TWENTY-ONE
Marc eased the controls over and put the Osprey into a wide turn, circling the aircraft around the Calypso rig with the platform on the starboard side. Looking out of the canopy, he could see the wide landing pad lit by portable floodlights and the flicker of human shadows moving around on the lower levels.
Night had fallen, dark and moonless, so the flight out from the coast across the sea became a test of his piloting skills as he worked the controls and struggled to keep them on course to the pirate haven. The V-22 was a good aircraft, and more forgiving than its chequered reputation had led Marc to believe – but it wasn’t meant for solo flight and handing all the tiltrotor’s systems alone was hard work. He was sweating it, not allowing himself to think more than a few minutes past the operational bubble he was working in. The black ocean was constantly pulling at the old, steady terror that lurked far back in his memory.
In a perverse way, it was a small mercy. Full focus on keeping the Osprey in the sky stopped Marc from dwelling on his current situation and his fears for Lucy.
‘Are you going to land this thing or keep circling until we run out of gas?’ Ruiz called out from the cabin behind the cockpit.
‘Sod off,’ Marc snarled, snapping back to the moment. On the way to the rig, he had briefly entertained the idea of putting the aircraft into a ballistic attitude by standing the Osprey on its tail, then opening the rear hatch to send anything not tied down into the ocean. Unfortunately, the V-22 wasn’t designed to fly that way and attempting to would have put the aircraft in the drink. All he could do was play along for now and hope that an opportunity to extract himself from this mess would present itself.
He sharpened the turn and took a deep breath, aiming the nose at the helipad while putting the Osprey’s wing-tip engine nacelles into helicopter mode. The big three-bladed prop-rotors hammered at the air as the aircraft slowed and dropped toward the deck. There were few crosswinds, a stroke of good fortune that Marc was only too happy about. As they came down, he heard the synthetic female voice of the Osprey’s on-board computer giving out monotone warnings about the aircraft’s sink rate, but it was too late to go around. He had already committed to the touchdown.
For one sickening second, Marc feared he had overcompensated and was about to send them off the edge of the helipad and into the sea, but then the oleos in the Osprey’s undercarriage crunched as the aircraft’s weight settled and they were down. Fighting off a tremor of adrenaline in his hands, Marc blew out a breath and robotically worked his way through the shutdown checklist. In another time or place, he would have relished the chance to fly the tiltrotor, but here and now the gravity of the larger situation overshadowed the challenge.
By the time the Osprey’s systems were secured, Saito and Ruiz had already disembarked from the aircraft. Marc followed them out on the deck of the derelict rig. As he passed Mayer on the way out, he saw that the unconscious Combine mercenary was pale and his breathing was shallow.
‘Your man needs serious medical attention,’ he told Saito.
‘He knew the risks,’ replied the other mercenary.
A group of gunmen emerged from behind a grey EC135 helicopter parked on the far side of the landing pad, all of them toting Kalashnikovs, their eyes darting around the Osprey. They reminded Marc of a pack of wary hyenas. Some of them wore surplus military kit, but the majority were garishly outfitted in brightly coloured uniform shirts from Premier League football teams.
At the lead, a lanky man in a Manchester United shirt that was two years out of date sized Marc up with a sneer, and said something to his comrades. The group split apart and Abur Ramaas was suddenly there, large as life and scowling like a storm cloud. Marc saw that his bicep was wrapped in a grubby, blood-stained bandage, his trophy from the melee escaping Jalsa Sood’s mansion in Dubai.
‘Did I not make myself clear to your masters?’ said the warlord. ‘The Combine is not welcome in Somalia.’
Saito let the man’s words roll off him. ‘My employers were disappointed by your retirement of Amadayo and Brett. But what is done is done. This is a different matter.’
‘Always the businessmen,’ muttered Ramaas, scanning the group. ‘But the blood is just as red and the money is just as green as all the rest.’ His gaze settled on Marc and his eyes widened. ‘You are here, policeman?’ He barked out a laugh. ‘You have not learned your lesson yet?’
‘What can I say?’ Marc masked his real feelings with a shrug. ‘Sometimes I don’t take the hint.’
