‘And what about you?’ said Marc.
‘I’ll be around,’ she told him. ‘I’m gonna try something. Call in a favour.’
‘Be careful,’ he warned.
Lucy flashed him a last, daring smile as she walked away. ‘You and I both know, we left that behind days ago.’
TWENTY-TWO
The signal for the gathering was the sound of a warning horn that echoed mournfully around the steel compartments of the decrepit drilling rig. Under the guns of dozens of pirate riflemen, Marc followed Saito and Ruiz down through the decks until they emerged inside a wide-open area that had once been one of the rig’s main machine spaces.
The steel deck was warped and rusty with neglect. Stubs of metalwork that should have been taken away for salvage stuck up everywhere, the remains of frames and the stems of sawn-off bolts like the roots of rotten teeth. In the middle of the derelict atrium there was the end of a shaft that fell away down the centre of the concrete pillar that supported the rig, and Marc watched a tanned man in a dark jacket walk to the edge and look down. He kicked a lose piece of scrap over the edge and Marc heard it clack and rattle down into the dark. Both of them listened for the sound of a splash, but it never came.
The man in the jacket noticed Marc’s attention and shot him a warning look. He had ink-black tattoos on his cheeks, numerals and ornate crosses that signified a senior position in Los Noches, one of the largest and most ruthless South American drug cartels. Very deliberately, he spat into the abyss and then walked away.
Marc’s gaze tracked upwards. The open space had the shape of an arena, with the lower level served by several entrances and a ring of grid-work walkways raised above it. More gunmen milled around up there, and he saw a youth holding a video camera, scanning the room to capture all the action. At the top of the chamber, a rough tear in the ceiling showed a light-well above, allowing fingers of pre-dawn glow to filter in through the stale, unmoving air.
‘Remain where I can see you,’ Saito warned. ‘If you become a liability, your use to me is over.’
‘You can swim home, then,’ Marc shot back. Saito and Ruiz stood close to each other, their attitude mirroring that of all the others gathering in the chamber. Every one of the attendees was watching the rest with belligerent expressions on their faces. As well as the group from the cartel and the CIA operatives he had seen before, Marc picked out what had to be the Chinese contingent – two unsmiling oriental men in business suits – and a pair of grim-faced Saudis who might have been al-Qaeda. He counted at least eight interested parties, all of whom were dressed in the kind of neutral, overcut clothes that could easily hide firearms. Only one other group stood out, a pair of colonels in North Korean army uniforms who plainly didn’t care who knew where they were from.
A hatch opened and one of the brigands came in, pushing a crate on a wheeled dolly. He gestured inside. ‘Guns. Radios. Phones. In here!’ He pushed it toward the North Koreans and pointed angrily when they made no move to obey. ‘Do it!’
He had four men with AK-47s standing behind him, and they all took aim. After a long moment, the two colonels sourly unhitched their leather belts and removed their sidearms, placing the weapons holsters and all into the empty crate. The brigand waved a metal-detector wand in their direction, the kind airport security guards used to scan passengers, and he barked at the officers when it went off several times. They made a performance out of giving up their hardware, and when it was done the process was repeated over and over as the pirates systematically disarmed everyone in the room.
Men with rifles on the upper gantries wandered back and forth over their heads, talking in low tones and glaring down at the assembled group. Marc searched for signs of a red scarf, and for a moment he feared the worst; but then he saw an athletic figure on the far side of the compartment, standing close to a towering, short-haired woman and a blunt-faced man he guessed were the contingent from Moscow.
*
Lucy was careful to stay back from the rest of the gunmen and do nothing to engage them. So far, so good. If they weren’t dizzy with all the khat they were chewing, then they were animated by the promises that were floating around the rumour mill. Ramaas was going to make them all rich. Ramaas was going to kill all the foreigners. Ramaas was going to declare war on the rest of the world.
She guessed that the truth was in there somewhere. But for now, she was passing unnoticed and her boyish frame wasn’t drawing attention. How long that cover would last, she couldn’t tell. When it crumbled, she had to be ready. Lucy needed a fallback.
