The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “Not yet,” I said quietly. The satellite phone Marcus had given me was still at the bottom of my bag. And I didn’t like the way she’d tried to turn the operational security problem around on us.

  Ruben Grey shook his head, brandishing an iPhone. “Out in the field, yeah, I get it. But not here, I’ve still got business to worry about. We’re busy people, you know.”

  Raphael nodded.

  “See?” said Ruben, “Raph thinks you’re taking liberties, too.”

  “Don’t worry, boys, the book-maker’s is open ‘til twenty-hundred,” Bannerman chuckled.

  “I understand,” Easter replied. “Tom, you can manage this… issue? I’ll see you at Biggin Hill later.” She turned on her heel and left. I could tell she was angry.

  “Sorry about that,” said Dancer sheepishly.

  “She’s a stuck up cow,” said Ruben, “although I’d still give her one.” He pronounced ‘cow’ the common-as-muck London-way, cah.

  “Yeah, I detect control issues,” said Alex Bytchakov. His fingers traced the outline of the scar at his throat. “Just like my third wife. Or was it number four?”

  “Juliet’s under a lot of pressure,” Dancer replied. He bit his lip, wondering if I’d told the men he was involved with her. “I’d just ask you bear that in mind.”

  “Yeah,” I added, “give her a break. This job’s tricky enough without pissing off the customers.” I stood up. “Dancer, when we fly out tonight we’ll hand over our phones.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “Transport to the airport will be here at sixteen-hundred. Please be ready.”

  “You heard the man,” I said. “Get your shit sorted, police your personal items, email your wills to Monty and be fell-in for fifteen fifty-five.”

  The men nodded and headed for their billets. If I’d learnt one thing as an army officer, it’s not to let the guys see that you might be as shit-scared or sceptical of the mission as they were. I needed to show that now, despite the dark thoughts swirling around my head.

  Outside, Easter huddled with Dancer next to her car. Hugo joined them, pulling out a cell phone and making a call.

  Back at the white-washed billet, the men were packing. The only kit we’d take would be boots, wash kit and personal items like knives, eye protection and compasses. All identification would be left in the UK and swapped out for false papers. Combat uniforms, body armour and weapons would be picked up in-theatre.

  At the bottom of my bag were my satellite phones: one for The Firm and one for Marcus. I took it out of the case and emailed Marcus to call me in ten minutes. Pulling a cigar from my pocket, I waved it at Oz to let him know I was going for a smoke. He put his thumb up and went back to packing his faded green Bergen. The camp had a warren of crumbling prefabs, once used as classrooms. I stepped into one, brushed cobwebs from my face. The place smelt of dead mice and mould. While I waited for the phone to ring I had a drink, hands shaking on the neck of the bottle. Exactly ten minutes later it buzzed.

  “Are you OK?” said Marcus, “you’re flying out tonight.”

  “Yes, I’m good. I’ve only met Hugo and Juliet so far,” I said.

  “What do you make of them?”

  “Hugo’s sharper than he looks. Easter’s feeling the pressure, I think. But everything about her suggests she’s a loyal employee.”

  “Those are the ones I tend to watch. Mind you, I watch the moaners and groaners too.”

  “She’s having an affair with Tom Dancer,” I said. I felt like a dirty grass saying it, but I had my men’s lives to consider. And, if I were honest, I didn’t think Dancer deserved her.

  “Did Dancer tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a flash wee bastard, from what I’ve heard. What’s your assessment?”

  “I haven’t seen him for years,” I replied, “but he was a solid officer back then. Tom seems more interested in rescuing Mel than anything else.”

  “OK,” Marcus replied. “You should know we’ve traced a message, received by a Chinese spy ship bobbing about off the Somali coast.”

  “Saving the best news ‘til last again, Marcus?”

  “Quite. The Chinese have intelligence that General Abasi is mobilizing to support an operation in the south...”

  “Is that from the bad apple?” I asked, my heart sinking.

  “Possibly,” said Marcus, “the SIGINT is inconclusive, but it didn’t come from inside Zambute.”

  “I feel so much better now.”

  “Find the bastard for me, Cal. Find them and end this.”

  “So you’ve decided?”

  The old spy’s voice was icy. “Yes. Let the sun bleach their bones.”