Ramaas nodded. ‘You’re stubborn.’ He clapped a large, thick-fingered hand on Marc’s shoulder. ‘That will get you killed one day.’ He eyed Saito. ‘You are with these fools now?’
‘Not by choice.’
‘Ah.’ Ramaas made a face at his men and they laughed. ‘If you are here, it is because Waaq wishes it. I won’t question that.’ He drew back. ‘You will be present to see how the game ends.’ The warlord gave a dismissive wave and started to walk away.
‘How long can you keep this up?’ Marc said to his back. ‘You’re not Somalia, man. How many people do you really speak for – your clan at best? You’re a pirate with delusions of grandeur.’ He took a step after him, drawing a deep breath of air laced with salt spray and rust, ignoring the guns that were raised in his direction. ‘You’re trying to run with the big dogs, but you have to know . . . They’re never going to let you keep that bomb.’
‘Keep it?’ Ramaas threw him a glance over his shoulder. ‘Is that what you think I want, policeman? To sit on it like the Americans or the Russians do, making threats forever?’ He glared at Saito, his tone turning sour. ‘Such acts only have value to merchants and their servants.’ Then the warlord laughed again. ‘What good to a soldier is a weapon unfired?’
*
When Lucy was certain the old doctor was out of earshot, she caught the attention of the boy and gave him a warm smile. ‘Hello,’ she began. ‘Can you speak English?’
‘A little.’ His head bobbed.
‘What’s your name?’
He grinned back at her. ‘Rio.’ He paused. ‘You are from America?’
‘I am.’
Rio considered that. ‘I’ve seen it in films. It’s big.’
She nodded. ‘That it is.’
‘People there seem very angry.’
Lucy kept her smile in place. ‘Often true. But not everyone. Not me.’
He jerked a thumb in the direction of the doorway. ‘I shouldn’t talk to you. He will be upset.’
‘We don’t have to tell Pops,’ she said, making a conspiracy of it. Lucy gave him another wink and he laughed. She pressed on. ‘Hey, Rio. Can you help me with something? I need a phone.’ She raised a hand to her head, making the universal ‘call me’ gesture. ‘I bet you have one, right? Can I buy it from you?’ Secreted inside a hidden pocket in her tactical jumpsuit was a fold of crisp $100 bills, and she pulled one out to offer it to him.
Rio half-reached for the money, then frowned. The bill was stained dark where Lucy’s blood had soaked into the paper. ‘I should not take it.’ For a moment, avarice warred with the kid’s wary nature – and then he suddenly brightened. ‘We can play for it!’
He fished in the pocket of his baggy cargo shorts and came back with a handful of playing cards. His plastic foot clicking on the floor as he moved, Rio put three of the cards down on the operating table and slipped them around.
Lucy knew this set-up. Seeing it played on block corners every day of her youth as she grew up in Queens, she knew that it was the classic example of the ‘short con’, a way to sucker in marks with what looked like a fast and easy version of Find the Lady. It was all about using sleight of hand to misdirect, so you would be chasing a Queen card back and forth without knowing that it had never been where you thought it was in the first place.
Rio showed her the cards and then mixed them up, waiting for her to give him the nod. She decided to play along, and gestured with the hundred.
The card
s moved, the boy’s hands blurred, and Lucy pointed. Wrong card.
‘Sorry!’ He held out his hand for the money, pleased with himself.
She didn’t give it to him. ‘You got this wrong, young blood. You’re supposed to let me win one time. Then you up the bet. Take me for more.’ Lucy reached out and took the cards. ‘Let’s do this another way. My turn.’
Rio started to complain, but she was already working the deck. Lucy flashed an Ace of Spades in one hand, the Queen of Hearts and the Ace of Clubs in the other. It was an easy slip, if you knew how to do it. As the cards went down, she made it look as if she dropped the red face card first when it was actually the black Ace. With a flick of her wrist, the cards were swapped and now anyone watching would be tracking the wrong target from the start.
But the boy was sharp. He knew the trick, and he didn’t fall for it. Rio found the Queen and flipped it over, his momentary dismay turning to a smug smirk of victory.
