Manhunter

by Chris Ryan

  The satnav told him they were eleven miles from the airport. Twenty-three minutes away. Arrival time, 11.58. Bowman gripped the wheel tightly and clenched his jaw.

  Eleven hours from now, we’ll be landing in Karatandu, he thought.

  And God knows what’s waiting for us when we get there.

  Eighteen

  Mallet spent the rest of the journey firing off messages and glancing at his phone screen, checking for further updates from Six. Bowman kept his gaze fixed on the road, barely able to keep his eyes open. He was knackered. He hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. The adrenaline he’d felt during the arrest had worn off. And now he was going to get on a plane and fly to a country on the brink of chaos, to protect the relatives of a despised tyrant. Every so often he glanced at Seguma in the back seat. The guy looked pensive. Three hours ago, he had been on the brink of losing his presidency. Now he was back in the game. The biggest gamble of his life. Like a guy at a roulette table, staking everything he owned on red. He could win big, or lose bigger, but the result was out of his control.

  The convoy joined the slow crawl of traffic at the airport and hit the private terminal a few minutes before noon. Bowman swung round to the front of the terminal and stopped in front of the canopied entrance. Mallet and Seguma piled out and joined Casey and Webb at the side of the E-Class. The soldiers grabbed their luggage and escorted Seguma through the sliding doors to the reception. Then Bowman circled round to the complimentary parking bay and guided the Volvo into the nearest space. Loader went through the same manoeuvre with the E-Class, they gave the vehicles a once-over to make sure they had left nothing inside. Locked them. Then strolled into the terminal.

  Bowman and Loader found the others waiting to one side of the reception area. Then Mallet led the group over to the main desk. A rose-cheeked blonde woman in a tight-fitting white blouse greeted them with a polite smile and immaculate English. Mallet handed over their passports, told her the tail number of the jet coming over to pick them up. Loader gave the receptionist a long admiring look as she glanced cursorily through the documents. She handed the passports back, wished them a safe trip and directed the team down a marble-floored corridor towards the private lounge.

  ‘Really, Tiny?’ Casey said as they walked away. ‘Do you think about nothing else?’

  ‘What’s wrong? No harm in doing a bit of window shopping.’

  ‘That’s all you’re doing,’ Mallet said. ‘There are monks who have had more action than you.’

  ‘That’s not true. I was a legend at Hereford. Ask any of the lads. The women couldn’t get enough of me.’

  ‘That’s not how I remember it. I seem to remember the groupies running out of the pub to avoid your ugly mug.’

  ‘Piss off, John.’

  ‘Tiny, we all know you secretly love your wife,’ said Casey, a trace of sympathy in her voice. ‘You don’t have to pretend to be God’s gift to women.’

  ‘No one’s buying it, anyway,’ Mallet said. ‘They’re more likely to believe in the fairy godmother than Tiny’s powers of attraction.’

  The team filed into the private lounge. Ten seconds later, Mallet’s mobile rang. He wandered over to the kitchen area on the far side of the lounge and spoke to Six for several minutes. The voice on the other end appeared to have a lot to say. Mallet listened and said little except occasional one-word replies. Yes. No. OK. He hung up, marched back over and cleared his throat.

  ‘The diplomats are heading to Northolt right now,’ he said. ‘The jet’s due to leave in thirty minutes. Which means it’ll get here for around two thirty. We’ll take off at three o’clock.’

  ‘What’s the itinerary?’ asked Casey.

  ‘We’ll fly direct to Libreville. Once we land, we’ll transfer to another aircraft and head straight to Karatandu. An hour-long flight. We’re scheduled to land at the main airport outside the capital at around eleven o’clock. From there it’s a direct run to the palace.’

  ‘What about me?’ Seguma said, his mock-English aristocrat voice burning with indignation. ‘I have been told nothing about my arrangements.’

  Mallet said, ‘A team from the Gabonese special forces will meet you on the ground in Libreville, sir. They’ll escort you and the guys from the Foreign Office to a secure location. You’ll wait there until it’s safe to return.’

  ‘And who gets to decide when it is safe, exactly? You cannot expect me to go back while there are still rebels running amok on the ground.’

