Ivory Nation

by Andy Maslen

Frank nodded and sniffed, once.

  ‘Thanks. You’d better get going,’ he said. ‘The major’ll be wondering what I’ve done with you.

  Gabriel found Taylor with Eli on the outskirts of the compound. Eli was firing single shots at metal targets mounted on the bone-white branches of a lightning-struck tree some sixty yards distant. The steel circles plinked and spun as she hit them steadily, working left to right.

  She turned as Gabriel walked up, and grinned.

  ‘A beautiful girl shooting an automatic weapon,’ Taylor said. ‘If there’s a better sight in the world, I’ve yet to see it.’

  ‘How’s it feel?’ Gabriel asked Eli.

  ‘Sweet. Like one of our old Galils. Want to try it?’

  Gabriel took the AK from her. The wooden pistol grip was warm from her hand. He tucked it against his shoulder and sighted on one of the targets, crystal-clear in the scope’s reticle. A warm, sweet-smelling breeze was blowing left to right and he made a best-guess adjustment to compensate.

  He fired. Missed. Swore.

  Behind him, he heard Taylor whisper to Eli, ‘Looks like your friend hasn’t been keeping up his range practice!’

  Gritting his teeth and refocusing on the target, he took better care this time. He emptied his head of everything but for the tiny black circle mounted beneath the splintered branch tip. He squeezed the trigger to first pressure.

  Something moved on the branch above the target. He moved the crosshairs up a little. Shuddered.

  16

  LONDON

  Detective Superintendent Calpurnia ‘Callie’ McDonald looked up from the report she was reading. Seeing who was standing in the doorway, she grinned, her red-lipsticked mouth widening.

  ‘Well now, if it isn’t my most dedicated detective chief inspector,’ she said, her Edinburgh accent as clear now as it was the first day she moved south from Lothian and Borders Police. ‘Please tell me you have something I can take to the commissioner? I swear to you, Stel, the bloody woman’s going to be the death of me!’

  Stella closed the door behind her and sat in the chair facing Callie. The two women had a long and complicated history stretching back to the time Stella had virtually single-handedly rolled up a conspiracy stretching to the top of the British legal system.

  Callie had protected Stella when all looked lost and then promoted her to head the Special Investigations Unit inside the Met.

  ‘The shooter was in Africa. Recently,’ Stella said.

  Callie’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Really? Because what I’m hearing is that he was an Israeli.’

  Stella shrugged, then handed over the single sheet of paper Lucian had given her.

  ‘The one doesn’t preclude the other,’ she said. ‘He might have trained there. It’s Botswana, by the way.’

  ‘You can be that specific?’

  ‘A soil sample and the jaw of a termite confirm it, apparently. I want to go out there, boss.’

  Callie placed the paper on her desk.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a lead, isn’t it? If the shooter was out there, someone might know him, or know something about him.’

  ‘What, you think they all just hang around together, sharing a bottle of wine in the International Assassins’ Club?’ Callie said in a sarcastic tone of voice. Then she coloured. ‘Oh god, Stel, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just under the cosh, ye know? Everybody up to and including the prime minister is looking for answers and everyone on Birch is running on caffeine and adrenaline.’

  Stella smiled. Walked over to a filing cabinet. Extracted a bottle of Glenlivet single malt and a couple of cut-glass tumblers. She poured a finger into each glass and handed one to Callie.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said, taking a sip of the whisky.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Anyway, I’ve got a plan that doesn’t involve palling around with the barman at the Assassins’ Club.’

  Callie rolled her eyes.

  ‘A plan. Am I going to like it?’

  ‘You might,’ Stella said, regarding her boss over the rim of her glass.

  Callie sighed.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Remember Don Webster?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Leave-it-to-the-big-boys, you mean? How could I forget?’

  Their paths had crossed before and Don had managed to put Callie’s nose out of joint before retreating with a suitable apology and asking for her help.

  ‘He’s kept in touch ever since that business with the Russians,’ Stella said. ‘In fact, he’s offered me a job on a couple of occasions.’

