by Andy Maslen
Brandt’s forte was producing weapons systems that could be dismantled quickly and stowed in the sorts of unobtrusive rucksacks, musical instrument cases or even shopping bags that wouldn’t attract a second glance as their owners made their way, casually and openly, away from the scene of their latest assignment.
Being entirely handmade and using no mass-produced components, they offered other advantages. They were untraceable, unregistered and would never show up on any police or criminal intelligence database. Only the ammunition and the telescopic sight were bought-in. The rifle was chambered for .338 Lapua Magnum rounds. The telescopic sight was a Schmidt & Bender PMII. The latter had cost her four thousand dollars, and the salesman in the gun shop had congratulated her – genuinely, she thought – on her choice.
Now, she lay her cheek against the cool aluminium stock and sighted through the scope on Marsha Agambe’s breastbone. This was merely a reconnaissance, however, and her trigger finger was curled around the outside of the guard.
“Who are you, handsome?” she breathed, as she moved the cross hairs a foot to the right. “Making a move on the black widow so soon after her husband’s unfortunate demise, are we?” She tutted. Then smiled. “You’d better be quick, my brown-eyed friend. She won’t be around for much longer.”
*
Back at the hotel, Gabriel and Britta ate club sandwiches they’d ordered from room service, washing the spicy chicken and bacon down with cold lagers.
“How’s the head?” Gabriel asked.
She touched the dressing. “Not too bad. Still got a headache, but considering the firepower we were up against, I’ll take that. How’s the leg?”
He looked down. Gingerly, he touched his fingertips to the spot beneath his trouser leg where the dressing was. “Same. It hurts but I can deal with it. The pills help. Do you want to talk about who’s after us?”
Britta finished her mouthful and took a long pull on her bottle of lager. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You do, obviously.”
“Yes, I do. I told you what I think. If you can’t accept that Barbara Sutherland is out to silence Philip, and now Marsha Agambe, can you think of a plausible alternative? Who’d have the money and the contacts and the motivation to send a bunch of black-clad heavies into the Mozambican forest to take us out, and then when that didn’t work, a bunch of bloody gang-bangers?”
She didn’t answer immediately. That was something Gabriel had always valued whenever they’d been on operations together. When other voices were calling for a full-frontal assault, all guns blazing, Britta Falskog would be working the intel, looking for an angle. Frequently, that meant they achieved their objective quietly and efficiently, without filling the air with hot lead and grenade smoke.
“First of all, are we even sure the two events are connected? You kill Philip Agambe, a known terrorist financier. Then we encounter the Humvee boys and we deal with them. Then the warlord gang or whoever they were. Apart from timing there’s no link that I can see. Maybe we were straying on someone’s territory. Maybe the Humvee guys were at war with the other lot and thought we were going to join them.”
Gabriel finished his own sandwich and drained his beer.
“What about, Barbara Sutherland tricks me into taking out a political enemy then sends a posse of freelance Special Forces types to wipe us out? Then, when that fails, she recruits a local militia gang to finish the job?”
“Come on, Gabriel,” Britta said, pulling on her plait. “Can you really see a British Prime Minister just picking up the phone to a warlord in the middle of fucking nowhere and saying, ‘Oh, hi, General Whackjob. Listen, could you just send some of your crew to kill a couple of British Government agents?’ How would she know somebody like that even existed? It’s not like they’d have met at a party.”
Gabriel stood and walked to the window. They had a room on the tenth floor and the whole of downtown Harare was spread out before him. He looked across to a neighbouring tower block, wondering who was working there, whether they were routing calls between foreign Prime Ministers and local warlords in return for a slice of the fee. He turned back to her.
“A middleman.”
“What?”
“A middleman. A go-between. A broker.”
Britta laughed, breaking the tension, revealing her gappy teeth.
“All right, Mr Dictionary, I know what a middleman is. Let’s say you’re right. Barbara Sutherland has taken out a contract on you. She knows some dodgy ‘intermediary’,” she made air-quotes around this word, “and arranges two ambushes. Well, they both failed, so what now? Is she going to send tanks after us next? A couple of Apaches? A bunch of your former colleagues? Or my current ones?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m hoping we’re under the radar for now. Even if Major Chilundika reported back to her somehow, he doesn’t know precisely where we are now, so neither does she. Or, if not her then whoever is behind all the shit that’s been following us around.”
“What next, then? We got so close to finding Smudge. Are you going to try again?”
Gabriel sighed. “Jesus, Britta, I want to. More than anything. But we’re rather under-equipped now. No vehicle. No weapons, which I really do feel we need. And no support. Just some cash, our passports and a couple of GPS units. I think we need to get ourselves away from here and then regroup. There’s something else, too.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you involved any more. I want you to get home and then report for duty. Keep quiet about the whole thing. You weren’t on the passenger manifest of the flight out, Don made sure of that. And I told Major Chilundika you were a South African guide I picked up in Maputo. I snagged your documents in the helicopter so there’s no intel anywhere on this continent to show you were even here.”
