Assassin (John Stratton)

by Falconer, Duncan

  Mahuba looked down at the vehicles in the compound, in particular his pick-up. To his absolute and sudden horror several of the fighters were dragging the crate off the back of it.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Do nothing! Leave it alone!’

  He hurried back to the hatch and down the stairs. He ran out of the house and into the courtyard to find the men had obeyed him to the letter and were holding the crate half on and half off the flatbed while waiting to hear what he wanted them to do next.

  Mahuba controlled himself. Realised he was overreacting. The men were doing just fine and what they believed they should be doing. There were four of them around the box, enough to carry it safely.

  He took a calming breath. ‘Bring it into the house,’ he said. ‘Carefully.’

  The men eased it off the truck. It dipped a little in their hands, heavier than they had anticipated. They carried it in through the front door, along the short corridor and into the main room. Mahuba kept ahead of them and went to the sturdy table and removed his laptop.

  ‘On here,’ he said.

  The men shuffled over with the crate and placed it clumsily onto the table, eager to be rid of the weight.

  ‘Careful,’ Mahuba said angrily.

  They pushed it so that it was in the middle.

  ‘Leave it alone,’ he ordered. He didn’t want them doing anything more to it. ‘Go.’

  The four men let go of the crate and left the room.

  Mahuba’s servant arrived with the tea and placed it on the table by the crate.

  ‘Get me a large screwdriver or crowbar, or something to remove the wood,’ Mahuba said, taking the small glass cup of tea. He sipped it. The tea was hot and sweet. It felt good. He put it down and drew the curtains across the window that directly overlooked the table.

  The servant returned holding a steel pry bar.

  ‘Go,’ Mahuba said, and the servant handed him the bar and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Mahuba took a mobile phone from his pocket, selected a number from the contacts list and hit the send key. He waited patiently with the phone to his ear. It beeped, signalling his call had been answered.

  ‘I have arrived,’ he said.

  A voice on the other end acknowledged him.

  ‘Do the timings remain the same?’

  ’Yes,’ the voice replied.

  Mahuba disconnected the phone and put it back in his pocket. He picked up the tea and stared into space as he put the cup to his lips and drank the rest of it. After a time, he put down the empty cup and regarded the crate.

  He picked up the pry bar and jammed the end into the side of the wood. Levered it. Wiggled it in further. Levered it again. The gap widened. He repeated the process around the top of the crate until the lid came up. He pushed it up, separating it from the rest of the crate.

  He removed the lid and placed it on the floor. The sides came away a lot more easily with the top gone. Within a few minutes he’d exposed a black plastic moulded box. It had a hinged lid. He unclipped three latches along one side, gripped the lid and raised it up on its hinges. He let it down the other side. All of his actions had been conducted with a kind of reverence. Respect for what was inside the box.

  He looked at the object. It was the shape and size of a keg of beer.

  It was the first time he’d ever seen an atomic bomb. He’d studied a pamphlet on this particular kind and knew it well. It was an impact device, designed to fit into a ground-to-ground rocket, or it could be dropped from an aircraft. With a little modification, it could be detonated in a static location. To actually see it live for the first time. To be able to touch it. Such a weapon of destruction. That was remarkable.

  A portion of the box was taken up by a power source. A battery. Leads connected it to the device. Essential power to keep the bomb primed. Without it the device would die in time and become inoperable.

  Mahuba placed the flat of his hand on it, his fingers outstretched. He didn’t need to enter the US base to destroy it. He could do that from where he was. The bomb would destroy everything within a radius of six kilometres. The radiation would reach much further. The fallout even further still, depending on the weather. Everyone in the base would die. And of course, those in Bagram Town and the outlying villages would also perish. A small price to pay.

  He remembered once mentioning to one of his ISI colleagues about his disappointment at not being able to see the outcome of the attack. He’d be able to see it from the other side of life, his colleague had replied. Mahuba had left the conversation at that point. In truth, his faith wasn’t strong enough to accept advice of that nature. His planned attack on the Americans had nothing to do with Islam. It was about national pride. He believed they were plotting to destroy his people’s way of life. In order to preserve that, sacrifices had to be made.