  ‘That’s for you to discuss with the Foreign Office. Nothing to do with us.’

  Bowman said, ‘We need someone who can get us to the palace. Someone who knows all the army checkpoints and hotspots.’

  ‘Six agrees,’ Mallet replied. ‘There’s a military garrison at the airport. They’ll accompany us to the palace.’

  ‘What’s the score with D Squadron?’

  ‘They’re returning to their camp now. Three Hercs are being prepared.’

  ‘And the other SF units?’

  ‘SFSG is due to fly out of their base in St Athan in a few hours. The SBS detachment will leave Poole at around the same time. They’ll fly straight down to Libya and link up with D Squadron. Then the combined strike force will head on to the capital, Marafeni. Should get in at six o’clock tomorrow morning. Six hours after we land.’

  Bowman pressed his lips together in a tight line. ‘The timing is tight, John.’

  ‘That’s assuming the Russians are on schedule,’ Mallet said. ‘Right now, we’ve got those bastards on the back foot. They’ll be wondering why the deal Lang brokered has collapsed at the last minute. They’ll hear about his suicide and ask themselves what it means. It’ll mess with their planning.’

  ‘Or the opposite,’ Bowman said. ‘They might accelerate the coup.’

  ‘I doubt it. They won’t want to rush this thing. Too risky.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong?’

  ‘I’m Scottish. We’re always right. Part of our DNA,’ said Mallet. ‘Proving you English bastards wrong.’ He chucked a stick of nicotine gum into his mouth. ‘Worst-case scenario, we might have to hold out for a few hours before the cavalry shows up.’

  ‘Has Six reached out to Mike yet?’

  ‘They’re liaising with him now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s confirmed that the family is currently at the palace. We’ve given him orders. No one is to move until we get there.’

  Seguma stared apprehensively at him. ‘Is there trouble?’

  ‘Nothing too serious, sir. Just a few protestors.’

  ‘I see.’ He stared anxiously out of the window at the tarmac. He doesn’t look thrilled to be returning home, thought Bowman.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘As long as Mike is with your family, they’ll be safe. He won’t let you down, sir.’

  ‘How many guards has Mike got with him?’ asked Loader.

  ‘About forty. Plus our gang, and Mike, that will give us forty-six bodies.’

  Casey said, ‘We should be checking all the social media accounts in Karatandu. Someone might post a picture or a message about gunfire they’ve heard, helicopters or aircraft coming in. Give us an early warning of trouble.’

  ‘I’ll get Six on it,’ Mallet said.

  ‘Tell them to check the local airline traffic, too. Look for any non-commercial planes coming in from Russia. Any planes circling over an area and turning back round again. That way we’ll pick up any teams deploying via HALO.’

  ‘Unless they’re already on the ground,’ said Bowman.

  Mallet’s phone trilled. He nodded at Casey. ‘Get the laptop out. There’s a packet of information coming through from Six. We’ll go through everything in a few minutes.’

  He moved away. Seguma flicked through a glossy magazine on wealth management. Webb sat and practised the art of silence. Casey worked on the laptop, her fingers moving across the keyboard at lightning speed. Bowman made coffee. Loader switched on the TV and flipped over to one of the 2
4-hour news networks. A French station, with English subtitles. There was nothing yet about a coup d’état in Karatandu, just two short segments about the continuing violence tacked on to the end of the main bulletins.

  Mallet finished his call, the team gathered around the coffee table on the other side of the lounge from Seguma. They spent the next two hours running through the plan.

  They studied satellite images of the palace and the surrounding neighbourhood, blueprints, the main routes to and from the building. Ideal firing positions, likely points of attack. Then they looked at the wider picture: the locations of the nearest embassies, crossing points to neighbouring countries if the shit hit the fan. Everything. They wouldn’t have time to prepare later on. Once they landed in Karatandu, they were going to hit the ground running. Hard and fast. The Regiment way. Every so often Mallet got up and left to speak with their liaison officer at Six. He was getting a near-constant stream of updates on the status of the diplomatic jets and the UKSF teams, the military escort waiting for them in Marafeni.

