Djouhroub looked befuddled, whether by sleep or because he hadn’t followed the instructions it was hard to tell.
‘If they try to leave?’
‘Use all necessary force to stop them. You can say they fired on you first – which MINURSO may not do, so you suspected a trick.’
Djouhroub nodded. He was an ex Foreign Legionnaire, a formidable soldier, constitutionally incapable of disobeying an order, and with not the slightest semblance of intelligence about him. Which is just as well, thought Zender, for only an idiot would follow an order such as that.
‘The contents of the warehouse are your responsibility,’ he told Djouhroub as he left. ‘Carry out my orders in full, and you’ll get a bonus of ten thousand dirhams.’
These MINURSO officers had come to arrest him, Zender assumed, hurrying up the stairs to the first floor. He did not care to be chased across the Free Zone like some brigand on the run from the local jail. Nor could the IPD400 be permitted to fall into MINURSO hands – the financial loss would be intolerable, and he had his reputation to consider. No, Djouhroub would hold them here and Sulamani could deal with the consequences – make himself useful for once. It was a shame to leave Natalya Kocharian behind with her improbable hulk of a brother, but it couldn’t be helped.
The tidiest possible outcome to a most unpromising sequence of events, Zender concluded, entering Farouk’s room and rousing him from sleep. His driver was about forty, all bone and gristle, with a sombre face and eyes that followed you like those of a dog or a thief. They went to Nazli’s lab and Zender unlocked the door, thinking that if the computer scientist was there he would have Farouk wring his neck. The man had been worse than useless. But the room was deserted. Zender disconnected the IPD400 and packed it in its case.
‘Bring that.’
They went out into the yard, and set off for the warehouse. Djouhroub and four guards were running across the paved square to the double doors beneath the Polisario flag.
There was no answer to his shout, so Anton repeated it.
‘Captain Jay Laakso of MINURSO, to see Colonel Sulamani!’
James was investigating a pair of doors at the back of the entrance hall when he heard footsteps hurrying along the passage. He stood just out of sight and watched as Colonel Sulamani strode into the hall.
Anton saluted with a wildly exaggerated snap that made James wince. Sulamani saluted in return and eyed him suspiciously.
‘It is a surprise and an honour, Captain Laakso, to find a MINURSO officer east of the Wall of Shame. May I ask what brings you to the Free Zone?’
‘I have important business to discuss with yourself and Mr Zender.’
‘What business?’ Sulamani asked.
‘Please tell Mr Zender we are here,’ said Anton.
‘Your papers, please.’
‘In my vehicle.’
Sulamani went over to the window and looked out. It was preposterous that MINURSO should be here and there was something very un-military about its representative. But there were rumblings – some scheme being hatched by the Moroccans. Expect the unexpected, his commanding officer had unhelpfully told him.
‘It is just you and your driver?’
Anton’s unease was palpable. ‘We must see Zender immediately,’ he repeated, avoiding the Polisario officer’s gaze.
‘Please wait here while I put on my uniform,’ said Sulamani.
As soon as he was gone, James stepped out of the shadows.
‘He’s not going for it,’ said Anton.
‘Take him to the vehicle. Show him the paperwork but not the IDs,’ said James. He was still hoping to get to Zender before their ruse was exposed. ‘Refuse to say anything else without Zender present.’
‘He does not believe I am Jay fucking Laakso.’
‘Stay with it, Anton, just a while longer.’
James returned to his hiding place and soon afterwards, Sulamani reappeared. He opened the front door for Anton, then followed him out. James slipped down the corridor he had come from. It smelled peculiar, antiseptic and musty. He walked along until he came to a door on his left. He put his ear up against it. Nothing. He tried the door handle and it turned. A man’s office – bleak, oddly furnished. It felt as if someone had been here only moments before. On the desk was a computer with the side panel unscrewed. Someone had extracted the hard drive. He went to the window, pulled open the shutter a crack and looked out to see Anton shrugging as the Polisario colonel inspected the MINURSO documentation.
Something was happening.
He crossed the corridor and, without troubling to keep silent, tried the door on the other side. It was locked.
