Hell's Choir (NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER SERIES Book 3)

by Mark Mannock

  “Yes, I do,” replied our friend. “I have had some experience with their leader, Atha Riek. In time, I will tell you more, but for now, let me say that these monsters are not alone in the depth of their convictions. At the right moment, it is my intention to explain to Riek, the profundity of my own beliefs, and to show him personally, what vengeance truly means.”

  Chapter 7

  The morning sun blazed as we rattled through the streets of Khartoum in Jumaa’s old Toyota.

  “Are you sure this will work?” asked Greatrex.

  “I don’t see why not—it has worked for many before us,” replied Jumaa.

  More people roamed the sidewalks as the capital resumed its normal state of chaotic splendor. There was still some sense of unrest, judging by the concerned-looking faces deep in conversation, but tension appeared not to have escalated overnight. The three of us stayed at Jumaa’s home and talked into the wee hours of the morning, throwing out one plan after another. Finally, the simplest approach seemed the best.

  “The presidential-palace compound is only two minutes away. We must be ready. We won’t have long before we’re noticed,” instructed Jumaa as he wrenched the vehicle abruptly to the left to dodge a local on a bicycle.

  Greatrex and I took out our cell phones. We still believed that our most essential task was to contact the US government. That would now be harder for two reasons. First, we would not be broadcasting from the authoritative call sign of Air Force Two as originally planned—you can’t just ring the president of the United States on your personal cell phone to tell him some unwelcome news. It doesn’t work that way. The second problem remained that we couldn’t call up anybody at all. The Sudanese authorities maintained the block on the internet and all cell phone transmissions.

  Jumaa proposed a solution to that.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Greatrex and I both nodded.

  “Remember, political upheaval is so commonplace that our government has its routines perfected. While they have removed access to the internet for the rest of the country, they stay connected within the palace precinct. Every local knows that if you can sneak close enough to the palace walls, you should be able to piggyback the government’s own services to get online. Their passwords are the worst kept secret in Khartoum.”

  Ridiculously simple.

  One last corner and the majestic facade of the Sudanese presidential palace appeared before us. The building’s huge ornate archways and bulbous domed roof imposed its presence on the city like an African White House.

  “No signal,” announced Greatrex, glancing at his cell.

  “Likewise,” I replied.

  “I’ll drive around the perimeter once,” said Jumaa. “After that you must get out and walk. Too many laps in the car and the CCTV cameras will automatically alert the palace security force.”

  We circled the enormous building once but achieved no internet connection.

  “Right,” said Jumaa, pulling up at the curb, “out you go, quickly.”

  Greatrex and I bustled out of the Toyota. This seemed like an absurd situation, but Jumaa hadn’t let us down yet. We’d taken three steps along the pavement when Greatrex announced, “I’ve got signal.” He then inputted the government internet password Jumaa had given us, the worst kept secret in Khartoum.

  We ambled forward, trying to appear inconspicuous. When the big fella gave me the thumbs up and passed me his phone. I placed it to my ear.

  “Hello,” I said. “general?”

  General Colin Devlin-Waters had been our commanding officer in Iraq. He also commanded our deepest respect. We’d rekindled our relationship when the now-retired officer had helped us out of an awkward situation in Iraq. If anyone could bridge the communication gap with Washington, it was our well-connected former leader.

  As we walked around the boundaries of the presidential palace, I prayed that the internet connection would not drop out. I explained our circumstances to the general before pausing for his reaction.

  “How the hell do you two keep wandering into these situations, Nicholas?” he asked. He didn’t expect an answer. “We are aware there is a problem there in Sudan, but have received no details until now,” he continued. “Are you able to stay nearby? I’ll be back to you within the hour.”

  “We’ll do our best, sir,” I responded, “but it is a fluid situation.”

  “Do what you can, Nicholas, and stay safe,” he added as he hung up.

  Stay safe? I was considering how difficult that may be when I noticed two uniformed SAF soldiers strolling in our direction. I nudged Greatrex.

  “I see them,” he said.

  We stopped walking, turned toward the palace building and pretended to look at the architecture. A couple of interested tourists. When we glanced to our left, we spotted another group of guards. They stood some distance down the road. One of them appeared deep in conversation on a radio. He looked up. A minute later, they began marching toward us.

  “I suppose after we slipped out of the hotel, they distributed our description. I’d hoped they’d have more important things to do, you know, like dealing with the coup,” I said.

  Greatrex motioned across the road. Several buildings surrounded a substantial car park. There seemed to be enough laneways and other urban camouflage there to give us a chance to lose them. Before we stepped off the pavement, two more soldiers climbed out of a Jeep hidden behind the other parked cars. All escape routes cut off. Our fluid situation just became static.

  “No flight option and pointless to fight,” said Greatrex.

  Across the street, the soldiers raised their hands to stop traffic as they crossed toward us. They gazed in our direction, narrowing their eyes like hunters preparing to pounce on their prey. On either side of our position, the SAF troops closed in, less than thirty yards away. I scanned for alternative escape routes. There were none. Vice President Jefferson Blake would be let down. Possibly the shortest rescue mission of all time.

