by Bear Grylls
Jaeger, a captain, was the only former officer among the three of them. Back in the military, he’d commanded D Squadron, a sixty-man SAS unit. He’d worked closely with senior command and could move easily in high-end business circles.
Feaney was older, and he’d come up the hard way through the ranks, ending up serving as Jaeger’s sergeant major. As for Raff, his drinking and fighting had always made promotion something of a challenge, not that the big Maori had ever seemed to mind.
The last three years had proven something of a challenge for Enduro Adventures, left bereft of its figurehead. Jaeger knew that a part of Feaney resented him for his Bioko disappearing act. But had the same horror befallen Feaney, Jaeger figured he’d very likely have struggled too. Time and experience had taught him that every man had his breaking point. When Jaeger’s had been reached, he’d fled to the last place on earth anyone would ever look for him – Bioko.
7
Feaney led the way inside. The Global Challenger’s boardroom was a shrine to adventure, the walls plastered with mementoes from far-flung corners of the earth: the flags of half the world’s militaries; badges and berets of elite units few even knew existed; racks of deactivated weaponry, including a gold-plated AK-47 hailing from one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces.
But it was also a powerful tribute to the wonders of planet earth: photos of some of the most wild and extreme biomes – bone-dry, wind-blasted desert; ice-blue snow-capped mountains; a charcoal jungle canopy pierced by burning shafts of sunlight – graced the walls, along with scores of photographs of the teams that Enduro Adventures had led into such places.
Feaney rattled the door of the fridge behind the bar. ‘Beer?’
Raff grunted. ‘After Bioko, I could murder the lot.’
Feaney handed him a bottle. ‘Jaeger?’
Jaeger shook his head. ‘No thanks. I was dry on Bioko. Not for the first year. But the two after that. One beer, you’ll be scraping me off the ceiling.’
He grabbed a water, and the three men settled around one of the low tables. They talked for a while, catching up on all that had gone down in each other’s absence, before Jaeger brought the focus back to the heart of the matter – the reason why Raff and Feaney had gone to the ends of the earth to find him, and bring him home.
‘So, this new contract – fill me in. I mean, Raff told me some of it, but you know how the Maori is: he can talk a glass eye to sleep.’
Raff plonked down his beer. ‘I’m a fighter, not a talker.’
‘A drinker, not a lover,’ Jaeger echoed.
They laughed.
Three years’ absence, and Jaeger had returned a different man from the young warrior-expeditioner who had disappeared. He was darker. Quieter. More closed. Yet at the same time there were occasional flashes of the easy humour and charm that had made him such a fine frontman for Enduro Adventures.
‘Well I guess you’ve figured as much,’ Feaney began, ‘but the business – Enduro – struggled after you did your—’
‘I had my reasons,’ Jaeger interjected.
‘Mate, I’m not saying you didn’t. God knows we all—’
Raff held up a big meaty hand for silence. ‘What Feaney’s trying to say is – we’re all good. The past is the past. And the future – for us lot – it’s this shiny new contract. Only, in recent weeks it’s become coated in some real evil shit.’
‘It has,’ Feaney confirmed. ‘This is the short version. A month or two back I was contacted by Adam Carson, who you’ll remember from his days as Director of Special Forces.’
‘Brigadier Adam Carson? Yeah.’ Jaeger nodded. ‘How long was he with us? Two years? A capable commander, but I never warmed to him much.’
‘Me neither,’ Feaney agreed. ‘Anyhow, after the military, he was headhunted by some media outfit. He’s ended up as the MD of a film company name of Wild Dog Media. Not as weird as it may sound: they specialise in remote area filming – expeditions, wildlife, corporates; that kind of thing. Employ a lot of ex-forces types. Perfect kind of people for us to partner with.’
‘Sounds like,’ Jaeger confirmed.
‘Carson had a proposition for us – a lucrative one. An air wreck has been discovered deep in the Amazon. Second World War-era most likely. The Brazilian military found it when doing aerial surveillance along their far western border. Suffice to say, it’s in the absolute bloody middle of nowhere. Anyhow, Wild Dog were competing for the opportunity to discover what exactly the wreck might be.’
