering the strips felt heavy-duty.

Then it hit me.

There was only one purpose I could imagine for such an elaborate set-up, and that was in extreme wet or damp conditions.

Like at sea.

They were going to attack a ship.

Or maybe more than one. And I knew how they would do it. Using their low-profile skiffs, they would sneak up on a target under cover of darkness and get right alongside. With the adhesive coating, the bomb could be placed just above the waterline. All the bombers had to do then was retire to a safe distance and press the button on the trigger mechanism.

Or threaten to.

The potential for disaster if their threat went unheeded was horribly real. They might not have enough explosive to guarantee being able to sink a large tanker, but if they managed to blow a hole in the side and breached the hold, oil would pump out into the ocean at a furious rate.

Faced with such a horror, and on such a public stage, every shipping company in the world would be forced to comply without a shot being fired.

I gathered together three sets of bomb-making equipment. Placing the detonators in my pockets, I put the C-4 charges in their pouches and the remote triggers in my shirt. It made my skin crawl having that much potential for disaster on me, but I had no choice.

As long as I kept the detonators separate from the C-4 and triggers, I was fine.

I made sure the lids were firm on the boxes and headed up the beach. I had no concrete idea of what I was going to do with my potential bombs, but when presented with weapons in a hostile environment, it pays not to pass up the offer.

I
got back to my hide and gave it a full ten minutes before moving again. If I'd triggered any alert senses in the guards, they were keeping it under their hats and waiting to see what I did next.

When I judged it to be safe, I called Vale. For once there was no answer. I tried again a few minutes later. Probably in conference somewhere.

I used the waiting time to check the remote triggers in the subdued glow of a pocket flashlight covered in gauze. The triggers weren't back-room jobs, put together by guys with missing fingers and using fertilizer and packaging tape. They were state of the art, with the knob on the top numbered, each number matching that of a detonator. A flat button was built into the side of each trigger and covered in rubber. Simple and sophisticated. Turn the knob to the required number and hit the button. All you had to do was remember which detonator was where and make sure you weren't still holding on to one of the devices with the detonator in place when you set it off.

Unless Musa had a few willing suicide bombers among his followers, in which case it wouldn't matter.

I heard the grind of vehicle engines coming. Two sets of headlights were bouncing along the track from town. At the same time I heard shouts from the guards around the building and saw a bunch of figures pushing out of the door and assembling to the rear. In the spillage of light from inside, I could see that they all carried rifles and were spreading out to form a welcoming committee.

Something or somebody had poked a stick into the hornets' nest.

The incoming vehicles were a pickup truck and an SUV loaded with armed men. They stopped a little way out and the men dismounted and walked the rest of the way, while the vehicles turned round and faced back the way they had come.

I couldn't make out much detail amid the huddle of bodies, but when they got closer I saw that two of the men were holding a third by the arms, while another was kicking and slapping him repeatedly. I felt sickened when I realized who it was.

Madar.

From his body posture he didn't look good. The men must have already given him a beating before he got here. He was making noises of protest, his voice thin and desperate, and I wondered what he'd done to run foul of the men in Kamboni. Not that it mattered now.

Then all the shouting stopped and Musa appeared, easing his way through the melee with calm authority. He was shadowed closely by the tubby figure of Xasan.

Musa addressed Madar and got him to lift his chin with a sharp smack of his hand. I was too far off to gauge his tone of voice, but it was clear he wasn't a happy man. Madar didn't say much, but whatever it was got him a sharp slap in the face from Musa, followed by a punch to the chest. Madar folded in two and hit the ground, his cry of pain high-pitched and reaching me up the slope.

For just a second my hand was on the AK, anger coursing through me like acid. This was my doing. A part of my brain was calculating how many men I could take out after killing Musa. He would be the easiest, but after that things would get problematic.

Then I stopped. Instead of reaching for an AK like last time, Musa pointed at the villa and shouted an order. The two men who had brought Madar in picked him up and dragged him inside, while the remainder stood around in silence, waiting for the boss man to speak.

