Ivory Nation

by Andy Maslen

  Somebody said, ‘We’re fucked.’

  He stood behind Barnett-Short and watched a video playing on her phone.

  Framed in a fuzzy brown ellipse, was the face of the man sitting at the far end of the table.

  ‘Did you make contact with the Syrian yet? The hitman?’ the voice of Julius Witaarde asked.

  ‘Uh huh. And he’s good, this al-Javari guy?’

  ‘Nazir Aboud al-Javari is one of twenty men worldwide you could trust to do a job like this. Trust me, he’s good. ’

  ‘He bloody should be, the fee he’s asking.’

  ‘Joe, you want him to kill Princess Alexandra. That kind of work, it doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘Yeah, well just as long as he follows the script, I’m fine with it.’

  ‘Did you tell him what you wanted? It sounded pretty complicated.’

  ‘Yes! And it’s really not that difficult to understand, Julius. Even for a Boer.’

  Off-screen, Klara heard Julius laugh. She felt her tears begin to flow. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  ‘Oh, Julius. I always said you were paranoid, but thank God you were.’

  On Barnett-Short’s phone screen, Tammerlane was still talking. The smug tone survived the phone’s tiny speaker.

  ‘I take Lieberman up to the tower. Get him to line up the shot so his prints are all over the rifle, then stand him down. Al-Javari comes up. I kill Lieberman and then al-Javari shoots the princess before taking off. The evidence points to the Jew and I’m left as the saviour of the hour.’

  The video began to replay from the beginning. Barnett-Short jabbed the pause button.

  Gabriel looked at Tammerlane. His face was drained of colour.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Tammerlane asked.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ Gabriel said, raising the Glock in his right hand.

  59

  The door swung wide, banging back against the wall. Three men in black tactical gear burst through, assault rifles at their shoulders, screaming.

  ‘Armed police! Armed police! Get down. Drop the weapons! Drop the weapons!’

  Gabriel placed the pistols on the table. He got to his knees, then lay, facedown, on the floor.

  Strong hands drew his hands behind his back and he felt cuffs snapping home.

  ‘Stay down,’ a voice growled in his left ear. ‘If you know what’s good for you.’

  After being released from custody five hours later, Gabriel found Don waiting for him outside the station in his Jensen. He wound down the window.

  ‘Climb in, Old Sport,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Those armed cops were on the scene pretty quickly,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘Hmm, mm-hmm. You took your Department-issue phone with you when you left in such a hurry. I just asked our technical team to switch on the tracker. Bingo! Once I realised where you were going I scrambled a team and waited to see what sort of a stunt you’d pull.’

  Then he started the Jensen’s engine and pulled smoothly away.

  60

  PADDINGTON GREEN POLICE STATION, LONDON

  In his windowless cell inside the police station designed to hold Britain’s most dangerous terrorists, Joe Tammerlane closed his eyes. He lay down on the thin mattress pad on the moulded plastic bench that passed for a bed.

  With his arms folded behind his head, he flew back to the day when everything still looked good. Windsor. The wedding day.

  After standing Lieberman down, he’d observed the Syrian closely.

  Al-Javari worked the bolt on the rifle and the extractor popped the empty shell casing from the breech like a dentist pulling a tooth. He’d been careful to angle the rifle just so, and the brass pinged into the centre of the concrete platform.

  The screams of the crowd were audible at this distance, though robbed of some of the higher frequencies.

  ‘Will your prints be on it?’ Tammerlane asked, gesturing at the spent cartridge.

  Al-Javari shook his head.

  ‘Too hot. The detonation burns off any organic material. It’s clean as a whistle.’

  Tammerlane turned to Lieberman. Smiled.

  The pistol was heavy in his hand. Which was odd, given he’d been told it was mostly plastic. He frowned. He’d always imagined guns to be made of metal.

  He’d procured it from the same man who’d supplied the rifle. A Dutch arms dealer allied to his African friend’s political party.

  ‘Your part in this is over,’ he said to Lieberman.

  Lieberman held his arms wide, his deep-brown eyes pleading.

  ‘I did what you asked. Now, make the call,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Call?’ Tammerlane answered, cocking his head on one side. ‘What call?’

  ‘To the people holding my family. You said you’d let them go afterwards.’

  Tammerlane slapped his forehead. A silly comedy move. Who did that, really? he asked himself as he pulled out the phone he’d acquired the previous day.

  He waited for the ringing to stop. The voice that answered was deep, raspy. Born of a forty-a-day habit and too much cheap whisky.

  ‘It’s done?’

  ‘Yes. You can kill them now.’