‘Who is that?’
A woman’s voice, frightened, trying not to show it.
‘James Palatine.’
The lock clicked and the door was thrown open. A woman in her mid-twenties was looking up at him from deep green eyes. Natalya Kocharian. Her upper lip, a little swollen from sleep, had risen up over her small white teeth. She was wearing a pale blue T-shirt which she was untucking from a pair of jeans. One forearm was swathed in a stained bandage. Her short, honeycomb-coloured hair was awry and there was a faint crease in the pink-flushed skin of her cheek.
‘Please excuse me,’ James found himself saying. His voice had gone slightly hoarse.
‘Excused. Aren’t you the IPD400 man? I thought you’d escaped?’
‘I came back. Do you know if Zender—’
There was a pile of bedding behind her. And her brother Nikolai, asleep on a hospital gurney. James felt Nat inspecting him, eyebrows curved upwards as she waited for him to finish his question. He broke himself free from her gaze, ran to the window and pulled open the shutters. The big man with the black military baseball cap he had seen at the execution was hurrying over from the barracks with four armed men at his heels. Djouhroub, commander of the guards. He needed to get to Sulamani before they turned up. As he turned from the window, something caught his eye: two men, walking towards the warehouse. One of them was fat. The other was lugging an aluminium case.
Little Sister.
James sprinted across the room and back down the passage to the entrance hall. Colonel Sulamani and Anton were standing beneath the gallery to his left. ‘I insist that you tell me who you are and what you are doing here,’ Sulamani was saying. James ran over, turned his back to the door and faced the Polisario officer.
‘There’s no time to explain, Colonel Sulamani,’ he said. ‘Djouhroub will be here in a few seconds and it’s important you send him away. I am the man who was held prisoner here. I came back with your man Salif. He says you saved his life when he was wounded in the leg at Nouakchott.’
James watched the old officer’s eyes soften at the mention of Salif’s name. Behind him, the door banged open. He heard the tramp of boots on the stone floor. James kept his back turned and pretended to be looking for something in his pockets. Sulamani was looking at James with intense curiosity. Then the Polisario officer held up his hand and marched over to the contingent of guards.
‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Commander Djouhroub,’ he said. ‘These officers from MINURSO are here for a meeting – it has been arranged for some time. My apologies, I should have told you.’
Djouhroub looked confused. The men behind him were still.
‘I will send one of the guards if I need to consult you,’ said Sulamani. ‘Good morning, Commander Djouhroub.’
He saluted and re-joined James and Anton.
‘This way, gentlemen.’
He ushered them towards the rear of the entrance hall.
‘I am delighted to find MINURSO taking an interest in Polisario affairs,’ Sulamani went on in a loud voice. ‘We feel as if we have been forgotten.’
Djouhroub and his men did not follow, and as soon as they were out of sight, Sulamani stopped.
‘You are the Englishman Zender brought here?’ he said. ‘Why are you dressed as a MINURSO officer?’
‘I’ll explain, but
first we must stop Zender leaving. I saw him heading for the warehouse. Can you go after him? I’d be recognised.’
‘How is that you and Salif are working together?’
‘When I escaped, Salif came after me. We talked and he agreed to help me – I came back because I have unfinished business with Claude Zender. Salif told me the Polisario had nothing to do with my abduction.’
James watched for a reaction to suggest this wasn’t true, but Sulamani looked him square in the eye and James saw only anger brooding beneath the layers of reticence and formality.
‘Zender is getting away even as we speak,’ James said. ‘Will you try and stop him?’
‘The MINURSO Land Cruiser would be useful.’
James and Colonel Sulamani left Anton in the corridor and ran back to the entrance hall.
Nat was still in the doctor’s room with Nikolai, watching the barracks opposite and wondering about the unexpected arrival of James Palatine. She’d seen blue-overalled men running across the yard, then heard voices from the entrance hall. Now she went to the door, cautiously pulled it open, and found Anton observing her from the entrance to Zender’s study. He was sporting a smile of such breadth that it had driven the habitually insouciant expression from his face entirely. The sight was so astonishing that Nat’s mind went blank.
