Gambian Bluff

4

McGrath and Jobo Camara took the Bund Road route out of Banjul, to avoid the rebel activity on Independence Drive, but there was no way round the Denton Bridge. As they drove past the prison, its two watch-towers both apparently unmanned, McGrath could feel the reassuring pressure of the Browning in the centre of his back. Driving hell for leather along a tropical road in a jeep brought back more memories than he could count, most of them good ones, at least in retrospect.

They saw the first checkpoint from about a quarter of a mile away. A taxi was parked on either side of the entrance to the bridge, and four men were grouped around the one on the left. Two were leaning against the bonnet, the others standing a few yards away, silhouetted against the silver sheen of Oyster Creek. All four moved purposefully into the centre of the road as they saw the jeep approaching, rifles pointed at the ground. None of them was wearing a uniform.

McGrath pulled the jeep to a halt ten yards away from them, and got down to the ground, slowly, so as not to cause any alarm.

‘Where are you going?’ one man asked. He was wearing dark glasses, purple cotton trousers with a vivid batik pattern and a Def Leppard T-shirt.

‘Serekunda,’ McGrath said.

‘Whites are confined to the hotels,’ the man said.

‘Not all whites,’ Jobo said, standing at McGrath’s shoulder. ‘Only tourists.’

‘I work for the Ministry of Development,’ McGrath added. ‘We have business in Serekunda, checking out one of the generators.’

‘Do you have permission?’

‘No, but I’m sure the new government will not want all the lights to go out in Serekunda on its first day in office. But why don’t you check with them?’ McGrath bluffed. He was pretty sure that the checkpoint had no means of communicating with the outside world.

The rebel digested the situation. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said eventually. ‘You may pass.’

‘Thank you,’ McGrath said formally.

They motored across the long bridge. A couple of yachts were anchored in the creek, and McGrath wondered where their owners were – they seemed rather conspicuous examples of wealth to flaunt in the middle of a revolution. On the far side the road veered left through the savannah, the long summer grass dotted by giant baobab trees and tall palms.

Ten minutes later they were entering the sprawling outskirts of Serekunda, which housed as many people as Banjul, but lacked its extremes of affluence and shanty-town squalor. Jobo directed McGrath left at the main crossroads, down past the main mosque and then right down a dirt street for about a hundred yards. A dozen or so children gathered around the jeep, and Jobo appointed one of them its guardian, then led McGrath through the gate of the compound.

Mansa Camara was sitting on a wooden bench in the courtyard, his back against the concrete wall, his head shaded by the overhanging corrugated roof. He was dressed in a traditional African robe, not the western uniform of the Field Force.

His nephew made the introductions, and asked him what had happened.

‘I resigned,’ Mansa said shortly.

‘Why?’

‘It seemed like the right thing to do, boy. I’ll give it to Taal – he was honest enough about it. “Join us or go home,” he said, “and leave your gun behind.” So I came home.’

‘How many others did the same?’ McGrath asked him.

‘I do not wish to be rude,’ Mansa asked, ‘but what interest is this of yours?’

McGrath decided to tell the truth. ‘I work here,’ he said, ‘so I’m interested in whether these people can hang on to what they’ve taken. Plus my embassy is worried about all the tourists, and wants all the information it can get.’

‘No problem there,’ Camara said. ‘Not as long as the leaders are in control. They know better than to anger foreign governments for no reason.’

Jobo took out his cigarettes and offered them round. Mansa puffed appreciatively at the Marlboro for a moment, and then shouted into the house for tea. ‘Jobo is a good boy,’ he said, turning back to McGrath, and I know he likes to work with you. So I answer the question you ask.’ He took another drag, the expression on his face a cigarette advertiser’s dream. ‘One-third is my guess,’ he said. ‘One-third say no, the other two-thirds go with Taal.’

‘They really think they can win?’ Jobo asked.

‘Who will stop them?’ Mansa asked. ‘There is no other armed force inside the country.’

‘So you think the British will come, or the Americans?’

Mansa laughed. ‘No. The Senegalese may. But Jobo, I did not walk away because I think they will lose. I just did not want any part of it. My job is to keep the law, not to decide which government the country should have.’ He looked at McGrath. ‘That is the civilized way, is it not? Politicians for politics, police for keeping the law, an army for defending the country.’

‘That’s how it’s supposed to be,’ McGrath agreed.

