by Andy Maslen
“She told me that your husband was channeling UN aid to an Islamist terrorist group run by a cousin of his. It was responsible for the deaths of nineteen British nurses and three members of the SAS. She told me he was planning a coup here in Zimbabwe.”
As he relayed the narrative Barbara Sutherland had outlined for him as justification for Agambe’s murder, Gabriel realised two things at the same time.
First, that was how he saw his actions now. Not as a “targeting”, a “mission goal”, or even a “kill”, but as a cold-blooded, brutal, and premeditated murder.
Second, that he wasn’t sure he believed the story any more. It was too clean, too perfect. Enough moral outrage to overcome his queasiness about going after an elected politician, an anti-terror message, and the endorsement of MI6 and the CIA to round the whole thing off. But then, Don said he’d seen evidence, a dossier from Barbara. Was there room for doubt, even at this stage? It would have to wait. Marsha Agambe was smiling at him, but her forehead was creased with lines.
“You know, I could give you chapter and verse about Philip’s character. About his fanatical belief in democracy. About the scrupulousness with which he runs – he ran – his department, and even his personal affairs, so that no whiff of corruption should ever swirl about him. But I do not need to do any of that. I can give you a single fact that will puncture that woman’s lies.” She glared at him. “Philip’s parents were both only children. No siblings, either of them. And therefore no cousins. It is a matter of public record. You can look it up if you don’t believe me.”
It was a lazy error. But somehow, Gabriel knew it was precisely the sort of lazy error an overconfident politician, backed by powerful friends in two separate intelligence agencies, would make. She’d probably added it in herself as a bit of back-story.
“I don’t need to check. I believe you. All I can say is that I was set up. In fact, there were two attempts to kill me and . . .” he had been about to say “my partner”, but something held him back. Why drag Britta any deeper into this unholy shitstorm than she was already? “Clearly they failed. But only just.”
Marsha Agambe leaned back in her chair. She raised her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes with long slender fingers.
“Foreman,” she said. “Could you get the dossier, please? And perhaps some beers. I am sure Gabriel is thirsty.”
Foreman moved from behind Gabriel and left the room. He returned a few moments later carrying a thick black cardboard folder, held closed with a red rubber band. The folder was at least an inch thick and stuffed with a variety of document types to judge from the different colours, sizes and thicknesses of paper that peeped out from between its dog-eared covers. He set it on the table and turned to the fridge.
While Foreman popped the crown caps from three bottles of lager, Marsha pulled the thick rubber band from the folder. Turning it round to face Gabriel, she opened it and placed her finger on the top document. It was a photocopy of a bill of lading for military hardware of some sort. Gabriel recognised the style of the text, but not the individual reference numbers.
“When Barbara Sutherland was Secretary of State for Defence, she paid many visits to Africa, helping weapons manufacturers ply their dirty trade. That is when we believe she began taking kickbacks. Everything is in there, Gabriel. Ten years’ work by my husband and his associates. Not just here in Zimbabwe, but internationally. He had links with a great many people who were all united in their desire to root out corruption, wherever it was to be found.”
Gabriel interrupted her. “I’m sorry, but would any of those associates have worked for Scrutiny International?”
“Yes. How do you know of them? They are not exactly high-profile.”
“It doesn’t matter. I . . . read about them somewhere. You were saying?”
“I was saying that the missing link in the chain came into his possession just a month or so ago. Testimony from a London gemstone dealer confirming that conflict diamonds had found their way into the hands of your Prime Minister and then been traded illegally. There is a solid chain of evidence linking her to illegal trade in arms, blood diamonds, sanctions-busting, you name it.”
“You’ve got a copy, right?”
“At my lawyer’s office: Alice Rukuni. She is a partner at Penduka, Ballantyne and Farai. They are the third-biggest firm in Harare. I left explicit instructions that they should make it public if anything happens to me before the conference.”
