Sibou Cham lay stretched out on the camp-bed in her office. She felt weary to the bone but sleep would not come – it was as if her mind had parted company with her body, the one racing madly along, the other abandoned for dead hours ago.
How many people had she treated in the last forty-eight hours? Eighty? A hundred? A hundred and fifty? She had no clear idea any more. The faces and the bodies were all jumbled up. This man’s face went with this shattered thigh, that woman’s face with that lacerated ear. Or vice versa. They all had red blood and fear-filled eyes and they were all praying to her, the goddess of healing.
Lying there, she felt more alone than ever. She wanted someone to share who she was, she wanted a body beside her that was not broken or bleeding, that needed no help to function but only love to make it feel whole. She wanted someone reaching out to her whom she could reach out to in return.
It was getting light outside, which did not seem right. Maybe she had slept for a couple of hours after all. She got up, walked to the window, and pulled the lever which opened the sheets of slatted glass. Outside two small grey lizards with yellow heads were chasing each other around a tree stump. On one of the mats which had been left to dry in the sun a small boy was curled up asleep, his bare legs caked with dust.
Africa, she thought. Who would care for Africa? It had nothing anyone wanted. Nothing to sell, nothing to bargain with. Only more and more people fighting over the same amount of land, more and more people angry at their inability to grab a foothold in that wonderful world of cars and TVs and hi-fi which the tourists parade before their eyes. African rulers had no power to transform the continent’s fate: all they could do – even the cleverest and the most well-meaning ones – was to try to soften the blow. No wonder there were coups. And no wonder they amounted to nothing more than a game of musical chairs. Except of course for those whose blood had been given to the dust.
In medieval times they had tried to cure patients by bleeding them; nowadays it was countries.
The Field Force depot in Bakau had always reminded Junaidi Taal of the prisoner-of-war camps depicted in Hollywood films. It was partly a matter of illusion: the watch-tower, which contributed so much to the effect, was actually part of the fire station next door, but the large trees which were scattered around the two compounds and overhung the wall between them, made visual separation difficult. From the road all that was visible was an impression of one-storey offices and barracks receding into the foliage, and the single, blue-painted tower rising above it.
It had rained heavily throughout the night, and as dawn broke on Sunday heavy drops were still falling from the trees, beating a sporadic tattoo on the corrugated roofs. This sound was mingled with the swelling dawn chorus of the birds and, rather more incongruously, the measured tones of a Bush House announcer reading the World Service News.
Taal looked at his watch, sighed wearily, and climbed laboriously from his bunk. He was getting too old for this sort of life, he thought. The sort which involved only about four hours’ sleep in each twenty-four.
He pulled on a shirt, draped a blanket round his shoulders against the chill of the dawn air, and walked out onto the verandah where, as he had expected, Mamadou Jabang was listening to the radio. One hundred and fifty yards away to the left the sentries at the gates seemed awake and reasonably alert. To the right a man was carrying what looked like a pail of eggs towards the kitchen.
Jabang looked up at Taal with what could charitably be described as a wry smile. ‘We didn’t even make the news this morning,’ he said. ‘As far as the world is concerned it’s all over.’
‘The BBC is not the world,’ Taal said shortly, and sat down on the chair beside Jabang’s.
‘I know, I know.’ Jabang gestured towards the map which had been spread across the table. ‘Tell me the situation,’ he said.
Taal got up again and leaned over the map. ‘At midnight,’ he began, ‘we controlled the whole of this road, from the Sunwing Hotel north of Bakau to the Bakotu Hotel in Fajara. On these two roads’ – he indicated the highways from Serekunda to Fajara and Banjul to Bakau, which made three sides of a square with the Bakau-Fajara road – ‘we have positions about a mile inland which the Senegalese have not really tried to shift.’
‘Why not?’ Jabang asked, more for confirmation than because he did not know.
‘Two reasons. One, they have been busy taking and securing Banjul. Two – and this is only guesswork – they haven’t made up their minds whether or not to risk us killing the hostages. And I said midnight but I’m assuming that this is still the situation. No one woke me with bad news.’