The tea arrived, strong and sweet in clay pots. Another cigarette followed, and then lunch was announced. By the time McGrath and Jobo climbed back aboard the jeep it was gone three.

‘Did you like my uncle?’ Jobo asked as they pulled out into Mosque Road.

‘Yep, I liked him,’ McGrath said.

Serekunda seemed more subdued than it had when they arrived, as if the news of the coup was finally sinking in. The road to Banjul, normally full of bush taxis and minibuses, was sparsely populated within the town and utterly empty outside it. In the three-mile approach to the Denton Bridge they met nothing and saw no one.

The personnel at the checkpoint had changed. The man in the purple batik trousers, along with his three less colourful companions, had been replaced by two men who seemed more inclined to take their work seriously. As McGrath drove slowly over the bridge they moved into the centre of the road. Both were wearing Field Force uniforms; one was holding a rifle, the other a handgun.

The one with the handgun signalled them to stop.

McGrath did so, and smiled at him. ‘We’re working…’ he started to say.

‘Get down,’ the man growled. His partner, a younger man with a slight squint in his left eye, looked nervous.

Jobo recognized him. ‘Jerry, it’s me,’ he said, and the man smiled briefly at him.

His partner was not impressed. ‘Get down,’ he repeated.

‘Sure,’ McGrath said, not liking the unsteadiness of the hand holding the gun. He and Jobo got out of the jeep, the latter looking angry.

‘What’s this for?’ he angrily asked the man with the handgun.

‘Give me your papers,’ the man demanded. ‘And your passport,’ he said to McGrath.

‘Papers? I have no papers,’ Jobo protested. ‘This is stupid. What papers?’

‘Everyone leaving or entering Banjul must have a pass, by order of the Council,’ the man said, as if he was reciting something memorized. ‘You are under arrest,’ he added, waving the gun for emphasis.

It went off, sending a bullet between Jobo’s shoulder and upper chest.

For a second all four men’s faces seemed frozen with shock, and then the man with the handgun, whether consciously or not, turned it towards McGrath.

The ex-soldier was not taking any chances. In what seemed like a single motion he swept the Browning from the holster behind his back, dropped to one knee, and sent two bullets through the centre of the Gambian’s head.

He then whirled round in search of the other man, who was simply standing there, transfixed by shock. There was a clatter as the rifle slipped from his hands and fell to the tarmac. McGrath flicked his wrist and the man took the hint; he covered the five yards to the edge of the bridge like a scared rabbit, and launched himself into the creek with a huge splash.

McGrath went across to where Jobo was struggling into a sitting position, looking with astonishment at the blood trickling out through his shirt and fingers. ‘Let’s get you to hospital,’ McGrath said, and helped him into the jeep.

He then went back for the body of the man he had killed. The only obvious bullet entry hole was through the bridge of the nose; the other round had gone through the man’s open mouth. Between them they had taken a lot of brain out through the back of the head. At least it had been quick. McGrath dragged the corpse across to the rail and heaved it into the creek, where it swiftly sank from sight in the muddy water.

Colonel Taal replaced the telephone and sat back in the chair, his eyes closed. He rubbed them, wondering how long he could keep going without at least a couple of hours of sleep.

He found himself thinking about Admiral Yamamoto, whose biography he had read long ago at Sandhurst. In November 1941 Yamamoto had told his Emperor that he could give the Americans hell for six months, but that thereafter there was no hope of ultimate military victory. Even knowing that, he had still attacked Pearl Harbour.

Reading the biography Taal had found such a decision hard to understand, yet here in The Gambia he seemed to have taken one that was remarkably similar. They could take over the country, he had told the Party leadership, but if any outside forces were brought to bear their military chances were non-existent. Like the Japanese, their only hope lay in the rest of the world not being bothered enough to put things back the way they had been.

But the rest of the world, as he had just learned on the telephone, did seem bothered enough.

Should he wake Jabang? he wondered. Probably. But just as he was summoning the energy to do so, Jabang appeared in the doorway, also rubbing his eyes.

‘I can’t sleep,’ the new President said, sinking into the office’s other easy chair and yawning.

‘I have bad news,’ Taal said wearily.

‘The Senegalese?’ It was hardly even a question.

‘They’re sending troops tomorrow morning. I managed to get a connection through Abidjan,’ he added in explanation.