  Callie’s eyebrows arched even higher.

  ‘Has he now? Why, the bloody nerve of the man! I told him no poaching the first time I met him. I hope you said no.’

  Stella grinned.

  ‘I did. But I’m thinking he could help us out for a change. You know, get me into Botswana and provide some intelligence backup. I get the sense they work from a different rulebook to ours.’

  ‘Backup? Hmm,’ Callie said. ‘And you’d turn him down if he tried poaching you again?’

  ‘As long as you keep giving me interesting jobs, boss,’ Stella said with a wink.

  ‘Och, you cheeky wee thing!’

  Don was driving home in his Jensen Interceptor when his phone rang. He’d had one of the guys in the motor pool retrofit a hands-free kit, hiding the modern controls on the dash.

  ‘Don Webster,’ he said.

  ‘Don, it’s Stella Cole.’

  ‘DCI Cole! How nice to hear from you. How’s life in the Met?’

  ‘At the moment, hectic. The small matter of Operation Birch. And please call me Stella.’

  ‘I saw your guv’nor on the news last night. The hyenas were out for blood.’

  ‘Which, and forgive the lack of small talk, is why I’m calling you.’

  ‘Fire away, Stella.’

  ‘Our forensics team just identified the source of a speck of soil found in the sniper nest. It came from Botswana.’

  ‘Hmm. Unusual place for an Israeli physics teacher to be travelling. Could it have come from the PM, do you suppose?’

  ‘We asked his office for a list of his official engagements in the week leading up to the assassination.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Radio silence. I checked his Twitter feed. No holiday snaps from Botswana, either. I’m wondering whether Lieberman was a teacher at all. What if the prime minister is right and he was a Mossad agent all along?’

  ‘I have to say, from what I know of the workings of organisations like the Mossad, that seems unlikely. Anyway, what can I do to help?’

  ‘I want to go to Botswana. If the shooter was there in the days before the killing, someone might have seen him. I mean, how many Israeli physics teachers can there be in Botswana?’

  Don smiled. Were the stars aligning to help him out?

  ‘Do you remember my chap, Gabriel Wolfe?’

  ‘The moody one with the scar?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Yes. I like him.’

  ‘He’s over there at the moment, along with another of my operatives, Eli Schochat. They’re on an unrelated mission, but still…’ Don said, suddenly wondering just how unrelated they really were. ‘She’s Israeli herself, so you two might put your heads together about the Mossad connection.’

  ‘Can you hook me up with them?’

  ‘Leave it with me. Get yourself over there; you’ll fly into Gaborone and I’ll have them pick you up at the airport.’

  ‘Great, thank you. I’ll sort out a hotel and let you know where I’ll be staying.’

  ‘No. Don’t do that. I have a better idea. We’re currently benefiting from the largesse of a wealthy friend of The Parachute Regiment. I’ll book you a room where Gabriel and Eli are staying. Save the Met a few quid.’

  ‘Thanks again. I can feel my Favours-Owed-to-Don-Webster file bulging at the seams.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He paused, just for a second. ‘Stella,
there is one thing you could do for me. Not really a quid pro quo, but just, hmm-mm-hmm, as a friend.’

  ‘What? Anything.’

  ‘Keep this to yourself, would you? My little band of jolly cut-throats aren’t precisely operating within our remit at the moment.’

  He heard Stella laugh.

  ‘Don’t tell me the off-books brigade have gone off their own books?’

  Don smiled.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘My lips are sealed. My own career hasn’t always been a tribute to protocol.’

  ‘So I gather. Come and see me when this trip of yours is over.’

  ‘I promised my boss I wouldn’t let you lure me away from her, Don. Plus there’s a queue,’ she said.

  He could hear the good humour in her voice. Smiled to himself.

  ‘Who said anything about luring? I was thinking we could have a spot of lunch and I could debrief you. Just to satisfy my own curiosity.’

  ‘And no hiring-talk.’

  ‘No hiring-talk. I promise,’ he agreed. Not unless the timing seems right.

