Dead Centre

green with envy.

A fair number of them were gobbing off into handheld radios. Joe was right. They did like to talk. A 1990s Nokia ringtone came to join the party.

Not one of these guys was older than twenty-five. It wasn’t because they were early achievers: most of the older ones were probably dead. And they were grinning like idiots. Either they were happy to see me, or high as fucking kites.

What worried me most was that their nervous energy came not from a lack of bravery but too much of it. Their teeth were stained black and orange from a lifetime’s khat, the chewing leaf of choice. They were probably paid in food and drugs, just like the insurgents in Iraq — or anywhere that needed its warriors to be fed, fearless and fuckwitted.

The boys went quiet as the passenger door opened on the technical nearest to me, the one without a heavy gun. A pair of real leather shoes emerged, then trousers and a clean blue shirt, tucked in but unbuttoned like a 1970s porn star. Their owner unhooked his wraparounds and welcomed me with a Colgate smile and a warm handshake. His fingers and right thumb were ringed with chunky gold.

‘Ah, Mr Nick. It’s me, Awaale.’

The guy giving a welcome as if we were old mates was about the same height as me, but skeletal — rather in keeping with the Twilight accent I’d heard on the mobile. He had deep, hollow cheeks, a goatee perched on his narrow chin, and the air of a man who might have been around since the sixteenth century.

I took my shades off too as he brought his other hand out towards me, but not just to shake.

‘Do you have the airport tax, Mr Nick? Otherwise your friend can’t take off.’

He held out his left while still shaking my right.

I’d made yesterday’s call from Nairobi, something Awaale wasn’t expecting. I told him I was sure none of us wanted to waste time, so I would come to Mog and do the deal. He rang back after talking to the boss. He liked the idea. So here I was. What he didn’t know was that I was coming to get them out anyway — with or without a smile and a handshake. But this way was better and safer for all of us.

I handed over the envelope. He let go of me so he could open it and start counting. No one was going anywhere until he had the right money. The lads behind him passed around cigarettes and started to waffle into their radios all over again.

There was a burst of automatic fire in the mid-distance, followed by a loud bang less than a kilometre away. The birds jumped out of the trees, but nobody else took a blind bit of notice.

He finished counting and gestured to the double-cabbed technical he’d arrived in. ‘It also means that you will not require a visa today.’

I nodded my thanks. ‘Am I going to see them now?’

He echoed my smile and patted me on the back like a long-lost mate. He opened the rear door for me. Cold air hit my face.

‘Soon, Mr Nick. First we will drink tea and discuss their freedom. You have the money?’

‘Some of it. I’m doing my best. The families are doing their best. We’ve got some money together.’

His grin widened. He knew I was bluffing. There was going to be no three million. We were both playing the game.

I stepped up into the air-conditioned cab.

‘Is this the first time you’ve been to my country, Mr Nick?’

‘It’s not got the best reputation as a holiday destination, has it?’

He laughed. Shouting at the crews in local, he jumped into the front. The driver wore a green military-style shirt. He turned the wagon in a wide circle and tucked in behind the first technical as it headed past the terminal. The other lads fell in behind us. We had ourselves a convoy.

The dash and steering wheel were covered with cut-to-shape felt to stop them melting in the African sun. The whole cab reeked of cigarette smoke. Every surface was caked with dust and nicotine.

Awaale spoke without looking at me. He just leant back a bit in his seat so he could make himself heard above the music.

‘I think you’re wrong, Mr Nick. I think we have much here to delight the tourist. I’ll show you.’ He slapped the driver’s shoulder and waffled away in local. The two of them had a good laugh.

‘Will I be seeing Tracy, Justin and Stefan today? I need to know they’re OK.’

He put up his hand. ‘Yes, of course. No problem. But later.’

I leant forward. ‘Are they OK? On the recording Tracy said she was ill.’

‘Yes, everything is OK. You bring the three million, and you take them home to their loved ones. Easy.’

He planted the mobile in his ear and started waffling. The happy tone had disappeared.

4

The moment we left the airport compound, all I could see was dust, decay and destruction. Even the exit onto the main road was just a bunch of breezeblocks and a pile of sandbags. A couple of lads lazed against them. One sat astride a crumbling wall. All the signs were hand-painted, even the one that said Security. Nobody gave a fuck.

We turned onto a wide boulevard. I couldn’t tell which side of the road they drove on here. Nor could the driver. We bumped over the remains of the central reservation and continued into the face of the oncoming traffic. Mountains of festering rubbish and the rusted remains of burnt-out vehicles lined each edge of the crumbling tarmac.

Coming towards us were four green Russian BTR armoured personnel carriers, their massive petrol engines belching out clouds of exhaust. Lots of helmeted heads stuck out of the tops.

No one gave the eight-wheeled monsters a second glance as they moved off to the side of the road and stopped. We carried on past. The black stencilling on the sides told me they were UN troops from Uganda. Not that I could see any troops any more. The helmets had dropped down into their APCs, only popping up again once we had passed.

Awaale tapped my shoulder as I peered back through the cab’s rear glass. ‘They are no trouble, Mr Nick. They just want to go home to their wives and not die in the dust.’

He sat back and he and the driver had a laugh at Uganda’s expense.

Any building that was anything more than a shell or a heap of grey rubble looked like it still had people living in it. The ads on their walls had either faded or been shot away by AK and 12.7 rounds.

Every open space was clogged with makeshift shelters, round stick huts covered with layers of rags, or shacks made of scraps of wood and rusted wriggly tin.

I saw now where the smog came from. Tyres were burning everywhere, sending plumes of black smoke over the low rooftops.

The pavements were filled with people just lounging about, doing nothing. What was there to do? Most of the women were burqa’d up in black or bright orange, with scabby kids at their heels. Old men in loose cotton skirts and worn-out plastic sandals crouched in the uneven shade of the acacia trees. The Italians must have planted them years ago, and they still hadn’t quite given up the struggle. Telephone poles leant at crazed angles, with a metre or so of wiring hanging loose.

There were a few vehicles on the road but nothing to slow us down. A wagonload of goats had nothing on a 12.7mm machine-gun. Every single wall was pitted by strike marks from RPGs or rounds. After years of fighting the government, the Americans and finally each other, the whole place was shot to fuck. And the red desert continued trying to reclaim the city for itself.

Awaale was still gobbing off into his mobile. He was happier now. I could see the old smile on his lips in the rear-view mirror. Before long he placed a Marlboro from the pack in his shirt pocket between them and lit up. The wagon bumped up and down, almost in time with what sounded to me like the same never-ending song on the radio.

Cars and pickups suddenly crammed the streets. Rusty trucks leaking diesel and minging old French saloons