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.’
‘And what if they decide to use the weapons we give them to take what they want and just head for the border?’ Taal asked. ‘After having their revenge on whichever Field Force men put them in the prison.’
‘We can keep them under control. In groups of ten or so, under twenty of our men. And in any case, they will know that Senegal offers no sanctuary for them. I tell you, they will fight for us because only we can offer them freedom.’
‘And the moral question?’ Taal wanted to know. ‘These men are not in prison for cheating on their wives. They are murderers and thieves and…’
‘Come on, Junaidi,’ Jabang interrupted. ‘There are only two murderers in Banjul Prison that I know of. But there are a lot of men who were caught stealing in order to feed themselves and their families.’ He looked appealingly at Taal. ‘Most crimes are political crimes – I can remember you saying so yourself.’
Yes, he had, Taal thought, but a long, long time ago. In the intervening years he had learned that not all evil could be so easily explained. ‘I’m against it,’ he said, ‘except as a last resort.’
‘You were just telling me this is the last resort,’ Jabang insisted.
As soon as he could McGrath had pulled off the open road and examined Jobo’s wound. It had already stopped bleeding, and seemed less serious than he had at first feared. Still, it would have to be looked at by a proper doctor, if only because there was no other obvious source of disinfectant.
He drove the jeep straight down Independence Drive, mentally daring anyone to try to stop him. No one did, and once at the hospital the two men found themselves in what looked like a scene from Florence Nightingale’s life story. Somewhere or other there had been more fighting that day, because the reception area was full of reclining bodies, most of them with bullet wounds of varying degrees of seriousness. The woman receptionist, who must have weighed at least eighteen stone, and who would have looked enormous even in a country where overeating was commonplace, clambered with difficulty over the prone patients in pursuit of their names and details. Sibou Cham, who looked like grace personified in comparison, was forever moving hither and thither between the reception area and the treatment rooms as she ministered to the patients.
It was almost two hours before she got round to seeing Jobo.
‘You look all in,’ McGrath told her, with what he thought was a sympathetic smile.
‘Yes, I know, you have a bed waiting for me.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said indignantly. ‘Not that it’s such a terrible idea,’ he murmured, as an afterthought.
She ignored him and bent down to examine the wound. ‘Did he really get shot by a sniper?’ she asked.
‘You don’t want to know,’ McGrath said. ‘Is he going to be OK?’
‘Yes, provided he keeps away from you for the next few days.’
‘It was not Mr McGrath’s fault,’ Jobo blurted out. ‘He saved us both…’
‘She doesn’t need to know,’ McGrath interrupted.
Sibou gave him one cold, hard look and strode out of the office.
‘I don’t want to get her in trouble,’ McGrath explained. ‘The other guy – you called him Jerry – what do you think he’ll do?’
Jobo thought. ‘I don’t know. He was always a scared kid when I knew him at school. And not very clever. He may worry that he’ll get in trouble for letting his partner get shot or for running away. He may just go home and keep quiet, or even go up to the family village for a few days.’
‘Or he may be telling his story to Comrade Jabang right this moment.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, there’s not a lot we can do about it if he is. Except maybe send you to your village for a few days…’
‘I come from Serekunda,’ Jobo said indignantly.
‘Oh, pity.’
The doctor came back with a bowl of disinfectant and a roll of new bandage. After carefully washing the entrance and exit wounds she applied a dressing, then the bandage, and told Jobo to take it easy for a few days. ‘If it starts to smell, or it throbs, come back,’ she told him. ‘Otherwise just let it heal.’
‘I’ll take him home,’ McGrath said. She was already on her way back to the reception area. ‘When do you get off?’ he called after her.
She laughed. ‘In my dreams,’ she said over her shoulder, and disappeared.
Outside the jeep was still there, much to McGrath’s relief and somewhat to his surprise. Darkness was falling with its usual tropical swiftness. He helped Jobo aboard, climbed into the driving seat, and started off down the road into town.
The first thing that struck him was how dark it was. Banjul’s lighting would have done credit to a vampire’s dining room at the best of times, but on this night every plug in the city seemed to have been pulled, and McGrath’s vision was restricted to what the jeep’s headlights could show him.
The sounds of the city told him more than he wanted to know. The most prominent seemed to feature a never-ending cascade of glass, as if someone was breaking a long line of windows in sequence. Some evidence to support this theory came at one