by Damien Lewis
Kilbride nodded. She was right. The danger was all around them now. She did deserve to know. Marie-Claire gathered David into her arms and carried him off into the TV room, singing gently as she went.
‘Postman Pat, Postman Pat,
Postman Pat and his black-and-white cat …’
A minute later she was back. She made some coffee and set it down on the kitchen table. ‘Talk to me,’ she commanded. ‘I’m not going to try and stop you. I just want to know. We’re in danger here, aren’t we?’
Kilbride rubbed a hand exhaustedly across his face and began telling Marie-Claire all that he was up to. An hour later and he had failed to convince his wife of the need to vacate The Homestead for the few days that he would be away in the Lebanon. It was their home, she’d told him, and no one was forcing her to leave.
Kilbride smiled. ‘I thought you’d say that … That’s what I love about you. You’re not afraid. I’ll make the necessary security arrangements. You’ll be safe here, I promise …’
Kilbride carried the gold-plated tungsten bar out to his office and presented it to Boerke, Berger and Smithy. To them it appeared to be a perfect copy of a Schöne Edelmetaal London Good Delivery Bar, as the 400-ounce (12.5kg) bars were called. Kilbride left them admiring the fake gold bullion and went to have a word with Nixon. He found him down by the jetty, sorting through some junk in the boathouse.
‘Nixon, I need your help. You know any local furniture makers around here?’
‘My cousin runs a furniture factory, Mr Kilbride. Why?’
Kilbride handed him a piece of paper, with a design for a crate sketched on it. ‘I need a hundred and twenty wooden boxes making up, each pretty much identical and with those dimensions. And I need it doing in forty-eight hours’ time.’
‘Ah, this should be no problem, Mr Kilbride.’
Kilbride handed him another sheet of paper, a photocopy of the winged-staff stamp. ‘Each box has got to be stamped with those markings. You think your people could do that?’
‘Yah, this is the easy bit,’ Nixon rumbled. ‘There are men who make their living in the market carving stamps for people. Leave it to me.’
‘Thanks, Nixon. One more thing: I need you to call in the dhow crew. All six of them. Tell them I’ll pay them double time, as I know it’s early and not the season yet. I want them to fill each of those boxes with sand and load them into the dhow’s hold.’
Nixon raised one eyebrow. ‘Sand? A hundred and twenty boxes full of sand? They may ask some questions, Mr Kilbride.’
Kilbride shrugged. ‘Then triple their wages, and tell them I’ve got a big sandcastle I need building somewhere. And Nixon, this is sensitive, but I know I can entrust it to you … You remember those people who came to attack us?’
Nixon smiled, showing a wide set of perfect teeth. ‘Ah – you mean the ones we fed to the sharks?’
‘You got it. Well, there’s always a chance that they or their friends might return. I don’t think they will, but … You know I’ve got to go away for a few days? In your own quiet way I want you and the dhow crew to act as security for The Homestead. I’ll be leaving you with the Remington, and I want you to go buy six hunting shotguns in the local market. Arm the crew. If the enemy returns, I want them to be met by a wall of lead.’
Nixon placed an arm around Kilbride’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, my friend, I would never let any harm come to your family. We will throw a ring of African steel around The Homestead.’
‘Nixon, tell the crew I’ll quadruple their wages. And tell them at the end of all this they get to keep their shotguns, as well …’
Nixon smiled. ‘If those people are stupid enough to come again, we shall give them a traditional African welcome. I hear the sharks are especially hungry at this time of year …’
‘You asked me to call you once I knew something.’ Nick Coles was speaking into a telephone handset from the bowels of the MI6 building. He was surrounded by several colleagues, a team that had been cobbled together to man Operation Trojan Horse from the London end. ‘I have the mission details.’
‘That’s good, Nick, very good,’ The Searcher’s voice purred on the other end of the line. ‘Once we have what we want, those pictures will be destroyed, Nick. You have my word on that. But no games. If I get a sense that you’re messing with us the gloves are off, Nick.’
‘All right, all right!’ Nick snapped, feigning anger. ‘I’ve heard enough of your threats. Kilbride and his team are leaving one week from now, flying BA from London to Beirut, arriving two-thirty p.m. They’ve hired a couple of four-wheel drives and will be heading up into the mountains. You can’t miss them. They’ll lead you to the gold.’