Gabriel reached for the folder, to bring it closer. As he did so, Marsha Agambe looked down at her chest and flicked her fingers over the fabric of her shirt. She tutted.
“What is that?” she said.
He looked at her. A small red dot, perhaps an eighth of an inch across, hovered over her heart. As she brushed at it, the dot rippled across the backs of her fingers.
His lips formed themselves into the shape of a warning shout. But it was too late.
The kitchen window blew inwards and Marsha Agambe’s white shirt puffed out, a red blossom flowering in place of the neat dot. The door of the low, glass-fronted cupboard behind her exploded, masking the sound of the shot, which had caught up with the supersonic bullet. Needle-pointed shards of glass flew out in all directions to join those from the shattered window. Blood spewed from her back, spattering the wall in a circle of droplets and sprays.
As her body slumped on the chair, head flung backwards, arms thrown out and down to the sides, Gabriel pushed back from his own chair and jumped to his feet, heart pounding, palms slick with sweat, head jerking from side to side, searching for cover. Then he looked down.
The red dot was back, spider-still over his own heart. He willed himself not to move, even though every fibre of his being, every instinct, was screaming at him to drop to the floor before the assassin could get another shot in.
Something curious happened.
The dot wagged from left to right, as if shaking its head.
Then it centred on his heart again.
“Foreman!” he shouted. “Are you OK? Where are you?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Foreman stroll back into the kitchen. He hadn’t seen him leave, he now realised. Had thought he was still pouring the beers.
“Oh, I am fine, believe me. And soon I will be more than fine. Soon, I am going to be a very rich man.” Then he pulled his pistol, an old Browning .45 calibre, its steel barrel scratched and pitted. He pointed it at Gabriel.
“What are you doing? Someone just killed your sister. We have to get out.”
But instead of moving towards the door, Foreman just looked down at the dead body of his sister, prodded her hip with his toe then turned back to face Gabriel, grinning.
“Technically? She was just my half-sister. Always one for bossing me about with her high-toned morals. But now I’ve got a payday coming. Plenty of people in this country are doing very well, thank you, without her blowing the whistle. They promised me enough money to leave this stinking country and move to America. But first we’re going to get rid of you, my English friend.” He extended his right arm, aiming the pistol at the centre of Gabriel’s face. “When I’m done here, it will look like you killed yourself in remorse after murdering my sister.”
Gabriel remained still. Remained calm. It wasn’t particularly difficult, since the red dot had slid off his chest, jumped back six feet to the wall beyond, then jumped forward again as it found Foreman Agambe’s neck and crept upward until it was resting on his right temple. Gabriel squeezed his eyes tight shut and turned his head away.
Foreman laughed. “Don’t worry. It will all be over soon.”
Foreman’s head exploded with a dull smack, covering Gabriel in blood and brain matter and bits of bone and hair. The report from the sniper’s rifle was a dull thump from somewhere outside the broken window. Gabriel moved to grab the folder from the table, but another round from the unseen assassin’s rifle burst it into a cloud of paper fragments. He turned and ran for the front door, pausing only to grab a thin nav
y windcheater he assumed belonged to Foreman. He took the stairs rather than the lift, hurtling down them three at a time.
From above, he heard two more rounds burst into the flat. This time, the impacts were followed by a dull roar as furnishings, books and papers caught fire. Whoever the shooter was, they’d switched to incendiary rounds. The place would be an inferno in seconds. As he passed another landing, he jammed his elbow through the glass of a fire alarm, bringing residents out from their apartments, faces anxious, shouting to each other above the clanging fire bell.
Now wearing the windcheater, which hid the worst of the bloodstains on his clothing, Gabriel reached the ground floor and ran into the street, heart racing, wondering whether the shooter would decide to kill him after all. Bazu was still prowling, but, having met Gabriel once, seemed disinclined to put up any sort of challenge. She looked in his direction, sniffed loudly, then trotted off across the road, presumably to find somewhere a little less likely to set her coat on fire.