  ‘One more thing, Don.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘I was thinking of adopting cover as a BBC journalist while I was out there,’ Stella said. ‘Not officially, just if I need to go poking around. Do you think that would work in Botswana? I’m guessing you have more experience in these things than me.’

  ‘Normally it would be my go-to legend. Dear old Auntie Beeb is still a globally respected institution, even if her standing at home gets the old dent kicked into it from time to time.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I happen to know they only maintain a bureau in Johannesburg these days, so you’d be a bit off the beaten track. Fewer problems as a freelancer. It’s what my two are using.’

  Tammerlane sipped his whisky. The clock in his private office chimed three times. Through the window he watched thin blades of cloud slice across the full moon.

  Ensconced in a sagging leather sofa on the other side of a walnut coffee table sat his right-hand woman, Ruth Evans. The new chancellor of the exchequer raised her chin. It was a gesture he’d seen her use a thousand times in the House of Commons.

  ‘What is it, Ruth?’

  ‘When are you going to talk to the king?’

  ‘When the moment is right. The old boy needs to know the jig’s up first. That way, when we introduce the Great Republic Act, he’ll go quietly.’

  ‘You should talk to him now, Joe. Before he can mobilise support. Alexandra’s death won’t serve as cover for ever, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Ruth, I do know, thank you,’ he snapped. ‘This is going to play out exactly as we planned.’ He began counting off points on his fingers. ‘The royal family’s under threat from external forces. For their own safety, we’re reconstituting the UK as a people’s republic. They get to live out their lives away from the glare of publicity and ongoing terrorist threats. We quieten the great unwashed with welfare handouts, free tuition fees, and whatever else you can bribe them with in your budget.’

  ‘Yeah, well there’s a problem with that.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘There’s no money.’

  ‘What do you mean, “no money”?’

  ‘I mean we have what we need to keep the lights on, but since we came to power, foreign investors have been pulling out of government bonds, the pound has lost a third of its value and, well, to cut a long story short, we’re running out of cash.’

  ‘Borrow it.’

  ‘The IMF would cripple our plans, Joe. They’re a capitalist cabal. They’d—’

  ‘I’m not talking about the IMF.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘The Chinese. They own half of London already. Talk to them.’

  He watched her as the idea percolated through her brain. Working out the angles, figuring out how to sell the idea to the Great British Public. He smiled, and waited.

  Finally, her eyes lit up.

  ‘I’ll call Beijing in the morning.’

  He smiled lazily and finished his whisky.

  ‘It’s 11.a.m. there, Ruth. Why don’t you call them now?’

  Once he was alone, Tammerlane picked up his phone and called up a speed-dial number. The face beside it, filling the little circle, was tanned beneath a hat, the brim folded up on one side. Blue eyes stared out challengingly. Lush vegetation beneath a startling cobalt sky in the background suggested somewhere hot.

  The name beneath the image said Julius.

  17

  BOTSWANA

  With infinite care, a large hairy-bodied spider was stalking a scarlet songbird. The spider placed one leg at a time on the smooth, barkless wood. Gabriel estimated its span at seven inches: a monster.

  Seemingly oblivious to its imminent demise, the bright-plumaged bird carried on chirruping, its sharp-pointed beak scissoring open and shut.

  Gabriel hated spiders. He always had. Nothing freaked him out more than having to allow one of the creatures to crawl along an arm or over his face while on a lurk.

  I’ll show you.

  Centring the crosshairs on the mottled grey thorax, he squeezed off a shot.

  Wood chips flew out from the branch. The bird took flight, emitting high-pitched cries.

  Eli and Taylor laughed out loud.

  ‘That was worse than the first shot!’ Eli said. ‘I think George is right. You need to get in some serious practice.’

  Gabriel turned to them, handing her the AK. He smiled.

  ‘Not at all. I hit the target dead-centre. Come and see.’

  They followed him down the improvised range until they reached the tree. Up close, Gabriel could see it was obviously a favourite for marksmanship practice. Its trunk and branches were scarred with hundreds of pockmarks.

