‘Just get on with it. Start driving.’
We rolled past the party boys, who threw a couple of bottles at the wagon for a laugh. The girls wiggled their arses.
We bounced on through the darkness of the square, heading for the main. I sparked up my iPhone.
‘Awaale — stop here. Turn off the lights.’
He did so.
I dialled Jules. It didn’t ring for long.
‘Nick?’
‘AS do have them. Have you any contacts? Will they negotiate? Any way I can get hold of them?’
‘We’ve had no negotiations with them. Ever. No success liberating anybody from AS.’ He went quiet for a moment.
‘How far is it by road to Merca?’
‘Nick, it’s dangerous. Please, think about this …’
‘How far?’
‘Maybe a hundred kilometres. You’ll be dead by morning. It’s crazy.’
‘So what’s new? I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’ll be dead by morning. Jules, I’m going because I made a promise to a mate.’
‘But, Nick — think of Anna …’ There was an edge of desperation in his voice.
‘Jules, listen. I made a promise to my dead mate that I’d look after his wife. So that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘Nick, hang on — we need to talk.’
I closed down, and got straight through to Frank. ‘Are your boys in Nairobi? Will they be able to get hold of cash within a couple of hours?’
‘Yes. The pilot is at the ready. Your problem … the problem you had in the UK. Did you lose them?’
‘Dunno. I’ll call again when I have something solid to tell you. Stand by.’
Awaale sat there, trying to make sense of it all.
‘Right, we’re going to Merca. You’re going to stay with me. I need a local speaker, and I need a black guy. And that means I need you.’
He flapped his hands anxiously in front of me. ‘But, Mr Nick, the roads — please … It’s so dangerous …’
He slapped his cheeks. ‘No face hair … and you, you will not make it. Erasto can help you. Maybe he—’
‘Stop. It ain’t going to work. Dangerous roads?’
‘Yes, they are dangerous. But Erasto—’
‘Awaale, shut up. We’re not going to take the roads. Let’s go.’ ‘Where?’
‘Erasto’s a fucking pirate, isn’t he? We’re going to get ourselves a boat. Come on — chop-chop.’
16
Flames flickered behind crumbling walls each side of the deserted streets. It reminded me of Aceh, only here the devastation was man-made.
‘Where are we going now? How far?’
Awaale hit the airport road and followed the unlit strip around the perimeter beyond the terminal. ‘We take the boats from the beach, Mr Nick.’
‘The pirate boats?’
He nodded.
That was good. If they could travel five hundred miles out to sea in those things, hugging the coast would be a piece of piss.
‘But Erasto, he will be very, very angry, Mr Nick.’
‘No, he’ll be very, very happy — because I’ll pay him when we get back.’
I studied Awaale’s face in the glow from the dash. His sensitive, intelligent features didn’t belong in a place like this. ‘Why did you come back to Somalia? Things must have been a lot better in Minneapolis. You’re an American citizen, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He shrugged. ‘But I am young, and I am a Muslim. It doesn’t matter what passport you hold. My father wanted me to stay, to keep on trying. Even a McJob …’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘It may not look like it, but it’s better here. I send money to my father, he sends it to others in Minneapolis who need it. It’s better here.’
Our headlights splashed across the line of decaying hangars and dilapidated Soviet fighters on concrete blocks. Soon we were in the world of sand and rusting hulks that separated the top of the runway from the docks. A shanty town had grown up around the large commercial ships that had long since been run aground. The closer to the beach we got, the deeper the rusting wrecks had settled into the sand. Threadbare men huddled around the small fires that glowed in the darkness. Keeping a firm grip on their bottles and AKs, they shielded their eyes from our main beams as we passed.
Awaale pulled up alongside one of the groups and tilted his head at me, looking for permission to jump out. I nodded. He stepped down onto the sand and rattled away in Somali. Erasto was mentioned more than a couple of times. The locals didn’t rush forward. I couldn’t work out if they were being cautious or frightened.
‘Mr Nick, this way.’
I also didn’t know whether Awaale was basically just a very good guy, or if the mention of payment had made all the difference to our relationship. It wasn’t long since I’d been threatening him with the AK; now he was leading me willingly to a row of skiffs. I could just make out their shape a few metres short of the surf.
We waded into a foot of water. It was warmer than I was expecting. The wooden craft were maybe five metres long and a couple of metres wide. A Mercury 150 outboard was bolted straight into the wood at the back of the nearest one. There were no fancy fuel bladders or metal tanks, just three white plastic twenty-litre drums. A hole had been drilled into the black screw caps to accommodate the fuel line.
There was a rubber squeeze pump about halfway along the pipe to propel the fuel into the engine without an air blockage, and that was it on the technology front. The three containers were tied together but not secured to the boat. Sixty litres, I reckoned, would equate to about a 150-kilometre round trip. That should be all right. And it could easily take five of us.
I shouldered the AK alongside my day sack, and helped Awaale pull the boat fully into the water. A light breeze brushed our faces. ‘Do you know exactly where Merca is?’
‘Sure. It’s the first town.’
The last foot or two of keel cleared the sand and the skiff bobbed up and down at chest height beside us.
‘We can’t miss it?’
He stared at me. ‘
I heaved myself over the side and onto the worn wooden deck. There were two cross benches, one at the back by the engine, and one mid-ship.
‘No, mate. You’re coming.’ I grabbed the shoulder of his shirt and gave it a tug. ‘Come on.’
He was suddenly very concerned about the mobile and cigarettes in his shirt pocket. ‘But, Mr Nick, I
‘Tough shit, mate. You’re coming.’
I pointed to the fuel pump. ‘There you go, get squeezing.’
I released the retaining lever that kept the propeller clear of the water. As I tilted the engine down, the boat swung side on to the incoming waves.
There were no electrics on this thing. Opening up the choke, I tugged the rope starter cord until the outboard kicked off. I twisted the throttle on the tiller, turned the choke down to halfway, and revved some more. The stink of fumes washed over us; smoke must have been billowing from the exhaust. I let the revs drop, pushed the gear lever to forward and started turning back offshore.
I wanted to get beyond the surf before chucking a right. We should be in Merca in about three hours. Awaale
