The Kill Zone (31 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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The roadside buildings became more numerous, but no less devastated. Those buildings that were still intact were covered in graffiti. As the outskirts gave way to the city, Siobhan saw more and more people. They were all young men, dressed in an assortment of poor clothes and headgear. But what these people had failed to spend on their garments, they more than made up for on their weapons. As she peered round the back of the driver’s seat, Siobhan couldn’t see a single person not openly carrying a gun, and plenty of people carrying more than one. The men stood in groups, each group eyeing the others with suspicion.
The rotten smell grew stronger. The streets were littered with debris – rotting food, paper, hunks of metal and tyres. The outskirts of Mogadishu were behind them now; they were nearing the centre. It meant they couldn’t travel so fast because the streets were smaller and more crowded. The number of fires didn’t decrease – people just lit them seemingly at random by the road – and as Siobhan moved deeper into the city, she heard music blaring from unknown places. It was loud, Arabic in idiom, and somehow very threatening.
Not as threatening, though, as the looks they were attracting. Siobhan wouldn’t have gone alone into those terrifying streets for any money in the world; but the presence of the armoured car drew a lot of attention. Hungry-looking eyes watched them pass, and Siobhan knew what thoughts were behind them: what is
that
vehicle carrying that is worthy of such protection?
The driver slammed on the breaks. ‘What is it?’ Siobhan demanded, her voice quavering.
Nobody answered. They didn’t need to. Up ahead, maybe fifty metres away, there was a mob. They were moving up the road towards them, blocking the way. Siobhan could hear their shouts. Angry.
A weapon fired. The shouts swelled and the crowd continued to press towards them.
The driver didn’t hesitate. He knocked the truck into reverse and hit the accelerator. The vehicle screamed backwards, and people in the street had to run out of its way because the driver sure as hell wasn’t going to avoid them. ‘
What’s going on?
’ Siobhan screamed, but nobody answered because at that moment two rounds flew over her head. Instantly the air was alive with the sound of gunfire as her escorts opened up on the crowd. The mob faltered momentarily as two of their number fell to the ground, but they soon regrouped. By that time, however, the driver had put some more distance between them. They were at a crossroads now. The driver spun the wheel sharply to the left and the truck turned 180 degrees, kicking up a cloud of dust before they sped back in the opposite direction.
‘What was that?
What the hell was that?
’
It was the official who spoke. From his position in the passenger seat he looked over his shoulder at her. ‘That,’ he said with a nasty leer, ‘is Muqdisho.’
Siobhan’s heart was pumping as they continued through the confusing network of streets that made up the capital. She was lost and terrified, not knowing if these men truly were taking her where she wanted to go, or if they were just heading for some out-of-the-way place where they could rob and either kill her or leave her alone on these streets, which would end up being the same thing. The gun felt sweaty in her palm, but she clutched it firmly anyway.
They continued to drive.
When they stopped again, it was outside a set of steel gates embedded in a thick, high wall marked with bullet holes. There were four guards, clearly Somali, wearing body armour and helmets, and they stood not outside the gates, but inside. Beyond them was a compound of white buildings. Unlike all the others Siobhan had seen so far, it was relatively unscarred. The main entrance was a dark archway, and all the windows were covered with steel bars. Anywhere else in the world this place would look forbidding, but here it looked like paradise, even if the guards did warily raise their weapons at the truck.
The official turned to look at her again. ‘You pay us before you get out,’ he instructed.
Siobhan narrowed her eyes. ‘This is it?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘You pay us before—’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You get out. Go to the gates. I’ll pay you there.’
The official inclined his head but didn’t argue. As the two of them left the truck, she felt the eyes of her travelling companions on her, but she hurried towards the gates. Once there, she removed her shoe and took out the bundle of notes that she’d stashed there. She counted out some notes, then handed them to the official. How he shared them out with the others was his own concern.
The man shoved them in his pocket and nodded at her. Something seemed to pass between them. ‘Muqdisho,’ he said, ‘is not safe even for me.’ He looked in through the gates of the Trust Hotel. ‘You should not leave this place,’ he said.
