by Chris Ryan
A crackle, then a new voice. Danny didn’t immediately recognise it, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was what Hereford had to tell them, not who said it.
‘This is Zero Alpha, relaying through London. Your unit call sign is Bravo Nine Delta, repeat Bravo Nine Delta. Over.’
‘Roger that,’ Danny replied immediately. ‘Update us, over.’
‘We have a confirmed double hostage situation. The British High Commissioner Derek Vance, codename Target Red. His assistant Hugh Deakin, Target Blue. They were taken en route to an oil facility in the Niger Delta.’
‘What about their security?’
‘One driver, one member of the High Commission security staff. Both dead at the scene. The driver managed to phone in details of the kidnapping before he died of his wounds. One gunshot to the stomach. The security detail took a shot to the stomach and one to the head.’
The aircraft had turned on to the runway and was starting to accelerate. The g-force kicked in as the engines roared.
‘We don’t have our Para support platoon, so the Nigerians need to get a cordon in place!’ Danny shouted over the comms. ‘Surround the kidnapping area, block off any escape routes.’
‘Roger that,’ replied the voice. ‘We’re in contact with the Nigerian military to see what assets they can supply.’
‘Great,’ Tony cut in. ‘I wouldn’t trust the Nigerian military to get a cat out of a tree.’ Privately, Danny couldn’t help but agree. Maybe he’d been too hasty in ordering wheels up. He’d trust 1 Para to close off the area, but a reluctantly provided mob of untrained, unmotivated, under-equipped Nigerian squaddies was a different matter. They wouldn’t give a fuck about a missing white guy.
‘How long since the incident?’ Danny asked.
‘Three hours twenty-seven.’
‘They could be miles away.’
‘Actually,’ Caitlin interrupted, ‘maybe not. What was their exact location?’
‘Twenty klicks west of Port Harcourt. The Nigerians have lent us a chopper to get you out there as soon as you’re on the ground, but there’s poor weather conditions coming in over the Bight of Benin, so you might be delayed . . .’
‘I know the area around Port Harcourt,’ Caitlin said. Her hard Australian accent cut through the noise of the engines. ‘It’s a maze – a network of waterways weaving in from the coast. There’s a high incidence of kidnapping in the area because it’s so easy for people to hide there. I’ll bet they’re still in the area, lying low. We need to get that cordon in immediately, then get our boots on the ground. Someone’s going to know where Target Red and Target Blue are.’
‘I agree,’ Danny said. ‘Keep us updated.’
‘Roger that.’
The plane levelled out. The voice over the cans disappeared. For now.
17.49 hrs
The C17 had settled into its cruising altitude. The unit had clipped their hammocks to the webbing on the side of the fuselage, but nobody was getting any shut-eye just yet. The captain had come out to shake hands – he’d recognised Ripley from a previous operation – but now he’d returned to the cockpit. The loadmasters had offered them some food. So now they stood around, eating piping hot microwaved lasagnes and drinking polystyrene mugs of sweet tea. None of them knew when they’d get the chance to eat again, so it was time to refuel.
The two scaleys kept a polite distance from the Regiment unit. They were currently working on the Range Rover, fitting an under-seat radio and connecting it to a small aerial on the roof.
‘Hate this shit,’ Tony said through a mouthful of food. ‘Specially when I left half a fucking cow on the barbie back home.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Ripley said. ‘Spud will have troughed it by now.’ And he added quietly: ‘Not all he’ll have troughed, either.’
They’d left Spud and Frances together back at Tony’s place. Tony’s face darkened at the thought. ‘Yeah, well, Spud looks like he’s eaten a burger or two too many to me.’
Ripley immediately jutted out his chin. ‘That’s because every time he fucks your missus, she gives him a biscuit.’
Danny immediately stood between the two men to stop it kicking off. ‘Shut up, both of you,’ he said. ‘None of that shit. Got it?’
Tony obviously didn’t like taking an order. ‘He needs to watch his fucking tongue,’ he said, clearly wanting to get the last word. ‘Someone might cut it out if they don’t like what it says.’ But then he backed down.
