Dark Asset

by Adrian Magson

  He flipped over backwards and dropped the rifle.

  I heard a rattle of distant gunfire coming from somewhere behind me, and turned in time to feel the AK ripped out of my hands and take a hit in the shoulder which spun me around and dropped me where I stood.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It hurt. That was my first thought: it hurt like hell. My second thought was that I’d messed up. Damn, how stupid; I’d taken my eye off the other vehicle and paid the price.

  I forced myself to my feet, feeling my head spinning with the shock, and started moving towards the landing strip. I could still hear the noise of the other SUV moving in the distance, and figured it was coming round to finish me off. The plane … I couldn’t tell where the plane had got to; it was still there, buzzing around in the background, but I was having trouble focussing. Was it the plane I could hear or the SUV? And there was another noise out there, too; bigger, heavier, pounding the air and beginning to drown out everything else as it got louder.

  I looked up and saw a familiar shape skidding across the sky in a long curve about two miles away, like a pregnant caterpillar. But caterpillars don’t fly. What the hell? Then I remembered what Masse had said. ‘They had to bring their vehicles, too, and a Chinook would have swallowed them easily.’

  Now it was coming to take them back out. Game, set and match.

  Putting one foot in front of the other, something I’d been doing quite successfully all my life, had suddenly got to be a problem, and I knew I was wandering off to the side. I felt one of my legs go and sank to one knee and threw up. Not the thing to do in polite society, but it made me feel better and helped clear my head a little. I looked up and saw a figure coming towards me, and in the background, a large bird coming straight for us, waggling it wings with its feet down like a duck about to land on water. Wait. No water. And not a duck. Marten’s Cessna.

  Then Masse was pointing at me with his mouth open, and I wanted to ask him why but just then Marten flew right by and touched down, sending up a whirlwind of dust and grass all around us.

  Masse stopped pointing and grabbed me by the arm, helping me towards the end of the strip where the plane was turning in a wide circle to face the other way. I just went along with him, wanting to ask him lots of questions but knowing there were better, more important things to be doing right now, like surviving and getting the hell out of here.

  We made it to the end of the airstrip where Marten had stopped and was waving frantically at us to get on board. Masse jumped in, then turned to look over my shoulder and shouted a warning.

  The second SUV had appeared from the far end of the airstrip and was barrelling towards us with two men firing from the back. Their aim was being thrown off by the unsteady movements of the vehicle, but they were getting closer all the time, their shots kicking up dirt close by and one pinging through the skin of the Cessna’s wing. Give it a second or two and a lucky burst and they’d be right on target.

  My instincts kicked in and I turned to bring up the AK. A squeeze of the trigger and it would all be over. I’d done it many times before and could do it in my sleep. After all, how hard could it be to hit a Ford Raptor coming at us head-on? Then I remembered dropping the AK somewhere but couldn’t think how. Damn, that was dumb. I remembered the SIG Pro. I pulled it out and leaned against the Cessna’s fuselage, which was a relief, and began squeezing the trigger. Quick lesson when in desperate straits: point gun at bad guys and squeeze trigger. Repeat until empty. End of game.

  Then I heard a rapid snapping sound really close by and looked round to see a figure sitting in the doorway calmly firing an assault rifle with a bulbous end. A suppressor. Cool. I looked back in time to see the SUV wander off-course and the two men in the back were leaping out before it went ass-over. Then the plane was moving and I felt a pair of powerful hands pulling me in through the door and Marten shouting at us to stop fucking about and get our belts on, or words to that effect.

  Fade out.

  I came to as the plane was coming in to land. I knew that because I could feel the downwards pressure as we lost height. I couldn’t see much through the windows because my eyesight was a bit hazy, so I concentrated on looking round inside the cabin.

  The first person I saw was Angela Pryce. She was wearing jeans and a shirt and I thought how cool she looked. She was smiling with what might have been relief. She had a nice smile.

  The second person was bigger and grinning down at me from the seat next to mine, while holding a field dressing against my shoulder. It hurt, and why he was grinning beat the hell out of me. A sadist, perhaps.

