Dark Asset

by Adrian Magson

I stopped only when I was sure I was no longer being followed. Holding the SIG I jumped out to check the tyres; being immobilised right now would be the worst kind of news. I was pretty close to the hotel Masse had mentioned, but with all the activity I’d created, I knew I had to get clear of the area before a bunch of troops and police began crawling the streets looking for somebody to shoot.

  The car was fine. I wasn’t bothered by the hole in the window because cars were random victims of stray bullets most days of the week, and a lot of drivers figured it wasn’t worth getting repairs done when they could get the same damage the next day.

  As I was about to get back in, two men appeared from a side street about three hundred yards away. They were both armed and stared hard at me for a second, before beginning to jog-trot down the center of the street towards me, waving their rifles in the air and shouting. If they were expecting me to put my hands up, they had another think coming.

  I ducked into the car and pulled out the AK. A SIG was no good for this kind of distance. I hadn’t had a chance to check the sights on the AK yet or see if the old weapon would stand a discharge, but now was a good time to find out. I aimed somewhere in between the two men and fired once, and saw the round kick up a puff of dust where it struck the road thirty feet behind them. Pulling slightly to the left and high. I fired again, kicking up the road right between them, and one of the men stopped in his tracks, then turned and ran off.

  His buddy was either brave or high as a kite and kept coming, picking up speed and pushing his rifle out in front of his body and loosing off a couple of shots in my direction without even aiming. He was either supremely optimistic or unaware that a gun is only as effective as the person using it. Maybe he’d watched too many westerns, where shooting accurately from horseback on the run was the norm and looked easy. His friend was shouting at him, probably to back off, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

  This was getting silly. If he continued firing off rounds, all it would take was for one to get lucky and I’d be down or I’d have a blown tyre. Either way would be disastrous. I took aim, breathed out calmly and squeezed off a shot. The gunman seemed to skip and stumble for a second, then dropped his rifle and rolled to one side and lay still.

  The second man was nowhere to be seen, so I got back in the car and drove away. Five minutes later I was parked in a quiet back street bordered on both sides by high walls and trees. The hotel was called the Mamet and situated on the corner of the back street and a main thoroughfare, with a side door set in the wall. Even in the poor light I could see the building possessed an air of faded grace, with patches of plaster missing from the wall and a general air of sadness and neglect. I gave the side door a try but it was locked. There was nothing for it – I’d have to go in the front.

  The entrance was a double glass door with an elegant but heavy wrought-iron grille behind it. Both were locked, but in the dim light from inside I could see a concierge sitting behind a tall reception desk, his head just visible as he stared out at me with wide eyes. I used the flashlight to show my face and he looked startled. I guess seeing a white face at this time of night wasn’t that common.

  He opened the door a crack and peered out at me. ‘Sir, it is very late,’ he said softly. ‘I am not permitted to allow you entry as I know you do not have a booking.’ He spoke with careful precision and looked saddened at not letting me in, as if he had somehow failed in his main duty.

  I took out a couple of notes and held them up for him to see. ‘I don’t need a room,’ I said quietly. ‘I just need to speak with you. I am willing to pay for your time as I can see you are a conscientious person.’

  He blinked, although whether it was my polite approach or seeing the money or the fact that I didn’t want a room, I couldn’t tell. But he was clearly intrigued. Eventually, he opened the door enough to allow me in, then closed it again quickly after checking the street both ways.

  The foyer was cool and smelled of lavender and mint, and contained a couple of soft chairs and a bookcase. The walls were covered in faded posters of times long gone, and the light I had seen came from a reading lamp behind the reception desk.

  ‘Sir,’ the concierge said, resuming his seat, ‘how may I help you?’

  I put the notes down in front of him. He looked at them but made no move to pick them up, waiting for me to speak my piece.

  ‘A friend of mine stayed here recently,’ I told him. ‘A Frenchman named Masse. He was in room five.’

  He nodded, eyes closing briefly. ‘Yes, that is correct, sir. I remember.’

  ‘He left something in the room and asked me to pick it up next time I was passing through.’