‘Shit!’ Jabang ran a hand across his stubbled hair, and exhaled noisily. ‘Shit,’ he repeated quietly. ‘How many?’ he asked. ‘And where to?’

‘Don’t know. I doubt if they’ve decided yet. As to where, I’d guess they’ll drop some paratroops somewhere near the airport, try and capture that, and if they succeed then they can fly in more.’

Jabang considered this. ‘But how many men can they drop?’ he asked. ‘Not many, surely?’

Taal shrugged. ‘A few hundred, maybe five, but…’

‘And if we stop them capturing the airport they can’t bring any more in, right?’

‘Theoretically, but…’

‘Surely our five hundred men can stop their five hundred, Junaidi.’

Taal shook his head. ‘These will be French-trained soldiers, professionals. Our men are not trained for that sort of fighting…’

‘Yes, but an army with political purpose will always triumph over mere mercenaries, Junaidi. History is full of examples. Castro and Guevara started with only twelve men and they beat a professional army.’ Jabang’s eyes were fixed on Taal’s, willing him to believe.

‘I know, Mamadou. I know. But the circumstances were different. And anyway,’ he added, overriding a potential interruption, ‘if we send all our five hundred to defend the airport who will keep order elsewhere? We just do not have enough men.’

‘So what are you proposing we do – nothing? Should we head for the border, after being in power for just a few hours?’

‘No.’ It was tempting, Taal thought, but he would not be able to live with himself if they gave up this easily. ‘No, we must resist as long as we can.’

Jabang grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes!’ and thumped his fist on the arm of his chair.

‘What is it?’ Sharif Sallah asked, coming into the room, a smile on his face.

The temptation to wipe the smile away was irresistible. ‘The Senegalese are coming,’ Taal said.

‘What?’

‘Sit down, Sharif,’ Jabang said. ‘And tell us how we can increase the number of our fighters in the next twelve hours.’

Sallah sat down, shaking his head. ‘You are certain?’ he asked, and received a nod in return. He sighed. ‘Well, there is only one way to increase our numbers,’ Sallah said. ‘We will have to arm the men in Banjul Prison.’

It was Taal’s turn to be surprised. ‘You must be joking,’ he said wearily.

Sallah shook his head. ‘There are two hundred men in the prison, and many of them know how to use guns. If we let them out they will fight for us, because they will know that if Jawara wins he will put them back in the prison.’

‘And what if they decide to use the weapons we give them to take what they want and just head for the border?’ Taal asked. ‘After having their revenge on whichever Field Force men put them in the prison.’

‘We can keep them under control. In groups of ten or so, under twenty of our men. And in any case, they will know that Senegal offers no sanctuary for them. I tell you, they will fight for us because only we can offer them freedom.’

‘And the moral question?’ Taal wanted to know. ‘These men are not in prison for cheating on their wives. They are murderers and thieves and…’

‘Come on, Junaidi,’ Jabang interrupted. ‘There are only two murderers in Banjul Prison that I know of. But there are a lot of men who were caught stealing in order to feed themselves and their families.’ He looked appealingly at Taal. ‘Most crimes are political crimes – I can remember you saying so yourself.’

Yes, he had, Taal thought, but a long, long time ago. In the intervening years he had learned that not all evil could be so easily explained. ‘I’m against it,’ he said, ‘except as a last resort.’

‘You were just telling me this is the last resort,’ Jabang insisted.

As soon as he could McGrath had pulled off the open road and examined Jobo’s wound. It had already stopped bleeding, and seemed less serious than he had at first feared. Still, it would have to be looked at by a proper doctor, if only because there was no other obvious source of disinfectant.

He drove the jeep straight down Independence Drive, mentally daring anyone to try to stop him. No one did, and once at the hospital the two men found themselves in what looked like a scene from Florence Nightingale’s life story. Somewhere or other there had been more fighting that day, because the reception area was full of reclining bodies, most of them with bullet wounds of varying degrees of seriousness. The woman receptionist, who must have weighed at least eighteen stone, and who would have looked enormous even in a country where overeating was commonplace, clambered with difficulty over the prone patients in pursuit of their names and details. Sibou Cham, who looked like grace personified in comparison, was forever moving hither and thither between the reception area and the treatment rooms as she ministered to the patients.

It was almost two hours before she got round to seeing Jobo.

‘You look all in,’ McGrath told her, with what he thought was a sympathetic smile.

