Steve Braker

 African Paradise 

A William Brody Action-Thriller

Foreword

Dear Reader,

This is the third in the series of William Brody African Ocean Adventures.

This book is loosely based on the terrorist plot in 2002 to blow up the Paradise Hotel on the Kenyan Coast. You can google the Paradise Hotel Bombing to get more information.

I do follow the lines of who the perpetrators were, there are many conspiracy theories on the web relating to who was responsible. Living in East Africa, you soon learn we never know what is happening or why. The story is interesting as it was one of the first combined attacks allegedly using the Palestinian Liberation Army along with the Al-Shabab. To me, this seems most likely, but the whole story is open to interpretation, which I have done.

The book is fiction, I know and researched the story and was living very close to the explosion when it happened. African Paradise is set in the same period as the explosion and the same area, all the other aspects of the story are fictitious.

I lived in Mtwappa for many years watching it grow from a sleepy, dusty suburb of Mombasa into a vibrant independent roadside town, over a period of about ten years or so. The place opened up as the civil wars in Somalia and South Sudan became quiet enough to start trading again. I have always had a soft spot for this growing town, and I hope that comes across in my writing.

The Full Moon Bar is based on a bar I know on the outskirts of Mombasa. It is still there today and largely as I depict it. If you are ever in Kenya on the coast, then I would recommend a trip to La Marina Bar in Mtwappa.

Getting these stories out is enjoyable, but sometimes you really need a push and a helping hand. My brother Daniel helped me considerably on this one, I really appreciate his patience and discussions on what sounded right and what should be left out.

I hope you enjoy the read, let me know, my email is steve@stevebrakerbooks.com.

Yours,

Steve Braker.

 

African Paradise

 A William Brody

Action Thriller

Table of Contents: African Paradise

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Book Previews

Copyright

 

 Chapter One

The punch landed, not a killer punch just a glancing blow. But it was enough to send him sailing through the air like a rag doll thrown by a petulant child. He landed on a small table that disintegrated with the force of his impact. He rolled instinctively and jumped to his feet, flicking some more of the rickety furniture at his attackers, gaining a few seconds. In the time it takes to get punched in the jaw and fly across the room, he had turned from an affable drunk to a killing machine. The afternoon’s alcohol washed from his body as adrenaline flooded in.

He stood six feet from his two attackers. Thugs of men, covered in tattoos. Probably off one of the ships from the port. Both had large, bald heads covered in sweat and were six foot plus and built like proverbial outhouses. This was a game, just a continuation of the drinking day.

Brody assessed his situation: first, escape; there was none, he was cornered. Second, attackers; they were big, but not in their prime, probably ten years past at least. Third, repercussions. Kill them and he was in trouble. This was Africa. He would disappear into Shimo-La-Tewa, the local jail. It was like a Vietnamese prisoner-of-war camp. The poor, skinny, dejected men in chain gangs heading out to the fields to work in the boiling sun. Their keepers with pump-action shotguns and itchy fingers, ever watchful, looking for some sport. It was not a pleasant place to be in, and you never came out!

Brody ducked as a chair sailed over his head, smashing against the bare cinder block wall behind him. The two guys were ready to start the fun. The largest one broke into a merciless smile. He shouted, in Russian, to his brother-in-arms, “We’ll have some fun with this white rabbit when we catch him.”

His Slavic partner smiled in agreement, exposing nicotine-stained teeth below his twisted and broken nose. “You start, I’ll finish this beer. Leave some for me.”

The man-mountain had his blood up, that and a considerable amount of vodka. He advanced on Brody, kicking the lightweight furniture left and right. The other patrons retreated, enjoying the afternoon entertainment. The thugs usually used intimidation to make their opponents piss their pants. It was fun. Showing off. A bar brawl where you were guaranteed to win. The tourists were easy bait. If one dared to stand up to them, then a few punches and they were crying on the floor shitting their pants.

The young, brown-haired guy in front of him looked fitter than his usual prey and was not begging yet. But it would come in a few moments.

Brody had a split second to think. He would have to incapacitate this big Russian and his friend. Then make good his escape as quickly and expediently as possible. If the cops arrived, it would be a whole different problem. This place was corrupt, the police were worse than the criminals. The cops would beat him to a pulp and chuck him in the street with empty pockets.

The fat Russian, stinking of stale sweat and burnt meat, threw a huge roundhouse punch. It had enough force to go through the cinder block wall behind him. The intoxicated guy was fighting like all Russians Brody had fought, using volume rather than finesse. These guys just kept going and going, like a train on an incline with no brakes. Brody’s training kicked in. He ducked. The punch cruised slowly over his head.

The guy in front of Brody was not solid muscle anymore. He had been once, and probably a formidable foe. But that was a long time ago. Now, although he was imposing, there was a spare tire around his waist. His tattooed biceps, up close, hung more loosely below his arm than above. Like the old ladies on the beach still sunning themselves when gravity had won the day. Trying not to hurt these guys was going to be tough.

The Russian spun around, then came back with a left. This time more of a haymaker, just throwing the punch in the general direction. But he was getting closer, and Brody was in a tight corner and would have to do something before he got hurt. All it took was one lucky shot. Then the Russians would have their fun and finish him off, maybe for good.

Earlier that day, Brody had been sat quietly at a roadside bar in a small town just north of Mombasa Island. Arriving a few days earlier, he had spent the time on Shukran, his lovely wooden dhow, moored in the creek below them. When boredom set in, the town had looked like a great way to explore and an ideal opportunity to get to know the place. The constant stream of heavy trucks passed just feet away from the narrow path that served as the pavement. Life was everywhere, the town was hot, busy, and very dusty. He had wandered into a local bar just off the main strip. The place was a typical drinking establishment for this area.

The floor was packed earth, the walls bare cinder block, and the roof was made from palm fronds. Dried, trimmed, and stacked by old ladies in the village and called ‘Makuti.’ The roof framework was made of an interconnecting set of wooden poles, which looked like a massive spider’s web above them. The ends of the rectangular building were rounded off to allow the ‘Makuti’ to sit correctly, providing a waterproof cover.

The highest point of the roof was some 25 feet above the heads of the busy drinkers. The whole thing was held up by a large tree trunk some eighteen inches in diameter which went from the floor to the topmost pole. The bar in the far corner consisted of more cinderblocks and cement with rough planks nailed to the top. A large metal grill stretched across it, with small serving hatches in front. Brody guessed security was a bit of an issue late at night. They sold warm or cold beer whatever your preference. The cold beer was more expensive as it was cold! African men enjoyed their warm sodas and beers, a quirk of the culture. Brody, brought up in the center of London, found drinking warm lager pretty much the worst thing he could think of. Especially in 100 degrees heat with about 85% humidity. He paid the extra ten shillings for an ice-cold Tusker.

Brody was sitting enjoying the first beer of the day at a table not designed for comfort. The lightweight rickety structure was made from what looked like wood from the dumpster out back, with bottle caps under the uneven legs to stop glasses falling on the floor. Watching life pass by. After about thirty minutes, he noticed a long-legged, dark-skinned beauty wander self-consciously into the bar. She looked lost, like someone waiting for a friend, not sure whether to sit or stand or leave. The long-legged beauty really did look upset and unsure of her surroundings. A damsel in distress, staring at the road and the cars passing by as if expecting the right car to pull up with all her friends. Coming into the seedy bar, then exiting. Only to return a few minutes later with a very confused look on her beautiful face. She caught Brody’s eye, “Bloody hell my lucks in,” he thought and grinned shyly back at her.

Then, with the most beautiful bright white smile he had ever seen, the young lady approached the table and said, “Hi, I am a little lost right now. I’m waiting for my friends; would you mind if I sat and waited with you.”

Brody stumbled on his words. He was not that good with women, especially not beautiful women who approached him!

“I’m Brody. I’m just visiting, having a quiet drink, seeing the sights of this lovely town,” he said in his most honorable voice but with a hint of sarcasm.

The young lady replied with that sweet smile, “Me too. I’m on holiday from Nairobi. I don’t know this area, my friends said to meet here. We are from the university they should arrive in a couple of minutes.”

Brody just sat staring at her, lost for words.

She asked, “Do you mind me taking a seat?”

Brody felt his cheeks redden, then jumped to his feet like a twelve-year-old boy finding himself in front of the school head cheerleader. He grabbed a chair from a nearby table.

She held out her hand, “My name is Maria. This place seems rough. I don’t know if I should wait here.”

He quickly replied, not wanting her to leave now, “Don’t worry, as long as you’re with me you’ll be safe.”

