Dark Asset

by Adrian Magson

  Two stiff whiskies and three tours of the terrace later, his phone alarm buzzed. He called Seibling. A woman’s voice answered, and he guessed it was the analyst’s wife; she sounded distraught.

  ‘Henry’s been detained,’ she muttered tearfully, when he asked to speak to her husband. ‘He went to the office to get something and there was some kind of alert.’ Her voice rose to a shrill note as if voicing the words had just made her realise the enormity of what this meant for her husband. ‘He’s being questioned by internal security officers!’

  Lunnberg swore silently and ended the call without identifying himself. Seibling had messed up somehow and got himself caught. But he felt no sympathy for the man. He had been quick enough to accept the chance of making some fast money when it arose, and now things had gone bad. He thought back about the phone he’d used to call the man and the possibility that Seibling might rat him out. The phone was untraceable and he’d been very careful to leave no trace of ever having been in contact with the man before. He might face a few questions if Seibling did try to implicate him, but as far as he was concerned it would be a dead end.

  He immediately dialled Ratchman’s number. It was time to close this down. Whether Portman was connected or not no longer mattered. He had to disappear and fast.

  ‘You have a go,’ he said, when Ratchman answered, his voice faint against the noise of the car engine. ‘Take them out and lose them.’

  ‘You got it,’ Ratchman replied. ‘Going in now.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I waited for the incoming vehicle to get closer. It was taking its time, and I wondered if they were stalling to wait for reinforcements from the north. If they did that we were in danger of being trapped on a narrow road with nowhere to run but left or right. I wasn’t sure what kind of terrain lay out there, but I was betting the pickup Masse had acquired wasn’t built for it and would probably fall apart before we’d gone very far.

  I turned and checked the road behind me to see if anybody was approaching from that direction, and cocked an ear to the night air. Apart from a faint rumble from the pickup Masse was driving, nothing else stirred and no lights showed anywhere along the road.

  I turned back and found the buzz of the oncoming engine gradually changing as it got closer, from the tinny hum with that ragged sound in the background we’d heard earlier, to a heavier rattle and the throb of a loose exhaust system that sounded terminal.

  When I estimated it to be about four hundred yards away I knelt on the crest of the rise and lifted the AK to my shoulder. The vehicle was outlined now against a cloud of dust billowing up in its wake like a shroud, and even in the poor light I could see it was an open pickup with a group of men in the back holding onto the frame, their weapons raised in readiness.

  I counted it down to three hundred yards, then placed two rounds in the radiator grill just above the centre line. The idea was to cause maximum system damage and not simply to hit the engine block, which might easily deflect the shots. I needed them to stop and stop dead, rather than keep on rolling. I didn’t wait to see the result but crabbed across to the other side of the road and took up another position in case any of the men had noted my muzzle flash.

  For a second nothing happened. Then the pickup swerved violently. I guessed the driver must have realised belatedly that his crappy engine wasn’t entirely to blame for the double bang and that he was actually taking incoming fire. He seemed about to lose control, but instinct must have told him there was nowhere to go without risking hitting soft earth off the road and rolling over, and he evidently managed to grab the wheel back in time and keep it level. From the way the engine continued running I realised that whatever I’d hit wasn’t going to be enough.

  They were close enough now for me to hear a lot of yelling, and a second later the men in the back began spraying the top of the slope with gunfire. I heard the zip of rounds going high over my head and rolled away to take up another position. As I did so I saw dust kicked up by some lucky shots right where I’d been lying.

  This was getting serious. None of the men on board was in any position to take careful aim, so it could only have been random shots that had come my way. But if you spray off sufficient firepower you’ll eventually get lucky and hit something, proving that random can kill, too. I rolled again and took aim, this time dead centre at the windshield on the driver’s side, and squeezed the trigger.

