Authors: Chris Ryan
The Kill Zone (28 page)
Siobhan walked with as much confidence as she could. Although she had darkened her skin and her eyes, she was still wearing Western clothes, so she had to rely on her well-practised ability to disappear in a crowd. It was a state of mind – the moment you looked unsure of yourself, you’d stick out. And if that happened, she’d be surrounded by kids and beggars in an instant.
Siobhan needed clothes. She might not feel entirely safe here in Djibouti, but she knew how much less safe she would be dressed like this over the border. So it was a relief when she saw what she wanted: a stall, presided over by a dark-skinned man so hunched up and wrinkled that he looked almost like a different species. He didn’t have much to sell – a few brightly coloured shirts, some underpants, shoes that looked as if they’d already had several not-so-careful owners. And, at one end of his rickety old rail, what looked like a big sheet of black material, and a veil.
Siobhan pointed at them and nodded at the old man. He mumbled something she couldn’t understand, so she just handed over a few notes. From the toothless grin he gave her, she assumed she’d overpaid, but that didn’t matter. She took the material from the rack, folded it over her arm, then turned and hurried back to her hotel.
She locked herself in her room, then spread the black clothing out on her bed. Siobhan had never worn a burka, of course. In fact she’d never really seen one, and it took a while to work out how to put it on. It was too big, and she had to tie it in places to make it fit properly. Even in the supposedly air-conditioned hotel room, the extra layer of heavy clothing was almost unbearably hot and heavy. But at the very least the grille of the veil covered her face. Siobhan removed the headdress for now, then killed time in her room for a couple of hours before preparing to leave.
When she asked the guy at reception if he could organise a taxi back to the airport, he looked faintly amused before disappearing out into the street and coming back in with a thin-looking man chewing the ever-present khat. The taxi driver looked spaced out, but Siobhan wasn’t in a position to argue. She climbed into the back of his cab and wasn’t entirely surprised to see a hole in the floor that displayed the road below. The taxi driver jabbered away in Arabic all the way to the airport. It didn’t seem to worry him that Siobhan said nothing.
The aircraft was already waiting to depart when she got to the airport, an Ilyushin Il-18 turboprop looking like something that might have flown behind the Iron Curtain thirty years previously. She put on her headdress before checking in, then walked to the departure gate.
There weren’t many people waiting to take that trip to Mogadishu. Siobhan was one of only two women; the remaining men, about twenty of them, were without exception dark-skinned and lean – the kind of tough thinness that comes from hardship. A few carried briefcases – God only knew what business they were up to. Some of them had gathered into little groups, and within those groups a few men talked with animation. But the different groups eyed each other with suspicion, and Siobhan, despite her burka, or maybe because of it, drew some curious and hostile glances. These men clearly didn’t trust strangers.
A flight attendant called them forwards. Siobhan allowed all the others to board first. That way she could be sure of getting a seat by herself. She didn’t want people asking her questions, and not just because of the language barrier. It would be stupidity, she knew, to let anyone realise just how vulnerable she was. It was going to be difficult enough on the ground without letting her travelling companions know that she was a white woman travelling on her own to the most dangerous country in the world.
Siobhan handed her ticket to the woman at the gate. She glanced at it, glanced at Siobhan, and then spoke. ‘
Attendez-vous, s’il-vousplait.
’ The woman took the ticket and the passport, then disappeared while Siobhan stood at the gate, feeling a hot surge of panic in her veins. What the hell was going on?
Attendez-vous, s’il-vousplait.
’ The woman took the ticket and the passport, then disappeared while Siobhan stood at the gate, feeling a hot surge of panic in her veins. What the hell was going on?
When the woman returned, she had two other men with her. Siobhan recognised one of them immediately – the grey hair and the Manchester United shirt of the man from the Daallo Airlines counter. The second stood out because he was white, and Siobhan immediately noticed a tattoo creeping below his sleeve on to his right hand. He had the physique of a rugby player, and the sweat on his brow made him look like he was in the middle of a match. As he walked right up to her, she noticed that his nose was squashed flat and he didn’t smell too fresh.
