Dark Asset

by Adrian Magson

  Pushed by Lunnberg to make progress on finding Masse, he’d been asking himself how the frog spook could have moved around so easily in a region where the roads were shit, facilities non-existent and everybody and their cousin carried a gun and knew how to use it. Masse worked for the French intel outfit, the DGSE, but according to Lunnberg he was pretty much on his own most of the time and left to work the region as he saw fit. So what was his secret?

  The solution came in the form of a drunk, an Australian aid worker name Paul, who told him that the only way to cover any distance quickly in Africa was to use one of the small taxi flights operating across the continent. Of course, the aid worker stressed, staring wistfully into an empty glass, you had to take the rough with the smooth – and there wasn’t a whole lot of smooth. In fact some of the planes were downright shaky.

  In spite of having little time for drunks, Ratchman sensed this guy might be on to something. So he got him another beer and a bourbon chaser and told him to keep talking. He learned very quickly that most of the pilots were fine, but a lot of the locals seemed to possess a death wish. If you got a Russian, you had to hold onto your hat but they were pretty good; they just didn’t much like following rules or flying totally sober.

  ‘So where are they willing to fly?’ Ratchman asked. Maybe the drunk was too far gone and talking rubbish, but maybe not. He’d soon find out. ‘Mogadishu?’

  ‘Sure, Mogadishu,’ Paul said. ‘It’s a cool place if you’re prepared to take a little risk along the way.’ He grinned and put a finger in his mouth and pushed out his cheek in an obscene gesture. ‘There are girls down there who really know how to give a guy a good time, if you know what I mean.’

  Ratchman knew about Mogadishu; you’d have to be dead from the neck up not to, with all the news reports of bombings, shootings and pickup trucks full of gunmen roaming the streets. The place was like a snapshot of hell. He also knew that some men liked to flirt with danger, getting their rocks off in a kill zone adding some extra spice. He couldn’t understand it himself; he was strictly a clean sheets and plush hotel kind of guy. But each to his own.

  ‘So give me a name,’ he said to Paul, ordering more drinks. ‘Who would you recommend?’

  Paul stumbled for a second, then took another drink and blurted the names of two private taxi firms, both small, reliable and discreet. In spite of his drunken state, he remembered their numbers, accompanied by laying a finger along his nose and giving a slow wink. ‘But don’t tell everyone; we don’t want the whole world crowding us out, right?’

  ‘Damn right,’ Ratchman murmured, making a note of the numbers on his cell phone, and poured his whisky into the other man’s glass. He hadn’t touched it and Paul nodded his thanks. ‘I have to go. But thanks for the chat.’

  Outside, he’d sucked in a few deep breaths before calling up the two air taxi firms to get directions. One had replied that their only plane was in the workshop and hadn’t flown for a week after hitting a herd of goats. The other had told him how to find the airstrip and he’d called up Domenic, his Latino right-hand man, and told him they were going hunting and to bring his gun just in case.

  Domenic had picked him up five minutes later, and within fifteen minutes they arrived at a flat piece of land a few miles outside the city. It was dark but they could see a windsock hanging limply above a makeshift hangar made of sheets of corrugated steel, and further over an old shipping container with an open door and a light on inside.

  The air trapped inside the container was like an oven, and hit both men in the lungs as soon as they entered. The man behind an ancient wooden desk didn’t seem to notice and gave a welcoming smile that threatened to split his face in two. On the wall either side of him were two large faded photos, one of Queen Elizabeth and the other of Nelson Mandela. In the back were a camp bed and a gas stove, and an armchair that looked as if it had been rescued from the city dump. A small badge on his shirt gave his name as Marten.

  ‘Where you wanna, go, guys?’ He was pencil thin with tight, curly black hair, and his accent was flat and hard.

  ‘Mogadishu,’ said Ratchman. ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Sure I can. Mog’s easy. Just got back from there, in fact, when you called. Arrange a car that side, too, if you need it.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Just tell me what you want and I can fix it.’