  By now the pickup was still on flat ground but close to the beginning of the rise. If it didn’t stop now, in about ten or fifteen seconds I was going to have them right alongside me. But I needn’t have worried. Suddenly the engine died and the wheels went crazy. A couple of figures flipped out of the back as the pickup tipped over and skidded sideways across the road, the screech of rending metal echoing all the way to me in the night air.

  It was time to go.

  I was turning to run down the slope to join Masse when some of the dust cloud that had followed the pickup cleared to reveal a set of powerful lights about a quarter of a mile behind. And just behind them, another set.

  It had to be the SUVs. And they were coming up fast.

  I stood up to give myself some elevation and aimed over the wreck of the pickup at the first car and fired twice. It probably wouldn’t do any damage at this distance, but if it made them think twice it might give us a few vital minutes while they cleared the pickup and got back on the road.

  Even as I thought it, I saw the flash of muzzle fire from the first SUV and figured he was shooting at the pickup and hadn’t yet realised what had happened or that I was here. All he wanted to do was get them out of the way.

  When somebody by the pickup began to return fire I thought good luck with that and turned and jogged down the slope to where Masse was waiting with the engine ticking over.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘What the hell!’ Ratchman swore loudly as a shot came out of nowhere and slammed into the bodywork, taking out one of the front lights and blowing a ragged hole in the wing. ‘Carson, hit them now!’ He slowed down to give Carson a steady platform for firing, all the time wondering what they were running into. Whoever or whatever lay behind the cloud of dust up ahead, it was opposition they had to deal with – and do it fast. Then the dust began to thin out and revealed that the tail lights had disappeared. Had they gone off-road or what?

  ‘Where are they?’ he shouted.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ said Ellison, his head out of the window for a better view. ‘I think they crashed but I can’t see shit in this dust.’

  Moments later Carson ducked his head inside the vehicle and confirmed it. ‘Dunno what the hell’s going on up there, boss, but it looks like they flipped over and are side-on across the road.’

  ‘Did you do that?’ Ratchman shouted back.

  ‘I hit ’em, sure, but not that good. Maybe it spooked the driver and he panicked – I can’t tell.’ He swore as a round cracked by overhead. Bringing up his rifle he began firing again with a steady thump-thump of rounds reaching out to the crashed vehicle and the figures around it.

  Ratchman said to Ellison, ‘Get Dom to come alongside. When we get closer, we split up and go off the road, one on each side to catch them in a pincer movement. But tell him to take it easy – we don’t want any busted axles. And keep the line open for further instructions.’

  ‘Got it.’ Ellison got on the phone and relayed the message to Dom in the car behind. Moments later Dom was alongside them with one of his men firing from the back of the vehicle ready to accompany Carson. For a while they held that formation, then Ratchman saw clear space at the side of the road.

  ‘Hold on tight!’ he warned, and turned off, bumping over the rougher terrain and ploughing through clumps of tangled brushwood and coarse grass while Dom took his cue and did the same.

  It worked. The men in the crashed vehicle stopped shooting and began to run as they saw that the two approaching attackers were going to outflank them on both sides. One of them turned and fired twice in haste, but a
lucky shot from Carson knocked him off his feet.

  ‘OK, back on the road!’ Ratchman shouted, and both SUVs began to make for the hard surface again. Moments later they were less than a hundred yards from the pickup and slowing down, using their lights on full beam to illuminate the scene.

  ‘Yeah!’ Carson shouted, and banged his fist on the roof. ‘Get closer and I’ll nail them!’

  Just as he spoke, a figure rose up from behind the pickup and opened fire with a handgun, emptying the magazine and retreating up the slope, before being hit by a volley of shots from Dom’s vehicle.

  ‘Carson’s been hit!’ Jesse yelled. He grabbed his colleague as he crumpled slowly onto the floor, his carbine clattering down the windscreen and across the hood. Carson’s feet were drumming frantically against the back of the cab and he was threshing around in a panic. ‘He’s coughing blood!’

