Marc accepted that with a nod. It felt good to be doing something right. Belatedly, he realised that he hadn’t experienced that sensation for a long time.
‘But there is a question I must ask,’ continued the other man. ‘What do you want, Mr Dane? Did you come here to give me this information and then . . . walk away? Go back to the NSNS, or something else?’
Marc frowned. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.’
‘Then let me put it another way. Does your responsibility toward this matter end now? I ask you that without judgement. Or do you wish to join us if we pursue the matter to a conclusion?’
‘I . . .’ Marc felt his colour rise. ‘I’ve given you what I have. Beyond that . . .’ He shook his head, and Gesa Schrader’s words echoed in his mind. ‘I am not a field agent, Mr Solomon. I learned that the hard way a year ago, when I barely came away from it with my life.’
‘I’m not sure I agree,’ came the reply. ‘You are resourceful. Dedicated. Driven.’
‘I was lucky,’ Marc countered sharply, and the healed bullet wound in his gut tightened in recollection. ‘And only just enough.’
Solomon’s gaze hardened. ‘You sell yourself short. And I think you know it. I think . . . Even if you do not wish to admit it . . . You want to be part of this.’ He leaned forward. ‘You want to be challenged.’
Marc couldn’t find an answer to that. Solomon pushed back his chair and stood up, pausing to straighten his sleeves.
‘What you do next is your choice,’ he said, ‘but I would ask you to remain here for a while. Work with Kara. This office functions as a local crisis centre for SCD operations and your insight would be valuable.’ Solomon walked away. ‘And while you are here,’ he added, ‘you may find you will change your mind.’
TEN
Guhaad was no stranger to heat, but it was the strange texture of the air in the Emirates city that made him uncomfortable. Some quality of it felt wrong on his skin, and he could not rest there. His first night in Dubai had been a sleepless one, keeping a low profile inside a barracks-like building that had once housed transient workers, but was now due for demolition amid the city’s endless cycle of new construction. In the end, he had stayed up chewing a little khat and listening to the sound of the metropolis during the darkest hours, hearing the constant rush of traffic on the highways into the pre-dawn light.
Ramaas told him a man would be waiting for them when they arrived, and he was right, as usual. The Pakistani driver was pleased to see Guhaad, Macanay and Bidar go, speeding away in his truck the instant he was dismissed. The contact gave them food and water and as they rested, Little Jonas spoke to them from Mogadishu through the digital phone. Jonas’s face, grainy and ill-defined on the screen, moved like that of a cartoon character, in fits and starts as he gave Guhaad all the information he needed.
Now it was late afternoon, and they were rolling along the line of Al Marsa Street in a silver G-Class Mercedes jeep. The route they were patrolling followed the length of the Dubai Marina to the west, but Guhaad’s gaze kept drifting to the forest of skyscrapers on the other side, extending away over the Jumeirah Lakes district. To him they looked like strange alien machines made of glass and stone, things from some other world frozen in time as they advanced toward the ocean. He had only been in the city for a day, but already he was developing a directionless antipathy for it. It didn’t seem real, somehow. He wondered whether, if he walked to the foot of one of the towers and struck it with his fist, his hand would punch through it. Would it be thin and hollow, full of nothing but dust and dead air? Guhaad shook off the image. Lack of sleep was making his mind drift.
In the back seat, Macanay was scanning the area through a pair of bulky Pentax binoculars. Next to him were pages of printed photos, most of them downloaded from social media accounts, of an olive-skinned young man in various posed shots. Here he was in a bath full of crushed ice with two barely dressed supermodels; here tugging on the lead of an illegally bought pet tiger cub; leaning idly on the fuselage of a private jet; or taking a draw from a hookah in the shape of a golden AK-47. There were also a half-dozen pictures of a crimson Maserati Ghibli, including blow-ups of the car’s number plate. Macanay’s silenced Beretta pistol sat on top of the pages to stop them slipping off the seat, and another identical gun was in the door compartment at Guhaad’s side, where he could reach it easily.
Guhaad had looked at the pictures earlier in the day, dwelling on the images that included sultry women in provocative clothing. He felt conflicted by what he saw, equally aroused and dismayed. He didn’t understand why, and that made him irritable.