  Out of nowhere came a screech of rubber as a white Toyota Land Cruiser jerked to a halt in front of us. The passenger door swung open. I leaped forward and climbed in next to Jumaa. Greatrex jumped in the back. No one spoke. The tires screeched again, and we took off toward the heart of the city.

  There was no gunfire as we sped out of the area. Any local soldier would have hesitated before shooting at two visiting Westerners. However, I was certain that we’d just upped the stakes for our pursuers. I prayed that the authorities had not yet associated the mess aboard Air Force Two at Khartoum International Airport with the two missing American musicians. If they had, the game would change… big-time.

  “We need to disappear for an hour or so before calling back,” I announced, knowing the impossibility of the task.

  “I know somewhere we can go,” declared Jumaa.

  “Of course you do,” said Greatrex from the rear seat.

  “Getting online again may be the troublesome thing,” Jumaa continued.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, my friend, but we have no choice. That’s a non-negotiable.” Nicholas Sharp: immovable object.

  Jumaa’s brow furrowed as his face tightened. After leaving the immediate surroundings of the palace, he’d careered down a series of back streets and laneways, avoiding all police and military vehicles.

  So far, so good.

  “First, we need to get rid of this car. It will have become instantly infamous,” he continued. “It’s a shame—we’ve shared some marvelous adventures together.”

  Three blocks later, the back of the truck lunged sideways as we rounded a corner way too fast. Jumaa corrected and continued to speed down the narrow laneway. Although a dead end, he showed no sign of slowing down. I thought he’d lost his senses as we barreled toward a substantial stone garage at the end of the street.

  “Jumaa!” I called out.

  I should have known better. A second before we connected with the building’s two wooden doors, they opened, and we squealed to a halt wi
thin the dim space. The garage faded to black as the doors closed behind us.

  Beside my window, a face appeared. To my surprise, it was a woman. I looked at Jumaa, who nodded. I rolled down my window.

  “Nicholas, Jack, I would like you to meet my sister, Awadia.”

  Before I could say anything Jumaa rolled down his own window. Another face appeared; a child, a boy, perhaps about twelve years old.

  “I am also pleased to introduce you to Awadia’s son, Salim,” he continued.

  Subterfuge was clearly a family business.

  Chapter 8

  Jumaa’s sister and nephew led us into the building through an internal door on the side of the garage. Their home was compact, but, like Jumaa’s place, it appeared inviting. A homely, feminine touch was evident. Young Salim didn’t take his eyes off us as he ushered Greatrex and I into the tiny living room. Pointing to two worn but comfortable-looking armchairs in the corner Salim said, “Welcome to our home, please sit down.” Mature beyond his years.

  Awadia and Jumaa sat on a couch opposite us. Our friend’s sister had deep-brown eyes and a radiant smile.

  “My brother has told me all about you,” she began. “It is terrible, the developments at the hotel and then the airport.”

  I must have looked puzzled. Jumaa interjected, “I left my house early this morning to dispose of our terrorist’s body. I also visited Awadia to inform her of our plans in case we required help.”

  I glanced at twelve-year-old Salim. He seemed unphased by the talk of dumping dead bodies. Perhaps sadly mature beyond his years.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Awadia asked.

  Jack Greatrex’s eyes bulged with enthusiasm. Our hostess moved toward the adjacent kitchenette.

  “Any ideas about how we can access the internet to receive instructions from the Colonel?” I asked.

  “Nothing comes to mind,” replied Jumaa. “It is obviously dangerous for you two to go anywhere near the presidential palace again. But there is nowhere else remotely close.’

  “I will go,” announced Awadia as she strolled back into the room with a tray of hot drinks. “No one will suspect a simple Sudanese woman of being a spy.” She smiled a grin not unlike her brother’s.

  “No, not a chance,” was our combined response, almost in unison.

  “It is far too dangerous, my sister,” said Jumaa. “I won’t allow it.”

  I could feel the heat in Awadia’s voice as she countered. “And who made you my keeper, brother?”

  Definitive silence.

  “You declared yourself that you have no better plan. I will go and that’s the end of it.” Awadia had concluded the discussion.

  “What if your general won’t speak to my sister, or he has too much specific information to relay?” asked Jumaa.

  I gestured to Awadia with open palms. “When you contact him, mention the word Kaitlin. That is the name of his stepdaughter. He will know I sent you. Then ask him to send you a written message. I presume he’ll have one prepared in case the signal drops out.”

  Awadia looked at me, confused.

  “The general is a man who always thinks ahead of the game,” I added.

  I turned back to Jumaa. He didn’t look happy but seemed to reluctantly accept his defeat. “Very well,” he shrugged.

  Ten minutes later, we wished Jumaa’s sister luck as she left to catch a bus to the palace. In Khartoum a bus was the most inconspicuous means of transport. Awadia carried my cell phone in her bag. I had offered to instruct her how to use the messaging app, but she graciously declined me as unnecessary.

  Salim looked apprehensive as his mother went, but he said nothing.

  “All we can do is wait,” I announced as we all returned to our seats in the lounge area. Waiting. I’d never liked it.

