by Tony Park
Sonja had taken her mother’s nationality when she left Africa and joined the British Army. She had seen dead bodies in Northern Ireland, where she had served in a special intelligence surveillance unit, and she had witnessed mayhem and massacre from Sierra Leone to Afghanistan as a mercenary. She was, some of her male counterparts would have grudgingly admitted, hardcore, unshockable. Now, though, the air was stolen from her lungs and she felt as though she was sinking, sucking in water as she gazed at the naked, tortured and lifeless body of Ross Coonan.
She swallowed back bile. Ross was a good man who had risked – and now lost – his life to save the rhino. She would not give this pig the satisfaction of seeing her puke. ‘Irina?’
‘I took her to Madam Nhu. We’ll finish her, slowly, later. The boss owes a favour to one of the triads.’
‘How did you find them?’ She was in shock, still trying to digest the news that Ross was dead.
‘The journalist has been sniffing around the boss for a long time. We are not stupid. We have informers who have been monitoring his movements. I asked around my network after I dropped you here. A street-side noodle vendor said Coonan had been seen with a woman who fitted your description. You think you’re smarter than us, but you are not. You are a stranger in this land and we Vietnamese have been killing foreign invaders for centuries.’
‘You’ve told Tran Van Ngo all of this?’ Sonja asked.
The chauffeur shook his head. ‘I called his assistant.’
The young man who distributed the rhino horns, Sonja thought.
As if on cue the immaculately groomed man appeared on the doorstep. He conversed rapidly in Vietnamese with the chauffeur.
The driver turned to Sonja. ‘I will take you somewhere secure. He will tell the boss you were unwell, having caught whatever Irina had. The boss will be displeased, but there will be no messy scene in front of his guests and he will be happy when he learns we have disrupted your mission.’
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Sonja said evenly.
The man chuckled. ‘Going to scratch me to death with those fake nails? I frisked you, remember?’
‘Get her out of here,’ the secretary said.
‘No.’ Sonja put her hands on her hips. ‘You’re right, my mission’s over. In fact, my life’s pretty much over. Shoot me here. Hopefully the sight of a dead body will cramp Ngo’s business deal.’
‘Come with me, you stupid, insolent woman.’
‘I’m going to scream. Ngo’s going to lose so much face he’ll be the invisible man.’ Sonja took a breath and opened her mouth. The chauffeur aimed between her eyes.
‘Shut her up,’ he said.
The young secretary moved behind her and clamped his hand over her mouth. Sonja was ready for him. She raked her shoe down his shin and drove her stiletto heel into his foot. At the same time she grabbed his arm, dropped and rolled him over her shoulder. The chauffeur fired, a double tap, and the secretary’s body took one of the rounds as she flipped him into the bodyguard. Sonja had figured she could take one of the bullets and carry on, as long as it didn’t sever an artery or take out a major organ.
The three of them fell to the ground. Sonja smashed her fist into the gunman’s face and knelt on the wrist of his gun hand. She reached to the back of her head. The long, pointed hatpin she’d used to pin her hair up came free. She put one hand over the man’s mouth and drove the pin into the side of his neck. In and out, half a dozen times, she gouged around under the skin, shredding the carotid artery. The secretary didn’t move; the other man’s bullet had been a lucky shot, for Sonja.
‘You’re not going to call a woman stupid again, ever.’ Sonja held her hand over the chauffeur’s mouth until he died. When he was still she grabbed him under the armpits and dragged his body into a thicket of bougainvillea by the entrance of the mansion. She did the same with the secretary.
Satisfied the men were hidden she washed the blood from her hands at a garden tap against an exterior wall of the villa. She walked back into the house, pausing at the mirror in the foyer to put her hair up again and check her makeup. She’d worn red for a reason; the few dark spots hardly showed. Killing the two men had settled her; she no longer felt incapable of dealing with the sight of the rich businessmen fondling the rhino horns like phallic compensators.
