The Watchman

Eighteen

I recognized De Bont as soon as he walked into the foyer of the hotel, if only because he stood out among the dark suits and floral dresses. He was of medium height, heavy in the shoulders and chest, like a weightlifter, with rust-coloured hair in a brush cut, a spiky moustache and pink, sunburned skin. He was wearing a tan shirt and shorts, which on him looked like some sort of uniform.

He saw me, hesitated for a moment, then came over to where I was sitting.

‘Mr Portman?’ He held out a hand the size of a small shovel. ‘I’m Piet. Hope I’m not late.’ His accent was pure Afrikaans, with a faintly harsh rumble in the throat.

‘No. Shall we get a drink?’ It wasn’t yet fully hot outside, which suited me fine, but the air was dry and gritty, and making my eyes sting. I nodded at the bar, which was full of a convention of businessmen and women. ‘We need somewhere more private to talk.’

‘Sure. I know a nice bar along the street here. Air-con and privacy guaranteed.’ He turned on one heel and led the way out of the hotel, into the noisy, traffic-filled atmosphere of central Mombasa. Out here was a different world to the one in the hotel, and we were soon lost among a mass of humanity, honking vehicles and the smell of a busy city. If we’d had the time, I would have enjoyed the atmosphere.

We found the bar and settled at a table to the rear. It was gloomy, cool and deserted save for a barman, the air heavy with the smell of stale tobacco and alcohol. The barman wandered over and handed us a drinks menu without a word. Piet ordered beer and I had coffee. I needed to be awake for the next two days at least and didn’t need alcohol to get in the way.

‘Tom Vale mentioned you,’ I began, ‘and said you could help me move around. He said he’d settle the bill.’

He nodded but looked guarded. ‘Is Tom still keeping the empire safe?’ It was a hint that he knew what Vale’s job was. Up close I realized he was older than I’d first thought — somewhere in his early fifties at least — and he’d probably been around the block a few times if he’d served with the South African National Defence Force.

‘I don’t work for Vale. Just doing a job for him.’

‘Sub-contractor, huh? I did that for a while, after the army. Paid well enough but the conditions were shit and there was no pension. Where is it you want to go?’

I told him. The details on the data stick Vale had given me showed a map of the very north-eastern corner of Kenya, where it butted up against the Somali border, about 150 kilometres north of where we were now sitting. The nearest Kenyan town of any note was Kiunga, on the coast. Further north and it was into what Vale had referred to as pirate country.

Somalia.

Piet grunted. ‘Long way to go for easy trouble. I’m guessing this is covert, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You planning on stopping long?’

‘I don’t know yet. I hope not. It depends on others.’

He stared at me without expression. ‘I figure. How soon do you want to get there?’

‘Today would be good. Are the roads passable?’

‘The roads are shite, my friend. They’re mostly rock, ruts and rubble, and sandstone the rest of the time. They run out, in any case, before you get near that place, so it’s overland and tough going. It’d take a couple of days — that’s if you didn’t break down or run into trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Poachers, bandits … trucks on the wrong side of the road driven by guys high on booze or drugs who don’t give a shit. It’s not an easy place to travel. Does it have to be today?’

‘By this evening — tomorrow morning at the latest.’

His eyebrows lifted and he sank some beer. ‘Forget the roads, then.’ He checked his watch, which was sunk into the skin of his wrist. ‘We can get a flight to Malindi up the coast in a couple of hours, then fly into the Kiunga area this afternoon.’

‘Is there a local strip?’ I hadn’t seen anything on the maps Vale had supplied, but landing strips were often nothing more than a beaten stretch of track or grass cleared of rocks and shrubs. In fact, other than deserted beaches and some dubious tracks, the whole area looked like nothing but scrub, acacia trees, thorn bush and rock-strewn patches of rolling grassland, with palm trees bristling along the coastal stretch. ‘I’d rather not turn up where everybody can see me.’

He smiled in a knowing way. ‘That’s how I work, too, which is lucky for you. Did Tom tell you what I do?’

‘Vaguely.’ I was guessing as a wildlife ranger he was accustomed to not making his presence too obvious, especially when tracking poachers.

‘Good. I’ll fill you in as we go.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘You got everything you need?’

‘I have.’