Britta stood, hands on hips, eyes blazing. “You want me gone? What about you? What are you going to do? Don’t play the knight in shiny armour with me. I could kick your ass from here to Stockholm. With or without a weapon.”
Gabriel couldn’t help the smile, but held back on the correction. “Believe me, I am in no doubt you could put me down any time you chose. But things are getting complicated, surely you can see that. I can’t risk your life as well as mine. I’m seeing Marsha Agambe tonight and I’m going to work to keep her safe until the conference. Then I’m flying out. If – when – the shit hits the fan, I have no idea what’s going to happen. I could be charged with treason or given a knighthood. I just don’t know, and there’s no reason for you to get tangled up in it.”
Britta sat back down on the bed, fingering the fine gold chain where it crossed the notch of her collar bones. He saw that a red blotch had crept up onto her throat. For a while, she just stared at him and he stared back, noticing the way the sun caught the coppery notes in her eyelashes, the freckles that spattered the bridge of her nose, the look of equal parts fury and determination mingled in her expression. Then something changed. The tension went out of her jaw. She blinked.
“If I go, promise me no heroics. Just keep an eye on Marsha Agambe then get the fuck out of this bloody place.”
He went to sit next to her on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her shoulders.
“No heroics. It’s a promise.”
33
Pillow Talk
THE elegant, well-spoken, sixtyish man lying in bed in his Barbican apartment was known to his MI6 colleagues, and the Prime Minister he purported to serve, as David Brown. His real colleagues knew him only as Strickland. The organisation for which he worked was straightforwardly commercial, yet its financial value exceeded the GDP of all but the 21 biggest economies in the world. In its distant past, the organisation had built railways, communications networks, nuclear power stations and transport infrastructure. As it grew, it acquired the banks, law firms and insurance companies that had hitherto supported its expansion. By the time Strickland joined, it had abandoned tangible goods altogether, finding great
er return on investment in manipulating global markets, international trade regulations and, eventually governments themselves. Strickland was its area manager for the UK. His role was equal parts political liaison, enforcer and corrupter of public officials.
Now, he looked down at his phone as it buzzed and swiveled on his bedside table. The screen bore a familiar name.
He picked up the phone. “I do hope you bring me good news, Robert. I’m not in the mood for excuses.”
“Sadly, the news is not good.”
“Why? What happened?”
“The Rock and Roll Boys have played their final concert, or at least this particular group have. They were about to deliver the coup de grace when they themselves were ambushed. It would appear the Zambian Army came to the rescue of the dynamic duo. I have no idea how, but they have disappeared.”
“If the militia, or whatever they were, were killed then how do you know all this?”
“Jonathan Makalele, their boss, told me himself. He took a second team in to find out what had happened. He found one man still alive, or alive enough to tell him it was a Zambian helicopter and possibly an American, too.”
“Shit! And what about Marsha Agambe?”
“Mrs Agambe is alive, for the moment. But I have contracted with a highly skilled person in what you might call the outplacement business. She will see to it that our little problem ceases to be a problem. But I can’t push her. She does things with great care, and her due diligence would make many a corporate lawyer blush for shame.”
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” Strickland hissed. “You sound like a fucking civil servant. Why don’t you call a spade a spade?”
“Very well. I have hired a professional killer to murder Marsha Agambe. She takes her time because fucking up isn’t in her playbook. How’s that? Better?”
“Much.”
“Indeed. So perhaps we might keep our plain English for face to face meetings from now on.”
“Just call me when your HR manager has outplaced the candidate.”
“Of course. But tell me, what are you going to do about the two operatives? They’re in the wind, now. Comfortable for them, perhaps, but not for you.”
“You mean, what am I going to do now that you fucked up royally? Oh no, wait a minute. Fucked up royally, twice. And it’s not comfortable for us by the way. You’re still not out of the woods. I’ll have to put my thinking cap on, won’t I? As I said before, without proof there’s not much he can do. Maybe I can buy his silence if he ever shows up again.”
“And the mystery partner?”
Finally, Strickland’s patience snapped.
“Look!” he hissed. “Given that I can’t use any of the official state security apparatus, I’m doing the best I can. You, on the other hand, have been about as much help as a rubber spanner. So forgive me, but why the fuck don’t you come up with some suggestions of your own instead of asking these stupid fucking questions?”
Now it was Hamilton’s turn to pause. Good, Strickland thought, I’ve finally put you on the back foot.
“It’s a fair point. I apologise for my failure, my repeated failure to nip this little issue in the bud. Let me ask around. If he shows up and we identify him, we’ll take care of things.”
34
Paying His Respects
RESTAURANTS jostled for space at the start of Marsha Agambe’s road. They were selling every kind of food, but with a heavy emphasis on barbecue. The smell of spices and grilling meat lingered in the air, overlaying the traffic fumes as city workers made their way home.
It was seven that evening, as they’d agreed. Few cars passed Gabriel as he walked down the tree-lined street looking for her apartment block. The apartment buildings each had a name, mounted on a signpost at the pavement end of a long paved walkway. Marsha Agambe’s was called Kenyatta. Her number was 1005.