‘Where is it, Nick? The gold … We would prefer to get there first, if we may. I’m sure you understand.’
‘You think they’d be stupid enough to tell me? I don’t know where it is. Just follow them.’
‘It sounds too easy, Nick. Tell me more. How many of them are there? Will they be armed? What security measures are they taking? Do they have back-up?’
‘Look, Knotty, let’s not over-dramatise things. They’re six middle-aged men, none of whom have seen combat in years. As far as I know they’re on their own and unarmed. I would have thought that you and the Brothers would be more than a match for them.’
‘What do they know, Nick? About us, our interest?’
‘They know you sent some people to spy on them in Tanzania. But they were caught, so they think you’re still in the dark. As indeed you would be, were it not for this phone call …’
‘Thanks, Nick. But no games, eh? You hear any more, you call me. Any changes of plan. Anything that might upset our day.’
Nick replaced the receiver. His anger hadn’t been entirely acted. His hatred for that man knew no bounds.
The leader of the London end of operations placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘You think he swallowed it, do you, Nick?’
‘I think he’s so full of his own shit he’d believe he was God if enough people told him. The arrogance of the man.’
Nick’s controller smiled. ‘Islamic converts … He is a little full of himself, isn’t he? I’m so glad they pulled me out of retirement for “just the one last job”. I get a strong sense that this one is going to be most exceptionally satisfying …’
It was the Sunday evening and the dhow would be departing at midnight. She was fully fuelled up and there was plenty of fresh water and food in the galley. The three RIBs were strapped onto a massive wooden scaffold erected to the aft of the main mast. The diving gear was stowed in the ship’s hold, along with a generator and compressor for refilling air bottles. Nixon had got the hundred and twenty wooden crates filled with sand and stowed in the ship’s hold, just as Kilbride had ordered. And an arms drop by a Snow Goose UAV was scheduled for 4 a.m., just off the Tanzanian coast.
Moynihan and McKierran boarded the boat and prepared to cast off, but there was still no sign of Smithy. Kilbride wasn’t unduly worried. He reckoned a woman was involved and there were some last-minute goodbyes being said down on the beach sands. Kilbride waited by the pier, with Sally at his side. Over the past few days the big Alsatian had really taken to Smithy, which was fortunate. Kilbride had decided that Sally would be joining the B Team and sailing with Smithy, Moynihan and McKierran to the Lebanon.
Just after midnight Kilbride caught sight of a burly figure hurrying down the beach towards him. By the time he reached the pier Smithy was out of breath and sweating heavily.
He grabbed his backpack and shouldered it. ‘Bloody glad we’re not walking there, that’s for sure,’ he panted. ‘Talk about bloody unfit.’
Kilbride grinned. ‘With all the shagging you’ve been doing I’m surprised you’ve got the energy to lift your pack. I trust your woman’s suitably heartbroken … Good luck, mate – we’ll be seeing you in the Lebanon.’
Smithy grabbed Kilbride and gave him a bear hug. ‘Listen, just in case I don’t make it back—’
�
�Bollocks, mate, you’re indestructible,’ Kilbride cut him off. He nodded at the boat. ‘Here, take Sally’s lead, ’cause she’s going with you. You’ll be missing your woman so much I figure you need the company. Plus she’s the best security money can buy.’
‘Bloody awesome …’ Smithy ruffled Sally’s shaggy mane. ‘Right, I’ll be seeing you, boss. Come on, Sally, look lively. Let’s go waste these bastards.’
The dhow cast off and chugged throatily into the dark night. Boerke, Berger and Kilbride stood on the pier and watched her leave. There was no cheering and no major send-off. Just a few muttered prayers and a quiet goodbye, as each man wondered which of the others he might never see alive again.
*
Kilbride had his back to the wall and a beer in his hand as he scanned the crowd in the Q-Bar. He was four days away from departure and this was going to be his last meeting. It was about time, too: he was sick to death with all the planning and just wanted to get on with the mission. He’d chosen the Q-Bar as the venue because it was noisy and crowded. If anyone was watching they’d have trouble catching any of Kilbride’s conversation. He’d kept an eye on his rear-view mirror on the drive in, and he reckoned he hadn’t been followed. But you could never be certain.
