‘I know what he’s thinking because I’ve been there. He’s on high alert and if he’d seen anything suspicious he’d have called up his buddies by now to cover the area.’
‘How do you know they won’t kill us on sight?’
‘They won’t risk it. They have orders to get the hard drive and they won’t kill you until they’re sure you’ve got it.’
He absorbed that in silence, and I think he realised that once they had him, his life would last no longer than mine. ‘I don’t know … this is madness. We are going to get caught!’
I turned my head and looked at him. ‘André. Take it easy. We’ll only get caught if they see us. And they’ll only do that if you make a wrong move.’
He blinked as he realised I was talking to him in French, and shook his head, making a bead of sweat break loose and roll down his cheek. It left a line in the layer of dust on his face. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. ‘OK. You’re right. I’m good. Don’t worry.’
I focussed once more on the man by the building. He hadn’t moved but had turned away, his head dipping as he checked the rest of the area. Whatever he saw must have looked safe, because he lowered his weapon and stepped back out of sight.
I breathed easier, and lowered the AK, glad the man hadn’t come any closer or stood there any longer. One thing Mr Kalashnikov hadn’t been able to do was to make his weapons out of modern lightweight materials. It’s an uncomfortable position, holding a heavy assault rifle to the shoulder for too long; even with all the training in the world, it’s a strain on the neck and arms, producing the dreaded shakes and barrel wobble. Not good in a potential fire-fight.
The sound of breaking wood echoed from inside the warehouse, and I guessed the men had gone in to search the interior. I could hear snatches of conversation but not what they were saying. Depending on what was inside, they wouldn’t take long to figure out that the building was a bust.
Another whistle, this one a double and sounding urgent, followed by a muffled shout. Then the sound of running footsteps and car doors slamming, and an engine bursting into life. There was a screech of dust and stones being kicked up and the engine faded as the vehicle drove away.
Something was up.
I waited a full five minutes in case they were playing smart and waiting for us to pop out. If they’d left a couple of men behind, we could find ourselves walking right into a gun. If that happened, we were done for and there would be no way out.
Masse didn’t like it, I could tell by his manner. He wanted to get up and leave, but he also understood the risks if any of Ratchman’s men were still around.
Just as I was about to stand up my phone buzzed. It was Lindsay. ‘Watchman come in. You have a convoy approaching your location from the north-east, approximately two miles out. Three trucks, look like military with armed men in the back, possibly African Union or TFG forces. I have no up-to-date information on local troop movements, so I can’t verify who they are. ETA your position eight minutes.’
‘Copy that. You got the drone, then?’
‘It’s a short-term loaner,’ she confirmed, ‘on a diverted overflight, so it can’t stay long. What’s your location?’
‘Look for a large structure and some truck wrecks. If your drone has thermal imaging, we’re the hot spot behind the building.’
‘Hold on. Just circling and … I have your location but the imagery is unclear. It looks like a warehouse … and is that a breaker’s yard? Are you inside?’
‘No. Close by but out in the open.’
‘Copy that. I see a vehicle leaving … and another one waiting just down the street. Both SUVs. Wait … it’s turning away and the other is following. Now heading out to the east from the village at speed and away from the approaching convoy. Sorry – I’m losing the picture feed … the controller has called urgent priority.’
At least it explained why the bad guys were leaving in such a hurry. The last people they’d want to tangle with would be the military. At the very least they would ask some pointed questions about what a group of armed white men was doing in the region. Or maybe they wouldn’t take any chances and would simply blow them away as possible bandits or terror suspects.
‘What’s your plan?’ Lindsay asked. Her voice was calm but she could clearly appreciate the threat facing us if the convoy came into the village for a closer look.
I said, ‘We don’t have time to get clear, so we’ll sit tight.’ Even if we got back to the pickup without being spotted and drove out of the village, we stood a high risk of being sandwiched between the SUVs and the incoming trucks. Neither was a good option.
‘Got that. Good luck.’
I switched off and looked at Masse, who was looking even more concerned. ‘The SUVs have gone but there are military trucks on the way in.’
‘Trucks? Why – what are they doing here?’
‘I have no idea. Probably chasing insurgents. It could be a coincidence. But we can’t stay out here. It’s going to get very hot under this tarp and if they’re doing a close search the trucks might come right into this compound and drive over us.’
I got to my knees and crawled out from under the tarp, and that was when I heard the grind of heavy engines echoing faintly over the houses. They were still some distance away, but close enough to be a real threat.
Masse heard them, too. ‘We should leave now and put distance between us.’
‘That’s no longer an option. We’d be spotted as soon as we drove out. The best we can do is hunker down and wait for them to go by.’
Masse stood beside me. ‘Where are you going?’
I nodded at the warehouse. ‘I want to check inside.’
‘But what if it’s no good?’
‘We’ll go to plan B.’ I didn’t bother telling him what that was; I didn’t even like it myself.
TWENTY-NINE
Colonel Lunnberg stared at his phone in disbelief before placing it with elaborate care on the table in front of him. Victor Petrus was on the other side, nursing a fresh coffee and staring through the windows of the restaurant at the approaching dawn while waiting for Lunnberg to finish his call. Other early birds were gradually filling up the tables and calling for coffee.
