Gambian Bluff

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

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

‘Yep, I liked him,’ McGrath said.

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

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 The man in the purple batik trousers, along with his three less colourful companions, had been replaced by two men who seemed more inclined to take their work seriously.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

The one with the handgun signalled them to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I have bad news,’ Taal said wearily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Theoretically, but…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What?’

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

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

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

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