She was right. The place was more like the Wild West in the 1840s than the twentieth century. It was called Mtwappa and was a growing town that looked after the large trucking community of drivers taking their rigs from Mombasa Port to Somalia and the Sudan. The frontier town was rough, noisy, and very dusty. Every walk of life rubbed shoulders in the rubbish-strewn streets from beggars to millionaires. You could buy anything you wanted in the twenty-four-hour markets. If they didn’t have it now, they would in twenty minutes, just sit, have a beer and wait.

Maria was an excellent conversationalist, and after a few drinks, Brody was telling her his life story. With a quick, witty smile, she was obviously intelligent and seemed to know the world around her. She looked to be in her late twenties, with long curly black hair, and liquid brown eyes that were quick to crinkle as she smiled. Her slender, toned legs went on forever. She was wearing a short jeans skirt which Brody would never have allowed his daughter to wear, if he had one. A tight, bright white T-Shirt covering her ample breasts. All in all, an absolutely stunning package. Maria sat sipping her drink innocently, but she seemed to finish at the same time Brody did, ready for a refill. As the hot afternoon wore on, he started feeling a bit light-headed. Maria did not appear to notice, chatting easily with him. It seemed to Brody that he was the centre of her world. Everything else merged into the background like it didn’t exist. Her attention focused on nothing else, she hung on every word he said, smiling and nodding, encouraging him to talk. It was like talking to a therapist. Everything was OK, the story was all about him. The time flew by. Glancing at his watch, he noticed that two hours had passed, and Maria had her hand on his leg. Brody thought, in his semi-intoxicated state, “Well I‘m the best-looking guy here what the hell this place is getting better and better.”

Then the proverbial shit hit the fan when two huge guys walked into the bar as if they owned it. Coming out of the sunshine, it took a moment for their eyes to become used to the gloom. The room had about thirty people sitting or standing and chatting among themselves. The newcomers seemed to be looking for someone, their eyes scanned the bar and landed on Maria. They strode purposefully over to the table; Brody could tell this was not going to end well. He smiled and looked up at these two rough goons, obviously looking for booze and trouble.

Brody was brought back to the moment as he was suddenly hit in the side of the head with a straight right from out of the blue. The big Russian’s friend had taken advantage of the situation by flanking him, stepping out from behind a fridge, and throwing an easy punch. The arm behind it was strong from years of hard work. Brody slammed against the wall, cursing himself for losing his concentration. Walloping the wall with the flat of his back, he knew he had to act fast, or this would get serious in a hurry. The second Russian came for him again, figuring after the clout to the head he could get in easily and break his opponent. This guy was as big as his drinking companion, sweating from the high temperature and the physical exertion. The newcomer to the fight was about 6’ 4”, and in his late forties or early fifties. Like his friend, he had once been very fit. Maybe from the Russian armed forces, but nothing special, probably just a grunt. He had huge hands, ones you did not want to be hit with, knuckles that were red and broken from many bar fights over the years, and a flaming scar across his right cheek. If they had come off a ship, then this was their R and R, and they were going to have some fun, like it or not. The first guy was taking a break, having a drink at the bar, panting with exertion, smiling towards Brody as he got his breath back before coming in for the kill. The rest of the crowd in the room was just watching the floor show. Brody felt like a dancing bear on a chain brought in for the amusement of the crowd.

He went into tactical drill mode as his training took over. Honed reflexes kicked in, no thinking, just fast, decisive action.

The hours and hours of drill, the years of practice, and the missions he had been on in the Special Boat Service all came together in a split second. His muscles had so much memory they had forgotten more than these two brutes had ever known. Brody watched as the first guy came in to finish him off. He was in a tight corner with blocks either side, it looked bad, but he had trained in close and veryclose-quarterr combat. Fighting in a small space had been literally beaten into him. His Sargent Major’s voice came into his head: “Son, when you’re in a corner, fight like a rat, anything goes, eyes, ears, nose, throat, and balls. Get the lot as quick and hard as you can.”

The guy couldn’t get his swing in as he was close to the wall. He decided to try some boxing jabs. Brody, now fully awake, parried them one at a time, looking for an opportunity. The big guy was trying to concentrate on his opponent’s face but could not touch him as Brody was moving or blocking the slow blows with ease. The giant Russian dropped his guard for a second. Brody took his chance and struck, a straight punch from the shoulder, just a jab really, but designed to stop. The Russian did just that, he could not believe his nose had just been broken again. The blood came gushing, and his eyes started to water. This just enraged him further, his opponent was supposed to crumble at the first blow. This was not so much fun, hitting back was not meant to be part of the deal.

The Russian decided it was time to end the charade and go for the kill. He threw a killer punch straight at Brody’s face, aiming to inflict the same amount of damage as had been done to him seconds before. The problem with his strategy was, it was the exact thing that was expected. Brody was standing there, waiting for him to come up with the idea. The punch registered on the Russian’s face long before the thought moved from his brain down through his arm and finally into his fist. Brody watched in very slow motion as the fist clenched and wound up for the hard-straight jab directly at his nose, aiming to shatter the small bones. Then push them into his face, causing severe long-term damage that would be hard to fix here in Africa. It finally came barreling forward, full of power. This guy was still strong, but not so fast anymore, he was like an old boxer way past his prime trying to keep up with the young bucks on the scene. Brody simply slid down the wall, bending his knees. The fist hit the cinder block wall, causing more pain, and shattering the bones of the fingers and knuckles. Then Brody gave a nasty uppercut into the Russian’s balls in one swift movement, ducking out to the left as the guy fell to the floor groaning, bleeding, and probably with some broken fingers.

When the two goons had approached their table earlier and confronted them, they seemed to know Maria. She shyly feigned innocence, saying she did not want to speak to them. This had gotten Brody’s gentlemanly side up, there was no other option than to protect the poor girl’s honor, a real knight in shining armor. Of course, this must be a case of mistaken identity, she was a tourist, for God’s sake, on holiday. When the guys had started to argue, apparently, the big fat one had taken her home the night before, and they had agreed to meet today to continue the festivities. Brody did not believe them for a minute and told the guys to bug off and leave them to their afternoon.

That was when it had gotten out of hand. The big fat Russian had pushed Brody away from the table almost knocking his chair over. Brody had not taken this well, jumping to his feet he pushed them back with a very hard shove knocking some tables over and spilling drinks on the dirt floor.

Brody had been drinking for about four hours. First, the local lager, ‘Tusker’, which was what everyone drank, then some really cheap whiskey chasers. Belligerence was the order of the day.

That had been it, an already very tricky situation had moved to a very dangerous one very quickly. The next thing Brody knew, he was flying through the air and rolling over a table.

The last guy looked at his friend on the floor in an ever-increasing pool of blood, one hand clasped over his nose and the other between his legs. This was not meant to happen, not in Africa. It was always so easy here. The locals just let them do what they wanted, and the tourists were scared of their own shadow. He emitted a guttural roar of rage, like a mother lion after her precious cub had just been dragged off into the bush by a pack of hyenas. Then he came charging through the room towards Brody at full speed, there was no stopping him. Brody dodged to the left slightly. The Russian kept coming, putting his head down to take Brody’s legs away with his shoulders. The thug’s plan was simple: pick him up and slam him against the wall instantly crushing his body, maybe even breaking his back with the impact. Brody watched the charge carefully. He had to time this right, or he could end up dead. The huge Russian kept running, adjusting to get his full weight behind the charge, oblivious to everything else. This guy was past angry, the red curtain had fallen across his vision it was death or die trying. Brody stepped a little more to his left, watching the guy adjust. He was so angry all he could see was his target. When the impact was imminent, Brody could smell the sweat and anger pulsating off his attacker. His assailant was full of Russian rage, out to kill. All sense had left him. Brody pushed off the giant’s shoulders, landing neatly on the balls of his feet, four feet to the left.

The whole building shook, and a tremor rattled the glasses on the bar. Several large fruit bats flew from the Makuti roof, where they had been sleeping the day off, frightened by the sudden vibration. Brody had positioned himself in front of the large upright tree trunk holding the ceiling in place. The Russian’s head connected with it full force. The crack sounded very final like a butcher’s cleaver chopping a joint of meat. The post was entirely unharmed, not a scratch, but the same could not be said for the human being that had collided with it. The trunk was probably more than one hundred years old and hard as iron. The head that hit it was soft, almost an eggshell, the battle was totally one-sided.