  He looked at me without expression, as if passing through in the middle of the night in this violent and unstable city was perfectly normal. ‘I have cleaned the room, sir. There is nothing there, I assure you.’

  ‘Would it be possible to go to the room and look?’ As I said it, I placed two more notes on the desk. ‘This is for disturbing you so late.’

  He thought it over, then nodded. If I wanted to waste my time and pay for the privilege, who was he to argue? The notes disappeared. ‘Please, sir, follow me.’

  We climbed the stairs and he led me to a door on the first floor. Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket he unlocked the door and let me in, switching on the light. The room was clean and cool and also smelled of lavender and mint. The window was open, letting in a breeze that carried a mix of smells from the city around us, some of them less than pleasant. It probably accounted for the need for fragrance in all the rooms. I stepped inside and looked towards the bed for the air vent Masse had mentioned.

  It was down by the bedhead, just behind a small wooden cabinet. The concierge watched without comment as I bent and put a finger behind the grill to test it. It fell out of the cavity without a problem and I saw a layer of plaster dust on the beam below. I already knew what I was going to find, but I felt around inside, anyway. Nothing. No hard drive, just a thin layer of dust and dead insects.

  ‘Has Mr Masse been back here in the last couple of days?’ I asked.

  ‘No, sir. I am sorry. He has not.’ He was looking right at me when he spoke, and I guessed he owed some loyalty to Masse that over-rode any honesty to a stranger.

  ‘Did he always use this room when he was here?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Always this room, number five. He enjoyed the view of the street. Behind the hotel is a garden with many flowers, but he liked to hear the sounds of people.’

  ‘Is anybody else staying here right now?’

  He shook his head. ‘It is very quiet just now, sir. Out of season, you see.’ He said it with a perfectly straight face and I believed him. I also felt sorry for him; as far as I could see the season didn’t look like coming back anytime soon.

  Before I could ask another question, there was a rattle of gunfire in the distance, muffled by the surrounding buildings. The concierge seemed not to notice and stood away from the door, a signal for me to leave. Our transaction was done.

  I nodded, and was about to turn and leave when my cell phone buzzed. I took it out and pressed the button, and a familiar voice said, ‘You have to get out of there.’ It was André Masse, sounding oddly calm for such an urgent message. ‘Don’t wait, leave now.’

  As he finished speaking the sound of a powerful engine drifted down the street and through the open window. This time the concierge looked concerned. I walked over to the window, which fronted on the main street, and took a look.

  A pale coloured SUV, possibly a GMC or Ford model, was slowing to a stop fifty yards away, its headlights flaring off the walls of the buildings on either side. The lights snapped off but nobody got out. I couldn’t tell how many passengers were inside but it had to be more than one for a vehicle that size. A flare of light came from the other direction and an identical vehicle stopped the same distance away and also killed its lights.

  It was too much of a coincidence seeing two such vehicles arriving here r
ight now. And it didn’t take much to work out who might have had the muscle and means to get here in the middle of the night: it had to be Lunnberg. As I’d seen already, he had access to the men, weapons and vehicles. I couldn’t see inside either car but I was willing to lay a large bet that they were the same squad that had taken me out of the hotel in Djibouti. The question was, how had they known where to come?

  I went to say something to Masse but he’d already gone.

  The concierge touched my arm and said, ‘I will show you out, sir. You may wish to use the side door.’ With that he turned and hurried down the stairs, beckoning me to follow.

  I thanked him again and told him it might be better not to let the men in, or to stay well out of their way until they’d gone. He nodded gratefully, and I got the feeling he would stay at his post no matter what.

  I got back in the Peugeot and drove well away before turning on my lights.

  All I had to figure out now was what the hell I did next.

  TWENTY

  Ratchman ordered two of his men into the hotel, while two from the other car circled the block to cut off any chance of Masse slipping away if he was inside. He’d got a feeling this place was the most likely bolthole for the Frenchman, and with luck they’d find him shacked up with some young Somali girl instead of attending to business. Maybe they’d get double lucky and stumble on Portman, too. He was still smarting at being told by Lunnberg how easily Portman had got away from the three ex-legionnaires, and with such deadly effect, and how he should have taken care of it himself. The main thought on his mind now was catching up with the man and putting him out of the game for good. Then they could deal with Masse.

