At that point one of the guards decided he’d had enough excitement and decided to take a pee in the waste pit.
He stood there doing his thing and eyeing the scenery, then finally he did what all guys do in these circumstances: he looked down to check nothing important had dropped off.
Then he began shouting.
It took them ten minutes of arguing and gesticulating before they found a way of getting the dead man out of the pit. It involved two lengths of wood and some rope, and nobody seemed too keen on handling the body or the muck it was covered in. They eventually managed to spill it on to the ground, where they stood and yakked over it at length as if it might suddenly spring back to life.
Xasan played no part in the proceedings, but he made it pretty clear what he thought: that some idiots can’t walk in a straight line without tripping over their feet. He eventually waved a hand in disgust and waddled away, leaving them to it.
After more talk, three men wrapped the body in an old tarpaulin and took it out of sight, while the others went back inside the house.
Minutes later I heard some banging and shouting through the audio feed, and a very English female voice.
‘Why have you got us shut in down here?’
Angela Pryce, and she sounded pissed.
The next voice I heard was in heavily accented English. I assumed it was Xasan.
‘You have five minutes to clean yourselves. Then you can eat.’
‘What’s happening?’ Pryce’s voice was hoarse and dry and I guessed they had been locked in somewhere since arriving yesterday. It couldn’t have been pleasant with the heat and the rough conditions, and whatever they had been fed would have been cold rations. ‘What was all the shouting about?’
‘Don’t ask questions,’ Xasan said snappily. ‘If you do not do as I say, Mr Tober will be shot. It is your choice.’
‘Like you ordered the ranger shot down, you mean?’
Piet.
I grabbed my sat phone and hit the speed dial to call him, thinking Pryce really shouldn’t have given away the fact that they had understood Somali. You never, ever let the opposition know you understand more than they think. Once you do that, you’ve lost whatever small advantage you might have had.
As the phone began ringing at the other end, I heard the distant pops of gunshots drifting in on the air.
Thirty-Five
The shot was a fluke, Piet de Bont figured. Nobody got that good first time, not against a moving target high overhead. It zinged off one of the wheel struts and set off a vibration through the framework, and that was close enough for him.
‘Bastard!’ He automatically put the nose down, taking the microlight to starboard while searching below for signs of drifting gun smoke. He’d been shot at enough times by poachers to know the signs, and most were merely a warning to stay away. The poachers knew he was in no position to shoot back. They also knew he had radio contact with his base at the KWS and experience told them that it would take time for an armed patrol to get out here. By then they’d be long gone.
But this was different. There were no poachers in this immediate area so close to the border — he’d already checked. And the sudden appearance of a bullet hole in the fabric of the wing just above his head meant this was no warning. They were shooting for real.
They wanted him dead.
The engine howled as he struggled to lose height fast enough while getting as far away from the shooter as possible. Over-committing and folding everything around him wouldn’t do him any good; with over a thousand feet to go he’d be dead. He looked down, checking for signs of a vehicle; the poachers didn’t walk in to pursue their trade, but drove in and out, ready to move fast if a patrol showed up.
Nothing. The heat haze was making everything shimmer, and although he thought he caught a glimpse of a pickup at one point, he’d shifted position before he could zero in on it.
He aimed for a point about a kilometre away, dropping as fast as he dared to give the shooter the impression that he was damaged and going in hard. He wasn’t too concerned about the hole; the fabric was unlikely to tear unless it got hit on the trailing edge, then it would rip right through. But damage to the frame was more serious. No frame, no flight.
End of game.
As he coasted in above a section of narrow track, he felt his cell phone buzzing in his breast pocket. Not his base, then; they’d have used the radio. Had to be Portman. He focussed on the ground ahead as the wheels clipped some long grass at the side of the track. It was safe to land here and he’d got a fuel and water cache nearby for emergencies. He came to a stop and leapt out, reaching for his rifle. If the shooter decided to come visit and finish him off, he’d be in for a surprise. Piet knew the bush and was expert at using the most minimal of cover as camouflage. After spending a couple of years on border patrol with the South African NDF, dodging poachers, smugglers and groups of armed intruders, often out for a couple of weeks at a time, he could vanish as effectively as any wild game.
He took out his cell phone and rolled beneath the cover of a dried thorn bush.
‘Yeah, what?’
‘You OK? I heard shots.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. What makes you think they were firing at me?’
Portman relayed the brief conversation he’d overheard in the villa.
Piet muttered an oath. ‘I thought it was poachers. What the hell are these people doing? The moment I get on the radio, they’ll have the KWS, army and border patrols all over them.’ He took the phone away from his ear for a moment to listen for sounds of an approaching vehicle, but everything was quiet save for the buzz of insects.
‘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.
Thirty-Six
It 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.