by Andy Maslen
Don smiled at her.
‘What’s that?’
‘Uri Ziff asked me to go back to Israel. To rejoin the Mossad. I’m…’ She paused and reached out with her left hand to find Gabriel’s. She gave his hand a hard squeeze. ‘I’m seriously considering it.’
‘Because of this business of Tammerlane’s?’
‘I work for you, but my passport’s Israeli. I only have a month to…’ she swallowed, ‘…get out.’
Don nodded. He opened his desk drawer.
‘Do you like working for me?’
Her eyes flashed.
‘Of course I do! You know that. I already turned him down once.’
‘I do know. But has anything changed? Apart,’ he added quickly, ‘from Tammerlane.’
‘No.’
‘Here,’ Don said, sliding a brown envelope across the desk.
‘What is it?’
‘Open it and find out.’
Gabriel watched Eli reach for the envelope and slide her thumbnail, her bitten thumbnail he noticed, under the flap.
She tipped up the envelope and out slid a brand-new British passport.
She looked at Gabriel, then at Don.
‘You said my citizenship was a grey area for now,’ she said with a grin.
‘From grey to blue,’ Don said, with a smile. ‘I pulled a few strings at the Home Office. Couple of people there owe me favours.’
She opened it and flicked to the photo page. Held it out for Gabriel to inspect.
‘It’s definitely you,’ he said, earning a punch to the arm.
Then the frown returned.
‘Legally, I can stay. But what if this is only the start, boss?’ she asked. ‘What if it’s Israelis today, Zionists tomorrow and Jews the day after that?’
‘I honestly don’t think it will come to that, Eli,’ he said. ‘But I understand your anxiety. We look after our own here. If you ever decide you need to leave,’ he glanced at Gabriel, who nodded to the unspoken question, ‘along with Gabriel, I will personally arrange a flight anywhere you need to go. With an armed escort from our friends in Hereford, if necessary.’
Eli flicked her index finger at the corner of her right eye.
‘Thanks, boss.’ She sniffed. ‘I mean it. And I will let you know. I promise.’
Gabriel looked at her and took her other hand in his. He knew, in that moment, that he would leave everything behind to be with her.
Don smiled.
‘That’s settled then.’
13
BOTSWANA
On the last leg of their journey to Botswana, they’d overflown thousands of square miles of scrub, savannah and forest. Nothing but green and reddish-brown from one end of an in-flight movie to the other. So to emerge from the jetway into the air conditioned splendour of the arrivals hall at Gaborone’s Sir Seretse Khama International Airport came as a shock to Gabriel.
He turned to Eli.
‘Why do I feel we’ve just landed in Geneva?’ he asked.
She grinned.
‘I know. Look at all that marble. We could be anywhere in the world.’
All around them, people were talking loudly into phones, chattering excitedly, or wandering through the glittering space deep in conversation. Business types, mothers in flamboyant traditional aprons, skirts and tops dragging children by the hand, students in colourful western-style outfits. The whole place was a hive of activity.
Gabriel nodded, looking around for someone holding a welcome card with their cover names written on it.
He found what, or more precisely who, he was looking for. A young black man in a shimmering light-grey suit and narrow black tie standing beside a life-size sculpture of an elephant set amid rocks and grass at the centre of an intricate maze-pattern of black and silver granite floor tiles. He was holding up an iPad displaying their cover names.
JENSEN/CAMARO
Eli nudged Gabriel. They wheeled their cases over to the young man. As soon as he spotted them making their way towards him, his mouth widened into a broad grin, revealing flashing white teeth among which a gold canine twinkled.
‘You are my customers?’ he asked, still smiling and holding out his hand.
They shook. Gabriel rested his wheeled case and patted his chest.
‘I’m Jensen.’
‘And I’m Camaro,’ Eli said.
‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Welcome to G-City. Phefo Sibanda at your service,’ he said. ‘My name means “windy”, on account of my mama gave birth to me in a storm. She say the damn thing nearly blew me out of her belly!’
Smiling, Eli pointed at the sculpture.
