‘Change of plan, Connor,’ said Colonel Black, seated in his antique red leather chair behind the mahogany desk in his office. On the wall, a widescreen monitor displayed the news of a terrorist attack in China; another was showing the continued riots in Thailand. ‘You’re to be BG on Operation Lionheart.’
‘What about Marc?’ said Connor, confused by the sudden reassignment.
‘He has acute appendicitis,’ explained Charley, rolling up beside him. ‘He believed it was just stomach ache and had been trying to tough it out. Jody’s rushed him to hospital before his appendix bursts.’
Connor recalled how his friend had been clutching his side after the advanced driving test the week before. ‘Will he be all right?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ stated the colonel. ‘But you’re to stand in for him. You leave tomorrow.’
‘But …’ Connor’s feelings were conflicted. He was obviously thrilled at the prospect; yet at the forefront of his mind were Amir and his agreement with his gran. ‘I’m supposed to be Amir’s support.’
Colonel Black waved away his concerns. ‘Charley will cover for you. Besides, it’s only for ten days.’
‘What about Jason? Or Richie?’
The colonel shook his head. ‘They don’t have the necessary vaccinations for travel in Africa. Yellow fever and Hepatitis A need to be administered at least two weeks in advance. Thankfully, after your last assignment you’re already immunized.’
Connor appreciated the decision was out of his hands. Thinking about it, he supposed a short mission was acceptable. His gran wouldn’t even know he was gone and he’d be back in time for the second phase of Amir’s assignment. With his conscience almost clear, Connor began to feel the familiar pre-mission rush of anticipation.
‘Charley, brief him on the assignment,’ Colonel Black instructed.
She spun towards the wall monitors and clicked a remote. The news feeds disappeared and were replaced by a picture of a smiling family of four. ‘As you already know, Operation Lionheart is tasked with protecting this French ambassador’s family on safari in Africa.’
‘You do realize I don’t speak French?’ Connor asked.
‘Not to worry,’ Charley replied. ‘The Barbier family all speak English as a second language. And Bugsy will supply you with a new smartphone with a real-time translation app. He has requested, though, that you try to keep this phone intact on this mission.’
Connor shrugged. ‘I’ll do my best.’ On his last assignment, his phone had been destroyed by a bullet, though it had saved his life.
‘The two Principals you’ll be buddyguard for are Amber and Henri,’ continued Charley.
A close-up of a flame-haired girl with green eyes appeared on-screen. Next to her, on the other monitor, was an image of a red-headed boy in a blue-and-white football top.
‘Amber is sixteen years old, a keen climber and with a passion for photography. Her brother, Henri, is nine. As you can see from the photo, he’s into soccer – a supporter of Paris Saint Germain – but he suffers badly from asthma so he can’t play the game himself.’
‘Does Amber have any medical conditions?’ Connor asked, making mental notes as Charley ran through the brief.
Charley shook her head. ‘She once broke her foot after a climbing accident, but there weren’t any long-term issues according to her medical files.’
With another click of the remote, detailed profiles of both parents were displayed. On the first screen appeared a man in his fifties with cropped grey hair and glasses; on the second, a glamorous middle-aged woman with high cheekbones and auburn hair.
‘Laurent, the father, is a long-serving French diplomat with responsibility for managing aid programmes in Central Africa. As would be expected of an ambassador, he is well-mannered, well-connected and sociable. He’s also astute and intelligent, with a master’s in politics and economics. From what we can gather, he has no known enemies. His only shortcoming was keeping a mistress, although that appears to be in the past.’
Charley indicated the mother. ‘Cerise is a former fashion editor and now a cultural attaché for the French foreign office. A caring mother and apparently forgiving wife, she now accompanies her husband on all diplomatic and foreign trips. By all accounts, she has good relations with family, friends and business colleagues. Nothing unusual – beyond a love of jewellery and an expensive taste in clothing – has been flagged during our profiling of her.’
‘So, if the Barbiers don’t have any obvious enemies, what’s the threat?’ asked Connor.