And here it was, potentially. The bull-necked guy was unknown to her, but he had the look about him that made Lucy peg him as Spetznaz. The elite special forces of the GRU, his kind were notorious for being as hard as nails and utterly dedicated.
The woman, on the other hand . . . Built broad like a shot-putter, she had classically Slavic features and a severe blonde buzz cut. Lucy knew her face well enough. The last time she had seen it, a set of crosshairs had been between the pair of them.
‘Rada Simonova,’ Lucy said quietly, as the rest of the room’s attention stayed on the men collecting the guns.
The GRU officer stiffened, picking her name out of the noise, and turned slowly to face her. Simonova’s long-fingered hands bunched into fists. ‘Who are you?’
Lucy stepped closer. ‘Grozny, three years ago. Remember those Chechen separatists with their anthrax?’
‘The Americans don’t know about that,’ said the woman. ‘Which means there is only one person you could be.’ She cocked her head. ‘Keyes. Not dead, then?’
‘Not for want of people trying.’
‘Ha.’ Simonova gave a half-smile. ‘I wonder how this rabble would feel if they knew someone like you was loose in here. That might earn me an advantage with the pirate king, wherever he is.’
‘Seriously?’ Lucy glanced around, making sure no-one was listening in on their conversation. ‘That’s where you go first, Rada? Selling me out? Not very sisterly of you.’
‘There aren’t a lot of us in our game,’ said the Russian. ‘Maybe I want less competition.’
The black-ops community had always been a traditionally male-dominated arena, and Simonova was right when she said that female operators were in the minority. It was half of the reason why Lucy had recognised the Russian while she had been scouting around the derelict rig. When there were only a few like you, you tended to know the faces and names of your contemporaries.
‘We were after the same thing in Grozny,’ Lucy went on, ‘and we’re on the same side here. That’s why I didn’t shot you then.’ Her hand slipped to the butt of the rifle hanging from her shoulder. ‘You’re not gonna make me regret that, are you?’
Simonova looked away. ‘You must be truly desperate to come to me for help, Keyes.’ She continued before Lucy could reply. ‘Let me guess; your African patron sent you in here, but now you’ve got no way out. So you’re grasping at the closest thing you have to an ally.’
‘I am the only one of us who is currently armed,’ Lucy reminded her. ‘How long do you think you and your boyfriend there would last if these hyenas start shooting?’
‘That is a good point,’ allowed Simonova. ‘So tell me what you want.’
‘Backup, for when this all turns to shit. Which it will.’
‘You sound so certain.’
Lucy nodded. ‘We’ve been tracking this joker Ramaas for days. He’s not gonna follow the playbook, believe me.’
‘We?’ Simonova looked around. ‘You have company, then?’
She ignored the question. ‘Just remember, your people have got the most to lose here.’
‘What makes you say that? My comrades in the FSB have turned Moscow inside out looking for the weapon. Nothing has been found. Perhaps it never even existed.’
‘Uh-huh? Moscow wouldn’t have sent a pair of top-kick GRU operatives in here if they didn’t believe the threat was real,’ Lucy retorted. She moved so she was standing directl
y behind the Russian woman. ‘We know about the Exile Programme. And if that bomb detonates, an hour later every nuclear scientist on the planet will have a read on the isotopic signature from the blast. And that’ll lead right back to your government. I know your president is pretty bullish, but is he really ready for that?’
Simonova said nothing. The isotopic signature of a nuclear device was the equivalent of a radiological fingerprint, and with the correct spectroscopy equipment any physicist worth their salt would be able to determine the precise origin of the nuclear material in the suitcase bomb, down to the site of the plant where it was enriched. ‘If you know where the weapon is, tell me,’ said the Russian. There had been a playful tone to her earlier words, but now it was gone.
‘I got an inkling,’ Lucy admitted. ‘But I don’t know for sure. You in or out?’
‘In,’ replied Simonova. ‘For now.’
Lucy wanted to know what she meant by that, but across the compartment, some of the gunmen started chattering loudly. There was a thud of bolts from a sealed hatchway, and the men raised their guns and began shouting. She mimicked their actions but said nothing.
