Dark Asset

by Adrian Magson

  He made a circle of the area peering into corners and behind the wrecks. I hoped Masse had seen him and wasn’t about to make any noise. The man turned and came back towards the truck, swinging his carbine off his shoulder and holding it by his side. He hawked loudly and spat the contents of his throat on the ground, then took a corner of his scarf and wiped his face and eyes. He was gaunt and bony, and could have been anywhere between twenty and forty. It made me wonder what the retirement age was for al-Shabaab fighters.

  A shout floated up from down in the village followed by a shot. Then a scream rose, loud and shrill, and was cut off brutally by an extended burst of automatic fire. Another shout from nearby drew an answering call from the man nearest to me, and I heard his footsteps pounding away into the distance. Another rattle of gunfire, this time far off, with more screams followed by spaced out single shots, somehow more shocking and deliberate than the long bursts. I felt nauseous and not just because of the smell under the hood; whatever the men out there were doing, people were getting hurt and killed and I was unable to do a thing about it.

  I sat tight, wondering how Masse was holding up. In spite of his long time working this region under cover, he really wasn’t built for this kind of scene. Whatever training he’d had with DGSE probably hadn’t included full-on combat or hiding from men who would surely kill him if they found him.

  I sniffed the air, which had developed a newer, more pungent smell of burning rubber or plastic to overlay the aroma of oil and grease. It was being wafted through the vents from the direction of the village centre, and I knew instantly what it was. I’d experienced it too many times before; they were burning houses. Whatever these men were doing, it probably wasn’t the first time they’d raided the village and wouldn’t be the last, especially with the police barracks abandoned and no longer a threat. It was most likely a regular shopping visit for food or money and to throw in a little local terror to keep the villagers in line.

  I checked through the vents on both sides. I couldn’t see anybody but I heard voices in the distance, and laughter. Then I made a mistake; as I moved for a better look, the butt of the SIG glanced off a piece of metal with a distinctive clang.

  Seconds later I heard the crunch of footsteps close by and a shadow shifted against the sunlight. I froze and looked down past the wheel arch. A man’s foot appeared. He was standing up close to the truck with his face against the hood, and I could hear him breathing with a hoarse, asthmatic sound deep in his throat.

  He banged on the hood and said something in a croaky voice. I couldn’t understand a word but it sounded a lot like ‘who’s there?’ Then his fingers appeared under the rim of the hood and threw it open, flooding the engine compartment with bright sunlight.

  He was small and skinny, built like a kid but a good twenty years older. He had an AK slung on a strap across his chest and a bandolier of shells going crossways the other way, both of which made him look even smaller. He looked stunned to see me, his jaw dropping open, and I reacted instinctively. There was no time to see if he had any colleagues nearby, no point worrying about what might happen from here on in. I had to get him subdued and out of sight fast or we were done for. Before he could shout a warning I reached out and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him towards me as hard as I could. It was like handling a bag of straw. He weighed almost nothing and flew off his feet with a soft yelp, joining me in the engine compartment. I slammed his head against one of the sold metal support struts, then reached up and pulled the hood back down, grabbing his AK and clamping my hand over the trigger.

  I counted to ten. There was no sound outside, no indication that anyone had noticed anything. I looked down at the new arrival. He was out cold, with a bruise blossoming on his forehead. I checked his AK, which looked in an even worse state than the one I had, and unclipped the curved magazine. The shells inside were shiny and new, and gave me about another fifty rounds if I counted those in the bandolier.

  I took off his keffiyeh and tore it in strips, using it to gag him and lash his wrists to the struts and using his carbine sling to do the same with his feet, and sat back to regain my breath.

  I felt as if I’d run a marathon. Short bursts of intense activity coupled with a sense of alarm will do that, making the adrenalin race through the system. But the down side can leave you feeling tired and drained. The secret in the initial stages is to use it and control it, and not allow it to make you run off at half-cock when you should be staying still.

  I counted to fifty, using my breathing to lower my heart rate. It was counter-intuitive, as every instinct was telling me to get out of here and find somewhere more secure to make a stand. My problem was, there was nowhere to go. These men wouldn’t stay here all day and risk a confrontation with troops, and sooner or later they’d be gone. Until then I had to stay put. Only then could Masse and I make a move.

  Eventually the trucks started up again and moved away, sounding their horns as they left the village. I looked down at my prisoner, who was now coming round and looking at me bug-eyed with fear. He must have heard the commotion even in his concussed state, and figured out that none of his buddies had bothered making a head count. He began to struggle and kick at me until I put the AK barrel against his forehead and told him to shush. I don’t think he understood the word but he got the message and went still.

  My phone buzzed. It was Lindsay. I switched it on and held it tight to my ear just in case the guys in the trucks had played cute and left somebody behind.

  ‘Watchman, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said softly. ‘We just had company.’

  ‘Copy that. I have camera coverage again and can see the three trucks leaving the village. What happened? There’s a lot of smoke down there.’

  ‘It was a raid for supplies. How far out are they?’

  ‘Currently about a mile and moving at speed to the south.’

  ‘Can you get a close-up of the scrapyard?’

