Dead Centre

was four minutes past six. It wouldn’t be long before igama, the second call to line up for Maghrib. We needed to be on target by then.

This wasn’t good. The skiff crews should be answering their mobiles. Awaale needed to give them the order to move into the harbour. They should be on their way in by now. Erasto was getting enough fucking cash. Or maybe he thought there was more where that came from, and all he had to do was bide his time.

There were five skiffs, but I had no idea how many crew between them. Awaale said it was going to be no problem, he’d got it sorted. They were supposed to come from the other side of the cargo ships and hold position beyond the stretch harbour wall that ran parallel to the beach, covered from view and from fire. Those boats were our way out.

We’d RV with them down there. We’d get on board, have one final brief, and arrange the fire support group. Awaale liked the phrase ‘fire support group’. He’d been saying it all day, shoving it in between the Somali waffle as he spoke to the crews on his mobile.

The fire support group would stay with the skiffs, to protect them and cover our move back down the road from the square. Awaale would take the rest of the crew with him. This assault group would split into two. One would pound the court-house with RPGs, machine-guns, everything they had, killing anyone running out of it and any AS who decided to leg it from the mosques and back up their mates. As that kicked off, Awaale would take me and the rest of his guys around the back of the court-house, along the dividing alleyway and into the compound. The locals would be at prayers. The one rule was: no zapping civilians. Apart from anything else, we’d be in enough shit if we were captured without having that hanging round our necks.

There had to be AS in the court-house, even at prayer time. And the prisoners next door had to be guarded. I’d seen six hard men in the compound an hour ago, sitting in the shade while the prisoners found shelter where they could. The new lot were the group of four we’d passed in the street earlier this morning, headed up by the tall Pakistani.

All I was going to do was scream into the compound and tell everybody to take cover before Awaale’s team got busy with the RPGs. The crew’s orders were then to kill any AS they saw, while I went and dragged the five of them out. Simple as that.

I’d steer them behind the court-house while Awaale kept giving us fire support — and then we’d get our heads down and leg it along the road to the skiffs. Awaale and his crew would then withdraw, and we were off. In and out in ten minutes.

That was if the fuckers answered Awaale’s call.

2

Adhan was still being called. The muezzins’ wails drifted from minarets all over town.

I nudged Awaale. ‘Try again. If there’s nothing, we’re on our own.’

I gripped the AK under my burqa. Even if these fuckers let me down, at least it looked like BB was in the mood for a fight. And if Ant and Dec had two brain cells between them, they’d throw their lot in with us as well for their own survival. I’d worry about what to do with them once we were out of this shit. If they didn’t want to help, that wasn’t a problem. I’d just do what I was there to do.

Now igama was being called. Time to cut away from Awaale.

I pointed at the upturned skiffs. ‘I’ll meet you back here. Try and get one of these fucking things into the water. If you can’t, we’ll chuck a left and get back down the beach. We’ll just have to take our chances.’

His mobile rang.

I dropped back to my knees. ‘I told you to turn that fucking thing off.’ I poked his shoulder with my finger. ‘Keep it on vibrate. We’re not supposed to be here, are we? We should be praying.’

‘Sorry, Mr Nick.’

He answered the mobile with a voice that was a lot quieter than the ring. I could tell by his tone that he wasn’t getting any good news. The arc lamps in the square made the place look like a football stadium. I could just about make out the shape of his pepper-pot head in the ambient light as he stared at me through the mesh.

‘Erasto … He wants more money. He wants four million.’

‘He can have three. And I want an answer, yes or no, right now. If he delays this deal, it isn’t worth a thing. It’s going to be too late because they’ll be dead. Tell him three million, yes or no. I’ve no time to fuck about.’

He put his hands up. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

Erasto must have heard me. I fucking hoped so. Awaale mumbled into the phone as I got back to my feet. He brought it down from his ear, and I saw the screen light dim.

‘He’s thinking.’

I leant closer to him, keeping my voice low. ‘Well, while he’s thinking, they’ll be dying. I’m going up there now. He’s fucking playing me, isn’t he?’

The pepper-pot nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘You were expecting that, no? This is business. I heard your call today.’

‘If you still think this is business, Awaale, you’re missing the point. There are two kinds of people up in that compound: my friends, and your enemies. He’s not going to get more money out of me, so fuck the lot of you.’

I heard a shout from where the road met the harbour wall. A male voice, and angry. An AS fighter strode towards us, yelling the same word, over and over. I didn’t know what it was, but didn’t need Awaale to translate. We were in the shit and getting a bollocking, big-time.

AK slung over his shoulder, he gesticulated furiously at us as he moved closer. We stayed on our knees, kept our heads low, acting subservient. The AS kicked sand at us. I hoped he was just asking why the fuck we weren’t at prayers.

Awaale mumbled something in a high-pitched voice. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t have done it. Luckily the AS was too busy shouting and kicking sand to be able to hear. We tumbled to our feet, but kept submissive. Awaale started to walk away, back along the beach. I followed.

I glanced back. The AS picked up a couple of rocks and came after us, still yelling abuse. He hurled one of his freshly gathered missiles towards us. It missed me but hit Awaale square between his bony shoulder-blades. It must have hurt like fuck. I heard a grunt, then felt a kick on my left thigh. His sandal made contact first with the AK under the burqa. The magazine rattled. The sound was unmistakable. And I knew he would have felt the solid wooden stock.

He unslung his own weapon and stepped back. I started to raise my AK, but I knew I was a nanosecond behind the curve.

Awaale rushed past me, hand held high in the air. He brought the rock down hard on top of the AS warrior’s head.

The AS went down. Awaale dropped to his knees in the sand and the rock rose and fell again and again and again.

Awaale’s mobile started to ring.

The screen glowed in the sand. I picked it up.

‘Erasto? It’s Nick. Si o no? Si o no?’

Awaale stood over what was left of the AS, fighting for breath. He dropped the rock, knelt briefly beside the body and wiped his bloodied hand on the dead man’s shemagh.

I passed him the mobile. There was about fifteen seconds of waffle. He pulled off the head of his pepper-pot and threw it on the ground. ‘Erasto says yes.’

He began to fish his rings out of his pockets to put them back where they belonged.

I grabbed him with my spare hand, making sure I kept the other on the weapon. ‘Mate, I’m going now. By the time Erasto’s lads get here and you’ve sorted them out, we might have run out of time. If they do make it, remember this: the crew looking after the skiffs, the fire support group, they must not fire at anything coming up or down the road that leads to the harbour wall. Do you get that?’

‘Yes, Mr Nick. I know. They know.’