‘I understand. But if he’s in Mogadishu? That’s a big place to search – and dangerous.’
Lunnberg checked his watch. ‘Not for my guys. In fact they should be getting ready to leave about now, anyway. The plan is to arrive at a point twenty klicks outside Mogadishu and drive in. They should be in the city about 03.00 hours.’
Petrus raised his eyebrows. ‘That soon? Impossible.’
In answer, Lunnberg cocked his head to one side and raised a finger towards the ceiling, where a clattering sound was making itself heard above the air-conditioning. It was a common enough sound over the city and the military base at Lemmonnier, with night missions a regular occurrence, and a sound Petrus had grown accustomed to ignoring. But Lunnberg seemed to find it particularly relevant. ‘Chinooks make everything possible. It’s over a thousand miles by road to Mogadishu, so I pulled a little weight over at the special forces camp and their tactical group agreed to get off their bunks and fly my boys in with their vehicles. Sounds like the ride just arrived.’
Petrus looked surprised. ‘Won’t the Somalis object?’
‘They would have. But when their defence minister heard he’ll be receiving an ex-gratia payment for the use of their air space he decided to overlook the intrusion and went back to bed.’
‘What are their orders?’
‘Simple: find Portman and the hard drive and dispose of them.’
‘And Masse?’
‘Him, too. Collateral damage, Victor. Shit happens.’
Victor Petrus walked back to his room in a daze, wondering at what point this assignment had begun to slide out of control. It was supposed to be a joint exercise between the two countries and their relevant agencies, but Lunnberg had virtually taken over on arrival, leaving Petrus in the dark, even to the extent of arranging an incursion into Somali territory to find Masse and Portman and dispose of them.
He felt a tiny worm of guilt about Masse, but he wasn’t pretending feelings he didn’t have. The man had always been left to do his own thing while paying lip service to procedure and orders, and the relationship between them had never been easy. But so far it had proved sufficiently effective and nobody had minded; Degouvier himself had said more than once that he should allow Masse the freedom to operate as he saw fit.
Petrus had often considered that Masse’s main strengths – his intimate knowledge and experience in the region – could easily turn into a liability. He’d been out here on his own for too long, especially after his wife had left him, and had recently made little secret of his desire to return to France. Petrus suspected that he had dreams of re-uniting with his wife, and had said as much to Degouvier. But he’d been fobbed off and told to let Masse run for a while longer, as putting in a replacement at this juncture would take too long.
Now it had blown up in their faces. And all because they had lost the initiative to Lunnberg and his team of killers.
He returned to his room and thought hard about what to say to Degouvier. He already knew that there would be no more resources. The three sent in earlier had been the maximum allowed, and now that had ended in disaster the door would be slammed shut on any further commitment. God alone knew how he was going to explain the losses so far, but he would have to face that later.
Before calling Paris he dialled Portman’s number. It was probably a waste of time like earlier attempts, but if he could speak to the American, he might at least rescue something from this débâcle and find out what had happened. Exactly how much trust he could place in him after the deaths of the three men was open to doubt. The call went to voice mail and he rang off. He checked his watch. Degouvier should be in the office waiting for news. With any luck what Petrus was about to tell him would make him wish he’d stayed at home.
NINETEEN
I gave it forty-five minutes before moving, taking occasional sips of water from the supplies I’d brought with me. Nothing had stirred save for a couple of stray dogs, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t being watched. I left the AK in the back of the car and held the SIG by my side and started walking.
The distance to the building was about three hundred yards, most of it past other tumbledown structures I could use for cover. It was a ghost town and I paused regularly on the way, checking my back-trail and listening to the night. I came to a stop before making the last hundred yards across open ground. Nothing moved and there were no sounds save for a few rustling noises of night creatures going about their business.
I reached the front of the building and stepped through the entrance, which was littered with broken glass and debris from the volley of gunfire that had made holes in the rotting fabric and exposed some of the core structure. I moved over to the crashed elevator and checked for the rope, but it had been taken down. It was bad news but only if somebody turned up like last time. Since I wasn’t planning on staying around long, I decided to tough it out and get moving. The sooner I was up there the sooner I could get back down and be on my way.
Another reason I was here was to see if the dead man had been taken away. If he had I’d wasted my time; if he hadn’t, I was going to run another check of the body to test a theory.
The stairs were covered in even more grit and debris than the last time, testimony to the damage done by the assault team gunning the inside and using fragmentation grenades. I didn’t dare use a flashlight yet, so I was pretty much feeling my way. Six floors was a long way to climb under these conditions and the air was clammy here, making breathing difficult. I stopped each time I came to a window where I could look out towards the city. If anybody was going to turn up it would be from that direction, and if I saw lights coming, I’d have maybe two minutes to get back downstairs and out of here and duck into cover.