  ‘That’s an interesting accent you have there,’ said Domenic, flicking through a local map. ‘You’re not from around here, right?’

  ‘No way, man. Zimbabwe, down south. I flew with the army down there. When it all went to shit and you had to be a favourite to get on, I decided to do my own thing up here.’ He grinned and added, ‘Plenty of your boys like to cross the lines and are happy to pay, know what I mean?’

  ‘The borders, you mean?’

  ‘Sure. Lots of hot spots if you know where to find them. And I do.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Ratchman. ‘How about hotels in Mogadishu. Know any good ones?’

  Marten nodded and pulled a short list out of a rack. ‘These are all good, in the centre of town.’ Then he scribbled a name across the bottom. ‘But if you’re looking for a bit of quiet, this is just outside the centre. Say I sent you and you’ll get a good rate. It’s where I send most of my passengers. Just don’t go wandering around on your own where you shouldn’t, though, or some little bugger’ll hand you your nuts in a tin cup. By the way, who recommended me?’

  Ratchman hesitated for a second, then decided to take a chance. ‘A guy named Masse. French. He said you wouldn’t bust us up too much when you land and knew your way around.’

  Marten smiled, but it wasn’t as broad as it had been. ‘Masse? You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. André. Medium height, nice guy.’

  ‘Yes, I know him. Only what you said, that doesn’t sound like him. The guy’s got a serious depression most of the time. Hates flying and doesn’t talk much. What’d you do – get him drunk and promise him a ticket home?’

  Ratchman exchanged a look with Domenic. Something was off. He figured he’d just made a mistake and showed he didn’t actually know Masse at all. But if it was a bluff it was too late to go back.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘What is it you boys really want, eh?’ Marten got to his feet. He was well over six foot and looked rangy, and the smile had vanished altogether. When he brought his hand up he was holding a gun.

  Domenic wasted no time; he stepped fast round the edge of the desk and pointed a semi-automatic at the pilot’s head. He said, ‘You already gave us what we wanted, you dumb fuck,’ and pulled the trigger.

  The shot was deafening, bouncing around the interior of the container, and Marten ducked as the bullet zipped past his head. He dropped his gun and turned to look at the hole that had been drilled in the picture of Mandela.

  Ratchman clutched his ear and winced. ‘For fuck’s sake, Dom – you trying to blow my eardrums or what?’

  ‘Sorry, Ratch,’ Domenic replied calmly, and stared at the gun with a puzzled expression. ‘Damn if it doesn’t pull a little to one side. It must be your lucky day, Marten. Next one goes through your head. Want to pick up your shitty little gun and try for a replay?’

  ‘No.’ Marten shook his head. ‘That ain’t necessary, sir. I didn’t mean no offence.’

  Ratchman smiled and waved away a veil of gun-smoke. ‘See, Dom? Now that’s what I call service. You’ve been elevated to a sir already.’ He leaned across the desk and plucked a colour photograph off a pinboard fixed to the wall. The photo showed Marten, a pretty young woman and a cute little girl with red ribbons in her hair. Ratchman waved it in the air and instantly saw the pilot’s eyes widen. ‘I’ve got another question for you, Marten. When you last went to Mogadishu, did you give a lift to an American named Portman? He might have been travelling with Masse, maybe alone. Medium height, dark hair, eyes like piss-holes in the snow. Or, should I say, sand. Maybe you’ve seen him.’

  Marten swallowed and nodded. ‘He’s made a couple of trips, t
he last one earlier this evening. Quiet guy but tough underneath, you know what I mean? He hired a car the other end, too. Cash.’

  Ratchman stared at him, for a second or two uncomprehending as the words went by. This evening? How the hell? Portman was supposed to be in a hole somewhere courtesy of three former legionnaires. ‘Wait, wait, wait … let me get this straight; you flew Portman to Mogadishu this evening? Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Positive. He paid cash, no questions.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No, sir. He didn’t look like he’d tell me anyway, so I didn’t ask. Nothing to do with me.’

  Ratchman grinned. ‘Yeah, that sounds like our boy.’ He took out his phone. ‘You wait here with Dom and be good, you hear? I have to make a call.’