‘It’s in Brazil?’ Jaeger queried.
‘Yeah. Well no, actually. It’s kind of parked on the very border – where Brazil, Bolivia and Peru meet. Seems it’s got one wing in Bolivia, one wing in Peru, with its arse end halfway towards Copacabana beach. Put it this way: whoever left it there didn’t give a shit about international borders.’
‘Reminds me of our time in the Regiment,’ Jaeger commented drily.
‘Doesn’t it just. There was a turf war for a while, but the only military with the capacity to do anything about it was the Brazilians – and it was a big ask, even for them. So they sent out feelers to see if an international team could be put together to uncover its secrets.
‘Whatever the aircraft is, she’s massive,’ Feaney continued. ‘Carson can brief you more, but suffice to say she’s a mystery wrapped inside an enigma inside a . . . or however the saying goes. Carson proposed sending in an expedition to film the entire thing. Big TV event, to be broadcast worldwide. Raised a massive budget. But there were rival offers, and the South Americans were arguing amongst themselves.’
‘Too many chiefs . . .’ Jaeger ventured.
‘Not enough Indians,’ Feaney confirmed. ‘Talking of which, the region where the wreck lies – it’s also home to one very unfriendly Amazon Indian tribe. The Amahuaca, or some such name. Never been contacted. Very happy to stay that way. And keen to loose off arrows and blow-darts at anyone who strays into their domain.’
Jaeger raised one eyebrow. ‘Poison-tipped?’
‘Don’t even ask. As expeditions go, this one’s a real peach.’ Feaney paused. ‘So, now’s where you come in. The Brazilians are taking the lead. It’s all need-to-know, and they’ve kept the exact location of the wreck a tight secret, so no one can pull a fast one. But Bolivia is to Brazil what France is to Britain, and let’s just say the Peruvians are the Germans. No one trusts anyone on this thing.’
Jaeger smiled. ‘We like the former’s wine, the latter’s cars, but that’s about it?’
‘You got it.’ Feaney took a pull on his beer. ‘But Carson’s smart. He managed to swing the Brazilians his way, and all down to one thing. You lead the Brazil missions. You trained their anti-narcotics squads – their special forces. Seems you made a real lasting impression, as did Andy Smith, your second-in-command. You they do trust. Absolutely. You know best why.’
Jaeger nodded. ‘Is Captain Evandro still with them?’
‘Colonel Evandro, as he now is. He’s not only still with them, he’s Brazil’s Director of Special Forces. You pulled some of his best men out of the shit. He’s never forgotten. Carson promised that either you or Smith would lead this. Preferably both of you. That swung the colonel our way, and he brought the Bolivians and Peruvians onside.’
‘Colonel Evandro’s a good man,’ Jaeger remarked.
‘Seems like. Leastways, he doesn’t forget. Hence why Carson – and Enduro – got the gig. Hence why we came looking for you. And seems like we were just in time, by all accounts.’ Feaney eyed Jaeger for a moment. ‘Anyway, it’s a big contract. Several million dollars. Enough to turn Enduro’s fortunes around.’
‘Sweet.’ Jaeger glanced at Feaney. ‘Maybe too sweet?’
‘Maybe.’ Feaney’s face darkened. ‘Carson set about recruiting a team. International; split male and female – to appeal to the TV side of things. There were scores of volunteers. Carson was inundated. At the same time, we couldn’t get the slightest trace on you. So Smithy agreed to head the thing up alone, seei
ng as though you had . . . well . . . fallen off the edge of the earth.’
Jaeger’s expression remained inscrutable. ‘Or gone to Bioko to teach English. Depends on how you look at it.’
‘Yeah. Anyhow . . .’ Feaney shrugged. ‘All was set fair for the Amazon; the expedition of a lifetime was green for go; everyone was looking forward to a mind-blowing discovery.’
‘Then the TV execs had to put their oar in,’ Raff growled. ‘Just kept pushing, pushing – the greedy bastards.’
‘Raff, mate, Smithy agreed,’ Feaney protested. ‘He agreed it was the smart thing to do.’
Raff went to fetch another beer. ‘Still got a bloody good man—’
‘We don’t know that!’ Feaney cut in.
