But now ransom seemed the least of the Arab leader’s priorities. If this were a group of Al Qaeda or one of its affiliates, they would be looking for something other than money in return for their hostages – if they were interested in negotiating at all. Dave’s main fear now, which he wasn’t going to share with Guthrie, was that since their leader seemed to know that Dave was a British intelligence officer, he would be keen to extract whatever useful information from him he could, doubtless using very unpleasant methods. How far would he go? From the egg-sized bump on his head, the bruise on his cheek, and the cut on his nose that kept dripping blood, Dave guessed that when the man really got to work he would show no mercy. He would enjoy inflicting pain on the West’s spy. And after that – well, he had shot the Somali without compunction so wouldn’t hesitate to kill a British agent, though Dave feared his death would not be so quick or easy.
He assumed an assault on the camp was being considered, and the helicopter he’d heard half an hour before flying overhead was probably pinpointing their location. Daylight was slowly breaking, the ideal time for such an assault. But would it be in time? And even if it were, it posed its own dangers – the men here in the compound wouldn’t stand a chance in a fire fight with the SAS, but that would be small solace if their first act, in the event of an assault, were to open fire on the pen holding him and Captain Guthrie.
As Dave lay sleepless, brooding about this, a jeep started up and drove away along the beach. There was silence after that and then the sound of desultory gunfire from a short distance away. Then, suddenly a fusillade much nearer, from the dunes towards the sea. Within seconds the men in the compound were running to the beach, holding their guns at the ready. A muffled explosion sent a cascade of sand blowing across the open compound into the pen. As it settled, Dave saw an object the size of an apple, just visible in the early light, land on the soft sand, short of the compound’s edge; whoof it went, and again sand flew through the air. Grenades – thrown from the other side of the dunes, where soldiers must be crouched, having landed on the shore. They would be safe from outgoing fire as long as they stayed on the other side of the dunes, but there was no way they could take the camp without directly assaulting it.
The Arab leader was barking orders as more gunfire came from the beach. Suddenly the men in the compound started shooting – one of the assault force must have put his head over the top of the dunes. The firing was disciplined; these guys are well-trained, thought Dave as he watched the men around him taking up cover positions, behind the big tables in the middle of the compound where they ate their food, and behind empty oil barrels and chairs. They would not be easy to dislodge, heavily armed and well-positioned as they were.
But suddenly two of the Arabs fell to the ground, hit. Others followed. Their leader turned round and began firing back – towards Khalid’s house at the rear of the compound – and now Dave understood.
The firing and the grenades from the beach had been a diversionary tactic, designed to lure the pirates towards the dunes. As had the appearance of some brave soldier on them, intent on drawing enemy fire. But the main rescue force was firing at the terrorists from behind. They must have landed from that helicopter in scrubland, a mile or so away from the camp, and made their way silently overland on foot.
Pinned down, the Arabs fought tenaciously, but the assault from behind had caught them by surprise – within minutes most of them lay dead or wounded. Only the tall Arab, their leader, was still unharmed. Swivelling a round wooden table on to its side, he used its top as a shield, and from a kneeling position continued to fire towards Khalid’s house.
On the far side of the open sandy square a British soldier appeared, climbing over the low compound wall. He was checking the dead nearest him, his attention focused on the Arabs lying on the ground, making sure none was still capable of firing. He was so intent on the task that he didn’t see the leader, hidden by the table, who had turned towards him, ready to fire. Watching this with horror, Dave knew he had to act, but what could he do, locked in this pen? The next instant, as the tall Arab stood up to aim and fire, Dave shouted at the top of his voice, ‘ Incoming! ’
The soldier turned and jumped behind the low compound wall just as the Arab fired, and fired again, in vain. Then another soldier seemed to come out of nowhere, not ten feet from the pen. Standing directly in front of Dave, he shot the leader dead with a burst of automatic-weapon fire.
Turning to the pen, the soldier said nonchalantly, ‘All right, mate?’
‘We’re OK.’ Only then did Dave realise how frantically his heart was pounding.
‘Good thing you called out or Tony over there would have had it. Cheers!’
