by Chris Ryan
He’d been hit by a stray .50-cal round.
Fuck this cunt, Bald thought. If he’d had the chance he would’ve slotted Fourie himself. He reached into the back seat and padded Fourie down for his GPS navigator, thinking that he could nab the coordinates to the treasure and take it all for himself. He found it in his jeans pocket. He dragged it out, blood and shit spilling out of Fourie onto the leather interior, splashing over Bald’s hands. Finally he pulled it free.
‘Cheers Bill,’ Bald said to Fourie.
But he could swear Fourie was smiling at him.
Bald inspected the navigator. A round had smashed through the middle of it. The device was inoperable.
The coordinates were lost.
It took him an hour to get back to the hotel. He’d had to make the journey on foot. The route back had been treacherous. Snipers were holed up all over the place, dead bodies providing their own cautionary tales about what happened to you if you weren’t sharp of ear and fleet of foot. He stuck to the shadows and the backstreets and stayed behind cover. At last he reached the Second Ring Road, the rebels’ inner security cordon, and he was able to relax. The atmosphere switched from bullets and screams to bullets and cheers. Men were kissing each other in the street. Statues of Gaddafi were being torn down.
Banks of excitable journos had assembled outside the Mansour Hotel. Bald had a theory that all journalists were born pussies and his belief was reinforced by the fact that the majority of them were delivering their reports while decked out in bulletproof vests and blast helmets. Standing in the middle of what was probably the safest patch of land in Tripoli at that moment. He threaded his way past the throng and into the lobby.
Bald was looking forward to three things. He was looking forward to smashing Rachel’s arse. That was the third thing. He was looking forward to calling Cave and telling him Laxman was dead, and then reading out his bank sort code and account number. That was number two on his list. But most of all he was looking forward to a cool beer. Libya was mostly dry, but the hotels were known to accommodate Western tastes. Even during a civil war, they were bound to have a few lagers on tap.
He made a beeline for the hotel bar.
As he barged through the double doors he saw a barman pulling a tall glass of something golden and refreshing. Minutes later he was slaking his thirst when he noticed a guy sitting at a corner table. His legs were crossed. He was wearing a white linen suit and sipping from a glass tumbler filled with some kind of a mixer and ice. He looked like a gay version of The Man from Del Monte.
The man looked up from his copy of the Daily Telegraph. ‘What a coincidence,’ he said.
The man was Leo Land.
forty-four
1900 hours.
Bald was rooted to the spot. Land removed his jacket, revealing a pink shirt beneath, silver cufflinks. He undid the collar button, carefully draped his jacket over the chair and gestured to the free seat opposite.
‘Why don’t you come over and sit down, John?’ He folded up the Telegraph. ‘You look like you could use a seat. Get your breath back.’
Bald eyed the chair like there was a bomb secreted in the seat.
‘Oh, don’t be like that. I just saved your bloody life.’
Bald was frazzled and exhausted and hungry, and it took him a few fuzzy seconds to work out what Land was talking about.
‘You mean Stromback? The NATO guy?’
‘MI6, actually. That was my idea. I knew you’d used NATO cover to get past the border patrols. So I thought it would be in the best interests of us both if I made sure that the rebels believed you. If they knew you were lying, well . . . we wouldn’t be having this delightful conversation.’
Land looked pleased with himself. Bald didn’t offer him even the hint of a thank you. Instead he said, ‘I thought you’d retired.’
Land seemed to find this funny. Bald didn’t laugh.
‘On the contrary.’ Land played with his cufflinks. ‘They had to make a big show of putting me out to pasture after that ugly business in Turkey. But the top brass recognized I had a particular set of skills they admired. Skills that most men lack, I should add. So, in the end, I was promoted.’
If Bald had been drinking at that moment he would’ve spat it over the carpet. ‘Promoted?’
Land laughed again. It was a smug, self-satisfied laugh, a guy finding his own jokes hilarious. ‘You see, this is precisely why the meek shall never inherit the earth. You’re too plain and crude. You lack the nous to work yourself into a position of strength. I mean, you do have certain . . . skills, yes, that is the word, isn’t it? But you’re always doing someone else’s bidding. Aren’t you? Whereas me, I make other people do mine.’