  ‘All? Kids, too?’

  ‘Yes please, Bashir. As agreed.’

  ‘Can I fuck the woman first?’

  ‘Do what you like, I don’t care.’

  He ended the call. Lieberman stood like a statue.

  ‘What did you just do? You said you’d return them to me.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t like loose ends.’

  The gun bucked in his hand. He hadn’t been prepared for the recoil and winced as it twisted his wrist. Lieberman staggered backwards, blood fountaining from a massive wound in his forehead. As he fell, an arc of blood spanned the short distance between them. Tammerlane made sure to be under it, closing his eyes as the hot liquid spattered his face and the front of his suit.

  He inhaled once, gripped the still-smoking pistol tighter, squeezed his eyes shut and smacked the barrel against his right cheekbone. He swore at the pain, despite knowing it was coming.

  Bending to Lieberman’s corpse, he pushed the butt into the right fist and squeezed the fingers closed around it, ensuring the pads made decent contact with the surface. He let it fall a couple of feet away. He repeated the process with the knife he’d used on the cop, leaving Lieberman’s stiffening fingers wrapped around the hilt.

  And smiled.

  Behind him, al-Javari left, his boots scuffing the gritty concrete.

  Tammerlane opened his eyes. Sighing with disappointment, he turned over a question in his mind. How much should he tell the court? His part in the revolution was over. But his sentence would end, eventually, and then he’d be free again to take up the cause. He smiled. Because he realised the answer had been staring him in the face all along. Blame the Syrians. Yes! It would work. He began rehearsing his plea to the judge.

  61

  HIGH-SECURITY PRISON, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, UK

  Joseph Tammerlane’s trial took four weeks. During those twenty-eight days, his government was overturned by a combination of actions, civil, criminal and military. A fresh election was held. The incoming government instituted certain reforms to ensure the near-death experience of British democracy could never be repeated.

  In his summing up and sentencing, which he permitted to be televised, a first in British jurisprudence, the judge outlined once again Tammerlane’s crimes.

  He ended with the words, ‘You have heard the verdict of the jury. You are guilty on all counts. I hope it will ring in your ears for the rest of your life. You, Tammerlane, are nothing more than a common criminal, a murderer of the vilest kind. You became drunk on power and, in your inebriation, were willing to commit the most heinous crimes in your quest for a utopia that was never going to exist outside the dogma of your own outdated thinking. I sentence you to a whole-life tariff. You will die in prison. Take him down.’

  Tammerlane was not permitted to receive
any visitors, bar an official of any religion he might care to entertain. Declaring himself an atheist as well as a Marxist, he declined even this, thin company.

  Nevertheless, one windy February day, three months into his sentence, a plain, grey Ford Mondeo saloon rolled up to the gate at the facility housing him.

  The guard on duty that morning approached and twirled a finger for the driver to lower the window.

  He leaned in, scrutinised the document the driver held out to him and nodded.

  The driver rolled up the window, noticing, as he did so, the small black diamond sewn onto the right shoulder of the guard’s uniform. The red-and-white barrier jerked upwards and clanged into a vertical position.

  The driver drove into the yard, parked, switched off the engine and exited the car. Rounding the back, he opened the boot and took out a supermarket carrier bag.

  He walked up to the front door and rang the intercom buzzer.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Wolfe.’

  The latch rattled and he pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth of the reception area.

  The man on reception nodded, handed him a magnetic keycard and went back to his sudoku.

  Gabriel walked down the white-painted corridor. At the far end, a single door waited for him. His footsteps rang out on the painted concrete floor.

  Reaching it, he pressed the keycard against a black plastic pad standing half an inch proud of the wall.

  The lock clicked. He pushed through into the cell. Carefully designed without a single protrusion to which a ligature could be tied.

  Tammerlane looked up from a book. Gabriel saw pictures of garden plants. He was wearing a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt in matching fabric. White athletic socks on his feet, which were tucked into the sort of slippers hotels often provide.

  ‘You!’ Tammerlane said.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Come to gloat?’

  Gabriel shook his head. He reached into the carrier bag and withdrew a sweatshirt identical to the one Tammerlane was wearing.

  ‘I’ve come to make good on my promise.’

  The following day, Aisling Connor, the BBC’s senior evening newsreader, patted her hair one last time, checked her teeth for lipstick traces in the small mirror she kept in her handbag, then readied herself. She stared into Camera Two’s lens, keeping half an eye on its red ‘ON’ lamp.

  Her earpiece clicked.

  ‘Coming to you in five, Ash,’ her producer said.