  “Very Old Testament,” I replied, although I’d already decided the traitor, if there was one, wouldn’t be leaving Zambute.

  “You’re a good man,” he said quietly. “I knew I could rely on you.”

  “Wrong on the first point, possibly correct on the second,” I replied, switching the phone off and taking a gulp of booze. Emptying the bottle of Maker’s Mark, I licked my lips and pulled out my other phone.

  The second call I made was to Sam Clarke. “It’s been a while,” I said. “Did you get the money I forwarded?”

  I’d paid twenty-five grand into an offshore account I’d set up for Sam recently. The rest of the money I’d earned from taking down The Hunt was donated anonymously to a veteran’s charity. It’s not like I’m a saint – there’s enough banked for me to afford my generosity. Sam hardly touched the money I gave her, but I felt better knowing the cash was there if she needed it.

  “Yes, I got it Cal,” Sam replied. “You know you don’t need to.”

  “Yes I do,” I replied.

  How’s your leg?” she said, changing the subject. I’d told her I’d hurt myself climbing through a broken window on a training course. “I got the postcard from Turkey.”

  “The leg’s good, thanks.”

  “Where are you off to next?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know, abroad. Energy security,” I replied.

  “Ah,” said Sam, an awkward note in her voice. “Energy security again…”

  She knew I was lying, but rolled with it. These were the boundaries we’d created, the game that allowed me an occasional slice of her life. Although I was never going to live a peaceful existence, a normal life, I could at least step into one now and then. Sam Clarke’s reality was like an exhibit in an art gallery, something I could covet but never touch.

  “I want to see you,” she said finally.

  “Why?” I said, laughing to mask my surprise. Usually it was me who wanted to see Sam and the kids, not the other way round. I supposed I reminded her of Clarkie too much, of the army and Iraq.

  “The kids keep asking when you’re coming over next,” she said quietly. “They want to know more about their dad, stuff he did in the army. They’re getting to that age.”

  “I’ll be back in the UK in about six weeks, early October I guess. Why don’t you all come up to London? I’ll put you up in the best hotel you’ve ever seen.”

  “They’d like that.”

  “Would you like that?”

  “Of course,” she said. I heard a trace of exasperation in her voice. “You swear all the time, you’re usually pissed and I can’t ask you anything about what you’ve been up to. When you’re not drunk you’re liked a coiled spring, with a shitty temper. Cal, you’re not exactly the ideal date for me, or a role model for the kids.”

  I laughed it off, “believe it or not, you guys keep me sane. Just put up with me for a couple of days.” She’d used the word date. I’m pretty sure that’s a boyfriend-and-girlfriend thing unless you deliberately insert the word ‘platonic.’ It was wrong. So why did it make me feel good? I remembered the dream I was having about Sam, about her grinding on top of me. I felt my cheeks burn.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ve got to go now, but ring me when you get back.”

  “I will,” I promised, and rang off.
The prospect of the trip in October would keep me going. They could screw decompression facilities and debriefings and lying low. I was coming home after Zambute. I told myself I wasn’t going to have another drink.

  Then I did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kenya

  The pilot of the private jet drily wished us bon voyage as we descended into Nairobi. The plane belonged to a Russian oil company, its crew untroubled at having a bunch of cutthroats like us aboard.

  We hurried through customs at Jomo Kenyatta. Two uniformed officials escorted us with quiet efficiency, no doubt delighted with Dancer’s pre-arranged bribe. We picked up our kit and waited outside the terminal’s fire exit, luggage buggies zipping past.

  “It’s gonna rain later,” yawned Alex, dressed in cargo pants and a tee-shirt. He looked up and sniffed. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sun scouring the tarmac like a laser.

  “I thought there was a drought on,” said Ruben Grey.

  “Yeah, but I’ve been here before.”

  “Doing what?” Ruben asked.

  “Killin’ folks, mainly,” Alex replied matter-of-factly. “It rained then, too.”

  Dancer led us through a maze of humid service tunnels. Eventually we emerged into a car park, where a tired-looking lorry waited. We piled in the back as it bumped off, the donut-shaped terminal disappearing in a heat haze behind us. We were driven to lonely corner of the airfield, suspension creaking and groaning beneath us. We rolled to a halt, my face already coated in a fine film of sandy dust.