From what Little Jonas had been able to determine by digitally stalking the target, the man in the pictures had spent most of last night in a club out at the Meydan Racecourse before finally retiring to a private party in a penthouse apartment on the upper floors of the exclusive Silverene Tower. All of this he and his fellow rich kids had been more than happy to broadcast over their photo and messaging feeds. Guhaad expected that finding the target would present at least some challenge to him, but the man was more interested in screaming his boasts to anyone who would listen than maintaining a low profile.
Macanay jerked forward. ‘There it is,’ he said urgently, pointing with his free hand. ‘Quick! Bidar, get over there!’
Guhaad looked in the direction Macanay was indicating and caught sight of the fire-red Maserati emerging from a side street. Bidar said nothing, guiding the jeep swiftly across the lanes until it drew in behind the target’s vehicle. Ahead of them, a tram snaked across the two-lane highway, bringing everything to a halt to let it pass.
Traffic on the wide road was sparse at this time of the day. Just past the point of high sun, most of Dubai’s citizens were inside the air-conditioned buildings, the richer of them still sleeping off the excesses of the previous night. The punishing daytime heat meant that the city only truly came alive once the sun fell below the horizon. Guhaad would have preferred to undertake this mission after dark, but here that would have meant more people on the street to see it happen, and more chance something could go wrong.
‘No police,’ said Bidar. ‘We should do it now.’
‘Not yet,’ Guhaad insisted, reaching for his gun. ‘But get ready.’
The Maserati revved and shot away as the traffic lights flicked to green, and Bidar worked hard to keep the Mercedes close by without making it too obvious. As they passed the vast, overwatered swathe of golf-club greens to their right, the cars went beneath the curves of an elevated motorway junction, and Bidar stamped on the gas. There were no traffic cameras on this stretch of road to capture what they would do next.
The Mercedes pulled level with the Maserati, the jeep’s front and back windows dropping in unison. Hidden in the shadows of the car’s interior, Guhaad and Macanay put the muzzles of their guns on the sills of the windows and fired single bullets into the red car’s nearside tyres.
The Maserati suffered a catastrophic two-wheel blowout and threw itself about its own axis, spinning into a low barrier that it mounted and slid across. The car knocked down a speed limit sign and juddered to a halt on the median strip.
Bidar slammed on the brakes, and Guhaad was out of the Mercedes in an instant, with Macanay a step behind him. He sprinted to the other car and wrenched open the rear passenger door. A dark-haired woman – a girl, really – in a rumpled black evening dress fell out. She was shaking and crying, shocked by the sudden crash. Another, similar in looks and attire, was draped over her shouting out curses.
The sound of the women’s distress triggered something ugly in Guhaad and he grabbed a fistful of dark hair, savagely yanking the girl the rest of the way out of the vehicle. He waved the gun at her and then at the second woman. ‘Bitches leave,’ he spat. ‘We know your faces. Speak of this and we will find you.’
Both of them saw Guhaad’s face, his pistol, and then Macanay at his shoulder with another weapon. They did not n
eed to be told again, and they fled back down the road, their bare feet slapping on the hot asphalt.
Guhaad leaned into the Maserati, finding the target pressed up against the far side of the back seat. He looked dazed, or perhaps just hungover. The young man blinked at him and then he focused on the gun.
In the driver’s seat, slumped against the deflating balloon of an airbag, another man who appeared to be some sort of servant was trying to extricate himself from his seat belt. Bodyguard, Guhaad guessed, given the driver’s brawny form and his age.
He fired twice at close range through the back of the driver’s seat, through-and-through shots that blasted jets of wet crimson across the white airbag and the steering wheel. Then he turned the gun on the target. ‘Kawal Daan,’ he said. ‘Get out of the car or I kill you.’
The young man froze. The face that Guhaad had seen in all those photos, oozing arrogance and unearned privilege, was now that of a terrified child. Macanay got the other door open and dragged him out, hauling him toward the waiting Mercedes.
