‘Could it have anything to do with the negotiations conducted by the British?’ Even as he posed the question, Scheider knew that there had to be a connection. Very little was done by al-Shabaab in the region without there being a solid reason. And the thought of gaining kudos of any kind from hostage negotiations would make the al-Shabaab leadership salivate with joy.
Wishaw evidently thought not. ‘I can’t see how if these negotiations were being kept as secret as you say. I doubt everybody in the region wants individual cells selling off hostages to all-comers. It would weaken their overall bargaining position if the bargaining prices started going down.’
‘But they could be non-affiliated hostage-takers, right? This Musa guy may be al-Shabaab, but I bet he’d be happy to trade a fast buck on the side if he got the chance.’
‘That’s probably true. The independent gangs and clans steer clear of the main religious groups and do their own thing. Even al-Shabaab is made up of different clans with their own interests. I’m just not sure why this particular gathering is taking place.’
‘OK. Keep me posted, will you? And see what we’ve got on Musa. If he’s been running things for any time, we might have a voice file. He won’t stay silent for ever, and all we need is a match to give us a trace of where he is. Something else is going on here and I’d like to know what it is.’
Thirty
An hour after the plane had flown over, I heard the rumble of an engine from the north. It was the white SUV. This time it was moving slowly over the rough ground, and as it passed across in front of me and pulled up outside the villa, I could see why: it was full of passengers.
A reception committee had gathered and stood watching as the doors opened. I counted three Somalis, all armed, and another man who climbed out and stood issuing orders like he wanted to exert his authority. Unfortunately, his lack of height and sizeable girth seemed to go against him, and none of the men from the house seemed that impressed. Unlike the men from the villa, these newcomers were dressed in light pants and western-style shirts, setting them apart.
The two SIS representatives got out and the reception committee promptly played their part by levelling their guns at them. The woman was slim and of medium build, with dark hair cut short. I didn’t need her photo on my sat phone to know who she was. Angela Pryce wore a lightweight jacket and pants, and looked slightly pissed at the number of guns being pushed in her face.
Her minder was a big guy, and looked like he could pick up a couple of the Somalis and swat the rest on to the beach in the background if he got really sore. But he wore the blank expression of a seasoned pro, and I was guessing he must have already worked out that he’d drawn the short straw here if anything went wrong.
After a while, the fat man organized his three goons to get the Brits inside, and everybody followed, leaving two men on guard outside.
The SUV drove away towards Kamboni, leaving a dust cloud hanging over the villa and a sullen silence in the air.
I settled back down to wait and switched on my sat phone, and checked through a file of potential relevant participants supplied by Vale. I found the fat man immediately; it was Xasan, the middleman. None of the other faces looked familiar.
Musa, the man holding the hostages, wasn’t here yet. I checked his photo again. He was unusually tall and thin, even for a Somali, with a hawk nose and eyes set close together, and looked oddly familiar, although I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before this photo. The shot had been taken covertly, and showed him at a sidewalk café table with two other men, hunched in conversation over small cups of coffee. Two others stood in the background, watching the street. Musa obviously didn’t believe in travelling without protection.
By the time darkness was beginning to roll in, all the signs down at the villa indicated that nobody else was showing up today. First the guards began to look bored, squatting together and talking, their rifles on the ground beside them. Occasionally Xasan would put in an appearance and snap at them. They would stand up and shuffle their feet, but their response was grudging and lacked real respect. I figured he wasn’t part of their clan, so didn’t rate more than a nod and a grunt.
Xasan himself seemed on edge and would go to the part of the garden overlooking the beach and stare out to sea with the frustrated appearance of a man wanting something important to happen.
I knew how he felt. I was hot, tired and thirsty, and my water reserve was running low. I had to get more or another day out here and dehydration would become a serious problem.
Eventually Xasan went inside. Moments later, the door opened and another figure came out. He was followed by one of the men, who said something and cuffed him round the head before shoving him on his way.
It was the kid who had come so close to stumbling on my OP. He had a bag slung over his shoulder. He ducked his head as he passed the two guards, and headed out towards the track to town, holding one arm tight against his chest, as if injured.
I got him in the scope before he disappeared from sight. He had the bearing of a whipped dog and I was pretty certain his arm had been fine earlier.
It gave me an idea.
I waited for the two guards to get bored again, then slid out of my OP and went after the kid.
Apart from getting water, which I was going to have to steal, I needed to get a line on what was happening inside the villa with the two SIS personnel. I had two ways of accomplishing the second task: one way was hi-tech, the other wasn’t.
It was time to try low-tech first.
Thirty-One
Taking the Vektor and Ka-Bar knife, with the ghillie net around my shoulders, I followed the kid along the rough beach-side track leading to town. It was hard, packed dirt for most of the way, with ruts where vehicles had driven out along the coast. It made walking relatively safe in the near dark, but risky if guards had been placed along the way.
I moved off the track at one point when I heard a noise ahead of me, and ran into the wrecks of two skiffs, half buried in wind-blown sand. I had to feel around to get my bearings. The wood was sticking up like rotten teeth, and coarse grass had sprung up between the base boards. I turned back and got on to the track, and hurried to make up lost time.
Fortunately, the kid had slowed down, and I got close enough to hear him mumbling to himself, which I guessed was to bolster his nerves. It meant I’d get plenty of notice and be able to get off the track in time if he came across anybody.
We were soon passing Dhalib, which was in darkness. Little more than a few ramshackle huts clustered above the beach and used by fishermen, it was dwarfed by the nearby town of Kamboni, which began with a few houses and was well spread out. The sea was close by on the left, with the long sleek lines of skiffs just visible against the near-white of the sand, lying on the shore like beached sharks. We passed several low bungalows scattered in a seemingly haphazard manner, some with rough fences, some with lights on from gas or oil stoves or the telltale rattle of generators.
Most of the houses were of a simple plaster construction, with thatched or corrugated-steel roofs and overhanging verandas. Spindly-looking palm trees poked up like curved fingers in between, the only show of vegetation.
The kid was acting more nervous the closer we got to the centre, constantly turning to scan his surroundings. It was probably his first time in town, and I was guessing he’d been told to talk to nobody, to watch his back and stay out of trouble. I allowed the gap between us to grow, using whatever cover I could to stay out of his sight. All the time I was watching out in case I ran into trouble myself.