  Outside he breathed easier in the cool night air and called Lunnberg. It didn’t take long and he was relieved he was out here instead of anywhere near the colonel.

  ‘He’s what?’ Lunnberg’s voice came spitting out of the phone like acid. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The pilot knows him from a previous flight. And I have a lead on where he might have gone in Mogadishu, too. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Find him. Find him and end this. You’d better get your men and vehicles ready to travel. I’ll make the arrangements and call you back.’

  Ratchman went back inside and waved the photo of Marten’s wife and daughter. ‘You’ve been a big help, Marten. But there’s something you have to know: Domenic, here hates putting his gun away without using it. A bit like those little Gurkha fellas with their big-assed knives. You got lucky this time – he only plugged old Nelson. But you tell anyone about our little chat and he won’t come straight back here, no, sir. He’ll go find your pretty wife and daughter and deal with them. And believe me, he’s ace at finding people. Then he’ll come back and talk to you. So no blabbing to anybody about our little visit. Understand me?’

  Marten nodded, his lip tight. ‘Yes, sir. Understood.’

  Ratchman leaned across and slid the photo in Domenic’s top pocket, then nodded and walked out.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Do you know what a fuck-up is, Victor? What the expression actually means?’ Lunnberg was pacing around his room like a caged animal, his body language tight and his eyes centred on the French intelligence officer who had just entered after being summoned. It was just gone 1 a.m. and the sky outside was peppered with pinpricks of light. The area around the hotel was quiet, with a mournful ship’s siren the only sound coming off the gulf a good distance away.

  Dressed in a neat blue shirt and dark pants, Lunnberg was showered and clean-shaven, and smelled of soap, in spite of the late hour. The air-conditioning in the room was turned up full and the atmosphere was like an ice box, none of which helped make Petrus feel welcome.

  ‘Of course,’ Petrus replied cautiously. He was in pants and a shirt with no tie and looking ruffled by the phone call that had woken him. ‘Why do you ask? What has happened?’

  Lunnberg held up an imperious finger and said, ‘Two good questions, Victor. Why do I ask? Well, that’s easy. It’s prompted by the certain knowledge that you and your compatriots – your colleagues – do not have a fucking clue about how to conduct a clean-up operation.’ He stopped pacing and turned to face Petrus with his hands behind his back, head up and chest thrust out aggressively.

  Like Adolf Hitler, Petrus thought, bristling at the man’s body language. ‘With respect, Mister Lunnberg, I resent your tone—’

  ‘Fuck your resentment, Monsieur Petrus. And fuck your respect because I don’t need it. Instead, you should be asking yourself why I’m talking to you like a piece of shit. Or do you not have the balls?’

  Petrus turned towards the door, his face white with suppressed anger. The American was acting like a pig and he didn’t need to stay for this. ‘I am not interested in what you have to say. I consider this meeting over.’

  ‘You might. I don’t. As to what has happened, it’s my duty to inform you that your three men are dead. Or did you know that already and had decided not to tell me?’

  Petrus stopped and spun round. ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying, dead?’

  ‘Your three top guns … the men you provided to work alongside mine to clean up the mess caused by Masse and this freak, Portman. Ex-Legionnaires, you told me; the pick of the crop, you said, who would go to any lengths to get the job done. Aren’t they the words you used?’

  ‘Yes, I said that. But something is wrong. They were leaving the country after dealing with Portman, as instructed. Your own men handed him over to them.’

  Lunnberg nodded in an exaggerated fashion. ‘You’re right, Victor, my God, you’re so right. That’s what happened. But did you actually check to see that your men did leave?’

  Petrus looked stricken. ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Right. So the fact that my men handed Portman to your men, which we agreed was the best way to handle this issue, if I recall, to keep it all compartmentalised, makes it all my fault. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Bordel de merde!’ Petrus hissed in a burst of anger. ‘How did they die?’

