by M G Leslie
Price ducked down behind the back seat, so that only the top of his head would be showing as he watched them vanish in to the distance – he was sure they hadn’t seen him – but he was also sure they’d be looking out for him – so he needed to escape – and had to do so without retracing his steps.
Once inside his hotel room, Price changed in to some tough, military-style chinos, walking shoes, and a t-shirt. Then he threw some belongings in to his rucksack, leaving most of his clothes behind. After he’d checked his gun and ammunition as well as his pocketknife and water bottle, which he quickly re-filled, Price grabbed his jacket and made his way downstairs. He was certain that if these people could find him after all the effort he had gone to in order to arrive undetected, they would definitely find him in the Marriott hotel – so it was time to get out.
Without even bothering to check out, Price got in to a hotel taxi and, when the door was closed, quietly said, “Airport please.”
As the taxi made it’s way towards the airport, Price retrieved another of his cheap Nokia phones, inserted a SIM card and sent an SMS to the Chief:
OTR. AM I CLEAR TO FLY? P
Back in the UK, the Chief received the SMS and recognised the acronym ‘OTR’ which meant, ‘On The Run’.
He and the Chief of Staff, had already been alerted to the explosion – news channels were reporting that an unnamed man had set off an explosion that had destroyed several floors in a building in Harare’s business district – thought to be used by a medical research institute. They also appeared to have a picture of Price – albeit not a very good one – presumably obtained from a CCTV camera.
As information continued to arrive, the Chief of Staff said, “He did a good job Sir – they’re saying the building is destroyed – the walls are starting to buckle and they reckon it’s going to collapse any minute.”
The Chief just nodded, so the Chief of Staff continued, “But the police are after him. He can’t fly Sir – the airport will ID him immediately and then he’ll be locked up. He needs to find an alternative way out and he can’t use the embassy either because this operation has to be deniable.”
“I know,” said the Chief, who typed a reply on his mobile:
NEGATIVE. OYO. USE LAND EXIT. GOOD LUCK
Then he looked at the Chief of Staff and said, “Alert our people in all the neighbouring countries – South Africa, Botswana and Mozambique. Call them personally – tell them it’s strictly ‘Need To Know’ and they must ONLY communicate with you personally.”
“Shall I tell them Price’s name?”
“No. Just say they may expect a visitor and to contact you and only you if they do – but no names in case someone is listening.”
“Got it,” replied the Chief of Staff, who went back to his office to make the calls using MI6’s secure communication equipment.
On receiving the Chief’s SMS, Price recognised the ‘On Your Own” acronym – which meant the authorities were looking for him – so he had to escape un-aided. He paused for a few seconds to gather his thoughts, as this had been one of the scenarios he’d planned for. Then he spoke to the taxi driver, “Change of plan mate. Can you take me to a car hire place please?”
The taxi driver seemed confused and asked further questions – but finally agreed and dropped Price at a small car hire company, not far from Harare’s international airport.
As Price paid the taxi, he set the Nokia phone to silent, locked it and placed it discreetly under the passenger seat of the taxi. He was almost certain the same misdirection trick wouldn’t work again – but he had to try.
And sure enough, as he drove off in a small Suzuki 4x4, the taxi joined the queue to pick up arriving passengers and the men from CS Research received a message, which simply said:
SMS FROM PHONE TRACED TO THE AIRPORT. PROBABLY A TAXI
Price had assumed the taxi driver would stay at the airport to collect a fare, so he headed southeast – driving fast, but not recklessly – the last thing he needed now was to be stopped – particularly as he was armed. His destination was the border city with Mozambique – Mutare – around 150km away and the third largest city in Zimbabwe.
Fortunately, for Price, it took nearly an hour for the CS Research men to track down the taxi that contained his phone, which, by this time, was on its way back to Harare’s business district.
Finding that the phone was hidden under the passenger seat, they started asking the driver where he had been and discovered that Price had hired a car. However, by the time they had travelled back to the hire firm and identified the type and colour of Price’s Suzuki, he was already well on his way to Mutare and was making good progress.
He was surprised at how smooth, and quiet the roads were. Initially, the main highway just cut through the brown-green bush land – fairly flat and mostly deserted – only getting greener and more mountainous as he approached the city. “That explains its nickname,” he thought, "Gateway to the Eastern Highlands.”
The main road in Mutare is, rather unimaginatively, called Main Street – a fact not lost on Price’s dry sense of humour – although he didn’t have time to laugh – just acknowledging the name with a wry smile.
As he carefully made his way down Main Street, desperately trying to avoid attracting any attention, he kept his eyes peeled for anything suspicious, whilst he also looked for a restaurant – it had been a difficult morning and he was very hungry. So as soon as he passed what looked like a café, he parked the Suzuki and made his way inside – ordering the cornmeal-based dietary staple of Zimbabwe, which also happens to be the national dish, called Sadza.
“Not bad,” he thought as he finished the porridge-like meal.
