by Andy McNab
They gently closed the doors behind them.
‘Frank, I want them back too. Tracy was my best mate’s wife. Her sister was my friend. I told you she’s dead, but I didn’t tell you how she died.’
I reached down and grabbed two of the colouring pencils off the table. I held them either side of his head. ‘She had been tortured, Frank. Fuck knows why, because she didn’t know anything. Maybe they did it for fun. But they took a pencil just like this and they rammed it into her ear. Right through her fucking eardrum. Can you imagine the pain? Can you imagine how loud she must have screamed? And then they did the same the other side. And when she didn’t talk, because she had nothing to tell them, or maybe because they’d had enough fun for one morning, they hammered both pencils right into her brain. She must have died in agony, Frank. You wouldn’t wish that on your worst enemy — let alone your son. But fuck this up, and that’s what could happen.’
I didn’t need to say more. All of a sudden, his imagination had joined the dots. His eye twitched. Well, it was something, I supposed.
He fought to find the words. ‘Tell them … if they hurt my son, I will declare war on them. Tell them that.’
It was messages like that that would get his son killed.
‘No, Frank. This ain’t no Swiss watch. All the pieces aren’t going to work perfectly. It’s not just another deal. And, Frank …’
I let it hang as he fixed his eyes on his own reflection in the water.
‘I need to know everything. I need to know if there is anything that might affect the negotiation, and so affect Stefan and Tracy. I need to know everything you know, Frank.’
He looked up slowly. Our eyes locked.
‘The crew have told you about the two of them together?’
‘No. Are they?’
‘In all the houses. Even the boat. My shadows, they plant the cameras and collect the recordings for me. No doubt there will still be one on the boat. Knowledge, Nick, is power. Like you, I need to know everything that affects me.’
The chink in his armour was widening, and it wasn’t Tracy.
‘I want my son back. You do it your way. If it goes wrong, I will do it my way. I will have my son back. I will have my son … here … with me.’
‘And Tracy? Where will she be, when Stefan’s here? Does she still have a life if she comes back?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I am not an animal, Nick. If I was … well, I wouldn’t have a problem. Of course she will have a life. She is my son’s mother. He has been her saviour.’
His hand came up, pointing back the way Mr Lover Man and Genghis had gone. ‘Those two I trust with my life. Others, I pay for their time, nothing else. And you — I believe I can trust you with what you now know. Am I right to trust you, Nick?’
That didn’t deserve an answer. ‘We start with a decent sum. Then we move at a slower rate, reducing the amount each time, until we get to around ten per cent of their demand. Say three hundred thousand dollars. No more than four hundred. Less than you paid for that watch. But it’s not about the money. It’s what they’ll expect. If we go big-timing, the three of them are dead.’
I gave him another second. ‘Do you have that property for me?’
His eyes were distant again. The machine in his head was telling him what I was saying was right. It just didn’t feel right. He turned back to me. ‘Yes. Today. You will have the details later.’
‘I also need some money. USD.’
He nodded.
‘I don’t want it in my hand, I just want it available.’
‘Whatever you need. When will you inform me what’s happening?’
‘When I’ve got something to inform you about.’
I was silent for a moment. ‘Where does that leave Justin?’
Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. ‘I don’t even think about him. He’s no good, just like the other two Brits that have worked for me.’
‘No — this one’s good at his job. He’s doing the right thing. He’s keeping you out of it and so keeping those two alive. If the Somalis knew who Tracy and Stefan were, it would be a whole different ball game. And if they do find out, they’re going to be in even more danger than they are now — because if the Georgians get to hear, we’re all in the shit. For now, Justin is keeping them as just another three quick paydays. So he should be paid up and fucked off when he gets back, yeah?’
The machine was a long time processing. I waited till his hand came down.
‘Yes, of course. Now, you and I, we both have business to do. Different business.’
The £475K wrist rested on my shoulder again as we made our way to the lift. German hydraulics and Italian design carried us smoothly to the ground floor. His two shadows were waiting. He started leading me to the front door.