*
The hatch swung open on creaking hinges and it was time for the main event.
It was an apt description, Marc thought, because Abur Ramaas entered the room like a champion prizefighter walking to the ring, surveying the faces of everyone around him with an imperious sneer. A rough-throated cheer rose up from the warlord’s soldiers and Ramaas accepted it with a harsh bark of laughter. Following at his heels were more armed men, along with a gangly, smaller guy clutching a laptop to his chest. The computer immediately caught Marc’s eye – it was a ruggedised military-specification model similar to the kind he used, for now left behind back on the Osprey.
Like knew like. Marc recognised another hacker when he saw one. The guy bounded over to a raised area of decking at the back of the compartment where a portable generator had been set up, and started connecting the laptop.
Marc shifted slightly, trying to get a better look, but Ramaas came forward and blocked his view. ‘Policeman,’ he said, sounding out the word. ‘This is going to be a great day. You will see.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ramaas added mildly. He walked to the crate filled with confiscated guns and communications gear, waving away the man who had been pushing it around. ‘Let me start as I mean to go on,’ he continued, addressing the room.
With a sudden surge of movement, Ramaas strode to the crate and gave the dolly it was resting on a hard shove with his boot. It slid across the deck and the back wheels slipped over the edge of the open drill shaft. Captured by gravity, the whole thing shifted and fell into the black void in a clattering disarray. The crate, contents and all, disappeared down the shaft and was gone.
Laughter filled the room as Ramaas strode back to the raised platform where the pirate hacker was unfurling a collapsible satellite dish. The warlord clapped him warmly on the shoulder, and then sat down on a tool chest that had been positioned like the throne of a king upon a scrap-metal dais.
‘And so here we are,’ Ramaas intoned. ‘How does this taste to you?’ He looked across the room, deliberately making eye contact with anyone who would meet his gaze. ‘All of you, so used to being the ones with the guns. The ones who are in control. But not today. Not on this glorious, great day.’ He leaned back. ‘I am captain now.’
His words sent another ripple of mocking laughter around the room, and everywhere Marc looked he could see the faces of men who were itching to draw blood on any of the foreigners corralled before them.
‘Let’s just get this over with,’ said one of the Americans. ‘We’re here. So tell us how much you want.’
Ramaas glanced at the hacker, who gave him a nod in return. The hacker flipped the laptop around and Marc got a quick glimpse of the screen. He recognised what looked like routing protocols for financial transfer operations. They’re setting up a link to some offshore bank account, he guessed. ‘It’s going to be an auction,’ Marc said quietly.
‘A simple game.’ Ramaas stood up and produced three white envelopes from inside his leather vest. He toyed with them, slipping them back and forth between his fingers. ‘Our first sale of the day.’ He fanned out the white packets. ‘Three devices. Three locations. But only one authentic item. Each of these contains a paper . . . and on it, the name of a city.’ He grinned, his dark and damaged eye glittering wetly. ‘The three highest bidders win these.’ He waved at the computer. ‘Come and make your offers, if you wish. Or wait for the next item. The choice is yours.’
Slowly, reluctantly at first, representatives from the different groups came forward and stood out of sight of the rest in order to type out their bid into the laptop. Every one of them was greeted with a fresh series of catcalls and hisses from the assembled crowd of brigands, who made each approach to the warlord’s ‘throne’ into a walk of shame.
‘Listen to them,’ growled Ruiz, as Saito returned from his trip up to the keyboard. ‘A pack of barking dogs.’ He glared in the direction of Ramaas, who drank from a bottle of beer and sat languidly as he watched the representatives come and go like supplicants. ‘And look at him! He’s loving every second of this charade. Making fools of everyone!’
‘You’re surprised?’ said Marc. ‘Ramaas has got power over everybody in this room and he doesn’t care who knows it. Right this second, he’s holding the world hostage, so he’s going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.’
Saito gave him a cold look. ‘He’s a thug who had a stroke of good fortune, nothing less. And soon it is going to run out. The Combine understands men like him. They will let him swing his cock around and shout about how impressive he is. Ramaas will make so much noise, he’ll never hear the shot that kills him.’
