Dead Centre - Andy McNab [96]
The top of the pepper-pot nodded once more. I turned towards the beach. ‘OK, let’s go, then.’
The heat really was unbearable under this thing.
21
WE PASSED SKIFF after skiff along the shore line. Some bobbed up and down in the waves. Others had been dragged up onto the sand. In the distance, cargo ships and yachts were silhouetted against the horizon.
I moved closer to Awaale. ‘Is one of those the Maria Feodorovna?’
The top of the pepper-pot swivelled. His breath rasped as he laboured to speak. It was like a sauna inside these things.
‘The white one, on the far left.’
‘What happens now? They just sit there?’
‘AS – they will sell them to pirates. They offered it back to Erasto. But why would he want it? He can go and steal another one. They’ll stay here until someone buys them.’
‘Will they?’
‘No.’
‘So they stay there until they rot?’
Awaale didn’t need to answer. He waved an arm. We’d come to an area of rusting hulks and the remnants of boats that had broken up in storms and washed ashore.
Awaale went to move on but I held him. ‘Where is the jail from here?’
‘We stay on the beach for a while. But then we must go into the town. I’ll take you, Mr Nick, and then we leave and you work out how to free them, yes?’
‘Yes. Just as I said – and, yes, you will be paid if you help me get them back to the airport.’
He turned, no doubt relieved.
‘One more thing, mate. Why did Erasto want to know who killed Nadif? Why did it matter to him? It’s not as if you lads worry too much about that shit, is it?’
His voice dropped. ‘Nadif was his brother, Mr Nick. He was family. Erasto will find who killed his brother, and then he will kill him.’
22
DUNG FIRES SPILT a sweet, almost herbal smell from the chimneys as we made our way into the town. The main drag was about twenty metres wide. People were already out and about. They’d want to get their business done before the sun was at its fiercest. After midday, they’d bin it until last light – which would just leave the mad dogs and Englishmen to go about their business uninterrupted, with any luck.
Like everybody else, we kept in the shade. All the women were covered up, in one way or another. Most of them carried large empty plastic containers. On the way home they’d be full of water for the day’s washing and cooking.
I caught a glimpse of some al-Shabab hard men in tribal dish-dashes and shemaghs down a side road. Long, wild beards on top; bare feet and sandals beneath. They carried AKs or RPGs. I stooped even further and kept on shuffling.
I thought about the old guy at the house. Fuck knew what he thought about Awaale coming to knock on his door to ask for a couple of burqas. I hoped they weren’t distinctive in any way. I didn’t want one of their mates to come rattling over for a chat.
This looked like the newer part of town. It would have been built at the same time as the Soviets were installing a missile facility at the port of Berbera in the 1970s and transforming Somalia’s 17,000 armed forces into some of the strongest on the continent.
The bottom metre or so of the palm trees had been given a lick of white paint a few years ago. They were all bent away from the sea. The monsoon winds would have done their best to flatten them each year. I could have done with a bit of a breeze today, although I didn’t want our burqas to do a Marilyn Monroe.
The same photocopied A4 flyer seemed to be pinned to every door and fence. I kept my speed down, but didn’t move so slowly that I drew attention to myself. I bent forward, concentrating on the AK. I gripped it hard against me to stop the steel mag slipping out of my hand. I was sweating so much under this thing the skull band must be soaked on the outside. The mesh slit was a nightmare to look through. Even so, I could see this place was totally different from