‘The number you have for me — it will be exclusively for your use. I will always answer.’
We got to the threshold and shook. He turned away. I was to let myself out. He headed for the stairs with Mr Lover Man and Genghis.
I pulled out the mobile. The missed call was from the estate agent I’d bought my Docklands flat from a couple of years ago.
I opened voicemail. ‘Mr Stone, it’s Henry. Got the message you left mega early about us selling a small apartment of yours. That would be a pleasure. Could you please call me back to discuss?’
By the time I’d finished listening, I’d opened the door. I stepped outside. It was colder. And Jacques was waiting.
5
I jumped into the warmth of the Merc. Jacques was facing the front, being very professional. Mouth shut, both hands on the wheel.
‘Tell you what, mate. Drive me down the hill to the town and I’ll tell you if the place has got a pool or not. Might as well have a quick look round before I leave — might see something I fancy.’
He nodded. We headed down towards the centre. There was high ground around us; nothing but snow-capped Alps as far as the eye could see. No fast-food joints. No hire shops offering gloves included. The retail names were all the same as in GUM: Prada, Gucci, Versace.
We passed parking areas with coin-operated telescopes on steel stands. In days gone by, the tourists would have looked at the distant peaks or skiers on the pistes. These days they probably gawped at the multi-million-dollar houses and the Russians who stayed in them. That was what I was going to do, anyway.
‘Park up here a minute, Jacques. I’ll get one last look at the place.’
He pulled into one of the lay-bys and I spilt out. I checked the coin slot. It was two euros for two minutes.
‘You got any cash, mate? I’ll pay you back when I’ve been to a bank.’
He pulled out a large plastic bag from a side compartment. ‘The parking’s very expensive here.’
He passed me the whole thing. Now I knew what the Royal Family felt like when they went walkabout. I threw in ten minutes’ worth.
That pink and yellow fairy picture couldn’t have belonged to a boy. And if it did, Stefan needed to start playing with Action Man or some shit like that. So there was probably a little girl. And if there was a little girl, there was a mother.
I cast about in the general direction of the chalet. He’d looked bored with the designers. He’d be on the move before long. I moved up the road to the high ground. Chances were, he wasn’t down here in the village. This area was for the rich. The super-rich, like everywhere else on the planet, took the high ground — and on the side of the valley where the sun liked to come and stay.
I moved it about until I hit the chalet we’d just left. The Range Rover had gone. Eyes away from the optic, I checked the road left and right. The black blob was heading towards the altiport, contouring one of the higher roads. I shoved in more cash to make sure and followed the road upwards until the Range Rover came back into view.
It disappeared intermittently behind chalets, rocks and trees this side of the road.
It passed a row of four large chalets and this time it didn’t reap
pear. The chalets were monolithic. Their roof overhangs almost came down to the ground. Their gardens sloped downhill towards me.
There were three bodies in the white expanse of garden at the second chalet from the right. Two small figures in pink all-in-one ski suits. I couldn’t make out their faces. They jumped on a sledge near the top of the slope. Waiting for them at the bottom was an adult in a white all-in-one. She had long dark hair.
I scanned the four chalets and back along the road to the left. Still no black blob.
The sledge reached the bottom of the hill. The woman started dragging it back up. The kids scrambled behind her in the snow. She stopped in her tracks. I focused on her. She was looking up the hill. She waved. I swung the telescope to follow her gaze. A man in jeans and a red jacket was waving back to her from the veranda.
The kids came into view. They scampered past the woman and up towards the man.
I refocused on him. It was Frank.
The two pink all-in-ones were soon running onto the veranda. Big hugs and kisses followed. The white suit climbed onto the veranda and approached him. She kissed him on the mouth.
The two kids bomb-burst past them. I moved the telescope. Mr Lover Man and Genghis moved into the frame. Genghis pretended to box with them as they jumped up at him.
