Exile

by James Swallow

  Saito looked back at Oleg, and nodded in Vladimir’s direction. ‘He is handsome.’ The dagger rose. ‘Unless one of you speaks, that will only be the first of what I take from him.’

  *

  The name of the restaurant was Eternity, couched in all the overstatement and absence of irony that littered Dubai’s playground for the idle rich. It took up the top two floors of a sculpted, 150-metre tower on the edge of the marina, emerging out of the building in a bloom made from green glass and matte copper. Petals of steel and stone formed platforms for a spectacular bar, a viewing gallery and the venue’s private helipad. Baffles of white silk crackled quietly with the wind off the desert, and aside from the soft tones of a piano there was little other noise to distract the diner from his food.

  He had the place to himself for the next hour or so. He liked being up here, cradled among the silk and the bare wood of the decking floor. In his more fanciful moments, he imagined Eternity as if it were a magical sailing ship that floated in the clouds, far above the crude concerns of the earth.

  A good percentage of the restaurant and the building it capped belonged to him. One of many of his investments in the UAE, it didn’t turn much of a profit but he enjoyed the freedom part-ownership gave him. Right now, the entire staff was focused completely on his needs, and in the passing of his years he had become accustomed to – and to consider that he had earned – such treatment.

  He ate the cauliflower vinaigrette before him and savoured each mouthful, occasionally giving his dining companion a sideways glance. The man in the seat across from him wasn’t eating, and he looked uncomfortable out of his uniform. By day he was a high-ranking police officer, but here and now he was just a messenger.

  ‘It happened very quickly,’ said the policeman. ‘We are doing all we can to expedite the investigation, but –’

  ‘Spare me the excuses.’ He took a drink from a glass of ice-cold mineral water. ‘The women who were in the car, and the driver. Where are you with them?’

  ‘The driver is missing. I believe the women have fled the city. A search is ongoing.’

  That created a frown. ‘The body. Is it his?’

  ‘I would hope not.’

  He put down his knife and fork. ‘That is not what I asked you!’

  The policeman blinked at his retort. ‘We don’t think so. I’m awaiting confirmation from the coroner’s office, but the burn damage to the . . . to the victim was very severe.’

  A mix of worry and annoyance coloured his expression. He was angry and afraid in equal measure, thinking of the boy.

  At once, he wanted to have him to hand so he could punish him for bringing this to pass, but also to shield him from greater danger. Promises had been made, after all, and there were debts that could not be repaid. The boy’s father was long gone, and that meant certain responsibilities could not be ignored.

  He turned back to his food, dismissing the policeman with a flick of his hand. ‘Leave me. I don’t want to hear from you again until you have some answers.’

  The policeman was grateful for permission to depart, and gave a curt bow before walking quickly away.

  He glowered at his food for several minutes, hands tense around the cutlery. The boy needed his father. We both do. Things would have been so different if fate had taken another path . . .

  Raised voices reached his ears and he looked up. Men were crossing the open court of the restaurant, ignoring the demands of the staff to leave. One of them he knew – pale and drawn, nervous with every step he took – and seeing the new arrival set him immediately on alert. The other one was a stranger – towering and dark as thunder – with a predator’s swagger.

  *

  Ramaas strode across the empty restaurant with the Serbian trailing at his heels like a wary servant, and he paid little attention to Bidar and Macanay as they formed a threatening barrier to discourage the staff from following.

  ‘This city is a strange one,’ he said addressing the man in the white, collarless jacket who was the establishment’s sole diner. ‘I have never seen anything like it in the real world.’

  The man was old enough to be his father, with a heavily lined, sun-bleached-leather face and hair run to white in a queue that snaked down his back. His gaze raked over Ramaas and he gave an arch sniff. ‘That is your first mistake, sir. This is Dubai. This is not the real world.’

  ‘I have been here less than a day, and yet I believe you.’ He approached the old man’s table, which was set slightly up above the rest on one of the giant glass petals that formed the floor. ‘Many things here are a fiction, yes?’

  ‘Perhaps you did not see the sign outside,’ the old man went on. ‘This place is closed for a private dinner.’