  ‘Sure can. Wait one.’ A few seconds ticked by while my prisoner and I exchanged looks. Then Lindsay came back. ‘Got it. Still can’t get any hot spots, though. Where are you?’

  ‘Unless you know what a Berliet is, it’s a little hard to describe.’

  ‘Did you say Berliet? Isn’t that a French truck manufacturer?’

  I grinned in spite of the circumstances. ‘As my mother would have said, any sharper and you’ll cut yourself. I’m inside one of their products waiting to get out of here.’

  ‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Listen, I got the tech section to check that barcode you sent me. You were right: it was an identifier. His name was Joshua B. McBride, a former sergeant with the 66th Military Intelligence Brigade.’ She went on to confirm what Angela Pryce had told me. ‘McBride was born in Alabama but he was a career soldier and spent more time out of the US than in it. His specialty was Afghanistan and, more recently, Africa. I ran his personnel file and it says he left the military eight months ago and dropped off the map.’

  ‘Was he a contractor?’

  ‘Not at first, but he followed the pattern of others who went down that route. There are gaps, but he was last recorded as working in Afghanistan with a company called Pressway Logistics. It doesn’t mention security contracting but it’s a pretty obvious front.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of them.’

  ‘I’m sure. It started out as a shell company before announcing its business as a logistics specialist. The founder and CEO is not a million miles away from you right now.’

  ‘Lunnberg?’

  ‘Correct. He tried to keep it quiet when he moved in with the people next door, but it got out.’

  Next door to the CIA was the Defence Clandestine Service – the DCS.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They didn’t want such an open connection with that particular industry because it was bad for publicity, so he allegedly cut all ties with them and sold out to his co-directors. But the general buzz here is that he’s still running the p
lace and they get a lot of work from the DCS and other agencies.’

  ‘Good work. Thanks. Can you pass on the information about McBride? Somebody out there probably needs to know what happened to him.’

  ‘Copy that. I had word from Tom Vale. He wants to know if you plan on leaving the way you discussed.’

  ‘Tell him yes. We’re hoping to make for a pre-arranged pickup point as soon as we get away from here.’

  ‘Well, take it easy. I might not be able to get a loaner of this drone again, but if I do I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Copy that. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Anytime, Watchman. Out.’

  I squinted through the vents either side of the truck to check the area was clear, then looked at my prisoner. ‘I’m getting out of here, Ahmed,’ I told him. I accompanied the speech with a bit of finger pointing. ‘I doubt you understand a word I’m saying but I’m taking you with us. If I’m not mistaken, your pals made a mess of the village and left a few bodies behind. If the locals find you, they might decide to cut you into little pieces.’

  He stared at me and shook his head. I was right: he hadn’t understood. But as soon as I picked up the AK and reached up to lift the hood, I think he figured most of it out pretty quickly and didn’t like it. He thought I was leaving him behind or about to dump him out in the centre of the village. He hummed like a buzz saw through the gag, so I put a finger to my lips until he quietened down. If he couldn’t work the dangers out for himself if he kicked off, he was dumber than I thought.

  I lifted the hood and dragged him out into the warm sunlight, and made him sit against the wheel arch. I hunkered down alongside him and waited, listening for the sound of voices. Not a peep. Not even the animals around the houses were making a squeak, as if they’d all reached an accord to stay silent for the rest of the day. I stood up and stepped out into the open. Thick smoke was hanging over the village in more than one location, and the crackle of flames reached me from down by the police barracks. The men had vented their displeasure on the place by setting it alight, along with a few houses for good measure.

  When I was satisfied it was safe to move I picked up Ahmed and carried him across to the pickup and dumped him in the back with a signal to stay quiet. He nodded this time and lay back, eyes wide and throat working as he began to realise the position he was in. I padded across to the truck Masse had chosen and gave a soft whistle while I was a few steps away. I didn’t want to risk getting shot by tapping on the hood and having him pull the trigger.

  He emerged slowly and stood brushing his clothing and looking around. ‘They are gone?’ His voice was hoarse and he looked pale with stress, even through his tan. Like me he had oil and grease stains on his clothes and hands, but at least we were alive and standing.

  ‘So far. But they might come back.’

  ‘What do we do?’ he asked.

  ‘We leave. But first we load up with fuel and add a few props. You do the fuel and I’ll do the rest.’

  He walked to the back of the pickup. When he saw Ahmed he went goggle-eyed and turned on me.

  ‘Don’t ask.’ I told him before he could say anything. ‘He might come in useful later.’

  He wasn’t happy but he clammed up and took two containers out of the pickup, while I selected some sections of cut-away truck parts from the piles scattered around the junkyard. They were mostly large jagged pieces of metal, but lightweight, and I tossed them in the back of the pickup alongside Ahmed.

  When I had a decent pile of scrap level with the cab roof I covered it and Ahmed with the tarps we’d used to disguise the pickup and the foxhole and threw on the truck wheels to hold everything in place.

  For once Masse looked impressed. We now looked like a local shifting scrap metal. If Ratchman and his men were watching from the east, we would hopefully look genuine enough to fool them.

