Fair Game (15 page)

When the Americans had moved on, various Somali warlords fought over the airfield and eventually Crazy Boy had emerged victorious. He had been magnanimous in victory, though, and allowed other gangs to use the facility from time to time, provided they paid handsomely for the privilege.

The Americans had also built a control tower but it was now only used to store food and drugs, so when the pilot called up on the radio asking for a wind reading his request went unanswered. The co-pilot spotted a windsock and pointed it out to the captain, who then set the plane up so that it would be landing into the wind. Crazy Boy peered at the watchtowers anxiously. There were two men in each, and while he could see that they had AK-47s at least they weren’t being aimed at the plane.

The co-pilot twisted around to check that Crazy Boy had his seat belt fastened and flashed him a thumbs-up. Crazy Boy grinned but his stomach was churning. It was all very well for Blue to reassure him that everything was under control at the airfield but Crazy Boy knew that the majority of his men were trigger-happy teenagers who were high on khat most of the time.

The plane banked again and lined up with the runway and the undercarriage came down. It was a perfect landing, as smooth as when the British Airways jet had touched down in Nairobi. They taxied to the control tower building where half a dozen bare-chested men toting AK-47s were waiting. The pilot cut the engine. ‘How long will you be staying, sir?’ he asked Crazy Boy.

‘An hour. Maybe a bit longer. Then back to Nairobi.’

A tanker drove up and pulled up at the side of the plane, ready to refuel it. One of the bare-chested men was smoking a cigar, and when the pilot climbed out he spoke to the man and asked him to throw it away. The man swore at him in Somali and levelled his weapon at the pilot’s chest. Two of his colleagues did the same and the pilot slowly raised his hands.

Crazy Boy got out and pointed at the man with a cigar. ‘Put that out, that tanker’s full of fuel.’

The man kept his weapon pointed at the pilot’s chest. ‘I don’t obey orders from him,’ he said sullenly, gesturing with the barrel.

‘He’s responsible for the plane,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘But you do obey orders from me so do as you’re told and put it out.’

‘And who the fuck are you?’ said the man, still chewing the cigar. The men either side of him had recognised Crazy Boy and they moved away, avoiding eye contact with him.

‘That’s Wiil Waal,’ said a gruff voice from above them. ‘Crazy Boy. So you show him some respect, else he teaches you some manners.’

Crazy Boy looked up and saw Blue leaning out through an open window two storeys up.

The man with the cigar took a step back as if he’d been punched in the chest. He was a teenager, nineteen years old at most, tall and scrawny with a scar running across his left cheek. He was wearing Nike running shorts and flip-flop sandals and a New York Yankees baseball cap back to front. ‘Wiil Waal?’ he said.

Crazy Boy turned to sneer at him. The other men had scattered, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the man with the cigar, like a pack of zebra abandoning an infirm member of the herd to the lions.

‘I didn’t know,’ said the man. He took the cigar out of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked around with wild eyes as he realised for the first time that he was now standing on his own.

Crazy Boy held out his hand and the man offered him the cigar, holding the wet end out towards him. Crazy Boy shook his head and pointed at the AK-47. The man put the cigar back in his mouth and held out the gun with trembling hands. Crazy Boy took it, checked the action, then lazily pointed it at the man’s chest, his finger on the trigger.

The man took the cigar from his mouth again and let it fall from his fingers. It tumbled through the air and sparked as it hit the ground.

The door to the control tower building opened and Crazy Boy’s uncle appeared, carrying his own AK-47. He was wearing a camouflage jacket open to reveal his bare chest, and shorts that had once been white but were now a grubby grey. He grinned when he saw the gun in Crazy Boy’s hands. ‘I see you’ve met Erasto,’ he said. ‘He’s a new addition to the gang.’

‘If he’s new then he won’t be missed,’ said Crazy Boy, his finger tightening on the trigger.

‘Blue, I didn’t know,’ said Erasto, tears running from his eyes.

‘You do now,’ said Blue. He slung his AK-47 on its shoulder strap.

‘Please, tell him how hard I’ve worked for you, how I’ve pledged my loyalty to you.’

Blue chuckled. ‘Tell him yourself. You have a tongue.’

Erasto dropped down on to his knees in front of Crazy Boy. ‘Please, Wiil Waal, I meant no disrespect.’

‘No disrespect? You asked me who the fuck I was. How is that not disrespect?’ Now the barrel of his weapon was pointing at Erasto’s face.