  ‘Very private,’ Ramaas noted, making a show of looking around. ‘I think there are many rich men in this city . . . But to have this place to yourself – that takes more than just money.’ He glanced at Neven. ‘This is the man, is it not? He looks different from your description.’ Before the Serb could answer, Ramaas did it for him. ‘There are doctors who can do much to make you hide the face you were born with, I hear.’

  ‘You have made a mistake,’ said the old man, pushing his plate aside. ‘You have confused me with someone else. My name is Vishal Daan, and this has always been my face.’ His tone hardened. ‘I think you should leave before someone calls the police.’

  ‘You are not afraid of me,’ Ramaas noted, amused by the idea. ‘Either because you are a fool or because you have known much fear in your time, and you master it.’ He gave Neven a nudge. ‘Let me hear you say it, Kurjak.’

  The Serb was already sweating through the suit he was wearing. ‘That man is Jalsa Sood.’

  ‘I don’t know who that is.’ The old man shook his head. ‘Leave now. You are trying my patience.’ He glared at Neven and held the Serbian’s gaze for a moment too long, enough that any iota of doubt Ramaas still had went away.

  ‘You are the man they call the Baker.’ Ramaas stepped up onto the raised platform and helped himself to a drink. ‘I have come a long way looking for you, Sood. Do not worry, I am here for your skills and not your life.’ He indicated the Serb. ‘Do not blame Neven for betraying you. I left him with no other choice.’

  The old man glanced away as the wind picked up, bringing the faint rattle of a passing helicopter to their ears. He grimaced at Ramaas. ‘My name is Vishal Daan,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know him, and I don’t know you. So go away and take your thugs with you!’ He jerked his chin at Macanay and Bidar.

  Ramaas smiled. ‘You should reconsider.’

  The sound of rotors was growing louder, and the shark-like form of a silver Augusta Grand helicopter emerged out of the evening sky, turning to present its side to the rooftop as it slipped past. The passenger compartment doors were open, and sitting inside where he could clearly be seen, Guhaad held a pistol at the head of a young Indian man in an expensive jacket.

  The old man’s face fell, and he failed utterly to conceal his shock. ‘Kawal –?’

  ‘Your grandson is an over-privileged idiot,’ Ramaas told him flatly. ‘He believes wealth makes him safe. But you and I were not born into it like he was. We know better.’

  Suddenly the old man was on his feet, and he struck Neven violently around the head. ‘You cowardly, worthless wretch! What have you brought here?’ He hit him again, and the Serb recoiled. ‘What have you told them?’

  ‘Enough that you have my great respect,’ said Ramaas, interposing himself between the two men. ‘I am sorry we had to meet this way.’ He nodded toward the helicopter, and it orbited away, turning to line up for a landing on the helipad. ‘But you would never have spoken to me otherwise. And I do need your skills.’

  All attempts at denial vanished. ‘I am retired,’ Sood told him. ‘I have been so for many years.’

  ‘Your grandson will be killed if you refuse me again,’ said Ramaas. His patience for these games was waning. ‘Neven told me of the obligation you
have to Kawal. And to his father . . . Your late son.’

  Sood’s face clouded. ‘You have no right.’

  ‘I have what I take,’ Ramaas corrected. ‘And tonight, that is you.’

  *

  Neven was the last to climb inside the helicopter, his clammy hands slippery on the seat belt as he fixed it in place across his lap. Ramaas dropped into the seat across from him and gave him a thoughtful look.

  He couldn’t meet the African’s gaze. Neven’s mind was spinning, grasping at possibilities. He had no contacts in this country, no safe places where he could run to. His avenues of escape were closed, and to his horror, the criminal knew that the only option now left to him was to throw himself on the mercy of the law. But who could he hope to surrender to? The Russians? The Americans? Did they even have an embassy in this dust-drowned country?

  At his side, Jalsa Sood reached for his grandson, clutching at his arm. ‘Boy, how could you let this happen?’ He was angry, almost shouting it, but an instant later the old man was shaking his head, near to tears. ‘It doesn’t matter! I am sorry. I promised your father I would take care of you, I should have taught you better . . .’