  The floor manager signalled for quiet.

  ‘In five, four…’

  He switched to hand gestures for the final count, fingers folding down three…two…

  Finally, he simply aimed his pointing index finger at her.

  Aisling assumed her ‘serious’ face. The one she used to report terror incident, royal deaths and natural disasters.

  ‘The body of disgraced former Prime Minister Joseph Tammerlane was found in his cell this afternoon by prison staff. He had hung himself with his own sweatshirt and was pronounced dead by the prison doctor. The police say they are not treating his death as suspicious.’

  After a brief and largely repetitive interview with a BBC reporter outside the gate of the unidentified prison, Aisling continued to the next item.

  ‘In Botswana, a major ivory poaching ring has been rolled up. With connections stretching as far as Dubai and Vientiane, the capital of Laos, the operation was said to have been extremely well-organised, well-funded and utterly ruthless. We go now to Robin Summersby in Gaborone, who is talking to Major Edward Modimo of the Botswana Defence Force Anti-Poaching Unit.’

  Gabriel aimed the remote at the TV and turned it off. He gathered Eli closer. She snuggled against his right side and lay a hand across his midriff.

  ‘Are you happy?’ she asked.

  ‘Very. Are you happy?’

  ‘Yes. Remember we’re having dinner with Stella and Jamie tomorrow.’

  ‘I know. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Gabe?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know you just said you’re happy?’

  ‘Er, you mean ten seconds ago?’

  She pinched him.

  ‘Yes! That!’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  She popped her eyes wide at the sarcasm and slapped his chest.

  ‘Are you happy with me?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? You know I am.’

  ‘Then, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Go on.’

  She moistened her lips and in that split second he realised she was nervous.

  ‘I want us to get married. Will you marry me?’ she asked.

  He looked into her eyes. Saw his future there. Opened his mouth to give her his answer.

  His phone rang. He glanced at the screen. No Caller ID.

  ‘Gabriel Wolfe.’

  ‘Gabriel. It’s Frank Onagweyo. From Kagosi Group?’

  ‘I remember. What’s up, Frank?’

  ‘You know you said I could talk to you about it? The PTSD?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got a minute?’

  ‘All you need.’

  Gabriel looked at Eli, at her expectant face. The crinkle just above the bridge of her nose. Her lips, half-open as she waited.

  He nodded, smiled and mouthed, ‘Yes.’

  Feeling a lightness in his heart that had been absent for a long time, he took the phone out into the garden.

  The End

  Copyright

  © 2020 Sunfish Ltd

  Published by Tyton Press, an imprint of Sunfish Ltd, PO Box 2107, Salisbury SP2 2BW: 0844 502 2061

  The right of Andy Maslen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Requests for permission should be addressed to the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  As with every book I write, the finished story has been shaped by a team of talented and dedicated people whom I now have the opportunity to thank.

  My first readers, Simon Alphonso and Sarah Hunt.

  My editor, Nicola Lovick.

  My proofreader, Liz Ward.

  My “sniper spotters”: OJ “Yard Boy” Audet, Ann Finn, Yvonne Henderson, Vanessa Knowles, Nina Rip and Bill Wilson.

  My cover designer, Stuart Bache.

  The members of my Facebook group, The Wolfe Pack.

  The serving and former soldiers whose advice helped me to keep the military details accurate: Giles Bassett, Mark Budden, Mike Dempsey and Dickie Gittins.

  And, as always, my family.

  Any and all mistakes are mine alone.

  Andy Maslen

  Salisbury, 2020

  Also by Andy Maslen

  The Gabriel Wolfe series

  Trigger Point

  Reversal of Fortune (short story)

  Blind Impact

  Condor

  First Casualty

  Fury

  Rattlesnake

  Minefield (novella)

  No Further

  Torpedo

  Three Kingdoms

  The DI Stella Cole series

  Hit and Run

  Hit Back Harder

  Hit and Done

  Let the Bones be Charred

  Other fiction

  Blood Loss - a Vampire Story

  About the Author

  Andy Maslen was born in Nottingham, in the UK, home of legendary bowman Robin Hood. Andy once won a med
al for archery, although he has never been locked up by the sheriff.

  He has worked in a record shop, as a barman, as a door-to-door DIY products salesman and a cook in an Italian restaurant.

  He lives in Wiltshire with his wife, two sons and a whippet named Merlin.

  Afterword

  To keep up to date with news from Andy, join his Readers’ Group at www.andymaslen.com.

  Email Andy at andy@andymaslen.com.

  Join Andy’s Facebook group, The Wolfe Pack.