I now knew the other reason Frank didn’t want anyone to know about Tracy and Stefan — including his wife. I’d traipsed around enough galleries and checked out enough Russian family portraits during my culture fest to know about male primogeniture.
The State Tretyakov Gallery was the first place Anna had dragged me to. Sixty-two rooms, 150,000 works of art. That was a week I’d never get back. Most of it was a blur, but it was impossible not to notice that it was all about the boy. The first-born male was top dog, the only one that mattered. The girls could only inherit if there were no males in the way.
Stefan’s job would be to continue Frank’s newly founded dynasty. He’d be the first of a new generation of Russian billionaires who wouldn’t know a lot about the journey their dads had taken out of old Russia, just as the old American robber barons, like the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, had drawn a veil over what they’d done to trouser their fortunes.
I watched as they disappeared into the chalet, then waited a couple of minutes, but nobody came out again. I jumped back into the Merc and pointed towards the high ground. ‘Those chalets up there — are they the rented ones?’
Jacques turned in his seat. ‘Yes. For the party. Every hotel in Courchevel is full.’
‘Let’s get back to the helicopter. But not the way we came. Through the town. Does that work for you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
He drove further into the resort.
‘By the way, Jacques, aren’t you going to ask me?’
‘I have a new rule, sir. I only speak when I’m spoken to.’
‘Go on. Just this once.’
‘Thank you, sir. So, does it have a pool?’
PART SIX
1
Monday, 21 March
15.17 hrs
The din from the Cessna Cargomaster’s 675h.p. Pratt & Whitney engine we were almost sitting astride engulfed the cockpit. If it hadn’t been for the headphones I was wearing, I wouldn’t have been able to hear a word of Joe’s rant.
The Indian Ocean was six thousand feet below us. We had another twenty minutes of it at 125 knots before we hit Mogadishu. We’d been following the surf line of the Somali coast north. The country was only a little smaller than Texas, but it had more than three thousand kilometres of coast, about the same as the whole eastern seaboard of the USA. Plenty of space in which to park hijacked shipping, and there was enough of it below. Oil tankers and cargo ships wallowed in the swell. Skiffs were tied up alongside. Rusted wrecks lay on the beach.
The lushness of the Kenyan landscape had been left behind more than an hour ago. Almost the moment we crossed the border, the terrain had turned to dust. There was nothing but sand and rough old brush as far as the eye could see. Further west was Ethiopia, and more of the same. To the north of Somalia was the Gulf of Aden. The country had a lot of unexploited iron ore, gas and oil. So far, the clans had been too busy making money from the sea, but I was sure it was only a matter of time.
The single-prop Cessna was essentially a flight deck with a great big cargo hold up its arse. FedEx used them in this part of the world because they could handle the rough terrain. Guys like Joe also used them to fly in and out of the worst places in Africa to pick stuff up or drop it off. But unlike FedEx, Joe would never be asking for a signature.
In my door compartment there was a headset extension lead that must have reached all the way down to the aluminium roller shutter that doubled as a cargo door. The shutters were originally devised for freefalling; they were easy to open in flight. So Joe not only dropped off things and bodies, he dropped them into places where landing was clearly a bad idea.
He was from Zimbabwe. His accent was as hard and leathered as his skin. ‘Malindi — fucking great, man. I’ve been there ten years now. Fucking Mugabe is a fucking madman. My farm’s been cut up for war veterans. They’re kids, man. Never seen a fucking war. They don’t even know how to grow shit, let alone fight. I’m fucking glad I’m out of there.’
The rant was just fine. But he’d taken both hands off the stick to add emphasis. At least this particular time he kept one finger fucking about with the instruments.
Joe was heading towards sixty, and small — about five foot five — but with hands that were far too big for the rest of him. Too many years in the sun had given his face crevasses wherever there should have been creases. The chest hair that poked out from the top of his green polo shirt was grey, but the hair on top of his head was jet black. It matched the Ray-Ban Aviators he wore to protect his eyes from the glare bouncing down onto the ocean and back up again.
