The Kill Zone (32 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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And with that, the aircraft gathered speed, lifted off and rose into the early morning African air.
The flight time was three hours. They flew in silence.
There was nothing to mark their crossing from Kenya to Somalia. Nothing to tell them they had passed over the border into the most dangerous country in the world. Beneath him, Jack saw the sun light up the African plains. He was glad of the shades as he surveyed beautiful patches of gold and green and brown, and to the east, the blue of the Indian Ocean.
It was only when they started to lose height that Markus spoke, and then only briefly. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said.
Jack looked out towards the horizon. In the distance he fancied he could see the edges of a built-up area, shimmering hazily by the ocean.
Mogadishu.
It looked so harmless from up here. Like it was asleep in the sun. Jack found himself wondering if Siobhan had made it there. And if she had, whether she was even still—
‘We’ll be getting in at a good time. The city tends to be relatively quiet before three p.m. After that, the technicals come out to play. When it gets dark, place is a goddamn war zone.’
Markus turned to look at him, a shrewd expression in his eyes.
‘Ain’t too late to turn back, my friend,’ he said.
Jack didn’t even answer.
The airfield where they touched down was as deserted as the one from which they had taken off. A single hut, but it had been burned out long ago. Certainly no officials. Just a vast expanse of low bushes surrounding a long strip of hard-baked earth on which the aircraft bounced and jolted as Markus brought it in to land. He taxied round to the side of the strip and they sat there while the engines powered down.
Silence surrounded them. Silence and heat. The countryside was flat and bare, with just a few trees dotted around them. Up above, Jack saw two vultures circling. He set his jaw. They could circle all they liked. He wasn’t carrion. Not yet.
‘Welcome to Somalia,’ Markus said, ‘where the sun always shines.’ He handed Jack a detailed satellite map of the area and showed him a circular pencil mark. ‘You are here,’ he said. ‘Take it.’
Jack folded the map and put it into his canvas bag as a vehicle drove into view, emerging slowly out of a heat haze.
‘Friends of ours?’ Jack asked.
Markus shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’
Jack wasn’t taking any chances. He opened the side door of the aircraft, climbed out and then, using the door as cover, aimed his rifle in the direction of the approaching vehicle. It was a green Land Rover, probably thirty years old, with dust-caked windows and a canvas backing. It stopped twenty-five metres from the plane, and for a while Jack wondered if the driver was ever going to show himself.
After a minute or so, the driver’s door opened and a man got out. He was young, maybe still a teenager, and he wore dark glasses, a black bandana and desert camo. The sleeves had been ripped off his jacket and round his left bicep he had tied a bandage which was bloodied and dirty. The wound, whatever it was, didn’t seem to worry him. In his right hand was an AK-47, which he carried nonchalantly, the barrel pointing down at the ground.
‘That your man?’ Jack hissed at Markus.
‘Could be,’ the American replied. ‘At least, he hasn’t started shooting.’
Jack called out. ‘
Drop your weapon!
’
The kid just grinned and continued walking towards them.
‘
Drop it!
’ Jack repeated. ‘
Take another step forward and I’ll kill you.
’
That brought him to a halt. The kid slowly bent his knees, then deposited the weapon on the ground.
‘
Turn around!
’
Only when the kid was facing the truck did Jack emerge from the protection of the door. He strode quickly up to the newcomer, pulling his M1911 from its holster as he went. When he was behind the driver, he jabbed the butt of the pistol sharply into his cheek. ‘You speak English?’
The kid nodded.
‘Good. Word of advice. Do what you’re told when I’m around if you want to make it till bedtime. Understand?’
Another nod.
‘Get in the car. You’re going to drive. I’m going to sit next to you. Walk.’
The kid, his arms still in the air, stepped towards the truck as Jack picked up his AK and looked over his shoulder at Markus. ‘Midnight,’ he called.
‘Midnight, my friend,’ Markus shouted back. ‘And may the Lord guide you every step of the fuckin’ way.’
There was no air con in the Land Rover – just a flap above the dashboard that let in hot air. Jack and his driver sweated in the heat, breathing in the fumes of stinking petrol and oil from the jerrycans of fuel that were loaded in the back of the vehicle.
‘What’s your name?’ Jack asked.
‘Asad,’ said the boy. He stank of sweat and had the habit of licking his lips quickly. It made him look anxious. Jack needed to get him onside.
‘I’m going to the Trust Hotel. You know it?’
Asad nodded.
‘You’d like enough money to take a girl there, right?’
Asad smiled. ‘Yes, boss.’
Jack handed him a couple of notes. ‘Stick with me,’ he said, ‘you’ll get more. Every girl in Mogadishu will want to be with you.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Asad repeated.
They drove in silence.
Finally Asad spoke. ‘In the back,’ he said. ‘A scarf. Cover your white skin. If someone sees it, they will kill you.’
It was Jack’s turn to nod. He grabbed the keffiyeh that lay on the back seat and wrapped it round his head so that only his eyes were visible. It made the heat even less tolerable, but that was better than the alternative. When they approached a roadblock manned by three ragged-looking men, Asad gave an aggressive sneer. Jack pulled a couple of notes from his pocket. ‘Pay them,’ he said.
‘It is not necess—’
‘
Pay them.
’
Asad shrugged and when they stopped, he handed over the notes. The men were so surprised that the ‘tax’ had been paid without complaint, Asad was able to drive away quickly.
