Faraday was quite naturally furious but after some time DeVilliers finally managed to calm him down - although it did take all his considerable powers of persuasion. In order to placate his most valued client further, he had offered him the services of a personal bodyguard who would willingly put himself between Faraday and any would-be assassin. That person being James Locke. Indeed, if he could not take down Sam Beresford then no one could.
In truth, it was DeVilliers’ first instinct to hire Locke for himself as he was easily the most capable man he knew. But Miles already had his bodyguards, Robert and Leon, whom he trusted completely, whereas Locke had the capacity to be eminently more treacherous and not someone he thought wise to have around twenty-four seven.
Nevertheless, he had no such qualms about recommending him to Faraday as Locke could undoubtedly keep him safe. What is more, DeVilliers would earn a nice little commission for his trouble.
However, it was not the kind of work Locke enjoyed. Babysitting billionaires was merely grunt work which anyone with half a brain could do. But after the fuck up in New Hampshire he thought it to be his best chance of coming face to face with Sam Beresford once more - and when he did he would take great pleasure in showing him that no one made a fool of James Locke twice.
Besides, the money Faraday was paying for what amounted to very little work made the role decidedly more palatable, at least for the time being.
Yet it did nothing to prevent the unrelenting tedium of escorting Faraday around the world to wherever his many business interests happened to take him.
One such place being Niger in West Africa, a country with eighty percent of its land mass covered by the vast Sahara Desert, where Locke, along with Faraday and his very wealthy group of investors were currently located.
They were en-route to the construction site of what was officially reported to be a water purification plant deep in the heart of the Ténéré Desert region of the wider Sahara.
This was supposedly where Q-Core intended to tap into a vast underground well that had the potential to supply much of Niger with fresh water.
In reality, however, the building would just be an elaborate front to disguise the true purpose of the site, which was, in fact, going to be a highly secretive uranium enrichment facility.
Thanks to the rights obtained so unscrupulously from Ekon Sekibo some years earlier to mine uranium, Faraday hoped to take small quantities from his now working quarry near Niamey and weaponise it via a specific enrichment process at the new plant. He then intended to sell this newly transformed weapons-grade uranium for an extortionate price to a host of interested parties around the globe - Libya being just one, who were conveniently located just across the border from Niger.
It was an audacious plan which could conceivably net him billions, but it was also an extremely costly enterprise and to make it a reality he required like-minded partners with very deep pockets who were willing to invest heavily in it - which was the precise purpose of this current desert trek.
Indeed, presently taking their rest in the privacy of their own tented, yet very luxurious accommodations were six of the world’s richest and most morally corrupt power players. They included megalomaniacal business men, fanatical extremists and power-crazed African warlords - all of whom had two things in common; unlimited resources and a insane desire to bend the world to their own despicable ends.
Yet Faraday handled them all with the practised skill of a circus ringmaster; schmoozing, fawning and gently persuading in such a nuanced way that they could not help but be seduced by his subtle but extremely effective sales pitch.
What is more, Faraday had allowed each investor to bring only one advisor and one bodyguard with them on the trip, stressing that Locke and his team would be in charge of overall security. Such were Faraday’s considerable skills of persuasion, these fearsomely powerful, immensely wealthy individuals had all readily agreed to these terms - caught up in the irresistible allure of what they would receive in return for their sizeable contribution.
Dinner that evening could easily have been served in one of the most exclusive restaurants in the world, such was the style and grandeur of it all. Polished silver cutlery, fine bone china crockery, florally elaborate table decorations and a host of highly skilled, white-jacketed waiters who served a spectacular banquet - all washed down with an abundance of fine wine and vintage champagne.
Locke had to concede that Faraday certainly knew how to put on a spread and as the last of the guests finally retired to their king-sized beds in their spacious octagonal tents, he wondered just how much the dinner would ultimately end up costing them.
Nonetheless, they were all up and safely ensconced in the luxury fleet of Range Rovers an hour before dawn; the encampment already being dismantled as the small caravan of black-painted Q-Core vehicles drove out into the desert once more.
They arrived at the construction site, as scheduled, midway through the afternoon where, close-by, another much larger camp which had been in existence for sometime, had been prepped for their arrival.
Indeed, this camp was much more like a tented village and was home to engineers and construction workers. A team of scientists on Faraday’s payroll had also been drafted in to guide his investors through the detailed process of producing weapons-grade uranium.
Once again, luxury accommodation had been laid on for Faraday’s V.I.P. guests so they could relax and unwind before another spectacular dinner.
The following day, when everyone was fully refreshed, the tour of the plant began in earnest, with Faraday and his engineers talking the investors through each area of the sprawling facility.
However, construction was only in its infancy and still resembled little more than a huge building site in the middle of the desert. Furthermore it would take at least another three years and a whole lot more capital before it reached its completion.
