Dead Centre

1

The din from the Cessna Cargomaster’s 675h.p. Pratt & Whitney engine we were almost sitting astride engulfed the cockpit. If it hadn’t been for the headphones I was wearing, I wouldn’t have been able to hear a word of Joe’s rant.

The Indian Ocean was six thousand feet below us. We had another twenty minutes of it at 125 knots before we hit Mogadishu. We’d been following the surf line of the Somali coast north. The country was only a little smaller than Texas, but it had more than three thousand kilometres of coast, about the same as the whole eastern seaboard of the USA. Plenty of space in which to park hijacked shipping, and there was enough of it below. Oil tankers and cargo ships wallowed in the swell. Skiffs were tied up alongside. Rusted wrecks lay on the beach.

The lushness of the Kenyan landscape had been left behind more than an hour ago. Almost the moment we crossed the border, the terrain had turned to dust. There was nothing but sand and rough old brush as far as the eye could see. Further west was Ethiopia, and more of the same. To the north of Somalia was the Gulf of Aden. The country had a lot of unexploited iron ore, gas and oil. So far, the clans had been too busy making money from the sea, but I was sure it was only a matter of time.

The single-prop Cessna was essentially a flight deck with a great big cargo hold up its arse. FedEx used them in this part of the world because they could handle the rough terrain. Guys like Joe also used them to fly in and out of the worst places in Africa to pick stuff up or drop it off. But unlike FedEx, Joe would never be asking for a signature.

In my door compartment there was a headset extension lead that must have reached all the way down to the aluminium roller shutter that doubled as a cargo door. The shutters were originally devised for freefalling; they were easy to open in flight. So Joe not only dropped off things and bodies, he dropped them into places where landing was clearly a bad idea.

He was from Zimbabwe. His accent was as hard and leathered as his skin. ‘Malindi — fucking great, man. I’ve been there ten years now. Fucking Mugabe is a fucking madman. My farm’s been cut up for war veterans. They’re kids, man. Never seen a fucking war. They don’t even know how to grow shit, let alone fight. I’m fucking glad I’m out of there.’

The rant was just fine. But he’d taken both hands off the stick to add emphasis. At least this particular time he kept one finger fucking about with the instruments.

Joe was heading towards sixty, and small — about five foot five — but with hands that were far too big for the rest of him. Too many years in the sun had given his face crevasses wherever there should have been creases. The chest hair that poked out from the top of his green polo shirt was grey, but the hair on top of his head was jet black. It matched the Ray-Ban Aviators he wore to protect his eyes from the glare bouncing down onto the ocean and back up again.

Malindi is on the Kenyan coast. Europeans used to flock there for their holidays until a couple of years ago, when inter-ethnic violence left a hundred people dead just down the road in Mombasa. Now the hotels were empty, and only people like Joe lived there.

His hands came off the stick again. ‘Yeah, man, fuck, I wish I’d left Zim years ago.’

It was the third time he’d said that in the last hour and ten minutes. His wife had wanted to stay, even when Mugabe’s heavies were beating up the owners of neighbouring farms. Her roots were in the old Rhodesia. She was fourth-generation white African. Then one day last year Joe had gone away on a work trip and come back to find her dead. It wasn’t murder. She’d died of some disease I’d never even heard of. Either that, or Joe had made it up.

He’d finally left the wreckage of Zim, but only with what he stood up in. Life in Kenya was hard to start with, he said, but he was a happy bunny these days. He was one of the vanilla guerrillas, ex-pat white lads who shagged the locals for the price of a beer and something to eat. And going by the condition of the aircraft, his bar tab was bigger than his maintenance bill.

Joe finally got both hands back on the stick and had a look round to make sure there were no other aircraft in the sky. At least that bit seemed professional. Taking off from Malindi, we’d taxied down the apron, but hadn’t paused at the runway. There was no revving of engines or testing of flaps or any of that shit. He didn’t even appear to consider wind direction. As soon as he was on the strip he just got us the fuck into the air without looking back.

‘You been to Mogadishu many times, Joe?’

‘Too many. But never in the city, man. I leave you kidnap guys to do that shit. I stay on the pan and don’t leave the aircraft. The flip-flops there, they’d pull it apart in an hour.’ He leant across to me as if he was about to shout, which he didn’t need to because of the intercom. ‘You’re a fucking madman. Why don’t you take a weapon?’ His left hand tapped the AK sticking up between our seats, on top of the emergency box that contained distress flares and all that sort of shit. ‘Buy mine, man. Three hundred dollars. A fucking bargain, man.’

I laughed. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I can’t go in there mob-handed. I’m supposed to be the nice guy in the middle.’

That was all Joe knew about me. I was just another negotiator he was taking in to rescue yet another hostage. Frank had organized him. Frank had also promised to send some guys with money. They’d be waiting in Nairobi once I’d contacted the clan or sub-clan, whoever the fuck they were, and struck the deal. The money would be handed over anywhere I needed it to be. The clans had people in Nairobi. It could be handed over there, or brought to Mogadishu. Wherever, it didn’t matter to me.

Joe was well into war-story mode. ‘Last year I picked up some Canadian woman. She couldn’t even drink water, man. She was broken. Her hands never stopped shaking. They fucked her up big-time.’ He grimaced. ‘Fucking flip-flops, man. They’re animals. If they don’t have anyone else to fight, they fight each other. They just love to fight. It’s the clan system. They’re fucking mad.’

He eased the stick forward a bit and we were buffeted about as the white sand below us got closer. The ocean was gleaming teal. Breakers formed white crests parallel to the shore.

‘Do you know the flip-flops? Do you know the clans, man?’

‘I know a bit.’

‘They got this saying, man.’ His right hand went up into the space between his head and the screen so his fingers could make quote marks. ‘My full brother and me against my father. My father’s household against my uncle’s household …’ He turned to me and shook his head. ‘Our two households against the rest of my kin. My kin against my clan. My clan against other clans. And my nation against the world.’

He laughed to himself. ‘It’s like the fucking Sopranos, but with these fucking things.’ He tapped the mag of the AK. ‘Go on — two hundred and seventy-five bucks, man.’

‘I wouldn’t even know how to use it.’

He looked ahead. We descended more. He laughed. His left hand waved me off. The crevasses around his cheeks dis appeared behind the sun-gigs. ‘Fuck off, man. I’ve seen enough of you guys coming in and out of Nairobi. Don’t give me that shit.’

Joe had picked me up in Nairobi. We’d headed east back to Malindi, refuelled, then chucked a left at the coast and headed up towards Mogadishu. He didn’t know who I was going in to meet; who I was going in to pick up. And he didn’t want to know. That was fine by me.

I reached for the stainless-steel Thermos and unscrewed the top. The coffee was instant, condensed-milky and sweet. I poured a cup and offered it to Joe. He shook his head. He was talking to somebody on the radio and concentrating on the approach.

I rested the cup on my chest while the Cessna shuddered. I closed my eyes, trying to get a little rest. It had been a busy couple of days and the next few were probably going to be worse. I took a sip of coffee as soon as things calmed down again.

It was the second day of Allied air ops over Libya. I’d called Anna from Nairobi to let her know what was going on, and to check she was all right. Everywhere had been bombarded. Syria had been sparking up. I was expecting her to say she wanted to stay on even longer and take in Damascus.

2

The aircraft took another pounding from the wind and Joe sparked up in my headphones. ‘It’s like a fucking cesspit, man. Look at it.’

I opened my eyes. To the left was desert. To the right was ocean, gleaming in the sunlight. It could have come from a faraway holiday brochure. Unfortunately, stuck between the water and the sand, there were the ruins of Mogadishu. The city looked like a massive black scorch mark. A haze of smog hovered above it.

The airport was at the southern end of the city. The runway was parallel to the sea and almost in it. As we came down through the heat haze I could see that the buildings were all low level, with roofs of Mediterranean tile and rusted tin. Only the mosques seemed taller. Mogadishu, Joe said: the world capital of things-gone-to-rat-shit.

Joe punched a few buttons and flicked a few switches in response to the waffle from the tower. Not that he seemed to be listening. ‘Over a million fucking people, man, and every one of them kicking the shit out of each other. Did you know the Brits and Italians ran this place? It was supposed to be beautiful, man. Guys in Malindi remember when it was paradise.’

The area beyond the runway couldn’t have been called heavenly. The crumbling grey remains of a concrete pier jutted out into the sea. Ships were anchored behind it for protection. Rusting hulks stuck out of the beach like rotten teeth. Further inland, a shanty town had sprung up. It looked like the world’s biggest scrapyard, but not just for the steel.

The aircraft veered left and right as Joe sorted himself out for the landing. Surf broke on beaches that were covered with shit. It reminded me of the ones in Libya. The sea might look inviting but this was no holiday destination. The shoreline was there to launch boats from, but that was it.

I knew a bit about Somalia’s history. I knew it had got its independence from Italy in 1960. Power was transferred from the Italian administrators and it became the Somali Republic. There was a lot of socialism going on in Africa in the 1960s. The continent was a proxy area for the Cold War. East and West fought each other for domination. The Soviet Union already had a foothold in the Somali Army, and became the dominant foreign influence in the 1970s. It armed, trained, and gave development assistance. Somalia became very pro-Soviet, as so many other African countries did during that time.

The relationship with the United States was fucked. They suspended aid. Then the infighting began. The Somalis couldn’t seem to get away from the model Joe was on about, with everybody at everybody else’s throat. There was fighting between clans, between government troops and guerrilla movements, and between the whole country and neighbouring Ethiopia. The war spilt over into northern Kenya. Ineffective government and rampant corruption had put the tin lid on it.

By the late 1970s, the Soviet Union had binned Somalia as well. All of a sudden it had nothing, and people were starving. They had to come creeping back to the West for help. The government was completely fucked. After another round of infighting and civil wars the clans had taken over in 1991. No sooner had they done so than they started to fight each other. In that year alone, hundreds of thousands of Somalis had died. Violence, disease and famine were relentless enemies. Half the children under the age of five died. Forty-five per cent of the population did a runner into neighbouring countries. Of the remaining 55 per cent, a quarter were on the verge of starvation.

Then, in 1992, the USA had stepped in. Operation Restore Hope was where it all began. The infamous Black Hawk Down incident was where it ended. After that, the US withdrew completely and left the country with no hope at all. The clans carried on fighting each other, and I supposed they’d continue until no one was left.

The aircraft bounced across a stretch of dirty, rubber-stained concrete. The sea crashed against the rock defences to my right. Goats tried to pull berries off some scrub to my left.

The terminal was ahead, with the airport’s one pan immediately in front of it. It looked exactly as I was expecting — a low-level, two-storey Soviet-style concrete block. What I wasn’t expecting was for it to be in such good condition. The white paint and fields of glass gleamed out at me.

Joe had been waiting for my reaction. ‘I know, man — great, isn’t it? Until last year it was like the rest of the city. But the UN paid for the place to function.’

A banner below the control tower read: SKA. Doing a difficult job in difficult places.

I knew SKA. They were based in Dubai, and also had the contract to try and make Baghdad and Kabul airports function too. I liked the understatement of their message. It was a bit more subtle than Where there’s muck there’s brass, or Give war a chance.

I could make out more of the runway once we’d turned and faced back along it. What I’d thought were rocks protecting the edge nearest the sea turned out to be concrete that was crumbling into it. Maybe that would be the next phase of the build.

We taxied closer to the terminal. A ropy-looking Russian airliner stood on the pan. A mass of people huddled with loads of luggage in the shade of the wing. I didn’t know if they were getting on or getting off.

Beyond them was an old military hangar. The metal sheeting had been ripped off. The frame was rusty. Inside was an equally rusted-up MiG fighter from the 1960s with a big circular intake at the front. It had probably fought the Americans over the skies of Vietnam. Now it rested on blocks as if the wheels had been stolen.

The revs dropped and the prop slowed as we turned onto the pan. Joe looked around in disgust like it was the first time he’d been here. ‘See what you’re going into, man. This is the most dangerous city on earth.’

‘I know, mate.’

‘You sure you don’t want the AK? I’ll give you the fucking thing. You’ll be dead without it.’

I shook my head. ‘I’d be dead with it.’

The propeller did its last few revolutions and shuddered to a stop.

‘You definitely got my number, man?’

He’d given it to me on a card, made me put it in my iPhone, and even wanted me to hide it in a plastic capsule up my arse.

‘Yep, got it.’

‘This fucking shit-hole has nine fucking mobile networks. You can call from anywhere in this fucking country, man. Can you believe that? These flip-flops, they can’t stop fucking talking, man.’

He nodded at something behind me. ‘Good luck.’

I turned to see what he was looking at. Three technicals, two with 12.7mm heavy machine-guns mounted on the flatbeds, were heading our way.

‘I’ve got to pay these cunts three hundred fucking dollars just to land here. My tax to the clan.’ He pulled out a brown envelope and passed it to me. ‘You give it to the bastards. I hate talking to them. Hopefully see you soon, man. Just remember, don’t piss off the flip-flops.’

3

There were six or seven bodies on the back of each wagon, their legs dangling over the sides. A couple of them stood up, manning the machine-guns. The equivalent of our.50 Browning, they could penetrate light armour or the engine block of a truck and punch a hole the size of a man’s head in a wall at a thousand metres.

These things were the stock weapon for Africa, South East Asia, Iraq and Afghanistan. The Russians started building them in the 1930s to take Vickers’ machine-gun ammo. We’d donated millions of rounds to them during the Second World War to hammer the Germans. They’d carried on making them until the 1980s. Some donations you live to regret.

The sun burnt through my long-sleeved T-shirt and roasted the back of my neck. The Cessna’s engine exhaust turned the oven up a few more degrees, as well as filling my nostrils with the stench of Jet A1.

I retrieved my day sack. There was nothing in it but a toothbrush, a solar Power Monkey I’d bought in Millets, and a plug-in mobile charger. All I had on me was my passport and two thousand dollars in fifties, my goodwill and escape money. I’d taken to wearing my passport and cash like an American tourist in Mexico, in a waterproof pouch around my neck. It made sense. I could always feel it, and never had to worry if my sweat was going to make it soggy.

Joe was still worried. He leant over and shouted, ‘You sure you don’t want an AK, man?’

I shook my head.

‘I’ll be standing by for your call. But, fella, be quick making that deal if you want to stay breathing.’ He pointed down at the weapon. ‘Last chance …’

This time I just raised an eyebrow.

‘Fucking crazy, man. Good luck!’

I closed the Cargomaster door and he taxied away towards the fuel truck. The driver was beckoning him urgently, like a shopkeeper in a souk — as if Joe had anywhere else to fill up.

Now the smell of engine fuel had gone, another took its place: the sulphurous odour of rotting garbage and burnt rubber. Combined with the heat, it was so minging I could almost taste it.

The technicals were black or maybe blue. It was hard to see under the layers of rust and dust. Arabic music moaned and shrieked out of the two wagons packing the 12.7s.