He jerked his thumb towards the Man U fan. ‘Bibi tells us you’re getting on this flight by yourself.’ He had a South African accent.
Siobhan surveyed them through the grille of her burka. ‘Bibi talks too much,’ she said.
The South African moved quickly. He grabbed one sleeve of Siobhan’s robes and tugged it up, revealing a flash of white skin where she hadn’t applied the fake tan. Her reaction was immediate. She grabbed his wrist in a fierce grip and pushed it away.
The man grinned. It wasn’t a very nice look. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting, love,’ he said, ‘that there’s a lot more beautiful white skin under those robes.’ He looked around. ‘A lot of Kaffirs round here. Unless you’re planning to get it together with one of them, I might be a better bet.’
He raised his hand again and made to lift her headdress.
‘You even think about it,’ Siobhan hissed, ‘and I’ll break your fingers.’
He paused. And then, clearly realising that she meant what she said, he lowered his hand again. ‘Break my fingers,’ he said, ‘and I might not be able to pleasure you the way I’d like. You really thinking of getting on that plane?’
‘I really am.’
‘Don’t.’
All of a sudden, the lasciviousness had fallen from his face.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Doesn’t matter who I am, love. Let’s just say I’ve made the trip a few times. Don’t get on that plane.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’ Siobhan turned to the woman and held out one hand for her passport. She reluctantly handed it over.
A moment of silence. The South African leaned in even closer. ‘You got American dollars?’ he asked.
Siobhan nodded.
‘When you land, don’t even think of handing over your passport without a fifty-dollar bill. They won’t let you in without a bribe, and it’s not something you want to discuss with them, all right? Keep the rest of your money hidden in your shoe. At least that way they’re less likely to take it off you while you’re still alive.’
‘Who’s they?’
The man shook his head. ‘Anyone, love. Anyone. Have you ever handled a weapon?’
Siobhan sniffed. ‘Now and then.’
‘Buy one at the airport.’
‘Who from?’
‘Anybody. If you can, hire someone to look after you. Better still, hire several people. I don’t move around the country without at least six guards. Make sure they’re armed.’
‘How do I know I can trust them?’ Siobhan asked.
‘You don’t. But without them you’ll be dead the moment you enter the capital. Before, probably. Keep the burka on. It won’t stop you being robbed, but it might stop you being kidnapped, or shot on sight. There’s only one safe place to stay in Mogadishu. It’s called the Trust Hotel. It’s where foreign journalists stay, and it has electricity and running water. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll go straight there and not leave until you need to get out of the country. If you get there, make sure you get a room on the ground floor.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if the place gets hit by an artillery shell, you might escape.’
Siobhan nodded again. Despite herself, she felt a surge of gratitude towards this ugly man.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
The man shrugged again. ‘You’re not a journalist,’ he said. ‘If you were, you’d be taking the UN flight in. And you’re not a pro, otherwise I wouldn’t have to tell you this stuff. So whatever it is you’re going to Mogadishu for, you need to ask yourself whether it’s worth risking your life for. You’d be much safer coming back to my hotel with me.’ He had reverted to his former self.
They stared at each other. Siobhan thought about O’Callaghan and Khan. Most of all, she thought about Lily.
‘I don’t want to keep the plane waiting,’ she said.
Siobhan grabbed her passport and ticket, then turned her back on the others and started walking towards the aircraft. When she glanced over her shoulders, Bibi and the South African had gone.
15
Nairobi. Flight time from London, eight hours. An eight-hour journey to a different world.
From his cramped window seat on the 747, Jack saw the hazy Nairobi skyline shimmer in the late-afternoon sun and the city dust. As the plane circled in a holding pattern above the city, the captain announced that the passengers would be able to see Mount Kenya to the north, and Kilimanjaro to the south-east. Jack could also see the green, wooded districts that surrounded Nairobi. It was an impressive sight, but he knew from experience that those mountain regions and those woods hid more sinister backwaters. Nairobi presented to the world a face of prosperity and democracy, but that face hid the reality. Political corruption, widespread crime – Kenya wasn’t the worst place in Africa, not by a mile, but like everywhere on the continent it had its problems. Step away from the comfortable tourist spots and you needed to be on your guard.
