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.
Forty-Three
‘What 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.’