‘I have only been working for Blue for a month, I had heard of you, of course, but no one told me you were coming today.’ Tears were running down his cheeks. ‘I am sorry for the offence.’

‘And now you want to make amends?’

Erasto nodded fearfully. ‘Yes, Wiil Waal. Anything.’

Crazy Boy grinned cruelly. He prodded the still-burning cigar with his shoe. ‘The cigar is the problem,’ he said. ‘Make it go away.’

Erasto frowned, not understanding what he was expected to do.

‘Eat it,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘Eat the whole thing. Or die. I’m happy either way.’

Erasto looked tearfully at Blue but Crazy Boy’s uncle stared back impassively and shrugged.

Crazy Boy pushed the gun against Erasto’s forehead. ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said.

Erasto groped around with his hand and found the cigar. He picked it up and stared at it. It was still smouldering. He took a bite out of the wet end, chewed it and swallowed. He gagged and almost threw up.

‘All of it,’ said Crazy Boy.

Erasto stared at the lit end, his eyes wide and fearful. He slowly opened his mouth and put it in, then bit down hard and began to chew frantically. He whimpered and then swallowed and then crammed in the last bit of the cigar. He choked and put his hands over his lips and forced himself to swallow.

Crazy Boy grinned over at his uncle, then slammed the butt of his AK-47 across Erasto’s face, breaking his nose. Erasto fell back, blood pouring over his mouth. Crazy Boy dropped the AK-47 next to the injured man and went over to Blue, his arms outstretched.

Blue hugged him, and patted him on the back. ‘You’re getting fat,’ he said.

‘But not soft,’ said Crazy Boy, only slightly offended. Blue was right, he had put on weight since he had moved to the UK. The food was better and he didn’t believe in exercise for the sake of it. In Somalia he had always been on the move, but in his big house in Ealing he spent most of his time playing on his Xbox or screwing hookers.

‘You should come back to Somalia for a while, come back on the boats,’ said Blue, slapping his washboard stomach. ‘It would toughen you up.’

‘Maybe one day,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘But for the moment I’m too busy in London.’ Blue put his arm around Crazy Boy’s shoulder. ‘Come on in out of the sun, we can talk inside.’

The two men walked into the control tower building. There were four camp beds lined up by a window with kitbags full of clothing next to them and several dozen boxes of bottled water. Blue took Crazy Boy up a concrete staircase and pushed open the door to the main observation room, with windows on all sides which ran from knee height up to the ceiling. There were torn plastic covers over the computer equipment and radar screens.

‘We should use this equipment,’ said Crazy Boy.

‘We don’t have anyone trained to use it, and even if we did, what would be the point?’ said Blue. ‘We always know when a visitor is expected, and anyone who isn’t expected, we shoot.’ He laughed and went over to a large desk and waved for Crazy Boy to sit on one of the high-backed executive chairs there.

‘The pilot didn’t even know what direction the wind was blowing,’ said Crazy Boy.

‘That’s what the orange thing is for,’ said Blue. ‘It points with the wind.’

‘OK, OK,’ said Crazy Boy, not wanting to argue with his uncle. Blue was as tough as an old boat’s timbers, but like many Somalis he was naturally lazy and given the choice would always take the option that required less effort.

‘Tea?’ said Blue. ‘Or coffee?’ He laughed. ‘Or something stronger?’ He pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk and took out a bag of freshly cut khat leaves.

‘You read my mind,’ said Crazy Boy.

Blue tossed the bag to Crazy Boy, then took a second bag out of the drawer for himself.

Crazy Boy stripped off a handful of leaves and slotted them between his lips. ‘So how is Roobie?’

‘He’s just got back. Six days at sea and nothing.’

‘Still wishing he was in London?’

‘That’s his dream.’

‘It’s not that great,’ Crazy Boy said. ‘We’re not liked there.’

‘When did Roobie ever care about being liked?’ Blue laughed. ‘When did any of us?’ He stripped off a handful of leaves.

‘There is something we need to discuss,’ he said. ‘It’s about our friend Ahmed. He requires more funds.’

‘What is he planning this time?’ asked Crazy Boy.

‘American embassies in four different countries across Africa. Simultaneous attacks with massive car bombs. A spectacular, he says. Something that will force the Americans to react, because when the Americans react they always overreact.’

‘And how much does he need?’

