First Casualty (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 4)

by Andy Maslen

  Actually it feels like a rhino just stuck its horn through my leg but I guess you probably already know that.

  “Don’t bullshit me, I can always tell when you’re lying. So you want to tell me what went down back there?”

  “I wish I knew. I think someone has decided we’re surplus to requirements,” he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, “now that Agambe’s out of the way.”

  “So are we safe here?”

  “I hope so. Even if she finds out where we are, I don’t think there’s much she can do. The Zambians aren’t going to let a crew of US privateers swan in here and start shooting, still less some gang-bangers with AKs and machetes.”

  “I hope to God you’re right. Because I have the mother and father of all headaches right now and I really need to sleep.”

  “Sleep, then. I’ve got a plan, but it can wait till you’re ready to hear it.”

  Britta’s voice, when she spoke, sounded far away and very, very tired.

  “Good. You always have a plan. Tell me later.”

  Moments later she was snoring quietly. Gabriel lay back on his pillow, staring at the ceiling fan as it rotated slowly above his head. He did have a plan and it was going to take him to the one person on Earth who wanted to see him dead more than the British Prime Minister.

  *

  Three days later, Major Chilundika was putting Gabriel and Britta into a Zambian military transport plane to fly them back to Harare.

  “Sorry about your weapons,” he said, as the Jeep rolled to a stop on the runway. “But as much as I owe a debt to Colonel Webster, I can’t allow you to leave Zambian soil packing that heat, as our American friends would no doubt put it. I suggest you find a commercial flight from Harare back to England as soon as you can. Put this whole bloody business behind you.”

  “We can’t thank you enough, Major,” Gabriel said, offering his hand.

  “Please. Think nothing of it. As I said, it made a nice little training exercise for my men. Perhaps you can send my regards to Colonel Webster when next you see him.”

  “I shall. It’s a promise.”

  “Good,” the Major said with a smile. “I have made the necessary arrangements with my counterpart in Harare. You will be provided with temporary papers. May I suggest you do not outstay your welcome.”

  Gabriel nodded. Then he and Britta turned and boarded the plane, a Dornier Do 228.

  As the plane lumbered along the runway, they looked out of the window at the tall, ramrod-straight officer, who stood, waving, on the tarmac as the backdraft from the two turboprop engines threatened to whisk his beret off his head. Britta turned her head to Gabriel.

  “You are nuts, you do know that, right?”

  “She’ll see me. She has to. I’ve got a contact back in London who can make the introduction.”

  “This isn’t some networking trip, Gabriel. You killed the woman’s husband. She’ll be waiting for you with police. Probably with a gun. I would be.”

  Gabriel looked down at his hands, which were clenched together between his knees.

  “I have to try. When we get to Harare, I’m going to call Melody Smith. She said her organisation has people on the ground in Africa. Mozambique, Tanzania, Zimbabwe. All over.”

  “I admire your faith. Especially since we left all our weapons behind with the lovely Major Chilundika.”

  “He was right. He had no choice. Frankly, I’m amazed we’re getting the VIP treatment out of here. I half expected to find ourselves being shipped straight back to England.”

  Three hours later, the Dornier touched down at Harare International Airport with a tearing shriek from the tyres and a jolt that would have thrown them out of their seats had they not been strapped in.

  “Sorry about the bump,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “These babies handle differently when they don’t have a full cargo.”

  Gabriel and Britta collected their kitbags, salvaged by Major Chilundika from their Land Rover after their rescue, and walked down the steps from the single passenger door. The temperature was in the low seventies. A breeze was blowing east to west across the runway, bringing an earthy smell from the distant savannah and bending the flimsy trees at the edge of the airfield into graceful curves that sprang back as each gust abated.

  The roar from the engines made speech impossible, so, hand across his nose and mouth to prevent the swirls of dust choking him, Gabriel pointed to the terminal building before shouldering his bag and heading away from the plane.

