Madar stood and walked towards him. The man dropped his netting on the sand by the boat, then stretched his back and looked up at the stars. Next he pointed to the stern of the boat and said something.
Madar stepped forward and picked up the net, heaving it on board.
I waited, wondering what he was doing. Could it really be this simple? Had Madar stumbled on his way out of here? If so, Tober and I were down one problem and free to make our own way out, too.
Madar turned and looked along the beach and gave a short whistle. Tober stood up and moved forward to join them, and stood listening before he turned and waved to me.
He was good. He’d known I was here all along.
I jogged down the beach and saw Madar was grinning, looking like an excited puppy about to go on an outing.
‘Mr Marc,’ he whispered. ‘This is Tawfiq.’ He indicated the fisherman, who didn’t seem that surprised to see two armed white men on a remote beach in his country. If he thought anything he certainly wasn’t saying. Up close, I could see he must have been in his sixties, with the build of a marathon runner, a scrub of white beard and deep-set eyes.
‘He is a good man,’ Madar continued, ‘and says the other men are very bad and will bring nothing but trouble to Kamboni. He believes the Kenyan army will come soon and attack the town, and many may die. That is why he is leaving. It has happened before when the pirates come; they bring nothing and take everything. I have asked him if he will take me with him to the north.’
He rapidly translated for Tawfiq, who nodded and replied in a guttural burst of his own.
‘What did he say?’ I asked. ‘Can you trust him?’
‘Yes. He says he dares to go out at night because he has a bigger boat and knows the waters like his own hand. The others are like women with the courage of goats. His cousin’s son who helps him is not well and he says he will take me as a deck hand but I will have to work hard or he will throw me overboard to the sharks.’ He grinned again. ‘I do not think he means that.’
‘Let’s hope not. Does he need money?’ I didn’t want to insult the man, but I couldn’t take advantage of his kindness.
Madar spoke to him, and the old man looked nonplussed. I dug out some notes and handed them to Madar. ‘You deal with it. Tell him if he doesn’t take you home, we will come back and sink his boat.’
I’m not sure Madar passed that on, but the man seemed happy with the money.
Madar turned to Tober and shook his hand, then to me and hugged me briefly. ‘Thank you, Mr Marc,’ he muttered, his voice choked. ‘You are a good man, too.’
I hugged him back and slapped him on the shoulder. He was a decent kid and I hoped he made it.
Tober and I helped push the boat out until it floated free, while Tawfiq and Madar climbed aboard and got busy, the fisherman telling the kid what to do in a calm, practiced voice. The sail went up and filled gently, and the boat was soon moving with deceptive grace into deeper water.
Then we heard a shout, followed by gunshots.
Fifty-Nine
Tober and I raced up the beach to put distance between us and the departing boat. If Musa’s men thought we were on board, they’d have a fleet of fast skiffs out and be all over Tawfiq and Madar in no time. And I didn’t think they’d stop to ask questions.
The shooting had come from between the huts to the northern end of town. It meant we had to head for the centre if we wanted to avoid a full-on confrontation. It was probably heading deeper into trouble, but right now we were short on choices.
I heard the roar of an engine and saw light sweeping through the buildings, and remembered the pickups I’d seen before. Some of Musa’s men were camped in town, and had evidently got word of our presence. They would be joining in the search by now, and every minute that passed meant the net around the town would be growing tighter.
We pounded through a network of narrow passages between the huts. Twice men appeared out of doorways and tried to stop us. Each time we ran through them. It was brutal, close-quarter fighting, but if anything Tober and I had the advantage of surprise and momentum. We eventually found ourselves by the side of the town’s mosque. Just as we did so, a figure appeared round the corner and ran head-on into Tober, who smacked him down with the butt of his rifle.
Another man appeared, this one swinging up an AK and letting off a couple of rounds before I could stop him. I knocked him over with two quick shots and pointed off to our left towards the lower edge of town, away from the sound of shooting and the searchers’ lights.
Tober got the message and headed off fast, barrelling his way between two ragged lines of huts. I followed a couple of paces behind, ready to turn and defend our flanks.
It was difficult to see clearly ahead of us, and we didn’t always get it right. At one intersection we saw what appeared to be clear space between two buildings, only to crash through a wall of palm fronds surrounding a small plot of land. The noise was considerable and raised a volley of shouting from towards the beach as the pursuers zeroed in on our location and began closing in, letting off an occasional round to show they meant business. We were forced to duck as we ran down the lines of huts due to the overhanging canopies brushing our faces, which slowed us down, and all the way I could hear the slap of running feet on the other side as the men closed in. If they got ahead of us, all they had to do was run down an intersection and cut us off.
As we turned a corner and raced across a triangle of hard ground, we found two men with rifles blocking our way and yelling at us to stop.
It was bad news: Musa must have issued orders for us to be taken alive.
Tober and I opened fire together, both taking out the man nearest to us. He crashed sideways through a hut wall and disappeared, while his companion thought to hell with orders and sent a spray of wild gunfire our way. I felt something tug at my shirt and the canopy close to my head was blown apart in a shower of palm frond fragments, wood splinters and dust. I returned fire and the Somali fell hard, losing his gun in the process.
I looked round at Tober and felt my stomach go cold.
He’d been hit and was down on one knee.
Even as I watched, he grunted and fell forward in slow motion, instinctively trying to minimize the fall by putting out a hand. But he wobbled as he came half upright and I knew that wasn’t good.
I reached out and grabbed his collar, pulling him with me and heading for another narrow alley with lots of shadow. There was no time to stop and ask how badly he was wounded; if he stayed on his feet for another few minutes, that was good enough for now.
Suddenly the whole area was lit up by vehicle headlights, and a spotlight beam thrashed around before fastening on to us. I responded by instinct, flicking the selector and emptying the AK’s magazine at the vehicle, chopping out the spot and one headlight and hearing a man go down screaming.
I dragged Tober away under cover of a bungalow, letting go of him just long enough to change magazines, and felt a searing pain across my ribs as a stray round burst through the wall of the building. I recalled what Piet had told me about the Somalis’ rule of engagement, how they go for the spray option with little thought for selective targeting.
It obviously worked for them some of the time.
We skidded along the nearest wall, tramping over domestic debris in the process, and somehow found ourselves inside a small hut. It was some kind of storage shed, full of nets, cork floats and stuff I couldn’t work out, and stinking of stale fish. Right then it was the sweetest smelling place I’d ever been in.
I lowered Tober to the floor. ‘Where are you hit?’
He coughed, which didn’t sound good. ‘In the side and the leg. The leg’s not bad but I think the bullet in my side might have done some damage. It feels like one good cough and you’ll see my guts on the floor.’