The staff smiled as they looked at the bowl on the table in front of Price – he’d eaten everything. So as he walked up to pay, one said, “Did you like that?”
“Yes. That was very nice. Thank you,” said Price as he handed over some money before continuing, “Do you have a phone I could use please?”
The staff pointed him to a payphone at the back, next to the bathroom, where Price picked up the receiver and dialled a local number.
He immediately recognised the lady’s voice – the same person he’d met in Harare station – but he didn’t waste time with small talk – opening the conversation with an agreed codename, “First Class. Chimoio airport ten days from now – wait there.”
“Will you be there?”
“No. It’s too dangerous – a friend will be waiting.”
“Not you?”
“No but it sill be a friend known to First Class. Make the arrangements. It needs to be discreet, so no flying.”
“OK. So what would you recommend then – bus, train or car?”
“Hmmm. I’d probably suggest the train – it’s less likely to be under close surveillance – unlike the road border crossing, that’s almost certainly being watched.”
Then he put the phone back on its receiver.
As he turned to walk out of the restaurant, Price spoke to the staff again, “Could you make me some sandwiches to take with me please – maybe some ham or chicken? Or something similar please?”
“We have an American club sandwich. Would you like that?”
“That sounds great,” said Price, “I’ll take two please and a couple of cans of cola?”
“Take a seat Sir.”
“That’s OK,” said Price, “I’ll just stretch my legs. I had a long drive.” Then he walked over to the window that faced the street outside – carefully looking up and down to see if anyone had arrived and was looking for him.
Everything seemed normal – people going about their business – walking in and out of shops and buildings. Price was half-expecting to see a group of men making their way down the road and heading for the Suzuki – but so far so good. “Although, it’s really only a matter of time,” he thought, as he glanced at his watch to check the time – there were still a good many hours until nightfall.
Thankfully, only a fe
w minutes later the sandwiches were ready, so Price praised the staff for their generous hospitality, stowed the food in his rucksack and walked out of the café – having left a generous tip.
Twenty minutes after he’d arrived Mutare, Price was on the road again heading southeast and in to the Bunga Forest Botanical Reserve – a forest area that provides an unmarked border between Zimbabwe and Mozambique.
Hiding the Suzuki in amongst the tress and plants of the forest, Price picked up his rucksack and jacket and started walking – his destination, the same Mozambique city of Chimoio that he’d described on the phone – around 50km due east.
As a former member of the Parachute Regiment, Price was completely un-phased by the distance – estimating that it would take around fifteen to twenty hours, as some of the journey would be cross-country. Certainly, his initial route through the Botanical Reserve, included some mountainous areas, so he’d have to make his way around those and just keep going through the forest, trying to leave as few tracks to follow as he possibly could.
Unfortunately for Price though, four of the CS Research men were closing in on him. They had called in favours from their connections in the local police force and had received reports that a Suzuki 4x4 had been seen in Mutare – driven by a foreign man.
Worst still, Price’s generosity in the café meant that they remembered him and were able to tell the police which direction he had been heading when he drove away.
The CS Research men, armed with the knowledge that Price had food and a rucksack, and was dressed like someone who was going hiking, guessed that he was going to try and cross the border on foot – so they headed straight for the forest – using motorbikes across the rough ground to try and make up time.
Just over an hour of searching later, they found the Suzuki – Price had hidden it well – he’d even managed to push it in to a dried up riverbed so that it couldn’t be seen from the road, despite its bright white colour.
Another hour after that, Price had been making steady progress, when he suddenly stopped dead – looking back and westwards. He had heard something. As he crouched down and kept absolutely still, for a moment all he could hear were the birds and insects, making their typical noises – tweeting, clicking and singing.
For a brief moment, he thought he’d imagined it – then – there it was again – the roar of a motorbike engine and the cracking of branches.
Price took a drink of water then stowed it back in his rucksack and tightened the straps so that it hugged his back – making it easier to run with.
As he checked the machine pistol’s ammunition, Price scanned the forest with his eyes. Whilst he could hear them – he couldn’t see them yet – so they were probably quite a distance still. On listening to the noises, he estimated there were several bikes – so he stood up and started running. There was clearly no way he could out run them – but he wanted to get across the border where he knew there were some roads and houses – maybe he could even flag down a car and get a lift.
As he ran through the forest Price was making good progress, but he started to hear the bikes more often – they were also getting louder and, therefore, closer. Then by pure chance, he noticed some rocky hills in the distance.
Speeding up, his running turned in to a sprint as he pushed himself as hard as he could. It was a good mile away, but Price pressed on and eventually, with sweat pouring off his body, started scrambling up the rocks – hiding behind a large boulder to catch his breath as the bikes emerged from the dense bush and stopped just short of the rocks where Price was hiding.
Price could see that he’d left tracks – but he’d had no choice. In the forest he could have been surrounded and wouldn’t have stood a chance. Whereas now, they couldn’t follow him on their bikes – they would have to move on foot – and he had the high ground – at least for the moment.