  There was a bump as the helicopter’s engines increased power and Kawal had to shout to be heard over the sound of the rotors through the open hatch. ‘I don’t need you!’ He shook off Jalsa’s grip as if his grandfather’s touch was repulsive, and the gun that had been aimed in Kawal’s direction dropped. ‘You stupid old man!’ The words were venomous and brimming with adolescent resentment.

  Neven saw the moment in Jalsa’s eyes when he understood that the boy had never been a hostage at all. The old man’s cheeks darkened and the anger came back. ‘You are part of this? Do you understand what you have done?’

  ‘Shut up!’ Kawal shot back, as the helicopter rose into the air again. ‘These men are going to make us rich!’

  ‘We are already rich, you grasping little prick!’ Jalsa slapped his grandson hard enough to cut his lip, but then Ramaas’s soldier waved the gun in the direction of his kneecap and the old man drew back.

  When Neven looked away, he saw that Ramaas was toying with a folding knife. His face came close to the Serbian’s, and Neven felt hot breath on his cheek as Ramaas spoke. ‘You did what I asked,’ he said. ‘You brought me the boy, and through him, you brought me this Baker.’

  ‘You promised you would let me live,’ Neven shouted.

  ‘That was a lie.’ The knife blurred in the dimness of the helicopter cabin and Neven felt it slice across his waist. ‘I am a brigand, Kurjak. What use do I have for promises?’

  A shallow cut opened up the shirt he wore, pain burning on Neven’s belly, but it was barely deep enough to make him bleed. He was briefly confused, as the death blow he had been expecting for days never came. Then he realised that Ramaas had cleanly severed the strap on the seat belt across his lap.

  With one hand, Ramaas grabbed a fistful of Neven’s jacket and pitched him out of the helicopter’s open hatch, into the night air.

  *

  The black Peugeot 308 rocked gently against the chains that secured it to the deck of the shipping container in which they rode, and Marc found that sitting in the back seat of the car to work on his laptop was having a soporific effect. He shook it off and drained a bottle of water, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

  Inside the car, inside the cargo unit, the only light came from the sullen illumination of chemical glow sticks and a portable lamp rig sitting on the Peugeot’s bonnet. He glanced at the Cabot diver’s watch on his wrist. It was late afternoon, but it could have been the middle of the night for all he knew. Without any windows through which to watch the world go by, his sense of time passing had been knocked off kilter.

  Hours earlier, after entering into neighbouring Lithuania on board a Rubicon-owned cargo plane, the team had crossed into Poland under snap cover passports to rendezvous with the truck beyond the border. Now Malte had them racing like a rocket on the highway from Grajewo to Olsztynek, through a sheeting downpour of grey that seemed determined to follow them all day long.

  Aside from the driver, the team on the ground comprised of Marc, Lucy and Kara. There hadn’t been time to source any local assistance from the closest Rubicon office in Prague, and the operation had the same kind of on-the-fly feel to it that Marc had become unpleasantly familiar with during his time as a fugitive from MI6. Everything was balancing on a knife-edge, all of it one misstep away from falling apart. He couldn’t deny that some part of him was actually enjoying the thrill of being in the field once again, but that was swamped by more realistic concerns about getting through the next twenty-four hours alive and with the objective achieved.

  Kara was dozing in a hammock strung from the walls of the cargo container, her slack face lit by the tablet screen she cradled in her hands. It was the first time he’d seen her sitting still. Usually, the petite Chinese-American woman was constantly in motion, typing at a keyboard or moving from foot to foot with unspent energy.

  As for Lucy, she cracked open the Peugeot’s passenger-side front door and snaked in through the tiny gap. ‘Hey,’ she said, and nodded at the laptop. ‘You still worrying over that map? We scoped out the mission on the plane from France. Don’t over-analyse. It’s a good plan.’

  ‘Is it?’ Marc looked down at the aerial captures of the target location. The area known as ‘Strefa G’ was a compound within a compound, a highly secured sector of a hardened building on the grounds of a military base that – on paper, at least – belonged to the Polish national intelligence agency. ‘However you want to slice this, we’re winging it.’