‘Good morning, Ms Kocharian,’ said Anton. ‘We thought we should come and set you and Nikolai free.’
‘Un-fucking-real,’ said Nat. ‘You’re wearing a uniform.’
‘Steady now, I’m on duty,’ he said with a wink.
‘I guess that proves it really is you.’
Anton crossed the corridor and looked in. ‘Morning, Boss.’
‘Anton!’ said Nikolai. ‘What took you so long? Micky with you?’
‘Waiting by the limo.’
‘You boys – awesome, really fucking awesome. Natalya, didn’t I tell you they’d be good to have around? How’d you find us?’
‘We hijacked a UN Land Cruiser, captured a fort from the Moroccan Army, bulldozed a hole in their wall, drove through a minefield, crossed a hundred kilometres of desert and bluffed our way here,’ said Anton. ‘Seeing your happy faces makes it all worthwhile.’
Nat found herself wondering if there might be more to Anton than the hotel-lounge creep she’d taken him for.
‘Nice work,’ said Nikolai. ‘When do we leave?’
‘We can decide what to do when Palatine gets back,’ said Nat.
‘I’ll tell you this for nothing,’ said Anton. ‘I wouldn’t want to be around if that guy ever stops taking his medication.’
Farouk loaded the IPD400 into the boot of the black Citroën DS, locked it, then fired the ignition. The starter turned over and the engine caught, emitting a steady, nasal whine that belied its power and hardiness. The servos that built pressure in the hydraulics clicked and whirred, and after twenty seconds the car lifted itself smoothly up off its chassis and settled into its characteristic pose of a shark idly contemplating a light meal.
Zender came down the steps from the warehouse office to find Sulamani standing in front of the idling DS and the MINURSO Land Cruiser blocking the exit.
‘Where are you going, Zender?’
‘Sulamani, I see you have called in the cavalry.’
‘I would like you to remain here until the matter of these MINURSO officers is resolved.’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage very well on your own. There’s not much a fat old fraud like me can do. Commander Djouhroub will help you.’
‘Djouhroub and his men take orders only from you, as you have often insisted. If MINURSO require you to answer for their actions—’
‘I shall refuse. Shall we move these vehicles, before we’re all poisoned by exhaust fumes?’
‘You have been in my office, deleting all evidence that you ever existed,’ said Sulamani, looking at him fiercely.
‘There’s no need to be paranoid. Ah, here is Djouhroub to help clarify things.’
The Polisario colonel turned to see the big man jogging up the track with a cohort of guards in tow.
‘Commander Djouhroub, you join us just in time. Colonel Sulamani wishes to prevent me leaving the compound. I don’t know why, though I’m sure he has his reasons,’ said Zender, giving Djouhroub a conspiratorial look that did not pass the Polisario colonel by.
Djouhroub seemed pleased at the prospect of a confrontation. ‘The Colonel cannot stop you,’ he said, folding his arms at Sulamani.
‘Quite,’ said Zender. ‘If you could help him move the MINURSO vehicle he has commandeered, which seems to be obstructing the exit?’
Zender manoeuvred himself into the rear of the DS and motioned Farouk to drive. Sulamani was locked in a stare with Djouhroub, one he knew he could not win.
‘Get your little pig to shift his minibus,’ Djouhroub said. ‘Or I’ll do it for him.’
Sulamani held the man’s eyes for a moment longer, then turned and signalled to Mikhail. As soon as the way was clear, the Citroën DS hopped elegantly over the ridge at the entrance and slid off down the track. Zender, reclining in the back seat, favoured Sulamani with a presidential wave.
‘I don’t know what lies Zender has told you, Commander,’ said Sulamani, looking dispassionately at Djouhroub, ‘but you’d better start planning what to do if he never comes back.’
‘Monsieur Zender will find out what’s going on, then we’ll see,’ Djouhroub replied. He puffed out his chest, and started to chivvy his men back down towards the barracks.
Sulamani stepped into the Land Cruiser and told Mikhail to go after the Citroën. By the time they reached the main gates, the Citroën had already left the compound. The barrier had been lowered and three guards were lined up in front. Two of them raised their rifles and aimed them directly through the windscreen. Sulamani sighed heavily.