Guhaad pulled a cylindrical grenade from inside his shirt, tugged out the ring-pin and let the explosive drop onto the Maserati’s back seat. Kicking the door shut, he ran back to the other car and climbed in as the white phosphorus charge exploded with a flash, setting the Maserati’s interior alight.
Bidar jammed the Mercedes into gear and they lurched away from the broken crash barrier, rapidly picking up speed. Guhaad turned back to face the young man, who sat trembling next to Macanay. The other man’s gun was pressed into his stomach.
Their captive’s first words were ‘I have a lot of money,’ as if that would be his passport to freedom. He began to talk quickly, repeating himself over and over. ‘You don’t want to kill me. I can make you rich.’
‘Can you?’ Guhaad cocked his head. ‘What if I do not want riches, Kawal?’
The young man blinked as Guhaad casually mentioned his name again. He didn’t appear able to grasp the idea that money might not be important to someone. ‘Wh-why else would you kidnap me?’
Guhaad smiled and gestured at Macanay to put away his weapon. In the distance, far down the road, he saw a flicker of light as the Maserati turned into a fireball. ‘This was for show,’ he told him, digging in a pocket for a ball of khat before slipping it into his mouth. ‘It is a lesson for you. To teach you that we are serious.’ He grinned, and weakly, so did the young man. ‘We are going to do business.’
‘What?’
Guhaad rolled the khat around his mouth, savouring the sensation of it. ‘We know who you really are, Kawal Sood.’ He aimed a finger at the young man. ‘You are going to tell me all about your grandfather.’
Kawal’s expression changed instantly, from slack fear to a sullen, juvenile sneer, and he seemed momentarily to forget his circumstances. ‘Him? I hate that old fuck!’
*
Marc looked up from the laptop’s screen as someone tapped on the glass wall behind him. A door slid open and Lucy entered, putting down a cup of coffee in front of him. She crossed the conference room to the far window and looked out toward Monte Carlo, taking a sip of her own drink.
‘Thanks,’ said Marc. ‘You’ve changed.’ Gone was the beachside outfit she’d been wearing earlier, replaced by rugged jeans and a cotton shirt.
‘Work clothes,’ she explained. ‘Of a sort.’
‘Doesn’t look like there’s any Kevlar in there,’ he added.
Lucy shot him a narrow glare. ‘I’m not planning on getting shot at until tomorrow, at the earliest.’ She jutted her chin in the direction of his computer. ‘So you got something else?’
He sighed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’m just . . . Well, Kara gave me access to some of Rubicon’s intelligence database. I was looking through it to see if anything connected with the Kurjaks but I came up empty . . .’ Marc paused. ‘I read through all the tech-specs I could find on the Exile device, and now I’m trying to focus on Ramaas.’
‘The pirate.’ She eyed the picture of the man on the screen. ‘Johnny Depp, he ain’t.’
‘I’m doing the usual analyst trick,’ Marc went on. ‘Put myself in his shoes. Where is he going to go? What’s the move he was most likely to make to get out of Croatia?’
‘Not a plane,’ noted Lucy. ‘He’s not stupid enough to try and walk a radiological device through an airport, even a small one.’
‘Right. And the rail and road border crossings all have static radiation detectors, thanks to the IAEA. Unless Ramaas has a lead-lined coffin to put the case inside, they’d pick up something. Neven Kurjak is with him. He would know that.’
‘So it has to be a sea route,’ she said.
‘He’s a sailor,’ Marc added, with a nod. ‘He’s well away from his stamping grounds back home in Somalia, so what’s he going to do? Go for what he’s familiar with. Ships.’ He angled the laptop’s screen so she could see a list of names.
‘MV Pride of Trieste. MV Madonna and Child. FV Demolidor. MS Valerio Luna. MV Falcon Azure . . .’ Lucy read out the first few, but there were dozens more. ‘What am I looking at here?’
‘Every registered vessel that’s departed the area of interest within the past seventy-two hours,’ he explained. ‘There’s a lot of traffic in the Adriatic Sea. Liners and ferries we can probably rule out, but yachts and merchant ships . . . We’re talking about hundreds of sailings. Ramaas could be on any one of them.’ His neck was stiff with tension and he gave it a slow turn. ‘If anything, there’s too much information. Solomon’s company has access to a lot of data, for a private corporation.’