  Ratchman hit the brakes. ‘Ellison, go help the others clear that fucking heap of shit out of the way. I’ll see to Carson.’ He jumped out and ran round to the back just as Carson’s head rolled to the side, his eyes open and sightless. Even in the poor light he could see the black shadow of a bullet hole in his throat oozing a thick layer of blood running down into his shirt.

  He stood up and looked around as a single gunshot sounded off to the left, then another further away. Then silence. He had a churning feeling deep in his gut as he turned back to a man he’d known and worked with for several years. It was too late for Carson but they still had to clear the road and get through. There would be time for regrets later.

  Dom arrived on the run, an assault rifle across his chest, and stared down at the body. ‘Jeez, how did that happen? They were nothing but fucking rag-head bandits!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter who they were or how it happened – it just did. Let’s get on with the job.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘What happened back there?’ Masse demanded, working the gears to take us out of there at maximum speed. It wasn’t as fast as I’d have liked but we were moving and unscathed; you live for small victories like these and hope they keep coming.

  ‘Bandits down, one,’ I said briefly, ‘but the SUVs are still coming and not far behind.’

  He didn’t say anything to that, but focussed on the road ahead. I knew what he was doing: he was winding through the route inside his head and checking the cut-offs and holes in the ground we could head for and wait for the trouble to go on by.

  I checked the AK to see if it was holding up. I had no idea when it had been used last, but it seemed to be living up to the brand reputation for durability. I just hoped we didn’t have to make a stand in a drag-out fight, because we simply didn’t have the weaponry or ammunition between us to last for more than a few minutes.

  Our main problem other than getting caught was finding somewhere to hold up for a full day, then a night. In open countryside with few roads and too many bad people, it was going to be a tough one. But since we didn’t have anybody to call on other than Marten, there was no point getting defeatist. If there was one skill I had, it was keeping my head down.

  ‘How long will it take to get to Dinlaabe?’ I asked.

  He waved a hand. ‘Three hours if we’re lucky. Who can tell in this country?’

  Three hours. It was too long; it would be sunrise in a couple of hours max and we’d be caught out in the open if we didn’t manage to find cover before then. I checked the rear again but saw nothing. The SUVs had either been held up by the crashed pickup or they were playing it cute and driving without lights. It was a risky strategy, but they were playing for keeps.

  After a while we caught up with a heavy truck being followed closely by an open 4WD containing four men in camouflage uniforms. The truck was holding the centre of the road and didn’t look like wanting to move over. The men in the 4WD turned to stare at us, shielding their eyes against our lights and looking edgy.

  ‘Armed escort,’ Masse explained. ‘The truck drivers pay them so they can travel by night and earn double wages, but not many drivers want to risk it. We have to get past them or they will slow us down.’

  ‘Can we push past?’ We had to get past them without getting shot or the SUVs would be sitting right on our tail. The way the men in the back were eyeing us and brandishing their weapons, and the position of the truck in the centre of the road, it didn’t look likely, but we had no choice.

  ‘Sure. You’d better cover your head.’

  I did so and Masse hit the horn and pulled up close behind the 4WD, then turned on the interior light and cut the headlights.

  When the men saw that we weren’t a bunch of thugs packing guns or RPGs, they waved us to go by and flashed their lights to warn the truck driver we were coming. It might have given me more confidence if they hadn’t all been grinning and crowding over to see if we got mashed under the truck’s wheels and spat off to the side of the road in a mangled heap.

  Masse put the headlights back on and hit the gas, taking us up level then past the 4WD, the men in the back slapping their hands against the side of the vehicle in encouragement. It was a tense moment. All it would take was one man to get nervous and we could find ourselves coming under fire. But that wasn’t the worst of it; the truck driver wasn’t playing the game and held his position, leaving less than half a car’s width to get by. It wasn’t going to be enough; I could see soft sand and rocks at the edge of the road, neither of which would do our vehicle any favours if we went off the hard top.