Colonel Black leant forward on his desk, steepling his fingers. ‘No specific threats have been identified for the family. Hence, it’s a Category Three operation and the reason why only one buddyguard has been assigned to two Principals in this instance. Primarily it’s the location that raises security issues.’
He nodded to Charley, who brought up a map of Central Africa on-screen.
‘Laurent Barbier and his family are visiting Burundi by invitation of President Bagaza,’ Charley explained, pointing to a small heart-shaped country landlocked between the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda and Tanzania. ‘The purpose of their trip is to experience the country’s soon-to-be-opened national park, one that France has heavily invested in.’
She enlarged the map to focus on an expanse of uninhabited land in the nation’s north-east. Hemmed in by high mountains on either side and split down the centre by a silver seam of a river, the area was identified as Ruvubu National Park.
‘You see, Burundi is currently the fourth poorest country in the world,’ she continued. ‘After years of civil war crippling their economy, the government is largely dependent on foreign aid. But, with peace finally descending some years back, this country is attempting to rebuild itself. Besides exploiting its natural resources, tourism is seen as a potential major source of income. Yet, while the security situation has improved in recent years, the country remains subject to political instability and the threat of violence. It’s a young, somewhat fragile peace.’
The colonel took over. ‘There’s a delicate power-sharing arrangement in place between Burundi’s majority Hutu and minority Tutsi communities. The two sides are still struggling to reconcile after decades of conflict. President Bagaza has been sworn in for a second term, which is positive. But he does have his enemies: mainly leaders of former resistance groups, including the FPB – the Front Patriotique Burundais – and the UCL – the Union des Combattants de la Liberté. So, though unlikely, there’s always a chance that things could kick off again. That’s why the ambassador himself made the request for our services, to ensure his family are one hundred per cent safe.’
Charley handed Connor a mini USB flash drive. ‘The op-order has more detail and background on Burundi’s civil war, along with an overview of the current state of the country. Don’t get your hopes up. It makes for grim reading. The infrastructure is virtually non-existent. There’s little electricity and the roads are primarily dirt tracks. For what it’s worth, I’ve included the official number for the police under emergency contacts, although it’s unlikely anyone will answer your call. So you’ll have to rely on your smartphone to contact us if there are any problems – and your only emergency evacuation option will be a private plane.’
Pocketing the mini drive, Connor remarked, ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a holiday destination.’
Charley smiled. ‘Don’t worry – I’ve seen pictures of the safari lodge. Luxury is an understatement. Just as an example, the bedroom suites are glass-fronted with their own sun decks and plunge pools! It looks like millions have been spent on this tourist project. And, with the president’s own security forces on hand, this assignment should be a walk in the park for you.’
‘Still, don’t drop your guard, Connor,’ said Colonel Black. Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out a battered pocketbook. ‘Here, something for you to read on the plane.’
He tossed it to Connor. The green-and-orange cover sported the title: SAS Survival
Handbook.
‘Expecting problems?’ asked Connor, glancing up at the colonel.
Colonel Black shook his head. ‘No, but it’s always best to be prepared for the worst. Especially in Africa.’
A crude bamboo barrier forced the ageing Land Rover to a sudden halt, its tyres kicking up plumes of dust from the single-track road that cut through the bush. Two men in threadbare army fatigues, any official insignia long since faded or else purposefully removed, stood guard behind the barricade, their assault rifles trained on the vehicle’s sole occupant.
The tallest of the men, a gangly Rwandan with deep-set eyes, approached the driver’s side. He made a sign to wind down the window. Whether a legitimate border guard or not, the driver complied with the instruction.
‘A little off the tourist trail, aren’t you?’ said the guard, leaning in and eyeing the interior of the 4x4 with greedy interest.
‘The main road was blocked,’ replied the driver.
The guard snorted sceptically. ‘Passport,’ he demanded, thrusting out a hand.
