The Watchman

Twenty-Seven

‘We are nearly there!’ Xasan turned in his seat and shouted at the two SIS representatives. As he did so, the engine noise decreased and the plane’s nose began to drop.

After relieving them of their cell phones outside the Crowne Plaza in Nairobi, Xasan had ordered his driver to take them at speed to the airport. Instead of pulling in at the main terminal, they had driven to a side entrance and through a cargo gate manned by a single security guard. The man had nodded them through without bothering to run a security check. After driving a short distance along an access road past a line of warehouses and hangars, they had pulled up alongside a plane with its engines running, puffs of dark smoke issuing from the engine nascelles.

At a word from Xasan, they climbed out into the acrid smell of aircraft fuel and burnt rubber.

‘What the hell is that?’ Angela muttered. ‘A flying horsebox?’

A chunky, twin-engine design, the plane had seen better times and had the ingrained scars of reddish dust along its undercarriage and on the large rubber tyres and nose wheel. Small repair patches had been riveted at various places on the skin, no doubt concealing incidents in its chequered past.

‘Pretty apt description,’ said Tober, ignoring a sharp reprimand from one of the guards nearby. ‘It’s a Skytruck — a variation on the Antonov. They call it a STOL — short take-off and landing. This one’s a Polish M Twenty-eight. Good plane.’

She stared at him. Was he showing off or trying to take her mind off the idea of going anywhere in this flying death trap?

He read her mind. ‘I’ve jumped from one just like it — and not because I had to.’

‘Where?’ She realized she knew nothing about Tober save that he had an extensive background in Special Forces, and was now employed to use those skills on SIS operations.

‘In the States, then Venezuela. They can land pretty much anywhere, and unless the pilot woke up this morning and decided this is the day he wants to die, we should be fine.’

‘Quiet! No speak.’ The guard who had spoken before didn’t like being ignored. He pulled out his pistol and shoved it towards Tober’s head, eyes wide with anger.

Tober looked coolly at the gun, then at the man, and said, ‘OK, Bonzo. Will do. But first go fuck yourself.’

‘Enough.’ It was Xasan, holding out a restraining hand towards the gunman. He flicked a hand to make him go away, then looked at Tober. ‘I would remind you, Mr Tober, that you are not the … what do you call it — the lead, in these negotiations. You are here as a courtesy. And the use of obscenities is extremely offensive.’

He turned and issued orders to his men, and they all filed on board the plane and took seats in the cabin. Two of the guards sat at the back, their eyes firmly on Tober, while Xasan and the other guard took seats at the front.

The pilot watched them without comment, then turned and got ready for take-off. Minutes later, they were racing down a secondary runway, the airframe around them rattling with the thrust of the engines. After leaving the ground, the plane seemed to hang in the air for too long before levelling off, and the note of the engines changed from desperate to merely urgent.

Angela watched Xasan. He had his head turned away, but she could hear him muttering to himself. She hoped he was praying. The three guards were made of sterner stuff, although innocence probably gave them no idea of what would happen if the aircraft fell apart in mid-flight.

As they began to descend, she caught a glimpse of the ground below and, further on, the startling blue of the Indian Ocean. The contrast between the two was vivid: the ground was featureless, a brown-green camouflage patchwork with no visible signs of life, while the sea looked inviting and serene. She thought it was deserted, but on closer examination saw a couple of skiffs close inshore and a group of smaller craft with white sails heading out towards the horizon.

The aircraft banked sharply, turning inland, and she saw a villa below, standing alone on a bare expanse of land. Several men were standing around, looking up. They seemed neither interested nor excited. They were all armed.

The plane levelled out and dropped further. This time she glimpsed a sizeable sprawl of buildings in the distance, which she guessed was Kamboni. Moments later, the ground was rushing by, and all she could see was a blur of small trees, brushwood, coarse grass and what looked like dangerously large boulders just feet away from the plane’s wheels.

The landing was bruising, the nose rearing up at one point, then going down again with a bump. The aircraft fishtailed alarmingly before the pilot brought it under control, but Xasan’s men seemed unaffected, laughing and commenting as they were thrown around in their seats.

A flash of white through the window showed a large 4WD about a hundred metres away, with a man sitting on the bonnet clutching an AK-47.

Tober nudged her with his elbow. He indicated Xasan with a lift of his chin.

The Somali middleman was suffering, his shoulders bowed and lips moving in what could only have been agonized prayer.

As the plane bumped to a stop and the engine noise decreased, Angela couldn’t help it. She said, ‘Are you all right, Mr Xasan? You don’t look so good.’

He didn’t respond, but the set of his shoulders told her she had scored a brutal hit.