  The spinning metal targets were equally well used. Their rotating plates were dented and scored with silver lines.

  ‘So? Where’d your shot go?’ Eli demanded.

  Gabriel wasn’t looking at the branch. He was scouring the ground around the tree. Finally he saw what he was looking for and toed it into plain view from its resting place in the dust.

  ‘There!’ he said triumphantly.

  Four legs lay in the dirt, attached to a fragment of hairy exoskeleton. Some way away he saw two more legs, separated this time from the spider’s body.

  Taylor bent and picked up one of the three-inch-long legs. He waggled it at Eli.

  ‘Huntsman,’ he said. ‘One of the little buggers bit my chef only last month. Poor bloke was in the sick bay for the rest of the day. Thought he was having a heart attack.’

  Eli nodded, pursing her lips.

  ‘Not bad shooting. Shame you had to kill a poor little spider just to show off, though.’

  ‘Poor—?’ Gabriel repeated. ‘It was about to attack a defenceless little bird. Anyway, you heard what George said. They’re monsters.’

  ‘Speaking of monsters,’ Taylor said, ‘what do you think about the new prime minister back home?’

  ‘I don’t know how he pulled it off. First winning the election and then this amazing stroke of luck that he just happened to be running down the street at the exact moment the shooter took out the princess. The more I think about it, the more fishy it gets.’

  Taylor laughed humourlessly.

  ‘Like a bucket of herrings left in the sun for a week. You buy the Israeli angle?’

  ‘On the face of it, you have to. I mean, he was up there. His prints were all over the rifle.’

  Gabriel hesitated.

  ‘But?’ Taylor prompted.

  ‘But, why? That’s what Eli and I can’t see.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Eli said. ‘There’s no earthly reason why Israel would want to assassinate a princess. That “pro-Palestinian” bullshit is just the media cooking up conspiracy theories. Oh, and by the way?’ she said, spreading her hands wide. ‘If they did, do you really think they’d do it that way? I mean, come on! This is the Mossad we’re talking about. They�
��d do it so it looked like a heart attack, or an accident. They wouldn’t send a sniper.’

  ‘I agree,’ Taylor said, simply. ‘I think Tammerlane’s a very dangerous man. Mark my words, his next move will be to sideline the monarchy and call a referendum on going for a republic. At best,’ he added, frowning. ‘It’s one of the reasons I’m planning to relocate the business out of the UK.’

  Still discussing UK politics, Taylor led them away from the shooting range to a hangar-like building.

  ‘Motor pool,’ he said, sliding a full-height wooden door to one side on greased rollers.

  Gabriel nodded his appreciation. Beside him, Eli whistled. Inside the dimly lit space they could see twenty or so military spec vehicles from Jeeps and Land Rovers to armoured Bradley Fighting Vehicles.

  ‘You’re journalists, right?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘That’s the legend,’ Gabriel answered.

  ‘In that case, I think these babies might be a little too, what shall we say, OTT? You could just about explain the weapons away, but not one of these. Come with me.’

  He strode between a couple of Land Rovers wearing green-and-brown camouflage.

  The trio emerged in front of a handful of white-painted Toyotas. A couple of Hilux pickups on extra-large tyres and jacked-up suspension, and three Land Cruisers, the pickups’ bigger, bolder SUV cousins.

  ‘The poachers mostly use these, plus just about every militia and terrorist group from Boko Haram to the Lord’s Resistance Army,’ Taylor said. ‘Toyotas are the Kalashnikovs of the automotive world. Bullet-proof engines, pretty much literally. Fixable with whatever you’ve got to hand. Take one of the Hiluxes. I’ll have one of my boys load it up with spare gas, water, the usual.’

  Two hours later, Gabriel was piloting the pickup through the Gaborone traffic, thankful for the visibility from the high-up driving position. He turned to Eli.

  ‘Now all we need is a guide to the kill site.’

  ‘We should head over to the Anti-Poaching Unit.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You think the kit’s safe in the back?’