Ivory Nation

by Andy Maslen

  The levee broke.

  ‘Adventurism? Those boys were helping the Botswanans defeat ivory poachers. Offering highly skilled, selfless and courageous assistance. They died doing their duty. It’s our duty to find and punish their killers.’

  He was leaning forward, heart bumping painfully in his chest. He knew he’d lost the battle before she spoke.

  Smiling, and with no outward sign that she was doing anything more radical than ordering a cup of coffee, she said, ‘As you will learn over the coming days, a great many changes are coming that will radically transform Britain’s armed forces from an engine of conflict and neo-imperialism into a domestic security apparatus designed to protect the citizenry. No more adventurism,’ she leaned heavily on the repeated word, ‘no more military assistance to repressive regimes, and definitely no more self-glorification by attention-seeking commanders who should know better. Your request is denied.’

  Somehow, without quite realising how, Acheson found himself outside the MOD building on Horse Guards Parade. A sudden shower had greyed the sky, and the building’s sleek Portland Stone now looked dim and greasy. His heart was racing and sparks were shooting in random spirals in the periphery of his vision. Trying and failing to calm himself, he pulled out his phone and called his predecessor at the head of the Paras.

  ‘Hello, Nick. How are you?’

  ‘Not good, Don. Not bloody good at all. Are you in town or at Rothford?’

  ‘Town. Been in meetings with Six at Vauxhall Cross all day. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’d rather tell you face to face.’

  Acheson walked briskly to his club on Jermyn Street, swinging his tightly furled umbrella and jabbing its brass-ferruled tip at the pavement with every other step. Two green-haired climate change protestors sniggered as he passed them. He suppressed the urge to beat their heads to a pulp against the pavement.

  He nodded to the doorman, outfitted in a splendid royal-blue frock coat and top hat. ‘Morning, Raymond.’

  ‘Morning, Colonel.’

  Don was waiting for him in the reception area, sitting, legs crossed, in a burgundy leather armchair. He stood as soon as he spotted Acheson.

  ‘Nick, old boy, what’s up?’ he said, advancing towards his younger colleague and shaking hands.

  ‘Let’s get a drink and I’ll tell you.’

  Five minutes later, with large gin and tonics sitting on a mahogany table between them, Acheson took a pull on his drink. He looked around. The room hadn’t changed, he imagined, for several hundred years. A new coat of buttercup-yellow paint on the walls every now and then, he supposed, and new upholstery and curtains.

  But the wood panelling, much like that enclosing the new secretary of state for defence in her fiefdom, the heavy, old fashioned armchairs, the glass-panelled book-cases with their collections of leather-bound military histories, journals and classics, and the equally venerable gentlemen sitting alone, in pairs or quartets, chatting in low murmurs: these, he felt, represented the DNA of the place.

  Beyond these four walls, though, change was happening. Oh, yes. It was definitely bloody happening.

  Not entirely trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking or trembling, he began.

  ‘The lunatics have taken over the asylum, Don,’ he said.

  Don raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Our new government, you mean?’

  ‘In the person of Tracy Barnett-Short.’

  The older man nodded and took a slow sip of his drink, regarding Acheson over the rim.

  ‘This about your boys in Botswana?’

  ‘Yes it bloody is!’ Acheson said, unable to control the volume of his voice and earning a handful of disapproving stares from beneath bushy white eyebrows, or over the lowered pages of the Times or the Daily Telegraph. ‘I’ve just come from the MOD. Asked her to look into the massacre and the bloody…’ he paused to sigh out a breath, ‘woman basically accused me of incompetence. Sent me packing like a naughty schoolboy. Jesus, Don, I wanted to kill her, I was so angry.’

  Don nodded, then wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Not sure offing the big boss would exactly smooth your path to the general staff, Nick, if I may say so.’

  Acheson burst out laughing. He glared back at the retired army officers staring at him.

  ‘No,’ he said, when he’d recovered himself, ‘you’re probably right. But, Don, what the hell is going on?’

  Don shrugged his shoulders. To Acheson, he looked old. His hair was all grey now, and receding at the temples.

  ‘I think,’ he said finally, ‘people like us may be heading for a period of retrenchment. Our new political masters seem bent on creating a People’s Republic of New Britain. They’ll want an army, those kinds of people always do. But I dare say their focus will be on suppression of dissent at home, or support for their left-wing friends abroad, rather than anything more, what shall we call it, glorious.’

  ‘How are things with your outfit?’ Acheson asked.

  ‘Not good, if I’m honest. We’re governed by the Privy Council, as you know, so there are friendly opposition voices in the discussions, but the new PM and his cronies are intent on, what did he say to me? “Root and branch reforms of the security apparatus”.’

  ‘So you’re still active?’

  ‘Very much so. Took out an Islamist terror cell last month, as a matter of fact. Very satisfactory outcome.’

  ‘Don,’ Acheson said, leaning forward and dropping his voice, ‘can you help me?’

  Don smiled, leaning in towards Acheson.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he murmured. ‘Want me to put a team together?’

  ‘You can do that? Without alerting the PM or his bloody attack-dog at Defence?’