Most of the heads bobbing around in the back were swathed in multicoloured headscarves, LA-gang style. Some of the legs hanging over the sides were jeaned, some trousered. Others were just bare, with white-chapped knees and scabs. The footwear ranged from trainers to plastic shoes and flip-flops. A mixture of T-shirts, football shirts and charity hand-outs from the disco era completed the cutting-edge Mogadishu look. Some wore canvas chest harnesses over their AC Milan or Newcastle colours; others had just shoved a spare mag into a shirt pocket. Backpacks bristled with RPG rounds.

These lads seemed keener to give each other a hard time than to give me one. There was lots of tooth-sucking and flashing eyes. It took me straight back to my own schoolyard — on the days I bothered to turn up. They weren’t happy memories. I used to ask Sharon King out at least twice a week. But I didn’t stand a chance. I was white and a minger.

Back in the real world there were two items that they all had in common. The first was an AK. You name the variation and the style, they had it. The second was a pair of outrageous sunglasses. Mirrored, star-shaped, wraparound or John Lennon, China’s rejects had found a home here. Elton John and Edna Everage would have been green with envy.

A fair number of them were gobbing off into handheld radios. Joe was right. They did like to talk. A 1990s Nokia ringtone came to join the party.

Not one of these guys was older than twenty-five. It wasn’t because they were early achievers: most of the older ones were probably dead. And they were grinning like idiots. Either they were happy to see me, or high as fucking kites.

What worried me most was that their nervous energy came not from a lack of bravery but too much of it. Their teeth were stained black and orange from a lifetime’s khat, the chewing leaf of choice. They were probably paid in food and drugs, just like the insurgents in Iraq — or anywhere that needed its warriors to be fed, fearless and fuckwitted.

The boys went quiet as the passenger door opened on the technical nearest to me, the one without a heavy gun. A pair of real leather shoes emerged, then trousers and a clean blue shirt, tucked in but unbuttoned like a 1970s porn star. Their owner unhooked his wraparounds and welcomed me with a Colgate smile and a warm handshake. His fingers and right thumb were ringed with chunky gold.

‘Ah, Mr Nick. It’s me, Awaale.’

The guy giving a welcome as if we were old mates was about the same height as me, but skeletal — rather in keeping with the Twilight accent I’d heard on the mobile. He had deep, hollow cheeks, a goatee perched on his narrow chin, and the air of a man who might have been around since the sixteenth century.

I took my shades off too as he brought his other hand out towards me, but not just to shake.

‘Do you have the airport tax, Mr Nick? Otherwise your friend can’t take off.’

He held out his left while still shaking my right.

I’d made yesterday’s call from Nairobi, something Awaale wasn’t expecting. I told him I was sure none of us wanted to waste time, so I would come to Mog and do the deal. He rang back after talking to the boss. He liked the idea. So here I was. What he didn’t know was that I was coming to get them out anyway — with or without a smile and a handshake. But this way was better and safer for all of us.

I handed over the envelope. He let go of me so he could open it and start counting. No one was going anywhere until he had the right money. The lads behind him passed around cigarettes and started to waffle into their radios all over again.

There was a burst of automatic fire in the mid-distance, followed by a loud bang less than a kilometre away. The birds jumped out of the trees, but nobody else took a blind bit of notice.

He finished counting and gestured to the double-cabbed technical he’d arrived in. ‘It also means that you will not require a visa today.’

I nodded my thanks. ‘Am I going to see them now?’

He echoed my smile and patted me on the back like a long-lost mate. He opened the rear door for me. Cold air hit my face.

‘Soon, Mr Nick. First we will drink tea and discuss their freedom. You have the money?’

‘Some of it. I’m doing my best. The families are doing their best. We’ve got some money together.’

His grin widened. He knew I was bluffing. There was going to be no three million. We were both playing the game.

I stepped up into the air-conditioned cab.

‘Is this the first time you’ve been to my country, Mr Nick?’

‘It’s not got the best reputation as a holiday destination, has it?’

He laughed. Shouting at the crews in local, he jumped into the front. The driver wore a green military-style shirt. He turned the wagon in a wide circle and tucked in behind the first technical as it headed past the terminal. The other lads fell in behind us. We had ourselves a convoy.

The dash and steering wheel were covered with cut-to-shape felt to stop them melting in the African sun. The whole cab reeked of cigarette smoke. Every surface was caked with dust and nicotine.

Awaale spoke without looking at me. He just leant back a bit in his seat so he could make himself heard above the music.

‘I think you’re wrong, Mr Nick. I think we have much here to delight the tourist. I’ll show you.’ He slapped the driver’s shoulder and waffled away in local. The two of them had a good laugh.

‘Will I be seeing Tracy, Justin and Stefan today? I need to know they’re OK.’

He put up his hand. ‘Yes, of course. No problem. But later.’

I leant forward. ‘Are they OK? On the recording Tracy said she was ill.’

‘Yes, everything is OK. You bring the three million, and you take them home to their loved ones. Easy.’

He planted the mobile in his ear and started waffling. The happy tone had disappeared.

4

The moment we left the airport compound, all I could see was dust, decay and destruction. Even the exit onto the main road was just a bunch of breezeblocks and a pile of sandbags. A couple of lads lazed against them. One sat astride a crumbling wall. All the signs were hand-painted, even the one that said Security. Nobody gave a fuck.

We turned onto a wide boulevard. I couldn’t tell which side of the road they drove on here. Nor could the driver. We bumped over the remains of the central reservation and continued into the face of the oncoming traffic. Mountains of festering rubbish and the rusted remains of burnt-out vehicles lined each edge of the crumbling tarmac.

Coming towards us were four green Russian BTR armoured personnel carriers, their massive petrol engines belching out clouds of exhaust. Lots of helmeted heads stuck out of the tops.

No one gave the eight-wheeled monsters a second glance as they moved off to the side of the road and stopped. We carried on past. The black stencilling on the sides told me they were UN troops from Uganda. Not that I could see any troops any more. The helmets had dropped down into their APCs, only popping up again once we had passed.

Awaale tapped my shoulder as I peered back through the cab’s rear glass. ‘They are no trouble, Mr Nick. They just want to go home to their wives and not die in the dust.’

He sat back and he and the driver had a laugh at Uganda’s expense.

Any building that was anything more than a shell or a heap of grey rubble looked like it still had people living in it. The ads on their walls had either faded or been shot away by AK and 12.7 rounds.

Every open space was clogged with makeshift shelters, round stick huts covered with layers of rags, or shacks made of scraps of wood and rusted wriggly tin.

I saw now where the smog came from. Tyres were burning everywhere, sending plumes of black smoke over the low rooftops.

The pavements were filled with people just lounging about, doing nothing. What was there to do? Most of the women were burqa’d up in black or bright orange, with scabby kids at their heels. Old men in loose cotton skirts and worn-out plastic sandals crouched in the uneven shade of the acacia trees. The Italians must have planted them years ago, and they still hadn’t quite given up the struggle. Telephone poles leant at crazed angles, with a metre or so of wiring hanging loose.

There were a few vehicles on the road but nothing to slow us down. A wagonload of goats had nothing on a 12.7mm machine-gun. Every single wall was pitted by strike marks from RPGs or rounds. After years of fighting the government, the Americans and finally each other, the whole place was shot to fuck. And the red desert continued trying to reclaim the city for itself.

Awaale was still gobbing off into his mobile. He was happier now. I could see the old smile on his lips in the rear-view mirror. Before long he placed a Marlboro from the pack in his shirt pocket between them and lit up. The wagon bumped up and down, almost in time with what sounded to me like the same never-ending song on the radio.

Cars and pickups suddenly crammed the streets. Rusty trucks leaking diesel and minging old French saloons from the 1970s rubbed shoulders with brand new Mercs. Famine or feast: this was more like the Africa I knew. Kids darted down alleyways, their runny noses clogged with dust. Meat hung from street stalls, swarming with flies. Bored-looking men and women squatted beside piles of bruised fruit at the roadside. One guy under a beach parasol sold nothing but batteries.

The buildings were in better condition here, and slightly more substantial: two, three and four floors, with air-conditioners humming on the outside walls. Water streamed from the units, staining the already badly stained white paintwork. It wasn’t the only clue that this part of town was where the money hung out. The ads here weren’t faded and the latest BlackBerrys and iPads were on display in the shop windows.

Metres from the brand new Mercs in the traffic, guys sat in old armchairs with weapons across their knees. They were probably guarding the hawala brokers. Most people here depended on money from relatives overseas to survive. A million Somalis had fled the country. Between them, they sent home about two billion dollars a year to the poor fuckers they’d left behind. I wondered whether Ali in Barratt Street had a slice of this action.

The lads in the armchairs weren’t short of competition. Every man in sight was toting some form of eastern-bloc AK or light machine-gun. The really flash boys carried RPGs in their ancient canvas day sacks.

5

Stopping and starting every ten seconds, we ground our way through the chaos. The driver of the technical in front eventually got bored and his gunner, who had the best sun-gigs of all — massive blue mirrored stars with white frames — raised the weapon and loosed off two long forty-five-degree bursts. The moment people realized they weren’t under attack they just got on with their lives again, but the birds didn’t come back in a hurry.

We bounced from pothole to pothole. My head shunted left and right. Awaale closed down his phone and slid it under his Marlboros. His eyes scanned left and right as we picked up speed.

‘Where are you from, Mr Nick?’

‘London. What about you? Where did you learn such good English?’

‘With my father.’ He pointed beyond the huge snake of illegal wiring that hung from pole to pole across the street, towards a five-storey building with shuttered windows. The wall facing us had a large painting of a TV, and next to it the words VIP Institute.

‘Look, Mr Nick. Do you know what that building is?’

‘I guess it must be where we’re going to meet Tracy and the other two.’

He tilted his head towards the driver and told him of my stupidity. He had to shout over the music. They both had another chuckle.

‘No, Mr Nick. That’s the Olympic Hotel. Black Hawk Down — have you seen the movie? My father — he’s famous.’

‘I haven’t, but I know the story.’

We came level with the building. A leaking pipe had filled the ruts in the road with water. Dogs lapped at it like they hadn’t drunk for days.

‘This is where the attack started. The Americans came to capture General Aidid, but it was a trap. The general was a great man.’

The driver had started scanning left and right as well. The lads on the back were edgy. Everyone was on his toes.

‘You know about General Aidid and the trap?’

I nodded. General Mohammed Farrah Aidid hadn’t actually been a general but the clan warlord who’d controlled the city back in 1992. Operation Restore Hope hadn’t been designed as America’s biggest gangfuck since their failed attempt to rescue hostages from their Tehran embassy in 1980. It was intended to relieve the famine by securing a corridor for the aid to get through. The clans had carved up the country for themselves. With no overall government or structure, the whole country was dying of starvation. The aid convoys were hijacked. The clans fed themselves and their machine, just like Joe’s mate Mugabe was still doing in Zimbabwe. Control the food and you control the people.

The Americans began to make headway. By 1993, the famine was winding down. George Bush Senior came to witness their success for himself. US forces were looking to leave, and undergoing a lengthy handover to the UN. The Pakistani Army and a handful of others flew in, ready to continue the good work. But there was a problem. Aidid was pissed off at being marginalized by the rest of the clan leaders. He decided he was going to show everyone who was boss. In June that year twenty-four Pakistani UN soldiers were ambushed and massacred. Some were disembowelled; others had their eyes gouged out.

Suddenly the Americans were no longer on a humanitarian mission. They were at war. The soldiers who’d come to feed the hungry were back in combat. The next few months became one long street battle. Casualties on both sides were high.

The US’s resolve weakened. They looked for an exit. On 3 October they thought they had the answer. They’d received information that Aidid was holed up in the Olympic Hotel. Delta Force — the D Boys — assaulted the building. It was an ambush. Two Black Hawks were taken down by RPGs in the middle of the city. Firefights kicked off as US forces tried to extricate the aircrew. Nineteen US soldiers were killed and eighty-four wounded, along with an unconfirmed number of clan fighters. The Americans said more than a thousand; the clans said 113.

The world didn’t see the street fighting and the casualties. They saw a Black Hawk pilot being dragged through the streets in his underpants with ropes round his ankles. It played for days on CNN and all the national outlets. Bill Clinton had taken over from Bush Senior. He couldn’t understand how a humanitarian operation had turned into a complete disaster. He ordered US forces out. And he was wary of helping anyone again. That was why the Rwanda genocide was allowed to happen in 1994, and the Srebrenica massacre in 1995. Nobody in the White House wanted another dead American dragged through the streets of a foreign city.

We bounced past the hotel and off the main drag, through a rotting labyrinth of muddy stone rag-covered huts. Hundreds of thousands of human beings existed here and mangy dogs skulked in the shadows. Kids with misshapen heads and contorted limbs haunted the irregular dirt streets and cactus-lined paths, massive growths hanging from their bodies.

High-voltage cables sagged dangerously low across the gaps between tin-roofed dwellings. The whole place was strewn with rubble, fetid rubbish and, of course, burning tyres.

Rubble, rubbish and yet more smoking tyres lay around a large man-made mound about two hundred metres away, on top of which stood a lone shack with a cart outside. The king must have lived there.

The locals melted away as soon as they saw the technicals screeching to a halt. Faces appeared at the grilles of old steel doors. A dog barked at the tailgate of the wagon in front of us and was soon kicked away by one of the lads in trainers.

Awaale leapt out. ‘Mr Nick, come.’ He motioned for me to follow. Kids screamed on either side. We walked down a narrow alley. The traffic noise became a distant hum. Birds twittered. It was almost like a Sunday stroll, until a distant burst of automatic fire broke the spell.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I want to show you what the tourists are missing.’

6

We found ourselves beside four single-storey houses that had been blasted and burnt out years ago. In their midst stood a copse of bright green cactuses about the size of a tennis court. They were just over head height, some with bright red flowers.

Awaale stood there proudly. ‘This place, my father made it famous.’

I knew I should have been admiring his dad’s cactus allotment, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘You think tourists would flock here to look at this? Awaale, I don’t have the time, mate. I really need to see Tracy and—’

His hand came up.

I was pissing him off. I needed to wind my neck in.

‘All in good time, Mr Nick. Look more closely.’ He bent from the waist and I followed suit. He pointed. ‘Lower.’ It was definitely a command, not a request. I knelt in the sand. Under the canopy of spikes I could now see curls of razor wire, guarding a profusion of twisted metal shapes. Then I spotted US Army initials, black on dark green.

The carcass of a Black Hawk.

‘Your father …?’

‘My father shot this down. It was the first. My dad is famous.’

He turned and shouted, and one of the lads came running over with an RPG launcher.

‘He used one of these.’ He rested the weapon on his shoulder and pointed it at the sky. ‘My father — a great man.’

I looked back at the wreckage under the cacti. A multi-million-dollar machine, taken out by a $310 kick up the arse.