  After spending two hours of imagining every potential scenario where things could go awry for Jumaa’s sister, the sound of the front door opening snapped us out of our self-induced silence.

  “Mama!” cried Salim as he rushed from the room.

  A minute later, Awadia walked in. Salim was holding her hand. “It went well,” she said. “Your General was receptive once I mentioned his stepdaughter’s name. As you expected, he had formulated a message. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve read it.” She passed me my phone.

  The room returned to silence as I read the general’s report. It was long and detailed. My shoulders grew heavy as I waded through the contents.

  “This is big,” I announced. “As the general mentioned in the first call, the State Department was aware something was amiss, but they hadn’t appreciated to what extent. When they didn’t hear from the vice president’s party, they assumed it was because of the lockdown caused by the coup. He had protection. They worried but didn’t panic.”

  “Perhaps they should have panicked, or at least reacted,” offered Greatrex.

  “The general says they sent two armed drones, MQ-9 Reapers from the US base in Agadez, Niger. This is when it got interesting. They were turned back by the air force.”

  “I cannot imagine the Sudanese Air Force turning away American planes,” said Jumaa. “Not under any circumstances.”

  “It wasn’t the Sudanese Air Force that turned our planes around,” I continued. “It was the Chinese.”

  “Shit,” said Greatrex, “that changes everything.”

  “Yes, the powerful show of Chinese took our people by surprise. The boffins at the State Department and the Pentagon were in the process of working out a suitable strategic approach when the general contacted them with our news,” I added.

  “So?” asked Greatrex.

  “Then they panicked,” I answered.

  “Let’s think this through,” said Greatrex. “The US government now knows a terrorist group has kidnapped the vice president. They’re also aware that several US personnel, including Secret Service staff, are dead. They should be champing at the bit to get in here and sort this. What the hell are they doing?”

  “So, what does your general say that your authorities are doing?” asked Jumaa.

  “Well, according to this message,” I began, “they are pursuing every diplomatic means possible with the Chinese government. When they spoke to the Chinese ambassador, he denied any knowledge of their air force’s actions. They also called in the Sudanese ambassador, but the problem there is that even he isn’t sure if he has any authority to speak for his government.”

  “What’s the president doing?” asked Greatrex.

  “That’s where things become concerning.” I responded. “Again, according to the general, the US President is pursuing diplomatic channels to settle this peacefully. He doesn’t want to break through the Chinese Air Force blockade unless he has to. Starting a war with China would not be high on his to-do list. I reckon it would aggravate his heart condition.”

  “They’ve captured your vice president,” said Jumaa. “Surely that counts as a national emergency?”

  “There’s the biggest issue,” I said. “The president suspects the intel we provided may be inaccurate. He won’t act definitively until it’s verified.”

  “And it can’t be verified until the US gets people and communications on the ground here in Sudan,” added Greatrex.

  “Which is impossible while the Chinese are blockading the county’s borders,” offered Jumaa.

  “A particularly convenient catch-22,” I said. “I don’t know if I’m reading too much into this, but the bottom line here is that the president never really wanted Jefferson Blake as his vice president. He was forced into the choice by the scandal that involved Blake’s predecessor.”

  “I think your president wants to be seen to be doing the right thing but is not overly worried which way these events turn out,” observed Awadia. “He sounds like a callous man.”

  Jumaa’s sister had summed it up in a nutshell.

  “So, what does the general want us to do?” asked Greatrex.

  “Well, there’s the thing,” I said. “Becau
se no one else is actioning anything substantial, or is even believing what we are saying, General Devlin-Waters has given us one specific task.”

  “Which is?” Greatrex was growing impatient.

  I drew myself up in my seat before I spoke. “You and I are to locate the Islamic terrorist base and ensure the vice president’s release by any means available.”

  “By any means available,” repeated the big fella, “and with no support I suppose. Damn and shit.”

  “Indeed. Damn and shit.”

  Jumaa stared at Greatrex and then cast his gaze over to me. A small smile appeared on his lips.

  “Musician’s you say?”

  Chapter 9

  “We’re not in the military anymore,” I announced. “We don’t have to follow orders. No one would blame us if we waited this out, or even headed for the border.”

  “As if,” replied Greatrex. I nodded.

  “Also, my new friends,” began Jumaa, “I can offer you my assistance and that of my family.”

  “We appreciate that, Jumaa, but I suspect we are about to gate-crash a very dangerous party. It would not be prudent for you to become further involved.”

  I studied the man sitting across the room from me, his jaw tightening as his forehead creased. He glowed with grit and conviction. I suspected it would take some persuasion to convince him to sit this situation out. Before I could add anything more, Awadia spoke.

  “It is too late for that. We are already involved,” she said.

  “There are risks,” I replied. “We won’t let you place your family in harm’s way.”

  Awadia spoke again. Her voice expressed a quiet determination. “Salim, please go to your bedroom,” she directed. “You have seen and heard too much in your brief life already, but the grown-ups must speak alone.”

  The boy’s face displayed a silent disappointment, but as an obedient son, he got up from the floor, hugged his mother and left the room.

  “You have a remarkable boy,” I said, looking at Awadia.