  Dancer arched an eyebrow, “get in the cab chaps.” He pointed at a helicopter. The heli, a Super-Puma, was painted in lurid tiger-stripes. It looked like a box of Frosties with rotor-blades. The livery on the fuselage read ZAMBUTE AIR SAFARIS.

  “You’re taking the piss, right?” laughed Bannerman.

  Alex Bytchakov put a meaty hand on the Scotsman’s shoulder. “Hey, Bannerman… I make that for a Breeze-Eastern cargo winch, hydraulic external hoist and a SH20 door mount for crew-operated weapons. Forget the comedy paintjob dude, that’s a properly pimped SAR combat bird.”

  Bannerman laughed. “Good spot. I bet you’re a fucking scream down the pub, you sad fucker.”

  Waiting by the Super Puma was a pudgy European and a tall African, both wearing grimy flight suits. The European was in his late fifties with cropped grey hair. His face was as red as an Arsenal shirt. “Dancer, ‘ello mate,” he said.

  “Steve, meet the team,” Dancer replied. “Cal, this is Steve Bacon. He runs our helicopters, used to be an aviation tech in the REME.”

  The Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers were the technicians who kept the Apaches flying and the Challengers rolling, back in the days before we sold all our tanks. Bacon had the air of a man who could strip down the Puma blindfolded. “Come on fellas, load your kit and get in the taxi,” he said. “I’m loadie today. This is Idris, the pilot.”

  Idris was a lanky African guy wearing big 70’s Ray-Bans. He looked mixed Kenyan-Somali, with high cheekbones and a hawkish nose. “Jambo,” he said. “Welcome to Kenya.”

  I shook his big, dry hand and nodded. “I’m Cal, team leader.”

  We climbed into the narrow fuselage and stowed our kit. We squeezed into the forward-facing seats and strapped ourselves in, Steve checking us and speaking into a headset. He handed out packets of squidgy yellow ear protectors, which we rolled up and plugged in. The whining of the engine drowned out all conversation.

  I picked up a spent 7.62 bullet casing from the deck and smiled. “Air safaris?” I shouted.

  “Of a sort,” Steve grinned. “Let’s go.”

  “How far is the trip?” I hollered back, the airframe vibrating alarmingly.

  “Too far,” he replied, “top end of the Puma’s range, but Idris flies this cab on fumes all the time.” He offered me a cigarette from a pack of Camels.

  The Puma took off in a whirlwind of dust and grit, wheeling away from the landing strip. When we’d gained altitude and cleared the city, the heli swung northeast. Steve sat on the edge of the open door, feet hanging in space. “I love this place,” he shouted into his mic, “but it’s like the sea – turn your back on it for too long and it’ll do for you.”

  We were in the air for ninety minutes. Juliet Easter sat in a huddle with Dancer and Hugo, deep in discussion. Idris treated us to some low-level flying as we approached the base, the tiger-striped heli barely fifty feet from the ground.

  “LOWER,” Steve bawled as deer scattered in panic. Then the Puma roared up into the sky, pushing us back in our seats before jinking left and heading to the lonely cluster of buildings below.

  The heli-pad was made of segmented aluminium tracking laid over rough brown earth. As we descended we saw the other heli, a small Dornier painted sandy-yellow. Beyond was a cluster of pre-fabricated buildings. Parked nearby were a couple of trucks, a fuel tanker and a small fleet of 4x4s. One of the buildings had a satellite dish and looked newer than the others.

  “Welcome to Focus Projects,” said Dancer. “We’ve got a South African guard force of eight men,” Dancer replied. “They’ve been told you’re contractors, doing something hush-hush they don’t need to know about. Don’t talk to them or associate with them. You’ll have separate accommodation and mess areas.”

  “Look over to the east,” crackled Idris’ voice in our headphones.

  I shuffled across to join Steve on the starboard side of the Puma. I saw dust trails streaming towards the camp, running parallel with the border. The terrain was predominantly flat, bush-land interrupted by shallow hills.

  “Are those vehicles?” I asked.

  Steve peered through a pair of binoculars. “Yeah, I reckon.”

  Dancer unbuckled his seat and shimmied forward in the cramped aircraft. “There are only two possibilities: Kenyan army or Vultures.”