There was a tap set into the wall on the side of the apartment block, and Gabriel stopped long enough to wash his face and hands. Walking quickly but avoiding breaking into a run, Gabriel retraced his steps along the street, back towards the commercialised end, with its bars and restaurants. Half an hour later, having stopped at a crossroads as a convoy of fire engines sped past, he’d reached his hotel and was pulling a business card from his wallet.
36
Appointment with Counsel
“THIS is Tatyana.”
Gabriel sat back on the bed as relief flooded his system.
“Tatyana, it’s Gabriel Wolfe. I rescued –”
“Yes! My knight in shining armour. How can I help you, dear Gabriel?”
“I’m in a spot of trouble. In Zimbabwe. Harare, as a matter of fact. I need to get home but I have a feeling my passport won’t be enough to get a scheduled flight. I think I’m under surveillance. I wondered . . .”
“If I could help? Of course, silly boy. Do you know what? I am in Sierra Leone right now. We have a diamond field here. There was trouble with local gang. They thought we would pay them protection money. All sorted now, I am happy to say. So can you stay, how do you put it, under radar, maybe for one day longer?”
Gabriel glanced instinctively at the window, even though the curtains were drawn tight, admitting not so much as a glimmer of moonlight.
“Yes. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good, good. Listen, then. I will tell my pilot we have new flight plan. London, yes, but by way of Harare. When we are landing, tomorrow evening, I call you. You must get to airport and meet me in zone for corporate jets. How, I do not know. But you are man of action, so will find way. My plane is easy to find. Purple and gold Boeing Business Jet Three. Very pretty. Garin Group logo on side.”
“Thank you, Tatyana. Until tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, Gabriel. Until then.”
Gabriel suddenly realised he was hungry. The club sandwich he’d eaten with Britta seemed like a very long time ago. He ordered a steak and a beer from room service and settled down on the bed to wait.
“Fuck me, you’re in a hell of a mess,” he muttered, as he flicked through the channels on the TV. He found a local news channel and watched idly as a reporter stood outside the apartment block that, until very recently, had been the home of Marsha Agambe. It was now a partly smoking ruin, with firefighters running behind the reporter, uncoiling hoses and directing the thick jets of water up to the tenth floor.
He leaned over and grabbed a notebook and pencil, both imprinted with the name of the hotel, and started scribbling notes.
Philip Agambe: compiled dossier on Barbara Sutherland showing alleged corruption. Murdered by GW.
Marsha Agambe: stopped from presenting dossier at SADC by unknown assassin.
Foreman Agambe – meant to kill GW, having betrayed (?) sister for payout from local opposition. Killed by UA as above.
Barbara Sutherland: set up GW to murder GA to get rid of possibility of exposure? Or honest politician being attacked by Islamist terror financier and wife?
Don Webster: evasive, uncomfortable at last meeting. Why? Under pressure from PM? Still trust him 100%.
GW: under surveillance. But not shot by UA. Why? Unrelated murder?
Dossier destroyed. Copy with MA’s lawyers in Harare. Track down and see with own eyes for definitive proof.
Gabriel underlined the final sentence of his notes. It seemed to offer the best chance of getting conclusive proof of the rightness or wrongness of Philip Agambe’s claims. How this squared with staying under the radar, he wasn’t sure. But he had to know.
The steak, when it came, was leathery, despite his having asked for it medium-rare. He chewed as much of the brown meat as he could manage, ate the mashed sweet potato – surprisingly good, rich with butter and black pepper – sank the beer, then walked to the window. Standing to one side, he lifted the thick curtain away from the frame just enough to peer out at the moonlit city beyond.
The streetlamps cast a sickly yellow glow over everything but they were dim and there were plenty of shadows. A body could stay in the lee of the buildings, or keep to back streets, and move about unseen and undisturbed, with a bit of luck. But would Lady Luck be smiling on Gabriel tonight? He only knew of one way to find out.