‘I heard no gunfire during the night,’ Jabang agreed. ‘What about our radio van?’
‘Let’s find out,’ Taal suggested, reaching for the radio. A few seconds later Jabang’s own voice was coming out of the speaker. It was the original proclamation of the new government, now somewhat outdated.
‘Where are they?’ Jabang asked.
‘Somewhere in Banjul. With the Senegalese holding the Denton Bridge there’s no way they can get out.’
‘I’d love to have seen the Senegalese commander’s face,’ Jabang said. ‘They take the radio station, think that’s the last the people will hear from us, and like witch doctors there we are again. I don’t suppose we can reach them with a new tape?’
Taal smiled. ‘We would have to find them first …’
‘If we could find someone with a recorder in Banjul then I could talk into it down the telephone.’
‘Maybe …’
‘No, you’re right, it’s not worth it.’ He turned back to the map. ‘Can we hold the position we have for a few days?’
Taal shrugged. ‘We can try, but …’
‘If they are hesitating because of the hostages, then perhaps we should encourage them to think the worst,’ Jabang said, as much to himself as to Taal.
‘More threats?’
‘Why not? They …’
‘But what happens when we fail to carry them out again?’
‘They will think we don’t know what we are doing.’ Jabang smiled. ‘You have read the books, Junaidi. The hardest thing for the authorities to cope with in a situation like this is not knowing how far the opposition is prepared to go.’
‘That is true,’ Taal agreed. It was significant, he thought, that Jabang was now calling the other side ‘the authorities’ again. Even in the leader’s mind they had recrossed the divide which separated government from rebellion. ‘But, I must ask you, Mamadou: what can we hope for in the few days such threats might buy us?’
Jabang’s mouth seemed to set in an obstinate line, the way Taal remembered it had done when he was a child. ‘I still believe Libya may send us some assistance,’ he said. ‘They sent troops into Chad,’ he added, almost belligerently, as if defying Taal to argue.
‘Have you heard anything new?’ Taal asked.
‘No. But our friends in New York will still be working for us.’
Taal scratched his eyebrow and stared out across the wakening camp.
‘I know it is not likely,’ Jabang admitted.
‘It will serve no purpose for any of us – for you, in particular, Mamadou – to be put on trial and hanged by Jawara.’
‘I know. I have not lost my reason, Junaidi. When it really is hopeless …’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘But that hour has not arrived. This morning I shall talk to the Senegalese commander, and give a good impersonation of a deranged terrorist who thinks nothing of killing Jawara’s family and a hundred white tourists. Then maybe we can negotiate some sort of amnesty for our people. Yes?’
The SAS men’s Air Afrique plane landed in Dakar soon after dawn. It seemed to taxi for ever before pulling up a good two hundred yards from the terminal building. Just like the old days, Caskey thought, as he walked bleary-eyed down the steps to the ground. Nowadays only the Pope ever touched the tarmac in modern airports, and that was just because he wanted to kiss it.
As it happened, the three of them were the only passengers who did not have to take the long walk. A man from the Gambian High Commission – resplendent in a Hawaiian shirt – was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps, his Renault parked a few yards away. After making sure they had no luggage other than what they were carrying, he ushered the SAS men inside the car and set off at a breakneck pace across the tarmac.
As at Heathrow and Charles de Gaulle the formalities were not so much dispensed with as trampled on. Here at Dakar’s Yoff Airport, there was no need even to enter the building. The Renault was stopped at one gate, as much, Caskey reckoned, for the sake of Senegalese pride as anything else. A uniformed officer looked at all three of them in turn, as if checking their faces with the passports he had not seen, and waved them through.
Franklin, watching the exchange between him and their Gambian escort, felt suddenly aware that he was somewhere he had never been before in his adult life – in a country run by black men.
They roared out of the airport, past a scrum of orange taxis and a crowd of people scrambling to board a bus, and out onto a dual carriageway. In the distance, down at the end of long side-roads lined with rough-looking, one-storey dwellings, they could see the ocean. The sky was clear of clouds, but the blue was tainted with brown, and a patina of dust already seemed to hang in the morning air.