The Russian fell flat on his face in the dirt. Blood was coming from the top of his head. He groaned and lay still. Brody hoped he was only out cold! You could hear a pin drop in the bar.

Maria grabbed Brody’s hand and said. “Let’s move, we can’t stay here now!” In a second, they were out on what amounted to a curb. It was not broad enough to be called a pavement. In their rush to escape, they almost fell into a deep drainage ditch, filled with stagnant water and rubbish, running beside the road.

This town was the go-to place for every semi-truck heading north. The massive fourteen and sixteen-wheelers thundered across the twisted bridge over the creek heading into the melee, on a one-lane, pothole-filled road.

The trucks, mostly with two forty-foot containers on the back, full way beyond capacity, raced into town, belching diesel smoke, grinding gears with horns blasting and air brakes hissing. This combined with the hundreds of small motorbikes, ‘PikiPiki’s,’ manically maneuvering up and down the road between the trucks and people. The air was filled with the smell of roasting meat, every meat conceivable from donkey right through to camel, smoke, and diesel fumes.

Crossing the road, they dodged a huge truck racing into town and blasting its horn angrily, then raced into the markets of Mtwappa. Maria seemed to know her way around this place too well for a tourist from Nairobi. But Brody was just following, trying to get his wits about him. The market had blaring music, T-shirts, gold watches, pots, and pans, TVs, and radios. More cooking meat, Coke stands, a man selling sausages from a cart, another selling mangoes with a lady shouting something Brody could not understand. It was sensory overload, like a nightmare, full of noise and movement. Everything was happening all at once around him. Faces laughing and smiling, holding stuff out to him as he flashed by. A guy grabbed his shirt to try to show him something. Brody spun, pushing him away back into his stall, ignoring the shouts and insults from the disgruntled owner. They were weaving through the center of this cacophony and motion, darting this way and that. Brody jumped over a large fat lady sat in the middle of the path. She had a huge cauldron of scalding hot cooking oil over a charcoal fire with lumps of potato bubbling on the surface, shouting “Viazi A Kari” at the top of her lungs.

They came out of one set of stalls into a small rubbish-strewn lane with dismantled motorcycle parts all over the floor. A couple of young lads were squatting on the floor in the dust with some old spanners, repairing the vehicles. Brody almost collided with the massive furry chest of a camel. The beast hissed, lashing out with its hoof and then spitting at him. The young Somali on the back of the camel started shouting insults from above. They raced on.

Maria was dragging Brody along through the crowd. Twisting and turning in and out of the people and market stalls. He had a problem keeping up. She grabbed his hand, shouting, “We must hurry, we don’t want the cops arresting us. That would be trouble, you don’t want to go inside!”

She pulled him down narrow alleys, smelling like open sewers, then across small busy roads where everyone was doing something and shouting about it. You could buy anything here from a Kalashnikov to a new Toyota, probably not exactly new, perhaps still warm from the last owner.

Finally, Maria ducked between some washing lines across someone’s backyard, into the main street again, and immediately entered a ladies’ hair salon, she shouted. “Hi, Mum!” Before Brody could ask any questions, she dragged him out the backdoor and into an adjoining bar, where she calmly walked up to the bartender and said, “Hi Chiro. Two cold Tuskers.”

Brody was shocked. He had just been through a wash cycle and spin. His head was taking a moment to catch up. The race through the village had started in an easterly direction for about 200 yards. Then a sharp turn to the northeast, running through the market stalls, this had gone on for six hundred running strides about a mile. Another turn west for about three hundred yards. This put his current location, about one and a half miles northwest of the bar. Shukran would be to his southeast about two miles away at her mooring. He had learned a lot as they had run and would return to assess the new routes through the village and have a look at some of the shops along the way, everything was committed to memory.

He stared at Maria, but she just smiled that beautiful smile, “Man, you can fight. That was so cool, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

Brody slumped in a chair, accepting his cold Tusker gratefully. He took a long pull on the ice-cold liquid, slowly letting it glide down his dry and parched throat. After a couple of minutes, he was getting his senses back. He went over the afternoon’s events and took particular note that his new tourist friend had shouted ‘Hi, Mum’ as she had run through the salon next door. It was as clear as the smile on her face, Maria was not quite what she had said she was.

Brody wandered over to the bar where Maria was sitting. It was easy to see why men could get caught by this beautiful young girl. There were so many thoughts running through his head. He should confront this obvious con woman, after defending her honor like a bloody idiot! Then, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she slapped an old brown wallet on the counter, opened it, and handed a 1000-shilling note to the bartender. That was enough for ten beers. Brody looked at it in astonishment.

He reached out and snatched the wallet from Maria. “Hey!” She shouted, “That’s mine!”

Brody sneered, “Yeah right. You look like Markov Slidivoga. You stole it off those Russian guys.”

Maria replied, “Ah a girl’s gotta eat, you know. This ain’t cheap,” as she slapped her own behind.

“Anyway, it was hanging out of his pocket. If I hadn’t done it, then somebody else would have. It’s man eat man out there,” she replied.

Brody looked at her, “You are some piece of work you know.”

She answered with her big brown eyes as large as saucers, “AND! Your point is?”

Brody said, “You have to give this back. If he doesn’t have his ID, he won’t be able to get back on his ship, or he might end up in jail.”

“Man, you are a good guy. Those big Russians were about to tear you apart.”

Brody replied, “That’s different.”

He thought it was probably all Maria’s fault anyway, they were just innocent marks!

Maria looked at him and shrugged, “OK no problem, I will let them have their wallet back, but the cash is mine.” Brody was in no position to argue this point. As far as he was concerned, he was in enemy territory with an opponent who had far greater knowledge of the local surroundings.

Maria ordered two more Tuskers. For a girl she could drink, another endearing point thought Brody. When the drinks had arrived, she shouted, “Sunshine! Sunshine!” A few minutes later, a young lad of about 12 years of age came shyly out from the backroom or kitchen as it seemed to be, there were bangs and clattering from that general direction. The boy came over to Maria. She frowned at him, he turned to Brody, held out his hand, and said. “Good afternoon, sir, how are you today?”

Brody grinned, “I am fine sir thank you.”

Formalities over, Maria reached into her bag and took out 100 shillings, about a dollar, then said, “Sunshine Mwangi, I want you to go straight to the Police Base, you find Corporal Naivasha and hand this over to him. Say someone left it on the road and you picked it up, it was empty when you found it, OK?” Sunshine nodded eagerly, his eyes fixed on the crisp new note. He grabbed the money and the wallet, then raced out through the door to the hair salon. The bar was immediately filled with the smell of perfume and hairspray, and the sound of ladies laughing and shouting as the door slammed behind the young boy.

Maria said, “That’s my mom’s salon. She does the beauty, and my dad does the beer!”

She went on, “We are Kikuyu. My father lost his job on the tea plantation about ten years ago. We had nothing. Then my aunt who had come to Mtwappa to find a ‘Muzungu,’ (a white or European guy), called him and told him Mtwappa was a good place to make money. My mom was from the village. She could not speak any English, only Kikuyu. When we arrived, she was lost, just wandering around the town looking for things to do. We Kikuyu are hardworking people. As she was walking and looking around, she heard the ‘whites’ saying, ‘isn’t it a beautiful day, such a lot of sunshine,’ Then she heard someone say, ‘Hello, Sunshine.’ She fell in love with the word. About eight months after when her son was born, she demanded he be called ‘Sunshine Mwangi.’ My dad was furious. He should have been called Mwangi Sunshine!” Maria laughed at her own joke.

As they were chatting, a plate of meat had arrived with chapatti, a flatbread made from flour and water, cooked on a flat pan over the fire. The simple meal was served with a mixture of onions, chilli, and tomatoes. Maria explained that it was Kachumbari, their local salad. Brody surveyed the meat suspiciously, Maria laughed and said. “Don’t worry, that’s chicken. You can see the bones.” She picked a leg, hungrily setting about the barbequed meat.

“If you want the camel, ask for the beef and if you want donkey, ask for the Samosas.” She said through mouthfuls. These were small triangular shaped pies, deep-fried and filled with a variety of different ingredients, from vegetables through to any non-descript meat that might be hanging around.

Brody sat back and took a long pull on his beer. This had been a strange day, he thought. It started out well, a bit rough in the middle, but then getting better at the end. Maria was a tough street kid. Brody felt for her, he knew a bit about living on the streets. He had been brought up in Central London in a place called Wood Green on the council estates. spending most of his time away from school, wandering down to the city and gazing at the river, dreaming of sailing off into the sunset, or heading off on his bike packed high with gear to find a place to set up camp in the woods and forests outside of London. The council estates had not been easy and school worse. He had not done well, leaving at sixteen then immediately joining the Marines.