  I’d reckoned without Masse’s expertise in this part of the world. He leaned on the horn until he got the truck driver’s attention, then began to ease up to within touching distance of the rear wheels and began flashing his lights. For a while nothing happened. I could see the driver watching us in his side mirror but he didn’t seem to care. When he began opening and closing his mouth in an obvious shout, I figured he was finally getting the message; if we came off the road he probably wouldn’t escape unscathed – and he was trying to get a delivery made.

  The moment he eased over, Masse hit the gas pedal and took us through, a volley of stones and coarse sand clattering against the bodywork from the truck’s tyres, accompanied by a heavy blast of exhaust fumes and dark smoke.

  It was a close call. The pickup was shaking in the displacement effect caused by the large truck body, but we made it and got a long blast on the horn from the driver. Fortunately, we didn’t meet anybody coming the other way.

  Masse eased off the pedal once we had left the truck behind and looked across at me. ‘Reminds me of the Périphérique,’ he said, referring to the boulevard around Paris which to most foreigners had all the atmosphere and appeal of a deadly chariot race. He gave a short laugh. It was the happiest I’d seen him so far.

  An hour later a faint glow began to show over our right shoulder. It would soon be dawn and our chances of finding cover were narrowing fast. We also had to feed the fuel tank and we couldn’t do that by stopping at the side of the road.

  ‘I have it,’ Masse said suddenly, and began to slow down. ‘There’s a village about ten kilometres ahead. It’s big enough to hide in if we find the right spot. I don’t think they will risk attacking us there.’

  ‘It’s your turf,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’ I had a feeling that whatever lead we might have gained on the SUVs would be narrowed down very quickly once they got past the crash site. If we weren’t concealed by then, it would be too late to do anything.

  We passed a few isolated huts made of a variety of materials, their shapes resembling upturned bowls, but nothing large enough to offer any kind of shelter for the pickup. The road dipped and began to run through a shallow depression, giving us shadowy glimpses of straggly dhirindhir bushes and acacia trees caught in the headlights on either side. It felt good to sink below the skyline behind us; whatever time we gained out of sight would give us a slight edge to find somewhere to disappear for the rest of tonight and the next day.

  ‘It’s just up ahead,’ said Masse, and began to slow down.


  Just then my phone buzzed. I checked the screen. No caller I.D. I tried to think who, among the very small group of people with this number, might be calling at this time of night. Whatever the guess, I would have been wrong.

  ‘Watchman, come in.’

  I had one of those incredulous moments, when logic tells you it can’t be so; that whatever you’re going through has only a set number of possibilities, and anything outside that simply doesn’t compute. It’s a temporary thing, like picking up your phone on vacation in a foreign country and finding somebody from way back in your past wanting to play catch-up.

  Then I remembered who the person speaking worked for. ‘Now that’s a welcome voice. Hi, Lindsay.’ I know, not exactly smooth, but it was late and I was tired. Sue me.

  Lindsay Citera, a young comms specialist with the CIA, works deep in the heart of their Langley HQ surrounded by computers and screens and breathing the sterile atmosphere of all such environments, where clean is essential if only to give a feeling of stark efficiency. Unlike most comms specialists I’d worked with, most of them top rate, Lindsay was on another plane; she had helped me out of a number of hot spots in the past by her skills with maps, satellite systems, signals know-how and calm resourcefulness in moments of extreme tension.

  ‘We figured you could use some help,’ she replied. ‘And before you ask, the comms are secure.’

  I wasn’t going to, but it was good to know. Modern end-to-end encryption technology means communication between users can now be made secure very easily, especially for short-term periods, after which a hack might be possible. But I figured if anyone had the highest grade military systems available to make that unlikely, it would be the CIA.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr Vale alerted us to your situation and Brian Callahan assigned me to assist. Can you confirm if this is your location?’ She spoke calmly and read out a series of numbers, and I checked on my cell phone for the GPS position. The numbers were correct.