Burt Joubert, his South African bush-pilot friend, made his way across the bar towards him. He stuck out a hand to greet Kilbride. ‘How is it, man?’
Kilbride grinned. ‘It’s good. Fancy a beer?’
‘I’m off the beer, man. A fruit juice maybe.’
Kilbride ordered the drinks and the two men spent a few minutes catching up on old news. They’d met in the Congo several years back and had gone on to work together in various war zones. Burt had a small farm upcountry, with a dirt airstrip from where he ran his air-charter business. He owned a couple of Buffalo transport aircraft, which were exceptional workhorses, and until recently he had been doing very well. Then a rival air-charter company had spread some seriously nasty rumours about Burt’s professionalism and the business had dried up. Kilbride had heard that Burt was in real financial trouble.
‘I need a job doing, mate,’ Kilbride yelled above the noise of the bar. ‘I can’t afford to pay up front, but if we pull it off you’ll never have to work again.’
‘Sounds interesting, man. I presume it’s highly dangerous.’
‘Pretty much,’ Kilbride confirmed. ‘Remember when we flew that mission over Sierra Leone, and you dropped a loop of gasoline into the jungle? Chucked in a couple of grenades at the end of the loop, and the whole lot went up. Fried a load of those rebel bastards, the ones who were chopping off little kiddies’ hands?’
Burt grinned. ‘It wasn’t gasoline, man. It was a variant on that Vietnam-era foo gas. You mix styrofoam in with the diesel – makes a DIY napalm. Forms a sticky gel – vastly more unpleasant for the enemy.’
‘Right. Well, I need you to fly in a tanker-load of that stuff to Beirut. You’ll have to sit on the runway for forty-eight hours, on call. If you leave at the end without deploying the foo gas, there’s a million and a half in it for you. If I do call you in you’ll need to dump it on the bad guys and fry the fuckers. And that’s a five-million job.’
‘Dollars?’ Burt queried.
‘Dollars.’
‘Sounds good to me, man.’ Burt took a sip of his fruit juice. His competitors had been spreading bullshit rumours that he was flying his planes pissed on vodka the whole time. He’d stopped drinking completely, as a way to counter the gossip. ‘Mind telling me something of your mission? I mean, it’s not a coup or anything, man? I’m not likely to get my crew arrested and the Buffalo impounded when it all goes tits-up?’
‘Here’s the short version. There’s a load of loot hidden somewhere in the Lebanon. Me and a bunch of my ex-SAS mates are going to fetch it. Unfortunately, a bunch of mad Islamic terrorists know about it, and they’ll be following us. If we can’t shake them off we may need to call in the air force. That’s where you come in.’
‘What sort of terrain am I likely to be operating over?’ Burt asked. ‘There’s no jungle out there, man. Just a lot of mountains and a lot of coastline and not a lot in between.’
‘I’m not sure. Coastal is most likely. Would that stuff work if you dumped it over the sea?’
‘Foo gas? Of course, man. It would sit like a slick on the ocean’s surface. Only thing that might spoil it is real rough weather, sort of breaks it up … But it has to be real rough, man. Otherwise, you put a match to it and … boom.’
‘Boom.’ Kilbride raised his beer glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Burt raised his fresh pineapple juice. ‘I’ll need to book a crew and get some airport clearances. When do you need me ready by, man?’
‘Two days from now. Once you’ve got your crew together pay a visit to The Homestead and I’ll brief you on your area of operations.’
Smithy stared out over the dark waters. The throb of the diesel engine and the rocking of the boat lulled him, tempting him to sleep. But they were just off Somalia, and pirates were known to stalk these waters. He pinched himself awake. All three of them were on deck and trying to stay alert, although Sally would no doubt be the first to sense any trouble. In his lap Smithy cradled the cold steel of a Diemaco assault rifle with an underslung M203 grenade launcher. The airdrop of arms by the Snow Goose had gone like clockwork. If any pirates did care to bother them, they’d be getting a nasty surprise.
Moynihan had let McKierran take the wheel for the last few hours. The big Scot was proving remarkably handy to have around, in spite of the wheelchair.