‘Are those real tusks?’
Phefo nodded vigorously.
‘You better believe it, my lady.’
They examined the sculpture from all angles, and Gabriel noticed the empty black tubes in the tusks where nerves had once run. He read from a plaque mounted near the elephant’s head.
‘It says these were all found on elephants that had died of natural causes.’
‘Must be worth a fair bit,’ Eli answered.
‘Three hundred and thirty million pula, my lady,’ Phefo said. ‘That’s about thirty million dollars.’
‘Wow! Has anyone ever tried to steal it?’
‘No. Too many police. But maybe you see why poaching is such a problem in Bots?’
Phefo led them proudly to a white Mercedes E-Class saloon parked under the shade of a tree in the airport’s open-air carpark. On the drive into the centre of Gaborone, which Phefo had taught them to call G-city, Gabs or Mageba, Gabriel’s phone lit up with a text.
Welcome to Bots! Phefo will pick you up at 9.00 a.m. tomorrow and bring you out to our compound. George Taylor.
‘Is George Taylor your boss?’ Gabriel asked Phefo.
‘He’s everybody’s boss. The big boss!’ he answered, with a laugh.
After ten more minutes’ driving Phefo made a right turn off Julius Nyerere Drive onto Chuma Drive, a wide dual-carriageway lined on one side with trees and the other by a low, white concrete wall. Low-growing shrubs dotted a scruffy pink gravel median strip.
The white wall on the left was replaced with a neatly trimmed hedge. Phefo hit the brakes to make a left turn beneath a squat pink concrete gateway that reminded Gabriel of Stonehenge: two slope-shouldered uprights supporting a wide, flat rectangular capstone, all cast with geometric designs.
‘Here we are, Sir, my lady,’ Phefo said. ‘Welcome to Avani Gaborone Resort and Casino.’
Their luggage retrieved from the boot and a discreet twenty-dollar tip passed from Gabriel’s palm to Phefo’s, they made their way inside. A tall, broad-shouldered porter marched over, picked up their cases as if they were filled with feathers, and deposited them on a gold luggage trolley.
While they waited to check in, Gabriel nodded at the trolley.
‘D’you remember when we used one of those to carry our rifles into that hotel in Kazakhstan?’ he asked Eli.
She grinned back at him.
‘What was our cover that time?’
‘Intelligence analysts.’
Her eyes widened.
‘That’s right! We were Mr and Mrs,’ she paused, ‘Edmonds, was it?’
‘Esmond.’
‘Yeah. Mr and Mrs Esmond.’
Gabriel felt a rush of emotion surge through him, out of nowhere, like a summer storm.
‘You know, Eli…’ he began.
‘What?’
‘Yes, Sir, Madam? Checking in?’ a young female voice asked from the desk.
They broke eye contact and turned towards the receptionist.
Passports photocopied, room keys assigned and all the usual rigmarole dealt with, they found themselves in a cabin looking out onto a swimming pool fringed with palm trees.
Eli flopped back onto the huge bed, arms spread wide.
‘Well, this could be worse,’ she said.
Gabriel lay beside her, head propped up on one elbow.
; ‘Not bad for a couple of contract killers, is it?’
She frowned.
‘Is that what you think we are?’
‘Why, don’t you?’
‘No!’
‘What, then?’
‘I don’t know. Agents, I suppose. Or operatives, if you prefer.’
‘But when push comes to shove, we’re the ones pulling the trigger or slipping the knife in, aren’t we?’
‘Yes. But the people we’re up against aren’t innocent victims. They’re enemies of the state. That’s what The Department does.’
He leaned over and kissed her softly.
‘I totted up the number of people I’ve killed in the last two months. How many, do you think?’
‘Gabe, don’t do this, please,’ she said.
‘Go on,’ he said, persistent now. ‘How many?’
She huffed out a breath.
‘I don’t know. Six?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Unlucky for some.’
‘And how many do you think were enemies of the British state?’
