Dogs of War

by Frederick Forsyth

  Shannon handed his completed project to Endean at three on Friday afternoon. It contained fourteen pages, four of them diagrams and two of them lists of equipment. He had finished it after breakfast and had enclosed it in a brown folder. He was tempted to put “For Sir James Manson’s Eyes Only” on the cover, but had resisted. There was no need to blow the affair wantonly, and he could sniff a good contract in the offing if the mining baron offered the job to him.

  So he continued to call Endean Harris and to refer to “your associates” instead of “your boss.” After taking the folder, Endean told him to stay in town over the weekend and to be available from Sunday midnight onward.

  Shannon went shopping during the rest of the afternoon, but his mind was on the references he had already seen in Who’s Who to the man he now knew employed him, Sir James Manson, self-made millionaire and tycoon.

  He had an urge, partly from curiosity, partly from the feeling that one day he might need the information, to learn more about Sir James Manson, about the man himself and about why he had hired a mercenary to make war in Zangaro on his behalf.

  The reference from Who’s Who that stuck in his mind was the mention of a daughter Manson had, a girl who would now be in her late teens or just turned twenty. In the middle of the afternoon he stepped into a phone booth off Jermyn Street and called the private inquiry agents who had traced Endean from their first meeting in Chelsea and identified him as Manson’s aide.

  The head of the agency was cordial when he heard his former client on the phone. Previously, he knew, Mr. Brown had paid promptly and in cash. Such customers were valuable. If he wished to remain on the end of a telephone, that was his affair.

  “Do you have access to a fairly comprehensive newspaper cuttings library?” Shannon asked.

  “I could have,” the agency chief admitted.

  “I wish to get a brief description of a young lady to whom there has probably at one time been a reference in society gossip columns somewhere in the London press. I need very little, simply what she does and where she lives. But I need it quickly.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “If there are such references, I could probably do it by phone,” said the inquiry agent. “What is the name?”

  “Miss Julie Manson, daughter of Sir James Manson.”

  The inquiry agent thought it over. He recalled that this client’s previous assignment had concerned a man who turned out to be Sir James Manson’s aide. He also knew he could find out what Mr. Brown wanted to know within an hour.

  The two men agreed on the fee, a modest one, and Shannon promised to mail it in cash by registered mail within the hour. The inquiry agent decided to accept the promise and asked his client to call him back just before five.

  Shannon completed his shopping and called back on the dot of five. Within a few seconds he had what he wanted. He was deep in thought as he walked back to his hotel and phoned the writer who had originally introduced him to “Mr. Harris.”

  “Hi,” he said gruffly. “It’s me, Cat Shannon.”

  “Oh, hello, Cat,” came the surprised reply. “Where have you been?”

  “Around,” said Shannon. “I just wanted to say thanks for recommending me to that fellow Harris.”

  “Not at all. Did he offer you a job?”

  Shannon was cautious. “Yeah, a few days’ worth. It’s over now. But I’m in funds. How about a spot of dinner?”

  “Why not?” said the writer.

  “Tell me,” said Shannon, “are you still going out with that girl you used to be with when we met last?”

  “Yeah. The same one. Why?”

  “She’s a model, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look,” said Shannon, “you may think this crazy, but I very much want to meet a girl who’s also a model but I can’t get an introduction to. Name of Julie Manson. Could you ask your girl if she ever met her in the modeling world?”

  The writer thought it over. “Sure. I’ll call Carrie and ask her. Where are you now?”

  “In a call box. I’ll call you back in half an hour.”

  Shannon was lucky. The two girls had been at modeling school together. They were also handled by the same agency. It took another hour before Shannon, by then speaking directly to the writer’s girlfriend, learned that Julie Manson had agreed to a dinner date, providing it was a foursome with Carrie and her boyfriend. They agreed to meet at Carrie’s flat just after eight, and she would have Julie Manson there.

  Shannon and the writer turned up within a few minutes of each other at Carrie’s flat off Maida Vale, and the four of them went off to dinner. The writer had reserved a table at a small cellar restaurant called the Baker and Oven in Marylebone, and the meal was the kind Shannon liked, enormous portions of English roast meats and vegetables, washed down with two bottles of Piat de Beaujolais. He liked the food, and he liked Julie.

  She was quite short, a little over five feet, and to give the impression of more height she wore high heels and carried herself well. She said she was nineteen, and she had a pert, round face that could be innocently angelic when she wanted, or extremely sexy when she thought no one else was looking.

  She was evidently spoiled and too accustomed to getting things her own way—probably, Shannon estimated, the result of an overindulgent upbringing. But she was amusing and pretty, and Shannon had never asked more of a girl. She wore her dark brown hair loose so that it fell to her waist, and beneath her dress she evidently had a very curved figure. She also seemed to be intrigued by her blind date.

  Although Shannon had asked his friend not to mention what he did for a living, Carrie had nevertheless let it slip that he was a mercenary. But the conversation managed to avoid the question during dinner. As usual Shannon did less talking than anyone, which was not difficult because Julie and the tall auburn-haired Carrie did enough for four between them.