The driver reached into his rucksack and produced a navy-blue passport. The guard snatched it from his grasp and flicked it open to the ID page. A photo of a lean-faced man with a pale complexion, ice-grey eyes and a dour expression stared back at him. There were no distinguishing features but the photo more or less matched the driver’s appearance. ‘Stan Taylor. Canadian?’
Mr Grey nodded, the fake passport just one of his many false identities.
Leafing through the pages, the guard discovered a crisp ten-dollar bill tucked into the back. He glanced up. ‘Bribing an official is a crime in our country.’
‘What bribe?’ replied Mr Grey evenly. ‘I just gave you my passport as asked for.’
The guard closed the document, palming the ten dollars into his own pocket but not returning the passport. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered.
Mr Grey knew the routine. Ten dollars was hardly enough for the two or more guards stationed at this remote border crossing. They would try to squeeze him for more money. Accepted practice. Which was why he hadn’t offered anything larger.
Taking his rucksack and car keys, Mr Grey followed the guard into a small wooden building with a corrugated tin roof. Inside it stank of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. After the glare of the African sun, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior – the only sources of light were the open doorway and a square hole for a window in the back wall. There was a bucket in one corner, a rusted machete leaning against the near wall and an unlit kerosene lamp hanging from a rotting beam. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a battered wooden desk and a chair in which reclined a pot-bellied official, his feet propped up and a cigarette lolling from his pudgy lips.
The border guard dropped Mr Grey’s passport on to the desk. The official barely glanced at it.
‘The purpose of your visit to Rwanda is?’ he asked, the cigarette bobbing up and down, discarding ash on to the dirt floor.
‘Business,’ replied Mr Grey.
‘And what business might that be?’
‘Wildlife photographer.’
The officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where’s your camera?’
‘In my bag.’
‘Search him,’ he mumbled, jutting his chin in a command to the guard.
Mr Grey allowed the man to frisk him. His pockets were turned out and his car keys and a slim black wallet deposited on the desk. The official leant forward and inspected the wallet as the guard rummaged through the rucksack.
‘For the record, I note you have one hundred dollars in here,’ he said.
‘Two hundred,’ Mr Grey corrected.
‘No, one hundred,’ stated the official, extracting five twenty-dollar bills and slipping them into his shirt pocket.
‘I must have been mistaken,’ said Mr Grey with a thin smile.
The border guard pulled out an SLR digital camera with telephoto lens and held it up for the official to see.
‘As I said, wildlife photographer,’ repeated Mr Grey.
At that moment the guard from outside entered the shack. Looking directly at the official, he shook his head once. ‘Nothing in the vehicle.’
Not even attempting to hide his disappointment, the official reluctantly opened a drawer and produced a rubber stamp and ink pad. After a protracted and unnecessary examination of the passport, he inked the stamp and was about to authorize entry when the taller guard fumbled and dropped the camera. It hit the floor, the telephoto lens snapping off and rolling to a stop at the foot of the desk. Concealed within the casing was a large pinkish rock.
Mr Grey silently cursed the guard’s clumsiness. It would likely cost the man his life.
Tutting his disapproval, the official set aside his rubber stamp.
‘I can explain,’ said Mr Grey, his eyes hardening.
‘No need,’ replied the official, bending down to pick up the precious rock and examining it with avaricious delight. ‘Arrest him.’
The tall guard seized Mr Grey’s arms. But a trained assassin isn’t easy to restrain. A single reverse headbutt to the face fractured the guard’s nose. A spinning elbow strike to the temple rendered him unconscious. And, as he crumpled, a sharp violent twist to the head snapped his neck.
The other guard went for his gun. Grasping the barrel, Mr Grey wrenched the weapon up and round, spinning it so fast that the man’s finger broke in the trigger guard. A single knife-hand strike to the throat crushed the windpipe, cutting off any cry of pain and suffocating the guard even as he writhed on the floor.