Eli clamped her lips together.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you. None. Not one. Everyone I killed in Russia was for personal reasons. Everyone in China because I owed a triad boss a favour.’
Now Eli did speak.
She hoisted herself up into a sitting position and cradled his face between her palms.
‘Gabriel Wolfe! Stop beating yourself up over this. The Russians killed Britta. They were trying to kill you, in case you’d forgotten. As for the Chinese, I don’t know what to say. Maybe it wasn’t your finest moment, but you said Fang Jian kidnapped your sister all those years ago. And as for the Communists, fuck them!’
He sighed.
‘OK. You’re right. Sorry.’
‘What were you going to ask me when we were checking in?’
‘What?’
‘In the queue. You started to ask me something, then the receptionist called us.’
He shook his head.
‘Can’t remember. Hey, let’s go for a swim. That pool looks inviting.’
Eli frowned.
‘Hmm. Fine. Last one in’s a rotten egg!’
Stripping his shirt off, Gabriel laughed.
‘Very good! Have you been mugging up on British slang?’
‘A girl’s got to do something while her man’s gallivanting around the world fighting the bad guys!’
She unclipped her bra and stepped out of her knickers, caught Gabriel staring frankly at her and executed a neat pirouette, hands out from her sides.
‘Like what you see?’ she asked, winking at him.
‘The swim can wait,’ he growled at her.
‘Oh, no, mister!’ she said, evading him as he made a grab for her waist. ‘I need to cool off. And so do you!’
She unzipped her suitcase and fished out a coral-pink bikini. Moments later, she was swinging the sliding door across and running for the water.
Much later, sated by food, wine and sex, and with Eli sleeping beside him, Gabriel stared up at the ceiling. A cobalt-blue gecko skittered across its textured surface before freezing into immobility.
He remembered Eli’s words earlier. Perhaps you’re right, El. China wasn’t my finest moment but I put an end to Colonel Na’s reign of terror. And as for Fang and Liu, they were crooks, both of them. Liu was corrupt, too. They conspired to kill me after I’d done their dirty work.
He noticed the gecko wore sergeant’s stripes on its front legs. And then he heard a voice he hadn’t heard for a long time.
She’s got a point, boss. Can’t just sit there while the bad guys try to fuck you over, can you?
He turned his head and there, in the dark corner of the room, over by the wardrobe, sat a handsome black man in the motley camo and olive-green webbing of a SAS trooper.
Hello, Smudge. Didn’t we say goodbye in Camberwell New Cemetery?
Can’t keep a good man down, boss, Smudge, or the hallucination, replied with a broad grin.
Does this mean my PTSD is back?
Nah, boss. Not unless I am. And I’m dead and buried, aren’t I?
So I’m dreaming?
Not for me to say. Though I reckon your shrink might have something to say about it. What’s her name, Fariyah?
Yeah. I haven’t been to see her for a while.
You should. Do you good. Here, he said, nodding in Eli’s direction. She’s all right, isn’t she?
Gabriel glanced over at Eli.
She’s fantastic, Smudge. I mean, she’s brave, she’s smart, she’s sexy…
Well then…
What?
When are you going to make an honest woman of her?
I nearly asked her earlier.
What stopped you?
The receptionist.
Smudge grinned. Gabriel was relieved to see that his lower jaw, shot off by a militiaman’s Kalashnikov round, stayed in place.
Come on, boss. You know that ain’t why. What’s the problem? You love her, don’t you?
Of course! You know I do.
Right. And she loves you.
It’s not that simple, mate.
Nothing’s simpler. You just go down on one knee, look up into those beautiful eyes of hers and say, Eli Schochat, will you marry me?
Look what happened to Britta.
What, you think you cursed her by proposing? Boss, I don’t want to be crude here, but she dumped you! When Kristersson killed her she was engaged to Jarryd, not you.
Is true, a gravelly male voice with a Russian accent interrupted. Plus, Britta was never target. We wanted you dead, not her.
Hello, Max, Gabriel said.
Max Novgorodsky, a Russian gangster Gabriel had shot in revenge for killing Britta, lolled in an armchair, his head replaced by that of his pet wolf, Pyotr.