The Black Hawks had flown low over the city with snipers on board to support the attack on the Olympic Hotel. The intelligence guys had determined that RPGs did not represent any air-defence threat. They thought that if you aimed the weapon into the sky, like Awaale was doing, the back blast would hit the ground and take out the firer — and no way would the clans fire it from a rooftop because they would be spotted immediately and hosed down. But Aidid knew better — and he knew that the best way to hurt the Americans was to shoot down their helicopters. The Black Hawks were like the Apaches in Afghanistan — the symbol of the US’s power and the clans’ helplessness.

Aidid had planned his ambush well. He had smuggled in Islamic fundamentalist soldiers from Sudan who’d fought against Russian Hind gunships in Afghanistan. They showed men like Awaale’s dad how to modify the RPG so they could fire from the street. All they had to do was weld some curved piping on the end to deflect the back blast — adding that extra ten dollars to the original $300 cost.

Something else. RPG grenades burst on impact, so it’s hard to hit a fast-moving target with one. The ‘advisers’ fitted the detonators with timing devices to make them explode in mid-air. That way, they wouldn’t need a direct hit to bring down a Black Hawk. The mujahideen also taught Awaale’s dad and his mates that the heli’s tail rotor was its most vulnerable spot. They taught them to wait until the Black Hawk passed over, and to shoot up at it from behind.

The whole operation to capture Aidid from the Olympic Hotel had been supposed to take no more than thirty minutes, a typical enough time for an SF op. Instead, once this Black Hawk had come down, it had spiralled into eighteen hours of urban combat, as US units tried to fight their way in to rescue the crews and shooters. Then another $310 dollars’ worth brought down a second Black Hawk, and the nightmare was complete. Two posthumous Congressional Medals of Honour, the equivalent of our VC, were awarded for that night’s action. Aidid wasn’t touched. It wasn’t until three years later that he was killed in the city during a clan battle.

I stood up and brushed the sand off my hands. ‘Where’s your dad now? Is he still alive?’

‘He’s a taxi driver in Minneapolis.’

‘You went with him?’

He nodded.

Now I knew where the accent came from. The US had stopped their aid to Somalia, but they hadn’t turned their back completely. As the cactus allotment sprouted and grew, the US had opened its borders to refugees, especially the educated or moneyed ones. The vast majority of them joined their mates in Minneapolis. Before long, it was the biggest Somali population on the planet outside Somalia itself. Even Easton couldn’t compete.

I stood there as the RPG was handed back. If Awaale was telling the truth, the guy who took down the first Black Hawk was now driving Americans home from the airport. I guessed his war stories weren’t part of his cabbie chat.

‘Why are you smiling, Mr Nick?’

‘You must be very proud.’

‘Sure I am.’

There were shouts. He looked away sharply. The smile dropped from his face. He shouted back.

‘We have to go, Mr Nick.’

He didn’t wait for my answer. He was already legging it towards the technical. I didn’t need to know what the fuck was going on. All I needed to know was that if he was running, then so was I.

7

The crews were getting sparked up, but it wasn’t because they were scared. It was worse than that. They were almost hyperventilating with excitement.

I heard screams and wails from inside nearby buildings. The people who’d run back into their homes knew what was about to happen.

We jabbed down a series of narrow alleys. He was too busy yelling at his crews to pay any attention to me. None of them was taking cover.

The shadows from our left were lengthening, but I could still just about see what was happening in the gaps between buildings. There was around an hour until last light.

The crews were more sparked up by the minute. They hollered at each other and into their radios and mobiles. Whoever it was they were talking to, it was one big frenzy of khat, adrenalin and testosterone.

I had to shout over the din: ‘Awaale, what is happening?’

I’d ducked into a doorway on the left-hand side of the alley, for all the protection that was going to give me. I banged my back against a steel door that was well and truly bolted.

Awaale waffled away on his radio on the opposite side of it. He raised a hand to shut me up.

A technical that I hoped was ours stopped two blocks down, at the junction with what was left of a real road. Its gun pointed down the main drag left and started to pump out rounds.

Everybody jumped about and took up very bad fire positions on the crossroads. The whole world went noisy. The crews stuck their weapons round corners and brassed up who knew what. They were spraying half of Mogadishu.

Some of the lads darted across the road, firing from the hip. One tripped, lost a flip-flop, rolled, fired, got up and carried on running. The home team whooped and cheered. One even took a picture with his camera phone. I wondered if it would turn up on Facebook. Another couple of boys got into decent firing positions on the building corner, loosed off a burst each, then stopped and pulled out the Marlboros. They took a few drags, stuck their weapons round the corner again, and had another cabbie.

Fuck knows where the other two technicals had gone. With luck, they’d stayed close. I needed them to get me to wherever Tracy and the others were being held.

A guy with an RPG tube jumped off the back of the technical I could see. He stepped out into the open ground of the junction and fired, then came running back. Everyone else just watched and smoked. Why he couldn’t fire from cover, I wasn’t sure.

I heard a rumble, very close, followed by the rattle of a 12.7. I hoped it was one of ours.

Over to my half-left, a green tracer round bounced off the concrete and spun up into the air. I watched the propellant burn out. They were firing at something, but I didn’t have a clue what. The noise was deafening. Both the technicals opened up again. Another RPG whooshed away.

I ran across to Awaale. ‘We’ve got to go, mate. I’ve got people to see. We can’t make them wait for ever.’

He took no notice. Everyone was gobbing off on the radio, shouting and pointing at everybody else.

The second technical appeared. It drove up the road towards us, inches of clearance each side, braked and reversed back. The lad cracked off with the gun down one of the alleyways. Total fucking chaos. No one in control. Everyone was doing their own thing.

But we had incoming for sure. Strikes were tearing the rendering off the buildings around the junction.

There was another loud whoosh over to my far left. An RPG round piled straight up the main drag, passed the junction and kicked off into something further down. There was the mother of all explosions. A cloud of dust and debris plumed a couple of blocks away and rained down on the wriggly-tin roofs.

There were whoops of laughter.

‘Awaale, what the fuck are we doing?’

He looked at me like I was a madman. ‘We’re fighting, Mr Nick! We’re fighting Lucky Justice. We must always fight his clan. This is our city. This is the general’s city. My father is famous here.’

All well and good, but Awaale’s dad, very sensibly, was eight thousand miles away.

I ran over the sand gap and grabbed Awaale, pulling him into a doorway. A dog went ballistic the other side of the steel. I gripped Awaale to make sure I had his attention. If the crews wasted much more ammunition and Lucky’s didn’t, this wasn’t going to end well.

‘You can fight them whenever you want, mate. I need to see my friends. I need to pay you some money. That’s why we’re here, remember? We’ve got to move on.’

Awaale was too busy playing field commander. ‘Yes, yes. Soon.’ He got straight onto his radio. Fuck knew if anybody was listening.

The air was suddenly full of ringtones. The lads reached for their mobiles. Four of the crew were running from the left of the junction. They must have been from the third technical. They were carrying a body. It was a waste of effort. Even from where I was, I could see he was dead.

8

A couple of guys loosed off more RPGs down the road. They weren’t exactly aiming with pinpoint accuracy. They had them on the shoulder for less than a second. They just stepped out of cover and pulled the trigger.

The 12.7 had now moved into the open and was static at the junction. The gunner couldn’t control it. Tracer rounds started horizontal, then shot into the air, arcing towards an imaginary Black Hawk.

More of Awaale’s boys took up positions behind the vehicle. If the general had taught them all they knew, no wonder he was dead: that just concentrated fire; the enemy had something to aim at. If these jokers reckoned 10mm of steel was going to stop them, then the khat must be even stronger than I’d thought. Vehicles give cover from view, not cover from fire.

More rounds ripped up the road towards the technical, striking the buildings around the junction. An RPG followed, this time much higher. Its smoke trail was three metres above the technical. Then another. No one took cover. I watched it bounce and skid across the road before exploding just out of sight.

Our technical decided to come back into cover. I didn’t have a clue where the other two were. I gripped Awaale again. This was a Mexican stand-off, but without the Mexicans. ‘Awaale, are we going to stay here until we run out of ammunition? Or we’re all dead? How’s it work, mate?’

He gobbed off into his radio yet again. No one answered. The dog was going ape-shit behind the door. His claws scrabbled at the steel like a maniac’s. A radio playing Arabic music was turned up to full blast.

‘Awaale, mate. Stop. Look at me. I can help you. Do you want to show what a great fighter you are? Like your father?’ I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Let me take a machine-gun up there.’ I pointed behind the house, to the high ground beyond the Black Hawk Down site. ‘I’ll go and find out exactly where Lucky’s crew are. I’ll tell you — then I can give you covering fire so you can move round and get to them. OK? So we can get this over. You can slot them, then we can move on.’

His radio moved down to his chest.

‘Come with me.’ I got on my knees. Now we were level with the dog, it went berserk. ‘Look, this is how we can do it.’

‘How — how?’

I smoothed out a patch of sand and traced a cross with my finger to show the junction. I jabbed it at the left-hand end of the horizontal line. ‘That’s where we are now, yeah?’

‘OK.’

‘And Lucky’s somewhere up here …’

‘Sure. We’re going to kill him.’

I outlined my plan of action and explained how we should each stay out of the other’s arcs of fire. He looked at me like I’d shown him the secret of the universe. ‘Mr Nick, this is so good.’

I nodded. ‘But we must go before it gets dark. Give me a radio that works. Give me that one. You grab another one off one of the guys. Bring the technicals here. Tell them I’m in charge of this one, OK?’

‘OK, OK.’ He sprang up, ready to swing into action.

I grabbed his leg. ‘Do the drivers know where to go next? I need to get those hostages home.’

‘Yes, yes.’ He was out of my grasp and running.

Great. If this all went to rat-shit, at least I’d have a wagon to take me to the meeting. Now I just wanted to get on with it, one way or another, before we were here all fucking night.

9

It wasn’t long before the technical that had been firing hurtled towards me. The gunner held on for dear life as it lurched across the potholes, sending up a huge cloud of dust in its wake. I couldn’t even see the junction any more.

I waved it down just in time. It was going far too fast. By the crazed expression in the driver’s eyes he wouldn’t have stopped much before Malindi.

I opened the door. ‘Speak English?’

The guy was totally off his tits. I checked behind. The gunner was much the same. I showed them Awaale’s radio. ‘Let’s go.’

The driver’s eyes rolled. ‘Radio, radio!’ He pointed down. There was already one in the foot-well, another 1990s job, the size of a house brick. Maybe Awaale had thrown it in.

I pressed the red tab on mine. ‘Awaale, Awaale …’

Whoever was at the other end clicked on and the line went live with gunfire. Awaale shouted in the background and I heard giggling. Then it clicked off.

I tried again. ‘Awaale!’

There was a rustling sound. ‘It’s me, Mr Nick. I’m here, I’m here.’

‘Good man. Wait until I get up into the high ground. As soon as I start firing, you get your crew to move to the left of the junction and come up level with them. Once you’re there, you tell me, OK? Do you get that, Awaale?’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Nick, no problem.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes, yes. OK.’ The radio went dead.

I motioned the driver out of the way, into the passenger seat. ‘Come on mate.’ I smiled. ‘Chop-chop.’

I piled back down towards the Black Hawk monument and up the track behind it, towards the little shack on the high ground. The sun was low, casting really long shadows. Half an hour max till last light.

I slowed as I neared the top of the mound. Fuck the other technical. It was too complicated with these guys out of their skulls. I had one vehicle: let’s get on with it.

I started to crest the mound. I wanted to see just enough of the ground below us for the 12.7 to have muzzle clearance with nothing else exposed. We’d present too good a target otherwise.

I manoeuvred into position to the right of the shack, jumped out and moved forward in a crouch.

I pressed the red tab. ‘Awaale, Awaale, I’ve got them. I can see where they are.’

‘Where are they? Where are they?’

‘Whoa … Where are you?’

‘We’re at the junction. We’re waiting.’

‘OK. Can you hear me clearly, Awaale? Can you hear me?’

He was shouting over the gunfire. I could see muzzle flashes in the distance as Lucky’s gang kept giving it some in the ever-darkening gloom.

‘I hear you.’

‘OK. From the crossroads, if you go up five blocks — repeat, five blocks — you’ll come to another intersection, and that’s where they are. I can see one technical — repeat, one technical — with a heavy gun onboard. But it’s not being used, Awaale. It’s just parked up. I’m just seeing small-arms fire. Do you understand that?’

I got nothing back.

‘Awaale? Awaale?’

‘Yes, I understand, Mr Nick.’

‘OK. As soon as I start firing, you start to move on the left-hand side of the road. They’re five blocks away.’

No reply.

‘Awaale?’

No reply. Fuck it. I went to the wagon, jumped onto the back and started shouting at the gunner. I pointed down to the thin green tin boxes of ammunition. ‘You load, yeah?’ I mimed putting one onto the weapon.

The boxes held about fifty rounds each. That was what they normally came with, anyway. Fuck knew what was going on here. There were about twenty-five rounds hanging from the weapon and onto the steel floor. Empty cases were scattered all over the place. I kicked them out of the way with my Timberlands so I could get a firm, stable firing platform.

The firing mechanism was a really old one: two wooden handles on metal frames with a paddle in between. I didn’t bother to check if the safety was on. For sure it wasn’t.

The circular spider-web sight was the kind normally fitted for anti-aircraft work. I lined it up with the foresight on the junction five blocks up. I caught a couple of muzzle flashes and kicked off a three-round burst. The rate of fire was slow. The gas regulator must have been closed down too far. Or, more likely, clogged up with carbon because it was never cleaned.

The next burst included two tracer. They zinged into a wall just left of the junction, where I’d seen bodies taking cover. I quickly checked the belt. It was running fine. The green tip on every fifth round was tracer.

I kicked off at the junction itself. Five-round bursts, trying to control the amount of ammunition I was using, and also to keep the fucking thing on aim. The mount wobbled; it wasn’t bolted in properly.

Pointing down at the next ammo box, I swivelled the gun left and right. I couldn’t see any movement.

I got on the radio as the lads started to load it up. ‘Awaale?’

Still nothing.

‘Move, mate. Awaale, move.’

Two or three seconds later I heard the scream of engines. A cloud of dust billowed above the sea of wriggly tin and moved towards the junction. If Lucky Justice hadn’t known where our technicals were, he did now. All Awaale needed to throw in was a bugle call and the fucking cavalry charge was complete. None of this stealth, getting right on top of the target nonsense: they were just going for it.

10

The leading technical, flatbed heaving, came briefly into view through a gap between the shacks. At least they were outside my arc of fire. I lost them again almost immediately. Every time I saw muzzle flashes, I’d put in a three- to five-round burst. I watched the tracer’s gentle arc towards the target, 350 metres away at the most. I put another five rounds into the junction. And then another.

‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ Awaale was back on the net.

I couldn’t respond. In all the excitement, he’d kept his finger on the pressle. All I could hear was his engine gunning. I had to wait for him to release it.

‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ This time he remembered.

I hit the red tab. ‘Yes, Awaale, yes. Where are you?’

The driver had jumped out, and he was having a go at the targets with his AK. He fired big long bursts, which kicked off in all directions, mostly into the air. He didn’t give a fuck: he was just going for it.