Ten minutes later, he left the hotel, the collar turned up on his windcheater, which was now reversed so that its navy blue lining was outermost. It was half-past nine, and the streets were largely free of traffic.
Gabriel had checked out the location of Penduka, Ballantyne and Farai on a PC in the hotel’s lobby. As soon as he could, he took a left down a narrow side street. He walked to the far end then turned right, intending to track north, parallel to the main road, following the long side of a rectangular route that would bring him out at a crossroads. The law firm’s offices were two hundred yards farther down Simon Muzenda Street.
The street was dark except for occasional patches of light spilling from bars and the waxy sheen cast over the road by the moon. Through habit, drilled into him by SAS and military intelligence instructors, Gabriel kept to the outer edge of the pavement. Alleyways opened onto the street every half a block or so and these pitch-black canyons seemed tailor-made for muggers, drug dealers, pimps and prostitutes. Basically, people Gabriel neither wanted to meet, nor had time for.
Lady Luck had gone for a tea-break.
As Gabriel approached one of these black slits between two buildings, a tall, dark-skinned figure stepped out, followed, a second later, by two more.
Not one of the men was under six feet tall, and two of them were correspondingly broad through the chest.
The third man was fat rather than muscular, though his sheer girth meant he was packing a certain amount of beef under all the blubber.
Their grins, as he slowed and then stopped, glinted in the moonlight.
Like him, they wore baseball caps pulled down over their eyes.
Unlike him, they had knives in their hands.
Not dainty little flick-knives, either. These were more like the sorts of tools a butcher would use for jointing a carcass: deep-bellied, steel blades that caught the light and winked at him from their edges. Edges, he had no doubt, sharp enough to remove a man’s hand without stopping for muscle, bone or sinew.
Gabriel pulled up short, leaving a seven-foot gap between him and his adversaries. Now he stood, feet shoulder-width apart, hands hanging loosely at his sides, turning his head slowly in a short arc, fixing each man with eye contact for a split second, before moving on to the next. A steel dustbin stood to one side of the entrance of the bar behind him. He’d noted it as soon as the men had emerged from the alley.
“Hey, white boy. You are a long way from home, yes?” This was the first man talking. One of the fitter pair of the three.
“Yes, I am. I have no money, look.” Gabriel slowly pushed his hands into the pockets of his windcheater and pulled them inside out.
“Fuck y
ou! Of course you have money.”
They made no move to close with him. Gabriel squared his shoulders, trying to maximise his size, though as he was several inches shorter than they were, and slim where they were heavily muscled, or just lardy in the case of number three, that achieved little.
The man doing the talking was right, as a matter of fact. Gabriel had a roll of twenty-dollar bills in his left-hand trouser pocket and more strapped round his waist with tape.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “But I’ll show you what I do have.” His right hand opened to reveal the butterfly knife. He flipped it up with a steely rasp, and around on itself, until the handles closed on the blade, which he held up nice and high, in the man’s eyeline.
He waved it from left to right. “See how the light catches it? Nice and sharp. You want my money? You have to get past my friend here first.”
The three men stood still, though they had spread out into a line. The leader spoke.
“Julius. Take him.”
The fat man looked at his boss, then back at Gabriel, then at the knife in Gabriel’s hands. Then he lunged forward, butcher knife held high over his head.
As he came within stabbing distance, his knife descending towards Gabriel’s chest, Gabriel stepped to one side. The big man’s movements were so clumsy and slow, Gabriel had the eerie sensation he had somehow entered a slow-motion version of the scene, where he moved as an insect might among humans.
He needed to stop these three and continue with the mission he had set himself, but he didn’t want to leave any more corpses behind when he left Zimbabwe.
As the big man sailed past him, Gabriel kicked him on the ankle, tangling his legs under him.
Falling, the man threw his arms out.
Gabriel caught his right wrist and twisted hard.
The man yelped as nerves and ligaments were mashed against each other inside his wrist, and dropped the knife.