  As they reached the building, the Dornier’s engine note rose in pitch and volume and they turned to see the plane rise into the air, climb at a shallow angle and then bank to the right before heading back towards the Zambian border. Two Zimbabwean soldiers came out to greet them. They were handed slim packets that contained all the necessary papers to permit them to travel into and then out of Zimbabwe. They still had their British passports and the dollars Gabriel had brought with him. Plus one very important rectangle of white card, printed with the contact numbers and email address of Melody Smith.

  Sitting inside the terminal building, sipping from a cold can of mango juice, Gabriel used his satellite phone to call Melody.

  “Hello?” she said, from five thousand miles away, on a line so clean she could have been sitting with her back to Gabriel.

  “Melody, it’s me, Gabriel.”

  “Oh, my God. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Harare. Listen, we got close but we were ambushed. I didn’t get to where we left Mike. I haven’t given up, but there’s something I need to do while I’m here. Something really important.”

  There was a long pause, during which, Gabriel could hear clicks and electronic bleeps on the line as the various satellites and continent-bridging fibre-optic cables kept the fragile connection alive.

  “What am I going to tell Nat? You promised her you’d bring her Dad home.”

  “And that promise still holds. It’s just, I’m going to have to figure out a new plan.”

  Melody sighed. “You said you had something important to do in Harare. What does that have to do with me?”

  Gabriel took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, looking at Britta, who reached out and took his hand. Squeezed it, and gave him an encouraging smile.

  You said that your organisation had people on the ground in Africa. Here in Zimbabwe.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Can you put me in touch with them? I need to fix something. Something I did on the orders of that person you warned me about.”

  There was a pause.

  “Oh, no, Gabriel. Tell me it wasn’t you. Tell me you didn’t kill Philip Agambe.”

  Now it was Gabriel’s turn to say nothing, though he knew he was broadcasting his guilt through his silence just as eloquently as if he’d stood up and confessed in a court of law. “How did you hear about it?” he finally asked.

  “Not on the news,” she said, her voice sharp and tight. “The mainstream media here don’t care about a minor black politician getting killed in Africa. But when you know which websites to check, you can find out what you need to know. It’s part of my job. Oh, Jesus, Gabriel, why? Philip Agambe was a good man. He was honest, which is a bloody rare thing in politics anywhere.”

  Gabriel rubbed his hand over his face. “Like I said. I had my orders. Only now I’m beginning to wonder whether the story I was fed about Agambe was fake. So I need to check. And that means I have to meet his widow.”

  “Let me make a call or two. Can I give our contact your number?”

  “Of course. Just make it quick, can you?”

  “I will. What have you got yourself into, Gabriel?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. Then I’m going to put it right.”

  31

  Repentance

  A knock at the hotel room door: loud, confident. Gabriel rose from the bed to answer it, checking the spyhole first. Outside, his face distorted into a bulging sphere with a protuberant, flat
nose stood a tall, brown-skinned man, sporting a lime-green trilby with a black-and-white-chequered band. He opened the door and let the hat’s owner in.

  “You’re Marcus Rudzungu?” he asked.

  “You think there are two hats like this in Zim?” the man said, with a smile, pointing to his unusual headgear.

  “It is as described, certainly,” Gabriel said.

  “Better than all that code word nonsense.” Marcus looked over Gabriel’s shoulder and doffed his hat to Britta. “Good day to you, Madam. A friend of Gabriel’s, I assume?”

  Britta stood and came over to shake hands with the tall Zimbabwean.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise, dear lady, likewise. So, I receive a call from Melody Smith in London. Says a friend of hers – no, wait, better make that two friends,” he grinned at Britta, “is in Harare and wants to meet with Marsha Agambe.”

  “Did she tell you why?” Gabriel pointed to the hard chair under the desk, which Marcus pulled out and sat astride, like a detective from a seventies cop show.

  “Just you urgently had to speak to her.”

  Gabriel pressed his lips together, realised he’d not be able to speak and relaxed them again.

  “I killed her husband.”

  Marcus’s eyes widened and he reared back in the chair so far Gabriel thought for a moment he’d topple backwards, forgetting there was no backrest to save him. Then he burst out laughing.

