Manhunter

by Chris Ryan

  Mallet tried to get hold of Six again. But they were in a sparsely populated area. The signal was terrible. Non-existent. He gave up after the fourth attempt and settled back into his seat as the vehicles steered deeper into the jungle. Bowman glanced over at the bluish digital glow of the console display.

  02.00 hours. A hundred miles from the mansion near Rogandu.

  Two hours to go.

  Two hours until I can pop another pill.

  Bowman was flagging badly now. It seemed as if epochs had passed since he’d last slept. He found it hard to concentrate on the road. His vision was juddering, the Hilux kept slipping in and out of focus. The world had a weirdly dreamlike quality to it. To make matters worse, the cravings were beginning to sneak up on him. The air con in the Land Cruiser was on full whack, but Bowman was sweating beneath his webbing and plate armour. He felt the ache deep in his muscles, a sharp scissoring pain shooting through his body, tingling in his fingertips and toes. Five hours since he’d dropped a pill. Too long. His mistake.

  Another two hours until we get to the mansion, Bowman thought to himself. Four o’clock in the morning. Keep pushing on. Hang on until we get there.

  Then you can drop a couple of Lang’s magic pills.

  The road was empty. They saw no other cars on the road, no gangs of rebel soldiers or pedestrians. An hour later, the forest began to thin out. The convoy trundled on for another ten miles, past pockets of mangrove swamp and impoverished fishing villages clinging to the banks of the river. Mallet checked his phone for a signal. Still nothing. Webb and Loader dozed in the back seat. Casey sat wedged between them, alert, tense, on edge.

  The jungle ended abruptly. Like a curtain being lifted from a stage. One minute they were driving through the swampy suffocating dark of the forest. The next they were leaving the treeline behind them and rolling across a low grassy plain, so flat you could play billiards on it. A quick glance at the console told Bowman that they were less than half an hour from the target location. We’re getting close to Rogandu now.

  Mallet checked his phone again, got a weak signal and dialled Six. He waited several long beats. Then he hung up, swore under his breath and sent a brief encrypted message.

  ‘Still no answer,’ he said.

  Bowman shot him a look. ‘Why aren’t they picking up?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Could be anything.’

  ‘Maybe they’re busy briefing the strike force,’ Casey said. ‘Giving them the latest intelligence on the rebellion.’

  ‘It’s half two in the morning in London. They might be off getting pissed on espresso martinis as far as I know.’

  Loader said, ‘It ain’t like Six to go silent. Usually, you can’t stop that lot from gassing off.’

  ‘We can’t worry about that now. Keep driving. I’ll try them again once we reach the mansion.’

  Bowman stuck close to the Hilux. Behind them, the Unimog headlamps burned like halos in the rear-view mirror. The convoy steered away from the river and cut south across the plain. Fifteen minutes later they hit Rogandu.

  There was nothing to announce the village. It simply emerged from the darkness, a handful of unlit streets laid out in a rough grid and set in the middle of a barren, dusty landscape. They passed rickety shacks and wattle-and-daub huts, run-down farms. The minaret of a mosque towered like a lighthouse above the dwellings. Bowman looked round but saw no signs of activity. The dead hours. Everyone would be asleep. Maybe the locals didn’t even know about the rebellion yet.

  They reached a T-junction south of the town and slewed left on to a modern metalled road running east towards the mountains. They were only a mile from the country residence now, Bowman realised. The road had been built at the request of the mansion’s owner, probably. The building had been intended for the use of Mr Seguma. Therefore, it would need excellent transportation links, fit for the president. Unacceptable to expect the head of state to travel in the same discomfort as his impoverished people.

  They drove past a densely wooded area on their right. A scattering of farms and tin huts and unfinished buildings on their left. The Hilux made a sharp right and bombed down a single-lane approach road leading south between the two dense sprawls of woodland. The convoy continued on the approach road until they broke clear of the forest, and then Bowman caught his first glimpse of Seguma’s country residence.

  At four o’clock in the morning, in the gloom before first light, he couldn’t see much. There was a whitewashed three-storey mansion set in the middle of a large parcel of land, at the end of a long front driveway. Lights glowed in several of the ground-floor rooms. Bowman spied a smaller one-storey building to the left of the mansion. Some sort of guest house, perhaps. A stone archway towered like a triumphal arch above the entrance to the driveway, two hundred metres beyond the treeline.

