by Ryan, Chris
‘Whose aircraft is this?’ Zak asked as they strapped themselves in.
‘British government,’ Raf said. ‘At least, as good as. It’s kind of off the books. They’ll be paying some locals to maintain it for them so people like us can make use of it when we need to. Officially, we’re not here, remember?’
Right, Zak thought. We’re not here. Only of course they were there, and Zak had to quash a moment of panic. This had all happened so quickly. Maybe Gabs was right. Maybe they shouldn’t be going after Cruz alone.
But if they didn’t, who would?
‘Let’s get strapped in for takeoff,’ Raf said, flicking switches on the instrument panel in front of him. A GPS positioning screen lit up, but Raf seemed to pay more attention to the small mechanical compass stuck on the dashboard, and Zak remembered something Raf had told him a long time ago: We might have all sorts of modern technology to help us, but that doesn’t mean you should forget the old ways. Now that he’d been on the job for a while, Zak knew what he meant. There was something reassuring about that compass. As Raf continued to prepare the aircraft for flight, Zak noticed that Malcolm’s hand was shaking.
‘Make sure you pay attention to the safety announcement,’ Zak said.
‘What?’ Malcolm looked puzzled.
‘It’s a joke, Malcolm.’ But he clearly didn’t get it. ‘Nervous?’ Zak asked.
‘No,’ Malcolm shot back aggressively, his skin reddening again. ‘I’m not scared.’
Zak sniffed as the aircraft’s engines kicked into life. ‘You should be,’ he said quietly. ‘Very nervous. Fear isn’t a weakness, you know. It’s just our mind’s way of telling us to be careful.’
Like a child, Malcolm repeated himself stubbornly. ‘I’m not scared.’
‘Fine,’ Zak shrugged as the aircraft suddenly juddered into motion.
The Cessna turned a sharp corner then suddenly gained speed, pushing the passengers back into their seats. Zak didn’t feel like arguing. There was a long flight ahead, and something told him Malcolm would have plenty of opportunities to be scared in the days to come.
15.30HRS
Cruising altitude 8,500 feet. It was a cloudless sky and the flight was smooth. Zak felt a sense of fierce exhilaration at being up here in the air, so far from the normal life he’d left behind. At times he missed it, but right now he felt like he was more free than he’d ever been.
He patted down his pockets and drew out a pair of aviator shades to protect his eyes from the sun. Malcolm had none, and Zak saw him shield his eyes with one hand and stare at his lap.
The sight of the continent below was awesome. The earth was parched, but there were several shades of brown and gold that made it look strangely colourful. To the north-west, a river with all its tributaries glinted a deep, intense blue. Zak had heard people call Africa the dark continent, but from the air it didn’t look dark at all. A far cry from anything else he was used to, maybe. Different to everywhere else he knew. But not dark.
‘Where are we?’ Zak asked after an hour.
‘We’ve just crossed the border into Botswana, sweetie,’ Gabs said. Her peevishness seemed to have disappeared, but Zak decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to take that for granted. He was about to ask where they would be setting down to refuel when the aircraft’s radio burst into life.
Zak fully expected to hear a barrage of air-traffic control babble. He didn’t. Instead he heard the voice of their handler Michael.
And he didn’t sound pleased.
‘Who am I talking to?’ Michael demanded.
‘Just the three of us, Michael,’ Gabs said calmly. She turned to Zak and put one finger to her lips.
‘I’d have thought you, at least, would have better sense, Gabriella,’ Michael said. ‘And as for you, Raphael, I’d appreciate it if next time you wanted to play games, you didn’t go over my head.’
Raf said nothing. He just kept his fists on the yoke as he kept the plane flying steady.
‘I’ve a report from the airfield in Jo’burg that four of you boarded the plane. Who is the fourth person?’
Another pause as Raf and Gabs glanced at each other. Malcolm looked up, suddenly alarmed. Zak shook his head at his companion in warning, and mouthed the word: ‘Quiet.’
‘Your intel is incorrect, Michael,’ Gabs said. ‘There’s only myself, Raf and Zak.’