‘He’s got plenty of contacts out there,’ Lucy countered, sidestepping the implication of illegality in Marc’s statement. ‘I guess you could say that a lot of people owe him favours.’
Marc nodded. ‘I’m one of them.’
‘Huh.’ Lucy leaned back against the glass and folded her arms. ‘Funny thing is, Solomon would say the opposite is true. But then he’s unusual that way.’
‘That is true,’ Marc agreed. ‘Not a lot of men make a mint and then decide overnight to become a defender of justice. Other than Bruce Wayne, I mean.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Didn’t happen overnight. You’re seeing a man who has gone a long way down that road.’ Then she fell silent, and Marc got the sense that she had said more than she meant to. He wanted to press her to go on, but past experience told him that would make her shut down completely.
Marc’s gaze drifted back to the computer, and the endless digital stacks of intelligence files laid out before him. ‘I have to tell you . . . I never reckoned I’d be here again. Working with Rubicon.’
‘Is that what you’re doing?’ Lucy’s question was deceptively light. ‘Truth to tell, I knew you’d be back, Dane. I was wondering what took you so long.’
Something in her tone made him tense. Marc didn’t like the idea that he was so predictable. ‘This isn’t what I wanted,’ he began, reaching for the right words, before finally realising he didn’t have them. ‘Ah, hell. I thought I knew what I wanted. Not so sure now.’
‘Everything won’t go back to how it was before.’ Lucy’s voice softened. ‘Before London, before Dunkirk? Back to life in the van, watching stuff on a screen while somebody else went in harm’s way?’ She shook her head. ‘Not gonna happen. You already had one foot in the shadows before you got pushed all the way in. Take it from someone who knows, you can’t cross back without it leaving a mark on you.’
He wanted to argue with her, but nothing came to him. She was right, and he knew it.
Lucy jerked her thumb at the window, taking in the world outside. ‘No-one out there gets that.’
Slowly, what he had been grasping for started to pull into focus – the vague, ill-defined unease that dragged on him, that had been there for months, snapped into hard clarity. ‘I thought we had done something to make a difference, yeah? Stopping a terrorist attack, finding a traitor. I thought that meant something. But the people who were beh
ind it, they sailed on.’ He saw the face of Pytor Glovkonin in his mind’s eye. ‘Untouched.’
‘We did more damage than you think,’ Lucy countered. ‘The Combine lost a lot of ground when we messed up their little duet with Al Sayf. Turns out that shares in G-Kor took a nosedive after what happened in Washington.’
G-Kor was the energy conglomerate owned by Glovkonin, and a key part of the Combine’s clandestine support structure – not that anyone could prove it, of course. Lucy explained that the oligarch’s company had been shorting stocks based on a crisis model that presupposed a devastating terrorist strike on the United States. When Marc, Lucy and the Rubicon team had stopped Al Sayf from making that happen, millions of dollars had been lost from G-Kor’s coffers.
‘They really don’t like it when you hit them in the wallet,’ she concluded.
‘But what about Glovkonin? He’s done the vanishing act.’ Marc’s former MI6 colleague John Farrier told him that the Russian’s London home had suddenly become empty, his expensive cars and private jet abruptly disappearing along with their owner. ‘He got away. And so did Omar Khadir.’
Khadir was Al Sayf’s hatchet man, the other part of the unholy alliance between the power-brokers and the terrorists. While Lucy had helped agents from the US Secret Service to capture Jadeed Amarah, Khadir’s second-in-command, the terror cell’s leader had followed Glovkonin into the darkness. Lucy nodded grimly. ‘After D.C. I tracked Khadir to an apartment in Belgium, but when I got there he was gone. Left me a little something, though.’ She rolled up a baggy sleeve and showed him the faint trace of a shrapnel scar on the inside of her forearm. ‘What we hear is, Al Sayf are regrouping. They’ll show their faces again, sooner or later. Preferably later.’
‘I know we saved lives,’ Marc replied. ‘But it doesn’t feel like it was a win, Lucy. Just . . . holding back the tide for a while.’
Exile Page 17