Raff slammed the fridge door. ‘Yes we bloody do.’
Jaeger held up his hands. ‘Whoa . . . Easy, guys. So, what happened?’
‘On one level, Raff’s right.’ Feaney picked up the thread again. ‘The TV people demanded extra; a pre-deployment chapter, if you like. Andy Smith was to take the recruits to the Scottish hills; put them through their paces. Kind of like a mini-SAS selection course: weed out the weaker recruits, and all to be filmed.’
Jaeger nodded. ‘So they went to the Scottish hills. What’s the issue?’
Feaney glanced at Raff. ‘He doesn’t know?’
Raff placed his beer down, very deliberately. ‘Mate, I pulled him out of Black Beach half dead; we fought our way off Hell Island with two bloody penknives between us; then we battled our way through sharks and tropical storms. You tell me when was the right time?’
Feaney ran a hand across his close-cropped hair. He glanced at Jaeger. ‘Smithy led the team to Scotland. It was the West Coast in January. The weather was atrocious. Evil. The police found his body at the bottom of the Loch Iver ravine.’
Jaeger felt his heart miss a beat. Smithy dead? He’d had a weird feeling that something bad must have happened, but never this. Not to Smithy. Utterly solid and reliable, Andy Smith was the guy who’d always had his back. Never lost for a wisecrack, no matter how bad the odds, there were few friends that came closer.
‘Smithy fell to his death?’ Jaeger demanded, incredulous. ‘Impossible. The man was bloody indestructible. He was a master on the hills.’
The room fell silent. Feaney stared at his beer bottle, trouble clouding his eyes. ‘The cops say his blood alcohol level was way off the scale. They say he drank a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, went up on the hills and stumbled to his death in the darkness.’
Jaeger’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘Bullshit. Smithy drank even less than I do.’
‘Mate, that’s exactly what we told them. The police. But they’re sticking to their story: death by misadventure, with more than a hint of suicide.’
‘Suicide?’ Jaeger exploded. ‘What in God’s name would Smithy have need to kill himself for? Wife and kids like that? Dream mission like this to lead? Come on: suicide. Get real. Smithy had everything to live for.’
‘You’d best tell him, Feaney.’ It was Raff, and his voice was tight with barely suppressed anger. ‘Everything.’
Feaney visibly braced himself for what was coming. ‘When Smithy was found, his lungs were half full of water. Cops claim he’d lain all night in the lashing rain and breathed it in. They also claim that the fall killed him pretty much instantly. Clean broke his neck. Well, you can’t breathe in water when you’re dead. The water had to have got in there whilst he was still alive.’
‘So what’re you saying?’ Jaeger glanced from Feaney to Raff and back again. ‘You saying he was waterboarded?’
Raff curled his fingers around his beer bottle, knuckles white. ‘Lungs half full of water. Dead men don’t breathe. Go figure. Plus, there’s more.’ He glanced at Feaney, the bottle twisting under his tightening grip.
Feaney reached below the table and pulled out a plastic folder. He removed a photo, sliding it across to Jaeger.
‘Police gave it to us. We went to the morgue anyway, to double-check. That mark; that symbol – it was carved into Andy’s left shoulder.’
Jaeger stared at the image, an icy chill running up his spine. Cut deep into his former second-in-command’s skin was a crudely stylised eagle. It was standing on its tail, cruelly hooked beak thrown to its right and wings stretched wide, talons grasping a bizarre circular form.
Feaney reached forward, stabbing a finger at the photo. ‘We can’t place it. The eagle symbol. Doesn’t seem to mean much of anything to anyone. And trust me, we’ve asked.’ He glanced at Jaeger. ‘Police argue it’s just some arbitrary pseudo-military image. That Smithy did it to himself. Self-harm. Part of the case they’re building for suicide.’
Jaeger couldn’t speak. He’d barely registered Feaney’s words. He was unable to tear his eyes away from that image. Somehow the sight of it eclipsed even the horrors he’d suffered in Black Beach Prison.
The longer he stared at that dark eagle symbol, the more he felt it burn into his brain. It summoned terrible memories hidden deep within him.
It was so alien yet so familiar somehow, and it threatened to drag those long-buried memories back to the surface, kicking and screaming.