‘That’s not what I’ve been told.’
‘Then you’ve been told wrong.’
Another pause.
‘Don’t think you’ve heard the end of this, you three. But while you’re on the trail of Cruz Martinez, you might as well know that we’re tracking his aircraft. He’s just touched down in Gabon presumably to refuel. I’ll keep you updated of his progress.’
‘Why, thank you, Michael,’ Gabs said in her best little-girl voice. Zak noticed, however, that her face remained intense and serious.
‘Don’t try that on me, Gabriella,’ Michael snapped. ‘Something’s not right about all this. We go for months without a sighting of Cruz, then all of a sudden we’re playing catch with him over the skies of Africa. Be very, very careful when you’re on the ground. Do you understand that, Agent 17? And you, Agents 16 and 21?’
‘Understood,’ Gabs stated.
‘Zak, are you there?’
‘Yes, Michael.’
There was a pause. ‘How much do you know about Spitfire pilots during the Second World War?’
Zak groaned inwardly. Michael always had some history lesson he wanted to impart. He saw Raf rotate one finger in the air, as if to say: keep him sweet.
‘Er, not that much, actually,’ he said.
‘If a Spitfire pilot got hit by an enemy plane – a Messerschmitt or similar – his best bet was always to fly directly at the oncoming aircraft. That way, the enemy craft would be too busy trying to avoid a collision to spend time aiming accurately at the Spitfire.’
Another pause.
‘You three are the Spitfire,’ Michael continued. ‘Cruz is the Messerschmitt. But there’s a difference, Zak. I think Cruz will risk a collision just to get a good shot at you. You need to be very, very careful.’
‘There’s another difference,’ Zak said. ‘We’re not flying directly at him. We’re creeping up behind.’
Silence.
‘No heroics, Zak. Cruz Martinez wants you dead. Make sure he doesn’t get what he wants. On this occasion, I want you to leave the fancy stuff to Raphael and Gabriella.’
‘Roger that,’ Zak mumbled, but he didn’t know if his words reached Michael’s ears. The radio had cut out. There was just the hum of the aircraft and the chilly silence of its four passengers.
15.45HRS
Malcolm looked green. He clearly hadn’t been joking about not liking flying, so Zak tried to chat with him to take his mind off things. And, also, to clear something up in his own mind.
‘Feel like telling me who that photograph was of?’ he asked. He sounded blunt, he knew, but there was no point tiptoeing around Malcolm.
‘Not really.’
‘You know,’ said Zak, ‘you’ve really got a way with words sometimes.’ He shrugged and looked out of the window.
A pause.
‘My cousin,’ Malcolm said. Zak turned to see that his companion was looking a little bit sheepish. He reminded himself that Malcolm didn’t really mean to be rude. It was just the way his brain worked. And there was something else. Zak was the closest thing this kid had to a friend. He owed Malcolm a bit of patience.
‘She looked older than you.’
Malcolm nodded. ‘Twenty-four years, six months and three days older,’ he said. His forehead creased. ‘Her name is Matilda. I miss her. She looked after me before . . .’ He waved one arm vigorously in the air. ‘Before all this.’
‘Where does she think you are now?’ Zak asked.
Malcolm shrugged. ‘Dead, I suppose.’
Zak felt a pang. He also had a cousin who he’d been close to, before ‘all this’. Her name was Ellie, an
d she too thought Zak was dead. It struck him that he and Malcolm were more alike than he’d previously thought.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and the two boys fell silent.
21.00HRS
The African continent slipped away beneath them. Zak slept a while. He needed it. When he awoke, a quick time check told him he’d been in the air for five hours. They had flown right over Angola, where he had faced Cruz once before, and he had missed it. Malcolm still had his eyes closed. There was a vast expanse of shimmering sea to the west, and the setting sun had stained the sky a streaky salmon pink. And they were losing height.
‘Where are we now?’ Zak asked.
‘Cameroon,’ answered Raf.
‘Shouldn’t we be refuelling soon?’