In a wild panic, the official snatched up his machete and swung the fearsome blade at Mr Grey’s head. With lightning reflexes, Mr Grey ducked and simultaneously pulled at the metal buckle of his belt. It came loose to reveal a hidden blade. Before the official could swing again, the assassin leapt across the desk and drove the sharpened point into the man’s throat. The official’s eyes bulged in agonized shock. The machete clattered to the ground, the cigarette tumbling from the man’s quivering lips. As he bled like a stuck pig, his carotid artery severed, Mr Grey let the official slump into the dirt at his feet.
In less than ten seconds, the three men were dead.
With disconcerting calmness, Mr Grey retrieved the diamond, his passport, rucksack, camera, car keys, wallet and money the official had stolen, including the ten-dollar bribe in the border guard’s pocket. That done, he took the kerosene lamp from the beam and smashed it on the floor. Oil splattered across the corpses, upon which flies were already settling. Then retrieving the still-smouldering cigarette, Mr Grey tossed it on to the kerosene and the bodies went up in flames. When anyone eventually reported the men’s deaths, it would be assumed a rogue band of militia had attacked the border post.
As the stench of scorched flesh filled the room, Mr Grey made to leave. Almost as an afterthought, he stopped, opened the small ink-pad on the desk and stamped his passport before strolling out of the burning building.
‘Are you really a bodyguard?’
Connor nodded as he washed down the bitter aftertaste of his malaria tablets with a swig of bottled water.
Henri’s eyes widened in awe and he rocked back in his airline seat. ‘C’est trop cool!’
The small yet luxurious eight-seated Cessna plane banked left as they flew over dense jungle towards Ruvubu National Park. The African sun gleamed golden off the aircraft’s wings and the sky was as blue as pure sapphire. Below, the steamy green tangle of trees pulsated with heat and life. Connor could scarcely believe that twenty-four hours earlier he’d been stationed in cold, grey snowy Wales. But after an eleven-hour flight from Heathrow via Brussels he’d landed in the surprisingly sedate and swelteringly hot airport of Bujumbura, Burundi’s capital city. There, he’d joined the Barbier family for their connecting flight to the safari lodge.
Henri leant forward. ‘Do you have a gun?’ he whispered, keeping his voice low so that his parents in the front-row seats wouldn’t hear.
Connor laughed ou
t loud, thinking of the trouble he’d have had getting one through airport security at Heathrow, even if he had been allowed to carry a gun. ‘No,’ he replied.
Henri frowned in evident disappointment. ‘So how will you protect us?’
‘By staying alert for danger, then avoiding it.’
‘Mais que ferais-tu si tu ne peux pas l’éviter?’ asked Amber, who was reclined in one of the Cessna’s cream leather seats.
Connor looked across the narrow aisle at her. Far prettier than her photo had given her credit for, Amber was also more frosty than her flame-red hair suggested. She had either forgotten that he couldn’t speak her language, or was being deliberately awkward for some reason.
Having exhausted the extent of his French in the brief and mumbled intro he’d learnt by rote for their first meeting, Connor wished he had Bugsy’s translation app to hand, but his smartphone was switched off for the flight. With an apologetic smile, he replied, ‘I’m … sorry. What did you say?’
‘I said, but what if you can’t avoid the danger?’ repeated Amber in English graced with a soft French accent.
‘Then we’ll A-C-E it out of there.’
She raised a slender eyebrow in puzzlement. ‘A-C-E?’
Connor was so familiar with the jargon that Alpha team used on a daily basis that he forgot others didn’t know the terms. ‘It’s the course of action I’ll take to keep you safe. I’ll first assess the threat, whatever it may be: a shout, a gunshot, or something that raises my suspicions. Then I’ll counter the danger – either by shielding you or eliminating the threat itself – before we escape the kill zone.’
‘So, as our bodyguard, if someone tried to shoot my sister –’ a playful grin sneaked across Henri’s face as he formed a gun with his fingers and took aim at Amber – ‘would you dive in front of the bullet to save her?’
Connor felt a dull ghost-like throb of pain along the scar on his thigh where he’d been shot protecting the daughter of the president of the USA. ‘If I have to, yes. But with the right security measures in place it won’t come to that.’
Bodyguard: Ambush (Book 3) Page 5