‘How far is it?’ Caskey asked the driver. Unlike the other two, he had found sleep hard to come by on the plane. It was a matter of age, he supposed.
‘Twenty minutes, maybe,’ the Gambian said.
From the back seats Franklin and Wynwood were getting their first impressions of Senegal. A large sports stadium loomed into view, bare concrete rising out of the yellow earth, its ugliness turned into something else by the profusion of brilliantly coloured bougainvillaea clinging to its lower walls. Elsewhere the ubiquitous concrete was unadorned, fashioned into block houses, turning the landscape into a sandpit for giants. In front of the houses old car tyres had been half-buried in the sand to provide seats.
They raced down an open stretch of highway, with electricity pylons marching overhead, sand verges littered with rubbish, sand hills spotted with scrub receding into the distance. Giant cigarette advertisements loomed out of the dust, as if on a mission to leave no lung unscathed.
‘Pretty, it ain’t,’ Wynwood murmured.
They entered the inner suburbs, where large blocks of flats and relatively modern-looking shops lined the road, then turned down a long, tree-lined avenue between what looked like government buildings of one sort or another. At its end they had a glimpse of a market that sprawled down several narrow streets as far as the eye could see, but the Renault honked its way down another tree-lined avenue. This section looked like Paris, Caskey thought; a seedy, half-finished, tropical Paris.
The car pulled to a halt outside a nondescript building in a nondescript street. ‘We are there,’ the driver said, climbing out and gesturing them to follow. He seemed determined to do everything at a hundred miles an hour.
Caskey walked slowly after him, shouldering the blue holdall. A brass plaque by the doorway announced the Gambian High Commission. Inside a flight of steps led upwards to a desk area. It reminded Caskey of the Inland Revenue offices in Hereford.
‘Please,’ the driver said, indicating a waiting area in which comfortable chairs surrounded a large conference table. Seated in the chairs the table’s surface was at eye-level, which meant that holding a conversation with someone on the other side of the room required the talkers to either sit bolt upright or slouch.
Caskey closed his eyes. ‘Wake me if anything happens,’ he told the other two.
‘The President will see you now,’ a voice said from behind him.
It was a different Gambian from their chauffeur, this time one more formally attired, in a beige suit, white shirt and red tie. He escorted them down a short corridor and into a well-lit, pleasantly furnished room. A large African rug lay in the centre of the floor, and around it had been arranged several armchairs and two sofas. The President was sitting on one of the latter, a pile of papers by his side. He was not a large man, and although he was not particularly good-looking there was a friendliness in his expression which was appealing. He got swiftly to his feet and walked across to greet them, his right arm outstretched. After he had shaken each man’s hand, and they had introduced themselves by name, he invited them to take a seat.
‘I am very grateful to the British Government for sending you,’ he began, smiling at each of them in turn. ‘And of course to each of you for accepting such a mission.’ He paused as if expecting a response.
Caskey nodded.
‘I’m happy to say,’ the President continued, ‘that the situation in my country is improving by the hour. Our Senegalese friends have secured the airport and the capital and the road between them. In fact, all the rebels now hold is a small strip of land along the coast.’ He grimaced. ‘Unfortunately they also hold a number of hostages, including my own wife and several of my children, so bringing the whole business to a successful conclusion will not be a straightforward matter. Which is where I hope your expertise will come into play. Tell me, did any of you take part in the Iranian Embassy business last year?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Caskey lied. He was afraid Jawara might feel he had been fobbed off with duds if he found out that none of them had been at Princes Gate.
‘A wonderful piece of work,’ the President said. ‘But of course I hope we can resolve our problem less … less dramatically.’ He paused again. ‘What I really wanted to make clear to you – the main reason for wanting to see you before we all fly to my country – is that you are my personal advisers, and that you carry my authority. The Senegalese – how shall I say this? – they may be – I think “touchy” is the English word … I am sure their commanders will be more than willing to listen to any advice you may have, but they will not want to appear as if they are taking orders … You understand? It is one of the legacies of colonialism. In the old days a white man’s orders were obeyed no matter how stupid, and to compensate for this there is a tendency nowadays to ignore a white man’s advice, no matter how sensible.’ He smiled at Franklin. ‘And I’m afraid in this matter you will be seen as an honorary white man,’ he said.
