Dead Centre - Andy McNab [84]
There was no gate. There wasn’t even a barrier into what looked like the coach entrance for this grand building. The wagon stopped next to four or five other pickups and cars. Burnt-out vehicles littered the area.
Awaale was already out of our wagon before the technical behind us had stopped. He sounded excited. ‘Come, Mr Nick. Now it is your time. Come.’
I followed him inside. It must have been a hotel once. A lobby the size of a football pitch opened onto a pair of sweeping staircases that, like everything else around here, had seen better days. The place had been stripped of everything that wasn’t nailed down. The glass in the windows had gone. Wiring had been pulled. There wasn’t a door in sight. Everything transportable had probably been sold as scrap or used to build the shacks we’d spent the afternoon beside. I was getting used to the smell: decomposing rubbish and burning rubber were once more the order of the day.
The staff and customers had been replaced by legions of young guys off their tits, eyes glazed behind their Elton Johns. Their smiles were gold-toothed and khat-stained, and that worried me all over again. I knew they couldn’t be controlled; I’d now seen it up close and personal. This was Mad Max country. I was in the Thunderdome.
Awaale led me into a ballroom. The whole environment changed. I could hear the hum of a generator somewhere. Arc lamps had been hammered onto the walls. The room wasn’t completely bathed in light but there was enough. Four young guys in Western dress were hunched over ancient PCs. One of them was keeping up to speed with Facebook. Another was admiring a picture in an online brochure of a happy couple at the big wheel of their even bigger yacht. This was Mog’s answer to GCHQ.
I followed Awaale to where two minging old brown settees sat either side of a US Army aluminium Lacon box the size of a coffee-table. The green paint was worn away and the metalwork looked like it had been dropped out of a helicopter.
‘Sit here.’ He pointed to one of the settees. ‘Not long now.’
Dust rose and caught in my throat as I followed his instruction. I shoved my day sack on my lap.
Awaale moved away. He gobbed off to one of the PC geeks and then checked everyone’s screen.
A minute or two later an old wooden tray arrived and was deposited without ceremony on the Lacon box. A pewter pot and two empty glasses took pride of place. Another glass contained sugar and a plastic spoon. I caught the aroma of mint as a man in his mid-sixties – seriously old for this place – sat opposite me. Awaale came and stood between us.
‘Mr Nick, this is Erasto. He will help get your loved ones released.’
Erasto wore a cotton skirt with a black and white check shawl around his shoulders. His feet, which stuck out of a pair of old flip-flops, looked like they were covered with elephant skin. An Omega stainless-steel Seamaster glinted on his left wrist. It was one of the watches I’d looked at when I bought my Breitling in Moscow. It had been way out of my price range.
Awaale handed him the envelope containing Joe’s airport tax. Erasto shoved it under his leg without taking his eyes off me. I felt like I was under a microscope.
Awaale poured the tea, just like Nadif had done in Bristol.
13
ERASTO CONTINUED TO stare at me. ‘Parla Italiano?’
The sandpaper voice sent me into a time warp. ‘No.’
He looked as disappointed as he probably had when we’d talked on Saturday morning. He turned to Awaale and waffled away in Somali. Awaale passed him a glass of hot water that smelt strongly of mint and nodded so much I thought his head might fall off.
‘Erasto wants to know who killed Nadif.’
The old man’s deep-set eyes bored once more into mine.
‘I don’t know.’
Now wasn’t the time to complicate things. I was talking to someone who might have the three bodies I was here to collect. That was all that mattered to me.
Awaale translated.
Erasto sat for a while, deep in thought.