  ‘Jet’s half an hour out,’ Mallet said as he walked back over to the team.

  Bowman frowned at the satellite pictures on the laptop. ‘This is a tough ask,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what Tiny’s missus thinks, every time he’s desperate for a shag,’ Mallet joked.

  Bowman didn’t laugh. ‘There’s a lot of things that could go wrong.’

  ‘It’s a routine job. Get in, secure the stronghold, wait for the main force to show up and do the business, then get the fuck out again. Nothing we haven’t done a hundred times before in the Regiment.’

  ‘It’s not that easy. If it goes right, great. We’re heroes. But if we get caught out, it’s going to go very bad.’

  ‘Stop worrying, Josh,’ Loader said. ‘We’re not expecting a scrap.’

  ‘But we should be planning for one. If the rebels come at us in force, we’ll get clobbered.’

  ‘We’ve got those presidential guards to back us up. We’ll have a small army to repel any attackers. Forty soldiers.’

  ‘I’ve trained some of these teams before, Tiny.’ He glanced across the lounge at Seguma and kept his voice low. ‘They’re honest troops, and brave, but they’re nothing to write home about. We can’t rely on them in a firefight.’

  Loader gave him a look. ‘Are you getting a bit twitchy?’

  ‘I’m just trying to work out what the plan is if things go wrong.’

  Mallet sighed deeply. ‘The rebels won’t hit us hard. Even if they launch the coup earlier than we think, General Kakuba and his men are going to be focused on securing the critical infrastructure first. The family won’t be at the top of their list.’

  ‘Karatandu is a small country,’ Bowman pointed out. ‘The size of Wales.’

  ‘Aye. What’s your point?’

  ‘It won’t take the KUF long to capture the key targets. Sooner or later, they’re going to target the family.’

  ‘But by then, the main strike force will have landed in-country. The worst that can happen is that we’ll come under attack by a few opportunists who couldn’t hit a barn door at fifty metres.’

  ‘And if the rebels decide to come for the palace first?’

  ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take,’ Mallet said.

  ‘Maybe you’d prefer to sit this one out, Josh,’ Loader said.

  Bowman glared at him and set his jaw. ‘I never said that, mate. I’m up for the job as much as anyone. I just want to make sure it’s done right.’

  Mallet’s cold gaze centred on Casey. ‘What about you, Alex?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’ve been as quiet as Patrick for the past hour. Usually we can’t get you to shut up. Are you sure you’re up for this?’

  Casey folded her arms. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Because I’m a woman?’

  Mallet held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that, and we both know it. I’m just asking.’

  ‘What are you trying to get at, John?’

  Mallet scratched the back of his neck and shifted. ‘Look, everyone in the Cell rates you highly. You’re smarter than the rest of us put together, you’re skilled with the old cyber, brilliant at the tech and all that. But your books and gadgets won’t come in much use where we’re going.’

  ‘You’ve never had a problem with me going on ops before.’

  ‘This is different. There’s a small chance this thing could turn very ugly, very fast.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘No one’s suggesting otherwise. But if you’ve got doubts, you need to tell us. We can’t be taking passengers, lass, not on this job. No one will think any less of you if you decide to stay behind.’

  Casey took a breath and stared hard at Mallet.

  ‘I’ve been trained in the same type of warfare as you,’ she said. ‘I might not have passed SAS Selection, but I’ve done the SRR course, which is the next best thing. I was the best shot in my training group, I’ve done surveillance work in war zones and I know how to fight. I’ll be fine. And I’m not your bloody lass.’

  Bowman glanced at the footage of the riots on the TV and gritted his teeth.

  ‘Let’s just hope the timing on this op goes like clockwork,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, we’re all going to be in the shit.’

  *

  The Gulfstream landed at Nice at two thirty on the dot. Ten minutes later, a pair of diplomats strode briskly into the lounge. A man in his forties, six foot five, slightly stooped, with a bird’s nest of thinning brown hair. A much shorter woman with button-round green eyes and a mole on her dimpled chin. They carried themselves with the typical Whitehall mix of arrogance and insecurity. The kind of people who spent their days at the bureaucratic coalface debating obscure policy points, plotting and stabbing one another in the back.