‘Yes, I know, you have a bed waiting for me.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said indignantly. ‘Not that it’s such a terrible idea,’ he murmured, as an afterthought.

She ignored him and bent down to examine the wound. ‘Did he really get shot by a sniper?’ she asked.

‘You don’t want to know,’ McGrath said. ‘Is he going to be OK?’

‘Yes, provided he keeps away from you for the next few days.’

‘It was not Mr McGrath’s fault,’ Jobo blurted out. ‘He saved us both…’

‘She doesn’t need to know,’ McGrath interrupted.

Sibou gave him one cold, hard look and strode out of the office.

‘I don’t want to get her in trouble,’ McGrath explained. ‘The other guy – you called him Jerry – what do you think he’ll do?’

Jobo thought. ‘I don’t know. He was always a scared kid when I knew him at school. And not very clever. He may worry that he’ll get in trouble for letting his partner get shot or for running away. He may just go home and keep quiet, or even go up to the family village for a few days.’

‘Or he may be telling his story to Comrade Jabang right this moment.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, there’s not a lot we can do about it if he is. Except maybe send you to your village for a few days…’

‘I come from Serekunda,’ Jobo said indignantly.

‘Oh, pity.’

The doctor came back with a bowl of disinfectant and a roll of new bandage. After carefully washing the entrance and exit wounds she applied a dressing, then the bandage, and told Jobo to take it easy for a few days. ‘If it starts to smell, or it throbs, come back,’ she told him. ‘Otherwise just let it heal.’

‘I’ll take him home,’ McGrath said. She was already on her way back to the reception area. ‘When do you get off?’ he called after her.

She laughed. ‘In my dreams,’ she said over her shoulder, and disappeared.

Outside the jeep was still there, much to McGrath’s relief and somewhat to his surprise. Darkness was falling with its usual tropical swiftness. He helped Jobo aboard, climbed into the driving seat, and started off down the road into town.

The first thing that struck him was how dark it was. Banjul’s lighting would have done credit to a vampire’s dining room at the best of times, but on this night every plug in the city seemed to have been pulled, and McGrath’s vision was restricted to what the jeep’s headlights could show him.

The sounds of the city told him more than he wanted to know. The most prominent seemed to feature a never-ending cascade of glass, as if someone was breaking a long line of windows in sequence. Some evidence to support this theory came at one corner, where the jeep’s headlights picked out a tableau of three shops, each with their glass fronts smashed, and fully laden silhouettes bearing goods away into the night.

The sound of tearing wood also seemed much in evidence, offering proof, McGrath supposed, that in the Third World not many shops were fronted by glass. Banjul seemed to be in the process of being comprehensively looted.

And then there was the gunfire. Nothing steady, no long bursts, just single shots every minute or so, from wildly different directions, as if an endless series of individual murders was being committed all over the town.

It was eerie, and frightening. At Jobo’s house his mother pulled him inside and shut the door almost in the same motion, as if afraid to let the contagion in. McGrath climbed back into the jeep and laid the Browning on the seat beside him, feeling the hairs rising on the nape of his neck. He engaged the gears and took off, hurtling back up the street faster than was prudent, but barely fast enough for his peace of mind.

It was only half a mile to the dim lights of McCarthy Square, only forty seconds or so, but it felt longer. At the square he slowed, wondering where to go. The Atlantic Hotel offered a whites-only haven, but there would be guards there, maybe guards who were looking for him, and he knew he would feel more restricted, more vulnerable, surrounded by fellow Europeans. Particularly if the rebels suddenly got trigger-happy with their tourist guests. No, he decided, the Carlton offered more freedom of movement, more ways out. And he could sleep on the roof.

The Party envoys, along with an armed guard of a dozen or so Field Force men, arrived at the prison soon after dark, and after a heated discussion with the warden, which ended with his being temporarily consigned to one of his own cells, they addressed the assembled prisoners in the dimly lit exercise yard. Moussa Diba and Lamin Konko listened as attentively as everyone else.

There had been a change of government, the speaker told them, and all prisoners, with the exception of the two convicted murderers, were being offered amnesty in return for a month’s enlistment in the service of the new government. They would not be asked to fight against fellow Gambians or workers, only against foreigners seeking to invade the country. If they chose not to enlist, that was up to them. They would simply be returned to their cells to serve out their sentences.

‘What do you think?’ Konko asked Diba.