  Don nodded.

  ‘You know everyone thinks The Department is the ultimate in off-books wetwork outfits?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. When I took over from Harry Macintosh I foresaw a time when the pols might decide we need our wings clipping, so I set up an arms-length outfit.’

  Acheson grinned and felt relief flooding his system.

  ‘You’ve got a Plan B, haven’t you?’

  Don returned the grin.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Care to share?’

  ‘Remember when I was CO of The Regiment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I created a cadre of lads who had, what shall we call it, something extra? Called them the Black Dogs. Gave ’em a little black diamond arm patch. They all loved it.’

  ‘You replicated that at The Department?’

  ‘Hmm mm-hmm, yes I did. Even got one of the original lads working for me. Chap called Wolfe.’

  10

  BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

  The mourners at Stevo’s funeral divided neatly into two distinctive camps. Family, dressed for the most part in black, and comrades and friends from the Paras. Like them, Gabriel wore his khaki No. 2 Service Dress uniform. The maroon lanyards and cap badge placement over the left eye indicated they were members of 1 Para, known informally as ‘Fitness 1’ for their role supporting the SAS in the Special Forces Support Group.

  The sky, which for so many months had abandoned every other colour but blue, had turned the ashy grey of woodfire embers. A chill in the air had noses running and eyes watering, disguising the tears that flowed copiously as the vicar delivered the graveside prayers.

  As his final ‘amen’ was repeated by the mourners, four paratroopers took hold of the ropes beneath the flag-draped coffin and lowered Stevo to his final resting place in the soil of the country he had loved so much.

  At the edge of the crowd, Gabriel and Eli stood in a tight group with Don, Colonel Acheson and a man the latter had introduced simply as John. In his sixties, thick silver hair parted on the right, he had the upright bearing of a former soldier, although, Gabriel reflected, it could just as easily be the result of yoga or simply good genes.

 
Acheson, Don and Gabriel all wore medals on their chests. John did not, which, given his age, also moved Gabriel to conjecture that if he had served his country, it was in the security or intelligence services.

  Gabriel turned and smiled at Eli. For a woman who always tended to wear bright colours when not in camo, she looked severe in her funeral outfit of a knee-length dress, black tights and heels. But black suited her.

  As the other mourners drifted away from the graveside, Acheson turned to Don.

  ‘Do you mind if we speak out here?’

  ‘Not at all. Best privacy in the world.’

  ‘I’ve known John since schooldays,’ Acheson said, looking at his friend who stayed silent, letting Acheson explain his presence. ‘We were at Manchester Grammar School together. I went into the army, John business. We always joke that I got the glory, John the money.’

  Along with Eli and Don, Gabriel smiled dutifully, though the joke was barely worth it.

  ‘Nick’s right,’ John said in a deep voice in which the flattened Mancunian vowels were clear. ‘Mineral mining may not be as glamorous as what he does, but it pays well. Now I want to help him out by donating some of it. All I need to know, Colonel Webster—’

  ‘Don, please.’

  ‘Don, is how much and in what form. I can do bank transfers, cash or bloody big bars of gold. Just let me know how much, when and where you want it and it’s yours.’

  Now Gabriel understood. They were meeting the mission’s banker.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, John,’ Don said.

  ‘Kind?’ John repeated, his silver eyebrows jumping upwards. ‘Listen, I’m something of an old fashioned bloke, if you take my meaning. A monarchist. A free marketeer. A patriot. And bloody proud of all three. This crew of communists who’ve lied their way into power will be gone in a few years. In the meantime, I’ll not stand idly by while they refuse to avenge British lads killed helping the Africans better themselves.’

  ‘Has Colonel Acheson talked to you about the sums we might need?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘No. And it doesn’t matter. You want a private jet? Helicopters? Guns? Vehicles? Give me your shopping list and I’ll give you a trolley dash round whatever supermarket you chaps,’ he interrupted himself as he turned to Eli, ‘and ladies use when you’re getting tooled up, or whatever you call it.’

  ‘It could run into seven figures,’ Gabriel said, not wanting to find himself and Eli stranded thousands of miles from home with a backer who suddenly choked off the money supply.

  John smiled, putting deep crinkles around his icy-blue eyes.

  ‘Shall I tell you the fookin’ great thing about being a billionaire, lad?’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Me fortune’s growing faster than I can spend it! You want a million quid? It’s yours. Ten million! Why not?’

  Then he burst out laughing, the sound made physical in a rising swirl of condensing breath in the chill air.

  The meeting broke up at that point, with Don promising to liaise with Acheson and John over their ‘trolley dash’.

  Driving back to Aldeburgh in the big black Camaro Gabriel had inherited from a dead friend, Eli asked the question Gabriel had been worrying at like a ragged fingernail.

  ‘How do you feel about operating outside the law?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Honestly? I’m not sure. We’ve always had the explicit backing of the Government and therefore the implicit backing of the Crown.’

  ‘Whereas now we’re operating as Don’s private army.’

  ‘Exactly. No cover from the MOD. No backup from the security services. No Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.’