  “Oh, my God, you had me going there for a second. Philip Agambe was killed by a mugger out in The Avenues. A very bad neighbourhood,” he said, turning to Britta. “Stabbed for his wallet and phone and then put back in his ministerial car, which the mugger set on fire.”

  Britta glanced at Gabriel, who remained still, looking at Marcus Rudzungu with mouth downturned. Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out his fist. He held it out to Marcus and uncurled his fingers.

  Coiled in the centre of his palm was a gold watch-chain, mounted with a gold half-sovereign. It bore Queen Victoria’s portrait on one side, St George, mounted on horseback, thrusting a long spear into a dragon, on the other.

  “This belonged to Philip Agambe. I took it from him after I killed him. His widow will confirm it’s his. I need to meet Marsha Agambe. She said she’s going to continue her husband’s work. That she intends to expose the Prime Minister – the British Prime Minister – at the Southern African Development Conference. She may be in danger. Some very bad people – I don’t know who – are after Britta and me. They’ve already had two goes at killing us. I don’t want Marsha Agambe to meet the same fate as her husband.”

  Marcus held out his hand and Gabriel dropped the chain into it. The strong brown fingers closed tight around the gold. He looked up at Gabriel. His mouth was set into a grim line.

  “You know, Gabriel, when I tell Marsha Agambe that her husband’s assassin wants to meet her, I do not think the prospect will fill her with joy.”

  “I know. But please try. Her life is in very real danger.”

  An hour later, Gabriel’s phone rang. It was Marcus.

  “Marsha Agambe says she wants to meet you. But I tell you my friend, you’d better be straight with her. One hundred percent. Marsha has some powerful friends of her own, and her brother is a policeman. I hope you know what you are doing.”

  The phone clamped between cheek and shoulder, Gabriel looked over at Britta, then down at his hands, which were clamped together, fingers interlaced, knuckles white.

  “So do I,” he said.

  *

  Marsha Agambe had chosen a very public place for their meeting. Africa Unity Square, directly opposite the Parliament Building on Nelson Mandela Avenue. Gabriel left Britta in the hotel and walked the two miles to the square on his own. He was still limping from the bullet wound, but the medics had given him some powerful painkillers. He wondered whether she would have asked her brother to arrest him, or simply hired someone to kill him, as Barbara Sutherland had hired Gabriel to do the same thing to Philip Agambe.

  Today, Harare was blanketed by high, white clouds. A cool breeze was blowing through the city, whipping up small whirlwinds of rubbish and dust that eddied at street corners. Ahead, sitting on a low wall that bordered an ornamental pond with a fountain at its centre, sat a slim black woman dressed in a black trouser suit and a small, black, pillbox hat with a veil pulled down over her face.

  Gabriel looked around, searching for bodyguards, but the widow Agambe appeared to be alone. She raised her head and turned to face him. He walked on, drawing closer, straining to detect even the slightest glimmer of an expression beyond the veil that might indicate the woman’s mood. There was none. She sat perfectly still, waiting for him to arrive.

  When he did, he stood in front of her. She looked up into his eyes and finally he could see her face. The eyes were dry and the mouth, outlined in deep red lipstick, was pulled into a tight line. Not knowing what else to do, he knelt in front of her and sat back on his heels, so that he was looking up into her face.

  “Mrs Agambe,” he said. “My name is Gabriel Wolfe. I killed your husband on the orders of Barbara Sutherland.”

  He stayed in that position, ignoring the pain from his cramping muscles, waiting for a sign from her that he might get up. Finally, after several minutes during which she maintained her poised silence, she spoke.