  His main problem was that he couldn’t put any distance between himself and the bomb between trigger and detonation. There was no timer. The bomb’s current configuration allowed it to explode once the arming codes had been inserted. A delay had not been a component of the plan. He knew the rudiments of the device but certainly not enough to tamper with its configuration. Manual detonation was the common component in these matters. It meant the death of the operator, of course.

  He unclipped a cover on the side of the bomb, as the manual had instructed, and raised the lid. Several LEDs twinkled inside. There was a keypad. All he needed to do was enter the arming codes and push a final key to align them. Then boom.

  That’s the bit he was having a problem with. He had estimated he needed half an hour at least to get out of range of the blast. That was travelling in his Toyota at top speed from the gates of the compound and not running into traffic. The prevailing winds of the day would tell him in which direction he should travel.

  Buying himself that precious half-hour was the difficult part. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to survive the explosion. It was beginning to eat away at him and become his only thought. If he truly wanted to achieve that, and he believed he did, he was going to have to come up with a plan, and soon. He didn’t have a lot of time. The codes would soon arrive at the house. He needed to be able to push the button without being there. He couldn’t trust anyone else to do it. They might have the same pang for survival he did. There had to be a solution. And he would spend every moment from then on thinking about it.

  8

  Chandos stepped out of the arrivals hall of Murtala Muhammed International airport carrying a small holdall. The air was warm. His white shirt and slacks were crumpled after the flight from London.

  ‘You want a taxi?’ a tall, young Nigerian asked him.

  Another quickly came alongside him. ‘Taxi?’ the newcomer offered.

  Two more men approached, in the hope of making a sale, all tidily dressed and presentable.

  Chandos looked at their faces as they pushed their offers on him. There was always a risk factor attached to catching a taxi cold in Lagos. Kidnapping wasn’t too commonplace in the port city compared with other parts of Nigeria, but that was mainly because Westerners had generally learned to organise things like transport from the airport prior to their arrival. And no pale-faced tourist in their right mind would fly to Nigeria simply to go sightseeing.

  The opportunity for mishap was mostly due to crime. But there was a growing breed of Islamic sympathisers, as well as home-grown eco-terrorists, or patriots, as they preferred to be called. Either way, it was a dangerous place to turn up without prior security and transportation arrangements.

  But the risks of being mugged were small potatoes to the threat he faced. Even in Nigeria, there were more locals trying to play it straight than there were those trying to be crooks. He figured the odds were in his favour. Chandos looked into the eyes of the first taxi driver who had offered his services and decided to trust him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Lead the way.’

  The man smiled appreciatively and reached for Chandos’s bag. Chandos moved it t
o the other side of his body and raised a hand as he smiled. ‘I can carry it,’ he said.

  The man didn’t argue and they walked around the side of the terminal to a large car park surrounded by a dilapidated chain-link fence. It was full of vehicles and people. Everything had a dirty, greasy feel to it – except for the cars, most of which looked clean and shiny.

  The driver opened the rear door of a sparkling sedan and Chandos climbed in, and within minutes they were heading out of the airport.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the driver asked.

  ‘The Sheraton,’ Chandos said.

  The man knew precisely where the hotel was. It was probably the most popular one for Westerners staying for short periods in the city. In the car, Chandos got to thinking about his situation. He was confident he’d lost his follower at Waterloo. But he had to assume the assassin would have picked up his departure within a few hours of him checking in at Heathrow. Maybe even sooner. He had purchased the ticket with the minimum amount of time he needed to catch the plane. That would have made it difficult for the follower to catch the same flight. Even if they had a Nigerian visa. That would take a few hours at least to acquire, even with connections. He hoped.