‘Turn back,’ he said to Mikhail. ‘They will shoot if we try to leave.’
James had taken the RPG launcher up to the roof and primed it for a shot. Sand had got into the slides and catches and by the time he had cleared it and loaded the grenade and booster, Zender was driving out through the gates. He raised the weapon to his shoulder, got the Citroën in his sights. The swirling skirt of dust made it look as if the car were hovering and might at any moment ascend into the skies. In the corner of his vision, he saw a line of guards with rifles raised, the MINURSO Land Cruiser reversing away from the barrier.
His target was diminishing fast, heading beyond the weapon’s effective range. He switched the grenade to self-detonate: it would explode exactly 4.5 seconds after launch. The missile would cover eight hundred to a thousand yards, depending on environmental factors. From this elevation, maybe eleven hundred. A highly technical shot, much favoured by training field instructors. The DS sailed on. He triangulated everything he knew, estimated the distance and started to count: nine-twenty, nine-forty, nine-sixty, nine-eighty. . . Exhale. Pause. Fire.
The warhead erupted into his field of vision and he felt the backblast of scorched air balloon out from the rear of the tube, filling his nostrils with hot, powdery smoke. The projectile swerved after the Citroën, streaking the air in its wake. It was true enough, curving slightly right, but losing height. . .
The explosion blew the boot open and hurled the DS forward like a pebble kicked along the pavement. The car slewed sideways, then skidded to a halt. James saw Little Sister glinting in the boot. He grabbed another booster and re-loaded. As he brought the weapon up, the car started moving again. The first explosion had already propelled it to the limits of the launcher’s range and in another 4.5 seconds. . . Wasted shot.
James fired anyway, giving it as much height as he could without losing distance. He saw the air wobble and fill with a rosette of smoke and debris, then heard the explosion. The car veered. Probably just the driver reacting to the noise. It didn’t stop. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the door to the barracks: Commander Djouhroub and two guards, raising rifles to their shoulder
s. He dropped to his knees and ducked down beneath the parapet. The bullets whined in and a section of parapet shattered, sending chips of concrete rattling across the roof. The firing stopped as abruptly as it had started. He lifted his head and saw Commander Djouhroub staring up at him, eyes shaded by the peak of his black cap, rifle perched on his hip. The big man raised a finger of admonishment and wagged it slowly from side to side.
Chapter Twenty-One
On arrival in Algiers shortly after midday, Clive Silk was driven to a private house near the port for his meeting with Manni Hasnaoui. Hasnaoui was a long-standing Polisario elder whose official title was Ministre d’Etat, Affaires étrangères in the government of the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic – government-in-waiting that should have been, for at present they presided over nothing.
Nigel de la Mere had set up the meeting, and briefed Clive over lunch at a gloomy Italian restaurant in Charing Cross – the sort of place that could have been chosen only for its anonymity.
‘I’ve been talking to Sir Iain about you, Clive – there’s no need to look sullen. You’ve been exonerated, as of course we expected, so we think it might be time to take a step up in the Service. Become one of us, so to speak.’
Clive felt a flutter of gratitude, then realised there was going to be a price to pay for his absolution.
‘Some things can’t be shown on one of Caroline Hampshire’s org charts, you understand? There’s a network of trust, a network of influence that. . . Well, put it this way, it’s not going to appear in your job description.’
‘But I’m not a member.’
‘You haven’t always made yourself popular with the executive.’
‘I’ve only ever done what was asked.’
Nigel had dismissed this impatiently, then proceeded to lecture him on the delicate conundrums faced by those obliged to defend the national interest in a world where moral principles were a luxury one simply had, on occasion, to forego. But for all the years he had spent composing circumlocutions and half-truths on behalf of his employer, the art of subtlety had eluded Nigel de la Mere; and long before his speech plodded to a halt, Clive understood that he was going to be asked to do something black, as intelligence jargon would have it. Something deniable. Something wrong.
Little Sister (A James Palatine Novel) Page 30