Max got to his feet, baring yellow fangs that dripped with saliva. He approached the bed. Gabriel’s heart rate spiked as that hideous mouth widened still further.
The wolf-man flung out its right arm. Long, ragged claws raked across Smudge’s face and neck, slicing deep into arteries and releasing a flood of scarlet that sprayed into the air.
I’m coming for you, Gabe, Max said. ‘Gabe! Gabe! GABE!’
Gabriel screamed.
‘Gabe, Gabe!’ Eli was saying, over and over again. She was shaking him and staring into his eyes. For a second her mouth was the wolf’s mouth, unnaturally wide and lined with sharp-pointed teeth.
Gabriel twisted away from her, straining to get free of her grasp.
Then her features resolved into that familiar face he’d grown to know so well, and to love.
‘Oh, God, El, I had a nightmare.’
‘No shit! Look at you, you’re drenched,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s get you a towel and then we’ll change the sheets.’
***
Gabriel opened his eyes. He checked the time: 7.00 a.m. The memory of the nightmare was clear in his mind. He could still hear Smudge, still see the monstrous apparition that had been Max/Pyotr.
Eli was already up, and showering. Gabriel climbed out of bed and looked at himself in the full-length mirror screwed to the wall. He took a deep breath, forced a smile onto his face, and walked into the bathroom.
‘Morning,’ he said, cheerily.
‘Morning. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine. I’m sorry if I scared you last night.’
‘Huh. It’ll take more than that to scare me. But I am worried about you. Is everything OK?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine.’
‘Really. You’re not just saying that?’
‘Truly. It’s all good.’
‘Right. In that case, why don’t you get in here and soap my back for me, then we’ll go and get a proper breakfast. We’ve got poachers to catch.’
14
Gabriel and Eli stood outside the hotel’s main building at 8.55 a.m., waiting for Phefo.
They’d opted for a universal casual loo
k that journalists, NGO staff and the smarter sort of adventurous tourist sported, from Bolivia to Bangalore: khakis, polo shirts and well-worn hiking boots. Each had a daysack, though these contained nothing more dangerous than a camera, notebook and bottles of water. All the ‘interesting’ kit, they’d be picking up later in the morning.
Around them, tourists, businessmen and a few businesswomen chatted loudly, slapping each other on the back or exchanging business cards.
Nobody gave them a second glance. Why should they? All around them louder, more colourfully dressed and clearly wealthier individuals gave off brasher social signals that drew the eye and faded anyone less gaudy into the background.
A cheerful double-toot made them turn round. Phefo’s sleek white Merc purred to a halt at the kerb. He was out of the car and round to hold the door open for Eli before she could reach for the handle.
‘There you go, my lady,’ he said with one of his trademark, gold-flecked grins.
She winked at Gabriel as she got in. To Gabriel, the meaning was clear: as with gate guards at MOD Rothford, so with drivers in G-City! Gabriel followed her into the car’s chilly interior.
‘Strapped in, Sir, my lady?’
‘We’re good,’ Gabriel said, nodding to Phefo in the rear-view mirror.
‘Where’s the Kagiso Group compound?’ Eli asked as Phefo powered away from the hotel gateway, accelerating steadily down Chuma Drive, another tree-lined boulevard.
‘About twenty-three kilometres. We own the land to the northwest of Mokolondi Nature Reserve,’ he said. ‘There’s heavy traffic on Willie Seboni, so I’ll take you the direct route, on the A1. Normally it’s way slower but, man, the jam’s a G-City special. That’s what we call them, you know?’
As they left the downtown area, the flashy modern buildings and gaily painted villas in peach, lemon-yellow and sky-blue, gave way to a few straggling kilometres of corrugated-iron shacks and food stands, and then nothing but Botswana’s beautiful countryside. On both sides of the road unbroken prairie-like flatland was punctuated by stands of broad-leafed trees and thorny scrub. Distant blue-tinged mountains promised cooler, higher ground.