  ‘That was close, matey.’ It was a classic piece of understatement if ever I’d heard it, but Doug Tober was British and they’re given to that kind of talk. He was also a member of the Basement, MI6’s hand-picked team of specialists and the equivalent of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. The last time I’d seen him, it was him nursing a bullet wound and we were off the coast of Somalia, close by the border with Kenya being chased by pirates. Slung across his chest was a fancy piece of weaponry I hadn’t seen before. It was bulky around the barrel and short, with a curved magazine and some kind of natty scope system.

  ‘You really didn’t have to come all this way,’ I told him. ‘A postcard would have done. What the hell is that?’

  He looked at the weapon. ‘Oh, this. I was asked to give it a field test. I think it passed, although it felt like it was pulling to the left a bit. Sorry, I can’t tell you what it’s called, otherwise I’d have to throw you back out the door.’

  ‘Why you?’ I meant, why was he here, so far from London? Pryce I could understand; she was in the region anyway and probably hadn’t gone far after our last meeting.

  ‘The boss asked for a volunteer to get someone’s arse out of a crack. When I heard whose arse it was I told him it had to be me or I’d resign. Just in time, too, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Bullshit. I could’ve taken them, no problem.’

  Trash talk, I know – but it helps in times of stress.

  As we touched down I looked across and saw Masse sitting behind Doug. He was looking worried and I remembered a few things that were important and thought about why, and what I was going to do about it.

  Things got a little hazy for a while, but after landing I was apparently taken to a military medical facility where the staff were accustomed to dealing with gunshot and shrapnel wounds. For them I was a bystander, drifting in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of an array of faces going by, some smiling, most hidden by masks, and hearing a lot of talking which didn’t make much sense. But the pain gradually eased off from serious to a dull ache and I was told I wasn’t going to lose anything and it had been pretty much only a flesh wound. In other words, suck it up, Sissypants.

  The following day things became a little clearer; they told me I’d lost a bit of meat from my shoulder and gave me a souvenir to remember it by. After that they made it clear that I’d received all the treatment I was going to get and they had some inbound casualties so it was time for me to leave but to take things easy for a few days. Doug and Angela showed up full of smiles and got me out of there and into a nice room at the Sheraton. I thanked them probably too many times, until they began to yawn and I got the message and shut up.

  ‘I’ve arranged a flight out tomorrow morning,’ Angela explained. ‘Until then we’re keeping you here to let some of the dust settle.’ The way she said it made me look up.

  ‘Why, what’s going on?’ It didn’t come out quite that smooth; I was having trouble focussing my mouth rather than my thoughts, but the medics had said that was to be expected and I shouldn’t plan on giving any lectures.

  For an answer she switched on the television. CNN was running a bulletin about the latest air strikes carried out by French forces. But instead of Syria or Libya, it was a bit closer to home – Mogadishu.

  ‘Early reports from French sources reveal that drone strikes directed with the assistance of the US military against
two targets in Somalia, close to the capital, Mogadishu, have been successful. Unconfirmed sources claim that one of the senior leaders of al-Shabaab in the region, Liban Daoud, who was allegedly planning a series of bomb attacks in the region and elsewhere, was killed along with several of his followers. A bomb-making factory was also destroyed.’

  Angela muted the sound. ‘The US and France working together again. It was a joint decision. There’s a serious clean-up operation going on. I shouldn’t tell you this but they’re working to bury all talk of any negotiations with terrorists or the Somali government on the question of oil.’

  ‘And burying Daoud is the beginning?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘They’re not playing games.’

  ‘Exactly. I suspect there’s a lot of file-cleaning going on in and around Washington and Paris right now, and diary entries being amended to prove they were nowhere near any of the decision-making. Give it a couple of days and it’ll be like it never happened.’

  ‘Any news of Masse?’

  She looked a bit glum. ‘Sorry – we took our eye off that particular ball. He disappeared while we were getting you to the hospital. He hasn’t been seen since and we assume he may already have left the country along with his controller, Petrus.’