Maria was cute and good company though Brody knew he had to keep an eye on his wallet and her hands. But they seemed to have crossed a point: they were friends now; he was no longer her next mark. Or so he hoped. The afternoon wore on, the beer kept coming, and the food and company were good. Brody met Maria’s father, Mr Mwangi, he was in his sixties, small and wiry with a dark brown, knowing face, a wrinkled brow, and long arms that had seen work. He grinned at Brody, then Maria interjected in Kikuyu. Brody did not understand. When Maria had finished, she turned to Brody and said, “I told him you saved me and my honor, and you are not to be conned for anything. Not even the beer. I told him to charge you regular price and not steal your wallet.”

Brody laughed out loud. This place was a madhouse.

After Mr Mwangi had agreed not to con Brody, they became instant friends. He ran the bar plus other pursuits he did not want to go into in front of Wanjiku or Maria. He kept correcting himself, Maria’s Kikuyu name was Wanjiku. Brody instantly liked the name and started using it at once.

They ate and drank the afternoon away on the Russian’s money. It was dark when Brody thought he should head home. Wanjiku walked him to the crowded street. She then entered into a lengthy and rapid negotiation with a motorcycle taxi, small, 100 hp Chinese models of famous bikes. The drivers earnt their cash by giving people rides around the town. This form of transport was precarious, to say the least. The drivers would often have just started riding a bike in the morning and were ready as taxi men by lunchtime. A helmet was out of the question and just laughed off. Wanjiku said it would only ruin her hair anyway so she never wore one! Brody was instructed to only give 100 shillings when he got to the mooring of Shukran. He headed off into the night, making plans to see Wanjiku again, he was beginning to like this place.

Chapter Two

The smell of strong Arabic coffee was in the air. The burning charcoal of the small coal burner used to heat the water to make the coffee in the way only the Arabs know. The early morning sounds of an old wooden dhow waking up were beginning. The gentle slapping of the small waves against the side of the wooden boat. Timbers gently creaked against one another. The weaver bird’s incessant twittering, in the trees, overhanging the lazy creek. These small brightly-colored birds fussed and squawked at their mates, fighting for space on the branches, getting ready to repair their nests, and find food for their young. Brody slowly came back to life. It was about another twenty or thirty minutes until the sun would start to show its glowing head and slowly burn its way up from the horizon. The darkness was gone, just a gloom patiently waiting for the new day to arrive. The haunting wail of the cleric calling his faithful to prayer wafted through the early morning mist covering the creek.

Fishermen were already starting their day’s work, paddling out to the mouth of the creek about one mile further east where the freshwater mingled with the salt and it all became the Indian Ocean. They would not return until late in the afternoon, hopefully with enough fish to feed their families. If they were lucky, there might even be a few left to sell.

Brody came back to consciousness with the memories of the day before still lingering in his mind. Wanjiku was stuck there, her wonderful smile and conman ways made him grin as he gradually came back to the land of the living.

Hassan, his First Mate and good friend, approached with a tiny cup and a conical-shaped copper coffee pot on a large ornate tray. He had been buying unusual items when they were in Mombasa a few miles south of Mtwappa. The coffee pot and tray were now prized possessions. The coffee pot was about 12 inches tall with a flat circular bottom then coming to a point at the top, about two-thirds of the way up the lid was just a seam. The pot had an ornate handle and was used specifically for this excellent aromatic Arabian coffee Hassan seemed to be able to create from nowhere.

Gratefully taking the small cup being offered, he started waking up. Hassan asked, “Mr. Brody we need to do some work on Shukran, can we do it here on the beach? The sand is white, there is no mud, it will be easy.”

Brody replied, “How are the tides?”

Hassan took a second to look at the sky, then said, “The water will be high today around noon, Bwana. We can take her out and put her on the beach, then do the Kalifati.”

Brody just nodded in agreement. He was learning fast about maintenance on a wooden boat, but still knew that Hassan was in charge in this area.

Hassan went off to start his day and get his shipmate Gumbao ready for the day’s activities.

Brody’s daily routine of running about five to six miles was incredibly important. Going without a good run for a few days left him feeling like a man waking from a coma, slow, with a thick head, not sure what was happening around him. There were other benefits too. It cleared his head allowing the thoughts to flow smoothly after pumping some good endorphins into his body. Running in the early mornings had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. After joining the Marines, the training instructors had punished the new recruits with running long arduous treks into the wilderness of the UK’s moorlands and mountains: looking to weed out the weakest of the group, so only the fit survived. Brody had loved the competition, pushing his body further each day, willing the instructors to ask for more. Then the Special Boat Service (S.B.S) was a whole new ball game. Just to get through the interviews you had to be the strongest of the strong. The S.B.S torturers, as they liked to be known, enjoyed the first few weeks of training. Every new recruit was like a lamb to the slaughter, the torturers called it beasting which meant pushing the recruit to the absolute limits of exhaustion. And then beyond. It was like a Japanese Prisoner of War Camp combined with the Spanish Inquisition, the beastings were to make you fail, that was the object of the game. Trudging through the snow, like a pack mule climbing an ice-covered mountain in a blizzard in temperatures of minus four degrees, you just got beaten until you dropped or survived. Most failed, but to Brody, it was like heroin to an addict. He hated to love it and always wanted more.

Brody ran beside the creek, heading out towards the ocean. The beach was almost empty apart from a few fishermen pushing their solid, heavy dugout canoes into the water for the day’s work, hunting the elusive fish in the mangrove swamps. After running for so many years, his body and brain had an integral milometer fixed in place. Running, and distance gauging, was automatic. His muscles knew when he had reached the three miles and it was time to turn back. The return route was always harder, pushing him that little bit more each day. Running along the edge of the mangroves, leaping across the twisted branches, then finding the softest sand and powering through it until his thighs screamed at him to stop, but he would just push on back to Shukran. Arriving at the boat, he would immediately dive off the side into the warm waters of the creek. Swimming to the halfway point, about one hundred yards off the beach, and returning with a final blast of energy. A hard-free stroke, like an Olympic swimmer heading for gold.

Hassan had been traveling with Brody for the best part of a year now. He was an unassuming, very friendly guy, about 5’ 4” tall with a thin, wiry frame, very quick smile and always laughing, dark brown, sharp eyes and strong callused fisherman hands. He usually wore a white or multi-colored turban, a T-shirt, and shorts then a small Kanzu over the top. The Kanzu was like a long gown the Swahilis wear, usually white or brown in color, with embroidery around the collar and cuffs. Hassan had been a sailor since he was a small boy, leaving school before his twelfth birthday then seeing a business opportunity, he had taught himself English, enabling him to work with the tourists that regularly came on the weekly ferry to his home on Pemba Island. These short-term visitors always paid well. They did not seem to know how cheap life in Africa was, or they felt guilty for being so rich, Hassan did not know or care really. During the offseason, he would fish with his dad out in the Pemba Channel, the forty-mile-wide passage between Pemba and the mainland of Tanzania. Now things were different. He had been lucky; Allah had smiled down on him. The regular monthly income from Mr Brody was enough for his family to live and his sister to go to school. She was the clever one.

Hassan had met Mr Brody on Pemba Island, a real stroke of good fortune. After watching the new ‘Muzungu’ jump off the ferry onto the rickety wooden jetty and get his pile of stuff passed down to him, Hassan had moved in with his usual casual smile and offer of help. After a few minutes of chatting about what the new visitor was looking for and what he wanted, it was evident to Hassan that this one was a bit different. His eyes were cold and dark, always darting this way and that as if expecting an attack at any second. There was no smile at all, which is very strange to an African. Smiling is a way of life. His new friend seemed to be like a caged animal that had suddenly been let loose to run free. Unsure what to do or how to do it, having never been free, the existence was alien to him. Swahilis are very friendly and open, especially on the Islands. This guy was the complete opposite, closed and dangerous. After offering his small wooden dhow and promising peace and quiet with no fuss, the cold dark stranger opened up slightly, explaining he was here to dive in the quiet calm reefs and lagoons Pemba had to offer. He would stay for as long as he wanted, he had nowhere else to go.

