The Watchman

Thirty-Six

It was late afternoon when I saw Xasan step out of the front door. He was followed by two of his men and walked to the edge of the property and stared out to sea, shading his eyes against the dying sun. He turned and looked at them once and shook his head, and I could see he was sweating. Heat or nerves? Moments later they were joined by others who stood in the background, eyes on the horizon.

Then they all got skittish and started looking at each other and slapping arms like it was Mardi Gras … or whatever feast day they liked to celebrate. Even Xasan managed a grim smile as he turned and tried to join in the celebrations.

I saw what had aroused their attention: three skiffs were heading for land, their slim shapes head-on nearly invisible without the aid of the scope. No wonder the security guys on the tankers had such a hard time spotting them; hugging the waves, they had virtually no profile and offered little in the way of a useful target.

By the time they reached the shore, everyone was standing in a line across the garden overlooking the sand, a ragged welcoming committee of men waving their rifles like something out of a spaghetti western.

The skiffs came in fast and smooth, the first one disgorging three men. The other two beached either side and their crews each proceeded to unload a number of bags, which I figured were supplies, and three green metal boxes which looked military in design. I snapped a bunch of photos and hoped Vale could do something with them.

The men from the lead boat walked up the beach, leaving the rest to do the heavy lifting. The man in the middle was tall and thin and carried himself almost regally with long, steady strides, his eyes straight ahead as if unconcerned with whatever might be going on around him. And why should he? He was the boss man.

Yusuf Musa.

He wore a small skullcap with a scarf looped loosely over the top, and the traditional skirt, kameez shirt and a waistcoat. A belt across his chest carried a line of shells and a slim cross-strap holding a cell phone like a badge of office. It wasn’t exactly traditional, but I guess if he was important, he could wear whatever he chose.

As he came nearer and I zeroed in on his face, the feeling of familiarity that I’d had before suddenly came rushing in on me.

He was a spit for Osama Bin Laden.

I settled lower in my hide and kept the scope on him. He approached Xasan and acknowledged him with a curt nod, giving the fat man something to get excited about at last. They embraced briefly and Xasan talked volubly, gesturing towards the other side of the house. When two of the men from the villa broke away and came back moments later dragging the loaded tarpaulin, it was obvious Xasan had decided to get in quick and spill the beans about the dead guard.

I watched Musa’s face. As an authority figure, I reckoned he’d be bored by this little exercise in sucking up by Xasan. But I was wrong. His head jerked up at the sight of the tarpaulin and he snapped an instruction which had everyone jumping to attention. The two men carrying the tarpaulin flipping it open so that Musa could inspect the contents.

Then he said something and Xasan pointed to a man standing to one side.

The second guard.

Musa called him forward. The man shuffled over, the others parting to make way for him. Musa asked questions, using a lot of finger stabbing in the air, and the guard replied, looking miserable.

Then Musa held out a hand.

With a chill feeling I knew what was coming.

One of his men handed over his AK. Musa spun it round a couple of times, like a fancy marine guard of honour. On the third spin, he turned it and jabbed the butt viciously into the guard’s face, knocking his head back and raising a spray of blood from his smashed mouth and nose. He said something else, but the guard was too stunned to answer, barely able to stay on his feet. With an almost casual air, Musa raised the AK and placed the top of the barrel against the doomed man’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

As he did so, he smiled.

The shot was flat and already fading as it carried up the slope to me, like it didn’t want to make a fuss about what it had just done. The dead guard was carted away by two men on Musa’s instructions, and seconds later I saw it being tipped into the waste pit.

For a long moment nobody moved. It was like they were stuck in the sand, not daring to be the first to break ranks. Then Musa pointed to the beach and some men moved away and fetched the three metal boxes, which they placed on the sand just down from the house. Musa watched them, nodding in approval, and after posting his two companions on guard outside, he followed Xasan into the villa.

I realized that I’d been holding my breath and let it out in one go. I’d seen summary justice before, but never witnessed it done so casually. Musa had clearly been intent on making a point, even stamping his authority on the men. But he’d also enjoyed it, as if it were an act of theatre.

It left me with a bad feeling.

Everything eventually settled down and the two supply skiffs cast off and disappeared towards the south at speed, their powerful engines echoing across the water. They were hugging the coast and probably heading for Kamboni. The new guards went inside and were replaced by two more. Suddenly everything about the place had taken on a fresh buzz, as if the atmosphere had been injected with a sense of urgency.

Two more guards came out after a while and took up positions, this time with a snap and fully alert. One of them, older and darker than his companion, began walking across the rear of the villa, studying the terrain around him and sniffing the air like a hunting dog. His AK-47 had an extended barrel like mine — a shooter’s rifle. Unlike the other men, his was cleaned and oiled, and he carried it across his body, leading me to suspect that he’d seen military service somewhere.

I watched as the range of his patrol became wider and wider, moving inexorably up the slope towards me, his face sombre and focussed.

Fifty metres and closing.

This wasn’t looking good.

I eased back in my hide and placed the tip of my rifle barrel on the rim, just inside the covering of branches. I made sure the ghillie was in place and made myself as comfortable as I could. If I had to, I could stand up and be on the move faster this way than lying prone. The Ka-Bar was in my belt and I could have it out in a flicker if push came to shove.

Thirty metres.

I could hear the hiss of his breathing now. He wasn’t particularly young, and I put his age at forty or more. He had the grizzled look of a hardened fighter, a man who had seen and done things that had earned him his place close to the head man. It made him a more formidable opponent than the guard last night, and I began working out my tactic for taking him down if he came too close.

Twenty metres.

He stopped barely fifteen paces away and looked over his shoulder, taking in the sweep of the beach, the villa, and the line of the coast away to the right. Then he spun and looked across the slope, checking out the ground from left to right either side of my position, quartering it in segments and not missing a thing.

He started forward again before spotting something on the ground. He stopped and bent down.

I held my breath and got ready to move. Had I left footprints at the front of the hide? I couldn’t recall. If so, it was a dead giveaway.

But he bent down and picked up something with a flash of red. It was the water bottle dropped by Madar. He examined it, unscrewed the top, sniffed at the contents, then tossed it away.

The bottle landed on the edge of my hide with a dull slap. It teetered for a moment, the water inside sloshing noisily, then tipped over and rolled down, slipping beneath the covering branches. It came to a rest against my leg.

I stayed absolutely still, not daring to blink, my eyes half closed. He was now so close, if he caught as much as a gleam off an eyeball, he’d be in on top of me before I could move.

Then he yawned and rubbed at his face, waving away a fly. My luck was continuing to hold. He had one empty eye socket, the flesh around it twisted and puckered, joining a long scar down the side of his face. An old battle wound.

A voice floated up the slope, and he turned his head.

It was the other guard, calling and waving an arm. He and a couple of other men were walking away from the villa towards Kamboni. They were all armed and looked eager to go. It looked like they had received orders, and I wondered what they were. Whatever they were doing, they clearly weren’t going far, and One-eye was expected to go with them.

He turned and walked away, and I breathed easily, thanking my lucky stars that his eyesight hadn’t rivalled the younger Madar’s. Maybe now I could snatch a brief sleep.

Ten minutes later I was jerked awake by the sound of gunfire.