  I wasn’t so sure. This was Masse’s turf and he would know every bolthole there was. As for Petrus, I was pretty certain he would have orders to stick around until everything was tidied up. Going back too soon and finding echoes coming back to haunt him later would be a real career-killer.

  I knew where Petrus was staying, but I didn’t want to drag myself out of here unless I had to. I took out my phone and dialled his number from memory, hazy as that was. I got it first time.

  ‘Yes?’ He sounded both cautious and professorial at once.

  ‘Is Masse with you?’

  It took him a second to respond, and I suspected he was checking the windows of his hotel and getting ready to make a run for the exit. Not that he had anything to fear from me, but paranoia comes free in his profession. ‘Portman? Do you have it?’

  It. The hard drive. The man was all heart. Straight down to the main business – and he hadn’t answered the question.

  ‘No. Masse must have it. I think that puts me out of the frame, don’t you?’

  He ignored that and said, ‘Why would you think this person is with me?’

  This person? ‘Masse. He’s your man, why wouldn’t he be?’

  Another long pause, then he came back sounding icy calm. ‘Portman, I think you are mistaken. André Masse is not and never has been an employee of … my company. He is – was – an occasional asset, employed on occasional tasks where his local knowledge proved useful.’

  I thought back to the original briefing in Paris. Now I thought about it, Petrus hadn’t actually made the distinction but he’d certainly given me the impression that Masse was part of the DGSE. Masse himself had gone along with that, too, talking about needing to complete the job and not correcting me when I mentioned Petrus being his controller.

  The truth was he was an asset – a dark one. Unconnected, unaffiliated. And in the end, unreliable. Except that he’d come to believe otherwise. ‘That wasn’t made clear to me.’

  ‘I regret that. Masse is a fantasist. Yes, we used him for occasional assignments over the years because he knew the region intimately. But that was the extent of our involvement.’

  ‘Like recovering the hard drive.’

  ‘I don’t understand. The what?’

  So that’s how it was going to be: play dumb in case somebody was listening in. ‘The hard drive, Petrus. Mogadishu. Liban Daoud. Ring any bells?’ I knew I was wasting my time. The shutters were already coming down. This assignment never existed. No speak, no hear.

  He confirmed it. ‘I’m afraid you have lost me, Mr Portman. Perhaps you have called the wrong number. Good day to you.’

  The phone went dead.

  Angela and Doug were staring at me with looks that said they’d heard enough to have added the numbers together and figured it out. End of game.

  ‘Is Lunnberg still around?’ I said.

  Angela nodded. ‘Yes. But word is he’s leaving today for a hot date in Washington.’

  I gave her a look. ‘Now, how would you know that?’

  She smiled. ‘Tom suggested we keep our eyes on all the players … which is why we’re keeping you here. Lunnberg’s got some explaining to do back home, apparently, which won’t be fun. There’s even talk of a Senate hearing. But he’s a slick operator and the less evidence there is lying around, the easier it’ll be for him to hold up his hands and play the innocent once he’s back home.’

  She was right. Nobody in Washington would want to air that particular basket of dirty laundry if they didn’t have to. But as one of the people connected to the evidence, along with Masse, that didn’t put me out of the woods just yet. I couldn’t sit around and wait for Lunnberg to arrange for one of his bully-boys to tap me on the shoulder. I stood up. I was wobbly but mobile.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Doug, grabbing my good arm.

  ‘I have something to prove,’ I told them. ‘It involves Lunnberg. And I need a witness. Two would be even better.’

  Doug said, ‘Count me in. Where are we going?’

  ‘The Hotel Kempinski. It’s not far.’

  They didn’t argue or waste time with questions, but got me downstairs and into a cab. The journey to the Kempinski was little more than a few blocks, but I didn’t feel like walking and it was clear that Doug had slipped into close protection mode. It made a change for me, being the protectee. Nobody spoke on the way. I think Angela had an inkling about what I was doing, but refrained from asking.