  I drove slowly towards the centre of the village and the road north, keeping the engine noise down as much as possible. It was like moving through a ghost town where you know there are people but they’re staying out of sight. The police barracks had been set on fire but had been only partially destroyed, marked by a thick pall of black smoke hanging across the street and shutting out the sun. I caught a glimpse of a few men down a narrow side street, staring at the damage, before they heard the engine and disappeared like wraiths.

  At one point a little girl appeared at the corner of a small house and stared at us with bug eyes, until a woman ran out and snatched her up before rushing back inside, pulling her scarf around her face.

  I counted five houses on fire or smouldering and saw three bodies, all men, covered in blood where they had been shot multiple times against a wall. It was plain that the deaths were both a warning and a punishment, maybe for some past transgression or a refusal to give up food or money. I had no way of knowing how many had died inside the buildings.

  I stopped the pickup. It made Masse sit up with a start. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, looking around frantically.

  ‘Calm down. Keep your eyes and ears open for engines. I want to see if I can help.’

  ‘Are you mad? They don’t want your help, Portman, they would rather see us both dead – like that animal in the back!’ He reached for my arm to stop me but I shook it off. He was right – I probably was mad and they wouldn’t thank me. But there was no way I could simply drive away without doing something, even if it was checking the buildings for survivors.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I tucked the SIG under my shirt and walked over to the first house, which was showing a lot of smoke and a small flicker of flames. An elderly man in a shawl and pill-box hat appeared from a narrow alleyway and shouted at me, so I pointed at the house and made a sign for a small child then lifted my hands in query.

  He understood and shook his head, but pointed to a house across the way, where a man’s body lay in the doorway in a pool of blood. The roof was smouldering and shedding thick grey smoke, and I could hear the faint crackle of fire eating through the structure of sticks and grass. The old man raised two fingers, so I nodded and signalled for him to stay where he was and ducked through the door.

  Smoke hung thick in the first tiny room, which was a mess of destruction where the men from the trucks had stormed through, ripping and smashing everything they could find, even digging holes in the walls with the butts of their rifles. I ducked below the smoke and crabbed across to a gap in the wall with a curtain hanging down as a divider. I pushed it aside and saw a smaller room with rough cushions and blankets scattered across the floor. A girl was sitting in one corner staring at me with eyes glazed in terror. She had a shawl pulled across her face and a bundle in her lap and, as young as she looked, I figured she was the mother.

  I beckoned to her to come with me and bring the baby. She either didn’t understand or the urgency of her situation wasn’t getting through. I didn’t blame her, not after what she had just experienced. Then I felt a blast of heat on the back of my neck as the smouldering embers finally caught and flames roared through the dried sticks and grass which made up the roof and crept down the wall either side of the doorway.

  There was no going back that way, so I checked the wall close to where the girl was sitting. It was made of thin plaster and sticks covered in a sheet of plastic. I kicked twice before the sticks gave way, then shouldered my way through to the outside in a cloud of dust and fabric, turning to encourage the girl to follow me. She blinked a few times, as if the noise of me breaking down the wall had finally got through to her, and nodded before gathering up her baby and slipping through the gap into fresh air.

  I found the old man standing by the side of the house. When he saw me he ran forward to hug the girl to him, nodding at me and trying to smile. Three younger men had appeared along the street and were shouting between themselves and looking at me with obvious anger. Two of them carried heavy sticks and were moving towards me in a threatening manner, but the old man stepped between us and shouted at them. He evidently carr
ied enough authority to make them hesitate for a moment, but it wouldn’t last long. He grabbed my sleeve and dragged me towards the pickup with a shooing motion, pointing to the north. He was saying it was time to go and he was right. Emotions were running high and if I stayed any longer, no matter what I did to help, it would only take a couple of these hotheads to push the envelope and the situation would get out of control.

  As we got close to the pickup, the old man stopped me and tugged a red keffiyeh from around his shoulders. It was dirty and torn, and he placed it around my head and made a motion of covering his eyes with his hands. The message was clear: anybody seeing me would see immediately that I wasn’t a local, but the keffiyeh might help. He was right; the disguise wouldn’t fool anybody up close, but it would do for now. I thanked him and climbed in the pickup and drove away.

  As we cleared the outskirts of the village I could see the road to the north was clear for a good two miles. I resisted the temptation to slam my foot to the floor and get some distance away from here as quickly as possible. To anybody watching we had to look unassuming, a normal part of the landscape – at least as normal as it could get given what had just happened. But a pickup moving at high speed out of here would look odd. Hopefully, if Ratchman was watching us, he’d put the pieces together wrong, connecting our slow-moving loaded pickup to the junkyard and direct his attention elsewhere.

  ‘Are you happy?’ Masse muttered softly, his voice almost bitter. ‘Now you have done your good deed for the day like a good boy scout – isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘If you have a problem,’ I replied, ‘spit it out.’

  ‘You endangered us back there by stopping to play the hero. That is my problem. We should have left them to get on with it. Did they thank you for it? I doubt it.’

  I looked at him. His face was puffed with anger and he was breathing fast, as if he’d run up a hill. ‘You don’t like these people much, do you?’