The Watchman

Sixteen

I checked into the Royal Court in Mombasa and took a few minutes to get my bearings. It was late in the evening, and crossing time zones can be disconcerting, and making rapid decisions on the hoof when you’re travel-weary is risky. I drank two bottles of water I’d bought at the airport, then checked my satellite phone for a connection. It all looked good.

Vale had asked for regular reports, but only if circumstances allowed; he was experienced enough to know that operating in hot zones doesn’t always permit the casual use of a cell phone as if you were on the street corner back home.

I gave his number a try without checking the time in the UK. He’d be there, I was certain of that.

‘I’m at first base,’ I said when he answered. It took a while for the voices to travel, and the thing to get used to is the delay when waiting for an answer. It makes for awkward conversations at first, especially when under the stress of an operation.

‘Good.’ His voice sounded thin. ‘You met the wildlife man yet?’

‘No. He’ll be here in the morning.’ There had been a message waiting for me at the front desk. Vale’s contact was making his way into Mombasa from his base at one of the national parks. Vale was wary of using names, so we were going to be speaking in indirect terms unless absolutely unavoidable.

‘The two travellers are on their way,’ he said. ‘They’ll meet up with the middle man tomorrow before moving on. As soon as I know where and when, I’ll let you know.’

We ended the conversation and I went downstairs and got a cab from the rank outside. The driver looked bored and lacking in curiosity, but glad of a fare. I gave him an address out near Kilindini Harbour, to the west of the city, and he nodded without comment and set off.

Mombasa was frantic with pedestrians and traffic, most of it intermingling in a way that would have had London or New York’s traffic commissioners pulling out their hair by the handful. It was noisy and colourful and hot, and I was glad I didn’t have to be out there in the middle of it. I had too much to do.

My destination was a small commercial unit a short hop from the docks. The area was dark and badly lit, a sharp contrast to the city centre, which was so full of life. It had a brooding, alien atmosphere that didn’t feel right, even from the inside of the cab. Groups of men were gathered in doorways, smoking large, flabby cigarettes and drinking Yokozuna or chang’aa — the local illicit and deadly brews of alcohol — from plastic bottles.

They watched us go by with an intensity that had the driver rolling his eyes at me in the mirror and shaking his head.

‘Bad men, sir,’ he muttered. ‘Very bad.’

‘Don’t worry about them,’ I told him.

‘You sure this is where you wanna be, boss?’ He turned into a narrow street between lines of ancient cargo warehouses, dark and fobidding. ‘Not good here, y’know?’ The breath whistled between his teeth as he stopped the car outside a premises bearing the name Bera Wharf Trading Co. I could feel the fear coming off him in waves and hoped he wasn’t going to drive off the moment I got out.

I took out some notes and dropped them on the passenger seat alongside him. It wasn’t quite enough to cover the gas, but enough to keep his foot on the brake until I’d done what I’d come here for. I showed him some bigger notes for good measure. ‘This is yours if you wait.’

He rolled his eyes again and nodded and I got out and approached the building.

The man who answered the door was as thin as a fisherman’s pole, with a neat goatee beard and half-glasses. He was dressed in a long, white shirt and tight pants, and the overall effect was of an academic stork. The name I’d been given was Ita Khaban, although I doubted it was his real one. According to the man who’d supplied me with his details, part of a network of professionals I used, he could source anything I needed, right up to a Stinger surface-to-air missile, given enough time and money.

Fortunately, my needs didn’t yet involve starting a small war.

We exchanged pleasantries, which meant I gave him a name which he acknowledged with a blink of his eyes. Then he stuck his head out the door and checked the street both ways. It looked like he probably did this on a regular basis.

Khaban noticed the cab. ‘That is your driver, sir?’

‘Yes.’

He turned and called a name. Another man appeared through a doorway behind him. He was a taller, younger version of Khaban, only bigger in the shoulders and carrying a nasty looking sawn-off shotgun.

‘My son, Benjamin,’ Khaban explained. ‘He will stay by the car. There should be no problems.’ The way he smiled at me was also a warning not to try anything.

Benjamin stepped past me and stood outside the door, eyeing the street. Khaban left him to it and led me inside, bolting the door behind me.

The area we were in was little more than a metal workshop and storeroom combined, the air heavy with the smell of oil and grease and metal. He sat me down in a tiny office holding a desk covered in paperwork, much of it yellowed by age, and an old photograph of a young British Queen Elizabeth on the wall. He had already received a list of what I needed. It wasn’t much, but he looked happy enough.

‘I have everything you requested,’ he said, his voice a cultured whisper, businessman to businessman. I handed him a folded canvas sports bag purchased from a stall near the hotel, and he poured me some tea and left me to sip it while he disappeared into the workshop.

When he returned a few minutes later, the sports bag was no longer empty.

‘If you return the items in good condition,’ he said softly, ‘I will buy them back from you.’

‘At a discount?’

‘Of course.’

I checked the contents while he watched, then paid him in cash and said goodbye.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he whispered before calling his son back inside. ‘A pleasure doing business with you.’