Lucy admitted defeat and handed over the bill. ‘You’re good at this, kid. Who taught you this, was it Pops?’
The plastic flaps over the doorway crackled and Lucy cursed inwardly as Guhaad strode in, with the doctor trailing behind.
‘His father taught him,’ said the old man.
Guhaad grimaced and pawed at the cards. ‘This is a stupid game.’
He tossed the cards away and Rio gave a gasp of dismay. ‘That’s because you never win it,’ said the boy, with as much defiance as he could manage.
The gunman’s nostrils flared and he raised his hand as if he was going to strike Rio. The boy recoiled but the blow did not come. The old man nodded at the doorway and Rio dashed away – taking with him the c-note and any chance Lucy might have had to part the kid from his phone.
‘You shouldn’t threaten the boy,’ the old man told Guhaad. ‘Ramaas won’t be pleased.’
‘He won’t say anything,’ Guhaad snapped back. ‘Not if he knows what is best for him.’
And suddenly, Lucy saw something she had been missing. The same curve of the jaw, the same pug nose. Rio is Ramaas’s kid.
The old doctor met her gaze and he guessed the train of her thoughts. ‘Now you can better understand why Ramaas has such rancour in him. Rio’s mother died during childbirth. There were not enough medicines, because of the sanctions.’ He sighed. ‘And then the boy himself . . . his leg . . . his lungs . . .’
‘Stupid game,’ repeated Guhaad, picking up the Queen of Hearts and glaring at it. ‘The prize is never where it is supposed to be.’
A shell game. The grim certainty crystallised in Lucy’s mind with an abrupt, definite weight.
Events from the past few days shifted and locked together, one thing trailing into another. She remembered what Marc had told her about the confrontation in the Kurjaks’ casino, then she drew up her own recall of the frantic chase down the highways of Dubai and the ambush that had been waiting for them in Welldone Amadayo’s mansion house.
And she knew what she had to do.
‘Is the woman fit enough to move?’ Guhaad was asking the old man. ‘I want her gone!’
Before he could reply, Lucy was on her feet. ‘Change of plans, handsome,’ she told him. ‘I’m not going to the airport. Take me to Ramaas.’
Guhaad let out a splutter of incredulous laughter. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘Hey, you don’t want him to know you’re making bank on the side, I totally get it.’ She walked stiffly toward him, ignoring the pain in her gut. ‘But think how impressed Ramaas is gonna be when you bring him someone else who wants to bid on that bomb.’ Lucy tapped her chest. ‘I work for a rich man. But then you already know that.’
Guhaad’s hand dropped to the gun in his belt. ‘Maybe I shoot you instead. You are too much trouble.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Your call. But do that and you won’t get the rest of the cash we agreed on. And old Uncle Yarisow will be real disappointed.’
‘What is she talking about?’ said the old man, but Guhaad waved him to silence.
At length, the gunman’s face shifted from annoyance to something darker. ‘All right. Come with me.’
‘You should have left when you had the chance, daughter,’ called the old man, as Lucy followed Guhaad out toward the street.
‘No can do,’ she replied. ‘I gotta play the hand I’ve been dealt.’
*
The contact was waiting for Zayd exactly where he said he would be, loitering beside a battered blue panel van parked at the mouth of a narrow alley. A few hundred metres away, sparse traffic on the main road rushed back and forth in a steady rising-falling whirr of noise. A police car howled past, casting spears of light briefly over the walls of the buildings rising over the backstreet as its siren sounded. There were few pedestrians out at this time of the night, and that was all to the better.
Zayd looked around, the sniper’s sharp eyes instinctively analysing the angles of attack. He considered where he would like to be for the best sight-lines and patterns of fire. One city was very much like another to him, all of them cluttered masses of hides, kill boxes and cover. In the end, he reduced them all down to abstract patterns through which he could weave a bullet and send another soul off toward death.
Without a word to the driver of his taxi, he got out and dragged his gear with him. One was a long, thin case made of ballistic black nylon that resembled the cover for a fishing rod, the other a heavy sports bag that hung off a long strap going over his shoulder.