‘Where are they, Mr Nick? Where are they?’

I peered into the gloom. He could be anywhere. There were dust-clouds all over the place.

‘Stop, Awaale. Stop. Can you hear me? Stop.’

I clicked off.

‘OK, we’ve stopped. Where are they? Where are they?’

‘Calm down, mate. Wait, wait …’

I wanted him to take a breath, and then we could move from there. ‘Where are you, Awaale?’

‘I don’t know …’

They’d gone careering off without a clue.

‘OK. Fire your machine-gun in the air. When I see your tracer I can direct you.’

I got nothing back.

‘Awaale?’

Five or six tracer suddenly blossomed fifty metres short of the junction, three blocks in on the left.

‘Good. I want you to turn directly towards the road. They’re very close to the junction. Is that clear?’

I had to shout so loudly I almost didn’t need the radio. The gunner was going ape-shit on the 12.7. The driver was going ape-shit on his AK. Three empty magazines lay at his feet. Only he knew who or what he was aiming at. If, indeed, he was aiming at all.

I looked up. There was another whoosh from the junction. I could see the smoke trail heading our way. I threw myself to the ground just as the thing exploded. It had landed in front of the shack. An old guy burst out of the door, screaming like a banshee. He legged it down the other side of the mound and kept on running. I didn’t blame him.

Dust and stones showered down on us.

I got back on the radio. ‘Awaale?’

‘Yes, Mr Nick.’

I could hear the engines gunning; everybody shouting.

‘Awaale? Awaale?’

Nothing.

‘I’ll keep firing until you get to the crossing. All right? I’ll fire until you get to the road. Awaale? Can you hear me?’

There were shouts from the two lads behind me. I jerked my head round and scanned the junction. A couple of bodies were sprawled in the dust. They’d got a couple of kills.

I bunched my fists, as if gripping the firing handles. ‘Keep going, boys, keep firing …’

I sparked up the radio again. We just needed the Benny Hill music for this performance to be complete. ‘Awaale?’

Tracer stitched its way across Lucky’s position as Awaale’s team blasted straight through the intersection like a demented cavalry charge, bouncing over the two bodies as they went.

I jumped back onto our flatbed, took over the gun and directed rounds towards Lucky’s side of the junction, into walls and roofs and the shells of ruined buildings, wherever I saw anything moving.

Lucky’s technical emerged from cover to take Awaale head-on. Awaale’s driver spun his wheel so the boys behind the cab could lay down fire without zapping him and the boss if their barrels dipped.

I punched three-round bursts into Lucky’s metalwork from my vantage-point. The tracer burrowed into the dirt, burning for a couple of seconds until it died. His gunner didn’t hang around. He leapt off the back and legged it before he got the good news. The driver slumped motionless against the steering wheel.

I gave it one more burst in case any of his mates were still inside. Fuel must have been leaking from a ruptured tank. The tracer ignited it. The whole area was suddenly a riot of yellow and orange. Lucky’s infantry turned and fired back from the flickering shadows.

Instead of standing back in case they were needed, Awaale’s second technical rumbled forwards and kept right on going. The only area that didn’t get raked with fire was the ground beneath the gunner’s feet.

I kept my fire to the right, taking on any hint of enemy movement. There was shit on down there but no one cared. Both sides fired like gangsters, side on, with their AKs in the air. I stopped and let them get on with it. My nose filled with the stink of cordite. The barrel was smoking hot.

I clambered down and waved at the driver and his sidekick. ‘Let’s go, lads. Chop-chop.’ I clapped my hands. We had to move on. I had a meeting to go to.

I climbed into the cab. My two new recruits hauled themselves onto the flatbed.

We thundered down the hill. It was well past time to get the fuck out of there and get on with my day job. We closed on the killing zone. I drove past the doorway where I’d gripped Awaale. I made a left turn at the junction, slow and wide enough to make sure the gun had enough play to point where it was most needed. I thrust my hand out of the window and gesticulated wildly. ‘That way, mate. That way.’ I doubted he’d hit anything, but at least he wouldn’t be aiming at me.

We spotted his crew almost immediately. They were dragging three bodies from behind a wall. They shared the cigarettes they’d lifted from the dead men’s pockets and loaded Lucky’s weapons onto the unarmed technical.

Awaale was nowhere to be seen. I started flapping. If I lost my English speaker, I was fucked. I picked up the handset. ‘Awaale. Where are you, mate? We’re back at the junction. Where are you?’

Silence.

‘Awaale?’

Then I heard my own voice coming from the burnt-out shell of a building.

11

He clambered out of what had once been a window. He was a very happy boy. ‘We killed some, Mr Nick, and the others turned and ran. No Lucky Justice, but this is still a good day. We’ll do this again. And again. Lucky’s crew will get the message. The general’s crew are back in town.’

He thrust up his bloodstained palm, inviting me to give him a high-five through the window. I fucking hated high-fives.

‘You’re right, Awaale. If Lucky’s still alive, you can see why he was given the name. Now, can we go and see my friends? I really need to know they’re safe.’

His boys were busy mutilating the bodies with knives, rocks, and then a burst of AK for good measure. The corpses were left behind; they were the message Awaale was talking about.

I slipped into the back of Awaale’s technical. Awaale wiped his hands clean on his trousers and resumed his place in front. Music blared from every cab. AK rounds stitched another message into the sky. Every mobile within reach sparked up, in case anyone hadn’t already heard the news.

As the lead wagon joined the celebration, green tracer snaked from the muzzle of its 12.7. The gunner lost control as they bounced back through the potholes and pummelled the buildings four hundred metres away.

Awaale didn’t seem to mind. ‘Mr Nick, that was good, yes? We kicked the ass, oh, yes indeed.’ He pulled the Marlboro pack from his sweat-soaked shirt and offered me one. When I shook my head he slapped the driver gleefully on the shoulder. He laughed, and his white teeth gleamed.

Everybody had had a great night out. Well, apart from the lad whose body now lay on the flatbed behind us. There was a curious innocence to their violence. There was no anger. They seemed to bear no hatred towards Lucky’s crew. Killing and maiming wasn’t an outrageous act to them. It was what they did. It was all they knew. They had no boundaries. And that was what made them so dangerous.

I leant forward. ‘You did really well, Awaale. I think your father will be very proud of you.’

‘I know. I know he will be.’

He pulled out his mobile, hit the speed dial and was soon waffling away. He sounded as excited as a child. I didn’t need to be a Somali speaker to understand the facial expressions and the boom-boom-boom. There were nods of agreement from the driver, and I twice heard my name.

Awaale turned to me with the world’s biggest grin and handed me the phone. ‘It’s my father, speak to him.’

‘What’s his name?’

He looked puzzled. ‘Awaale, of course.’

Of course.

To start with, I could just hear a female voice announcing that the Northwest flight from Chicago had been delayed. Minneapolis was eight hours behind. It must have been about midday there.

‘Hello, Mr Nick. My son tells me that you have helped him to do great deeds today. You’ve made me a very proud father.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re there to buy back your loved ones, yes?’

‘Yes. I’m hoping your son will be able to help me. Maybe you can too. One of them is the wife of a dead warrior. One of them is a small boy, a little boy. I know you’re a brave man, a famous man here in this city. Will you be able to help me?’

The Tannoy came to his rescue. The Jet Blue from LaGuardia had landed.

‘Mr Nick, I have to go. My passenger has arrived. Please tell my son I love him.’

He rang off. I passed the phone to Awaale. ‘Your father says he loves you.’

‘I know. I love him too. He’s a great man.’

It was smiles all round in the front of the cab as we drove past the Olympic Hotel. The streets came alive with movement and light. Everybody had a weapon. It was like we’d just come back from a carnival, all on a high, and we were the three winning floats.

12

We were soon passing the airport. The same guards sat on the wall and smoked under the hand-painted sign. They didn’t even look up as our convoy drove by. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil was the secret of survival round here.

Only the shells of once-great buildings remained each side of the boulevard. In this part of town, even the trees were fucked. Maybe this was what the Italian Riviera would have looked like if it had been carpet-bombed in the Second World War. This had to be the old city, where the Italians and other ex-pats had hung out on the beach in their all-in-one bathing suits in the 1920s. Now there wasn’t even a dog to be seen. It was a ghost town.

We bounced over mortar craters and potholes, slaloming to avoid big lumps of concrete picked out by our headlamps. They provided the only source of light in this part of town.

Awaale started gobbing off on his mobile again. I wasn’t sure how anyone would hear anything that was being said. The driver waffled away. The music blared. Awaale closed down and shouted, ‘Nearly there, Mr Nick.’

We bumped over what was left of the central reservation, down a side road and into a large square with an empty concrete plinth at its centre. It would once have borne a statue of a Somali puppet dictator or an Italian general with a hat full of plumes. Bodies were silhouetted against the flames of a fire beside it.

As we got closer, I saw we were inside a compound of sorts. Stacks of tyres filled the missing doors and windows of a large colonial building. There was movement inside.

There was no gate. There wasn’t even a barrier into what looked like the coach entrance for this grand building. The wagon stopped next to four or five other pickups and cars. Burnt-out vehicles littered the area.

Awaale was already out of our wagon before the technical behind us had stopped. He sounded excited. ‘Come, Mr Nick. Now it is your time. Come.’

I followed him inside. It must have been a hotel once. A lobby the size of a football pitch opened onto a pair of sweeping staircases that, like everything else around here, had seen better days. The place had been stripped of everything that wasn’t nailed down. The glass in the windows had gone. Wiring had been pulled. There wasn’t a door in sight. Everything transportable had probably been sold as scrap or used to build the shacks we’d spent the afternoon beside. I was getting used to the smell: decomposing rubbish and burning rubber were once more the order of the day.

The staff and customers had been replaced by legions of young guys off their tits, eyes glazed behind their Elton Johns. Their smiles were gold-toothed and khat-stained, and that worried me all over again. I knew they couldn’t be controlled; I’d now seen it up close and personal. This was Mad Max country. I was in the Thunderdome.

Awaale led me into a ballroom. The whole environment changed. I could hear the hum of a generator somewhere. Arc lamps had been hammered onto the walls. The room wasn’t completely bathed in light but there was enough. Four young guys in Western dress were hunched over ancient PCs. One of them was keeping up to speed with Facebook. Another was admiring a picture in an online brochure of a happy couple at the big wheel of their even bigger yacht. This was Mog’s answer to GCHQ.

I followed Awaale to where two minging old brown settees sat either side of a US Army aluminium Lacon box the size of a coffee-table. The green paint was worn away and the metalwork looked like it had been dropped out of a helicopter.

‘Sit here.’ He pointed to one of the settees. ‘Not long now.’

Dust rose and caught in my throat as I followed his instruction. I shoved my day sack on my lap.

Awaale moved away. He gobbed off to one of the PC geeks and then checked everyone’s screen.

A minute or two later an old wooden tray arrived and was deposited without ceremony on the Lacon box. A pewter pot and two empty glasses took pride of place. Another glass contained sugar and a plastic spoon. I caught the aroma of mint as a man in his mid-sixties — seriously old for this place — sat opposite me. Awaale came and stood between us.

‘Mr Nick, this is Erasto. He will help get your loved ones released.’

Erasto wore a cotton skirt with a black and white check shawl around his shoulders. His feet, which stuck out of a pair of old flip-flops, looked like they were covered with elephant skin. An Omega stainless-steel Seamaster glinted on his left wrist. It was one of the watches I’d looked at when I bought my Breitling in Moscow. It had been way out of my price range.

Awaale handed him the envelope containing Joe’s airport tax. Erasto shoved it under his leg without taking his eyes off me. I felt like I was under a microscope.

Awaale poured the tea, just like Nadif had done in Bristol.

13

Erasto continued to stare at me. ‘Parla Italiano?’

The sandpaper voice sent me into a time warp. ‘No.’

He looked as disappointed as he probably had when we’d talked on Saturday morning. He turned to Awaale and waffled away in Somali. Awaale passed him a glass of hot water that smelt strongly of mint and nodded so much I thought his head might fall off.

‘Erasto wants to know who killed Nadif.’

The old man’s deep-set eyes bored once more into mine.

‘I don’t know.’

Now wasn’t the time to complicate things. I was talking to someone who might have the three bodies I was here to collect. That was all that mattered to me.

Awaale translated.

Erasto sat for a while, deep in thought. Then he fired off another question.

‘When will Erasto have his three million dollars?’ Awaale handed me a glass.

I watched Erasto’s thumbs roaming over his iPhone screen.

‘Erasto, your expectations of me, your expectations of Tracy’s family and Justin’s family are just too high.’ I kept looking at him. I was talking to him, not his interpreter. ‘We are not the people you think we are. We do not have the sort of money you’re asking for. Erasto, we will never, ever, have that amount of money.’

Erasto’s thumbs got busy again. By the look of it, he was starting to text. All I cared about was that Awaale was passing on exactly what I had said.

Erasto looked up at him, then shrugged and gobbed off as if he was turning down a dodgy piece of fruit from the market.

I heaped a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into the brew and got a mouthful down my neck.

Behind me, one of the geeks started playing what sounded like a YouTube clip. A group of women sailing round the world were telling their mates — and any strangers who felt like listening in — that they were on the way from Oman to Zanzibar. Fucking good luck to them. That might be the last video blog they posted for a while.

Awaale nodded. I watched Erasto as I listened to his response.

‘Erasto says that unfortunately, if you do not have the money, he cannot do anything to help you. You must pay him. This is the only way your loved ones can go free. He wishes to help you, but this money must be paid. When you spoke to us before coming to Somalia, you said you had the money. So how soon can it be delivered?’

Erasto took a sip of tea and tucked the iPhone beside his ear. He mumbled away as if we no longer existed. I needed to be respectful, but I also had to make sure I was expressing myself extremely clearly. Any fuck-ups should stem from a crumbling negotiation, not a fundamental misunderstanding. I looked him in the eye. He fixed his on me for a second, then carried on with his waffle.

‘Erasto, I think we may have a misunderstanding. When I spoke with Awaale, I said the families were getting money together. We have managed to raise three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars. But you must know we will never be able to get one million, let alone three.’

I waited for Awaale to pass Erasto the news of the ‘misunderstanding’. The old man closed down his iPhone and continued drinking his tea. But I knew I had his full attention now.

‘Three million is an impossible amount for us. I believe that was a misunderstanding on my part, and I apologize.’

Erasto leant forward, placed his glass on the tray and allowed Awaale to refill it until he indicated that he wanted no more. He examined the tea minutely.

Awaale splashed some more into mine.

‘Erasto says that if you deliver the money now, you can have the boy first. The price is three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars each.’

I bent so low that Erasto had no choice but to renew eye-to-eye. I didn’t see a flicker of emotion, not even a hint of what was going on in that head of his. Erasto and Frank must have come from the same gene pool.

‘I’m sorry, Awaale. I can’t negotiate for individuals. The price must be for all three.’