Franklin smiled politely back, but said nothing.
‘Very well,’ the President said. ‘We can deal with any particular problem if and when one arises. Now, unless something extraordinary happens in the meantime, I plan to fly to Banjul this afternoon. There is room for you on the same plane. We shall leave here at around four o’clock, and until then you can either rest in one of the rooms here or go sightseeing, whichever you wish.’
‘I’d like some sleep,’ Caskey said, getting up.
The President got up too, and shook each man’s hand again. ‘Until this afternoon,’ he said.
The man in the beige suit was waiting outside to escort them to the next floor, where a large double bed shared a room with a single. Caskey annexed the latter, claiming privilege of rank.
‘I’d like to go out for a look round, boss,’ Franklin said.
‘Me too,’ Wynwood agreed.
Caskey looked at them. ‘Bloody youngsters,’ he said with a sigh. He reached inside his pocket for the CFAs Mathieu had given them at Charles de Gaulle. ‘OK. But don’t spend it all. And don’t get lost and don’t start a war. And don’t touch anything. Particularly the women.’
‘Did you get all that?’ Wynwood asked Franklin.
‘Yeah. We’re not to spend it all on women.’
They left Caskey groaning and went downstairs.
‘Any idea which way?’ Wynwood asked Franklin as they emerged into the street.
‘To where?’ Franklin asked.
‘To where we want to go’ Wynwood said.
‘Where do we want to go?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
Franklin decided. ‘Well, let’s try this way then,’ he said, pointing east.
‘Suits me.’ Outside in the street the temperature was on the rise. Still, it was not as hot as Wynwood had expected – perhaps Dakar’s situation on the coast kept things cool. It would have been nice to have had some time to find out something about the country before they arrived. ‘Hey, Frankie,’ he said, struggling to keep up with the other man’s long stride, ‘do you know anything about this place?’
‘Not a thing. Used to be French, that’s about it.’
‘You mean they speak French here?’
‘Yeah.’
Wynwood looked round. ‘Who would have guessed?’
‘The word “Aéroport” in letters twenty feet high was a clue,’ Franklin told him.
‘I thought they were just bad spellers,’ Wynwood said.
They walked on, conscious of the stares they were getting from the locals. Franklin wondered whether he would have been as noticeable on his own, and decided he probably would have. His clothes were different, for one thing. The Senegalese seemed undecided whether to wear African robes or European suits, but none of them seemed to be wearing jeans and T-shirts.
The street they were on debouched into a large rectangular space surrounded by multi-storey buildings.
‘The Place de l’Indépendance,’ Wynwood read off a sign. ‘You reckon this is the centre of town?’
‘No idea,’ Franklin admitted.
‘Hello, hello,’ a Senegalese greeted them.
‘Hello, hello,’ echoed Wynwood.
‘You are American?’ the Senegalese asked them both.
‘English,’ Franklin said.
‘Welsh,’ Wynwood corrected him.
‘You are in Dakar how many days?’
‘One hour.’
More questions followed, and somehow it came up that the Senegalese had a naming ceremony for his son the next day, and that it was customary for a man in such a situation to find a foreigner and offer him a gift. As chance would have it he had on his person such a gift, and here were two foreigners! What luck! He insisted that Wynwood accept the gift, a miniature drum on a thong. The Welshman took it reluctantly, thinking there must be a catch. There was. It turned out that it was also customary for the foreigner to give the baby a gift. Wynwood regretted that he had no gift to hand, but it then transpired that cash was the most appropriate gift of all. The two SAS men looked at each and burst out laughing.
‘You’re a real pro,’ Wynwood said, and got out the money Caskey had handed him. ‘What are these worth?’ he asked Franklin, who shrugged.
‘Well, a thousand seems a lot to me,’ Wynwood said, and handed the man one.
It did not seem a lot to him. ‘More, more,’ he said.