  ‘Portman, who else? They were discovered a few hours ago just off a mountain road beyond some shithole village called Arta. The lead boy – JoJo? – had dragged himself back on the road but he died minutes after being found. Busted ribs and a punctured lung, the medics reckoned. The other two were dead, one with a cranial depression, the other of a gunshot wound. As you can imagine, questions are now being asked and I’m being forced to fight a rear-guard action to explain it away.’

  Petrus frowned. ‘But how did you find out? Arta … that is Legion territory up there.’

  Lunnberg smiled without a trace of humour. ‘I like to keep an eye on as many facets of an operation as I can, that’s how. And guess what popped up? Three bodies and no sign of an assailant. Good thing one of us has a finger on the pulse, don’t you think?’

  Petrus looked sick. ‘What about Portman?’

  ‘Not a trace. Gone like fairy dust. But I happen to know he flew out to Mogadishu yesterday evening. My guys even found the pilot who took him. How about that?’

  Petrus didn’t know what to say. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Christ, Victor – and I’m sorry I laid into you just now, which was unforgivable of me and unprofessional – but that man is seriously beginning to piss me off. Did you know he’d been here before, by the way – with your own Foreign Legion?’

  ‘What? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Whether he served with them or was on attachment is open to doubt, I don’t know. But that’s immaterial. The fact is, this bozo goes into a secure vehicle with three very tough legionnaires, and he gets out leaving them dead and dying. I’m guessing, of course, that he didn’t know them from his time here, but if he did, it means he’s one cold son of a bitch, wouldn’t you say?’ He snapped his fingers before Petrus could speak. ‘Oh, and he took their car and drove away – probably right back here to Djibouti. Hell, who knows – he could have been sitting in this very hotel earlier, sipping a nice cold beer.’ He did another turn and stared through the window. ‘Jesus, can this really get any more fucked up than it is?’

  ‘What about Masse?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s been no trace. All my boys got was the Brit, Doney. When they found out he didn’t know squat about Masse or the hard drive, they dumped him out in the scrub. He’s probably buzzard meat by now.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Of course dead. In case you haven’t heard, dead men don’t blab. It’s a proven fact.’

  Petrus shook his head, as if that might make matters clearer. ‘What do we do now? If Portman is out there, he will talk.’

  ‘Not if we bring him down first.’ Lunnberg’s eyes glittered. ‘I had my guys ask around, and it seems Masse was using a local air taxi company for getting into Somalia and back. It was one of many local initiatives set up by us, would you beli
eve. Some non-government mission to help give a boost to small business start-ups in the area.’ His tone was layered in sarcasm. ‘Damned if these things don’t always come back and bite us on the ass.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘You, me, the UN, overseas aid, probably even Médecins Sans Frontières and the World Scout Movement. Fucked if I know, but that’s where a lot of our dollars and euros went. Masse was in the habit of using the taxi company to slip across the border and Portman probably did the same.’ He stared at the French man. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’

  ‘I did not need to know. Masse had his methods and I didn’t question them as long as it worked. You must know how it is; men working in deep cover have to make their own arrangements. We cannot dictate what they should do because the situation is fluid and changes day to day.’ He stopped, as if aware that he was rambling. ‘Have your men spoken to this taxi company?’

  ‘That they have. It seems Portman and Masse travelled into Somalia separately. The pilot even knew a flea-bag hotel where my guys figured Masse might be staying. I’m sending a team in to check them out and see.’ He considered the matter for a moment, then said, ‘It would help if you could get some more men on your side to help out – preferably guys who know the region.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do that.’

  ‘What does that mean, not sure?’ Lunnberg looked ready to spit. ‘We have to find this turkey and soon. This is a joint effort, don’t forget; you’re in this as much as we are. We need more bodies on the ground. The first three you supplied weren’t up to the job so make sure the next team’s better.’

  Petrus looked defeated. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Make sure it’s good, my friend – and quick. The sooner they arrive here the sooner they can begin searching the city. If Portman isn’t in Mogadishu there’s only one other place he can be: right here under our noses. And frankly, with what I now know about this guy, I don’t feel happy knowing he’s in the same country.’