Inside, the horns had been cast aside in favour of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and Courvoisier cognac. She still felt sickened but her pulse was slow, her vision clear. The red mist had come and gone. She vectored towards Ngo.
He stopped a waitress and took two glasses of champagne from her. ‘I was told you were ill.’ He handed Sonja one of the glasses.
‘Some fresh air helped. I’m still getting used to your climate.’
He looked at her and reached out his free hand. It took all her courage not to flinch. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. None of his guests were nearby. ‘You’re beautiful, Ursula.’
She sipped her drink. ‘You told me you didn’t do sentimental.’
He smiled. ‘I lie for a living. This is all a charade, and to tell you the truth, I am tired of it.’
‘The property development?’
‘That, and the expensive gifts. I am throwing good money after bad, as the English say. You think me foolish, I’m sure.’
She regarded him dispassionately and spoke the truth: ‘I think you’re a man.’
‘You should have been a diplomat, but I suppose a woman in your line of work is just that.’
His eyes were not those of a predator; they were tired. He looked small, as if his tailored suit would have to be taken in because he was shrinking. She forced a smile at his joke, in reply, but he saw through it.
‘You look sad,’ Ngo said.
‘I am not.’ The image of Ross’s body haunted her.
‘I didn’t mean to offend.’
She took a breath. ‘Sorry. No, look, I’ve had a very good time so far. Very rewarding.’
Ngo raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? How so?’
She caressed the side of the glass, collecting the condensation brought on by the warmth of the night, then licked the cool wetness from her fingers. ‘I’ve met a man of power, of intelligence, and humility.’ She glanced around. ‘How long will this go on?’
He looked over his shoulder. ‘I must work the room some more. This is my last chance to save the development, Ursula. I won’t lie to you; I was hoping Irina would be here as she is very important to me, but in the same vein I will tell you, honestly, that I am also glad you are here instead of her. I am thinking that I very much want to be alone with you, sooner rather than later.’ He stared into her eyes.
Sonja ran her tongue quickly over her glossy lips. ‘Me too.’
‘Give me thirty minutes. Circulate, look pretty.’
She winked at him. ‘I’ll try.’
Cherry found Sonja again and, despite Sonja’s reluctance, took two cold rice paper rolls from a waiter’s platter. ‘You should eat something. Are you OK now?’
‘I’m fine,’ Sonja said. ‘Never better.’ Her gaze drifted to the gifts of rhino horn scattered about the room.
Handing out the rhino horns had been an ostentatious gesture, Sonja thought. It told the other men that Ngo was not on the ropes, financially, which he apparently was. Horn was only worth what someone had paid for it. The Mozambican poachers who had risked their lives to shoot the animals from which the matted lumps of keratin came had been paid a pittance compared to what the substance would fetch once ground and sold on. Ngo could have made serious money out of trading the horns, but he’d used them as currency, instead, to curry favour. It was a ballsy move, and one that would cost him dearly if these other men did not bankroll him.
Sonja wondered what else the gifts signified. Was there something bigger going on here than a last-ditch attempt to shore up an overdue hotel and apartment
complex? Was there something Cherry didn’t know and that she and Ross had missed in their research?
She had been trying not to think of him, at least not until after the mission, but visions of Ross’s tortured body scrolled yet again across the inside of her momentarily closed eyes. Ross had told the chauffeur everything. She was not surprised – in real life most people told everything they knew under torture, believing the lie that they would be spared if they revealed the truth. Ross was one more casualty in this war, one more reason for her to do what she had to. She spared a thought for Irina, more collateral damage.
‘Looks like we’re leaving,’ Cherry said, breaking into Sonja’s thoughts.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘It was nice to meet you, Ursula. Perhaps we can have coffee some time.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’
Cherry took her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘Good luck, whatever it is you’re here to do.’
‘What do you mean?’
