Dead Centre - Andy McNab [101]
‘OK.’
‘I want it at the airport, soon as. Keep that aircraft on standby. It needs to be fuelled up, ready to go.
‘I’m trying to get the clan to help us. If you don’t hear from me by first light tomorrow morning, then I’ve fucked up.’
‘OK.’ He said it like he was agreeing to a pizza delivery.
There was a silence. I’d said all I needed to.
Frank filled it. ‘You’ve seen Stefan, yes?’
‘Yes, Frank. I told you. He’s alive. Get the money to Mog so I can keep him that way.’
‘Is he hurt? Is he ill?’
‘As far as I can see, he’s all right. He was with his mother. She’s looking after him. She’s comforting him. She’s thinking only of him.’
I let the message sink in for a moment.
‘There’s one more thing, Frank. If all goes to plan, I’ll find out what our problem was in the UK – who the guys were, the ones following me.’
I might have heard him sigh. ‘That would be good, Nick. Thank you.’
‘It’s not only for your benefit. I don’t want Tracy and Stefan lifted again, do I? I don’t want to go through this shit again.’
I closed down the phone. I still had to manage Frank’s expectations. And I still didn’t know which way the arch poker player was going to jump. For all I knew, he might choose to fuck over Tracy and BB and lift Stefan from the madrasah later. That wouldn’t be good enough for me. I had a promise to keep.
I dialled Anna. Things were about to get busy.
It didn’t even go to voicemail. A female voice waffled at me in Arabic. I knew I didn’t have a wrong number, so she must have been telling me that Anna’s mobile either didn’t have a signal or was switched off. I closed down. It had to be out of signal. Anna’s mobile was linked into her bloodstream.
Back in the bunker, Awaale was talking to his father. ‘He’s come back.’
I crawled under the burqa and got the sweat-covered mobile to my ear.
‘Mr Awaale?’
‘Mr Nick, you are—’
He sounded half asleep. There was no time to fuck about.
‘Your son has told you that I need some help?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Mr Awaale, with respect, please listen. Hear me out. See if what I say makes sense. If it does, I need you to talk to Erasto. Persuade him that helping me helps him. And for your time, I will pay you twenty-five thousand dollars, the same as I will pay your son. He can send it to you. You have my word.’
I heard him rustling about. Now that I had his attention, he was probably sitting himself up against his pillows.
‘Mr Awaale, I can offer Erasto two million US if he sends all of his guys to Merca today to help me rescue the three people I’ve come for. Erasto knows who I’m talking about. Whatever commission you need to share with him is up to you.’
There was silence as some serious thinking went on in Minneapolis.
‘Mr Nick, it will cost you more than that. This is very, very dangerous.’
‘There will be more. Erasto can take back the yacht that al-Shabab stole from him. Tell him there are also three pleasure boats here, as well as several cargo ships. He can take as many as he wants. Tell him that if he keeps paying al-Shabab, he’s only delaying the inevitable. He’s going to be fighting them at some stage. They will not want to stay out of his part of the city for long.
‘So why not carry the fight to al-Shabab? Why not show what great fighters and strategists he and his men are, with a preemptive strike? Hit them where they feel safe. Show them that he won’t stand for them coming in and taking over the part of the city that belongs to Erasto.
‘I can make that happen, Mr Awaale. I can help your son here plan the attack, like we did yesterday. He will be a hero, just like you. Maybe one day he’ll become head of the clan, because he knows how to carry the fight to the enemy. He can show the clan, again, today, what a great fighter he is. And Erasto’s part of the city could be his, one day.’
I waited for him to mull this over. Or maybe he was playing with me. I didn’t really care which: I just needed an answer.