‘Bad news?’ the Frenchman said, turning to watch the American’s eyes.
‘No.’ Lunnberg kept his face a mask and sipped his own coffee. ‘Not bad. A little irritating, is all.’ It was a lie. It had been far too early to take such a call, but as he had learned long ago, those in positions of power in Washington rarely kept regular hours when it came to dishing out unpalatable truths. And after what he’d just heard, he’d sensed a certain relish behind James Warren’s words which effectively threatened to dismantle his very world.
‘I also had an unwelcome message a few minutes ago,’ said Petrus, unaware of his tension. ‘My superiors want to know why we have not yet secured the data.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course I could not hide the fact that your men are – how do you say it – on the case, but they are not happy. Have you had any word from them?’
‘No, Victor. I haven’t. Not in the last five minutes.’ Lunnberg’s eyes were like flint as he said the words, and he was only able to control his tone of voice with enormous effort. Having Petrus and his controllers getting antsy was merely adding to his feeling of irritation, and he was looking forward to being able to distance himself from the superior Frenchman when this was all over.
‘Ah, so you know where they are, then?’
‘Of course. They’re on Portman’s tail and have just entered a village where they think he’s hiding. They should have him and Masse very shortly. But don’t worry, Victor,’ he added icily, ‘out where they are, there will be no witnesses. Caesar’s hands will remain clean.’ He snatched up his phone and got to his feet, narrowly missing upsetting the table as he did so.
‘I’m sure Caesar would be very pleased,’ Petrus replied, displaying an unusual touch of sarcasm. ‘But he’s not here. We are.’
> Lunnberg hesitated. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘My superiors are unhappy about the delay in retrieving this data. In fact, they have become increasingly nervous about any discussions with the Somali Government and … certain other parties.’ He looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot. ‘You know who I mean.’
Lunnberg understood only too well. It could only mean Liban Daoud, the al-Shabaab leader. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he spat out, causing a number of heads to turn. He dropped back into his seat, his face pale with anger fuelled by what Warren had also said. ‘They’ve known about him all along, Victor,’ he hissed. ‘They can’t pretend otherwise. Now suddenly they’re getting choosy about who they talk to? What else did they say?’
‘They have heard rumours of disquiet in Washington also about Daoud. The general view is that he is too … toxic.’ Petrus lifted his hands. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. It is over.’
Lunnberg stood up again. ‘Like hell it is. I’m going to call my men again now just to make sure. I’ll call you later.’
With that he turned and marched out of the restaurant and returned to his room, where he paced up and down for a while, forcing himself to calm down and not rip the place apart in the furious rage which was threatening to burst forth at any moment.
He took several deep breaths, replaying the words he’d been forced to listen to downstairs with a rigid half-smile glued to his face for Petrus’s benefit. The same words that were actually condemning him for having taken actions that he had been persuaded, even forced, to take, by certain faces in Washington, chief among them James Warren.
‘The shit has hit the fan, colonel,’ Warren had announced without preamble. His voice carried a faint tremble and his words came out in a rush. ‘They’re closing down the deal.’
‘What do you mean closing it down?’
‘What it says. A couple of the major investors got nervous and dropped the ball late last night. Then three more pulled out when rumours began circulating. And that’s just the start.’
‘What rumours?’
‘Stories that we’ve been doing commercial deals with terrorists for oil rights. Are you absolutely certain that the data hasn’t gone public through some other means?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s speculation, that’s all. One of the investors must have talked to the wrong person about developing oil resources in the region and somebody put two and two together and come up with Daoud. It’s the Somalis controlling this, not terrorists.’
Warren’s voice dripped treacle. ‘Well, colonel, you and I both know that’s not quite accurate, don’t we? The Somalis hardly know which way is up; all they want is for their fee to be paid into offshore accounts and for the rest of us to go get our hands dirty. Well, that’s not going to happen.’
‘But nobody knows what’s on the hard drive. My team are closing in on it right now. We just need more time.’
‘Time is what we don’t have. I hate to tell you this but there’s been talk of an investigation and even a senate hearing.’ He paused then came back with a smile in his voice. ‘Look on the bright side, colonel: you could end up with your own page on Wikipedia – just like Ollie North.’
‘Why? It was never going to go entirely smoothly, you knew that as well as I did. And there was always a danger that Daoud’s name would come out. But it wouldn’t last long and who the hell would care as long as the public continued getting cheap oil and gas for their cars?’
‘A year ago, colonel, maybe. But not now. Situations change. The game has got nastier across Europe and the rest of the world. The truth is we’re being isolated every way I look and it isn’t going to improve. People I could count on for support even a couple of days ago are fading into the woodwork; others are unavailable or refusing to take any of my calls. And in this town that’s like a death sentence. Do you know an analyst named Henry Seibling?’
‘What – no, I don’t think so.’ Lunnberg was caught off-guard by the switch in topic and felt his throat constrict at hearing the familiar name. Christ, not this already. What had the fool gone and done?