Cherry glanced behind her, nervously checking for her partner. She lowered her voice. ‘I hate this life, these men. The things they are involved in, that Irina is involved in, are terrible. There are drugs, guns, even children being traded by these men in their smart suits. They kill, Ursula, often for fun. Be careful.’
‘Of course, but you’ve nothing to worry about.’
Cherry opened her Gucci clutch bag and took out a tissue. She reached up to Sonja’s face and dabbed at her left temple. ‘You missed a spot of blood.’
Cherry snapped her purse closed and rushed to answer the beckoning wave of her man. A chill ran down Sonja’s back. Evil was good; the worse this man was then the more satisfaction she would have in bringing him down. Sonja went to Ngo’s side, near the entrance to the mansion. He was farewelling another man and a woman. The man, much older than Ngo, took Sonja’s hand. ‘Hello,’ the man said.
‘Ursula, allow me to introduce General Nguyen. The general was a great hero of our liberation war against the Americans.’
‘You’re still in the army?’ Sonja asked.
‘Formerly. Ngo indulges me with an honorary title. You’re German?’
‘Yes, though I’ve lived overseas for many years.’
‘I’ve only been to East Berlin, and that was in the bad old days, before the wall came down,’ Nguyen said.
‘I would have thought for Vietnam that the old days were good, with East Germany as an ally against the capitalist west,’ Sonja said.
General Nguyen smiled. ‘I’m something of a progressive socialist. East Germany was a failed state, but in Vietnam we value free trade and entrepreneurial spirit. That’s something some of our Russian friends have also embraced, eh, Ngo?’
‘Yes, quite,’ Ngo replied.
‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ the general said to Sonja.
‘No, I’m new to Vietnam, I was invited here by a friend.’
‘Irina.’
Sonja nodded. ‘She’s unwell.’ She glanced at Ngo, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Ah,’ Nguyen said, ‘so you’re both in the same business?’
Sonja was surprised by the elderly man’s directness, but the woman on his arm, whom he had not bothered to introduce, could have passed for his granddaughter. This was a party where women, escorts, had the status of pretty baubles. ‘Yes, you could say that.’
‘Ah . . . so perhaps, Ngo, you were holding out on us, eh?’ The general laughed and clapped Ngo on the arm. ‘We must go. We have a long night ahead of us, yes?’ He looked to the young girl for the first time and she lowered her eyes.
Sonja was pleased when the general and the last of the guests finally left. Her whole operation had been compromised and Ross was dead. Other people, notably Madam Nhu, would be aware of what was going on and it wouldn’t be long before someone called Ngo to check on her whereabouts.
Ngo glanced at his watch. ‘Right, I just need to discuss some follow-up matters with my secretary, then we can spend some time together.’
‘I think you’ll find he’s gone,’ Sonja said. ‘When I went outside earlier, for some fresh air, I saw him walk out the gate with your driver.’
Ngo frowned. ‘Really? That is annoying. He was not dismissed.’
Sonja reached out and put a finger on Ngo’s chest and looked into his eyes. ‘I’m pleased you’re not putting me off any longer while you do business. I have work of my own to attend to.’
He smiled. ‘Oh, do you, and what do you want to do?’
‘You.’
‘I know that it is rude to keep a lady waiting. Perhaps we should conclude our business upstairs, in private.’
Sonja laid a hand on Ngo’s shoulder. ‘You can seal this deal wherever you want, at your desk if you wish.’ She leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were soft, like a woman’s, and he made no attempt to invade her mouth with his tongue. Their meeting was sensual rather than urgent.
He broke from her and took her hand. ‘There is champagne in my bedroom, come with me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She lowered her eyes.
Ngo opened the door to a large, tastefully decorated master bedroom. The style was modern, minimalistic, the colours cool. An air conditioner hummed. Ngo went to a silver ice bucket by the side of the bed and took out a bottle of Dom Pérignon. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’
She smiled.