The contact knew his face and nodded in greeting. He extended his hands in an offer of assistance, but Zayd pushed him away.
‘No-one touches these but me.’ His words were harsh and brittle. He had been travelling for many hours to get here and his temper was frayed with fatigue.
‘Whatever you say.’ The contact blinked and rubbed a hand over his dark features. The two men were of similar height and build, close enough in aspect that someone with an educated eye might have guessed there was some clan connection between them. Zayd saw it in the other man, but he gave little consideration to the fact beyond that. He wasn’t here to spend time comparing the complex networks of who might know who and what person might be related to which other. The contact wasn’t going to be a friend, just a means to an end.
‘What is your name?’
‘The name that the gaal gave me is Eddie,’ he began. ‘But I am –’
Zayd cut him off before he could say more. ‘That is good enough. Show me.’
Eddie nodded, his head moving in short jerks. He led Zayd to a metal door in the wall of the alley, opening a massive industrial padlock. The door slid open and a draught of musty, machine-warmed air wafted out.
Looking in, Zayd saw that the door led into an antechamber lined with lockers and electrical switchboxes on the walls. On the far side was a barred gate that opened into the mouth of a tunnel threading down into darkness.
He followed Eddie inside and put down the bags. The contact offered him a plastic carrier bag. Inside it was a clip-on flashlight, a laminated map of the service tunnels below, a tea flask and some khat wrapped in newspaper.
Zayd handed the khat back to him and took off his jacket. ‘I don’t need that.’
‘You could be down there a while.’
‘I will manage.’ Under his jacket, Zayd wore a shirt of identical colour and cut to the one Eddie had on beneath his dark blue fleece. He held out his hand to the other man.
Eddie frowned, then exchanged the fleece for Zayd’s jacket, pausing only to give him the security pass he wore on a lanyard around his neck and a cap bearing the logo of the local metro system. ‘No-one will give you a second look wearing this,’ he explained. ‘The meeting place is marked on the map. The others will be waiting for you there.’
Zayd put on the cap and the fleece. ‘What about the communications?’ Once they were in the tunnels, the digital satellite phone he carried would be useless.
Eddie nodded again. ‘There will be radios you can use. I wrote a frequency
on the map.’
Zayd glanced at the diagram and saw the numbers. ‘Good. You will relay the message if . . .’ He paused, reframing his words. ‘When Ramaas calls?’
‘Yes.’ He glanced out through the half-open door toward the driver in the waiting taxi. ‘That man. Is he one of us?’
Zayd shook his head. ‘A Kenyan. He doesn’t need to know. But Ramaas was very specific about our people. Get the word out to anyone in the clan and our allies. Tell them to leave the city.’ As he spoke, he unzipped the sports bag and removed a folder containing his kunai blades. ‘Be careful how you say it. Don’t start a panic.’
‘What’s that?’ Eddie pointed at something else inside the bag, a dented silver case with ribbed flanks.
‘Not your concern,’ Zayd told him, and pulled out a wad of cash which he handed over. ‘Just make sure you have a way out when the time comes.’ He secreted the blades about his person and turned on the flashlight before gathering up the bags again.
Eddie licked his lips. ‘What exactly are you going to do?’
‘We are going to pay back those who wronged us,’ said Zayd, disappearing into the sloping tunnel.
*
The glow of pre-dawn was lightening the sky as they forged away from the coastline and out into the deeper waters of the Gulf of Aden.
Lucy kept one eye on the gunman who had been left behind in the machine room to guard her, and another on the grimy porthole in the hull. Now and then she caught a glimpse of a blurry shadow on the horizon – the derelict gas rig. She kept her distance from the gunman, who had a vacant, cow-eyed look about him and a tendency to mutter.
Guhaad’s boat was a medium-sized pirate dhow called a jelbut, the kind of vessel that in years gone by would have been a trawler. These days it served as mothership to a flotilla of skiffs for sorties against prize ships traversing the sea lanes off the Somali shore. The wooden hull creaked and moaned in a steady rhythm, the waves slapping off the bow as its diesel engine drove it onward.
Exile Page 39