‘You want the drum back?’ Wynwood asked.
‘No, I want more CFAs.’
‘Tough shit. Be seeing you, chum,’ Wynwood said, and walked off. Both Franklin and the Senegalese followed, the one feeling vaguely disturbed by the whole episode, the other more than vaguely annoyed.
He stayed with them halfway round the square, and several blocks up Avenue Pompidou, which looked as close to a main street as any they had seen. Trees lined both sides, and many of the buildings were French in style, creating anew the impression of an African Paris. There were cafés as well, and of two distinct types: those with a primarily African clientele and those which seemed to cater mostly to the expatriate French population. The latter looked cleaner, more expensive and more likely to rid them of their Senegalese shadow.
Wynwood chose one, walked in and took a window seat. A beautiful Senegalese girl took their order of omelettes and coffee, but the Frenchwoman behind the bar was obviously in charge. It felt strange to both men. If they looked one way they could have been anywhere in the developed world. The customers’ faces, with one exception, were white, and the fittings were modern, right down to an Elvis Presley clock on one wall, his hips swinging out the passing seconds. But if they looked out through the window there was no mistaking which continent it was. A group of men in long robes were crowded on a bench, smoking cigarettes and passing the time. A boy with two stunted legs was parked under a tree, hand extended with a cup to each passer-by. Buses packed beyond the worst nightmares of a sardine rumbled by, blowing dense black smoke from their exhausts into the dusty air.
Franklin sat there, savouring the delicious coffee, watching and wondering.
Wynwood asked a youngish-looking man at a nearby table if he spoke English.
‘A little, yes,’ the man said.
Wynwood explained that they had only a few hours in Dakar and no idea what might be worth seeing. Could the man suggest anything?
He shrugged. There was nothing special. The Íle de Gorée, perhaps, but that was half an hour’s ferry ride away, and they might have to wait an hour for the boat.
‘What is it?’ Franklin asked, feeling he had heard the name somewhere before.
‘It’s an island, two or three kilometres from the city. It’s very pretty, with the old colonial houses and the fort. And of course the Maison des Esclaves, the Slave House.’
Now Franklin remembered. It was the place from where most of the West African slaves had been shipped. Maybe even his own ancestors.
Wynwood asked whether there were any beautiful buildings to see in the city.
‘Maybe the railway station,’ the Frenchman said dubiously. ‘Dakar is not a beautiful city,’ he added, somewhat superfluously.
Wynwood thanked him. ‘Let’s just walk around,’ he suggested to Franklin.
For a couple of hours they simply wandered the streets together, soaking up the atmosphere, stopping for the occasional drink, and fending off the extraordinary number of men whose sons were being named the following day.
They did stumble across the railway station, which pleased Wynwood. He had always been drawn to the atmosphere they evoked, and this one, with its magical blend of French and Islamic architecture, seemed no exception. A train was in the platform, packed and apparently about to depart. He asked someone where it was going, and was told Bamako, the capital of Mali. The journey was supposed to take twenty-four hours, the man said with a knowing smile. Wynwood asked him how long it really took. Thirty-six, he said, and cackled.
A few minutes later the diesel blew its horn, and the train jerked its way out of the station along the uneven tracks. Franklin watched it disappear, thinking that here in Dakar they were simply standing on the edge of Africa, but that this train was headed out towards the continent’s heart. A part of him wished he was on board.
‘This is General N’Dor,’ a voice said on the other end of the telephone line.
‘At last,’ Jabang said. He had needed to threaten the immediate killing of a hostage to get the Senegalese commander-in-chief to the phone, and it had made him angry.
‘What is it you have such need to tell me?’ N’Dor asked, wishing his English was better.
‘Would you rather speak in Wollof?’ Jabang asked in that language, as if he had read the General’s mind.
‘It would seem sensible to be sure we understand what each other is saying,’ N’Dor replied in the same tongue. ‘I understood you were Mandinka.’
‘I am.’ Jabang wondered whether the General would be impressed by the fact that he had taken the trouble to learn his country’s other indigenous languages, and decided that it did not matter a jot.