‘Really? Well, Seibling seems to know you pretty well. Have you ever done business with him?’
‘No. Why – what’s he saying?’
‘He’s currently being grilled by the Office of Internal Security in Langley. According to my inside source Seibling got busted with his fingers up to the knuckles in restricted personnel files. He’s saying you pressured him to get hold of some personnel data. Is that correct?’
In spite of his shock, Lunnberg was processing his thoughts at lightning speed. He had to give an answer; a non-response would be worse than useless. When in doubt, fight back. He decided to go on the offensive. ‘I-yes, I did – but there was no pressure. I asked him to find out whatever he could on the man Portman, but only because Portman is doing his level best to wreck this whole operation and putting American lives at risk. But forget about Seibling – with what I have on the little worm he’ll retract his accusations pretty damned quick—’
‘Frankly, colonel, I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of that,’ Warren snapped. ‘It was your arrangement with him, not mine. The truth is, you brought him into the equation and now he’s singing to anybody who’ll listen just to save his ass. And that means everybody from the FBI, CIA, NSA – probably the Daughters of the American Revolution for all I fucking know. This is a disaster and it’s going to get a lot worse before the day’s out. It’s time to end it and get back here, colonel. And I suggest you start thinking about how to explain everything when they come knocking on your door.’
‘But this isn’t just me! You’re involved, too – and the others.’
‘You think so? Well, if you can find proof of that it’ll be a minor miracle, I promise. Personally I don’t recall signing or recording anything. Think about it.’
‘What? But that’s …’ Words failed him as he realised the implications of what Warren was saying. Dammit, he couldn’t do this! ‘I’ve got men out there!’
‘You said it, colonel. Your men. Your operation. My advice to you is, clean it up and close it down. Now.’
The line went dead.
THIRTY
The air inside the warehouse was musty and cool, with a thin veil of white hanging in the air where Ratchman’s men had searched the place and disturbed the dust. It was a large space with a high ceiling and a hard-baked floor, and must have once held supplies rather than machinery. There were no oil deposits to denote that it had been a garage, nor electricity or signs that there had ever been a power supply. And the size of the large double doors indicated that it had been used for trucks to back in and unload their contents.
I checked we weren’t leaving tracks and walked to the back of the building. The first place anybody would look would be the far recesses of the structure. They were in deepest shadow, although that was changing quickly as the sunlight outside grew in intensity and flooded through the doors and the gaps in the structure’s walls. All I found was a line of cheap benches and some sheets of rotting plywood leaning against the walls, some which I figured had been broken up by Ratchman’s men in their search for us.
As a hiding place it was a no-go.
‘Outside,’ I said, and hurried back to the doors. It was pointless thinking about hiding among the houses, as the inhabitants couldn’t be guaranteed to stay silent. That left only one place. Or more accurately, two.
‘Pick a truck,’ I told Masse. ‘Preferably one with a hood but no engine.’
‘What?’ He threw me that look again, the one that asked if I was nuts.
‘I hid in a breaker’s yard once when I was a kid,’ I explained quickly, listening to the truck noises coming closer. ‘A local gang was looking to beat our heads in. They searched the buildings and cars, especially the trunks. But the only place they didn’t look was under the truck hoods because everybody knows they’re full of huge engine blocks. These aren’t, but the guys coming here don’t
know that. Pick one, climb in and stay quiet.’
I waited for him to get the message and watched him clamber beneath the empty hood of a large Berliet and pull it closed it behind him. I selected another truck nearby and did the same.
Some lessons you learn as a kid never leave you. I just hoped the men in the trucks were dumber than some of the kids in the gang I’d run into.
The air under the hood was heavy with the smell of oil and grease, and every surface sticky to the touch. I had no idea how long it had been here but the sun and wind had done nothing to blast it clean of the muck coating the inside. I pulled the hood closed and lay back on the support struts where the truck engine had been seated and tried to get comfortable. I checked the SIG out of reflex although I knew it was good. If I had to take defensive action from inside here the AK would be cumbersome in the confined space, while the SIG would let me move faster and respond to threats from either side.
Minutes later I heard the roar of heavy engines coming through the village and the hiss and squeak of air brakes as the drivers negotiated the narrow streets. The utter silence predominant before was now blasted aside, and I could hear penned animals protesting at the intrusion and the frantic clatter of birds taking to the skies. Eventually one engine dominated the others as it came closer, hissing to a stop about a hundred yards away followed by men shouting and the crunch of running feet. The engine died leaving two others rumbling some way off. Three trucks, just as Lindsay had said. Then those engines were cut, too, and silence took over save for an occasional voice drifting over the air.
I peered through the air vents down the side of the hood to see what was happening. The first thing I saw was a man’s back. He’d approached without me hearing him and was standing no more than fifteen feet away. Dressed in mismatched camouflage shirt and pants and a cotton keffiyeh, the checkered scarf worn around the head for protection against the sun and dust, he carried a carbine with a wooden stock over his shoulder. As he moved away I saw he was wearing sandals on his feet. So, not military after all.
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