  ‘Seems quiet enough,’ Loader observed. ‘Looks like we got here in time.’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Mallet said.

  The Hilux slowed as it neared the sentry box to the left of the archway. Two Presidential Guards stepped forward, raising their AK-47 rifles at the pickup truck and shouting for the driver to stop. The Hilux slammed on the brakes just short of the driveway, the rest of the convoy ground to a halt, and then the older guard approached the pickup while the second guy kept his rifle trained on the Land Cruiser. He looked young and bug-eyed with fear. The rifle visibly trembled in his grip.

  ‘Bit nervy, ain’t they?’ said Loader. ‘Like they’re one step away from doing a runner.’

  ‘These lads have just seen most of their muckers get carved up and shot,’ Mallet replied. ‘They’re bound to be jumpy.’

  There was a swift exchange between Mavinda and the older guard. Mavinda pointed to the vehicles behind him, gestured at the mansion. The guard back-stepped from the Hilux and barked an order at his comrade. The bug-eyed soldier. The latter relaxed his stance and lowered his rifle, waved them through the gate.

  The convoy passed under the huge archway in single file, the Hilux leading the way. The driveway dipped down slightly, then rose on a gentle incline and hooked around a fountain surmounted with a bronze eagle. The estate looked neglected, thought Bowman. Weeds poked through the cracks in the blacktop. The lawn was dotted with crumbling statues and withered trees. There was a half-derelict pagoda to the left of the drive, overlooking a rancid pond. An ornamental garden to the right, sloping down towards an irrigation ditch. The mansion itself looked like it had seen better days. The marbled columns were dulled and weathered. Sections of the ornate parapet were badly damaged. The once-gleaming white façade had buckled and flaked away in places, revealing the crumbling brickwork beneath.

  ‘This place is frigging huge,’ said Loader.

  ‘Almost big enough to house your entire family, Tiny,’ Mallet said.

  ‘Piss off, John. I ain’t got that many kids.’

  ‘Depends on your definition of “many”, I suppose. What are you up to now, anyway? Twelve, thirteen?’

  ‘Eight,’ Loader replied. ‘But we’re expecting in June. A boy.’ His face swelled with pride.

  ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ said Mallet.

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  Mallet looked back at him. ‘What do you think I am? Your fucking therapist? I’ve got enough on my plate without trying to keep on top of your ever-growing brood.’

  Loader looked hurt. Mallet grinned at him.

  ‘Cheer up, Tiny. I’m just joking. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks, John.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t inherit your looks, eh?’ he went on. ‘Otherwise the poor sod will have even less luck with the women than your sorry arse.’

  The convoy pulled up behind a trio of mud-spattered Land Rover Defenders parked in front of the mansion. Bowman killed the engine, the team got out, Major Mavinda and his three subordinates climbed out of the Hilux, and then the rest of the platoon hopped down from the back of the Unimog.

  Two more soldiers stood guard a
t the entrance. They stepped aside as a stumpy, bull-necked officer strode out of the mansion and made a beeline for Major Mavinda. He seemed to know Mavinda. Bowman sensed an easy familiarity between the men as they greeted one another. They swapped a few lines in the local lingo, and then Mavinda introduced the stumpy officer to the Brits.

  ‘This is Colonel Joseph Lubowa,’ he said. ‘Commander of the Karatandu Presidential Guard.’

  ‘John Mallet.’ He extended a hand, indicated the others. ‘This is my team.’

  Lubowa shook his hand limply. ‘You’re lucky my men didn’t kill you, Mr Mallet. They saw your headlights approaching and thought you might be the Machete Boys.’

  ‘Are they in the area?’ said Bowman.

  ‘Not yet. But they will be, soon enough. We’ve heard reports of fighting in the nearest big town. Farangi. Thirty miles from here.’

  ‘Closer than we thought,’ Loader muttered.

  Colonel Lubowa regarded the new arrivals. A look of disappointment crossed his face.

  ‘Is this all of you?’ he asked.