Danny drained his tea and looked over to the Range Rover. The scaleys had finished their work. ‘Let’s get the vehicle loaded up,’ he said.
The team finished the rest of their food, then hauled their grab bags over to the car and placed them in the boot. It stank of diesel, thanks to the three jerrycans of fuel that were stashed in the back. Danny noticed that the vehicle was equipped with a hi-lift jack, and a winch mechanism had been fitted to the front. They unrolled their longs from the canvas weapon sleeves, and went through the careful process of loading them with rounds of 5.56s from their ammo boxes, and in Caitlin’s case 7.62s. Then they laid them inside the vehicle: Danny’s and Tony’s along the sides of the doors, Ripley’s and Caitlin’s lengthwise between the two front seats. Cocked and locked, ready if and when they needed them.
18.25 hrs
Danny had a map of Nigeria spread out on his lap. He was examining it closely, committing what he could to memory. Caitlin’s voice snapped him out of his concentration. She was sitting next to him. ‘Bad weather in the Bight of Benin can be a shocker,’ she said.
Danny nodded.
‘You know the old rhyme?’ Caitlin asked.
‘What old rhyme?’
‘Beware, beware the Bight of Benin, There’s one that goes out for forty goes in.’
Danny stared at her for a moment. He found himself wanting to look at the text message from Clara yet again. But his personal phone was back in Hereford. He felt a weird sensation. Not fear exactly. More like apprehension. Ordinarily on a job you didn’t think too hard about the implications of what would happen if you didn’t make it back. But for Danny, things had suddenly changed. He wasn’t just thinking about himself any more.
He turned his attention back to his map.
‘You don’t speak much, eh?’ Caitlin said, her Australian accent sounding very pronounced. She grinned at him. When Danny didn’t grin back, she looked momentarily narked. ‘That’s alright,’ she said brightly. ‘I like the strong silent type.’
Danny looked at her again. Her brown hair was tied back and there were little beads of sweat on her nose. Even in her military gear she was gorgeous. She knew it too. Her lips were slightly parted and her stare was full of meaning.
Before Danny could reply, Ripley had wandered up to them. Caitlin smiled, gave up her seat and wandered over to Tony. Ripley took her place. ‘She’s gagging for it, mucker,’ he said.
Danny sniffed. ‘Not my type,’ he said. Which wasn’t true.
‘You’ve got a type?’
Danny looked back down at his map. ‘I’m back with Clara,’ he said.
Even though he wasn’t looking at Ripley, he could sense his surprise. Ripley knew he and Clara had called it a day, though he didn’t know why.
Danny took a deep breath. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he said. Ripley was the first person he’d told. It felt right, somehow. Ripley lived for his own kids, and was devoted to his missus. In a weird way, Ripley had everything Danny wanted.
A pause.
‘Congratulations, mate,’ Ripley said. ‘You’ll be a great dad.’ He didn’t quite sound as if he meant it.
Danny looked him in the eye. ‘I want you and Spud to be godfathers,’ he said.
Ripley inclined his head. ‘You got it, buddy. Proud to. Let’s get the job out of the way first, right?’
‘Right,’ Danny said.
19.32 hrs
Two hours till touchdown. The unit were all sitting, plugged into their headphones. One of the scaleys called out to them: ‘Inc
oming transmission.’ Immediately, the cans crackled into life again.
‘Bravo Nine Delta, this is Zero Alpha, do you copy?’
‘Go ahead, Zero Alpha,’ Danny said.
‘Patching you through to the Deputy High Commission in Lagos.’
‘Roger that.’
A few seconds’ pause. A new voice came on the line. Posh. But stressed. ‘This is Christopher Manley, military attaché. We’re getting some new information through from the Nigerians.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘There was one other passenger in the car when the hostages were taken. Name of Samuel Ntoga.’
‘Dead?’
‘No. He’s just turned up in Port Harcourt.’
‘What’s his story?’
‘He says they were held up at a road block. Random gangsters. They let him go. As he was running away he heard two gunshots. Managed to hitch a lift into town, rocked up at the local government offices.’
‘He’s lying,’ said Danny.
A pause.
‘The witness is a government official. We can’t just accuse him of lying.’
