The Watchman

Twenty-Four

I sensed trouble less than two hundred metres from the border. Using a line of trees as cover, and with the ghillie net over my shoulders to break up the line of my body, I was moving quickly towards the line of posts, pausing every few metres to scout my back trail. I had a faint tickle going on in between my shoulders, which had helped me spot trouble in the past before it hit me. Trouble was, this time I didn’t know where it was coming from, or whether the potential threat was man or beast.

I’d asked Piet earlier if there was any danger from wildlife in the area.

‘You mean big cats? No, not here. Too close to the coast. Your biggest threat is poachers on their way inland or Somalis looking for tourists to shake down and take hostage. And snakes: mambas and puff adders, mostly.’ He grinned. ‘Best watch where you sit down.’

I stopped, scouring the area ahead of me. The light was beginning to fade and I couldn’t take too long to get across and approach the area around Kamboni. If there was a threat right here, I had to identify it, avoid it … or neutralize it.

I eased the AK off my shoulder. The long barrel was cumbersome for close-quarter action, but the suppressor was its main advantage. This close to my target, and with the occasional farm buildings or fishermen’s houses scattered throughout the area, an un-silenced rifle shot would be like sending up an air-raid siren.

I waited, convinced someone was ahead of me on the other side of the border. If the Somalis had posted watchers to warn of intervention forces coming this way, it made sense that they would be stationed here, behind me on the Kenyan side, or just into Somalia.

Keeping low and with one eye on the tufts of long grass and spindly shrubs around me, I moved carefully. Ahead of me was a clump of bush, bare of any greenery but thick enough to mask anything waiting inside or behind it. I decided to give it a miss, and moved sideways.

As I did so, a shape rose up out of the grass not ten paces away.

It was a young Somali, dressed in cut-off cotton pants and a loose shirt, with a small bag over his shoulder. He was holding a rifle, an AK-47 like mine, but with the conventional stubby barrel. It looked beaten up and dirty, with a battered magazine and stock. He was no farmer or fisherman, and from the wild expression in his eyes, I guessed he’d been waiting here for some time for somebody like me to happen along.

There was no time for niceties. If he pulled the trigger on the AK, I was done for, even if he missed. I dropped the rifle barrel and fired once before he could get off a shot. The sound was no louder than a slap, and the bullet took him in the chest. He was built like a long-distance runner, all skin and bone, and the bullet was enough to knock him over on to his back. As he fell, I ran forward and followed him to the ground, using the rifle butt to make sure he was dead. It was brutal and personal, but I couldn’t afford to waste bullets.

I checked his shoulder bag. No cell phone or radio, just a plastic bottle of water and some dried fish. Field supplies. I breathed a sigh of relief. It meant he wasn’t expected to check in on a regular basis, so his silence wouldn’t be noticed for a while.

I rolled him into some long grass and kicked some dried vegetation over him. It wouldn’t hide him for long come daylight, and the flies that would surely feed on him would eventually attract the attention of larger predators, then men. But it would have to do.

I turned away towards the border and jogged across into Somalia.

The going was easy enough; rough ground for the most part, it was mostly covered in coarse grass and clumps of bush. Even in the gloom I was able to make out sufficient detail to avoid falling flat on my face. But after the experience I’d just had, I stopped more often, watching for signs of movement in case the Somali had backup waiting. I skirted a clutch of small dwellings and crossed a track leading away to the south as quickly as I could. Tracks were too dangerous, even at this time of night. If the locals had all been clued in to keep their eyes open, it made movement even more difficult.

I had to get under cover as a soon as I could.

I stopped to take a drink of water and check my direction from the GPS on my sat phone. I was heading directly east, towards the Indian Ocean. If I continued on this course, I would meet up with the coast road from Kamboni to Kismaayo in the north, and beyond that, Mogadishu, the capital some 400 kilometres away. The village of Dhalib should be somewhere up ahead.

Insects were a problem. I’d hoped they would be silenced by the fall of evening, but they seemed intent on all coming out together and singing my presence. The noise made it hard to discern what was animal movement or human, and distorted the sounds of voices travelling over the breeze from the buildings in the distance.

I pressed on, determined to find the villa and get under cover before it got too dark to see. I came to a track, but this was narrow, heading directly into the interior. I gave it a count of twenty before walking across.

By now I could hear another sound above the insect noises: it was the sea less than 500 metres away. This was the area of maximum danger, where locals would be moving around and where the Somalis would be most watchful.

I veered to the north-east, heading away from the few houses scattered on the outskirts of Kamboni. The ground here was soft, with less vegetation underfoot, and made for easier going. Then I hit the main coastal track, which was wide and flat, beaten down by the movement of traffic. I hunkered down a couple of metres back and waited.

Voices.

I lay down flat, slipping the rifle off my shoulder. I couldn’t tell at first where they were coming from. They sounded all around me. I twisted round, scanning my back trail, then checked to the north. Then I heard a burst of laughter and a familiar rattle.

It was the sound of someone slapping a magazine into a rifle.

It was enough to pinpoint the direction, and it wasn’t good news. They were standing just a few metres away.

I breathed carefully and felt a prickle of perspiration run down my face. By some miracle of luck, I’d avoided walking into a couple of sentries.

I started to inch away to the north, planning to cross the track further along. Then I stopped as something rustled nearby. I craned my head to see what — or who it might be.

And felt my skin crawl.

It was a snake. A big one, uncoiling from beneath a large tuft of dried grass.

I held my breath. Shoot it or back off? But this close even a silenced shot would be heard by the sentries, and there was no guarantee that I’d hit it. On the other hand, if I tried to move away and it took off after me, there was no way I’d outrun it.

We stayed like that for an age, and I tried not to torture myself with wondering if it was better being bitten by a mamba or a puff adder.

It must have been my lucky night. The snake eventually got tired of the game and slid away towards the track, disappearing into the shadows on the other side.

I did the same, giving the area a wide berth. Once near cover, I stopped again and checked my position. I had approximately half a kilometre to go to the village of Dhalib and a further kilometre to the villa.