Bald clenched his fists. His nails dug graves into the palms of his hands. He seriously considered giving Land the tasty end of a knuckle sandwich. Land seemed to pick up on this and said, ‘There are agents everywhere, John. You wouldn’t even make it out of this hotel. Now be a good chap and sit down and have a drink.’
Bald held his ground for a moment longer. Then he drew up the chair opposite Land and sat down.
‘I heard about Bill Fourie’s plot,’ Land said.
Bald didn’t answer.
‘We bugged the room Laxman was staying in. And the car Gardner rented too. You should know by now never to underestimate us.’ Land crossed his legs the other way. ‘I also want you to know, the deal that Fourie talked about, between us and the Gaddafis, it wasn’t real.’
Bald still didn’t answer.
‘But it turns out that Fourie had his own plans. When it came to Gaddafi he was actually currying favour. Particularly with the sons. It’s my fault. We should’ve known better than to send him on that mission. Bit of a menace, that chap.’
‘Not any more,’ said Bald.
Land expressed no emotion at this news. He paused and searched Bald’s eyes. ‘Once he had acquired the dust, he was going to kill both Gardner and yourself and keep the money himself.’ He paused again. ‘But of course, I’m sure you knew that too. What’s your poison, John?’
‘Beer.’
Land waved to the bartender. Then looked back at Bald. ‘One lager coming right up.’
Bald nodded at Land’s tumbler.
‘You should lay off that stuff,’ he said. ‘You’re gay enough as it is.’
Land raised his glass as Bald’s pint arrived. ‘Cheers,’ he said. He sipped at his drink and licked his lips. ‘Nothing makes an Englishman feel like an Englishman quite like a gin and tonic in a foreign land.’
The waiter placed Bald’s lager in front of him. He drained a third of it in one gulp.
Land was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘You’re probably asking yourself why I’m here.’
‘I’m asking myself why you’re such a prize cunt,’ said Bald.
‘I believe you know Daniel Cave? I’m his superior at Six.’ He took another sip of his G&T. A cube of ice slipped between his lips. ‘I’m most people’s superior there now, actually.’
‘I couldn’t give a fuck what you are.’
Land crunched the ice and let the comment slide.
‘You’re expecting to get paid for killing Laxman. Am I right? What is it again? Three million?’
‘Five,’ said Bald.
‘Oh. Nice work if you can get it, John. Well, here’s the bad news. Cave has made a royal mess of this. You see, the CIA were aware of the sleeper cell and the plot to smuggle out Intelligent Dust from Lance-Elsing quite some time ago. Before we’d been aware of it, in fact.’
‘There was a guy from the Agency,’ said Bald. ‘Hauser. He tried to stop me killing Laxman.’ He sank another third of his pint. ‘Guess he failed.’
‘Well, actually, you are wrong about that.’
Bald felt a dense pressure building in his skull.
‘The Yanks wanted to see where the sleeper would lead them,’ said Land.
‘But why? They already know it’s for those Pakistani pricks.’
‘Well, no. That’s who we believed was behind the sleeper cell. But that was a smokescreen. The real brains behind this operation comes from elsewhere.’
‘This isn’t making any fucking sense.’
Land suddenly shot forward in his seat and grabbed Bald by the wrist. His bony hand had a surprisingly tough grip. Land sneered at him. ‘Then you’d better start engaging that fine brain of yours, because this mission as it stands is screwed.’
He released Bald’s hand and slumped back in his seat and pulled a disappointed face like a spoilt child.
‘Your mission, John, was to prevent Lance-Elsing technology from reaching its destination. And in that context, you have utterly failed. You won’t receive a penny until you bloody well do.’
Bald shook his head. ‘I killed Laxman. Send your boys across town if you don’t believe me.’
‘Oh, I know Laxman is dead. But the rub of it is, you didn’t kill the right person.’
Bald blazed up. He went hot and cold and numb and pained all at the same time. He managed to say, ‘Then who the fuck was it?’