Jack had seen some war-blasted places in his time. Places where destruction was a matter of course. In Helmand, the deserted ruins of Now Zad were a brutal testament to the fighting that had gone on there; in Iraq, he’d wandered through villages where the Republican Guard had slaughtered all the inhabitants for some imagined slight against Saddam. But this was different. As the parched countryside gave way to the outskirts of Mogadishu, Jack saw women and children with ragged clothes and fearful eyes, bundled against piles of rubble that clearly had to make do as houses. The air stank of shit and rubbish and cordite, a thick, sickening stench. Every person he saw looked scared or aggressive or both. He saw children as young as ten or eleven carrying AK-47s, but as the sun was hot, there were few people moving around. Jack knew not to let that lull him into a false sense of security, however. It wouldn’t take much for the sun-induced sleepiness to be disturbed. Still, it meant that Asad was able to drive quickly into the centre of Mogadishu, negotiating the confusing maze of streets in which Jack was immediately lost, and avoiding roadblocks and dangerous areas. Before long they had stopped outside the imposing gates and bullet-sprayed walls of the Trust Hotel.
‘You pay me now?’ the young Somali asked.
Jack fished out a hundred-dollar bill, which Asad grabbed quickly. Then he fished out two more and handed Asad his AK. ‘See these?’ he said, waving the notes under the kid’s nose. ‘I’m going into that hotel. I don’t know how long I’ll be – maybe ten minutes, maybe two hours, maybe more. This money is yours if the vehicle is still outside when I return. Understand?’
Asad licked his dry lips and looked nervously up and down the street. Two hundred bucks was a lot of money to him. He nodded. ‘Yes, boss,’ he said, touching the bloodied bandage on his arm almost instinctively.
Jack winked at him. ‘Think of the girls,’ he said.
Jack jumped down from the Land Rover and ran across the street, stopping outside the hotel gates. There were guards on the other side, wearing body armour and helmets. They looked edgy and had already raised their weapons in his direction. Jack peeled off the headscarf to reveal his white skin, then flashed his UK passport at them.
‘Journalist,’ he said.
‘You have weapons?’ one of them announced in a thick accent.
‘No weapons,’ Jack said.
‘We must search you.’
Jack handed him money. ‘You don’t need to search me,’ he said.
The guard grinned, revealing a mouthful of wonky yellow teeth. He opened the gates for him, then quickly closed them again. Jack crossed the large courtyard towards the main entrance of the building on the far side.
The reception of the Trust Hotel was a place of faded grandeur, but compared to the rest of the city, it was five star. A man sat at a wide wooden desk with an old computer and a telephone; behind him was a wide set of glass doors, and beyond that a swimming pool, entirely devoid of water. Jack strode straight up to the man.
‘I need a room,’ he said.
The man was wearing a Western-style suit with no tie. He gave Jack a smile. Half his teeth were missing, and Jack noticed a nasty scar going from his jaw down his neck.
Checking in was slow. Jack refused to leave his passport, but the guy didn’t seem to care, just so long as he saw the colour of his money, fifty bucks for the night. Once the receptionist had handed over the key, Jack looked all around him, then leaned over the desk and gave the guy his most winning smile.
‘And now, my friend,’ he said, ‘I need a woman.’
The receptionist’s toothless smile grew broader, bringing with it a cloud of halitosis that Jack ignored.
‘Any white women staying here?’
The receptionist let out an unpleasant little giggle. ‘You want
white
women?’ he asked. ‘I know a place. Not far from here. Very nice. Very young. They do everything you want, if you have . . .’ He rubbed his fingers together to indicate cash.
Lily’s face rose unbidden in his mind. Jack had to try very hard not to grab the guy by his throat. ‘What about here?’ he pressed. ‘I don’t want to leave. Are there any white women in the hotel?’
‘Yes, boss,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘A guest.’
‘What does she look like?’ Jack asked.
The receptionist giggled again. ‘Blonde hair,’ he said. ‘Like in the movies. Very nice.’
Jack laughed with him and nodded enthusiastically, then presented him with another note, which he slid into the top pocket of his jacket.
‘What room number?’ he whispered.
The receptionist glanced down at his pocket, then gave Jack a meaningful look, so he stuffed another note in the jacket.
‘Room three,’ said the receptionist. ‘That way. Very pretty, boss. You have nice time.’
He was still giggling to himself as Jack walked away.
Room 3.
The wooden door was scuffed and ill-fitting. Jack stood in the windowless corridor, breathing in the faintly antiseptic smell and listening for the sound of movement in the room. The pendant lights gave an electric flicker.
No sound.
He knocked on the door.
Footsteps.
He knocked again.
‘Who is it?’
Siobhan’s voice was wary. It was also very close.
‘Open up, Siobhan.’
Even through the door he heard her sharp intake of breath.
A pause.
‘Don’t make me break it down,’ Jack warned.
The door clicked open.
Siobhan had darkened her skin. She still looked exhausted. Black rings round her eyes, her hair matted and unkempt, her lips pale. She jutted out her chin at him, a strangely childlike gesture of defiance, but didn’t say anything.
‘I could have sworn,’ Jack said, ‘that last time we spoke you promised you weren’t going to do anything stupid.’
She sniffed. ‘I don’t need your help, Jack.’
‘Siobhan, let me in.’
She looked like she was considering it for a moment. Formulating a response. But after a second she just stepped aside. Jack entered the room and closed the door. There was a wooden wedge on the floor by his feet, which he jammed under the door. Wouldn’t stop people from entering, but it would give him a few extra seconds if they tried.
Siobhan’s room was basic. Just a bed with thin blankets and a sliding door leading to a bathroom of sorts. A circular fan hung from the ceiling, but it was either switched off or didn’t work – the room was uncomfortably hot. Strewn on the bed were a set of black robes and a Makarov 9 mm, and by its side was a small case.
‘How did you find me?’ Siobhan asked.

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