After some fun with negotiations, they had settled on a daily figure for the use of the small boat with Hassan as the captain. The next was accommodation. Hassan knew the routine and played along as always, acting the idiot until he could get the tourist to trust him, then sending them to his uncle’s guest house, passing by later for a hefty commission. But this guy was different. Hassan soon sensed if he tried any of the usual tricks he would get into trouble very quickly. His new customer felt dangerous enough without being angry. Instead, he had opted for the small chalet on the beach his family owned. It was more of a fishing shack really with none of the amenities the ‘Muzungus’ always had to have. Hassan knew it would be perfect for his friend as it was quiet, out of the way with no fuss. He had been right; the guy took it immediately without another word.

That had been a long time ago. They had now become firm friends, traveling the length of Kenya, rescuing Hassan’s sister, and foiling a plot by some radical jihadists. This was how Mr Brody had become the proud owner of the dhow known as Shukran. Hassan’s grandfather had been so happy to have his only granddaughter returned to the family safe and sound that he had decided immediately to make a gift of an old dhow he had owned for many years to their savior. In the end, the whole village had contributed, repairing the engine, and making the boat seaworthy. Once everything was ready, Hassan had been dispatched to invite Mr Brody back for a celebration where the old wooden boat was presented to him. That plus a small pouch of uncut diamonds from an East Indiaman hold wrecked off Pemba 100 years before. During some diving off the west coast of Pemba, they had found an old sword from India, this had led them to a lost treasure hidden in caves on the coast. Hassan could see his new friend was beginning to change, with occasional smiles the dark, haunted eyes had left. Mr Brody was laughing and enjoying life. All he had to do now was find him a good Swahili woman then he would be set!

Hassan had taken Mr Brody to the markets of Mombasa on the way up from Pemba. The distance from Pemba to Mombasa is about sixty-five nautical miles sailing roughly north, north-east along the coast. Once they had arrived in Mombasa old town, Hassan, and their other shipmate Gumbao, had taken over the whole situation. After docking at the small local jetty leading into the dark, narrow streets of Old Town, Gumbao had led them to an old friend of his, Dalali or Lali for short. Lali was the kind of guy who knows everyone and sells everything, the local wheeler-dealer. Soon they were sat at the back of a jewelry store called Fat Buddha, drinking tea and negotiating over the diamonds. Hassan was sure the deal had not been in their favor. But when the Indian started piling more money than he had ever seen before on the floor for them to count, he had not argued. And the best part was they had only sold a quarter of their stash, they could live like kings forever on this!

Gumbao was another new friend of Mr Brody’s, he did not say much though. He was a bit older than Mr Brody in his late forties, and a little shorter than his almost six feet, with closely cropped white hair, a furrowed brow from constantly frowning into the sun while at sea, long loose limbs with hands that were curled from dragging fishing nets on board his whole life. His palms and fingers were hard and dry as sandpaper, the nails all cracked or gone from hard work. When Hassan looked at him, he saw a guy with no worries at all. Each new day was a good one, as it had arrived, and he was part of it. He never had any money in his pockets, just an excellent attitude which seemed to get him where he needed to be. He was not a Muslim, which upset Hassan a little. Gumbao was a Giriama, a coastal tribe that still believed in witchcraft.

Gumbao’s feet had never seen shoes in his life, easily a size twelve or thirteen and flat as pancakes with soles like animal hide. On a sunbaked deck, he could walk with no feeling when Mr Brody was hopping from foot to foot. Gumbao was a big tough fisherman with a taste for the drink. He could find it when no other could, disappearing into thin air then sometimes reappearing hours or days later, either drunk already or carrying some sort of booze. Gumbao was always ready to help, great in a fight, with an easy, toothless smile.

The head man on Pemba had asked Mr Brody to take the then sleeping Gumbao away with them when they left. He had been drinking the local brew made from fermenting coconut milk. When exposed to the sun, it immediately starts rotting and smells like cream left outside on a hot summer’s day. This stench permeates from the drinker’s skin. Gumbao slept on the deck, no one would go near him for a good two days. On the third day, after slowly coming around, he demanded cigarettes, booze, and finally some water. All he had were the clothes on his back, which amounted to a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The new situation he found himself in did not seem to faze him. After taking a day to fully recover, he tied a rope around his waist and jumped over the side of the dhow to be dragged along for a good mile. When his cleansing session was over, he decided in usual African fashion that as he was older than Hassan, his rightful place was second in command. Then life continued, no complaints, just another day on the ocean fishing and sailing. This was the African way. You could uproot someone then just pretty much press-gang them onto a boat then get no complaints at all. Hassan smiled as he thought of the tourists that visited Pemba Island. How they needed sun cream, bottled water, special shoes for the beach, and shirts to ward off the sun.

The sun was slowly burning the dew off the decks of Shukran. Hassan was busy today. There was work to do, with leaks below the waterline the crew had to get her out of the water to apply the ‘Kalifati.’ Gumbao was essential to the job, although since he had taken on the role of second in command, Hassan had decided to ignore him and carry on as usual. They had to push Shukran up the beach during the high tide around saa nane, two o’clock in the afternoon. Then he remembered the stupid ‘Muzungus’ did not understand proper time, so he adjusted in his head to two o’clock or as Bwana Brody said, 14:00, like a soldier. The ‘Muzungu’ time really was confusing; his Swahili time was much better and easier. When the sun came up properly, it was the first hour of the day, Saa Moja, Hour One, this was for ‘Muzungus’ 7 am. Then you went along second-hour, third hour, and so on until you reached the 12, by then it would be dark which was around 6 pm ‘Muzungu’ time. You started again for the night time at one, which was 7 pm and went around again until 12 which would be the hour just before sunrise. So easy and yet the ‘Muzungus’ always had to complicate stuff!

Hassan was enjoying his new job as First Mate on Shukran. it meant he got to practice his English with Mr Brody and sail all over the place. Mr Brody had left his mom and dad with six months’ salary as they would not be returning for a while. The radicals, or the Kaya Bombo, as they were known, had tried to kill them. So, the head elder had sent Mr Brody and Hassan away until things cooled off.

But today they had to get Shukran up on the beach. Hassan was looking everywhere for Gumbao. He had gone missing the night before after dinner and had not been seen since. The morning was starting. It was almost 06:00, they had to get everything ready before the tide started leaving again at 14:00. There was a lot to do. Shukran was a wooden boat and needed extra care. She could not just be dragged up the beach and left.

Hassan had spoken to some of his cousins who had agreed to arrive at around 08:00 to help, bringing with them some stout wooden poles about nine feet long. These poles would be buried in the sand up to about a foot, then leaned against Shukran from either side to hold her upright until the water came again to support her.

This was a precarious job. If the pole either sank into the sand or slipped out, Shukran would fall onto her side. This was very dangerous as the rising tide would flood her before they could float her again, ruining the engine and splitting planks. Hassan was anxious that this did not happen, so he performed his duties as the First Mate very seriously.

Gumbao turned up an hour later, looking very pleased with himself.

Hassan snapped sarcastically, “Where have you been, Boss?”

Gumbao said, “Ah you see, I was walking along the road, up where the big trucks are, looking for a friend of mine who owes me money. Then I heard a sound like click, click and shouting, so I had to go see what was happening. You would never believe it, but there was a certain group playing checkers in a small bar off the main road. Now you know I like a game. I’m no gambler but if someone wants to give me their money, who am I to say no. These guys were locals, not a professional like me. I sat patiently, then when it was my turn to play, I took them for everything. LOOK, I won this shirt, then these pants, I even took this hat off a stupid tourist who was watching us.”

He had a brand-new ocean blue Hawaiian shirt with green parrots and hula girls dancing around his waist, a pair of extra-long orange shorts, with a bright purple baseball cap, proudly proclaiming, in bold black letters, he was a ‘TOURIST.’

Hassan looked at his crewmate in amazement. “We have work to do. You can’t be messing around like this, I told you last night to get here on time.”

Gumbao joked, “Ah you are just a boy, you don’t understand. All will be OK, the water is only just coming, I had everything planned in my head.”

Hassan was lost for words. It was like fighting the wind, a total waste of your life. He just shook his head and carried on with his day’s work.

They prepared Shukran by stowing all the gear they could safely out of the way and under the decks. Then they walked the beach, looking for debris or rocks which might foul her, or worse still put pressure on the keel. The next job was to make a marker point on the beach to head for when the boat was being driven onto shore. As they were finishing, Hassan’s cousins arrived. They were all business. It was past noon and they had to get a move on. Inching Shukran off the jetty where she was moored, Brody drove carefully with Hassan giving instructions. Reaching the center of the channel, Brody came about one hundred and eighty degrees, then started motoring down the creek towards the ocean. They knew they had to catch the slack tide when the water was not coming or going.