‘She was operating under deep cover as a prostitute. Her name is Xia Wei-Lee.’
The Chinese woman. Bald thought about the way she had dressed. The way she had kissed Laxman on the cheek, like at the end of a first date. The black grab-bag over her shoulder.
‘She works for Chinese intelligence,’ Land said. ‘And you let her get away.’
forty-five
Mansour Hotel, Tripoli, Libya. 2100 hours.
Leo Land peered down from the balcony at the street forty metres below and frowned. He tucked a Montecristo cigarillo between his lips. Patted down his trouser pockets for a light, came up short. He left the unlit cigarillo drooping from his mouth. A white Toyota Hilux was driving at a slow walk at the head of a procession of weary pickups. The new Libyan flag was draped over the Hilux’s bonnet, bands of primary red and green with a wedge of black thrusting through the middle. Half a dozen rebel soldiers were hanging from the cargo bed; half a dozen more jogging either side of the truck. The driver was honking his horn and shouting above the blare, ‘Libya, Libya!’, like a football chant.
Land rolled the cigarillo with his milky hand and scoped out the crowd parading outside the Mansour Hotel. A poor turnout, all things considered. Perhaps a thousand gathered on the pavements. Another thousand walking around in a heady daze. The other 998,000 Tripolians were probably huddled around television sets and radios, preferring to celebrate inside. Perhaps, thought John Bald, they’d already worked out that democracy wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Land wetted the cigarillo leaves with his tongue. Further down the road and behind the procession, aid workers were stockpiling a dusty lot with body bags. All the time AK-47 muzzles were flashing at the night sky. Assault rifles, defaced icons of a deposed dictator, not a woman in sight; this had all the makings of an Arab street party.
As Land turned away from the street, Bald was propping himself up against the hotel wall and taking a piss while swigging from a bottle of Wild Turkey. The sound of his glugging was matched by the furious stream of urine hissing on scorched brickwork.
‘John.’ Land folded his arms. ‘It’s almost time. The plane is waiting.’
Bald had a full tank to empty. He pissed some more. Then he saw Land scrutinizing his cheap plastic watch. On top of everything else, Bald loathed Land for being a tight cunt. Only he could wear the kind of watch you’d find in Poundstretcher.
‘It’s an eight-hour flight from here to western China,’ Land said, his voice superior. ‘Xia is en route to the rendezvous. You must catch her before she hands the Intelligent Dust to the Chinese military. I’m sure you realize what would happen then.’
‘We all sing the words to “Imagine”?’ Bald shook the last few drops from his dick, zipped himself up. ‘Get some other prick to do it.’
Land said, ‘I know of only two people with the skills for this job, and the other chap is so badly burnt that we’ll have to use dental records to make a positive ID.’
‘Joe’s death wasn’t my fault.’
Land cocked his head at Bald. ‘I’m getting sick of your excuses.’
The gunfire was basslined by a low and steady phom-phom-phom. Anti-aircraft assemblies were jettisoning phos rounds into the sky. The bellies of the clouds glowed synthetic reds and purples and greens. Land grimaced at the sky, then looked back at Bald. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a box of matches on you, old boy?’
‘Don’t smoke.’
‘No, you just get pissed and screw things up instead.’
Bald shook the last few honeyed drops of Turk out of the bottle and down his throat. Then he turned back and made for the lobby.
Land said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘You’re sick of excuses. I’m sick of you. I’m out of here.’
‘Fine,’ said Land. ‘But if you leave now, you can forget about getting paid.’
Bald paused. The hotel room’s light was blinking on and off, splitting the balcony into schizoid light and dark. Bald said, ‘I did what you asked me to do. Laxman is dead. End of fucking story.’
Land guffawed. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple, John. Your mission was to stop the sleeper and intercept the technology. You failed on both counts.’
Bald clamped his fingers around the door so hard his fingertips went purple, then white. ‘We had a deal. I shook hands with Cave. You have to honour it.’
Land plucked the cigarillo out of his mouth.
‘I’ve got some news for you, John. Young Cave has been taken off the case. I’m in charge now. And I’m in control of the purse strings at the Firm these days. If I decide there is no deal, then voilà – no deal.’