Erasto sat back with his brew. He didn’t need Awaale to translate. He cut him off mid-waffle. Awaale faced me again.

‘Erasto wants more than you offer, and he wants it quickly. He’s willing to negotiate. He understands how important it is to get the family home. Can you get more money quickly, Mr Nick?’

‘I can arrange for the three hundred and nineteen thousand dollars to be here tomorrow. I will try and get more, but it will be difficult.’

The lack-of-cash story seemed to be holding. I was expecting Erasto to ask why, if everyone was so poor, they were on such an expensive boat. BB must have done a good job of smoke-screening. ‘But to raise more, and to bring the money to you, to ask the families to do this, I must know that they are safe.’

Erasto picked up his airport tax and got to his feet. He rattled off another set of instructions to Awaale. I wondered for a moment whether the Italiano question was just part of his performance. I wondered if he needed an interpreter at all. My iPhone vibrated in my jeans as he left the room.

14

Awaale motioned me over to the nearest PC. ‘Erasto says if you can find some more money then you can see them. But he wants the money here quickly. Then you can take them home, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. If you come up with more money, Erasto will help you. But come, I will now show you that your loved ones are OK.’

The screen was covered with dust. There was a grinding sound as he tapped the keys. I watched a video clip upload. ‘See, Mr Nick, we are looking after them.’

Tracy and BB sat on a patch of filthy concrete with Stefan between them. Tracy was wearing a red hijab. Only her face was exposed. It was clean and unmarked, but her holiday tan couldn’t hide the fact she was in shit state. Her eyes were red and sunken. She looked nervous and worried. She had her arm around Stefan. He clung to his mother. He was dressed in blue-striped shorts and a blue T-shirt, with nothing on his feet. They were black with grime. His legs were covered with insect bites.

It was BB I most wanted to see. He sat cross-legged and kept his eyes to the floor until a flip-flopped kick in the back encouraged him to look up. His message to the camera lens was extremely clear: ‘You cunts …’

This video wasn’t recent. He had less than a week’s stubble.

The sound of traffic and birdsong filled the background, as it had in the phone message. Their captors, in ski masks or shemaghs, filled the screen behind them. They all had weapons clutched across their chests, and belts of linked ammunition around their hips.

Awaale wagged a finger. ‘You see, Mr Nick? You find some more money for Erasto and your loved ones will be home before you know it.’

I turned to face him. ‘I’ll try, Awaale. I’m doing everything I can to help you. You know that. Your father knows that. You both know I risked my life for you and your friends this afternoon. But I must see Tracy and Stefan first. Really see them. Speak to them before any money changes hands. Can you make sure that Erasto understands that?’

He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘I know these things, Mr Nick. But this is business. Erasto’s business. You need to make calls, Mr Nick. I will take you to see your friends tomorrow. Now, you have a cell? You can use mine …’

‘No, I have one. Where am I staying? This could take a bit of time.’

Awaale’s brow furrowed. ‘Staying? You will stay here, Mr Nick. You cannot leave. It is dangerous. There is nowhere to go. You must stay here until you have got Erasto some more money.’

I knew this had more to do with keeping me until I came up with the cash than with my personal safety. And I knew the unspoken threat that I could be Erasto’s next fund-raising opportunity was hovering at the edge of our exchanges.

‘Can I charge up my iPhone from whatever the PCs are running off?’

‘Sure. Why not? Then please, make your calls.’ He pointed back at the settees. ‘Do not leave this area. I do not want to see you killed.’

As if on cue, there was a burst of machine-gun fire in the city and tracer disappeared into the night.

He headed out the way he had come, waving his hand. ‘You see, Mr Nick, we must keep you close.’

I’d suggest another thirty-one K. If Erasto didn’t go for that, I’d come back with a further nine. I wanted him to understand that it was time to take the money and run. Why keep them any longer if the next tranche was going to be even less, especially if they were starting to get ill? BB didn’t look too good. If they died before we shook hands there would be no deal. Maybe that was why Erasto was in such a hurry.

Back on the settee, I checked my iPhone. Jules had rung. He’d also left me a text.

Call me. It’s important.

It still freaked me out that even in a shithole like this I could talk to anyone, anywhere.

The phone buzzed twice. Jules didn’t hang around.

‘I think I’ve found them. All three of them. But it’s not good. The int says that al-Shabab have three whites: an adult female, a young male, who we think is her son, and an adult male. They were lifted from a yacht just over a week ago and sold on by the clan. It has to be them.’

I kept my voice down, my hand covering the phone. ‘I’m in the city. I’m with the clan now. They’re claiming they still have them.’

‘Jesus, Nick, why didn’t you call? Have you seen them?’

‘No. But they want money fast. I guess we now know why.’

‘I don’t think they’ve got them, Nick. Not any more, anyway. They must have sold them on. Or the clan had a debt to AS, and faced a zero option. Either way, unless you’ve seen them, it looks like AS are now in control.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘As of yesterday, Merca. South of the city. That’s all we know. AS control most of the south. If AS do have your three, you must get the boys you’re dealing with to start telling the truth. Like I said, when it’s not about money, it’s time to get out your worry beads.

‘They use hostages to control the locals. The message is, they’re white pigs who don’t adhere to Sharia law. This is the punishment they deserve. In other words, if you don’t shape up, this is what’ll happen to you.’

There was a peal of laughter in the next room. I asked Jules to keep in touch and hoisted my day sack onto my shoulders.

15

I wandered out into the darkness.

Awaale was by the empty plinth in the courtyard. He’d joined his crew around the fire. They were chewing khat and drinking from big litre bottles of Haywards 5000 as they relived the events of the day. That was one ship that would never be hijacked: the beer boat from India.

A few women had joined the group. They were young and attentive — to anyone who would give them a swig of lager and a mouthful of the flat bread that was piled up with lumps of veg on a nearby tray. Awaale tore himself off a piece, wrapped it round a tomato, and took a bite.

‘Ah, Mr Nick.’

‘I need to talk to you, mate. I’ve got some good news.’

I stopped about two metres from him. The others looked up and cheered. Their eyes were wide, dilated pupils shining in the firelight. I guessed they were busy telling a couple of the girls how they’d kicked Lucky Justice’s arse, the sort of stuff that made us all look good.

‘Excellent, excellent.’ Awaale jumped up, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Very excellent, Mr Nick.’

I started towards the technicals. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, mate. How about over there?’

We headed past the back of the technical we’d been in today. The captured AKs and the body of the lad who’d been zapped still lay on the flatbed. He looked like a rabbit that had been tossed aside on a night shoot. He couldn’t have been any older than fifteen.

I carried on waffling encouragingly as we went further into the shadows. ‘I got the OK to offer more money. But one thing I need, mate …’ I put a friendly arm round his shoulder — then grabbed him and spun him round in an arm-lock, tucking the back of his head into my shoulder. I squeezed my right arm tighter and slapped my left hand over his mouth.

His legs trailed behind him as I dragged him into cover. I could feel moisture on my hand as he tried to shout. His heels kicked up sand as he tried to keep control of his legs. I kept moving fast enough to stop that happening, then hooked them out from underneath him. I went with him, keeping the arm-lock in place as we fell. He took my full weight on his back, losing all the air from his lungs.

We were about forty metres from the fire. Girls giggled. Bottles clinked. The lads carried on with their banter.

I turned Awaale’s head just enough to see the side of his face. I made sure he could see mine. He’d be getting very little air. He’d be feeling the strain on the vertebrae in his neck. He’d think his brain was about to explode.

I made sure my mouth was right up close to his ear. ‘All that matters to me are my friends. You mean nothing to me. If you make a noise, you will die just before I do. But I will die a man, because I’m going to fight. You will die like a dog, here in the dust. So honour your father, and stay alive. Stay alive to fight the battles he fought. Do you understand me?’

Awaale just about managed a nod.

‘All right. Keep quiet, keep safe. Do you understand?’

He gave another twitch.

I lifted my hand a fraction from his mouth.

He nodded hard.

I tightened my grip again and pulled the arm-lock into my chest. I needed him to know how quickly I’d be able to squeeze all the breath from his body. His throat contracted. His eyes screwed up in pain. He got the message.

I released him again, just enough for him to be able to talk.

‘I know they’re in Merca. Where in Merca are they?’

His head shook, as if he was denying it. I pushed my hand over his mouth again and tightened the lock. His Adam’s apple bobbed against my biceps. He let out a whimper. His hands scrabbled in the sand, as if that was going to take the pain away.

I released him again. ‘Awaale, I don’t have time to fuck about. I’ll find out what I need to know from you, or I’ll kill you and find out from someone else. Do you still have them?’

He went completely still, but I could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

‘Tell me.’

The hilarity around the fire was at an all-time high. The lads didn’t seem to be missing Awaale one bit.

At last he spoke. ‘You will see them tomorrow. I promise. Just let—’

‘Fuck it. I’ll ask Erasto instead.’

I squeezed the vice even tighter. I leant further forward for good measure, until my chest pushed down on the side of his face.

His legs jerked. His hands came up.

He bucked and kicked and his thumbs searched in vain for my eyes. His nose and throat rasped. Snot and saliva oozed through my fingers.

Then he went still once more. He patted my shoulder in submission.

I raised my chest and looked down at him. I wanted to see the surrender in his eyes. They were red and bulging like he’d had a kilo of khat. His arms just trembled now. He was starting to go.

I released some of the pressure. He fought for oxygen. His Adam’s apple would feel like it was stuck in the back of his throat.

I let him have just enough air to stay conscious.

‘Where — are — they?’

At first he just gulped.

Then he whispered a word.

‘Again.’ I moved my ear closer to his mouth.

‘Merca.’

‘They’re in Merca?’

‘Yes, they—’

I didn’t let him get the last bit out. I drew back and punched him in the face. I didn’t want him to make the mistake of thinking we were new best mates. ‘Who has them?’

‘Al-Shabab. The—’

I punched him again. ‘You know where they are?’

His head shook. ‘No, no.’

‘Then you’re no good to me.’

I retightened the vice momentarily to make sure he knew this was a tap I could turn on and off at will.

‘I do! I do know! They have them in the town. Please, Mr Nick.’

The lads round the fire were really going for it. Bottles were smashed and the girls swayed against the flames. Sweat dripped off my nose and chin and dropped onto Awaale’s face.

‘Why have they been taken?’

‘We had no choice. We have to pay them not to come into the city. They wanted the whites. It was a good deal for us. Erasto had another buyer, I don’t know who. But this was better for us. To keep al-Shabab away from the city. We don’t want them here.’

The girls were really going for it, gyrating their arses in front of the lads, hoping to get more than another bite of flatbread.

‘So Erasto was getting me to pay up for nothing?’

‘It’s business, Mr Nick. Erasto still needs payment for the boat. Al-Shabab have the boat. He wants payment for it. He wants money for the work.’

‘What about the video you showed me?’

‘I shot it before we handed them over. And recorded the message. Erasto wanted payment for the boat. They wouldn’t give him anything for the boat. We thought we’d get payment this way.’

A couple peeled away from the group and headed towards us, laughing and joking. I could smell the smoke on them as they came closer. I gripped Awaale.

They weren’t interested in us. They clambered into the back of a 4×4 and music soon sparked up in the cab. The laughter and clink of bottles back at the fire was soon drowned by moans and groans and heavy breathing. The wagon started to rock.

‘Give me a number. I want to talk to them.’

‘It won’t work, Mr Nick. They will not listen. This is not about money.’

‘Then you’re going to take me there and I’m going to get them out.’

I got up and pulled him to his feet. ‘You make a noise, you go down again, OK? Remember, you can die like a man or you can die like a dog in the sand.’

I dragged Awaale past the 4×4. Its suspension was now taking a serious pounding. I picked up a bloodstained AK from the back of the technical. I turned towards the glow of the fire and pulled the cocking handle to make sure there was a round in it. I motioned for Awaale to take the magazines off all the weapons and put them in my day sack.

I kept a grip of him and steered him towards the nearest technical with a 12.7. The 4×4 kept on rocking.

‘Mr Nick, they’ll know that we’ve gone.’

‘Just do it.’

I shoved him into the driver’s seat and sat opposite with the AK on my lap, the muzzle pointing towards him. ‘Merca. Let’s go.’

He had both hands on the wheel. ‘Mr Nick, you don’t understand. Maybe Erasto can talk to them. Maybe he can—’

‘No, Awaale. You don’t understand. If you don’t do what I say, I’ll do it myself, without you. And that means I will kill you. Now turn the engine on. Chop-chop.’

He did as he was told. He breathed heavily as I checked the fuel gauge. It was just under half full.

‘How far is it?’

‘It’s so far, Mr Nick. We’ll never get there. The roads are dangerous. Al-Shabab have checkpoints.’

‘Just get on with it. Start driving.’

We rolled past the party boys, who threw a couple of bottles at the wagon for a laugh. The girls wiggled their arses.

We bounced on through the darkness of the square, heading for the main. I sparked up my iPhone.

‘Awaale — stop here. Turn off the lights.’

He did so.

I dialled Jules. It didn’t ring for long.

‘Nick?’

‘AS do have them. Have you any contacts? Will they negotiate? Any way I can get hold of them?’

‘We’ve had no negotiations with them. Ever. No success liberating anybody from AS.’ He went quiet for a moment.

‘How far is it by road to Merca?’

‘Nick, it’s dangerous. Please, think about this …’

‘How far?’

‘Maybe a hundred kilometres. You’ll be dead by morning. It’s crazy.’

‘So what’s new? I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’ll be dead by morning. Jules, I’m going because I made a promise to a mate.’

‘But, Nick — think of Anna …’ There was an edge of desperation in his voice.

‘Jules, listen. I made a promise to my dead mate that I’d look after his wife. So that’s what I’m going to do.’

‘Nick, hang on — we need to talk.’

I closed down, and got straight through to Frank. ‘Are your boys in Nairobi? Will they be able to get hold of cash within a couple of hours?’

‘Yes. The pilot is at the ready. Your problem … the problem you had in the UK. Did you lose them?’

‘Dunno. I’ll call again when I have something solid to tell you. Stand by.’

Awaale sat there, trying to make sense of it all.

‘Right, we’re going to Merca. You’re going to stay with me. I need a local speaker, and I need a black guy. And that means I need you.’

He flapped his hands anxiously in front of me. ‘But, Mr Nick, the roads — please … It’s so dangerous …’

He slapped his cheeks. ‘No face hair … and you, you will not make it. Erasto can help you. Maybe he—’

‘Stop. It ain’t going to work. Dangerous roads?’

‘Yes, they are dangerous. But Erasto—’

‘Awaale, shut up. We’re not going to take the roads. Let’s go.’ ‘Where?’

‘Erasto’s a fucking pirate, isn’t he? We’re going to get ourselves a boat. Come on — chop-chop.’

16

Flames flickered behind crumbling walls each side of the deserted streets. It reminded me of Aceh, only here the devastation was man-made.

‘Where are we going now? How far?’

Awaale hit the airport road and followed the unlit strip around the perimeter beyond the terminal. ‘We take the boats from the beach, Mr Nick.’