Jack wasn’t heading to the tourist spots of Nairobi. In fact he wasn’t heading to any spots. Once he’d touched down and gone through security, he went straight to the departures area of the airport. It was busy and hot. Long queues snaked round the concourse; men and women gathered chaotically around the bureau de change; almost everyone seemed to have a cigarette in their mouth. Jack stood by a billboard that showed a giraffe with the skyline of Nairobi in the distance, and which announced in jolly red letters ‘Kenya! Safari capital of the world!’ He scanned the crowds, his eyes searching something out.
‘My friend!’
A young black boy – he couldn’t have been more than sixteen – was suddenly standing by him, grinning with a mouthful of large, yellow teeth. He held out a small wooden figure.
‘My friend, this is for you. A gift for you, my friend!’
Jack ignored him. The boy took it in good spirit. He put one palm to his chest and grinned even wider. ‘Oh!’ he announced, like a ham actor on the stage. ‘In Kenya, we are all friends. You must not turn your head away. Do not be hard like a coconut, my friend!’
Jack didn’t listen to any more. He grabbed the kid by the front of his shirt and gave him a hard stare. The smile dropped from the boy’s face.
‘Go away,’ Jack told him, before throwing him backwards. The boy managed to keep his balance, but scrambled away from Jack, all arms and legs, to where a small crowd of his peers were waiting. They gave him some unpleasant stares, but none of them looked like they were going to start tapping Jack for any cash.
He continued to scan over the heads of the crowds on the concourse. Along the far wall he saw a line of booths, each with glowing signs advertising safaris in various parts of the country. Jack strode towards them and as he grew closer he examined each one. Most of them had two or three people standing by them, some of them white. One, at the end, attracted no one’s interest. The sign above the booth read ‘Rainbow Safaris. Discover the hidden beauty of Kenya at the Arawale Nature Reserve’. It was illustrated with indistinct pictures of lions, elephants and buffalo. Below the sign, sitting at the booth, was a bored-looking Kenyan. He didn’t look much more animated when Jack approached him.
‘Rainbow Safaris?’
The Kenyan nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘When does the next excursion leave?’
‘Full,’ the Kenyan said.
‘I didn’t ask if it was full. I asked when it leaves. My name’s Jack Harker.’
The name meant something to him. Markus had done his work. The man made a sucking sound with his teeth, then started writing out a ticket. ‘One hour and a half, Mr Jack,’ he said as he handed it over with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. ‘Have an enjoyable safari. I hope you find what you are looking for.’
Yeah, Jack thought as he walked away from the booth. Me too.
The aircraft was a twin prop. Jack didn’t know how many flight hours the thing was built to manage in its lifetime, but he felt sure it had exceeded them a long time ago. Half the seats had been ripped out to make room for cargo, and that space was now filled with sealed wooden boxes containing God knew what.
The Kenyan who’d told him the plane was full hadn’t been exaggerating. Jack was forced to use a spare cabin-crew seat, which didn’t go down well with the crew themselves, who treated his lack of luggage and his sudden addition to the passenger list with suspicion. There were no other white faces on the plane, which made Jack suspect that not many of the passengers were heading off on safari. That made sense. There were other, more popular safari destinations in Kenya, and in any case not many foreigners would be keen to take an internal flight scheduled to land, as this one was, after dark.
They took off at 18.30 hrs, and the light was already beginning to fade as the old plane bumped its way through the air, heading east out of Nairobi and travelling a little more than an hour before it started to lose height in sudden, unprofessional lurches. The pilot, Jack decided, wasn’t an expert. There were no trays of plastic food and complimentary coffee on this kind of flight. You just felt thankful to touch down in one piece.
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