Brody did a few circles, then Hassan ordered him to head straight for the shore at dead slow. He had to keep feathering the engines, making sure Shukran held a straight and steady course towards the marker. Gumbao was up to his chest in the water, giving more directions, left and right to Hassan, which were then conveyed to Brody. Finally, there were eight more guys in the water, up to their waists, holding the posts ready and waiting.

Edging closer to the beach until the boat was about thirty feet away, Hassan signaled Brody to cut the engine with a slicing of his throat. Hassan threw a line to Gumbao as Shukran slowly drifted in towards the beach on the last of the momentum from the propeller. Once Gumbao could grab the bow, he hauled Shukran in as far as he dared, leaving only about four inches under the keel.

Then the boys started moving around the outside of Shukran, placing the poles in the sand until they were firm, then leaning them in until they stuck under the rubbing strip. This would support Shukran while the ‘Kalifati’ was being completed.

Once Shukran had the eight poles supporting her, the boys took the anchor far up the beach, setting it firmly in the sand. Lines were taken from the stern, port, and starboard sides to several trees to ensure she held her position as she settled onto the sand.

When Hassan was satisfied, she was set, he left Gumbao sitting on the beach watching Shukran and headed off for the ‘Kalifati Fundi.’ Brody had been on hand the whole time, helping with the poles and setting Shukran straight. He was now unemployed until the water receded, so he decided to head over to the local bar the ‘Full Moon’. The place was idyllic, right on the creek with views all the way to the ocean. It was built on reclaimed land with a sturdy sea wall which Brody had used to moor Shukran. The water was lapping high on the wall, but Brody knew it was already heading back out to the ocean. He sat at a small wooden table and ordered his Tusker, making sure it was a cold one. Wanjiku had taught him the word ‘Baridi,’ meaning cold in Swahili, a very useful term. Relaxing in the afternoon sun, idly watching the pied kingfishers dart above the water, then dive-bomb straight into the creek and come up with a small soldierfish or a baby skipjack. The place was full of life if you sat and watched for a while and let the world go by. Brody could see several silver-gray barracuda swimming below him lazily, moving in the current, waiting for night to fall when they would head out again to hunt. Life was good. His mind wandered to the firefights in Somalia and the trudges through the jungle in The Congo, or Zaire as it was called then. He had earned a break after the many years of training or fighting, almost twenty, when he had finally decided to get out. That was a long time to be holding a gun, crisscrossing the world so many times he could not remember. Always landing in some out of the way place, or coming into a beach he had never seen and never would again. Then creeping around for days, weeks or even months looking for an elusive enemy.

Sitting quietly deep in thought, a polite cough startled him. A large white guy was standing with the sun behind his back, holding a glass of dark liquid in one hand and a beer in the other.

He smiled, “Gooday, mate, me name’s Barry. I’m the manager of this place, and general dog’s body. Do you mind if I take a load off? I brought you a cold one on the house.”

Brody offered a chair, Barry gratefully sat, “Cheers mate.”

Handing Brody the beer, he took a large swallow of the whiskey in his glass, then held it up in the air shouting, “Bring me another!” A waiter casually ambled over and took the glass for a refill. This was obviously not the first time this had happened.

Barry was a big chap in every way, about 6’6” tall and about that around the waist too, with a dark mop of thinning hair, and at least two days’ growth of dark whiskers on his chin. He had cobalt blue, clear eyes that were quick to shine when he smiled, which was often, and a faraway gaze like all sailors, checking the weather and the swells. The large wooden chair groaned as he sat and looked at the creek in front of him. A long moment passed as they both gazed at the incredible scenery. Barry said, “Bloody paradise mate, isn’t it. Eh.”

Brody replied, “You are not wrong there, I could get used to this.”

Then Barry’s drink arrived.

Barry had stopped here on a round-the-world sailing trip about eight years ago and never left. His beautiful sixty-five-foot catamaran was moored in the creek.

He explained, “Well, mate, I was on the way up the coast. I was going to go through the Suez and head into the Med, but this place just grabbed me. The owner here was getting on a bit and let me come in as manager come everything, meaning, I pretty much have a free hand to run the place. I can tell you it has suited me; I live on me boat and work here.”

Brody thought for a minute. It is fantastic how people make their lives: one minute they are sailing the world, the next they’re a bar manager on the East African Coast.

They chatted a while about the creek and Shukran. Brody enjoyed the conversation. Barry was full of information about Mtwappa and the surrounding area.

Brody asked, “Barry, do you know any good diving in the area.”

Barry said, “Well mate I am not much of a diver, as you can see,” he said, pointing at his stomach, “But I know a man who does. I’ll find him and get him to come around tomorrow.” This was great news. While Shukran was being repaired, Brody could get in a few dives.

Hassan had brought the Fundi back to the beach several hours ago, first helping to set up the expert’s tools then showing him the leaks in the planks. Once the Fundi had settled on a mat on the soft sand under Shukran’s belly, he prepared his small hammer, the oil, and the ‘Kalifati’, which was waste cotton that came in large bundles. Hassan had bought it in Old Town Mombasa along with the simsim oil, the Swahili word for sesame. The old man started rolling lines of the waste cotton out between his palms like long thin sausages, then carefully poured the oil into his cupped hands, rolling the cotton between them briskly. Once he was satisfied the oil had penetrated the waste cotton, he laid the long roll of what was now ‘Kalifati’ into the lines between the planks, then tapped it in with the small hammer and chisel. There was now a flexible, waterproof seal between the two planks. As the boat moved in the ocean, the ‘Kalifati’ would slowly get worn away. The fish also loved to eat the cotton to get at the oil.

This was a long slow process. Hassan watched intently. He had seen it done a hundred times before, but now wanted it to be perfect for his Shukran. Swahilis are a very social tribe of East Africa. Any meeting of two people turns into a lengthy debate, chatting about everything under the sun. The old Fundi and Hassan put the world to rights as they did their work. The Fundi spotted a loose plank, then found a couple of rusted nails which he pulled out. After more discussion, the hardwood plank was cleaned up and recut to fit. Some Kalifati was placed in any open spaces as the wood was tapped back into place. More of the soaked cotton waste was wrapped around a large flat head of a new shiny nail and hammered home.

Brody could hear the tap-tap from the boat as they drank in the bar. Barry asked, “Mate. These wooden boats, they have a weird sail. How do you manage them?”

Brody replied, “They’re called Lateen sails. They have been used along this coast for hundreds of years, back when they traded slaves.”

Barry pointed across the creek to a beautiful Catamaran sat at a mooring. She was long and sleek, a real ocean-going sailing craft. He said, “So I sailed from New Zealand through to Indonesia, then across to Thailand, and to India, and Goa, across the Indian Ocean to here. It was a journey I can tell you. But the Cat is a good boat. Nearly fifty feet long, she can go through anything mother nature has to offer. My sails are all run on electric winches, mate. It’s a piece of piss really, sailing like that, just pressing buttons.

Brody smiled. “This is entirely different. We have to haul the boom up to the top of the mast with pulleys and lines, then set the sail. Tacking and jibing is a bugger especially when the sail is wet.”

“It looks like bloody hard work to me. I think I’ll stick to my own. She’s a beaut, though, can’t deny you that,” Barry said looking at Shukran.

Brody just smiled and took a sip of his beer.

Barry asked, “So mate, where do you store the guns?”

Brody looked at him in astonishment, “What guns?”

Barry looked back with equal astonishment, “You got to have some protection here, mate. You never know what might happen. And out there.” Barry pointed to the ocean, “That’s the bloody Wild West, mate!”

Brody said, “No guns on Shukran. I wouldn’t know where to get them anyway.”

Barry looked at Brody and broke into a smile, “Good, mate. I might just be able to help you there if you’re interested?”

Brody was interested. He knew that being armed was a good thing, especially when sailing around this coastline. There were stories of pirates operating in these waters, ruthless cutthroats that would kill the crew without a thought, then take off with the boat, selling it or using it to smuggle their contraband. A bit of firepower would give him serious peace of mind.

Brody said, “Why not? I can see your point. What you offering?”

“Ah, not me mate, we have to go and see a guy.”

Brody replied, “Cool, whenever you’re free.”

Barry was on his feet in a second, “No time like the present, mate.”

They finished up their drinks and headed off to the car park at the back of the Full Moon. Barry had a big, old, white, four-door, 109” long wheelbase Landrover. Brody knew these cars; he had used them in the desert.