‘The pirate boats?’

He nodded.

That was good. If they could travel five hundred miles out to sea in those things, hugging the coast would be a piece of piss.

‘But Erasto, he will be very, very angry, Mr Nick.’

‘No, he’ll be very, very happy — because I’ll pay him when we get back.’

I studied Awaale’s face in the glow from the dash. His sensitive, intelligent features didn’t belong in a place like this. ‘Why did you come back to Somalia? Things must have been a lot better in Minneapolis. You’re an American citizen, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He shrugged. ‘But I am young, and I am a Muslim. It doesn’t matter what passport you hold. My father wanted me to stay, to keep on trying. Even a McJob …’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘It may not look like it, but it’s better here. I send money to my father, he sends it to others in Minneapolis who need it. It’s better here.’

Our headlights splashed across the line of decaying hangars and dilapidated Soviet fighters on concrete blocks. Soon we were in the world of sand and rusting hulks that separated the top of the runway from the docks. A shanty town had grown up around the large commercial ships that had long since been run aground. The closer to the beach we got, the deeper the rusting wrecks had settled into the sand. Threadbare men huddled around the small fires that glowed in the darkness. Keeping a firm grip on their bottles and AKs, they shielded their eyes from our main beams as we passed.

Awaale pulled up alongside one of the groups and tilted his head at me, looking for permission to jump out. I nodded. He stepped down onto the sand and rattled away in Somali. Erasto was mentioned more than a couple of times. The locals didn’t rush forward. I couldn’t work out if they were being cautious or frightened.

‘Mr Nick, this way.’

I also didn’t know whether Awaale was basically just a very good guy, or if the mention of payment had made all the difference to our relationship. It wasn’t long since I’d been threatening him with the AK; now he was leading me willingly to a row of skiffs. I could just make out their shape a few metres short of the surf.

We waded into a foot of water. It was warmer than I was expecting. The wooden craft were maybe five metres long and a couple of metres wide. A Mercury 150 outboard was bolted straight into the wood at the back of the nearest one. There were no fancy fuel bladders or metal tanks, just three white plastic twenty-litre drums. A hole had been drilled into the black screw caps to accommodate the fuel line.

There was a rubber squeeze pump about halfway along the pipe to propel the fuel into the engine without an air blockage, and that was it on the technology front. The three containers were tied together but not secured to the boat. Sixty litres, I reckoned, would equate to about a 150-kilometre round trip. That should be all right. And it could easily take five of us.

I shouldered the AK alongside my day sack, and helped Awaale pull the boat fully into the water. A light breeze brushed our faces. ‘Do you know exactly where Merca is?’

‘Sure. It’s the first town.’

The last foot or two of keel cleared the sand and the skiff bobbed up and down at chest height beside us.

‘We can’t miss it?’

He stared at me. ‘We? No, Mr Nick — I have to go back. The technical, I have to—’

I heaved myself over the side and onto the worn wooden deck. There were two cross benches, one at the back by the engine, and one mid-ship.

‘No, mate. You’re coming.’ I grabbed the shoulder of his shirt and gave it a tug. ‘Come on.’

He was suddenly very concerned about the mobile and cigarettes in his shirt pocket. ‘But, Mr Nick, I must go back. They will miss me …’

‘Tough shit, mate. You’re coming.’

I pointed to the fuel pump. ‘There you go, get squeezing.’

I released the retaining lever that kept the propeller clear of the water. As I tilted the engine down, the boat swung side on to the incoming waves.

There were no electrics on this thing. Opening up the choke, I tugged the rope starter cord until the outboard kicked off. I twisted the throttle on the tiller, turned the choke down to halfway, and revved some more. The stink of fumes washed over us; smoke must have been billowing from the exhaust. I let the revs drop, pushed the gear lever to forward and started turning back offshore.

I wanted to get beyond the surf before chucking a right. We should be in Merca in about three hours. Awaale sat forward of me. He just wanted to be back on the beach. The breeze was still warm, but his arms hugged his chest like we were in the Arctic.

‘Calm down, mate. It’ll be first light soon. Then you’ll wish it was cooler.’

His head dropped. I throttled up and headed south. I needed to keep the shore to my right. It would be all too easy to wander off to the east as the lights disappeared.

17

We passed where the runway jutted out into the sea. Whatever lights were there began to fade. We powered on into inky darkness. There were no points of reference. As long as we kept to the phosphorescent line where the surf started to form, we should be OK.

I checked the time on my iPhone. I’d left the Breitling with the 911. We had about four hours until first light. In this part of the world, sunset and sunrise were fairly consistent events, give or take ten minutes, at any time of the year. It was up at six and down at six. If we were still going by first light and the sun was directly to our left, we’d have overshot. We’d be on our way to Kenya and Tanzania. If the sun came up and we were facing it, I’d have seriously fucked up. We’d be heading east: next stop the Seychelles or, worse still, India.

I left Awaale to his own devices and checked the iPhone. I still had five full bars. Reception was better here than anywhere in the UK. It was another good indication that the coast was within sight. If I started drifting east I’d be losing signal.

I sparked it up. Anna took a while to answer.

‘Nicholas? Where are you?’

‘On a boat. I’ve just left Mogadishu. I think we’ve found them.’

‘Wait — when did you get to Mogadishu?’

I explained everything. I couldn’t really tell what she thought about it. ‘Jules thinks they’re in Merca. So does my Somali friend. I’ve got nothing else to go on. So that’s where we’re heading.’

Then it became very clear what she thought. She was angry. ‘Nicholas, AS, they’re dangerous. Even al-Qaeda won’t deal with them. They’d get taken hostage too. They don’t bargain. They don’t negotiate. Why didn’t Jules warn you?’

‘He did. But I don’t have a choice, Anna. I made a promise.’

‘What promise?’

‘To a mate.’

Her tone changed. If I’d had a mother who cared, she would probably have sounded like Anna. ‘Nicholas, I’m worried sick. Please think again.’

‘What would you do?’ There was a pause. I heard gunfire in the background. We both knew that was the answer. ‘You OK up there?’

‘Everything’s fine. It’s just anti-aircraft fire trying to hit the French bombers.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Mistrata. We got a lift on one of the casualty ships from Benghazi. Gaddafi’s navy is attacking the port. The US Sixth Fleet are firing on them. The French are bombing from the air and the rebels are fighting street to street. It will be a long battle. But, Nicholas … Please, please, please be careful. You need to stay alive. You really do.’

‘What for? For you?’

There was a pause. ‘Of course.’

‘Well, in that case, you’ve got to stay alive as well, for me. Deal?’

‘I need a call from you every day, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Promise me? Every day?’

‘Yes, I promise. Every day.’

Awaale had curled up below the bench. He really was the eternal optimist. He was never going to get comfortable down there as we bounced through the water.

‘You all right, mate?’ I had to shout over the wind and the roar of the engine.

‘The sea … it makes me very sick.’

‘Sick? You’re supposed to be a pirate!’

Awaale gave a groan.

‘Get up, mate. You’re going to feel a whole lot better sitting up.’

He wasn’t listening. ‘These people — Tracy and the child. They’re not your friends, are they? You’ve been sent to take them home.’

‘It’s a bit of both, mate.’

I left him to his misery and tried not to think about sleep and food: I needed both. But they were going to have to wait. To my half-right, in the distance, I saw ribbons of light.

The iPhone told me it was four thirty — about another hour and thirty before the sun came up. I wanted to get there in time to check that it was Merca and be able to get away, if it wasn’t, under darkness.

18

The place was crawling with lights. There were thousands of the things — not just the ribbon of cooking fires and lanterns I’d been expecting.

I kept the skiff as close to the shore as I could. As we were thrown about by the surf the adhan for Fajr prayers, the first of the day, kicked out from mosques all over town. I checked behind left, to the east. A thin ribbon of light was starting to stretch across the horizon.

The engine howled as the propeller momentarily left the water. Awaale was now sitting on the mid-ship bench, a hand either side of him, gripping it tight. He still wasn’t enjoying this one bit.

‘Is this Merca, Awaale? Is Merca this big?’ I leant forward, keeping one hand on the tiller. ‘You sure this is it?’

‘Yes, this is it. I’m sure.’

I checked my iPhone. I still had three bars of signal. It was a quarter to five. About the time I’d expected to be here.

I pushed the tiller sideways as we bounced over the surf line. The skiff slewed and powered back the way we’d come.

Awaale spun round. ‘Back to Mogadishu? That would be much better, Mr Nick. This is a very dangerous place.’

I raised my free hand. ‘Watch and learn, mate. You lads need skills if you’re going to go up against Lucky Justice. Otherwise, you’re all going to end up dead. That’s an end to the parties and women, and al-Shabab will come straight in and take over the city. That wouldn’t be good, would it? You’ve got to learn a few tactics.’

He nodded slowly. ‘You’re going to teach me?’

‘As much as I can. But tell me this. Why don’t you team up with Lucky to fight al-Shabab?’

He looked at me like I was mad. ‘No way. We must kill Lucky first.’

‘It’s up to you, mate. Sometimes you’ve got to look at the big picture. You’ve got to think about the way you’re doing things. That beach we’ve just turned away from is in the middle of the town, isn’t it? So what would have happened if we’d just landed and wandered round looking for them?’

We’d now cleared the surf and were paralleling the white line of breakers. The lights of Merca were over my left shoulder as we headed north.

‘You would fight and you would get your friends out.’

‘No, I would lose. I have no idea what’s in there. Do you?’

‘Yes. There are guys from Pakistan, Yemen, Saudi.’

‘Exactly. And they’ve all got weapons. I’d be dead, and the three I’ve come for would still be prisoners. So I’m not going to do that. I’m going to use my head. First, I make sure that this thing is hidden up so we can escape.’

He thought about it, then nodded.

‘The next thing is to find them. Do you know where they’re being held? You’ve been to this town.’

He looked at me again like I was mad. ‘They’ll be with all the other prisoners. The thieves. The adulterers. The cheats.’

‘So there’s a jail?’

He nodded. ‘The Russians built it. Before I was born.’

The lights of the town were about a kilometre behind us. A light grey arch was growing out of the sea to our right. The sun itself wouldn’t be far behind.

I could just make out the shapes of vessels parked further out on the swell, maybe five or six of them. Dozens of skiffs lined the beach, pulled up away from the water line.

I swung the tiller to take us in. Beyond the skiffs I could make out a procession of scrub-covered dunes, punctuated from time to time by small, dried-up wadis. We could drag the skiff up there and hide it in the dead ground. If it wasn’t there when we got back, or had been compromised, I’d lift a technical or another skiff. Fuck it — I’d worry about that later. I had plenty to do first.

The propeller guard scraped along the bottom. I tilted up the 150 as the bow dug into the sand.

I slung the AK over my shoulder, jumped out and splashed water at Awaale. ‘Come on, mate. Get out and push.’

He clambered out reluctantly. The skiff moved easily up the sand, like a sled. The wadi we pulled it into looked like a golfcourse bunker.

Awaale collapsed alongside it. Like mine, his Timberlands and the bottom of his jeans were wet with seawater and crusted with sand.

‘What are you going to do now, Mr Nick?’

‘I don’t know yet. First I want to confirm they’re in that jail. Then I’ll work out how to get them out. Maybe I’ll do a deal.’

His head shook. ‘It won’t work. Sharia law, that’s all that matters here. They have the freedom to do what they want. The Pakistani guys? As far as they’re concerned, even the Taliban aren’t true Wahhabis.’

I knew those guys. They were hard-core. They made the Taliban look like kindergarten teachers.

‘What are you — Sunni?’

‘Everyone is. Even in this town they are. But al-Shabab are here. So they’re all Wahhabis.’

I made sure my day sack was fastened and the magazine clipped into the AK. ‘OK, let’s go.’

Awaale stayed put, his hands up in front of him like he was begging for food. ‘Mr Nick, please, I do not want to go. We will be killed. Even I will be noticed. I don’t belong here. Look …’ He kept pointing to his lack of facial hair. ‘I’ll stay and look after the boat.’

I took two quick paces and stood over him. ‘We — that’s you and me — are going in there, one way or another. I need your help. You put my friends in the shit, so you’re going to help get them out. Listen, Awaale, I like you, but don’t fucking push it, mate.’

I stopped. This wasn’t going to help. It might piss him off so much he stitched me up with al-Shabab or dropped me in it by running away. Or it might make him too frightened to function. Neither was going to help me.

‘OK, Awaale, listen. I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand US if you help me get the three of them to Mog airport. That’s all you need to do. Just help me and do what I ask.’

Now I had his attention. His expression changed immediately.

‘Fifty.’

‘No. I said twenty-five. That’s a lot of cash to send to your dad, isn’t it? More than you’d ever earn back there in McDonald’s — and more than the cut you get from Erasto.’

‘Thirty-five.’

‘I’ve told you. Twenty-five. Take it or leave it. I’m going in, mate, and you’re going to be with me, one way or another. Decision time.’

I still had the iPhone in my hand. I started to dial Frank.

It rang just once. I hit the speaker-phone and jumped in before Frank could say anything.

‘I need you to guarantee twenty-five thousand dollars for some assistance. I’ve got a guy here. I need his help. Explain how it would be paid. He’s listening.’

Frank didn’t even take a breath. ‘Twenty-five thousand US, guaranteed. It will be flown into Mogadishu airport in time for the hostage exchange. Now, are we done?’

I took it off speaker-phone and brought it back to my ear. ‘Yes, we are. I’ll call you when I have anything.’

I closed down the iPhone and tucked it back into my day sack. ‘You ready?’

He stood up. ‘I would have come with you anyway, Mr Nick. I just needed you to know how dangerous it is.’

‘Do you want to pray before we go? We’ve got a couple of minutes before sun-up.’

He thought about it and nodded. He turned towards Mogadishu. Qibla was north in this part of the world.

Awaale stood in his Western gear and bling and raised his hands up to his shoulders, feet slightly apart, in preparation for takbiratul ihram. He mumbled away gently to himself. Maybe he did it every day, in between the beer and the girls, or maybe he was just getting a quick one in to hedge his bets.

‘Allahu-akbar.’

God is great.

Maybe. But so was the AK on my shoulder, and I knew which one I trusted more.

19

My Timberlands sank into the sand. Awaale was slowly catching up.

‘Why are you scared, Awaale?’

‘I’m not.’

‘That’s good. We have work to do. A lot of work.’

He took a couple of quicker steps to draw level with me. I kept my eyes on the way ahead. I was a white man on the East African coast. That kind of news would travel like wildfire if I was spotted.

‘The man on the cell, Mr Nick?’

‘He’s the one who sent me. Like I said, I’m here partly for friendship and partly for work. The mother and the man who’s in there with them — I know them really well.’

‘But who is he? On the cell?’

‘He’s the father of that child. So that’s how it works. I must help them. And I’m getting paid, like you.’

‘The man with them is not the husband?’

‘No.’