Siobhan looked at him from behind the black mask of her burka. ‘I might not have a choice,’ she murmured.
The official shrugged, then turned his back on her. He looked strangely vulnerable as he walked back to the armoured car, his rifle slung across his back. But Siobhan didn’t feel inclined to watch him for long. From beneath her robes she pulled out her British passport and waved it at the guards. Their eyes widened slightly – it was clearly not what they expected to see from this burka-clad woman. But they opened the gates for her and let her in.
As Siobhan Byrne stepped over the threshold of the Trust Hotel, she removed her headdress for the first time since Djibouti; and as the gates shut behind her, she began to feel safe for the first time since she’d landed, though she knew this place was just a fragile bubble around which the whole city was burning and bleeding. She hurried towards the main hotel entrance, her whole body aching to get inside.
Past a gently swaying palm tree that stood sentinel in the courtyard.
Up the steps.
Through the door.
And then she stopped.
The reception room was large. Marble floors. Old mirrors on the wall. Plants in pots. But none of this caught her attention. Instead she was immediately transfixed by a small, neat figure at the long reception desk surrounded by four local bodyguards. He wore a dishdasha and had his back turned towards her so that his face was obscured. She recognised the voice, though, despite having only previously heard it over a crackly loudspeaker or on TV. It was quite distinct. That quiet, clipped, menacingly polite way of speaking.
‘I expect journalists from your HornAfrik radio station here first thing in the morning,’ he was telling the receptionist, speaking as though to a child. ‘Please ensure that they are afforded all possible courtesy. In the afternoon, a colleague of mine will be arriving. I wish to know as soon as she is here. We will be leaving the hotel after dark . . . Yes, I do understand the risks involved, thank you for your concern . . . No, no, it will not be necessary for the hotel to arrange security. I have already seen to that. Thank you for your help. You are most kind.’
Siobhan waited, breathless, for Habib Khan to turn round.
Their eyes met instantly. Khan frowned, then quickly regained control of his expression. He stepped through his ring of close protection and walked towards her.
‘Have we met before?’ he asked politely.
Siobhan had to think fast. Their paths had crossed only once, outside O’Callaghan’s pub; he had seen her for only a matter of seconds. Siobhan knew how people’s memories worked. The chances of him placing her were small.
She put her hand out. His palm was sweaty. ‘Alison Hoskins,’ she simpered. ‘Freelance journalist. Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV.’
Khan smiled blandly. ‘I don’t really watch the television,’ he said.
‘Mr Khan, isn’t it? I’m interested in your reasons for being here.’
‘And I’m interested in yours, Miss Hoskins. It is a brave woman who travels here alone.’
‘I had a UN escort. I won’t be leaving this hotel.’
‘You are sensible,’ Khan said. ‘I didn’t notice you on the UN flight out here.’
‘I’ve come direct from Washington,’ Siobhan lied quickly. ‘I wonder if I might have an interview.’
Khan seemed to relax. ‘Unhappily, my dear, my time is taken up. Unlike you, I am unable to enjoy the hospitality of this place for much longer. Perhaps tomorrow morning I can find a few spare minutes . . .’
Siobhan simpered at him. ‘That would be very kind, Mr Khan . . .’
But Khan was already turning his back. Siobhan could tell from his demeanour that he had already dismissed her as someone of no importance. He nodded at his men, then walked out of reception.
Siobhan exhaled deeply. Her head was spinning as she tried to piece together what she’d just learned. Khan had said he would be leaving tomorrow after dark. But he’d said more than that. A colleague was arriving. He wanted to know as soon as
she
was here. Siobhan remembered the words of the girl in the hospital bed.
They ship them out. Africa, they say. Places where white girls fetch a price . . .
Where would Khan be taking this newcomer after sunset? Siobhan didn’t know, but she had a pretty good hunch and she was damn well going to find out.
She pulled herself up to her full height and checked in.