  He happened to have a six month multi-entry visa from a previous operation that year. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen the location. He knew the city moderately well. The next commercial flight from the UK was the following day. His calculations included any combination of connecting flights from every other main hub in Europe. Short of the assassin taking a private flight, they wouldn’t arrive in Lagos until tomorrow afternoon.

  He had used a false name to book a room at the Sheraton, which was easy enough to get around. He had stayed at the hotel several times before. The Nigerians weren’t exactly efficient when it came to bureaucracy. And if he encountered any problems, a bribe always worked.

  The Sheraton might be an obvious hotel to start looking, but the assassin would still have to figure it out. Chandos hoped that by the time anyone found a trace of him it would all be over, his plan completed. He was confident of that. He had to be. It’s what was keeping him going.

  He sat back in the car and tried to relax. Nigeria was his best option. Because his death was going to be awkward for London to explain. That was also part of his reasoning. They might dig deeper if they were confused. Find more.

  He suddenly felt unhappy, as well as doubtful. Unhappy that he was going to die. And doubtful the overall plan would succeed. He knew through his dear friend Bullfrog that Mahuba would collect and deliver the nuclear weapon. If the general had not done so already. Chandos knew the target was in Afghanistan and one of the larger US bases. Probably Bagram because it was the easiest and safest of the biggest targets to get to from Pakistan. But what had thrown the metaphorical emergency flares skywards was the discovery that someone else knew about the theft of the weapon before Mahuba did. Someone who was keeping the information secret to allow Mahuba to continue with his mission.

  Chandos cursed his own stupidity. There was one other card of course. Stratton. But he had little hope for that one either. Stratton wasn’t experienced enough for this kind of operation. This required manipulation and subtlety. Espionage. Investigation. Not a battering ram. He suddenly felt more hopeless than ever. The taxi drove through the security checkpoint at the entrance to the grounds of the hotel, wound its way around the front gardens and pulled up outside the main entrance.

  He paid the driver and climbed out. An enthusiastic porter took his bag from the car before he could stop him and hurried into the busy hotel with it. Chandos followed at a good pace.

  The lobby was spacious with a reception area and a bar on one side, and entrances to several restaurants. The place was busy. And smoky. A couple of ladies seated in the lounge area and dressed in evening wear eyed him predatorily as he walked in.

  The porter had placed his bag at a reception desk around a corner. Several uniformed staff behind the counter attended to a line of guests checking in and out. He picked up the bag and joined one of the lines.

  When he was through the booking process he took the elevator to the eighth floor. His room was tired and well overdue for a facelift. It smelled of cigarette smoke. He didn’t particularly care. One always adjusted one’s expectations to one’s surroundings. The condition of the room was a low priority at that moment in time. He took his computer from his bag and set it up on a writing desk by the window. Plugged in the internet cable.

  He opened his inbox and the emails streamed in. Most were standard intelligence reports from MI6. He was looking for one in particular. He found it with some relief, even though he’d been expecting it. A file was attached to the mail. He opened it. A window asked him to type in the password to the highly encrypted file. He wasn’t worried about anyone stealing the file and breaking the code. No one could do that. The National Security Agency would take a hundred years or more to break the encryption.

  He disconnected the internet cable. Then he clicked on the file icon and it opened in another window. It was a simple message:

  BLUE CIVIC, IMPERIAL, SURULERE

  He checked his watch. He’d four and a half hours to kill before picking up the car. It would take him half an hour to get to the location from the Sheraton. He scribbled the details on the hotel notepad and closed down the laptop.

  Chandos was good at killing time.

  He went into the bathroom and ran the bath. He poured a bottle of shampoo into it as a poor substitute for bubble bath. After an hour-long soak that included a shave, he got dressed into a clean pair of slacks and a shirt and went down to the lobby. He selected a restaurant and ate a simple meal washed down with fizzy water. He signed for the meal using his room number and then went back upstairs to get his coat and bag.