I got to the top floor and stepped through the doorway into the room where I’d found the body. The ambient light up here was better, with the soft glow of starlight coming through the window spaces, and I immediately saw the dark shape on the floor. I also smelled it. The soldiers who’d attacked the building had clearly decided not to move it, and my first instinct was that they’d left it in case anybody came back to claim it. But that made little sense, and I figured they had merely taken the easy option because to take it with them would involve explanations, paperwork … and nobody had given those orders to do so.
In the meantime the heat and insects had begun their work, and the body was in an advanced state of decay, the air filled with the stink of decaying flesh.
I checked the entire floor first, scanning the outside through the window openings for signs of movement. I had a good view of the surrounding streets from up here and, further over, a distant array of working lights from the port and a few in the city centre. Nothing and nobody moved close, which suited me just fine.
I went back to the body and put a couple of plastic bags on my hands for protection. This wasn’t going to be pleasant, and I had no real reason to be doing it, but the theory I wanted to test was simple: some private military contractors, especially working alone under deep cover, were rumoured to carry some form of ID or currency concealed about them in case they got compromised or captured and needed to buy or bargain their way out; or if the worst happened, they could be identified and somebody notified of their death. It wasn’t a universal rule and not something I’d ever done, since most of my assignments were short-term, in-and-out trips relying on staying on the move and out of trouble.
I crabbed over to the body with one ear cocked for visitors, and knelt down. As I got close a furious buzzing sound exploded around me as a swarm of flies rose in the air like a dense blanket, hundreds, maybe thousands of darting shapes flicking at the skin of my face and hands, desperate not to leave the feast and annoyed at being disturbed.
I took a flashlight and a knife out of my pocket. I shaded the light with my fingers to check the dead man’s shoes. They were sturdy but worn down on the heels and scuffed, which I figured was intentional; nobody goes into this kind of war zone with shiny brogues and razor creases unle
ss they’re looking to get noticed. Good clothes equate to money and that means an easy target.
A couple of careful slashes with the knife took care of the laces, which were strained and biting into the leather because of the swollen condition of the feet and ankles. I checked the shoe heels first. They came away easily enough but there was nothing concealed there or under the feet. I scanned the rest of the body, rolling it to see if there was anything taped to the small of the back or beneath the arms. That left the belt, which was almost embedded in the dead man’s waist. It was made of double-layered webbing and caked in dried blood from where he’d been stabbed. I cut it away and moved over to a blind corner of the room where I could risk using the flashlight for a closer look.
At first glance it looked ordinary, with nothing special about the buckle and no obvious hiding place … until I came to a halfway point approximating to the wearer’s spine. The webbing showed a slight bulge at this point, and I sliced open the stitching. A slim wad of US dollars, the universal currency, was folded into the gap, and alongside it a sliver of plastic no thicker than a cigarette paper. It wasn’t marked with any name or numbers, but there was a bar code on one side. I guessed if it was scanned with a reader it would reveal a name and possibly a contact number if anybody cared enough to check it out and make the call.
As I put the plastic in my pocket I heard a sound from down below. It wasn’t much; maybe a street dog foraging for food. But when I heard the crunch of grit echoing up the stairs I knew I had bigger company.
My time was up.
I removed my shoes and tied the laces together and hung them round my neck. The next few minutes were going to be uncomfortable, but walking down the stairs in shoes would make too much noise. I stepped out onto the landing and listened. Two men whispering, maybe were egging each other on. That was a good sign if they were locals looking for something to steal; not so good if they were armed and ready to shoot.
I moved down the stairs towards them, keeping tight to the inside wall housing the elevator shaft. I passed the fifth floor landing, then arrived at the fourth, and heard a whisper just below. They must have sensed my presence and stopped.
I looked at the shaft doors which were partially open, and bent down, feeling for a piece of rubble. I fastened on a chunk of plaster about the size of a baseball, and tossed it through the opening. A couple of seconds silence, then a muffled clatter when it hit the crashed elevator at the bottom.
One of the men gave a yell, and I hit the stairs on the run. Instinct alone would have made them look down, expecting somebody to have entered the building behind them. I took advantage of that and came round the bend in the stairs and flicked on the flashlight.
It caught them with their mouths open and looking at each other in shock. Two young guys, no more than late teens, early twenties. Their clothes looked ragged and worn, and one was carrying a long machete with a rusty blade, the other was holding a hefty stick.
I pushed the SIG forward into the light so they could get a good look. As young as they were, they recognised the poor odds against a semi-automatic and froze.
Using the gun barrel I motioned for them to put down their weapons. They did it, and when I pointed down the stairs, they grabbed hold of each other and scurried down, trying not to break into a run. I didn’t bother asking what they were doing here; they were probably homeless, opportunists looking to find anything they could take and sell. Had they been serious they would have come in like the last group I’d seen here, armed with more than a machete and a stick.
We reached the ground floor in silence, and I whistled to get their attention. When they turned and looked at me, they probably thought that was it; they were dead. But I pointed to the front door and motioned for them to go.
Three in the morning in central Mogadishu is a place of shadows, of stray animals, of gutted buildings and vehicles and dangerous young men armed with automatic weapons and too much ammunition. It’s not a place for the faint-hearted, the innocent or the over-imaginative. You have to go there knowing the odds and the risks and not to treat it without the utmost caution.