  ‘This is everyone,’ Mallet said.

  Lubowa shrugged. ‘Then I suppose it will have to do.’

  ‘Where’s the family, Colonel?’

  ‘Inside. Mr Gregory is guarding them.’

  The two Karatandan officers shared a meaningful look. Bowman thought he saw a nervous expression edging across Mavinda’s face. He wondered about that.

  ‘Are they OK?’ Mallet asked.

  ‘Mr Seguma’s family is safe. A few of them have minor injuries, cuts and bruises, but nothing serious.’

  ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘Two hours ago,’ Colonel Lubowa replied. ‘About two o’clock.’

  ‘How many guys have you got guarding this place?’ said Loader.

  ‘Four. These two men, the two on the gate. And Mr Gregory, of course.’

  ‘No one else escaped the palace?’

  ‘No.’

  Mallet said, ‘We’d better go and brief Mike.’ He half turned to Mavinda. ‘Tell your men to start unloading their kit. Check their weapons too. Make sure they’re ready for a scrap.’

  He spoke to the major in a stern tone. Establishing authority. We’re in charge now. This is what we do. Mavinda didn’t argue. He just nodded at his subordinates. Toothbrush, Lanky and Pockmark marched over to the Unimog, bellowing orders at the squaddies.

  ‘Follow me,’ Lubowa said.

  He led the Cell team and the major towards the entrance. Bowman wearily brought up the rear with Loader, a tight feeling in his chest as he glanced round the estate.

  ‘Better hope those reinforcements aren’t running late,’ he murmured.

  Loader glanced at his mucker. ‘Don’t tell me you’re getting twitchy about a few junkie scavengers who can’t shoot properly. We’ve handled tougher enemies than that in the Regiment.’

  Bowman shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’

  He swept a hand across the estate.

  ‘Look around you, mate. There’s a lot of dead ground here,’ he added. ‘Those ditches, the depressions. Plenty of cover for the enemy to hide.’

  ‘I don’t think the Machete Boys will understand the principle of using dead ground to advance, Josh. They’re a bunch of junkie scavengers.’

  ‘Maybe not them,’ Bowman admitted. ‘But any decent rebel force that’s switched on will know what to do. They could use that cover to get right in among us. And if that happens, we’re in fucking trouble.’

  Twenty-Five

  They crossed the marble-pillared porch, passed the two guards posted on the front door and entered a large central atrium garishly decorated in gold and ivory. A nine-foot-tall bronze sculpture of Ken Seguma dominated the middle of the floor space. The atrium was filled with a chaotic arrangement of artwork: Greek statues, Renaissance paintings, ceremonial masks. Colonel Lubowa guided them off to one side, down a long corridor adorned with gilt-framed mirrors and crystal chandeliers. At first sight, everything looked impressive. But the fittings were as worn and tired as the exterior. Damp patches stained the walls. The arms on some of the chandeliers were broken or damaged. Everything looked in need of a lick of paint.

  Lubowa led them to the end of the corridor, turned right, then walked down a shorter hallway. Bowman saw peeling silk wallpaper, a faded ceiling mural. At the far end, the room opened up into a lavishly furnished salon. There was a bar to the right, with a row of leather-seated stools and a rack of spirit bottles mounted to the wall. A white Steinway grand piano. At the back of the room, a set of French doors led out to a terrace overlooking a swimming pool set at the foot of the sloped rear garden. The sound of chirping crickets drifted through an open window.

  Eight figures sat at a pair of giltwood tables on the left side of the room. At the nearest table, Bowman saw a short, stout woman in her late thirties. She wore a pair of half-moon glasses and a bright-green dress intricately patterned with strange shapes and symbols. Bowman recognised her from the photos he’d seen back at the Shed. Christel Seguma. The tyrant’s third wife. She was dandling a screaming infant on her knee. Next to her was a wide-hipped woman in her fifties with a traditional Karatandan head cloth covering her hair. A slight, well-groomed man was seated beside the two women. He was dressed in a silk tunic embroidered with gold. The brother and sister-in-law.