‘Too bad, because he is. There were three gunshot wounds. The security guy was shot in the stomach and in the head, the driver just in the stomach. He’s making up his story. We need to talk to this Ntoga guy. Can you get him to Lagos by the time we land?’
‘We can try.’
‘Try very hard,’ Danny said, ‘if you want to see your High Commissioner again.’
The line went dead. Danny pulled his cans from his head. Caitlin was staring at him intensely. ‘Nigerian officials are totally corrupt,’ she said. Her previous flirtatiousness had gone. ‘If someone got this guy on board, they’d have made it properly worth his while. He’s not going to talk.’
‘That depends on how persuasive we are.’
Caitlin shook her head. ‘You need the government’s support. Start torturing one of their guys, they’ll close ranks, I guarantee it.’
‘If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.’
The unit fell into an uneasy silence.
21.32 hrs
Wheels down.
Lagos International Airport was noisy and hot. As the tailgate opened, a blast of sultry air hit Danny. Sauna-hot, but humid with it. He could smell the sea, but with a tinge of rotting debris – no doubt blown in from the slums that surrounded this overpopulated city. It was the smell of Africa. Slightly unpleasant, slightly exciting. Different to anywhere else in the world.
Dark outside. No moon. Thick cloud cover, which explained the suffocating humidity. Danny was already wet through. He could see an Emirates 747 landing on the far side of the airfield, maybe three hundred metres away, a slipstream haze in its wake. Beyond that, sheet lightning in the distance. Ground vehicles were hurrying across the tarmac: refuelling lorries, forklifts for luggage containers. All the trappings of a busy commercial airport. But this side of the airfield was reserved for them. Nobody approached.
The loadies started unsecuring the Range Rover, but there was already a black Mercedes waiting on the tarmac. Ten metres beyond that, an unmarked saloon car with a flashing blue light on the roof. A harassed-looking man with thinning hair, brown trousers and an open-neck shirt was waiting by the Mercedes, his face sickly in the blue strobe. The unit strode down the tailgate, straight up to him. The man seemed to automatically pick Danny out as the leader, and outstretched his hand. Danny shook it.
‘Chris Maloney, military attaché,’ he yelled over the noise of the C17’s engines, which were powering down but still loud. ‘We spoke?’
Danny nodded. ‘Where’s Ntoga?’ he shouted.
Maloney looked around the airfield, then angled his head towards the sky. ‘There,’ he said.
Danny followed his gaze. A hundred metres to the north-west he could see a helicopter coming in to land. It was having trouble staying stable in the choppy weather. Two open-topped trucks were heading towards it, clearly aiming for the chopper’s LZ.
Danny gave Maloney a dead-eyed look. ‘I need to speak to him.’
‘Listen,’ said Maloney. ‘Ntoga’s a cousin of the Nigerian Minister of Foreign Affairs. We have to go easy on him, or there’ll be hell to pay. We’ll get him to the Deputy High Commission, appeal to his better nature . . .’
‘Forget it. Piece of shit like that hasn’t got a better nature. I need to speak to him.’
Maloney shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. There’s a Nigerian government lawyer waiting for him at the commission. He’ll be in constant attendance. Look, we can still get you on a flight to Port Harcourt in the next fifteen minutes. Leave Ntoga to us. A bit of diplomacy can work wonders sometimes.’
Danny looked over to where the chopper was coming in to land. It was a tight call. Should they waste time precious time on Ntoga, especially when this suit was being so limp-wristed, or should they get their arses out to the Niger Delta?
He decided on Ntoga. Right now, they had nothing. They needed intel.
‘We’ll escort him to the High Commission,’ he said. ‘If he’s such an important guy, you want to make sure he has the best close protection, right?’
The military attaché looked deeply unsure. He glanced over his shoulder, as if he thought someone might be watching, then looked back at Danny. ‘No marks,’ he said quietly. ‘And we’ll have to drive in convoy. At this time of night, it’s a twenty-minute drive to the commission, provided we’re lucky with the God-awful traffic in this bloody city. If you’re any longer than that, his lawyers will start to ask questions.’
Danny sniffed. ‘It’ll be quick,’ he said.