Marc shook his head. ‘You underestimate him and you’ll regret it. People will die, if you play him for a fool.’
Saito gave that flat, humourless smile of his. ‘What I see is an opportunist who deludes himself into thinking he is something more. What is that phrase you British use? He has ideas above his station.’ The mercenary nodded in the direction of the dais as the gunmen made sport of the man currently standing in front of the laptop, a morose European whose allegiance was unclear. ‘These people are illiterate, vicious thugs led by a man who is only a little better educated. We shouldn’t have to sully ourselves by dealing with a nation of them.’
‘Ramaas isn’t Somalia,’ Marc snapped. ‘Not everybody in that country is a pirate! But then the Combine never really thinks hard about the people, do they? Just see resources for exploitation. You’re no different from your bosses in that respect.’
The Japanese man cocked his head. ‘You buy into the narrative too easily. Poor fishermen exploited by developed nations become pirates to feed their starving people. Like your Robin Hood, yes?’ He grunted in derision. ‘Look around. How many of these men do you think were peaceful tuna fishers once upon a time? They had a chance to go back to that lifestyle when the military started patrolling the Gulf. There haven’t been factory ships in these waters for years. Too few wanted to go back to the old ways. They like the easy money and the taste of blood.’
Ruiz showed a wolfish grin. ‘Now that, I can understand . . .’
‘Do you know why Abur Ramaas has gained so much influence?’ Saito continued. ‘Because he pulled together the clans in Eyl and everywhere else, all on the promise of gold. He delivered and they went to him willingly. Whatever fraction of his countrymen have to suffer because of what he wants . . . I do not imagine that is something which troubles his sleep.’
The gunmen jeered the last of the representatives – one of the North Korean officers – as he walked stiffly away from the dais, and Ramaas rose to his feet, idly tossing his empty beer bottle into the shadows. ‘I wonder, who paid the most to earn themselves peace of mind?’ He leaned in to converse with the hacker and whatever answer he got was enough to make him roar with
laughter. ‘Oh, so very predictable.’
The warlord strode out into the crowd and pushed his way toward the Chinese. He tossed an envelope at them and then walked away, forcing one of the representatives to scramble down and retrieve it from the deck. Next, he went to the Americans and slapped a second envelope into the hand of one of the CIA operatives, before finally giving the last to the woman from the Russian contingent with a mocking flourish. Ramaas’s gunmen liked the performance and they cheered it on.
Marc glanced at Saito. ‘Hard luck,’ he began. ‘Looks like you got bid-sniped.’
‘You really do not understand what is going on,’ said the mercenary. ‘This is just the opening gambit. The real play begins now.’
Marc scanned the faces of the Russians, the Americans and the Chinese, trying to get some sense of what it was they saw written on the pages of their expensive prizes, but all of them held flawless poker faces.
He waited to see which of them made a move to leave immediately, even an involuntary glance toward the exits from the machine room. If they had bought the data that told them it was their city that was under threat, the need to communicate that to home base would be paramount. But no-one moved or spoke, and the shape of an unpleasant possibility began to gather at the edges of Marc’s thoughts.
‘Are you satisfied with your purchases?’ Ramaas asked. ‘No returns or refunds, I am afraid.’ He grinned at his men. ‘Our friends there have made us very, very rich!’ A roar of approval echoed around the compartment.
Saito waited until the jeering ebbed before he spoke up. ‘The location of the device is not the most valuable thing you have to sell. Let us stop wasting time with your games and cut to the heart of this.’
For a moment, anger flared in Ramaas’s eyes. He didn’t like having someone else push the script. But then the ire faded and he was back to playing his role as bandit king once again. ‘You’re right. We will talk about the real prize.’ He produced a fourth envelope, identical to the previous three, and used it to fan himself. ‘Here it is. The remote radio frequency for the device and the seven-letter code that gives direct access to the weapon’s control protocols . . .’ Ramaas held it up over his head. ‘With this in hand, the device can be disarmed . . . or detonated . . . at will.’ His face split in a wide, shark-like grin. ‘What am I bid?’
Exile Page 41