  ‘Having second thoughts? That’s only natural.’

  ‘Nah.’ He shook his head, then paused. ‘Okay, yeah. But it’s not that. This is all . . .’ Marc sighed. ‘Too much like old times. And I don’t like where that’s taking me.’ He had spent most of his career in the British security services in the back of various nondescript vehicles similar to this one, glued to monitor screens while strike team operatives were kicking in doors elsewhere. This was dredging up bad memories again, all the things he wanted to put behind him. He met Lucy’s gaze. ‘Sorry. I keep picking at it, don’t I? I should just suck it up.’

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘I get where you’re at. But this time, things are turned around. I’ll be in here, you’ll be out there.’ Lucy grinned at him. ‘You know what your problem is? You keep thinking you’re still a back-seater.’ Then she turned serious again. ‘That could get you killed.’

  ‘Good pep talk, cheers,’ he allowed, his eyes drifting back to the map display. ‘Now all I have to concentrate on is how to infiltrate a CIA black site and convince a terrorist to rat out one of his mates.’

  ‘And do it before anyone in Langley hears about it,’ added Lucy. ‘So, y’know. No pressure.’

  TWELVE

  The footprint of the Daan estate was large enough that it could have swallowed up the home of Welldone Amadayo three times over, and as Ramaas walked along the rose-coloured marble floors, he found himself recalibrating his scale for what could be considered excess. The bomb builder’s mansion was more of a palace, with dozens of opulent rooms and annexes that appeared to Ramaas to perform no real function. On the voyage from Europe he had wondered how rich a man who trafficked in death could become, and this residence told the story. Most of his kinsmen would aspire for something like this, but he found it cold.

  The place had little life to it, resembling more a museum to one man’s money than somewhere one could call home. Guhaad and the others saw it as a playground, helping themselves to food and drink from the well-stocked kitchen or playing with the dozen sports cars the old man had collected in his cavernous garage. Eventually, Ramaas had been forced to discipline his soldiers and remind them of the seriousness of their mission.

  The security detail employed by Vishal Daan – or, more correctly, by Jalsa Sood – had already been dealt with before Ramaas’
s arrival at the rooftop restaurant the day before, leaving only a handful of residential staff and the old man’s trophy wife. The warlord had quickly grown tired of the woman’s histrionics and locked her in her rooms, but for their part the dozen or so staff went about their duties pretending that the African men with guns were not there. The grandson, Kawal, had helped that along by telling them that they would be safe, and so would their families, as long as no-one raised the alarm.

  Kawal reminded Ramaas of the youths he used to recruit to ride the pirate skiffs, gathered up from the beaches of Puntland. Shallow of spirit and lacking any kind of moral compass or empathy for their fellow humans, interested only in money and unable to look past their own immediate desires. Sood’s grandson liked to think he was some kind of fantasy version of a criminal in the mould of an American rap star, all flash and no substance. He had already convinced himself he was a partner with the Somalians rather than their dupe. Ramaas was willing to let him continue to believe that, until the fiction stopped being useful. Kawal’s connections in Dubai were smoothing the path, and he was determined to do all he could to spite his grandfather. Ramaas saw no reason not to take advantage of that.

  Jalsa Sood’s workshop was in a space on the lower level of the main house, joined to the big garage by a set of retracting doors. The area was dominated by the skeleton of a forty-year-old Maserati Bora, suspended on cables above the dismantled parts of its chassis. This was Sood’s church, his retreat, where the genius who had once made clever devices of murder turned his hand to restoring the vintage supercar.

  That work had been put aside in favour of the job Ramaas had given the old man. Crates of component parts, shipped in overnight from Saudi Arabia and Qatar, littered the floor. A group of identical steel-shelled suitcases were stacked in a low pile, and as Ramaas approached Sood’s workbench, he ran his hand over their smooth metal surfaces.

  Macanay straightened as Ramaas walked past him, chewing steadily on the mouthful of khat that was keeping him alert. He gave the warlord a wary nod and patted the Uzi submachine gun hanging from a strap over his shoulder, as if to say that all was well.