‘So what do you have to tell me?’ N’Dor asked again.
‘I have to tell you that unless your forces on the Banjul-Bakau road return to the positions they occupied this morning we shall be forced to begin executing the prisoners.’
There was silence at the other end for almost a minute, but Jabang resisted the temptation to speak again.
‘The forces you speak of have only moved a few metres since this morning,’ N’Dor said.
‘We know that. Moving back those few metres would seem a small price to pay for a hostage’s life.’ Don’t ask for much, Junaidi Taal had advised him, but make sure you get it. Somehow they had to establish a pattern whereby the enemy was prepared to reward them for not carrying out threats.
At the other end of the line General N’Dor was in an impossible position. His Government had warned him to take no risks with the hostages’ lives, and the Gambian President would not be on hand to remove the restrictions until later that evening. The rebel leader might be bluffing, and N’Dor thought he probably was, but not with enough certainty to risk calling him on it. There was really nothing he could do for the moment other than concede what was being asked. It was only a few metres, after all.
‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘My men will be withdrawn to the position they occupied this morning. But no further. This is not an ongoing process. You understand that?’
‘Perfectly,’ Jabang said. ‘Thank you, General. Now, I have here a list of the prisoners we currently hold, which I thought you might find useful. I am sure the families of the prisoners would like to know that they are safe.’
‘I will bring someone in to write them down,’ N’Dor agreed.
‘Excellent. Before you do that, can we arrange to talk again tomorrow morning, say at eleven o’clock? I think it must be in everyone’s interests that we keep talking.’
Certainly in yours, N’Dor thought. And until someone told him he could take the gloves off, it was probably in his as well. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Eleven o’clock.’
Jabang passed the phone to Sallah, who was waiting with the list, and with a wide smile on his face turned to Taal. ‘We’re not finished yet,’ he said exultantly.
The flight from Dakar to Yundum in the forty-four-seater took under an hour. There were only eleven passengers on board; the President and seven assorted advisers in the front seats, the three SAS men in the back. Most of the President’s men seemed to be chain-smoking, and by the time the plane touched down at Yundum a thin fog separated the two parties.
Two Senegalese officers were waiting on the tarmac beside a line of four vehicles: the presidential limousine and three taxis. Without much preamble everyone climbed in, the SAS men in the rear taxi, and the convoy took off, sweeping out through the airport gates past arms-saluting soldiers and onto an empty highway.
And into Africa, Franklin thought, staring out through the windscreen. There was nothing European about this landscape. On either side of the road flat savannah stretched into the distance, dotted with trees that bore the continent’s distinctive style: tapering down from a flat wide top. A little further on a host of palms shaped like giant thistles rose from a stretch of cultivated land on the outskirts of a village. Here the dwellings were all white and of one storey, including the impressive police station with its colonnaded patio.
Dirt tracks led away from the road, and down these, in the distance, Franklin could see people walking. But the main street seemed strangely deserted, as if the President’s path had been swept clear of those he claimed to serve. One group of three women did emerge from a house just as they went by, each with a large plastic bowl balanced on the head, but they turned only blank stares to the swishing cars, as if they were looking into the blind side of a two-way mirror.
After ten minutes or so they entered a large town, which the driver told them was Serekunda. Here there were groups of Senegalese soldiers at the two main crossroads, but few civilians on the streets. Franklin asked the driver if that was because it was Sunday. He received a disbelieving smile in return.
‘Not exactly coming out in droves to welcome the man home, are they?’ Wynwood commented from the back seat.
The driver chortled, and said something under his breath.
‘This town is ‘coming like a ghost town’ ran through Franklin’s head.
Beyond Serekunda they traversed another couple of miles of open country, before motoring across the heavily guarded Denton Bridge and entering the outskirts of Banjul. ‘That must be the prison they emptied,’ Caskey said, pointing out a white building on the right. The words ‘Female Wing’ had been painted on one wall in huge letters. ‘I wonder if they let the women out too,’ he said.
‘No,’ the driver volunteered.
‘More discrimination,’ Wynwood murmured. Susan’s friends would have something to say about that.