A flicker of a smile crossed Raf’s lips. ‘Funny you should mention that,’ he said. As he spoke, Zak felt his stomach go as the plane lost more height. It was clear that Raf was planning to bring the aircraft in to land.
Zak peered at the terrain ahead, squinting through his shades. ‘I don’t see a runway,’ he said.
‘Who said anything about a runway?’ Raf asked.
‘I thought . . .’
‘There’s every chance,’ Gabs said, ‘that official landing strips will be policed. We’ve violated the airspace of about five countries so far, and we don’t have any kind of documentation. A bribe would probably get us out of any sticky situation, but let’s not risk a run-in with the Cameroonian authorities. After all, we’re just passing through, right?’
‘I still don’t understand. If we’re not going to get petrol at an airfield, where are we going to get some?’
‘Same place you normally go,’ Raf said. ‘A petrol station. We just need to find one.’
They couldn’t be higher than a thousand feet now. The terrain below was dry, withered brush. About 500 metres to the north there was a road of sorts, heading from east to west, but Zak couldn’t see any vehicles. Raf suddenly banked steeply and the Cessna swerved to the east.
They continued to lose height until they were no more than 100 feet from the ground.
‘I saw a village along here,’ Raf said. ‘And where there’s a village, chances are there’ll be a . . .’ He paused and squinted. ‘Bingo,’ he said.
At first, Zak couldn’t see what Raf was referring to. The plane was fifty feet from the ground when he spotted it: something up ahead – a low concrete building set back a few metres from the side of the road.
‘Hold on,’ Raf said. ‘This could be bumpy.’
The Cessna hit the ground ten seconds later, then bounced back up into the air before hitting the earth again. Malcolm was awake now and Zak could sense him tensing up as the aircraft juddered and rumbled to a halt outside the concrete building.
There was a tree at the front of the building. Three African men had been sitting underneath it, sheltering from the evening sun. They wore no shoes or tops, their trousers were rolled up above their ankles, and one of them wore a floppy-brimmed hat. Now they were standing, staring at each other in astonishment. Ten metres from their position, between the tree and the building, was a very old petrol pump.
Raf killed the engine.
‘There’s a rifle leaning up against the tree,’ Gabs observed quietly.
‘Got it,’ said Raf.
Two of the men were venturing towards them, their faces creased with astonishment at this new arrival. One of them – the guy with the hat – hung back by the tree.
‘Zak, stay with Malcolm. Gabs and I can deal with this.’
Zak didn’t argue, but he did find his eye lingering on the guy under the tree. He knew Raf and Gabs would have their eye on him, though.
His two Guardian Angels stepped out of the plane, one from either side, leaving the doors open. Raf put one hand into the back pocket of his jeans and held up a wad of American dollars. That got the men’s attention. Their faces broke out into broad grins and one of them pointed at the petrol pump, then at the Cessna. He understood what they wanted.
Raf spoke with them for maybe thirty seconds, then he and Gabs returned to the plane.
‘We need to move it closer to the pump,’ Raf said. He started the Cessna’s engine and the aircraft trundled off the road towards the pump, where one of the two attendants started filling it with fuel.
Raf stepped out again and started handing money to the second attendant. All Zak’s attention was on the guy with the hat, however. He had stepped casually up to the tree, and was now slinging the rifle over his neck. Zak felt he knew what the man was thinking: that with a few squeezes of the trigger he could earn himself not only the money Raf had offered, but an entire aircraft.
‘Gabs,’ Zak warned.
‘I know, sweetie. I’m on it.’
‘He’s got a gun,’ Malcolm breathed.
Gabs bent down slightly and felt underneath her seat. She pulled something out and laid it on her lap.
‘So have I,’ she said.
It was a flare gun, about twice the size of a regular handgun, and half as deadly as the AK-47 assault rifle that the man was now brandishing as he shouted at them. His two companions looked over their shoulders and identical expressions crossed their faces – they were torn between selling Raf their petrol and going all in with their mate.