4 JULY
17
Jack managed two hours of sleep, lying on a hard bunk in one of the huts usually occupied by safari guests. It was still dark when Markus’s voice woke him. ‘Hands off cocks, on to socks,’ the American drawled. ‘We got to get going.’
Heavy with tiredness, Jack swung his legs off the bunk. Next to him was a pile of items he’d taken from Markus’s stores. He took off his top and pulled on some body armour first. The plates were heavy, the material rough, but it felt like a second skin to him. Round his neck he looped a blade attached to a piece of cord so that it was hanging down his back, then he put his shirt on over the top. In most parts of the world, it was advisable to keep your weapons hidden. But Markus had told him that Somalia was different, that you’d attract attention if you
weren’t
obviously tooled up. For this reason, he fixed his Colt M1911 45 mm in a holster round his waist. Jack had also selected a smaller snubnose .38, which he strapped to his lower leg underneath his trousers. American stash, American weapons.
It was in a canvas bag small enough to be slung over his shoulder that he stored his main weapon: a Colt Commando. He added a Claymore anti-personnel mine with its clacker and 100 metres of det cord, a small quantity of plastic explosive, plus two fragmentation grenades and ammo for the weapons. Markus had also given him a camera, which he slung over his shoulder. ‘There ain’t much in the way of authorities over there,’ his fixer had said. ‘But if you come across any, tell them you’re a journalist. Grease their palms enough and they might decide to believe you.’
Outside he heard the sound of an engine starting. He left the hut and saw Markus behind the wheel of a 4 x 4, the headlamps bright in the darkness. Jack hurried up to it, took his place in the passenger seat and the former Delta man immediately hit the gas. He glanced sideways at Jack’s bulky bag. ‘Secret to a successful vacation,’ he said. ‘Preparation.’
‘Where’s your aircraft?’
‘Ten minutes. Relax, buddy, and enjoy the journey.’
Markus’s laid-back attitude was getting on Jack’s nerves. ‘Did you speak to your people?’
‘Sure did. Seems your man flew in on a UN flight and has got himself holed up in the Trust Hotel. Good news for you. The hotel is kind of an anomaly – just about the only place in that piece-of-shit city where you don’t have hoods with guns trying to put holes in you. Owner of the place pays off the leaders of the different warring factions. Keeps the place clean. Well, kinda. Ain’t the Waldorf, but you weren’t expecting room service, were you?’
‘What about a vehicle?’
‘I put the word out. There’ll be someone at the airstrip to meet you.’
‘Trustworthy?’
Markus snorted. ‘What do you think I am, a fuckin’ Avis rep?’ On the dashboard he indicated what looked like two large mobile phones with thick sturdy aerials. Iridium sat phones. ‘Take one of those babies,’ he said. ‘Number of the other one is scratched on the back. Means you can get in touch if the shit hits the fan.’
‘They secure?’ Jack asked.
Markus shrugged. ‘Company says so. They’re probably bullshitting, though. Don’t use it if you don’t have to, else you get me in the crap.’
06.30 hrs. Dawn was just beginning to creep into the air when they arrived at a nearby airfield. It was deserted apart from a couple of Kenyans smoking cigarettes by a small twin prop. As Markus stopped the car, the noise of the engine was replaced by the sound of a deafening dawn chorus: birds, of course, but also unfamiliar cries and shrieks from the surrounding countryside still blanketed in near blackness.
They approached the two men and Markus threw his car keys to one of them. ‘She ready to fly, boys?’
They grinned widely and nodded.
By the time Jack and Markus were both sitting up front in the aircraft, they had about twenty metres visibility. Jack strapped himself in while Markus started up the engines and checked his instruments before handing him a set of shades. ‘You’ll need ’em,’ he said. In a matter of minutes they were taxiing to the end of the runway. The plane turned and came to a halt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Markus announced. ‘Welcome on board this flight to hell on earth. In the event of an emergency, say your fuckin’ prayers.’ He turned to Jack and winked. ‘Happy fourth of July,’ he said.

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