  ‘Do you believe in the operation?’ Eli asked.

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘So do I. If those boys were IDF, Israel would have people on the ground in Botswana within days tracking their murderers.’

  ‘So would we if Mr Tammerlane hadn’t just taken up residence in Downing Street.’

  ‘I don’t trust him. You heard what he said on TV the other day about Israel.’

  Gabriel nodded. They’d been holed up in their hotel room watching a Sunday morning interview with the new prime minister. Tammerlane had insisted that, while he would do everything in his power to prevent any form of racism getting a hold in Britain, people had to recognise that the state of Israel was nothing short of an apartheid state and had to be treated as such by the international community.

  Eli had sworn at the screen and descended into a black mood it had taken most of the day and a very good dinner to lift.

  ‘He has a majority, but we still have Parliament,’ Gabriel said now. ‘They’ll temper his worst excesses.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said. ‘Uri called me yesterday while you were talking to Acheson and the other Paras at the wake.’

  Gabriel’s pulse jumped up. Uri Ziff was Eli’s old boss at the Mossad and had made no secret of his desire to hire her away from Don.

  ‘What did he want?’ he asked, keeping his voice level.

  ‘What do you think? “Eliya, things don’t look so good in England. Come back. Your country needs people of your calibre. Now more than ever”,’ Eli said in a rough approximation of Uri’s fruity baritone.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I’m living with the man I love. And he loves England. So here we stay.’

  Gabriel stretched out his right hand and laid it on her thigh.

  ‘I love you, too, El, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think Tammerlane’s England is my England. If he starts stirring up hatred for Israel, well, you know where that could end. I won’t put you through that.’

  ‘You think we should have suitcases by the front door?’

  ‘No. The house in Hong Kong has everything we need.’

  ‘Ah. That other bastion of democracy.’

  ‘You’re right. Maybe I should sell it. Buy somewhere new.’

  ‘But it was Zhao Xi’s house.’

  ‘Exactly. His house. Master Zhao lives in here,’ he said, thumping his chest. ‘The place in Hong Kong is just a building.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take me there! I want to see it. I want to meet Mei.’

  She was referring to Gabriel’s sister, long believed dead after a botched triad kidnapping in the eighties. Gabriel had only recently found out she was living on the island and working as a bodyguard for the boss of the White Koi triad, now deceased.

  He nodded.

  ‘Let’s get the job in Botswana out of the way, then we’ll go.’

  Gabriel parked the big black muscle car on the gravel beside his simple, brick-built house on the Suffolk coast. The small garden was enough for a couple of steamer chairs where he and Eli could enjoy a glass of wine together, and that suited him fine.

  With the V8 ticking as it cooled, he retrieved their bags from the boot and set them down. He inhaled and let the smells of salt and ozone flood his lungs.

  He turned and looked towards the sea and its grey-green waters, topped with white horses. As he had known she would, Britta stood there amidst the cobbles, her fire-red hair loose and whipping around her head in the offshore wind. She lifted her right hand and waved. He lifted his hand out from his body to reciprocate, realised Eli was standing beside him, and let it drop.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked, interlacing his fingers with hers.

  ‘I was thinking about Britta. She was on the beach.’

  ‘Just now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your PTSD back?’

  ‘I don’t know. Delayed reaction?’

  ‘Can you find time to see Fariyah?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Would it help?’

  ‘It did before.’

  He sighed.

  ‘OK. I’ll try. It depends on Don, though. How fast he gets everything together for the mission.’

  Eli bent and picked up
one of the bags.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go in and have a brew.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I have a better idea.’

  Upstairs, Gabriel closed the bedroom door and turned to face Eli. He held his arms wide and, smiling a little, she stepped inside his embrace. He buried his nose in her long auburn hair and breathed in her scent that he had come to know so well: lemon and sandalwood.

  Reaching up to the nape of her neck, he found the tag of the long brass zip closing her dress and dragged it, inch by inch, down along her spine. When he reached the swell of her bottom he dropped the tab and hooked his fingers around the soft black fabric on each side and drew them apart.

  Eli shrugged once and the dress fell from her shoulders. She shimmied to the left and right causing the dress to slide over her legs and puddle at her feet. She took a step back and put her hands on her hips, then executed a slow turn until she was facing him again.

  Holding Gabriel’s eyes in hers, she unfastened her bra and dropped it to one side. He allowed himself the luxury of taking in every curve, the swell of her breasts and the hardening brown nipples.

  Without breaking eye contact, she stooped just enough to ease her knickers down over her thighs, her knees, and her calves until she could kick them free with an expert flick that sent them sailing across the bedroom and into the lidless laundry basket.

  Gabriel grinned. It was a trick he didn’t think he’d ever tire of.

  ‘Now then, Mr Wolfe,’ she said. ‘Are you going to watch a poor Israeli girl get goosebumps standing here for your pleasure, or are you going to get undressed too?’

  Gabriel shucked off his suit jacket, hooking it over the bedpost. The tie followed, after a few twirls and a wink that set Eli’s giggles off.

  One by one he undid the buttons on his white shirt before sliding his trousers and underpants off together.