Smithy glanced at the Irishman. ‘What’re you thinking, Paddy? You’re quiet …’
‘Sure, I’m thinking about children, so I am.’
‘You don’t have none, do you?’
‘I don’t, and there’s no home without them.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s a bit morbid to be thinking just prior to going in … You all right?’
‘Ah, sure I am. It’s just, I think I met someone …’
‘Awesome. You’re thinking of settling down? So am I, mate.’
‘Sure, that’s the idea – if she’ll have me.’
‘She’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t she?’
‘She’s a fair bit younger than me. Sure, I’m no great catch as things presently stand. Tell you the truth, now, that’s why I’m here.’
‘What, you think you’ll catch your woman with the gold?’
‘Sure, with a bit of luck I’ll be going home to Ireland a very wealthy man … It might make a shade of difference to how she views things, end of story.’
Smithy stared out to sea. Maybe there was some truth in what Moynihan had said. How much was Janey’s love for him driven by money? Fuck it, maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. But at least she’d never done him down, never said that he’d never amount to anything.
And there was another thing, too. He’d kept it quiet from the rest of the lads, but Janey had been to the doctor and she was pregnant. She was going to have his kid. A Smithy Junior. Well, that was enough for him. It was more than his wife had ever done for him in thirty years of marriage. End of story, as the Irishman would say.
Kilbride called the men of the A Team together for a final pre-mission briefing. Two days earlier, Ward, Johno and Nightly had flown out to join Boerke, Berger and Kilbride at The Homestead. All six men would be leaving for the airport at 5.30 a.m. the following morning. They would be travelling in civilian clothing and carrying nothing on them that was the remotest bit military. If anyone asked, they were six blokes going on a jaunt in the sunny Lebanon.
Kilbride pointed at a map of the Lebanon that he had taped to the office wall. ‘Right, we arrive in Beirut at 2.30 p.m. The airport’s on the south of the city, here. We’ve then got a drive north to this point, here. We overnight at the Hotel Chbat, in Bcharre town, which is just a few klicks short of our destination, the farm at Wadi Jehannam. Bcharre is an ancient Christian stronghold, so our going there will make perfect sense
to the enemy – who will be following us.’
‘Why not head straight for the farm?’ Ward asked. ‘Why the stopover?’
‘We need to take a weapons delivery, and the Yanks have agreed to do a weapons drop into the hills around Bcharre.’
‘What if the airdrop fails to materialise?’ Nightly asked. ‘If there’s storms over the mountains or something?’
‘Good question. If that happens, we wait. Once the weather clears we reschedule the delivery. We are not going in unarmed. To do so would be—’
‘Suicide?’ Nightly queried.
‘Right: suicide. In Bcharre there’ll also be a tractor unit for an articulated truck waiting for us. I’ve arranged to have it delivered to the hotel by a local heavy plant-hire company, from where Boerke takes over. He claims to have some experience driving trucks. Let’s hope he didn’t gain it all driving on South African roads, ’cause they’re bloody lethal.’
Boerke smiled. ‘If you can drive in Africa, you can drive anywhere, man.’
Kilbride turned to a second map. ‘This is a close-up of Wadi Jehannam. We chose it as the hiding place for some very good reasons. First, it’s one of the remotest parts of the country. There’s a few semi-nomadic Bedouin around and that’s it, which means few prying eyes. Second, there’s lots of derelict land, so it’s quite feasible for us to have hidden the gold there for all these years. Third, it offers the enemy the perfect terrain in which to ambush us.’
‘Gee, well, that’s a relief,’ Bill Berger snorted. ‘Got any targets we can pin on our goddamn backs while we’re at it?’
‘I still don’t like it, man, setting ourselves up for an ambush,’ Boerke added.
Kilbride shrugged. ‘None of us do. But that’s the key to Operation Trojan Horse. There’s only one place where it makes sense to ambush us. Once we leave the farm our route takes us along this dirt track, which passes through a narrow, twisting defile – here. We’ll be forced to slow to a crawl to negotiate it, and they’ll have perfect cover. That’s where they’ll hit us. It’s perfect for them for another reason, too. A side road branches off here towards a border crossing into Syria. That’s the route they’ll use to take the decoy gold back to their camp.’