Yet Faraday’s words painted a vivid picture. They were also backed up by hard scientific fact which had been presented to the investors earlier that morning by Q-Core’s team of skilled physicists, in a prefabricated hut that had been set up much like a classroom.
Indeed, when the presentation was over, the small group of despots and warmongers were practically throwing open their cheque books in their eagerness to be a part of the dangerously corrupt scheme.
With funding secured, Faraday joined his guests for lunch on a high escarpment overlooking the site to toast the venture and seal the deal.
It had been two days well spent; the whole desert safari designed to put his guests at ease and instil them with the confidence in his abilities to oversee the project’s completion. The plan had worked to perfection and the unhurried, relaxed manner in which he had presented his vision, allowed his investors to fully appreciate the potential of what he was offering them in return.
However, now that the finances were in place, Faraday was eager to get back to other matters requiring his attention. To that end, a squadron of six, black, Q-Core helicopters sat at the far edge of the escarpment waiting to fly each of the investors back to Niamey within the hour.
Locke’s security team would return to the capital in the Range Rovers. From there they would fly to South Africa and meet back at Faraday’s Johannesburg estate during the course of the next few days.
As for Locke, he would fly back ahead of the others with his employer.
Indeed, Faraday’s private jet was already prepped and ready to go on a small purpose built airstrip just a short distance away from the construction site. Pausing only to refuel in Nairobi, it would have him and Locke back in Johannesburg in time for lunch the following day.
When safely ensconced in the privacy of his own home once more, Quentin Faraday would toast the project’s success again. Then, however, it would be with company much more to his liking.
***
Having arrived back earlier that day, Locke sat
at the kitchen table in Quentin Faraday’s ranch-style home on his magnificent Johannesburg estate.
A black girl with plump breasts and a pert behind placed a steaming hot cup of coffee down in front of him. She was wearing nothing but a short, silk kimono which showed her long legs off to perfection.
“You want anything else, honey, you be sure to let me know, okay?” She said, making doe eyes at him and leaving no doubt as to what the ‘anything else’ was as she headed upstairs to bed.
Locke would have gladly taken her up on the offer. The very thought of screwing her whilst choking the life out of her - and in so doing wiping that smug expression of her whorish face - was almost too thrilling to resist, but he knew better than to mess with one of Faraday’s possessions.
Indeed, she was just one of several in Quentin Faraday’s harem; a private stable of nubile young women he kept on the estate to command at his pleasure. Black, white, Asian, he had no particular preference, it was all just a matter of whichever took his fancy.
The women were not prisoners, although they were restricted to the confines of the estate unless they had specific permission from Faraday to stray further afield. However, so long as they did what he wanted whenever he wanted it, then he was happy to indulge them a few simple pleasures - be it jewellery, furs or whatever other little luxuries they desired.
In return for his generosity, the girls were, of course, required to sleep with him whenever he wished it.
Furthermore, they were also expected to have sex with other men of his choosing for the purposes of business - at events on the estate such as dinner parties or other occasions when certain individuals needed a little more persuasion on matters pertaining to him or whenever he required leverage over someone in particular, as he had with Ekon Sekibo some years earlier.
However, aside from these strategically planned liaisons, Faraday forbade any of the girls from having sexual relations with any man not officially sanctioned by him.
The more experienced girls knew that they should be content with this arrangement but the newer ones were not so wise and often went off script when someone like Locke caught their eye.
However, the girls who betrayed their master’s trust were severely reprimanded. One of Faraday’s favourite punishments was to lock them naked in a sweat box in the yard for a few days with just a bucket to defecate in and a ten gallon container of water to drink.
Needless to say, if they survived, they never strayed again. For those who did not, however, Faraday made certain all trace of their presence on his estate was buried with them.
Locke did not care one way or another. If these girls were stupid enough - or greedy enough to sell themselves in such a way then they got everything they deserved.
As for Quentin Faraday himself, he did not intimidate Locke one bit but he did know better than to bite the hand that fed him - at least until such time when the arrangement no longer suited.
Nonetheless, even though abstinence railed violently against his basest urges, he chose to ignore the blatant advances of the curvaceous, young black girl and concentrated on his coffee instead.
He had just watched Faraday retire to his room with another couple of beauties - one a blonde from Sweden, the other a brunette from Germany. Both of whom had come to South Africa looking for fun and money and had found Quentin Faraday waiting with open arms, his lavishly wealthy lifestyle more than enough to entice them.
What is more, once they had learned to play by his rules then their lives did, indeed, become very luxurious.
Yet Locke remained resolutely unimpressed and had nothing but contempt for the Swede or the Kraut or the black girl in the kimono - or any of Faraday’s harem of whores.
He was there for one reason only; the hope that one day his presence at Faraday’s side would assure him the opportunity of meeting up with Sam Beresford once more.