  “When Marcus told me you wanted to see me, I began planning your death. I have friends who could make it happen and then make it so nobody would ever know you had been here in my country. Until I saw you coming, I was still convinced it is what Philip would have wanted. He hated the British and their malign influence on Zimbabwe and on Africa as a whole. Even this square is based on the Union Jack. Their aid-for-trade deals, their defence contracts, their pious hand-wringing over starving Africans when it is their own greed and corruption that has caused so much suffering. Look over there, Mr Wolfe.” She nodded in the direction of a busy crossroads. He followed her gaze. “Do you see the fellow with the shopping bag?” Gabriel nodded. “He has a gun in there. A pistol with a silencer. All I have to do is remove my veil and he will walk over here and shoot you. And over there?” She turned and raised her chin in the direction of a wheeled fruit stand under a tree with spreading branches, casting a deep pool of shade on the northern side of the square. “Together they could load your body under the top of the fruit barrow and wheel you away from here to a place far away from prying eyes. A place occupied by a pack of wild dogs who are always hungry and never fussy about what they eat.”

  Gabriel returned his gaze to hers. “I wouldn’t blame you if you raised your veil. I came to Africa in search of redemption. To search for the remains of a friend of mine whom we lost in battle. I willingly paid the price Barbara Sutherland demanded of me. But now I have started to wonder whether everything she told me was truth or a convenient fiction.”

  There was another long pause after this speech. Gabriel looked left, at the man leaning against a railing, the lethal shopping bag still at his feet. Then he looked right, at the fruit seller and his makeshift gurney, ready to spirit Gabriel’s corpse away to be turned into dogfood. Marsha Agambe looked down at Gabriel and bestowed on him a small, sad smile.

  Then she reached up to pinch the lower edge of her veil between her thumb and forefinger.

  32

  Truth and Reconciliation

  GABRIEL tensed. Despite his desire to pay for his crime, he knew he would not wait to be shot, down on his knees. Marsha Agambe tugged down on the edge of the veil, settling it under her chin.

  “Get up, please, Gabriel,” she said. “I do not know why I am doing this, but I feel I should trust you. I cannot forgive you for killing my husband. Not yet, anyway. But you must help me now.”

  Sighing as much from the pain in his muscles as from relief, Gabriel got off his knees and sat beside Marsha on the low wall. When he looked around, the man with the shopping bag had disappeared into the crowds ambling through the square, and Marsha Agambe’s ot
her friend was busily selling his brightly coloured local fruits to a small queue of customers.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Did my husband suffer?”

  Gabriel found her nobility almost unbearable. No screaming, no slapping or punching, no beating her fists against his chest, just a quiet dignity reflected in her tone of voice that was more sad than angry. He thought back to the moment he had taken Philip Agambe’s life. The sudden weight of the man’s body against his own, the fading shine on his eyeballs, the gasping exhalation carrying his final breath away into the warm midday air. Had he suffered? Of course he had suffered! Violent death is never pain-free, and to be murdered in your home city by a foreign assassin – that would fill your last moments on earth with suffering of the most intense kind.

  “It was quick. He did not suffer. I am so very sorry.”

  He felt tears starting from his eyes and dashed them angrily away. If anyone had a right to shed tears it was the woman in front of him, yet she sat beside him, holding his hand in her own and staring at him with a look he couldn’t read.

  “I will grieve for my husband when the time is right,” she said. “But for now, I must remain strong. I must continue Philip’s plan through to its conclusion. Perhaps you can help me after all. Can you come to my apartment tonight?”

  “Of course. What do you need me to do?”

  “I want you to see his files for yourself. Then I will know I can trust you to protect me.”

  *

  On the roof of the Metropolitan Insurance Building on the southwestern corner of the square, Sasha Beck lay on her belly, protected from the grime by a six by four-foot dust sheet made from charcoal-grey, rip-stop nylon.

  Anyone at a gun fair or in an arms dealer’s stockroom looking for a rifle to match the long-barreled weapon in front of her would be disappointed. It was made to her own specifications by a middle-aged gentleman living in Oberndorf am Neckar, a pretty town in Baden-Württemberg, Germany. Herr Brandt was a former employee of Heckler & Koch, and he supported his large and happy family entirely on the proceeds of the bespoke weapons he fabricated in his basement workshop. The rifle’s accuracy at ranges of up to seven hundred and fifty yards was as good as, if not better than, any commercially produced rifle. But that wasn’t the primary reason Sasha Beck bought her equipment from him.