  Ten minutes later he stepped outside the front of the hotel to find a taxi. The smiling doorman, in his purple uniform and gold braid epaulettes, assured him one would be along shortly.

  The sun had set beyond the city. It was rapidly growing dark. Street lighting in Lagos was either poor or non-existent. Apart from the occasional lighted building, no traffic meant darkness – but the traffic could be chaotic well into the small hours.

  He watched a car drive into the hotel grounds through the well-lit main security gate. He could see it was a red sedan. He followed it not because he was particularly suspicious, it was out of habit. The car went around the circuitous route through the front gardens, but stopped fifty metres short of the hotel in the shadow of a large tree. He couldn’t see inside it because whoever was driving hadn’t turned off the headlights.

  A taxi came through the security gate and the gardens. It passed the sedan and pulled to a stop outside the entrance. A couple of people climbed out and Chandos took their place inside the back.

  ‘Imperial Restaurant, Surulere, please,’ he said.

  The driver nodded and the car pulled away. Once out of the hotel grounds, they joined the heavy traffic on the main road. Chandos turned in his seat and looked back through the rear window. The habit was getting hard to break. And also because the red sedan had niggled him a little.

  His heart jumped a little at the sight of it driving out of the security gate. He stared at the car. His taxi was slowed by heavy traffic but the driver managed to edge across the three-lane highway to the far left side to make the next turn. The red sedan merged with the traffic and seemed borderline aggressive in its efforts to get into the same lane as his taxi.

  Chandos couldn’t believe the assassin had managed to get to Lagos so soon. Surely it wasn’t possible? he asked himself. Unless they had access to a private jet. And how did they find his hotel so quickly? It was possible he was mistaken about the car. Maybe it wasn’t following him and just a coincidence. He couldn’t control his anxiety, though. He was so close to his goal. But if it was the assassin following him, he had every chance of failing.

  The taxi took a left at the next set of lights and accelerated easily down the road. Chandos kept
his eyes out the rear window the whole time. The sedan was four or five cars back. Several of the cars also took the turn. The majority of the traffic was going straight on. The lights changed. But a car made the turn. It was the red sedan. He fought to keep calm.

  He had evaded the assassin before and he could do it again. He needed less than an hour. He had to get to the restaurant and then to the car that was waiting for him. The taxi took another turn. Two of the cars behind followed, the rear one the red sedan. Chandos could no longer try and convince himself he wasn’t being followed.

  ‘How far to the restaurant?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘Ten minutes, sah,’ the man replied cheerfully.

  Chandos reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and held a note over the seat so that the driver could see it. ‘Here’s a hundred dollars. I’m being followed by a red car. If you lose him, I’ll give you another hundred at the restaurant.’

  The driver pocketed the note and looked into his rear-view to find the red sedan. He was up for it. His foot hit the floor and the car shot forward, throwing Chandos back into the seat. The taxi swerved out into oncoming traffic to overtake the car in front. Despite a van bearing down on them along the narrow road, the driver’s ambitions extended to the next car and the one in front of that. He swerved the taxi back into lane, tightly between the cars as the oncoming van screeched and swerved to avoid a collision. Horns blared. The van driver had screamed something. Chandos looked at the taxi driver in the rear-view. Judging by the his expression, he’d frightened himself. But he recovered quickly to take the car in front. It was still game on.

  Chandos looked back for the sedan. After a few seconds, five cars back, he saw the nose of the vehicle pull out to overtake. But there were too many cars heading towards it and it cut back in.

  The taxi driver had an eye in his rear-view and knew he had not yet succeeded in shaking the sedan. He suddenly swerved the car violently to the right and into a side street. His turn was a touch early and the rear nearside wheel bounced over the kerb, throwing Chandos across his seat. The driver accelerated the car hard down the road and in no time at all they were doing 80 mph along a short stretch of residential street with cars parked on both sides. As they approached the end of the road, the driver braked hard and turned left, the tyres screeching violently. Chandos saw a hubcap go flying off into a parked car and bouncing over it.