With the sun now up I could see more clearly. Four big commercial cargo ships rode at anchor, dwarfing even the largest of the yachts beside them.

We started moving through scrub. The sand here was mixed with sticky seed pods and bits of twig and stone. As we approached the outskirts of Merca I went into a stoop, using the brush as cover. The town was waking. Cockerels went berserk. Dogs barked. Nearly all the buildings were one-storey concrete or breezeblock structures with tin or flat roofs, arranged on a grid. There was a lot of cobalt blue going on, on the roofs and walls as well as the clothes-lines.

Long shadows appeared as the sun rose from the sea. The narrow streets would keep the shade for a while longer. Nearly every dwelling had its morning fire burning. Smoke curled from stubby chimneys. High walls sheltered the compounds. Some were crumbling, but so far everything here seemed in much better nick than in Mogadishu. The sand tracks between the houses were compacted by years of foot and vehicle traffic. There wasn’t a scrap of litter in sight.

Sunrises in this part of Africa are brilliant and come on fast. The eastern sky had turned tangerine above low grey night clouds. The sun burnt the left side of my face. We walked down into an area of dead ground and up the other side. Ahead, a short, open stretch led to the edge of the town. I lay down in the cover of the last of the thorny scrub.

I kept my eyes screwed up and shaded with my left hand as Awaale collapsed beside me. ‘Over there …’ I indicated our half-right. ‘Third house down, about forty metres. See the clothes-line?’

He nodded.

‘We need the burqas. The blue ones.’

Awaale’s head jerked round. He squinted in the sun. ‘Steal them?’

‘What else? Go into town and buy a couple?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘It’s no drama, mate. Just put the fucking thing on and walk like an old woman.’

‘Do you know what happens to people who steal, under Sharia law?’

I managed not to laugh. ‘Mate, if we get caught, having your hand chopped off is the last thing you’ll need to worry about. Go and get them, there’s a good lad. We need to get ourselves to that jail.’

He didn’t budge.

‘We must pay for them.’

‘You can’t start talking to anyone. It’ll compromise us. Just go and get them.’

‘No, Mr Nick. Women who do not wear hijab in al-Shabab areas are not allowed to leave their homes. No part of their body can be seen in public. Jalaabiibs and burqas cost at least fifteen dollars. If these women don’t wear them, they’ll be punished. They stoned a thirteen-year-old girl for this, even though she was not right.’ He tapped his temple with a finger. ‘She was walking in the main square. They stoned her to death. If these women don’t cover up, they can look for their head in the sand. We cannot just steal them, Mr Nick. We have to pay for them. These people cannot afford to buy these things.’

I rolled over onto my side and dug in my American tourist pouch for the fold of goodwill cash. ‘Here’s fifty. I don’t care how you give it to them, but be quick. Shove it under the door or some shit. I don’t care. Let’s just get these fucking things on and get moving.’

In the mid-distance, heading away from us down one of the wider streets, I could see three men patrolling, with black and white shemaghs and wild beards.

I grabbed Awaale’s ankle. ‘Make sure they’re big ones.’

20

I watched him set off across the open ground. As he approached the building, chickens bomb-burst out from behind a wall. He walked past a big cone of dried ox-dung cakes. It kept their ovens burning. I wasn’t sure what it did for the food. He knocked on the door.

For a long time nothing happened. A woman would never appear at the threshold. Maybe the men and children were out. He knocked again. An old guy in a grey dish-dash finally appeared. His grey hair was as long as his beard. Awaale gestured at the clothesline. The old man stared at him for a long time before answering. There was more chat and the old guy kept stroking his beard. Awaale kept nodding away, reached into his jeans pocket and handed him the cash. The old man took it, turned back into the house and closed the door behind him. He reappeared in the back yard seconds later and took two burqas off the line.

The sky was now dazzlingly blue, with not even a hint of cloud. The sand around me was already almost too hot to touch. The sun burnt through my long-sleeved sweatshirt and onto the back of my neck. I felt like I was stuck in a toaster.

Awaale came back with the two blue burqas. Hijabs wouldn’t have worked for us. They’d have left our faces uncovered. I waited for him to get to within a couple of metres of where I was lying. ‘Pass me, keep walking. Don’t look down. Just carry on down into the dip where we can’t be seen.’

He did as he was told. My sweat-soaked clothes were soon caked in sand as I slithered back and followed him. Even the AK was covered with the stuff, from the perspiration on my hands.

Awaale had our purchases over his shoulder. I took off my day sack and boots. My socks would have to stay on. ‘Get your rings and watch off. Have nothing on your hands or your wrist. Old women don’t wear that shit.’

He started licking his rings and pulling them off. Women’s hands in this neck of the woods are every bit as work-worn as men’s, sometimes even more so, but round here they wouldn’t wear decadent jewellery. I thought about how they must feel under their burqas in this heat. Hard-line Islam was alien to most Somali women, especially those in rural areas who worked the land or herded goats, sheep and cattle under the scorching sun. Wearing this shit must make their already difficult lives almost unbearable. And they had to slave away for longer to pay for the fucking things.

My Timberlands went into the day sack. ‘What did you say to the old guy?’

He tucked the bling into his pockets. ‘I said I needed them because my wife and her mother were waiting in my boat, and we had to visit my wife’s sister in town. I told him she is ill and we needed to go to her immediately. I had no time to run around the town.’

I hung the day sack over my chest like a city tourist and we pulled the burqas over our heads.

‘Shoes as well, mate. Shove them in your belt. Get your feet covered in sand and shit.’

He wasn’t convinced, but did as he was told.

‘Just think of the cash, and the war stories you’ll be able to tell next time you’re round the fire.’

I looked through the triangle of blue mesh as I waited for him to sort himself out. I felt my breath against the material, making me hotter and more claustrophobic by the minute. The previous owners deserved a whole lot more than fifty dollars for having to wear this shit.

I knelt and rolled up my jeans so just my socks would be visible if the hem of the burqa rode up.

‘Do the same, mate. Roll them right up so they don’t fall down when we start moving.’

Stooping burqas don’t get a second glance. They meant age, infirmity or illness. No one would want anything to do with a couple of old birds like us.

I slid the AK under my right arm, the butt nice and tight in the pit, the barrel down my side, the magazine cupped in my hand. The metal was so hot it seared my skin.

I turned and started towards the sea. ‘Remember, mate, we’re old women. We walk slow — bend over a little. Never put your head up.’

He looked like a blue pepper-pot. The top of it nodded away at me.

‘Is your mobile off?’

His hand fiddled around beneath the material. ‘Yes, it is, Mr Nick.’

‘Right. If anything goes wrong, do exactly what I say, when I say it. You sure you know the way to the jail?’

The top of the pepper-pot nodded again.

‘OK. We’ll go back and walk along the beach. It’s less exposed. And it’ll get the bottom of these things nice and dusty. Then we’ll move into the town. If anything happens and we get split up, we meet back at the skiff.’

Even under the burqa I could tell he still wasn’t too impressed. And a lot less gung-ho now he didn’t have a weapon.

‘Awaale, I’m not going to do anything to put us in danger. I’m here to rescue them, not get into a fight. I’ll just be looking to see how I can get them out. You take me there, and maybe I won’t need you until we leave. Maybe I can do everything myself — but I won’t know until you get me there and I see where and how they’re being held. You’ll do that for me, yeah?’

The top of the pepper-pot nodded once more. I turned towards the beach. ‘OK, let’s go, then.’

The heat really was unbearable under this thing.

21

We passed skiff after skiff along the shore line. Some bobbed up and down in the waves. Others had been dragged up onto the sand. In the distance, cargo ships and yachts were silhouetted against the horizon.

I moved closer to Awaale. ‘Is one of those the Maria Feodorovna?’

The top of the pepper-pot swivelled. His breath rasped as he laboured to speak. It was like a sauna inside these things.

‘The white one, on the far left.’

‘What happens now? They just sit there?’

‘AS — they will sell them to pirates. They offered it back to Erasto. But why would he want it? He can go and steal another one. They’ll stay here until someone buys them.’

‘Will they?’

‘No.’

‘So they stay there until they rot?’

Awaale didn’t need to answer. He waved an arm. We’d come to an area of rusting hulks and the remnants of boats that had broken up in storms and washed ashore.

Awaale went to move on but I held him. ‘Where is the jail from here?’

‘We stay on the beach for a while. But then we must go into the town. I’ll take you, Mr Nick, and then we leave and you work out how to free them, yes?’

‘Yes. Just as I said — and, yes, you will be paid if you help me get them back to the airport.’

He turned, no doubt relieved.

‘One more thing, mate. Why did Erasto want to know who killed Nadif? Why did it matter to him? It’s not as if you lads worry too much about that shit, is it?’

His voice dropped. ‘Nadif was his brother, Mr Nick. He was family. Erasto will find who killed his brother, and then he will kill him.’

22

Dung fires spilt a sweet, almost herbal smell from the chimneys as we made our way into the town. The main drag was about twenty metres wide. People were already out and about. They’d want to get their business done before the sun was at its fiercest. After midday, they’d bin it until last light — which would just leave the mad dogs and Englishmen to go about their business uninterrupted, with any luck.

Like everybody else, we kept in the shade. All the women were covered up, in one way or another. Most of them carried large empty plastic containers. On the way home they’d be full of water for the day’s washing and cooking.

I caught a glimpse of some al-Shabab hard men in tribal dish-dashes and shemaghs down a side road. Long, wild beards on top; bare feet and sandals beneath. They carried AKs or RPGs. I stooped even further and kept on shuffling.

I thought about the old guy at the house. Fuck knew what he thought about Awaale coming to knock on his door to ask for a couple of burqas. I hoped they weren’t distinctive in any way. I didn’t want one of their mates to come rattling over for a chat.

This looked like the newer part of town. It would have been built at the same time as the Soviets were installing a missile facility at the port of Berbera in the 1970s and transforming Somalia’s 17,000 armed forces into some of the strongest on the continent.

The bottom metre or so of the palm trees had been given a lick of white paint a few years ago. They were all bent away from the sea. The monsoon winds would have done their best to flatten them each year. I could have done with a bit of a breeze today, although I didn’t want our burqas to do a Marilyn Monroe.

The same photocopied A4 flyer seemed to be pinned to every door and fence. I kept my speed down, but didn’t move so slowly that I drew attention to myself. I bent forward, concentrating on the AK. I gripped it hard against me to stop the steel mag slipping out of my hand. I was sweating so much under this thing the skull band must be soaked on the outside. The mesh slit was a nightmare to look through. Even so, I could see this place was totally different from Mog. There was no grime, no burning tyres. But in other ways, it was scarier. Everyone looked anxious and uneasy.

On the other side of the road, four more AS sat in old armchairs under an acacia. They were smoking, and had a kettle boiling away on a little fire. All of them had AKs resting across their thighs. Two had canvas chest harnesses stuffed with mags. The other two had belts of 7.62 short slung over their shoulders, Mexican-bandit style. I couldn’t see any machine-guns, just AKs.

All of them wore traditional cotton dish-dashes down to their knees and matching baggy trousers beneath them. They all had black and white checked shemaghs round their necks and multicoloured skull-caps. Their watches glinted in the sun.

They laughed and shouted to each other.

Awaale coughed just behind me. It was a flat cough, one I’d heard many times this morning as he tried to control his breathing. I knew the feeling. He had little or no control of the situation, and no weapon to react with if everything went to ratshit. I switched off in these situations. I was going to walk down the road; I wasn’t going to turn back. I was committed. There was nothing to worry about because there was nothing I could do about it.

We came level with the AS. They were just five metres away, on the other side of the road. My eyes flicked to the side; I wasn’t going to turn my head. A couple of them glanced across at us, then away. One, darker-skinned and taller than the rest, perhaps a Pakistani, looked over, took two or three seconds to register what we were, and got back to the banter.

Two technicals came down the road towards us. One had a heavy gun mounted on the back. The other was weapons-free. Dark brown- or grey-cottoned legs and sandals dangled over the sides. I looked straight ahead and kept on walking. The wagons drove past and dust and shit swirled through the mesh of my visor. Behind me, Awaale had a coughing fit.

I steered us left at the first available turning.

23

It was an alleyway a couple of metres wide. Awaale shuffled alongside me, clutching one of the flyers. His head was inches from mine.

‘Mr Nick, they’re not in the jail.’ He lifted the sheet of paper. ‘This is not good, Mr Nick. We must hurry.’

I followed him across the road. He passed the four fighters and carried on down another alleyway. Two small boys were coming the other way, each leading an old man with a big grey beard and skull-cap, bent over much more than we were, their faces creased with age. As they got nearer, I realized the boys weren’t looking after the men, it was the other way round. The kids’ eyes were milky, clouded by what looked like cataracts. They could have been sorted out for a couple of dollars elsewhere — or for nothing if Somalia hadn’t been too dangerous for the NGOs and MONGOs to pour into. As for the happy-clappy hospital ships, I’d have liked to see what happened if they’d parked up and offered Jesus along with a couple of plasters.

We stepped into the burning sun so they could pass us in the shade. The boys were well into the Wahhabi way of things. They didn’t even acknowledge us. I kept looking down into the dust, where we belonged.

When they’d gone, I moved nearer to Awaale again. ‘What the fuck is happening? What does that bit of paper say?’

‘I’ll translate it for you, but not now. They could be moved any minute. You need to see them while you still can.’

He shuffled on and I followed. Babies cried in the buildings either side of us. We reached the end of the alley and emerged into what was clearly the older part of town. Plaster over stone or brick, the buildings looked like the colonial, Italian area of Mogadishu, but on a smaller scale. They had seen better days, but looked habitable. Most had first-floor balconies. Many boasted parapets; they looked like small medieval forts.

We were in a square, in the middle of which stood an octagonal obelisk that resembled a small lighthouse. Each face was painted alternately black and white.

A gaggle of kids dressed like miniature al-Shabab, but so far without weapons, ran into a building to our left. Facing us, the other side of the obelisk, was the largest of the buildings. It might once have been the town hall, years ago, when the Italians ran the place and there was law and order. The sun bounced off the ocean a couple of hundred metres down the avenue to its right. I could see what looked like old harbour walls.

Awaale paused for a moment. ‘You see the red gates, Mr Nick?’

I followed his gaze to the left of the town hall. Solid metal at the bottom, vertical bars at the top, they were set into a low, once-whitewashed wall, topped with a security fence. Behind it was a single-storey colonial building that might have been a coach-house.

‘They’re in there, Mr Nick.’

‘That’s what the paper says?’

‘They’re being put on display. AS — the fighters, the mullahs — they live in the big building. It is now the Islamic Sharia Court. Not a good place.’

A gang of kids had stopped just to the right of the gates. Some were so deformed they were almost unable to function; some were being dragged about by the others. They were peering through the bars as I approached. I didn’t know if Awaale was behind me or not. It didn’t matter.

A couple of bodies moved around inside the compound: AS, armed and smoking. They picked up their wooden chairs and shifted them to a new vantage-point now the sun had moved. The kids shouted angrily, pointing down into the dead ground the other side of the wall. Locals lined up on both sides to get a better view.