The sporadic bursts of gunfire suddenly swelled to a drum roar. Bald spun and seized Land by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him back until his head and upper body was suspended over the balcony’s edge. Land yanked his head away from Bald as far as his muscles allowed. The veins on his neck were stretched and prominent.
Bald said, ‘You’re gonna pay up.’
‘Or what, John? You’ll throw me to my death? What do you think would happen then?’
‘I’d get a warm, fuzzy feeling.’
Bald found himself releasing his fingers. Land scrabbled away from him, until his back was against the glass sliding door leading into the room. Time had pulled a fast one on Land, thought Bald. A year had aged the guy ten. His face was gaunt and worn.
‘The Chinese are behind everything,’ Land sighed. ‘We weren’t trying to deliberately shaft you, but now they’re involved and the goalposts have moved. Why else do you think we helped the rebels? We’re trying to protect our interests here. We have contracts for oil and gas, bloody good contracts for Britain.’
Bald still said nothing.
Land went on, ‘Our friends in the rebel forces have discovered documents in the security service’s offices. Documents that describe meetings between Gaddafi’s inner circle and representatives from Beijing.’
‘Talking about what?’
‘Arms sales. The Chinese reckoned they could ship the arms to South Africa, then route them north into Niger and across the border to Libya. And we’re not talking AK-47s here, John. We’re talking about state-of-the-art surface-to-air missile launchers, data encryption devices, advanced sniper rifles.’
‘I thought there were sanctions?’
‘You really think the Chinese care? They were cosying up to Gaddafi because he held the power and thus the oil. Now the uprising has gained momentum they’ve switched sides and thrown their lot in with the rebels. And what do you suppose happens if the Chinese offer the rebels the dust in exchange for a good deal on the oil?’
Land popped his top collar button, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and began to dab his forehead.
‘What with the recession and Afghanistan, our Oriental friends think it’s their turn to sit at the top of the table. They believe the dust w
ill help them achieve that goal.’
‘And the Yanks? That guy who put a gun to my head in Florida was CIA. He said his orders were to keep Laxman alive.’
‘Maybe they wanted to see who Laxman was ultimately dealing with?’ Land frowned, then went on, ‘Maybe the Agency was willing to let the dust fall into the wrong hands if it meant revealing the chain of command.’
‘So they know about the Chinese sleeper?’
‘Xia? No,’ Land said. ‘I don’t believe they do. And we’d like to keep it that way.’
‘Why not tell them?’
Land ran his tongue around his mouth. ‘We came to an arrangement with Lance-Elsing, via Rachel Kravets.’
Bald said nothing.
Land said, ‘We agreed that if we managed to snare the sleeper and prevent the handover, they would give us first refusal on their R&D. We’d have access to cutting-edge technology. I’m talking about stuff that even our American cousins wouldn’t have.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about your dirty deals.’
‘But you do care about getting paid.’
Bald closed his eyes. Lukewarm sweat was slicking down the sides of his face and slipping through the crevices at the corners of his mouth.
‘Ten million,’ said Land.
Bald popped his eyes open.
‘Double your money, John.’ Land’s voice prodded at the base of Bald’s skull.
‘Why should I believe you? You fucked me over before.’
‘Christ, man, I just told you: the situation on the ground has changed. This is critical. We need Xia Wei-Lee taken out before she gets the dust to her bosses. At this stage of the game, our paymasters in Whitehall are willing to do anything to make sure that doesn’t happen.’
As Land spoke spittle flecked Bald’s cheek.
‘So here’s how it’s going to play. You’re going to stop being a miserable Scottish drunk, for just one day. And you’re going to get on that plane to China.’ Land glanced at his naff watch again. ‘It’s now three-twenty in the morning Beijing time,’ he said. ‘Xia is due to rendezvous with the Chinese military chiefs at nine-thirty tomorrow evening. We have a company Gulfstream waiting at a secure runway twenty kilometres south of here. Leave now and we can have you on the ground for midday tomorrow. That gives you nine hours to complete your mission.’