Malindi is on the Kenyan coast. Europeans used to flock there for their holidays until a couple of years ago, when inter-ethnic violence left a hundred people dead just down the road in Mombasa. Now the hotels were empty, and only people like Joe lived there.
His hands came off the stick again. ‘Yeah, man, fuck, I wish I’d left Zim years ago.’
It was the third time he’d said that in the last hour and ten minutes. His wife had wanted to stay, even when Mugabe’s heavies were beating up the owners of neighbouring farms. Her roots were in the old Rhodesia. She was fourth-generation white African. Then one day last year Joe had gone away on a work trip and come back to find her dead. It wasn’t murder. She’d died of some disease I’d never even heard of. Either that, or Joe had made it up.
He’d finally left the wreckage of Zim, but only with what he stood up in. Life in Kenya was hard to start with, he said, but he was a happy bunny these days. He was one of the vanilla guerrillas, ex-pat white lads who shagged the locals for the price of a beer and something to eat. And going by the condition of the aircraft, his bar tab was bigger than his maintenance bill.
Joe finally got both hands back on the stick and had a look round to make sure there were no other aircraft in the sky. At least that bit seemed professional. Taking off from Malindi, we’d taxied down the apron, but hadn’t paused at the runway. There was no revving of engines or testing of flaps or any of that shit. He didn’t even appear to consider wind direction. As soon as he was on the strip he just got us the fuck into the air without looking back.
‘You been to Mogadishu many times, Joe?’
‘Too many. But never in the city, man. I leave you kidnap guys to do that shit. I stay on the pan and don’t leave the aircraft. The flip-flops there, they’d pull it apart in an hour.’ He leant across to me as if he was about to shout, which he didn’t need to because of the intercom. ‘You’re a fucking madman. Why don’t you take a weapon?’ His left hand tapped the AK sticking up between our seats, on top of the emergency box that contained distress flares and all that sort of shit. ‘Buy mine, man. Three hundred dollars. A fucking bargain,
man.’
I laughed. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I can’t go in there mob-handed. I’m supposed to be the nice guy in the middle.’
That was all Joe knew about me. I was just another negotiator he was taking in to rescue yet another hostage. Frank had organized him. Frank had also promised to send some guys with money. They’d be waiting in Nairobi once I’d contacted the clan or sub-clan, whoever the fuck they were, and struck the deal. The money would be handed over anywhere I needed it to be. The clans had people in Nairobi. It could be handed over there, or brought to Mogadishu. Wherever, it didn’t matter to me.
Joe was well into war-story mode. ‘Last year I picked up some Canadian woman. She couldn’t even drink water, man. She was broken. Her hands never stopped shaking. They fucked her up big-time.’ He grimaced. ‘Fucking flip-flops, man. They’re animals. If they don’t have anyone else to fight, they fight each other. They just love to fight. It’s the clan system. They’re fucking mad.’
He eased the stick forward a bit and we were buffeted about as the white sand below us got closer. The ocean was gleaming teal. Breakers formed white crests parallel to the shore.
‘Do you know the flip-flops? Do you know the clans, man?’
‘I know a bit.’
‘They got this saying, man.’ His right hand went up into the space between his head and the screen so his fingers could make quote marks. ‘My full brother and me against my father. My father’s household against my uncle’s household …’ He turned to me and shook his head. ‘Our two households against the rest of my kin. My kin against my clan. My clan against other clans. And my nation against the world.’
He laughed to himself. ‘It’s like the fucking Sopranos, but with these fucking things.’ He tapped the mag of the AK. ‘Go on — two hundred and seventy-five bucks, man.’
‘I wouldn’t even know how to use it.’
He looked ahead. We descended more. He laughed. His left hand waved me off. The crevasses around his cheeks dis appeared behind the sun-gigs. ‘Fuck off, man. I’ve seen enough of you guys coming in and out of Nairobi. Don’t give me that shit.’