Their Range Rover was reversing down the tailgate. Danny turned his back on the military attaché and addressed his team.
‘We’re escorting Ntoga,’ he announced. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes to find out what he knows. After that, he’ll be lawyered up. Ripley, you and me in the back with Ntoga. Tony, front passenger. Caitlin, you take the wheel, you know Lagos.’ Caitlin’s face darkened: she clearly didn’t appreciate being given the role of chauffeur. But she said nothing.
Danny looked over at the chopper. The rotors were still spinning, but three people were emerging from the aircraft, bowing in the downdraught. ‘Let’s go,’ Danny instructed, ‘before the Nigerians can scoop him up.’
The unit ran to their vehicle. Seconds later, they were screeching across the tarmac towards the chopper. Caitlin handled the vehicle well, pulling a ninety-degree handbrake turn just as the vehicle approached the Nigerian trio. Danny opened his door and jumped out, aware that Ripley was doing the same on the other side of the car. They were only fifteen metres from the chopper, and the roar of the rotors was deafening. ‘Mr Ntoga?’ Danny shouted at the three men.
One of them stepped forward. He wore a business suit, but it was scuffed and grubby. The man himself was chubby, with tightly cropped hair and beads of sweat on his forehead. He smiled, and his teeth looked improbably white against his black skin, with the exception of one gold filling. Danny didn’t like that smile. It didn’t suit the mood. But he didn’t let that show on his face. ‘British intelligence!’ he shouted. ‘We’re here to escort you safely to the Deputy High Commission. Follow me, please.’
There was a moment of hesitation. Ntoga’s two companions clearly didn’t want him to leave, but Ntoga himself shrugged them off with a sharp word in an African language Danny didn’t understand. Danny took Ntoga lightly by the elbow and guided him politely into the back of the car. The Nigerian clambered in without any resistance. Danny and Ripley took their places on either side of him and slammed their doors shut. Danny thought he caught a whiff of stale alcohol. Smelled like Ntoga had been decompressing with a bottle of booze.
Caitlin reversed in a sharp turning circle, then headed back towards the military attaché’s Mercedes. They pulled up behind it. The attaché himself was standing next to his car. He walked up to the Range Rover and peered in through Danny’s window to satisfy himself that Ntoga was there. He gave Danny himse
lf a look full of meaning, then marched back to his own vehicle.
The convoy of three vehicles slipped away from the C17, led by the unmarked saloon car. They moved across the airfield, skirting round the runway and heading to the side of the main terminal building. Border control regulations were for other people, not for them. At a heavily armed barrier, a Nigerian soldier waved them through.
Ntoga hadn’t lost his grin. He seemed unaware that his four guards were staring straight ahead, expressionless. ‘This is more like it!’ he announced in a marked Nigerian accent. ‘I should be kidnapped more often!’
Danny turned to look at him. ‘Thing is, Mr Ntoga,’ he said, ‘I know that you weren’t kidnapped.’
The smile fell immediately from Ntoga’s face. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that!’ he said. ‘You!’ He leaned forward and rapped Tony on the shoulder. ‘Open your window.’
Tony gave him a contemptuous look, then turned to face straight ahead again.
Ntoga clenched his fist. ‘Do you know who I am?’
Caitlin was accelerating up a ramp onto a raised highway. Beneath the road, a sea of tin roofs. Danny glanced at the speedometer. They were doing about fifty mph. Ntoga wouldn’t try to escape the vehicle at that speed. Tony leaned forward and pressed a button on the dashboard. The central locking clicked shut.
A frown crossed Ntoga’s face. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you? Don’t you know who I am?’
‘Yeah,’ Danny said. He removed his Sig from its holster, cocked it, then placed the barrel against Ntoga’s crotch. ‘You’re the guy I’m going to shoot in the bollocks if you don’t tell me what the hell’s going on.’
Ntoga looked down at the weapon. His face was a picture of surprise and outrage. He looked Danny in the eye, then back down at his crotch again.
Then he burst into laughter.
‘You a funny guy!’ he said, spitting the words out insultingly. ‘You think you can take me – me! – into the British High Commission with my hausa hanging off? You a very funny guy!’