Sonja was pleased she wouldn’t need to bother with the messy work of using the hatpin again. She opened her clutch bag, took out the chauffeur’s pistol and shot Ngo between the eyes.
He fell backwards, dead before he hit the floor, but to make sure, she put two more shots through his heart. ‘Me too.’
Chapter 4
Sonja sat in the business class seat of the Thai Airways Boeing 777 and took out her iPhone. She plugged in the earbuds and fitted them then switched on the phone, which she’d set to flight mode.
She had promised herself that after the business was done in Vietnam she would not watch the video again. She had seen it so many times, on the television news, on Facebook, on Twitter, on the documentary they had made about rhinos and at the Emmy Awards where they had presented him an honorary award. Sonja hated maudlin shows of emotion, but it seemed no one else in America did. Strangers had stopped her in the street after the news had aired worldwide, recognising her from some paparazzi snaps that the networks were re-running as stills.
She had been careful, after it happened, moving out of the big house and changing location twice to escape the vultures of the media. A few photographers had tried to get pictures of her at the funeral, but she’d worn a headscarf as well as dark glasses. After the wake they’d tailed her and Emma. Sonja had opened the door of the Hummer, climbed out and stood there, still in her disguise, and waited while they had taken their pictures. After they were sated she had called each of them over, one by one, and whispered into their ears, in case they were carrying digital audio recorders, that if they continued to hound her and Emma she would find out where each of them lived and hurt them, in some small but unforgettable way.
There had been stories about her, the television star’s girlfriend, that pieced together some of her life in the British Army, and as a mercenary. There was vision of the conflict in Namibia’s Caprivi Strip from several years earlier, and allegations of Sonja’s involvement in fomenting a brief and ultimately unsuccessful revolution by ethnic Caprivians against the legitimate government. It had all died down, eventually. The press had a short attention span.
She opened the video she had saved to the phone. It was a montage made by some stalker or other, cheesy with its gospel music background. His face appeared.
Sonja reached out with her trigger finger and caressed the strong jaw, the thick dark hair.
Sam Chapman, wildlife documentary maker and conservation hero. RIP, read the crawler line under his picture.
Sonja caught her breath. It was always the same. She felt her throat tighten and the tears begin to form. The video began, showing him riding in the back of an open Land Rover in South Africa’s Kruger Park. He jumped down from it and swaggered through the bush behind a Shangaan tracker. The macho act was just that, a performance for the cameras. The rangers accompanying him carried guns, but Sonja knew how much Sam had hated firearms. He’d made her sell all of hers, which she’d resented at first. In time, though, she had come to believe that she could live in a world without guns, bullets, knives and bloodshed.
She had been wrong.
Damn it, damn him, she had been wrong. She cuffed her eyes before the tears began. Again she watched the scenes of a rhino being darted, its horn drilled and then infused with a poisonous dye. Tran Van Ngo had not cared about poisoned rhino horns; no doubt he sourced horn that was yet to be contaminated. Sam was talking, caressing the massive head of the drugged rhino. He’d loved animals.
‘I’ve never loved a human being as much as I love you,’ he had said to her, his last words before he’d boarded the flight from the States to Africa.
And her reply? She shuddered as she remembered, reliving the pain, hurting herself all over again. ‘Get on the plane, you fokken sissy.’
Sam had laughed, as he always did, at her mock disdain for public affection and endless protestations of devotion. She loathed Valentine’s Day, barely acknowledged anyone’s birthday except Emma’s, and had pretended to vomit when Sam had bought her a locket to celebrate the one-year anniversary of their meeting.
She felt for it now, under her bush shirt. In it was a picture of him. She’d never told him she had cut one out of a celebrity magazine and put it in there, the night after he’d given it to her. Sonja had put it in the drawer of her bedside table, pretending that she never wore it.
They had Skyped, the day before it happened. He had been in a luxury safari camp in a private game reserve on the edge of the Kruger National Park. She had kidded him about how this was Hollywood’s idea of roughing it in the bush.