  The other four children sat cross-legged on the floor around the second table. Two boys aged around nine or ten. The president’s sons, Bowman presumed. And a pair of twin girls. The brother’s children. They were younger than the boys. Five or six, maybe. A few years older than Sophie had been when her killers had cruelly ended her life. The twins were dressed in matching yellow dresses, the boys in dapper suits. One of the girls held a cuddly toy bear. The boys were playing a game on an iPad, arguing over whose turn it was to go next. They seemed oblivious to what was going on around them. Which was probably for the best.

  A ninth figure walked up and down the terrace. A tall hard-bodied guy with an unkempt beard, holding a clamshell phone to his ear. Bowman caught sight of his face through the glass.

  Mike Gregory.

  The ex-OC of B Squadron ended the call and stepped inside. He marched straight over to the team and looked them over before his eyes settled on Bowman. A grin cracked his leathery ex-soldier’s face.

  ‘Josh. My God. It’s really you.’

  ‘Mike.’

  They shook hands. Mike Gregory looked leaner than Bowman remembered. As if he had aged backwards. He had the sinewy, supple build of someone twenty years younger. The kind of physique earned by a lifetime of hard work in the field. Only his face seemed to have got older. His skin had the texture of petrified wood. His beard was more grey than brown.

  Gregory turned to greet the rest of the team. ‘John, Tiny. Good to see a couple of old Hereford faces.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Mallet. He introduced Webb and Casey, the major. Gregory smiled at them with evident relief.

  ‘I was starting to think you guys wouldn’t make it,’ he said. ‘How the devil did you know where to find us, anyway?’

  Bowman told him about the dying guard at the palace. The dismembered bodies. Gregory listened impassively.

  ‘That’s General Kakuba for you. His men are a bunch of cold-blooded killers. They’re not interested in politics or ideology, whatever he might say on the radio. Those scum just want to murder people.’

  ‘Looks like you made it out just in time,’ Mallet said, tipping his head at the family.

  ‘We very nearly didn’t,’ Gregory replied with a grimace. ‘The rebels took us by complete surprise. Another two or three minutes and we would have been trapped inside with the rest of those poor buggers.’

  ‘They were directed by the Russians,’ said Bowman. ‘Their guys were calling the shots on the assault.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘I’d figured as much.’

  ‘Have you spoken with Vauxhall?’ Mallet said.

  ‘Not since before the rebels attacked the pa
lace. I tried raising them on the way over, but coverage is patchy in the jungle.’

  ‘We noticed.’

  ‘Signal is better here, at least.’ Gregory scratched his beard. ‘There’s a cell tower in the local village. Installed on Mr Seguma’s orders a couple of years ago. I left a message for Six shortly after we got here. But I haven’t heard back.’

  ‘Same for us. They’re not answering.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘Not a fucking clue. Trying to second-guess that lot is a pointless exercise. May as well gaze into a crystal ball.’

  Gregory pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps they’re working out how to respond to the latest developments.’

  Loader’s face worked itself into a heavy frown.

  ‘What developments?’ he asked.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? The KUF have seized control of Marafeni airport.’

  Mavinda’s eyes went so wide they looked as if they might tumble out of their sockets. ‘That can’t be. We were there a few hours ago. I’ve got two platoons guarding it.’

  ‘You did, Major. Not now.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Mallet.

  ‘I’m afraid so, John.’ Gregory held up his clamshell phone. ‘I’ve just been speaking with Brigadier Ikouma. Commander of the Karatandan Army. He’s received several reports from one of the garrisons near Marafeni. The rebels captured the airport an hour ago.’

  ‘But that means they must have taken full control of the capital,’ Bowman said.

  ‘Worse than that, I’m afraid. According to the brigadier, General Kakuba’s forces have closed off the borders and taken over the major crossing points. No one is allowed in or out. Which means the KUF have assumed de facto control of the country.’

  Loader’s eyes bulged with shock. ‘Those bastards have been busy. They’re moving fast. A few more hours and they’ll have the coup wrapped up.’

  ‘It’s the Russians,’ Mallet said. ‘They’re a game changer. The smart money says they were the ones directing the attack on the airport.’

  ‘We should notify Six,’ said Casey. ‘Tell them about the airport. The teams coming in will have to find an alternative place to land.’