  As they left the restaurant and climbed back into the cool night air of the streets, the writer mentioned that he and his girlfriend were taking the car back to his flat. He hailed a taxi for Shannon, asking him if he would take Julie home before going on to his hotel.

  As the mercenary climbed in, the writer gave him a slow wink. “I think you’re on,” he whispered. Shannon grunted.

  Outside her Mayfair flat Julie suggested he might like to come in for coffee, so he paid off the taxi and accompanied her up to the evidently expensive apartment. Only when they were seated on the settee drinking the appalling coffee Julie had prepared did she refer to the way he earned his living.

  He was leaning back in the corner of the settee; she was perched on the edge of the seat, turned toward him.

  “Have you killed people?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “In battle?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. I never counted.”

  She savored the information and swallowed several times. “I’ve never known a man who had killed people.”

  “You don’t know that,” countered Shannon. “Anyone who has been in a war has probably killed people.”

  “Have you got any scars from wounds?”

  It was another of the usual questions. In fact Shannon carried over a score of marks on his back and chest, legacies of bullets, fragments of mortars, and shards of grenades. He nodded. “Some.”

  “Show me,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Go on, show me. Prove it.” She stood up.

  He grinned up at her. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” he taunted, mimicking the old kindergarten challenge.

  “I haven’t got any,” Julie said indignantly.

  “Prove it,” said Shannon shortly and turned to place his empty coffee cup on the table behind the sofa. He heard a rustle of cloth. When he turned back he nearly choked on the last mouthful of coffee. It had taken her less than a second to unzip her dress at the back and let it slip to a pool of crumpled cloth around her an
kles. Beneath it she wore a thin gold waist-chain.

  “See,” she said softly, “not a mark anywhere.”

  She was right. Her small nubile teenager’s body was an unblemished milky white from the floor to the mane of dark hair that hung round her shoulders and almost touched the waist-chain.

  Shannon swallowed. “I thought you were supposed to be Daddy’s sweet little girl,” he said.

  She giggled. “That’s what they all think, especially Daddy,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Sir James Manson sat at the same hour in the library of his country mansion not far from the village of Notgrove in the rolling Gloucestershire countryside, Shannon’s file on his knee and a brandy and soda at his elbow. It was close to midnight, and Lady Manson had long since gone up to bed. He had saved the Shannon project to read alone in his library, resisting the temptation to open it in the car on the way down or to slip away early from dinner. When he wanted to concentrate hard he preferred the night hours, and on this document he wanted to concentrate hard.

  He flicked the cover open and set on one side the maps and sketches. Then he started on the narrative. It read:

  Preamble. The following plan has been prepared on the basis of the report on the republic of Zangaro prepared by Mr. Walter Harris, my own visit to Zangaro and my own report on that visit, and the briefing given by Mr. Harris on what it is desired to achieve. It cannot take into account elements known to Mr. Harris but undisclosed by him to me. Notable among these must be the aftermath of the attack and the installation of the successor government. Nevertheless, this aftermath may well require preparations built in to the planning of the attack, and these I have obviously not been able to make.

  Object of the Exercise. To prepare, launch, and carry out an attack on the presidential palace at Clarence, capital of Zangaro, to storm and capture that palace, and to liquidate the President and his personal guards living inside. Also, to take possession of the bulk of the weapons and armory of the republic, its national treasury and broadcasting radio station, also inside the palace. Lastly, to create such conditions that any armed survivors of the guard or the army are scattered outside the town and in no position to mount a viable counterattack.

  Method of Attack. After studying the military situation of Clarence, there is no doubt the attack must be from the sea, and launched directly from the sea at the palace itself. I have studied the idea of an airborne landing at the airport. It is not feasible. Firstly, the authorities at the airport of takeoff would not permit the necessary quantity of arms and men to board a charter aircraft without suspecting the nature of the flight. Any authorities, even if they permitted such a takeoff, would constitute a serious risk of arrest, or a breach of security.

  Secondly, a land attack offers no extra advantages and many disadvantages. To arrive in an armed column over the northern border would only mean the men and arms would have to be smuggled into the neighboring republic, which has an efficient police and security system. The risk of premature discovery and arrest would be extremely high, unacceptably so. To land elsewhere on the coast of Zangaro and march to Clarence would be no more realistic. For one thing, most of the coast is of tangled mangrove swamp impenetrable by boats, and such tiny coves as there are would be unfindable in darkness. For another, being without motor transport, the attack force would have a long march to the capital, and the defenders would be forewarned. For a third, the paucity of the numbers of the attacking force would be visible in daylight, and would hearten the defenders to put up a stiff resistance.

  Lastly, the idea was examined to smuggle the arms and the men into the republic clandestinely and hide them out until the night of the attack. This too is unrealistic, partly because the quantity of weapons would be too great in weight terms, partly because such quantities and so many unaccustomed visitors would inevitably be spotted and betrayed, and partly because such a plan would require an assisting organization on the ground inside Zangaro, which does not exist.