To the right of the kids, close to the wall, a row of holes had been dug. The spoil was piled up alongside them. Arc lights had been mounted on the court-house walls. The wiring hung loosely from windows at the top of the building.

Five Somalis, three men and two women, were in the compound. But all eyes were on the three white prisoners.

24

Tracy, BB and Stefan were huddled in the shade of the wall to our left. They looked exactly as they had in the video. Tracy was wearing the same hijab. It was grimy and covered with dust. She lay on her side, Stefan in her arms. She stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. His eyes were closed. His legs were raw and red with the insect bites.

The three Somali men were in rags. Two lay down; one sat back against the wall. Their faces were blank; the abuse from the kids no longer registered.

BB sat on the far side of them. He also had his arse in the sand, his back to the wall. Elbows on his knees, his head rested on his hands.

The two Somali women were stuck in the corner, on their own, squatting on their haunches. One of them was crying. Her head jerked with every sob. The other, sobbed-out, simply looked down at the ground.

I moved along the wall to get closer to them. I was soon only a couple of metres away from Tracy. I could hear her singing gently to Stefan. ‘Three Blind Mice’. He still had his eyes closed. She sensed somebody above her. Maybe she’d become aware of my shadow on the sand. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes.

‘Help us … please … help us …’

Her tears carved tracks through the layers of sand and dust on her face. Her lips were cracked and baked, but she was still beautiful. ‘Please … help my son …’ She reached up towards me.

All I could do was look. I turned my head towards BB. Was he in any condition to fight his way out?

He looked at Tracy as he heard her begging, then stared straight at my blue mesh.

The kids found something new to howl about.

He stayed completely focused. ‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up?’ he said to them. ‘And what are you looking at, you fucking bitch?’

Tracy struggled to her feet. Her hands gripped the bars less than a foot away from my face.

‘Please help us … my baby … my son …’

I didn’t want to look at her directly. We were too close. She might see my white skin through the mesh. As I looked away I could see why the kids had gone noisy again. Ant and Dec were being dragged out of the building to be put on display with the rest of them.

Both had just a day or so of stubble, and were in much better condition than the others. That said, they’d still had a good kicking. Ant had cut and swollen lips. Dec had a black eye.

Their AS escorts pushed them hard into the dust. The kids laughed, then screamed like banshees. The older locals were silent. I had the feeling they’d seen it all before.

Tracy’s hands reached through the bars to try and grab me. I jerked back. She missed me by a couple of inches, then turned her attention to Awaale.

‘Please help my son … please …’

She collapsed sobbing as the truth dawned. We weren’t going to help. Nobody was. Her hands slid back through the bars.

The two AS hard men had had enough. They got to their feet and shouted at the kids to fuck off. Then they headed our way. They grabbed Tracy and flung her back onto the ground. Stefan was curled up in his own little world. It was like he’d pulled the duvet over his head and was praying the monsters would go away.

BB couldn’t seem to decide whether he hated the AS or the audience more, so he turned on both of us. ‘Yeah, go on, fuck off! Cunts …’

One of the AS lads picked up a handful of sand and stones and hurled it at us.

We got the message. We moved away. The kids ran off to join the others going into the madrasah, dragging their deformed mates with them. Hundreds of years before the Christian West switched on to the possibility, Muslims had figured out the world was round. They also knew the distance to the moon, and that the earth moved around the sun. Islamic schools were set up to teach mathematics, astronomy and philosophy as well as the Koran. I somehow doubted that this particular school was keeping up the good work. Judging by their performance a few minutes ago, they’d had the Koran drummed into them word for word, and been taught the hard-line AS interpretation of the text. Their generation of Somalis would know nothing else.

Awaale followed me past the court-house and down towards the harbour. Once I got there I’d turn left, back to the skiff. I needed to gather my thoughts.

It had all the makings of a weapons-grade gang-fuck, but at least BB sounded up for a fight.

25

The skiff was still where we’d hidden it. There were no new footprints coming towards it or going away. The surf had washed away the drag marks.

I’d moved out of the bunker and far enough into the scrub so we wouldn’t be connected with the boat if it was found. Awaale and I were sixty or seventy metres away from the cache, but still close enough to the shore to see anybody coming up the beach towards us.

I took off my burqa and draped it between two spiky bushes to create some shade. I wasn’t talking. My throat was dry. My body needed food and sleep. But all that still had to wait.

Awaale followed my lead. He whipped his burqa off and made a shelter next to mine. I stretched out in the sand. Within seconds my clothes were riddled with thorns and bits of brush. Awaale joined me. His shirt was soon covered in shit as well. He panted for breath as he reached for his cigarettes. The packet was soaked through. He stared at it in disgust and tossed it to one side.

I dug the Solar Monkey out of my day sack, opened the clamlike device to expose the photovoltaic cells and pushed it out into the sunlight. Awaale watched. He was attempting to reconcile himself with having to go without nicotine as well as water. I wiped my eyes, trying to avoid filling them with sand. It was fucking miserable.

‘Check my adaptors. See if you can charge your phone up as well.’

I lobbed him the bag of jacks that had come with the thing. Mottled with sand, my hand looked like I had some kind of skin condition.

‘Awaale, why are so many kids here malformed? They’re everywhere — the lads near yesterday’s dust-up, and now the ones outside the madrasah today. What’s wrong with them?’

‘I will tell you what’s wrong with them, Mr Nick. They are diseased — they have a disease that comes from your world.’ His face clouded. ‘We have no government. Our coastline is unprotected. Most importantly for your people, it is unmonitored.’ He waved towards the beach, to where the surf came crashing onto the sand. ‘It looks like a holiday brochure. But the water is polluted. It has become the dumping ground for your toxic waste. Of course there will be no successful prosecutions of your big companies for this. So our children are born … the way you see them. You, the West, have done that.’

There was a deep sadness in his eyes. But also, for the first time since I’d met him, I saw the rage in his heart.

‘Your factory ships sucked all the fish out of our sea. Your toxic waste killed everything else. So our fishermen became pirates to feed their children. To feed their children who are born like sick goats and die before their time.’

He busied himself finding the jack he was after, allowing his anger to subside.

‘Mr Nick, my job is done now. I’ll wait here for you. I’ll get you back to the airport. But what can you do? You have so little time before your friends are killed …’

I sat up, like he’d just given me the good news with a cattle prod.

He pulled a shoe from his belt and extracted the folded sheet of paper. ‘Tonight, it says, the criminals will be punished. After Maghrib. The Wahhabis — the advocates of Sharia law — they’re very strict.’

He started reading. ‘The Islamic Sharia Court of Merca District confirms that one man will lose his hand for stealing from another man’s house. Two men and two women have committed zina.’

‘Adultery?’

‘Yes. But it’s not like you think. Having sex with someone and not being married to them, that’s adultery to the Wahhabis. All of them will get ramj.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know what that means, Mr Nick?’

The sweat on my chest and back went cold. I suddenly knew what those spot-lit holes in the ground were all about.

‘I can give it a fucking good guess.’

‘They’ll be stoned to death. They’ll be buried up to the neck, and then stoned.’

‘Tracy and Justin too?’

‘The same. They too have committed zina.’

The film on the memory chip replayed itself on the screen inside my head. ‘They think they have committed adultery …?’

‘She has another man’s child, Mr Nick. The Wahhabis. They’re crazy people.’

‘What happens to the boy? There are only six holes …’

‘He will live at the madrasah. He will become al-Shabab.’

‘What does it say about the other two white guys?’

‘Nothing. Do you know them?’

‘They came to do what I came to do — get the three of them out. But you were right. There’s no negotiating with these fuckers.’

Ant and Dec must have been linked into the same int as Jules had.

‘It gives me no pleasure to be right about that, Mr Nick. What is to be done? The ramj is tonight, after prayers.’

I took a breath; gathered my thoughts. ‘OK. Here’s the deal. You call Erasto. Tell him I need help to free my friends. Tell him I need as many men as he can send.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Mr Nick, it won’t happen. These people, they are not just crazy. They are very bad people. Erasto pays to keep them away. He will not—’

I pointed a finger at him. ‘Tell him I’ll pay him to fight them.’

He still shook his head. ‘No amount of money will persuade him.’

‘Tell him he can have the yacht as well. Fuck it, he can have every yacht out there, if he wants.’

‘Mr Nick, it wouldn’t be worth it to him. It would be war.’

‘So what have you got now? Peace?’

Awaale turned onto his side. ‘I am truly sorry. You’re going to have to do this thing yourself. I will wait here. I will make sure the skiff is ready to take you back, to collect my money. But Erasto will not help. He wouldn’t even listen to me. I am not my father.’

I glanced at the little red light on the Solar Monkey. ‘Well, get him on the phone then. Call your dad.’

‘My father?’

‘He’s got the pull around here, hasn’t he? Get your phone out, for fuck’s sake. Call him.’

I left him to it as I scrambled out of the shade. I didn’t want Awaale to listen in on my next conversation.

26

Frank, as always, answered in two rings.

‘I’ve found them. They’re alive. But there’s no way I can negotiate. If we don’t act now, they’re going to be dead by this evening.’

If Frank’s heart missed a beat, he wasn’t giving any sign of it. Part of me was starting to admire this guy. ‘How much?’

‘Three million, one hundred thousand dollars. In hundreds. I want the one hundred thousand separate from the rest, so when the three million’s handed over, it won’t be spotted.’

‘OK.’

‘I want it at the airport, soon as. Keep that aircraft on standby. It needs to be fuelled up, ready to go.

‘I’m trying to get the clan to help us. If you don’t hear from me by first light tomorrow morning, then I’ve fucked up.’

‘OK.’ He said it like he was agreeing to a pizza delivery.

There was a silence. I’d said all I needed to.

Frank filled it. ‘You’ve seen Stefan, yes?’

‘Yes, Frank. I told you. He’s alive. Get the money to Mog so I can keep him that way.’

‘Is he hurt? Is he ill?’

‘As far as I can see, he’s all right. He was with his mother. She’s looking after him. She’s comforting him. She’s thinking only of him.’

I let the message sink in for a moment.

‘There’s one more thing, Frank. If all goes to plan, I’ll find out what our problem was in the UK — who the guys were, the ones following me.’

I might have heard him sigh. ‘That would be good, Nick. Thank you.’

‘It’s not only for your benefit. I don’t want Tracy and Stefan lifted again, do I? I don’t want to go through this shit again.’

I closed down the phone. I still had to manage Frank’s expectations. And I still didn’t know which way the arch poker player was going to jump. For all I knew, he might choose to fuck over Tracy and BB and lift Stefan from the madrasah later. That wouldn’t be good enough for me. I had a promise to keep.

I dialled Anna. Things were about to get busy.

It didn’t even go to voicemail. A female voice waffled at me in Arabic. I knew I didn’t have a wrong number, so she must have been telling me that Anna’s mobile either didn’t have a signal or was switched off. I closed down. It had to be out of signal. Anna’s mobile was linked into her bloodstream.

Back in the bunker, Awaale was talking to his father. ‘He’s come back.’

I crawled under the burqa and got the sweat-covered mobile to my ear.

‘Mr Awaale?’

‘Mr Nick, you are—’

He sounded half asleep. There was no time to fuck about.

‘Your son has told you that I need some help?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Mr Awaale, with respect, please listen. Hear me out. See if what I say makes sense. If it does, I need you to talk to Erasto. Persuade him that helping me helps him. And for your time, I will pay you twenty-five thousand dollars, the same as I will pay your son. He can send it to you. You have my word.’

I heard him rustling about. Now that I had his attention, he was probably sitting himself up against his pillows.

‘Mr Awaale, I can offer Erasto two million US if he sends all of his guys to Merca today to help me rescue the three people I’ve come for. Erasto knows who I’m talking about. Whatever commission you need to share with him is up to you.’

There was silence as some serious thinking went on in Minneapolis.

‘Mr Nick, it will cost you more than that. This is very, very dangerous.’

‘There will be more. Erasto can take back the yacht that al-Shabab stole from him. Tell him there are also three pleasure boats here, as well as several cargo ships. He can take as many as he wants. Tell him that if he keeps paying al-Shabab, he’s only delaying the inevitable. He’s going to be fighting them at some stage. They will not want to stay out of his part of the city for long.

‘So why not carry the fight to al-Shabab? Why not show what great fighters and strategists he and his men are, with a preemptive strike? Hit them where they feel safe. Show them that he won’t stand for them coming in and taking over the part of the city that belongs to Erasto.

‘I can make that happen, Mr Awaale. I can help your son here plan the attack, like we did yesterday. He will be a hero, just like you. Maybe one day he’ll become head of the clan, because he knows how to carry the fight to the enemy. He can show the clan, again, today, what a great fighter he is. And Erasto’s part of the city could be his, one day.’

I waited for him to mull this over. Or maybe he was playing with me. I didn’t really care which: I just needed an answer.

In the end, I filled the silence for him, as he probably wanted me to. ‘All I need is help to get me and the prisoners back to the airport. We will exchange cash for them there and then. It will be very, very easy. And I have one more thing, one more very big thing, to offer Erasto.’

‘What is that?’

‘I can give him the two men who killed Nadif. I can do that at the airport.’

‘Nadif? Nadif is dead?’

‘Yes. In England. I found him. He had been tortured first. I’ll hand over the two men who did this, as part of the deal. They are here in Merca. But I’m going to need five minutes with them myself. I will not kill them. If there is no deal, I will kill them here in Merca, before I leave. Erasto will have no satisfaction, no revenge.

‘Erasto needs to make a stand against al-Shabab. He’s going to have to do it one day. Now is the perfect time. And he’ll make a lot of money. So will you. I need Erasto’s help, Mr Awaale. I need it now. Not later tonight, not tomorrow. Now. I need to know how many people he’s going to send, so we can prepare. I need to know, one way or another.’

He had certainly woken up now. Money. Revenge. Fame for his son. Joe was right. My brother and me against my father. My father’s household against my uncle’s household. Our two households against the rest of my kin. Even Nadif had taken the side deal with me, against his brother. It was The Sopranos, with shemaghs and AKs.

‘Please, Mr Nick, hand me back to my son. We will try to get your loved ones home safe. I will talk with Erasto. I will earn twenty-five thousand US for talking to him. Is that correct?’

‘Correct.’

I handed Awaale the phone. As I did, I gripped his sand-covered hand. ‘Make sure you tell your father that it must be now. Remember the stoning. We must take action now. I need to know.’

He nodded, and started mumbling into the phone. I lay back, marshalling my thoughts. If this didn’t work, I had a ton of shit to do before last light.

Ten minutes later, I rolled onto my elbow and flattened out a patch of sand between us, so I could at least show Awaale what I had in mind. For now, it didn’t matter how many men Erasto might send, so long as Awaale had the basics of the attack in his head. With all this talk of heroism, he was coming with me whether he liked it or not.

Once we found out whether or not Erasto was up for it, we could start fine-tuning. And, with luck, we’d find that out extremely soon.