Barry said, “Brody, meet the Loner. She’s a beaut, but she is a real bitch. Reminds me of my second wife. She wouldn’t wake up in the mornings, lazy cow. Had to kick her to the curb. She would still be in bed when I got home from work at 10 o’clock at night. If we can get her started, then we can go see my mate.”

The Landrover was a decommissioned military vehicle, probably brought into Kenya by the British. The Loner, as she was known, was at least twenty-five years’ old and had seen better days. It was named after the car from the Jim Carrey movie The Mask. The aluminum body shone through where the paint had been scratched off, there were dents in all the panels. The doors fitted where they touched, which was not often. The roof had been removed years ago. There were two rough, torn seats in the front and the back had been converted to a flatbed. The ‘Loner’ stood brooding, challenging them to try to get her started. She just looked old and angry, like the lunatic bag lady dressed in multi-colored clothing on the street corner, shouting at all who passed by, ready to fight with anyone who catches her eye.

Jumping into the driver’s seat Barry shouted, “Com’on,’darlin’, you know you want some, let’s go for a little ride.”

He pressed the start button, the ignition had disappeared years ago, to a dull thump as the starter lazily turned.

Barry started cajoling her, “Now that’s no way to treat me, is it? Look, I’ve a guest here, don’t embarrass me like this.”

Again, he pumped the pedals, then gingerly pressed the button. This time it was worse, absolutely nothing happened. Brody laughed at the angry car and owner.

That was it for Barry. He was mad now, “Look, you bitch, I told you last time any more of this shit, and I am pushing you in the mangroves. I’ll watch as the sea eats you up, every low tide I will come and kick your lazy ass.”

Barry pressed the button over and over, shouting every time. The Loner just sat sullenly, slowly turning her engine.

He jumped out and said, “Sorry, mate, time to push.”

Brody and Barry started pushing the Loner along the track. They managed to get the heavy Landrover to the top of a small rise. Then she was off down the other side, as if she was trying to get away from them. They chased after her down the hill. Barry jumped in the driver’s seat, hammered the clutch to the floor, jammed her in second then slipped the clutch back up.

The Loner lurched as she caught. There was a massive belch of oily blue smoke from the exhaust as the huge, V8, normally aspirated engine burst into life. Once she was alive, it was like a rally car on drugs. The 200HP engine threw them along the tracks back towards town. The old 109 had leaf springs front and back. With very thin, worn padding left in the seats, every single pothole seemed like a massive crevasse in the road. The car leaped into them and then jarred on the opposite side, flying out towards the next hole. The doors constantly rattled, along with the bonnet and just about every other part of the vehicle. Barry shouted a running commentary all the way to the main road.

They hit the north-south artery and made a sharp right, heading out of town. The tarmac was not much better. Barry yelled, “This road was laid about ten years ago by the Chinese. It was good back then. But with all the bloody trucks and traffic, it’s knackered now.”

He was right. There were potholes everywhere, that and PikiPikis swerving in and out of the traffic. Plus, big, black, old-fashioned, bicycles called black-mambas with men peddling and fat women dressed in colorful dresses, with huge sacks on their heads, perched on the rear luggage rack, chatting and shouting. This combined with the ever-present container trucks all heading north along this two-lane road. Barry continuously smashed the feeble horn as the old Landrover raced along the road, weaving between the dense traffic, trying to miss the deep potholes in the road.

As they drove, Barry explained. “Mate, we’re off to Kikambala. It’s a place up here a ways, in back off the main road.”

They were speeding along the main road towards Malindi. It was still one lane north and one lane south with the big trucks dominating the whole width. Barry was weaving in and out of them whenever he saw a chance to overtake, either on the left or the right, he would floor the accelerator. The V8 petrol engine would roar, the air filters had long since been removed, and lunge forward, dragging the car along the road, like a small airplane running for takeoff.

Brody stared out of the windows of the Landrover. Once they had left Mtwappa behind, the area became very rural very quickly. Just off the side of the road were small mud huts in groups, all with the same dried palm frond thatched roofs. Women pounded maize in large stone pots, using long wooden poles with rounded ends to crush the corn into a fine powder. Kids dressed in torn shirts and shorts were running around, chasing the dogs and goats or kicking a ball made from plastic bags and string. These children had no choice but to make their own toys from pieces of metal and wood, small carts they would push along in the dirt.

After about thirty minutes, Barry spoke. “Just up here, mate. We take a right and head into the bush a bit.” Brody just smiled back, his voice hoarse from shouting, and his throat full of road dust.

They turned right after about another quarter of a mile, into a straight, dusty track lined with palm trees, heading almost due east back towards the ocean. On either side, there were smallholdings with goats and chickens wandering among the trees. The temperature was over 100 degrees, and the humidity here was at least 90%. With no shade, even the wind was like a hot wet blanket. Sweat poured down Brody’s face into his eyes making them sting, the shirt he was wearing had dark shadows under his arms and down the back.

Barry slowed now that the track was becoming rougher. The rain had left high ridges, with grass growing on the top, leaving deep narrow ruts between. The car did not mind, this was what it had been built for.

The noise inside the vehicle reduced to a manageable roar. With the seats and doors rattling and the sound of the hardly muffled engine, it was like sitting in a boiling hot tractor.

They careered on down the track for what Brody guessed was about two miles, then hit a small river which crossed the road, making a deep muddy slash. Barry hardly slowed as he hit the water. The car went in roaring, charging straight through the deluge, she didn’t even slow her pace as the stream sloshed in through the gaps under the doors. The wave from the car washed over the windscreen. The Loner relished this terrain and just carried on. Landrovers were specifically designed to be treated badly and go on forever.

After another mile or so, they turned right then quickly right again along a deep-rutted, narrow road, enclosed by bushes and trees. Brody had no idea where Barry was taking him, but he seemed trustworthy enough, so he just hung in there for the ride. A few more minutes passed, then the car pulled to a sudden stop in front of a large black gate with a 9 feet high wall running off on both sides. Barry hooted twice. After what seemed like five minutes, a guard came and opened up for them, waving the growling vehicle through into a large compound. Must be five acres in total, Brody thought to himself. The high wall ran all the way around the premises. Barry drove up to the front door and stopped the Loner. The silence was sudden and complete, one second there was so much noise now there was none. Brody sat for a moment. He could not hear a car, a kid, or a dog barking. It was strange, as if he was on another planet. The air was hot and stifling as the engine clinked away, starting to cool.

Barry turned and said, “So, mate, this is it. These are the guys a bit rough and ready, but they are OK once they know you are OK, if you know what I mean. This bunch loves the Muslim Prayers five times a bloody day I hear. First rule, trust them about as far as you can throw a camel. Second, don’t make them mad!”

Brody nodded again, taking in the surroundings. This was certainly a remote place, he could only see the one guard on the gate, there were no dogs just a couple of chickens scraping in the dirt.

The house was about one hundred feet in length, a single-story block built building, with a roof made from palm fronds. Barry had pulled up in front of two enormous, ornately-carved wooden doors with birds and flowers all intertwined around the frame. Reaching back into the car, he blew the weak horn to announce their arrival. After what seemed like an age, the door creaked open. There was a boy of about sixteen or seventeen standing in the darkness. He was skinny and tall with a narrow face. His teeth were brown and crooked, on his head was a little turban type headdress, then the standard long white Kanzu covering his body. Brody immediately recognized him as a Somali. The inside of the house was shadowy keeping the heat of the day out.

The young boy said nothing, he just beckoned them into the house with a slight, weak wave.

Barry said. “Better take your shoes off, mate. These buggers don’t like you wearing shoes indoors.”

Brody complied, leaving their shoes in the dim hallway, and following the boy further into the complex. He noted to himself they had only seen one side. The house had three more, like a quadrangle, each independent of the other joined by narrow corridors. The boy led them from room to room in the cool house, finally opening a door into a courtyard at the center of the building. There was a huge mango tree growing from a small patch of earth in the middle of the yard, giving good shade. The temperature was very pleasant, even relaxing. Next to the mango tree was a small shallow pool about ten feet square, with a trickle of water from a fountain splashing into it. This seemed to cool the area even further.

Barry and Brody were offered seats next to the pond under the mango tree. Then hot, black, sweet tea was served. They drank in silence.

