The Watchman

Sixty-Nine

Waiting for a target to present itself is the hardest part of making a kill. It requires patience and stamina in equal measure, and a fair degree of luck.

At least the conditions were ideal — at least, as ideal as I could wish. A friendly breeze was coming off the ocean, light but not excessive, bringing with it the smell of salt and a promise of warm air. The few clouds in evidence were tufts of cotton wool, high in the sky and inoffensive, strung out across the Indian Ocean in silent decoration.

Down on the beach area to my front, the sand was dotted with small birds, burrowing for breakfast and snatching at bits of debris brought in by the tide, tossing them aside in disgust before going on to the next piece of flotsam.

I checked once more that the ghillie net was securely in place and that nothing had slipped from the overhead covering of camouflage I’d put in place during the night when I’d arrived and dug in. Then I took a sip of water. Dehydration can be a killer.

A movement caught my eye, and I felt a flutter of tension in my gut. Tension is OK. As long as it doesn’t take over the motor senses and induce the shakes — or the opposite and just as bad — paralysis. I relaxed as a white pelican cruised by, effortlessly elegant as it followed the waterline and used the air currents to keep it aloft, a gentle giant among the smaller birds in the region.

It reminded me of Piet and his beloved Daisy, now waiting several clicks inland, checking fences while waiting for my call. Not quite so elegant as the pelican, but just as confident when off the ground.

More movement, this time land-based. I checked the scope on the AK and watched as a group of figures appeared. They were about three hundred metres away and walking down the beach from the villa, moving over the damaged area of sand and debris thrown up by the Hellfires. Vectoring in too low and taking out a large area of dunes right in front of the building, they had thrown up, according to Vale, a misleading image which had convinced analysts that the building and everyone in it was toast.

Vale, though, like me, had found otherwise. The villa had survived and the pirates were still in place, now reinforced with extra men and boats and no doubt counting on the strike’s failure as an omen for the future.

Down at the water’s edge, two of Musa’s skiffs were anchored in the shallows, long black slugs against the blue sea and white sand. Their on-board shelters were up and ready to go, and I figured they would soon be heading out to the Gulf in search of prey.

Nothing had changed. It’s what pirates do.

The two men in the lead were easy enough to identify. Musa, tall and arrogant, clan chieftain, al-Shabaab member and a man with a deep hatred of the west. And with him, Xasan, chubby fixer, go-between and suck-up with an abiding love of money and the ability to talk a good talk while managing to avoid risking his own skin.

The two men walking behind them carried AK-47s, but looking bored by the regular morning walk Musa made them take just so he could have them watch his back. According to drone footage they followed the same route out along the beach and back twice a day, invariably at the same times. It showed the amazing arrogance of the man, assuming himself to be beyond the reach of any punishment just because his enemies had tried once and failed.

I zeroed in on Xasan. He was lagging a half-step behind Musa, walking with the great man but obviously not his equal. He didn’t look any happier than the guards and appeared to be finding it difficult to walk on the sand, which I put down to his soft build and lack of exercise. I hoped he was suffering as much as he looked. He wore a loose robe with a simple belt around his large gut, and looked more like a comic figure from a Disney film than the extremist he really was. But soft as he appeared, he was no less dangerous in his way than the man he was following.

Musa, on the other hand, looked ready for the day. He was dressed as I’d seen him the very first time on this same stretch of beach, climbing out of his boat and striding up to the villa: in a traditional kameez under a waistcoat, with a small skullcap on his head. The belt of shells across his chest and a cell phone in a pouch completed his attire. As always, he walked like a man on a mission, head high and chest out, and I wondered how much of it was for his own benefit rather than for his followers.

I stretched out in the shallow trench I’d dug myself, bracing my toes against the dried roots of an ancient palm tree that had seen better days. It had lost its crown, but cast enough of a shadow to give me ample cover against the sun. The ghillie net and a layer of crackly palm fronds did the rest, making me invisible from all but the closest observation.

I checked the beach to the south, beyond the villa and the fishermen’s huts of Dhalib, and further, the town of Kamboni, which was just out of my line of sight. A distant clutch of boats lay moored at the water’s edge, the building heat haze already making them shimmer and bob about. There was no sign of other movement, though, which was good.

I bent back to the scope and the targets leapt into view. The two guards had veered off towards the water, and I guessed they had been told to go check out the boats. After what I’d done to the previous three, I was surprised they didn’t have a twenty-four-hour armed lookout posted. But maybe Musa was as guilty as anyone would be in this remote and deserted spot of that simple belief: that lightning couldn’t possibly strike more than once.

Don’t believe it, pal.

In spite of the guards walking away, Musa hadn’t relaxed his pace, and was clearly intent on covering some ground before getting down to the business of the day. Maybe it was some kind of zen thing; preparing himself by focussing on exercise and isolation, and clearing his mind ready for making plans. Although with the fat man slopping along behind him and puffing like an old horse, I doubted it could have been very peaceful.

I checked the suppressor was good, and flicked off a stray fragment of leaf that had fallen on to the barrel. I could take my time; get it right.

I’d spoken to Vale twice since coming back. He hadn’t been happy with my plan, but wasn’t in a position to argue. What he had done was provide me with the latest intel from camera drones, courtesy of his friends in the CIA, and get Piet on stand-by for a pickup.

‘If you clicked your fingers,’ he’d told me, sounding faintly envious, ‘you’d have most of the Basement joining you on this job — and they’d do it for free. Tober’s got a lot of friends who all figure they owe you for pulling him out.’

‘Nice of them. I left a man once before; I won’t do it again. How is Tober?’

‘He’s fine. Restless, but fine. Pryce says hi, too.’ I knew he was desperate to ask questions but it would have to wait. I said I’d be in touch and signed off.

The two guards were coming back from inspecting the boats. But they weren’t watching Musa, as they should have been doing; they were staring up at the top of the beach and the area beyond.

Right where I was lying in wait.

I wondered if something had given me away. One of the men stopped walking and plucked at his shirt, producing a small pair of binoculars. He held them to his eyes and began scanning the area.

I knew I’d run out of time. Work on guard duty long enough and you get a feel for when something isn’t right. It doesn’t have to be obvious, like a person standing out of place or a strange vehicle parked where it shouldn’t be, or even the absence of birds, which I was guessing was the case right now. It could be something in the air, a feeling that made the hairs move on the back of the neck.

Some call it instinct.

I stayed absolutely still, aware in my peripheral vision of Musa and the fat man moving along the beach. I mentally crossed my fingers. If Musa picked up on his guards’ concerns, he’d have the phone out and the rest of his men heading on down here in an instant, armed and looking for bear.

Which would leave me no way out.