Dead Centre - Andy McNab [91]
‘Calm down, mate. It’ll be first light soon. Then you’ll wish it was cooler.’
His head dropped. I throttled up and headed south. I needed to keep the shore to my right. It would be all too easy to wander off to the east as the lights disappeared.
17
WE PASSED WHERE the runway jutted out into the sea. Whatever lights were there began to fade. We powered on into inky darkness. There were no points of reference. As long as we kept to the phosphorescent line where the surf started to form, we should be OK.
I checked the time on my iPhone. I’d left the Breitling with the 911. We had about four hours until first light. In this part of the world, sunset and sunrise were fairly consistent events, give or take ten minutes, at any time of the year. It was up at six and down at six. If we were still going by first light and the sun was directly to our left, we’d have overshot. We’d be on our way to Kenya and Tanzania. If the sun came up and we were facing it, I’d have seriously fucked up. We’d be heading east: next stop the Seychelles or, worse still, India.
I left Awaale to his own devices and checked the iPhone. I still had five full bars. Reception was better here than anywhere in the UK. It was another good indication that the coast was within sight. If I started drifting east I’d be losing signal.
I sparked it up. Anna took a while to answer.
‘Nicholas? Where are you?’
‘On a boat. I’ve just left Mogadishu. I think we’ve found them.’
‘Wait – when did you get to Mogadishu?’
I explained everything. I couldn’t really tell what she thought about it. ‘Jules thinks they’re in Merca. So does my Somali friend. I’ve got nothing else to go on. So that’s where we’re heading.’
Then it became very clear what she thought. She was angry. ‘Nicholas, AS, they’re dangerous. Even al-Qaeda won’t deal with them. They’d get taken hostage too. They don’t bargain. They don’t negotiate. Why didn’t Jules warn you?’
‘He did. But I don’t have a choice, Anna. I made a promise.’
‘What promise?’
‘To a mate.’
Her tone changed. If I’d had a mother who cared, she would probably have sounded like Anna. ‘Nicholas, I’m worried sick. Please think again.’
‘What would you do?’ There was a pause. I heard gunfire in the background. We both knew that was the answer. ‘You OK up there?’
‘Everything’s fine. It’s just anti-aircraft fire trying to hit the French bombers.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Mistrata. We got a lift on one of the casualty ships from Benghazi. Gaddafi’s navy is attacking the port. The US Sixth Fleet are firing on them. The French are bombing from the air and the rebels are fighting street to street. It will be a long battle. But, Nicholas … Please, please, please be careful. You need to stay alive. You really do.’
‘What for? For you?’
There was a pause. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, in that case, you’ve got to stay alive as well, for me. Deal?’
‘I need a call from you every day, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Promise me? Every day?’
‘Yes, I promise. Every day.’
Awaale had curled up below the bench. He really was the eternal optimist. He was never going to get comfortable down there as we bounced through the water.
‘You all right, mate?’ I had to shout over the wind and the roar of the engine.
‘The sea … it makes me very sick.’
‘Sick? You’re supposed to be a pirate!’
Awaale gave a groan.
‘Get up, mate. You’re going to feel a whole lot better sitting up.’
He wasn’t listening. ‘These people – Tracy and the child. They’re not your friends, are they? You’ve been sent to take them home.’
‘It’s a bit of both, mate.’
I left him to his misery and tried not to think about sleep and food: I needed both. But they were going to have to wait. To my half-right, in the distance, I saw ribbons of light.
The iPhone told me it was four thirty – about another hour and thirty before the sun came up. I wanted to get there in time to check that it was Merca and