  We entered the hotel and checked out the bar, then walked out onto the terrace. I was looking for Lunnberg, but Masse or Petrus would have been a bonus, although from what Petrus had said, that wasn’t going to be likely.

  ‘I see him,’ Angela said softly. ‘Over my shoulder down at the far end.’

  I sat down at a table and took a look, using Doug as cover. Sure enough, there was Lunnberg, looking relaxed at a table with a beer in front of him and smiling at a younger man who looked like a gofer. There was nobody else around, least of all anyone who looked like muscle. But on reflection I figured Lunnberg must have used up those facilities already and had run out of men.

  It reminded me of a specific question I hadn’t asked yet. ‘What happened with the Chinook and the SUVs?’

  ‘They got evacced out,’ said Doug. ‘Smooth operation, too; the vehicles and men, dead and mostly wounded, loaded double quick and disappeared inside the American section of Lemmonnier.’

  All part of the clean-up, I reckoned. No witnesses, no evidence, and the remaining men would no doubt surface after a time back home if they didn’t do some time in the slammer for unspecified crimes. At least they were off my back, which was good.

  I took out my phone.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Angela asked at last. ‘I’m guessing it involves Lunnberg and Masse, but how?’

  There was still one thing that was bugging me: the telephone number I’d found repeated on Masse’s phone. The one he’d called several times. I wasn’t certain of anything about this business but there was only one way to find out whether I was right or not. Building a wall with bricks, was what I was doing. And there was one particular brick that would make a lot of sense once I had it.

  ‘I think I was being tracked all the way here and across the border,’ I explained. ‘I don’t mean electronically, but I got the feeling Lunnberg’s men were never too far behind me. Somehow he knew a little too much for somebody who rarely shifted from this hotel.’

  ‘Yeah, how did they manage that?’ said Doug. ‘Getting his men across the border was chancy.’

  ‘He must have had the authority to arrange it. It was risky, but only if he knew there would be no official repercussions from the Somalis.’

  ‘He paid them off?�
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  ‘I can’t prove it, but it seems likely. I’m guessing the one condition from the contact on the Somali side would have been that no trace remained afterwards; foreign contractors on sovereign soil would have been difficult to explain away. That was why the airlift came off.’

  ‘And the drone attack on Daoud?’

  ‘Part of the clean-up. He knew too much.’ I was watching Lunnberg, relaxed and urbane, not a worry in the world, toying with a cell phone and sipping his beer. He probably figured he was safe and that the hard drive had been destroyed and he could talk his way out of any problem back home.

  I fed in the number and pressed dial, then pushed the phone across to Angela. I needed her corroboration for this. She picked it up and listened. It was quiet enough where we were sitting to hear every sound on the phone.

  Nothing happened. No ring tone, nothing. And down at the far end of the terrace Lunnberg was still talking and sipping his beer as if he had all the time in the world.

  Angela looked at me and lifted an eyebrow.

  Then I heard a tone and Angela touched the hands-free button. It rang once, twice, three times and she turned the volume down so only we three could hear it. But Lunnberg and his companion were yakking away and didn’t look like breaking off anytime soon. I was about to give it up as a bad idea when Lunnberg held up his hand to break off the conversation and lifted his phone to his ear.

  ‘Lunnberg.’ His voice was nice and clear. There was a long pause, then: ‘Masse – is that you?’

  I signalled to Angela to cut the connection. She did so and put the phone down. Lunnberg was scowling at his phone but he didn’t look round.

  ‘So Masse was working with Lunnberg.’ Angela looked surprised.

  ‘He was playing both ends. He was desperate to get out of the country but he knew he had nothing to go back to. If what Petrus just told me is true, he wasn’t on the payroll and he probably figured on trying for a big pay-day so he could disappear for good. I think he’d been out here too long and it had all got too much for him.’

  I could see they weren’t sure, but the evidence was stacking up. To add to it, I reached into my pocket and dropped something on the table. It was a fragment of lead.