Dead Centre - Andy McNab [74]
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.