  So far it was going according to plan. The Chinook had dropped them ten miles outside the city, before lowering the ramp and allowing the two Ford Raptors to roll out. Minutes later it was taking off again and heading in a wide curve back towards Djibouti.

  After checking the coordinates, Ratchman had ordered both vehicles to head for the building where Petrus had told Lunnberg the body of a white male had been found. What Petrus didn’t know was that in all likelihood it was former US sergeant, Josh McBride. And neither could he ever know. Ratchman’s instructions on the subject had been crystal clear: if the body was still there, it must not be identifiable by the Somalis or the French.

  On arrival they had spread out and covered the area around the industrial site, checking for opposition. In the distance they could hear sporadic gunfire around the city, but nothing close by.

  Ratchman had taken two men with him to check the building floor by floor while the others remained on lookout outside ready to repel any attack.

  The all-too familiar smell had hit them while they were two floors away, and Ratchman had decided not to waste time searching for anything. If Portman had been here already, there would be nothing useful left to find. He nodded to Domenic, who placed a small thermite charge beneath the body and set it off. As they ran back down the stairs, there was a muffled explosion and a flash of bright light as the thermite and barium nitrate mix ate the body away with a fierce heat.

  Moments later they had driven clear of the area and headed straight for the hotel Marten had named. Although it looked closed up tight at first, it was showing a dim light in the reception area. Ratchman gave the men a few minutes to check out the building before following them inside, leaving the driver at the wheel. He found an older man sitting on the floor in front of the reception desk. He was unhurt but had both hands behind his head and looked terrified, one of his legs shaking uncontrollably and his foot drumming on the tiles. A former marine named Carson was standing over him with a pistol pointed at his forehead. The sound of footsteps echoed from the floor upstairs, and the slamming of a door.

  ‘What does he say?’ Ratchman asked, and pressed his foot on the man’s leg to stop the drumming.

  Carson said, ‘He’s the night porter. Reckons Masse was here but not for a couple of days now. In fact he says the place is empty. Jesse’s up there making sure he ain’t lying.’

  ‘Is that correct?’ Ratchman toed the man in the side with his boot. It was a gentle nudge but hard enough to show he wasn’t fooling, and the man nodded. ‘Have there been any visitors looking for Masse?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The man said carefully, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Trade is regrettably not good at the moment. This is a quiet season for us.’

  ‘Quiet?’ Ratchman snapped out a brief laugh. ‘I bet the fuck it’s quiet. You ask me, you should put that on TripAdvisor, my friend. Quiet season. Except for all the gunfire and car bombs every night. Am I right?’

  ‘Very true, sir, yes. It is a sad time for us.’

  ‘No shit. It’s like Tombstone. But I guess you wouldn’t know about that, would you – Tombstone, I mean.’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘So, Masse’s been and gone and there’s been nobody else asking after him.’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  Ratchman debated giving Carson the nod to sign him off, but just then his cell phone rang. It was Domenic outside in the other Raptor.

  ‘We’ve got company: a bunch of guys in a pickup just pulled in a hundred yards behind us down the street. They’re armed and looking ready for a fight.’

  Ratchman switched his phone to broadcast so that Carson could hear everything. ‘Are they government?’

  ‘Not unless they’re going to a fancy dress party. There’s about six guys all told and they’re waving a bunch of AKs and a couple of RPGs. Their shitty pickup looks low on the springs like it’s about to do a crap.’

  Probably bandits high on khat, Ratchman thought. That wasn’t good news. Khat was the drug of choice in these parts, a plant which produces a sense of euphoria and excitement, making some users believe they were bullet-proof. It wouldn’t take them long to make a move, as the Raptors would be too tempting to ignore. Once they kicked off it wouldn’t take long for a bunch of others to join in, eager for a piece of the action.

  ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘Not long. They’re trying to figure us out, probably – or waiting for backup. Who can tell?’

  ‘Right. We’re coming out. Are you boys all loaded up?’

  ‘Yes. We didn’t see anybody, although a car was heading away to the west as we arrived. It wasn’t burning rubber so it could have been anybody.’

  Ratchman made a rapid assessment of the situation. If Domenic and his men were facing away from the bandits, it would be easier for Ratchman and his team to tackle the men in the pickup head-on. One thing was certain: they weren’t going to allow two prime muscle vehicles to drive off into the night. The moment they made a move, the bandits would follow very quickly and wait for a chance to hit them.

  ‘Listen up. We’ll come out of the hotel and back to our vehicle. Then we’ll roll down the street like nothing’s wrong. As soon as we pass you, move forward and make a sharp left down the side of the hotel and follow that car your guys saw. We’ll take care of the pickup.’

  ‘Take care of meaning what, exactly?’ There was an edge of excitement in Domenic’s voice and Ratchman knew the Latino was keen for some action and would be happy to deal with the pickup in a heartbeat.

  ‘Put them out of business, what do you think? Don’t worry, Dom – there’s plenty more out there for you to deal with. Now, get ready. We’ll track your cell and meet up in fifteen on the edge of the city.’

  ‘Copy that,’ Domenic acknowledged. ‘See you then.’

  Ratchman signalled to Carson. ‘Get Jesse down here now. We go out to the car together, then drive along the street until we get close to the pickup. But wait for my call. We need to be up close and personal to take out these guys, especially the RPGs.’ At such close quarters, even a poor shot with a rocket propelled grenade would cause havoc.

  ‘Right.’ Carson called his colleague, his voice echoing up the stairs. Moments later Jesse, a skinny young black guy with a shaved head, joined them. He was carrying an assault rifle
, barrel up and the butt tucked into his hip.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’re leaving,’ said Ratchman. ‘Back to the car, no looking around and keep your weapon low but ready. This is going to get hot. You set?’

  ‘I hear you. What about him?’ Jesse nodded at the night porter.

  ‘It’s his lucky day. He lives.’ Ratchman looked at the porter and pointed to the door. ‘Go take a look. Are the men in the pickup al-Shabaab?’ He didn’t actually care who they were, except that there was a difference in fighting ability between a bunch of opportunist bandits and members of the terrorist movement. The latter would be more prepared for a confrontation and trained to deal with opposition.

  The porter climbed to his feet and walked over to the front door. He peered out for several seconds, then came back and said, ‘Sir, I think I know these kinds of men. They come to this district many times. They are criminals. I think they will not want you to leave.’ He struggled for the words. ‘There are many like them who do very bad things.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Ratchman pointed to the chair behind the desk. ‘Well, we can do very bad things, too, so I suggest you go sit down and don’t move. We’re just leaving.’

  The man nodded and sat down behind the desk, eyes lowered and murmuring softly to himself.

  Thirty seconds later the men had gone, leaving the hotel empty and heavily silent, as if a storm had just passed by.

  By the time they returned to the Raptor, Ellison, the driver, had the engine ticking over and ready to roll. Ratchman climbed in the front alongside him, and the other two jumped in the cargo area at the back and braced themselves.

  Carson reached into a canvas bag at his feet and produced two rounded objects. ‘Frags ready to go,’ he said with a grin, referring to fragmentation grenades. ‘Boom-boom time. This is gonna get noisy, folks.’

  Ratchman said, ‘You all got ear plugs, you better use them.’ Then he tapped Ellison’s shoulder. ‘Nice and steady now, like we’re on a Sunday afternoon ride. Go past Dom until you get close to the pickup. We’re just cruising, so no rush. We don’t want to spook them.’ He got an affirmative and turned to the other two in the back and called, ‘We wait until we’re alongside and take out anybody holding an RPG. Then dump a couple of frags among ’em and a burst of fire. Jesse, you work on the guys in the front; we don’t want anybody chasing us. After that we go fast and far. Got it?’