  Oz raised an eyebrow, “vultures?”

  “They’re Xaboyo tribesmen, some linked to the Shadow of Swords militia,” Dancer replied. “They prey on the refugee camps. Land pirates, I suppose. They’ve never been bold enough to attack us before.”

  “Shadow of Swords is a mujahedeen group, right?” I said.

  “Maybe, but junior league wannabes by East African Muj standards,” Dancer sniffed. “The CIA thinks they’re the next big thing.”

  I’d seen the refugee camps on TV, bigger than anything thrown up by the Ethiopian invasion of Somalia in 2006. There was a sprawling tent city roughly seventy miles to the east of the camp, on the disputed tri-nation border between Zambute, Somalia and Kenya. Both of the warring factions in Zambute viewed the Shadow of Swords as enemies, and since Al-Shabaab had taken a battering by US Special Operations forces, the Shadows were on their own. But sometimes the most dangerous animal is one that’s cornered, and East Africa’s Jihadists were far from de-fanged. And as usual, the filling in this grief sandwich were the local civilian population.

  “I reckon we should take a look-see,” said Steve.

  “OK,” Dancer agreed, looking at me. “I’ll get on the radio to Hester. He’s in charge of the guard force.”

  Ruben Grey’s eyes flashed. “Do we get a bonus for having a tear-up on day one?”

  The heli groaned as it banked, surging towards the dust trails. It was a convoy of battered pick-ups, camouflaged with mud and streaks of dark paint. Each held a motley crew wearing grey hooded cloaks and mismatched uniforms. Through my binoculars I spotted Soviet-era small arms and RPGs. One of the pick-ups had a crudely-mounted Soviet heavy machinegun, a DsHK. We all called them Dushkas. I felt a spasm of fear. The weapon’s 12.5mm round would rip through the fuselage like tissue paper.

  “Yes, they are Vultures,” said Idris over the intercom. “It is strange for the Xaboyo to raid this far from the camps.”

  “The situation across the border is boiling over,” said Easter grimly.

  I was suddenly tossed backwards, harness cutting into my shoulders as the airframe shuddered.

  “Incoming,” sa
id Easter calmly. “Get on the radio now, please, Idris.”

  I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the helicopter engines, but saw a neat line of holes in the fuselage above Oz’s head. It was small arms fire.

  “Steve, do we have any weapons on board?” I shouted.

  The technician shook his head. “Never take tools on a run to the airport.”

  We gained height, trying to clear the effective range of the Dushka. With a half-decent gunner and a stable firing platform it could take down a heli at two thousand metres. Steadying myself on the bulkhead, I looked down again. I saw puffs of smoke from small arms from the moving vehicles. “I’d say thirty men,” I reported.

  “Hester’s aware,” said Idris. “I’ll land on the westernmost side of the camp, next to the armoury. He’s waiting for you with weapons.”

  Dancer strapped himself back in his seat. “Change of plan,” he shouted. “We’re going all-round defence. When we land, follow Mister Hester’s instructions.”

  “Hester’s a good bloke,” said Steve. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  The Puma started to descend. I saw the approaching dust cloud to the east, no more than two miles away. Tiny figures scurried in the camp below us. I looked back towards my team. All of them looked untroubled by the attack, Oz counting the bullet holes stitched across the top of the fuselage.

  The heli landed next to a low-level concrete building with no windows. A tanned, bearded old dude wearing fatigues and a bush hat crouched outside.

  “That’s the armoury,” said Dancer, “move!”

  Easter and Hugo were first out, heading towards the security guard.

  “Oz, grab me a gat and get back on board,” I shouted. “Duncan, take the other guys and follow Dancer.”

  Oz nodded and leapt into the billowing cloud of orange dust thrown up by the rotor blades. The others followed him, Bytchakov slapping my back as he jumped down onto the deck.

  I grabbed the intercom. “Idris, have you got enough juice to fly back around and drop us behind them?”

  “Yes,” he replied, “but only just.”

  “We need to take out that Dushka,” I said. “Else they’ll rake the compound to pieces.” My mantra is the best form of defence is attack. The Vultures would expect us to hunker down in our compound, letting them snipe away. They wouldn’t expect us to take the fight to them.