Free The Watchman by Chris Ryan

Conakry. Thereafter they would follow the coastline northwards through Guinea-Bissau and touch down at Banjul at 9.30.
    He determined to enjoy the view.
    At Banjul he was the last one on to the British Airways flight.
    "You must be important," said the stewardess who met him at the door of the 777.
    "They've held this plane for fifteen minutes!" She looked down at his plastic sandals with a lemon sucking smile.
    "Ready to walk the gauntlet?"
    His appearance prompted a slow hand clap. Around him, the sea of faces was hostile. They had been waiting for him, one angry woman informed him, for over twenty-five minutes. Perhaps next time he travelled he might bring an alarm clock with him?
    His seat, needless to say, was right at the back of the aircraft. Toilet class. He was shown there by the lemon-sucking stewardess, and had to endure the eye-rolling and barely disguised impatience of an almost entirely female complement of economy class passengers.
    The stewardess directed him to a seat next to an amply proportioned woman, some fifty years old, who smelt strongly of coconut tanning oil.
    She looked him up and down.
    "Well," she murmured purposefully, noting the uncomfortable tightness of his trousers.
    "Aren't I the lucky one!"
    Alex's spirits sank. How long was this fucking flight? Eight hours?
    "Are you all.. . together?" he asked, indicating the other passengers.
    "Well, it'd probably be true to say that we're all here for much the same reason," the woman said with a small smile.
    "Which is?"
    "To meet Gambian boys, of course. Bit of the old Shirley Valentine."
    "Ah," said Alex.
    "Right."
    "Africans are properly appreciative of the fuller figure, you see. And they know how to woo a girl without ever mentioning DIY or football."
    "Or their jobs?" ventured Alex.
    "Or their jobs she agreed.
    "Quite right. I'm Maureen, by the way.
    "Alex."
    "So what brings you to the Gambia, Alex?"
    "Oh, I never talk about my job. Too boring."
    "You came here for .. . work?"
    Mistake. Serves me right for being a sinartarse, he thought.
    "I'm in, er, travel," he explained.
    "So you.. . get around a bit?"
    "Here and there." He shrugged.
    She nodded. Taxiing into the oncoming breeze, the big 777 started its long race to take-off.
    "And do you like big girls, Alex?"
    Blimey, he thought. Talk about cutting to the chase.
    "Did you have a good holiday, Maureen?" he asked her, with what he hoped was professional-sounding interest.
    In answer she fished a polaroid photograph from her purse. It showed a young Gambian man, nude except for a pair of sunglasses. He was about seventeen, slender and leaning backwards to counterbalance his evident enthusiasm. The plane hurtled into the air, pressing them back into their seats.
    "There s my answer, Alex. Now can I please have yours? Do you like big girls?"
    He turned to her, took in the painfully sunburnt flesh, the hennaed hair, the small hopeful eyes.
    "Maureen," he said.
    "I do like them. But I've got one waiting for me at home."
    "Hm," she said, unconvinced.
    An hour or so after take-off, breakfast was served.
    Uncertain of what was waiting for him at Heathrow, Alex ate the lot. With a bit of luck there'd be some lunch, too. Trouble, as every soldier knew, was best faced on a full stomach. And with a well-rested mind.
    The adrenalin rush that accompanied violent action was invariably followed by exhaustion and Alex slipped gratefully into sleep. One of the few advantages of his present situation perhaps the only advantage was that he would be able to see Sophie again and he didn't want to appear completely knackered when he did.
    For a long while, scenes from the previous night replayed themselves before his eyes. The smell of rotting mangoes and the river, the clicking of that severed windpipe, tracer scorching across the clearing, the screams of the maimed RUF men, the stillness of the Puma pilot as his aircraft danced beneath him, the Puma enfolded in flame against the sodden grey of the jungle, Don