***
Tired from the long flight from Niger and satisfied that his employer had retired for the night, Locke checked the security panel on the kitchen wall to make sure that the alarms were set and the C.C.T.V. cameras monitoring the gated compound in which the house was situated were all functioning correctly.
When content that everything was just as it should be, he took his coffee back to his own modest quarters at the rear of the house where he could relax in peace.
His ground floor apartment was spacious and air-conditioned with a large double bed, a built-in closet and a sizeable dresser which offered more than enough drawer space for his few meagre possessions. The apartment also had a private bathroom with a large tub and separate shower enclosure.
Locke sat down on the bed and untied his heavy boots before tugging them off and setting them down neatly beside the dresser. He then stripped naked, crossed to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
He let the water run until it was nice and hot then stepped into the powerful flow, letting the soothing stream run over his superb physique to wash away any remaining sand that he had inadvertently brought with him from the Ténéré Desert.
Five minutes later he was back in the bedroom and towelling himself off as he admired his reflection in the mirrored doors of the built-in closet, enjoying the way his muscles moved as he rubbed himself dry.
In the reflection, he caught sight of something on the dresser which had not been there before he left for Niger. On closer inspection he realised it was an envelope, obviously placed there by one of Faraday’s housemaids. He cursed silently, angry that someone had entered his personal quarters without his express permission and making a mental note to demand a lock be fixed to the door.
Nonetheless, it was rare for him to receive correspondence of any kind. Indeed, very few people knew he even existed let alone where he was.
Suddenly curious, he turned and snatched up the grubby, dog-eared Air Mail envelope, seeing that it had been stamped and sent on by various forwarding companies around the globe. Such companies were useful in Locke’s line of business as they ensured he received information necessary to whatever assignment he happened to be on at a specific time.
Yet the envelope he presently held in his hands had obviously been batted around the world several times, never finding him in time, or so it seemed.
Indeed, the envelope was stamped with postmarks from London, New Orleans, Washington, Marseille and Cape Town amongst others which gave it an extremely tatty appearance.
He tore it open and removed the hand-written letter it contained, noticing the signature of an old colleague at the bottom - a trusted lieutenant he had worked alongside many times before. The last time being in Cambridge back in 1993.
Locke read the letter, which referenced that very assignment and more specifically the men who had been part of it. Like Locke himself, his former lieutenant had also discovered that three of them had already been killed; Merton, McCullough and Finch. Yet the letter also revealed that a fourth, Brendan Williams, had been murdered, too.
What is more, Locke’s lieutenant, clearly alarmed by this, had apparently received a letter sent by Williams from a Siberian prison camp the day before he died. In it he stated that the same man they had all left for dead in Cambridge alongside the murdered girl had somehow miraculously survived.
Even more startling, was the news that this person had apparently resurfaced at the very prison in Siberia where Williams was serving out his sentence. Indeed, Williams was convinced that the man was there specifically to kill him.
Locke’s lieutenant went on to say that he had since received confirmation that Williams had been killed the very next day.
From what his old friend had written, he was clearly very concerned that his life and Locke’s were in danger too. Furthermore, if the man was prepared to have himself sent to a Siberian prison camp in order to find the person he sought then he would very likely stop at nothing to find them.
The way the letter was word
ed seemed most unlike Locke’s former colleague. Indeed, the man he knew was scared of very little and not fazed by anything. Locke had watched him rape and murder without thought or regret, had seen him burn villages full of women and children and laugh as their corpses fried. Yet now he seemed spooked and afraid - haunted even, and it was most out of character.
But Locke did not doubt what he had to say was true. In fact he knew Sam Beresford was most surely gunning for him. However, unlike his former lieutenant who seemed terrified by this prospect, he was positively looking forward to it.
He scanned the envelope again, searching for the earliest stamp, discovering that the letter had been posted over three years earlier.
After such a long time, he realised Sam Beresford could well be anywhere by now and Locke’s former lieutenant, Darius Purcell, could quite easily be dead.
Yet two things remained certain. Beresford was coming and Locke should be prepared.
Part Five:
The Spoils of War
Chapter Thirty-Four
Somewhere near Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of The Congo, 2003
Sam’s face was stained dirty brown from a thick layer of dust and his clothes were heavily engrained with it, too. Furthermore, his spine jarred every time the heavy wheels of the open-sided troop carrier trundled over a pothole or bounced over yet another huge bump in the uneven surface of the roughly hewn road. However, regardless of the dust or the uncomfortable ride, he was extremely relieved to be sitting in the back of the truck and no longer covering the considerable distance on foot.
In fact, that was all they had done for the last few days; mile after mile of endless walking through jungle and over mountains, trudging through mud and brush whilst being battered by rain and dust and the searing sub-tropical heat. Indeed, it was over 90° both day and night with an unrelenting humidity which was as much energy sapping as it was oppressive.
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