‘As always he is vague,’ said Blue. ‘But I think the closer to a million dollars he has, the happier he would be.’

‘Is he speaking for himself or he is part of a larger plan?’

Blue chuckled, ‘You know that Ahmed always keeps his cards close to his chest. That’s why he’s never been caught.’

Crazy Boy nodded. ‘Tell him I’ll send him the money when I get back to London.’ He leaned forward. ‘But what we are planning to do is far more important than blowing up a few embassies,’ he said. ‘That is why you must follow my instructions to the letter, brother of my father.’

‘You know you can trust me, son of my brother,’ said Blue.

‘With my life,’ said Crazy Boy.

The door was thrown open and a tall man walked in, his skin as black as coal, his hair in grimy ringlets that hung down to his neck. He wore a leather necklace from which dangled a shark’s tooth, and a camouflage T-shirt that was stained with sweat. ‘You are back!’ shouted the man, and he walked over to Crazy Boy, hugging him tightly and kissing him on both cheeks. ‘We have missed you, brother.’ He was in his mid thirties, some ten years older than Crazy Boy.

‘Roobie, good to see you,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘
Ma nabad baa?
’

‘
Waa nabad
,’ said Roobie. He released his grip on Crazy Boy and took a step back, grinning. ‘You are getting fat, cousin.’

Crazy Boy shrugged. ‘I don’t get the exercise I used to,’ he admitted.

‘You should come back on the boats,’ said Roobie, patting Crazy Boy’s stomach. ‘You would soon be in shape again. And how is Gutaala?’

‘Good,’ said Crazy Boy.

‘He has his passport? He is a British citizen now?’

‘Soon,’ said Crazy Boy. He patted Roobie on his shoulder. ‘It is good to see you, cousin, but I have business to discuss with my uncle.’

Roobie frowned. ‘We are all in this business together, are we not?’

‘This is not about the boats, cousin. This is something else.’ He smiled. ‘But when we are done we shall sit and talk, OK? We have many things to discuss.’

‘I want to come to London, cousin. I have been on the boats long enough.’

‘Later,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘We can talk about this later.’

Roobie slapped his cousin’s chest. ‘It’s always later, Wiil Waal. Whenever I ask you about London you tell me later, next time, some time, but I think that you mean never. I have been patient enough.’

Crazy Boy’s face tightened and he looked across at Blue, wondering why his uncle did not have better control over his son. Roobie was Crazy Boy’s cousin, the son of his uncle, but that did not entitle him to question Crazy Boy’s authority.

‘My son, this is not the time,’ said Blue, but his voice was soft, almost pleading, and it had no effect on Roobie.

‘It’s never the time,’ he said angrily, then he turned back to Crazy Boy and smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Cousin, please, I’m not asking the earth. I’m only asking for what you have done for Gutaala, and he is not your blood. And Levi’s and Sunny, they are all in London, why am I still here? Why have I been left behind?’ He looked over at his father as if seeking his support, but Blue studiously avoided eye contact with him.

Crazy Boy shook his head. ‘Two Knives took himself,’ he said. ‘He paid for his own passage, the Chinaman in Mogadishu did it for him. Levi’s and Sunny, too. You can do the same. Get yourself to London and I can introduce you to the lawyer who can get you asylum. Guaranteed.’

‘But you are a wealthy man, cousin. Why can you not pay for me and I will pay you back?

‘Because it does not work like that, cousin,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘You must prove yourself, you must earn your passage.’

Roobie’s eyes blazed. ‘You think I haven’t earned it? How can you say that? How many ships have I taken for you?’

‘Ships that I have given you,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘I tell you which ships to take, I pay for our boats, our weapons, I pay for your food when business is slow. I take the risks so of course I take the rewards. How could it be any other way?’

‘You take the financial risks, cousin, but don’t forget who is taking the real risks.’ He pounded his fist against his own chest. ‘I put my life on the line, cousin. For you and for my father. So you’re saying no? You’re saying you won’t help me?’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘I’m saying you have to help yourself,’ said Crazy Boy. His lips were starting to go numb from the effects of the khat. ‘To claim asylum you have to show how you got into the country. If they find out that I brought you in there will be trouble for both of us.’

‘So you can give me money and I will pay the Chinaman,’ said Roobie.

Crazy Boy shook his head. ‘If I did that, every man in Puntland would be beating a path to my door, and who would then be out in the boats?’