  In consequence it is felt the only realistic plan must be for an attack by light boats, departing from a larger vessel moored out at sea, straight on the palace immediately on landing.

  Requirements for the Attack. The force should be not less than a dozen men, armed with mortars, bazookas, and grenades, and all carrying as well submachine carbines for close-quarters use. The men should come off the sea between two and three in the morning, giving ample time for all in Clarence to be asleep, but sufficiently before dawn for no visible traces of white mercenaries to be available by sunrise of the day.

  The report continued for six more pages to describe exactly how Shannon proposed to plan the project and engage the necessary personnel; the arms and ammunition he would need, the ancillary equipment of radio sets, assault craft, outboard engines, flares, uniforms, webbing, food and supplies; how each item could be costed; and how he would destroy the palace and scatter the army.

  On the question of the ship to carry the attacking force he said:

  Apart from the arms, the acquisition of the ship will prove the most difficult part. On reflection I would be against chartering a vessel, since this involves crew who may turn out to be unreliable, a captain who could at any time change his mind, and the security hazard that vessels of a kind likely to undertake such a charter are probably notorious to the authorities of the countries bordering on the Mediterranean. I advocate spending more money to buy outright a small freighter, crew it with men paid by and loyal to the patrons and with a legal reputation in shipping circles. Such a boat would in any case be a returnable asset and might work out cheaper in the long run.

  Shannon had also stressed the necessity of security at all times. He pointed out:

  Since I am unaware of the identity of the patrons, with the exception of Mr. Harris, it is recommended that, in the event of the project being accepted, Mr. Harris remain the sole link between the patrons and me. Payments of the necessary money should be made to me by Mr. Harris, and my accounting of expenditures returned the same way. Similarly, although I would need four subordinate operatives, none would know the nature of the project, and certainly not the destination, until all are well out to sea. Even the coastal charts should be handed over to the captain only after sailing. The above plan takes in the security angle, since wherever possible the purchases may be made legally on the open market, and only the arms an illegal purchase. At each stage there is a cutout at which any investigator comes up against a blank wall, and also at each stage the equipment is being bought separately in different countries by different operatives. Only myself, Mr. Harris, and the patrons would know the whole plan, and in the worst event I could not identify the patrons, nor, probably, Mr. Harris.

  Sir James Manson nodded and grunted in approval several times as he read. At one in the morning he poured himself another brandy and turned to the costings and timing, which were on separate sheets. These read:

  Sir James Manson read the report twice and slowly smoked one of his Upmann Coronas while he stared at the rich paneling and Morocco-bound books that lined his walls. Finally he locked the project file in his wall safe and went upstairs to bed.

  Cat Shannon lay on his back in the darkened bedroom and ran his hand idly over the girl’s body that lay half across his own. It was a small but highly erotic body, as he had discovered during the previous hour, and whatever Julie had spent her time learning in the two years since she left school, it had not had much to do with shorthand and typing. Her appetite and taste for sexual variety were equaled only by her energy and almost constant stream of chatter between meals.

  As he stroked her she stirred and began to play with him.

  “Funny,” he said reflectively, “it must be a sign of the times. We’ve been screwing half the night, and I don’t know a thing about you.”

  She paused for a second, said, “Like what?” and resumed.

  “Where your home is,” he said. “Apart from this pad.”

  “Gloucestershire,” she mumbled.


  “What does your old man do?” he asked softly. There was no answer. He took a handful of her hair and pulled her face around to him.

  “Ow, you’re hurting. He’s in the City. Why?”

  “Stockbroker?”

  “No, he runs some company to do with mining. That’s his specialty, and this is mine. Now, watch.”

  Half an hour later she rolled off him and asked, “Did you like that, darling?”

  Shannon laughed, and she caught a flash of teeth in the darkness as he grinned.

  “Oh yes,” he said softly. “I enjoyed that enormously. Tell me about your old man.”

  “Daddy? Oh, he’s a boring old businessman. Spends all his day in a stuffy office in the City.”

  “Some businessmen interest me. So tell me, what’s he like?”

  Sir James Manson was enjoying his midmorning coffee in the sun lounge on the south side of his country mansion that Saturday morning when the call came through from Adrian Goole. The Foreign Office official was speaking from his own home in Kent.

  “I hope you won’t mind my calling you over the weekend,” he said.

  “Not at all, my dear fellow,” said Manson quite untruthfully. “Anytime.”

  “I would have called at the office last night, but I got held up at a meeting. Recalling our conversation some time ago about the results of your mining survey down in that African place. You remember?”

  Manson supposed Goole felt obliged to go through the security rigmarole on an open line.

  “Yes indeed,” he said. “I took up your suggestion made at that dinner. The figures concerned were slightly changed so that the quantities revealed were quite unviable from a business standpoint. The report went off, was received, and I’ve heard no more about it.”