  The diplomats introduced themselves to Mallet, then took Seguma to one side. The guy with the bird’s nest hair sat with his knees crossed, gesticulating, talking animatedly, while the woman with the dimpled chin handed over documents for the president to read. It was clear that they were calling the shots. This is how it’s going to work, they seemed to be saying. Seguma stayed tight-lipped throughout. He wasn’t in any position to argue. A few hours ago his closest adviser had been thrown to his death. The people he was dealing with were deadly serious. He wasn’t about to haggle over the small print.

  Then a smartly dressed official entered the lounge and announced that the jet was ready to depart. He led the party through the gate towards a waiting Renault minivan. They clambered inside with their bags, the Renault bowled across the skidmarked tarmac stand to a Gulfstream G650. One of the long-range jets. Capable of making the short hop from Northolt to Nice, and then on to Gabon without stopping to refuel.

  They boarded and stowed their bags in the aft luggage compartment. Dimpled Chin and Bird’s Nest sat upfront with Seguma. The soldiers made themselves comfortable in the rear section of the cabin. The flight attendant was male, to Loader’s obvious disappointment.

  As the Gulfstream taxied across to the runway, Bowman was gripped by a growing sense of unease. They were heading into the unknown, he realised. Any number of things could go wrong. But he felt something else, too. A renewed sense of determination.

  Mike Gregory had saved his career once. He’d helped Bowman to turn his life around. Took him under his wing when he’d first joined the Regiment. Now, after all these years, Bowman had the chance to return the favour.

  I owe the guy, Bowman reminded himself. I’m not going to let him down. I’ll do whatever it takes to rescue him.

  I just pray we’re not too late.

  Nineteen

  They spent the first hour of the flight sorting out their kit. Six had supplied them with several bags filled with weapons and equipment. Bowman and Webb changed back into the civvies they had stashed in their holdalls, then joined the others at the rear of the aircraft as they dished out the hardware. They would carry Colt Canada C8 rifles
as their primary weapons, fitted with suppressors and scopes with mini red-dot sights, plus four spare thirty-round magazines apiece. Including the clip in the weapon, each member of the team had 150 rounds of 5.56 × 45 mm NATO brass. They had Glock 17 pistols as their secondary weapons, with two seventeen-round mags per person, body plate armour and webbing, military radios, a rucksack filled with first aid kits and bottles of water, ballistic helmets, two thousand dollars of bribery money in small denominations. The rest of the kit was stowed in the cargo hold, Mallet had said. The heavy firepower. Two belt-fed L7 GPMG ‘Gimpy’ machine guns. A Barrett .50 calibre sniper rifle in a pelican case, complete with clip-on telescopic sights, deadly at a range of up to two thousand yards and capable of punching through brickwork. An Accuracy International AWC sniper rifle in a weapon sleeve. Claymore anti-personnel mines. An M224 60 mm lightweight mortar. Frag grenades, smoke grenades, boxes of ammunition: 7.62 mm belt for the Gimpys, shells for the mortar.

  The team went through the usual pre-op checks. They filled the spare magazines with ammunition, packed them into the pouches on the front of their webbing. They tested the radios. Checked their vest armour. Stripped their weapons back, inspected the moving parts, put them back together. Basic stuff. But essential. Missions had been known to fail because of faulty kit.

  In the front cabin, Bird’s Nest and Dimpled Chin went through a long checklist with President Seguma. They discussed the statements he would make to the world’s media during the rebellion, his victory speech once he had returned to power. Seguma listened while gorging on a slap-up meal and double measures of Scotch. He appeared to have regained some of his old arrogance. Between mouthfuls of food, he described in gory detail what he would do to his enemies after the coup had been crushed. People would be thrown to crocodiles or buried alive. The diplomats smiled obsequiously. They were pushing the boat out. Indulging him. Pandering to the tyrant’s every whim.

  ‘Can you believe this bloke?’ Loader muttered softly as he slid a spare magazine into one of his webbing pouches. ‘We’re bending over backwards to help him crush this rebellion, and all he’s interested in is butchering people.’