Gambian Bluff

‘The Palace is taken?’ Sallah asked.

‘The Palace is cordoned off,’ Taal answered. ‘Some of the guards have escaped, either down the beach or into the town, but that was expected.’ He sat down and looked at the two of them: the wiry Jabang with his hooded eyes and heavy brow, Sallah with the face that always seemed to be smiling, even when it was not. Both men were sweating heavily, which perhaps owed something to the humidity, but was mostly nerves. Jabang in particular seemed exhausted by the combination of stress and tiredness, which did not exactly bode well for the new government’s decision-making process. Nothing perverted the exercise of judgement like lack of sleep, and somehow or other all three of them would have to make sure they got enough in the days to come.

‘It will be light in half an hour,’ Jabang said.

‘And the country will wake to a better government,’ Sallah said, almost smugly.

Taal supposed he meant it. For some reason he could never quite put his finger on, he had always doubted Sallah’s sincerity. Whereas Jabang was transparently honest and idealistic almost to a fault, Sallah’s words and deeds invariably seemed to carry a taint of opportunism.

Maybe he was wrong, Taal thought. He hoped he was. Jabang trusted the man and there had to be easier ways to glory than taking part in the mounting of a coup like this one. Everyone knew their chances of lasting success were no better than even, and in the sanctum of his own thoughts Taal thought the odds considerably longer. Seizing control was one thing, holding on to it something else entirely.

McGrath had decided that even in the dark a stroll along Independence Drive might not prove wise, and had opted for the long way round, making use of Marina Parade. On this road there was less likely to be traffic or headlights, and the overarching trees made the darkness even more impenetrable. He worked his way along the southern side, ears alert for the sound of unwelcome company, and was almost level with the Atlantic Hotel when two headlights sprang to life some two hundred yards ahead of him, and rapidly started closing the distance. There was no time to run for better cover, and McGrath flattened himself against the wall, hoping to fall outside the vehicle’s cone of illumination.

He need not have bothered. The lights swerved to the left, disappearing, as he immediately realized, into the forecourt of the Atlantic Hotel. He wondered what the rebels had in store for the hundred or so guests, most of them Brits, and all of whom had come to The Gambia on package tours in search of a sunny beach, not the wrong end of a Kalashnikov.

He would worry about that later. For the moment he wanted to make sure Sibou was all right. Hurrying on past the Atlantic, he came to the doors of the Royal Victoria’s Maternity Wing, and decided that it might be better to use them than attempt the front entrance. Ten minutes later, having threaded his way through the labyrinth of one-storey buildings and courtyards, he found himself looking across at the lit windows of the emergency department some twenty yards away. Several men were standing around inside, some of them bending down to talk to those who were presumably lying, out of sight, on the cubicle beds and waiting-room benches. One man was moaning continuously, almost forlornly, but otherwise there was virtual silence.

Then he saw Sibou, rising wearily into view after treating one of the prone casualties. Her dark eyes seemed even darker, the skin stretched a little tighter across the high cheekbones, the usually generous mouth pursed with tension and tiredness. McGrath worked his way round the perimeter of the yard to the open window of her private office and clambered over the sill. He opened the door a quarter of an inch and looked out through the crack. The corridor was empty.

Sooner or later she would come, and he settled down to wait, thinking about the first time they had met, a couple of months earlier, soon after he had arrived on his secondment. The circumstances could hardly have been more propitious for an intending Galahad. He had come to the Royal Victoria looking for the tetanus shot he should have had before leaving home, and found himself face to face with a room full of terrified Gambians, her half-naked on the floor and a man about to rape her at knife-point in full view of everyone else. All the old training had come instantly into use, and before he had had time to ponder the risks McGrath had used the man’s neck for a chopping board and his genitals for a football.

The damsel in distress had been grateful enough to have dinner with him, but he had foolishly allowed himself to be a little too honest with her, and she had declined to be anything more than a friend. That had not been as difficult as he had expected, though he still dreamed of covering her ebony body with his kisses, not to mention her covering his with hers. But Sibou was great company even fully clothed, and he had even found himself wishing his wife and children could meet her.

He could not remember being so impressed by someone’s dedication – in the face of such awe-inspiring odds – for a long, long time. She could have had a doctor’s job, and a doctor’s ample rewards, anywhere in the world, but here she was, in this ramshackle office, struggling to stretch always inadequate resources in the service of the ordinary people who came in off the street, and offering every one of them a smile almost beautiful enough to die for.

McGrath looked at his watch. In twenty minutes it would begin to get light: where did he want to be when that happened? At the Atlantic, he decided, where there would probably be a working telephone and some chance of finding out what was happening. After all, now he had found out that Sibou was all right, there had to be more pressing things to do than watch her smile.

He was halfway out of the window when she came in through the door. She jumped with surprise, then burst out laughing. ‘What are you doing, you crazy Englishman?’ she asked.

He pulled himself back into the room, wondering how anyone could look so sexy in a white coat and stethoscope. ‘I’ve come to take you away from all this,’ he said grandly.

‘Through the window?’

‘Well…’

‘And anyway, I like all this. And I’m busy,’ she added, rummaging around in her desk drawer for something.