The men parked their bikes and switched off the engines, before examining the tracks in the dirt – whilst Price looked down on them, keeping absolutely still. “Four of the CS Research guards,” he thought. “All heavily armed with machine pistols.”
As the men followed the footprints on the ground and started to walk towards Price, he knew they would be on him in seconds. So very carefully and quietly he put the machine pistol down and picked up his Smith and Wesson – his favourite weapon, and one that he practised with every week.
“Let’s even the odds a bit,” he thought as he checked the silencer hadn’t come lose after his sprint, and took aim.
The men were closing in slowly, but fortunately, were still too far away to hear the quiet thud as a bullet passed through the silencer. Their first knowledge of the shot was when one of the men suddenly stopped walking and just collapsed on to the ground.
For a second, they thought he had fallen over and just looked around calmly – then as the blood started to emerge from the reddish-black spot on his head, they all started shouting and running around – waving their guns in all directions.
“One down. Three to go,” thought Price, as he took aim again. This would be less easy though – the men were panicking. His first shot had been very precise because he had fired at a man who had briefly been standing still – but he wouldn’t be able to make another head shot – not at this distance.
Then, as they calmed down and started to move towards him – looking all around – Price fired again – this time, two shots in quick succession to the body.
One of the remaining three men dropped to the ground. But a second later, one of the others, the leader Price presumed, shouted, “He’s up there!”
Then, as he pointed to Price’s position, they both opened fire – spraying the rocks with bullets.
Price retreated and placed his gun back in his pocket before picking up the machine pistol and, being careful to keep cover behind rocks, started to make his way further up and away from the men.
As he did so, they ran forward and started to climb after him – so Price decided to break cover and try to hold them off – spraying bullets in their direction.
The men dived for cover, before firing back.
Price returned fire as well – gradually making his way even further up the rocks – desperately trying to stay in cover and keep ahead of the men.
Then, to his surprise, one of them shouted, “Go right – head around the side.”
“Damn,” thought Price, “That’s what I would have done – spread out – makes it more difficult for me.”
As he watched one man move around to his right, Price kept an eye on the man who was slowly making his way forward – both steadily firing covering shots each time they moved. “They’re professional,” Price thought as he felt the bullets getting closer. They were coming from two directions – and he quickly realised he was getting boxed in. So he decided he had to strike back. He could see a path that headed up to much higher ground and would give him a clear advantage – but getting there meant completely breaking cover. It would be OK if they had pistols – the chances are they’d miss a moving target at a distance – but with machine pistols, he’d be cut down in a second.
“What to do?” he thought. “What to do indeed.”
Then he thought, “Play the bluff,” as he retrieved a can of cola from his rucksack and rubbed it on the ground to cover it in mud and hide the bright colour.
Bracing himself against a rock, Price opened fire at both men with the machine pistol – then as they took cover, he threw the can of cola as high as he could, in to the air above them.
“Grenade!” one man shouted, as Price jumped to his feet and sprinted down the path as fast as he could – relying on the distraction to stop them firing.
As he reached the vantage point above them, turning to face them and taking aim, whilst also trying to steady his breathing, Price almost laughed as heard one man say, “What he hell! He’s throwing bloody cola cans!”
“He must be out of ammo. Let’s get him,” the other man shouted, as he stood up and started to run forwa
rd.
“No!” the first man shouted, as Price opened fire. But it was too late – the bullets cut across the man’s chest – stopping him dead in his tracks.
Price re-checked the machine pistol – that was all the ammunition – so he threw it away and took his Smith and Wesson out of his pocket – removing the silencer so that it would have more stopping power.
Looking down the path, Price could see that there were only two routes for the man to reach him – straight down the track, which would clearly be suicide – as the other man had just demonstrated – or up a sheer cliff face that would be virtually impossible to climb without ropes. “Although, safe from me,” he thought – noting the boulders that blocked his view.
Price looked at his watch – realising that there were only a couple of hours to go before the sun would plunge them in to darkness.
“Good,” he thought – well aware that the cover of night would almost certainly give him an advantage. He’d trained at night with the UK’s Special Air Service. Indeed, when operating behind enemy lines, the SAS almost always hold-up during the day and only travel at night – something they excel at and had passed on to Price.
Then he heard the man speaking – he appeared to be calling on a radio for help. “Damn,” thought Price, as he checked his GPS again. “It they get enough people, I’ve had it.” So with that thought in his mind, he started to make his way further away from the man – sadly, in the process, giving up his vantage point.
The man realised immediately and sprinted down the path towards Price. But Price had already considered that as a possible response and turned at the last second and fired. It was an instinctive shot on a moving target – clipping the man’s leg and causing him to trip.
But as he did so, the man started firing back – realising that he was vulnerable and keeping Price pinned down so that he couldn’t fire again whilst the man crawled for cover.
This was Price’s opportunity though – and he knew it. So, in a brief interval between shots, Price threw his body forward and opened fire again – not stopping until he had emptied the gun’s magazine – killing his opponent outright.