Neither of them seemed to notice Gabs slip out of the plane, clutching the flare gun out of view behind her back.
Bang! The gunman fired a shot into the air. A flock of birds rose up out of the trees and Malcolm started violently. Zak grabbed his arm to reassure him, but Malcolm pulled it away.
Having not got the reaction he wanted, the gunman sneered at Raf, aiming his rifle at him. But he paid no attention to Gabs. He clearly thought he had nothing to fear from a woman.
That was his big mistake.
As Raf held up his hands, Gabs skirted round the little group. The gunman’s eyes flickered towards her as though she was a mild irritation, but he kept his focus – and his gun – on Raf.
Until Gabs was five metres away.
With a sudden, lightning-fast movement, she aimed the flare gun – not at the gunman’s head or chest, but at his feet. There was a massive whooshing sound as she fired the flare into the hard ground, and a burst of light and smoke that made Zak clench his eyes shut.
It was only ten seconds later, when the smoke had cleared, that he was able to take stock of the situation again. The gunman was face down on the ground. He didn’t seem to be hurt, but Gabs had relieved him of his weapon and was now holding him at gunpoint.
Raf was talking urgently to the other two attendants. They nodded vigorously, clearly eager to do what he said, and continued to fill the plane with fuel, while casting occasional terrified glances at the grim-faced Gabs.
‘Does she do that sort of thing a lot?’ Malcolm asked in a slightly awed voice.
‘Yeah,’ Zak nodded. He was sweating profusely with the tension. ‘Quite a lot.’
‘Why didn’t she just kill him?’
Zak turned to look at his companion. ‘Why kill someone,’ he asked, ‘when you don’t have to?’
Malcolm looked confused, and Zak had to remind himself once more that he wasn’t like other people.
Five minutes later, the refuelling was complete. Zak and Malcolm watched as Gabs forced the gunman to walk away from the plane with his hands on his head. Ten metres. Twenty metres. Thirty. He was clearly happy to keep walking, and he kept on going of his own accord as Gabs returned to the plane, the rifle still in her hands. Raf paid the attendants the remainder of the money, then climbed back into the pilot’s seat.
Malcolm looked even more confused. ‘Why did he still pay them the money?’ he asked Zak. ‘We’ve got a gun.’
A dark look crossed Raf’s face. ‘We’re not thieves,’ he said. ‘And these people have next to nothing.’ He started up the engine. ‘You’re a clever guy, Malcolm, but you’ve got a lot to learn about the world. Maybe this is a good place to start.’
As the Cessna reverse
d, Zak saw Malcolm’s forehead crease. He looked confused. Maybe a bit embarrassed. Like a kid who had been told off at school.
The Cessna turned in a wide circle, then started to gather speed, bumping and jolting along the dry, stony road. After twenty seconds, Raf pulled back gently on the yoke and the plane lifted into the air, then banked again towards the north.
Twilight was falling over Africa. The harsh ground seemed softer, somehow. As they continued to climb, Zak stared out with a kind of wonder. In a patch of ground dotted with trees perhaps 750 metres to the west, he saw a herd of some kind of animal thundering across the plain. They looked strangely human. Baboons, perhaps? He couldn’t quite tell, and was about to ask Gabs what she thought when his daydream was broken by the crackling of the radio bursting into life again.
A few seconds of interference. Then Zak instantly recognized Michael’s voice.
‘Raf, do you copy?’
‘Go ahead,’ Raf said calmly.
‘Have you refuelled?’
‘Roger that.’
‘Any problems?’
‘Nothing we couldn’t deal with.’
‘Good. Listen carefully. The Martinez aircraft has changed direction.’
‘What do you mean? He’s not heading for Senegal any more?’
‘Oh, he’s heading for Senegal all right. Just not Dakar. Can Zak hear me?’
‘Loud and clear,’ said Zak.
‘Cruz’s father had drugs processing plants in the Mexican jungle, right?’
Zak remembered very well a day he’d spent at such a place. He had only known Cruz for a couple of days at the time, and they had been friends back then.
‘Right.’