‘I just came to check you were OK,’ he said.

She turned and smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’

‘What’s happening out there?’ he asked.

‘Out in the city? Oh, another bunch of fools have decided to overthrow the government.’

‘And are they succeeding?’

She shrugged. ‘Who knows? Who cares?’

‘I thought you didn’t like Papa Jawara.’

‘I don’t. But playing musical chairs at the Palace is not going to get me the medicines I need. In fact I’m having to use the little I’ve got to patch up those toy soldiers in there.’

‘How many of them?’

‘About a dozen or so. We’re already running out of blood. Look, I have to go…’ She suddenly noticed the holstered gun inside his jacket. ‘What are you wearing that for?’ she demanded to know.

‘Self-defence.’

‘It will give them a reason to shoot you.’

‘Yeah, well…’

She threw up her hands in disgust. ‘You play what games you want,’ she said, adding over her shoulder, ‘and take care of yourself.’

‘I’ll come back later,’ he called after her, although he was not sure if she had heard. ‘What a woman,’ he muttered to himself, and worked his body back out through the window. He retraced his steps through the sprawling grounds to the Maternity Wing entrance, crossed over the still-dark Marina Parade and scaled the wall of the grounds opposite. Five minutes and another wall later he was standing on the beach. Away to his right, over the far bank of the river mouth, the sky was beginning to lighten. He turned the other way, and walked a couple of hundred yards along the deserted sand to the hotel’s beach entrance.

The kidney-shaped pool shone black in the artificial light, but its only occupant was an inflatable plastic monkey. McGrath walked through into the hotel building, hands in pockets to disguise the bulge of the Browning. In the lobby he could hear voices, and after a moment’s thought decided to simply take a seat within earshot, and pretend he was just one more innocent tourist.

It was a fruitful decision. For five minutes he listened to two voices trying to explain to several others – the latter presumably the hotel’s management – that there was a new government, that the foreign guests would not be allowed out of their hotels for at least a day, but that there was nothing to stop them enjoying the sun and the hotel beach and the swimming pool. It was up to the management to make these rules clear to the guests. And to point out that anyone attempting to leave the hotel grounds risked being shot.

3 (#u97166c23-e248-5433-bc1c-ec16a665cbc4)

‘All authority now rests in the Revolutionary Council,’ said the voice coming out of the speakers. Someone on the hotel staff had channelled the radio through the outdoor hi-fi system, and around a hundred staff and guests were sitting around the hotel pool, listening to the first proclamation of the new government.

‘The Socialist and Revolutionary Labour Party, which was illegally suppressed during the regime of the tyrant Jawara, has contributed nine members to the new ruling Council. The other three members have been supplied by the Field Force, which has already proved itself overwhelmingly in support of the new government.’

Oh yeah? McGrath thought to himself. Some of the bastards must have been in on it, but he doubted if it had been a majority.

‘The Jawara regime,’ the voice went on, ‘has always been a backward-looking regime. Nepotism has flourished, corruption has been rife, tribal differences have been exacerbated rather than healed. Economic incompetence has gone hand in hand with social injustice, and for the ordinary man the last few years have been an endless struggle. The recent severe food shortages offered proof that, if unchecked, the situation would only have grown worse. That is why the Council has now assumed control, so that all the necessary steps to reverse this trend can at once be taken.’

The voice paused for breath, or for inspiration. What was the magic panacea going to be this time round, McGrath asked himself.

‘A dictatorship of the proletariat…’

McGrath burst out laughing.

‘…a government of working people, led by the Socialist and Revolutionary Labour Party, will now be established to promote socialism and true democracy. This will, of course, take time, and the process itself will doubtless provoke opposition from the forces of reaction, particularly those remnants of the old regime who still occupy positions of authority throughout the country. In order to accelerate the process of national recovery certain short-term measures must be taken. Accordingly, the Council declares Parliament dissolved and the constitution temporarily suspended. The banks and courts will remain closed until further notice. All political parties are banned. A dusk-to-dawn curfew will be in force from this evening.

‘Guests in our country are requested, for their own safety, not to leave their hotel compounds. The Council regrets the need for this temporary restriction, which has been taken with our guests’ best interests in mind.’

McGrath looked round at the assembled holidaymakers, most of whom seemed more amused than upset by the news. There were a few nervous giggles, but no sign of any real fear.

‘Oh well, we’ll be going home the day after tomorrow,’ one Lancastrian voice said a few yards away.

Maybe they would be, McGrath thought, but he would not bet on it. It all depended on how secure the new boys’ control was. If it was either really firm or really shaky, then there was probably little to worry about. But if they were strong enough to keep some control yet not strong enough to make it stick, then these people around the pool might well become unwilling pawns in the struggle. Hostages, even. It could get nasty.

The voice was sinking deeper into generalities: ‘…their wholehearted support in the building of a fair and prosperous society. It wishes to stress that the change of government is an internal affair, and of practical concern only to the people of The Gambia. Any attempt at interference from outside the country’s borders will be considered a hostile act. The Council hopes and expects a comradely response from our neighbours, particularly the people and government of Senegal, with whom we wish to pursue a policy of growing cooperation in all spheres…’