The convoy drove down Independence Drive, passing a line of Senegalese armoured cars parked outside the Legislative Assembly, before turning left and then right through the gates of what looked, in the distance, like a miniature Buckingham Palace. A long drive ran straight to the doors through grounds bursting with luxuriant tropical vegetation.
‘Nice garden,’ Wynwood said, ‘shame about the house.’
‘Enough,’ Caskey told him, but the grin on his face rather weakened the reprimand.
The four cars drew up in the gravelled forecourt and disgorged their cargo. The SAS men followed the President’s party in through the front doors, where a posse of servants were doing their best to appear overjoyed by their master’s return. One of his aides came over to Caskey and asked the SAS men to take a seat in the first reception room.
They sat there for ten minutes, sweating with the heat, wondering why ninety per cent of life in the Army was spent waiting for some wanker to get his finger out.
The aide returned and escorted them through to another room, where the President was sitting on a sofa with a Senegalese officer. The latter, whom Jawara introduced as General Hassan N’Dor, did not, Caskey thought, seem particularly pleased to see them. In fact, he seemed reluctant to even shake their hands.
Jawara was trying hard to be genial enough for both of them. ‘I have been telling the General,’ he said, ‘that you have been loaned to my country by the British Government to serve as my personal military advisers until the present problem regarding the prisoners has been resolved. He is of course aware of your Regiment’s experience and expertise in the matter of hostage situations.’
‘We will be happy to offer any assistance,’ Caskey told N’Dor diplomatically, ‘but of course we don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’
N’Dor gave him a slight nod, as if in appreciation of the sentiment. ‘My English is not so good,’ he said, which made Caskey wonder if he had understood the sentiment.
‘I have suggested,’ the President said, ‘that we set up a group to oversee the hostage situation. It would include someone to represent the Gambian Government – probably the Vice-President – General N’Dor and his second in command Colonel Ka, and you, Major Caskey. General N’Dor has offered a room at the Senegalese Embassy for the group’s headquarters.’
I bet he has, Caskey thought. ‘That sounds like an excellent idea,’ he said. ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘the first thing we shall need is some current intelligence of the situation on the ground in Bakau. And for that we shall need some form of written authority from both yourself and the General, which will give us the freedom to pass through the lines.’
‘Of course,’ the President said. ‘I’m sure the General will have no objection to that.’
N’Dor’s face said he had, but he acquiesced nevertheless. An aide was sent to type out appropriate papers for him and Jawara to both sign. While they waited Caskey asked the General for his opinion of the current situation.
‘There is nothing difficult about it,’ N’Dor said. ‘We could destroy the rebels in a few hours …’
‘The General spoke to the rebel leader on the telephone this morning,’ Jawara volunteered.
N’Dor scowled at the memory. ‘He threatened to kill a hostage if I did not withdraw my men to a position further in the rear. I have orders not to risk hostage lives, so I agree.’ He shrugged. ‘That is all.’
‘What kind of man do you think this Jabang is?’ Caskey asked, thinking that the General’s English was not much worse than his own.
‘Not right in the head,’ N’Dor answered without hesitation.
It was not the sort of analysis Caskey had in mind, but it would probably have to do.
The aide returned with the written authorities, and a reminder to the President that he was scheduled to make a radio broadcast within the next half an hour. ‘I am coming,’ Jawara told him, before turning to the SAS men. ‘Rooms have been made ready for you here,’ he told them. ‘Please ask Saiboa here’ – he indicated the aide in question – ‘for anything you need.’
He left, accompanied by the Senegalese commander.
‘Ever get the feeling you’re not wanted?’ Wynwood asked.
‘Yes,’ Caskey said. He had also just realized that no time had been set for the first meeting of the new hostage crisis group. ‘I think we’re going to have to write our own agenda on this one, lads. Which is why I wanted these pieces of paper. Let’s find out what’s going on and make a plan. Then we can decide which part of the General’s anatomy to shove it up.’
‘Sounds good to me, boss,’ Franklin agreed.
‘You know, I’ve never lived in a palace,’ Wynwood said.