The fabric of the city at first sight is by turn a mix of ancient buildings and ruins, elegant villas, commercial and government buildings … and dense, low-level housing and squalor. The colour scheme varies from glittering white to mostly drab grey, although right now I was staring at dark and darker, with occasional oases of light where the more obstinate or courageous among the inhabitants were carrying on life as if each day were their last and the dangers outside were simply to be tolerated. I’d already passed several burned-out buildings and wrecked cars, the presence of ambulances and emergency services showing signs of the most recent attacks. These locations of violence were often uncomfortably close to wide boulevards wearing the style and grace of Italy or France in their layout and design, and the contrast was vivid, but mostly sad.
Intersections posed a potential choke-point, with groups of young men standing around looking mean, many armed and prone to sudden bouts of excited aggression. There were also plenty of government troops, and trucks full of what looked like African Union soldiers, all heavily armed and watching out for the next potential spike of violence. The tension in the atmosphere was like a wave, and I drove with the SIG under my thigh and the AK on the passenger seat. If I had to bail out for any reason, I would need the firepower to fight off an attack and get clear. Although I was keeping my eyes at least three blocks ahead of my position, scoping for a diversion around a trouble spot if I needed one, I was counting on not stopping for anything or anyone.
I’d been driving for twenty minutes, and was close to the section of the city housing the hotel Masse had told me about, when the inside of the car was lit up from behind. Three lights, two of them vehicle headlights and the third a spotlight. Whoever was on the spot was dancing it around in my rear-view mirror to distract me. I hung a left and watched in the mirror as I was free of the light for a moment and the outline of the vehicle behind me became clear.
It was a pickup full of men, rifles waving in the air like the quills on a porcupine. I couldn’t make out any uniforms and suspected they weren’t wearing any. When they swung left after me and the driver began leaning on his horn, I knew I was in for a chase.
I put on speed. With no way of knowing who they were, I wasn’t about to stop for a chat. Pickups full of gunmen didn’t always mean insurgents, but the alternatives could be members of a local clan or gang. Whoever they were, I doubted I’d be able to come up with a convincing story as to why I was driving about the city at this time of the night. Or why I was carrying a handgun and an assault rifle.
I hit another turn and blasted along a narrow street full of litter and soft debris. It was probably a regular market area, but thankfully with no cars or carts to get in my way. Unfortunately, the same held true for the boys in the pickup, and they were soon on my tail.
When they began shooting, I decided enough was enough. The first shots were spaced out, aimed over the roof as a warning. When I failed to stop, somebody back there got excited and let loose a couple of volleys, most of which missed the Peugeot completely and hit houses and shops on either side of the street. But it was only a matter of time before one of the shooters got lucky and either hit me or burst a tyre.
I turned again, leaving it to the last second to slam on the brakes and haul the wheel round while hoping I wasn’t about to end up in somebody’s courtyard, nose buried in a solid stone wall.
Pickups full of men are inherently unstable, even if well-maintained, which I guess this one wasn’t. I’d seen plenty of examples of vehicles hitting a corner too fast and flipping over, spilling their cargo like skittles. I wasn’t about to outgun these guys but I could try and upset the driver, who was probably being urged on by his pals, slapping him on the back and daring him not to use the brakes but to keep his foot planted on the floor.
As we screamed along a narrow street towards an intersection with a wider boulevard, a couple
of shots pinged into the back of the Peugeot, one taking out the rear window. This was getting serious. I had to find a way of ditching these guys.
Then I saw my chance. Up ahead a bunch of mostly young men were crowded around a car that had ploughed into one side of a large stone archway and spun round. One wheel was buckled beneath the bodywork, and the men were shouting and laughing, jabbing at the driver with their guns. It was easy to see they were up to no good. When they heard us coming, they forgot about their victim and went quiet, turning to see what was bearing down on them. The trouble was, most of them were right in my way and showing no signs of moving.
I grabbed the SIG and stuck my arm out of the window, letting off a couple of shots at the pickup behind me. I wasn’t expecting to hit anything, but the response was immediate. Now I really was of interest and had to be stopped. A sustained burst of firing came back, again mostly missing me but striking the buildings around the group of men up ahead instead.
They reacted the way I wanted, mostly diving for cover and clearing the centre of the street, their startled faces lit up by the spotlight. But a couple stood their ground on the sidewalk and decided that if I was being fired on, I was being oppressed and in need of support.
Either way, they began shooting at the pickup, those without guns dancing around and encouraging the others to blast it off the road.
As I hit the boulevard and turned the corner, I glanced back and saw the pickup wobble under the onslaught. The spotlight blew out followed by one of the headlights, and suddenly the front wheels gave way as the driver tried to make a tight turn to escape the bullets. The last glimpse I had was of the pickup rolling over, spilling men and guns across the street before ploughing upside down into the front of a burned-out café.
Dark Asset Page 14
