Dead Centre - Andy McNab [73]
These lads seemed keener to give each other a hard time than to give me one. There was lots of tooth-sucking and flashing eyes. It took me straight back to my own schoolyard – on the days I bothered to turn up. They weren’t happy memories. I used to ask Sharon King out at least twice a week. But I didn’t stand a chance. I was white and a minger.
Back in the real world there were two items that they all had in common. The first was an AK. You name the variation and the style, they had it. The second was a pair of outrageous sunglasses. Mirrored, star-shaped, wraparound or John Lennon, China’s rejects had found a home here. Elton John and Edna Everage would have been 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.