David Monnery - Gambian Bluff

‘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.