After waiting for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes, time here appeared to move more slowly than the outside world, like an alternative universe where the hours are longer. Brody noticed a skinny, wiry figure in the shadows, the newcomer seemed to be hiding, not wanting his presence known, maybe assessing his new guests. Not wanting to be rude, Brody allowed the person his investigation without mentioning him to his partner. After a few more moments, the old man stepped out from one of the side rooms and approached, his bare feet padding almost silently over the flat paved courtyard. The old man was sure the two guys sat drinking tea had not noticed him until he was stood in front of the table. Barry immediately got to his feet and shook the small man’s hand. Brody did the same. His hands were so soft they felt fragile, he seemed like a child, only his face was wrinkled and old with watery eyes peering out into the gloom. He had wisps of hair on his bald head and a few teeth when he smiled. The long Kanzu he was wearing was a dazzling white with intricate black embroidery around the collars and cuffs. After greeting the visitors, the man bade them sit, taking the chair on the opposite side of the table for himself. He said. “Barry, you bring us a visitor, this is so kind.”

Barry replied, “Sir, he is a sailor like me. We met today. He asked for some particular items that I think you may be able to help with.”

The old man said. “OK, but first let’s introduce ourselves like civilized people. We are not animals here, we drink tea and chat to find who are friends are.”

Barry said, “Sorry, my friend. I understand. This is Mr William Brody, he is staying with me in the bar. He has a dhow, and is sailing around Kenya and Tanzania enjoying your fine country.”

The old man said with a slight smile, “Ah, this is not my country, this is Kenya. I am just a visitor for a while until my homeland can cool off.”

Barry looked at Brody and said. “I must introduce you. This is Abdi Mohammed Mahmoud. He is from Somalia and Oman. He stays here for his peace and quiet, but he has connections all over the coast.”

Brody stood formally, “It is great to meet you, Abdi. I am William Brody from the UK.”

Abdi looked at Brody for a long moment, not saying a word, they just stood and stared at each other. Brody felt the sweat dripping down across his stomach as the old man surveyed him, as if he was thinking of what to do with him, like a snake watching a mouse, waiting patiently to attack.

The moment passed. Abdi said, “So, Mr Barry, what can we do for you both? I assume it is business we are doing here.”

From then on, Abdi was all business and listened as Barry outlined his idea, “Brody here is in need of some firepower. You helped me, and I have now brought my friend as a customer. He travels the ocean, and we all know that is a dangerous place at times. I have advised him to get armed with at least something small to shoot the sharks when they try to eat him!”

Abdi nodded, “As always Barry, you are to the point. I believe the Australians are like that.” Barry bristled, and said with a smile. “I’m a Kiwi mate, not an Aussie.”

Abdi smiled back, showing his few remaining teeth, “My apologies, my friend. So, what did you have in mind for Mr Brody here?”

Barry said, “Well, what have you got to hand? We will need an AK, a small handgun, and we will have a look at whatever else you might have in the back store.”

Abdi nodded and got to his feet. “Fine let’s go and see what I have that is in working condition.”

The three men walked towards the back of the house. When they were about three-quarters of the way through the building, Abdi turned down a side corridor. There were closed doors on either side of the barracks. It smelled of cooked cabbage and people, the dry, stale stench of a place recently used but empty now. There was easily enough space to house a small army.

Abdi slipped a key from inside his Kanzu into a secure metal door at the end of the corridor. Twisting the large black key in the lock, the door swung open on oiled hinges. As he stepped in, Brody noticed the soft, wet smell of gun oil. It hung in the air like a fog. The door had some sort of seal on the inside to prevent moisture. He could hear the whir of the air-conditioning. It was about fifteen degrees colder than outside. This was a special room.

Abdi walked to the wall and flicked a switch. Strip lights running along the center of the ceiling flickered and burst into life one by one. The room was about forty feet long and twenty feet wide with a cement floor, bare block walls, and a metal roof. Along each side of the wall and down the center of the room was row upon row of guns, cases of AK47s, the stock and trade of every African war or coup. Lining a dozen shelves were pistols of all sizes, some old, some looking brand new. In the center were several Strela shoulder-held surface-to-air missiles, and a row of shotguns, most old but in good condition.

Brody was impressed and let out a low whistle, “Abdi, this is quite an impressive display of armaments. Are you considering a war or what!”

Abdi Chuckled, “This is more a hobby than anything else. I’m just a collector of sorts.”

Brody did not believe him for a minute, in his professional opinion, he was looking at an armory that was ready for action. You could take the weapons directly out of here and go straight to the front line.

Abdi muttered, “You’re a friend of Barry‘s. I know Barry and his bar and boat. We have been friends for many years now. Sometimes I help him and sometimes the other way around. We have an understanding he would only bring someone here who he trusted with my hobby.”

Brody nodded his understanding. Abdi was making a clear threat to his new friend and his business. He had been shown the illegal weapons’ cache, if word got out that Brody was anything other than what he claimed to be then Abdi would come looking for Barry. There was an implied debt now, and Brody knew if he breathed a word then, Barry would feel the consequences.

Brody looked along the lines of equipment. His fingers were itchy to touch and test each weapon, but he knew that would not be wise right now. He had to pick a couple of pieces and take it from there. His mind kept wandering back to the shoulder-held ground-to-air missiles. What the hell were they for? Those things cost a fortune, even on the black market and there were eight or ten stacked neatly in a row.

Brody asked, “What about ammunition, can you provide that as well?” Abdi smiled. “Show me what you want, and I will see if I can help you.”

Brody picked a good but well-used AK47, the one with the fold-out stock. It was more versatile than the wooden stock, especially on a boat where the angles were tight, and there was likely to be close-quarter fighting. He then wandered along and picked from about a dozen Glock 17s. These pistols were great weapons. They rarely jammed and were easy to maintain. You could field strip it in seconds, then clean and reassemble. Brody could do this with the AK and Glock with his eyes closed in the dark!

A memory passed across his mind. An awful night in the D.R.C, during a long-protracted firefight. He had come across some rebels in a clearing. After emptying three mags into the group, the gun clicked empty. He had thrown his Glock at one of the attackers, slit his throat then grabbed his weapon. The gun was filthy, soaked from the rain. The guy had obviously been crawling through the thick mud. With rounds strafing around him, splinters flying from trees, and flashbangs going off, he had stripped the gun down, and he was just sliding it back together when a rebel charged out of the bush. A huge, broad-bladed knife came slashing out of the night. His training and reactions were all that saved him. His fingers slid the pieces together. He turned, putting two bullets in the rebel’s face. The guy’s look of surprise as he died still haunted Brody’s dreams.

Wandering along the row of weapons lost in thought, a perfect weapon for defending a small ship like his Shukran caught his eye. It was the last row at the far end of the room. He casually walked past it at first, picking up a long-barreled rifle. A sniper’s weapon. Brody was a good shot but not a sniper. The weapon looked malevolent. There were two of them, evil sisters, laying on the shelf, looking like death itself. He admired the workmanship. They were Barrett Model 90s used for very long-distance sniper work. The bullet they fired was nearly half an inch across. these must have come off the container ships. Insurance companies had insisted on armed men traveling with the precious cargos recently, living on top of the stack of containers, and having one as a living space. The mercenaries would keep watch 24 hours a day as the ship cruised along the Somalian border. These guys loved to take target practice on anything that moved. The Barrett was the chosen weapon. Brody could not think how such specialized weapons had managed to find their way to a small armory shed in the middle of nowhere on the Kenyan Coast.

He put the long-barreled gun carefully back on the shelf, then started wandering back towards the door. Stopping as he passed a row of shotguns, casually picking one up to test the mechanism and feel the weight in his hands. The gun had been well looked after. There was a thin sheen of oil covering it, the mechanism was smooth but tight enough to know the gun was in excellent working condition. This was what he had been looking for all along. It was an Ithaca 37 twelve-bore pump-action shotgun. The five-shot version with a pistol grip and no shoulder stock, perfect for close quarters if they were boarded.

Brody looked at it disdainfully, trying to put Abdi off the scent of a good profit, but carried it anyway, putting it on the table with the other two weapons. Abdi said, “Good choice, Mr Brody. I would have done the same if I was sailing a boat such as yours.” Brody raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

They negotiated for a while, but Abdi did not seem that interested. The old man seemed happy with the $500.00 Brody offered for the lot. It was easy money. Anyway, all the weapons had been taken either from dead men or stolen from the army, so he was not too worried as it was all profit. For an extra $100.00, Abdi threw in a stack of ammunition for all the weapons, with spare magazines. The twelve-bore shells came in a plastic bag from a supermarket!

Barry helped load the new purchases in the back of the Loner. She grumbled at them and would not start, so any ‘street cred’ they had built up in the negotiations was washed away. Abdi called the guard to help push-start the car down the rutted track.