As he approached, a low growling snapped him out of the reverie he’d descended into. A scruffy, yellow-and-brown dog stalked towards him from the cover of a group of trees in the grass lawn to the front of the apartment block. Teeth bared, hackles spiked up like a Mohican down the nape of its neck, the dog stood, stiff-legged, on the pavement in front of him. It had no collar and no obvious owner.
Gabriel stood quite still. He’d fought dogs before. And won. But he had no desire for a rematch with the species this evening. He lowered his gaze, avoiding any eye contact the beast might perceive as a threat. The dog’s lips were retracted, revealing an impressive set of yellow incisors and inch-long canine teeth. The growling continued, a low rumble that triggered primitive neurochemical responses in Gabriel’s brain. Responses he ignored, since they were saying, “run or fight”, and he wanted to do neither. Despite the shiver of fear bouncing from his knees to the pit of his stomach, and the sweat on his palms, he knelt down in front of the hip-high animal.
Gabriel succeeded in his aim, which was to confuse the dog. It stopped growling and whined instead. Then it cocked its head to one side. He looked up from under lowered eyelids. The teeth were covered again. He stretched out his right hand, knuckles uppermost, intending to offer it for the dog to sniff. But then it backed up, and barked, twice, very loudly. He could see it was making ready to spring at him.
Out of the shadows, a slim-built figure dressed in the navy and khaki uniform of the Harare police emerged and shouted at the dog.
“Bazu! Down!”
The dog whipped its head round at the noise, and though its hackles were still erect, it complied with a whine, sliding to the ground on outstretched forepaws until its belly was in contact with the concrete pavement.
Gabriel stood, careful not to make any sudden movements, and faced the stranger, who carried a pistol in a brown leather holster on his right hip.
“Thank you. Is he yours?”
The man placed his right hand on the butt of the pistol. “He is a she, and yes, she is. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“My name is Gabriel Wolfe. I am here for a meeting with Marsha Agambe. You know her?”
“I am her brother, Foreman. I was named after the great American boxer, you know? Gorgeous George?” Gabriel nodded. “Do you have some ID?”
Gabriel pulled his passport from an inside pocket of his windcheater and held it out to the man. After scrutinising the passport, Foreman handed it back.
“Since Philip was murdered, we have become wary of strangers, as I am sure you can appreciate. You have done our family a great evil. But I respect your decision to try to atone by helping Marsha. Come with me, please.”
“What about Bazu?”
The man laughed. “She stays on patrol.” He looked down at the dog, who was sitting at attention, her head high between her front paws, ears pricked, muscle-tone high. “Stay, Bazu!”
The dog whimpered but remained immobile as Foreman led Gabriel inside the apartment block. He pressed the call button for the lift then turned to Gabriel.
“Are you armed, Gabriel?”
Unusually for him, Gabriel was able to answer, truthfully, in the negative. “No,” he said. “Would you like to search me?” He held the sides of the windcheater open.
“I think it would be remiss of me not to, don’t you?” Foreman said. Bending, he ran his flat palms up Gabriel’s legs in four efficient sweeps, side to side then front to back, left leg then right. Standing, he ran his hand around Gabriel’s waist, then up his ribcage, over his chest and then around his back. Finally, he patted the windcheater all over, squashing the pockets in his fists.
“Very professional,” Gabriel said with a smile as Foreman completed his frisking.
“Thank you, white man. We are not amateurs in the Harare Police department, you know.”
The lift bell pinged, saving Gabriel from further embarrassment. Two minutes later, they were at Marsha Agambe’s front door on the tenth floor. Foreman knocked. Gabriel felt the tension that had ebbed away from the confrontation with Bazu boiling back up in his stomach. The door opened and Marsha Agambe b
eckoned them inside. She wore the same black trousers from their earlier meeting. No jacket, now, just a simple, white, cotton shirt.
The kitchen was spotless, furnished with white wooden units, a stainless steel sink and a plain pine table with four chairs. Gabriel sat at the table, opposite Marsha Agambe. Foreman remained standing. Gabriel asked the question that had been on his mind since their first meeting.
“Mrs Agambe, I have to ask this. Why have you not gone to the police?” He looked round at Foreman as he said this.
She looked at him with soft brown eyes, unveiled this time, except by the grief that kept them hooded.
“I could have done that very easily. But what good would it do? Would it bring Philip back? Would it help me expose your Prime Minister? Would it leave me open to further attacks? This way, I have you to help keep me safe until the conference. Do that, and we will see. I am not a saint, Gabriel Wolfe. But I try to be true to my faith. To forgive. I expect you are the sort of man skilled in evading capture. Maybe you will get out of Zimbabwe before the police find you.”
Gabriel inclined his head.
“Thank you,” he said in a quiet voice. Then, “You said you would show me the evidence you have against Barbara Sutherland.”
“And I will. But first, I want you to tell me something.”
“What?”
“The story she told you, to make you believe it was right to murder my husband.”
35
A Test of Character
GABRIEL took a deep breath, aware that he was facing another test of his character. He turned his head as his chair moved a little. Behind him, Foreman had placed his hands on the backrest.