It wasn't long in coming. Musa raised his hands and all eyes were on him in an instant. He spoke calmly and at length, arms still raised, his voice rising and falling like a priest – or, in this case, a
mullah
– before his congregation. Nobody shuffled their feet, nobody moved so much as a flicker. They were frozen still.

When he finished, he pointed towards the east and dropped his hands. They all let out a cheer and began slapping each other on their backs as if they'd won the lottery. Some of the men began making their way inside, while Musa and the remainder walked over to the SUV and the pickup and began piling on board.

I didn't have to have heard or understood what Musa had said; his gestures towards the horizon were clear enough. And now he was off to rally even more support among the faithful. He wanted a crowd for the big event, and thanks to Madar, I knew what that was.

Worse, he now had another victim for ritual slaughter.

‘W
hat the hell's going on?' Angela sat up as the shouting came nearer. The house had been quiet as the men upstairs settled down to sleep, then came the approach of engines and voices calling above their heads. She had heard Tober move in the darkness, then felt his presence close by.

‘Something's got them fired up,' he said softly. ‘Stay where you are.'

She sensed him move away, then heard the soft scrape of his shoes on the steps leading up to the trapdoor.

‘What are you doing?' she hissed.

‘Just listening.'

He returned moments later. ‘Sounds like they're giving somebody a hard time up there. A kid.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘I heard crying.'

Moments later they heard a voice from outside. It rose and fell, the words indistinct but forceful, like somebody giving a lecture. When it fell silent it gave way to a burst of cheering. Seconds later the engines started up and moved away, leaving silence to settle back once more over the building.

The trapdoor to their prison was flung open and a voice cursed, followed by a body hitting the steps and rolling to the bottom. Then the trapdoor was slammed shut again.

‘Stay down,' Tober warned her. ‘Don't move until I say.'

She heard him move back towards the steps, followed by a groan of pain in the dark.

‘Doug?'

‘Not me. Wait.'

Another groan, then a coughing sound and a sob. Tober flicked on the flashlight, lighting up the area around the steps and revealing a slight figure lying in a heap.

‘It's a kid,' Tober confirmed softly, then looked more closely. ‘The one who brought the food.'

Angela shuffled across the cellar and knelt beside him. The youth wasn't moving and at first she thought he was dead. But when she touched his shoulder, he jumped with a cry of fear and shrank away. His cotton shirt was flecked with blood and he had several cuts and bruises on his face. She estimated his age at no more than fifteen or sixteen.

‘Christ, what have they done to you?'

She didn't expect an answer, and was stunned when he mumbled softly in English. ‘They beat me.'

‘Why?'

‘I ran away. I want to go to my home.' He sounded miserable and choked back another sob, curling into a ball. ‘They say I am a traitor and no better than a girl and will die tomorrow with no honour.'

‘What's your name, kid?' Tober asked. ‘Where are you from?'

‘I am called Madar. I come from Mogadishu.'

‘What was all the noise about just now, Madar? The shouting and the cars.'

Madar struggled to sit up, wincing with pain. He hugged his knees and rested his head on his arms. ‘Men brought me from town. I asked some fishermen if they were going north, so I could go with them to my home. But they told others who asked me why I was leaving. Then they brought me back here.' He sniffed. ‘I do not understand what is happening here. There is much badness. I just want to go home to my sister in Mogadishu. Mr Marc said I should go and gave me money.'

‘Mr Marc?' Angela leaned forward. He'd pronounced the name with a slight French intonation. Could this Marc be European?

‘Yes. Your friend.'

‘I don't understand.' She glanced instinctively at Tober, but he looked just as baffled. What did this mean? Had this kid been put down here deliberately to unsettle them, perhaps to see if they knew about friendly forces in the area? If so, they were going to be in for disappointment.

‘He is English, like you. He has guns and hides in a hole very close by. I could almost throw a stone and hit him from here – I have very strong arms. He is very clever; he covers himself with strange netting, but not the same as fishermen use. This has pieces of cloth and some branches.'