8
Jaeger grabbed the heavy bolt-croppers and clambered over the fence. Luckily, the security at east London’s Springfield Marina never had been too hot. He’d left Bioko with the clothes he stood up in. He’d certainly had zero time to grab his keys – including those that opened the gates leading into the marina.
Still, it was his boat and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t break into his own home.
He’d brought the bolt-croppers at a local store. Before leaving Raff and Feaney he’d asked them – plus Carson, Wild Dog Media’s MD – for forty-eight hours. Two days in which to decide if he was up for taking over from where Smithy had left off – leading this seemingly ill-fated expedition into the Amazon.
But despite the time he’d asked for, Jaeger knew he really wasn’t kidding anyone. Already, they had him: for so many reasons, he just couldn’t refuse.
First off, he owed Raff. The big Maori had saved his life. Unless Pieter Boerke’s mercenary forces had liberated Bioko in record time, Jaeger would have perished in Black Beach Prison – his passing unnoticed by a world from which he had so utterly withdrawn.
Second, he owed Andy Smith. And Jaeger didn’t leave his friends hanging. Not ever. There was no way Smithy had taken his own life. He intended to triple-check, of course. Just to be absolutely certain. But he sensed that his friend’s death had to be linked to that mystery air wreck lying deep in the Amazon. What other reason – what other motive – was there?
Jaeger had an instinctive feeling that Smithy’s killer was amongst the expedition team. The way to find them had to be to join their number and flush them out from the inside.
Thirdly, there was the aircraft itself. From the little that Adam Carson had been able to tell him over the phone, it had sounded intriguing. Irresistible. Like the Winston Churchill quote Feaney had attempted – it absolutely was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.
Jaeger found the draw of it utterly compelling.
No. He was already decided: he was going.
He’d asked for the forty-eight hours for entirely different reasons. There were three visits he intended to make; three investigations to undertake – and he would be doing so without breathing a word to anyone. Maybe the last few years had left him deeply distrustful. Unable to put his faith in anyone any more.
Maybe the three years in Bioko had rendered him something of a loner; too at home with his own company.
But maybe it was also better – safer – that way. It was how he would survive.
Jaeger took the path that skirted around the marina, his boots crunching through the slick, rain-soaked gravel. It was late afternoon by now, dusk settling over the marina, cooking smells drifting across the still winter water.
The scene – the brightly painted boats, smoke curling lazily from funnels – wa
s all so out of kilter with the leafless, washed-out February greys of the canal basin. Three long years. Jaeger felt as if he’d been away a lifetime.
He came to a halt at the mooring two before his own. The lights were on in Annie’s barge, the old wood-burning stove puffing and smoking wheezily. He climbed aboard, poking his head unannounced through the open hatchway that led into the galley.
‘Hi, Annie. It’s me. You got my spare keys?’
A face looked up at him, eyes staring fearfully wide. ‘Will? My God . . . But where on earth . . . We all thought . . . I mean, we were worried that you’d . . .’
‘Died?’ Jaeger flashed a smile. ‘I’m no ghost, Annie. I’ve been away. Teaching. In Africa. I’m back.’
Annie shook her head, confused. ‘My God . . . We knew you were a still-waters-run-deep type. But three years in Africa . . . I mean, one day you were here. The next gone, without a word to anyone.’
There was more than a little injury in Annie’s tone, not to mention resentment.
With his grey-blue eyes and dark hair worn longish, Jaeger was handsome in a chiselled, slightly gaunt and wolfish way. There was barely the faintest streak of silver to his head of hair, and he looked younger than his years.
He’d never shared many personal details with the others on the marina – Annie included – but he’d proven to be a reliable and loyal neighbour, not to mention one who was always on the lookout for his fellow boaties. The community prided itself on being close. That was part of what had drawn Jaeger to it; that, plus the promise of having a home base with one foot in the heart of London, the other in the wide-open countryside.
The marina lay on the River Lee, in the Lee Valley which formed a ribbon of green that stretched north into open meadows and rolling hills. Jaeger would return here after a day’s work on the Global Challenger and pound the riverside paths, running the tension out of his system and some much-needed fitness back in.
