by Tony Park
Sonja went to the driver’s-side door of the Land Rover, but Matthew Allchurch, looking elderly and somewhat frail, stopped her. ‘Sonja, please, I know we must go quickly, but I just wanted to say that I will do anything I can to help you find your daughter. Your uncle rescued someone from that flight, but my son never came home. I need to know what happened to Gareth. Someone survived that flight, and if they’re still alive, somewhere, I need to find them as well.’
She was impatient, but Allchurch’s words, the soft longing in his voice, touched her. Sonja reached out and put a hand on his forearm. ‘I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, Matthew. We will find out what is going on with this bloody wrecked aircraft, and why people are willing to kill to get to it, and to cover their trails. You know my priority is my daughter, but we will discover the truth, and I hope that truth can bring you some peace.’
He blinked, and she saw his eyes begin to glisten. If she were a different person she might, she thought, put her arms around him and draw him to her. Allchurch needed to move on, but so did she. Sonja was not given to public outpourings of emotion and, more than that, she knew that if she gave this kind, sad, wounded man a hug, she might just break down in tears again herself. Now was not the time for that.
Chapter 29
Irina put the Dragunov sniper’s rifle down, satisfied it was now perfectly zeroed for long-range killing, and took an AK-47 from the groundsheet laid out on the dry yellow grass at her feet. She cocked the rifle and brought it to her shoulder.
‘Ready,’ she called.
Behind her, Mikhail held a remote control device designed to activate electronically a series of pop-up targets that he had placed randomly in the open space in front of the firing point that morning, while Irina had been having her breakfast. She was adamant that she did not want prior warning of where the targets would be.
Irina walked forward, the rifle still up. In her peripheral vision she picked up movement, twenty metres forward and to the right. Irina swung the barrel of the rifle and fired two shots, a double tap, and the green target cut in the shape of a man went down.
She advanced, all senses alive. She was channelling her anger at the incompetence of her men into this shoot. Benjie was out of action in hospital, recovering from the sixty-five stitches in his mauled forearms, and the local contractors Miro had hired had failed her dismally.
Horsman had called her that morning from the site of the crashed Dakota. At least they had found the long-lost aircraft. All of the rhino horn was offloaded and awaiting transport. Irina had to explain that the helicopter that would have been used to come and collect the valuable cargo had been downed, and that the person responsible for destroying it, Sonja Kurtz, was out looking for them as she spoke. She warned Horsman to be vigilant and to sit tight until she arrived in another helicopter. He should keep Kurtz’s daughter and the others alive, as hostages, in case Kurtz got to them first.
Irina was about to prepare herself for the next attack when the sound of far-off engines made both her and Mikhail turn. She checked her watch. ‘Good, they’re on time.’
The twin engine Bell 412 helicopter swept in low over the tree line, heading straight for them. She had told Miro she would be on the rifle range that morning and that he should bring the men to her for some weapons practice. She kept her own AK-47 in her hand as the helicopter, a modern civilian variant of the Huey helicopter that had carried American soldiers into battle during the Vietnam War, rocked back on its tail, the pilot flaring the nose for landing. Irina turned her back to the hail of dust and debris that washed over her and Mikhail, and took shelter in the lee of the two Land Rover game viewers which she and Mikhail had driven from the lodge.
The helicopter settled, and as the pilot let the engines cool, the rotors still turning, Miro climbed down from the co-pilot’s seat. The sliding rear door opened and six men, all solidly built, followed him out, heads bent beneath the blades.
‘Irina Petrovna,’ Miro said, smiling to hide his nerves. ‘All is in order.’
She said nothing. She appraised the men. A couple of them, whom she recognised, nodded to her in greeting and she returned the gesture, almost imperceptibly. They were crew from the fishing trawler cruising off the coast in the cold waters of the Atlantic. Like her father, Irina recruited from the ranks of the services and these men had all served in the Russian Navy. She had asked Miro to find men among the crew who had trained to fight on land: naval commandos. These looked like hard men, and the two she had recognised immediately, she knew, had seen active service in Chechnya. The eldest, Sergei with his bushy grey moustache and shaven head, had been in Afghanistan. He bowed to her.
The pilot shut down the engine and he, too, got out of the machine and walked to her. He held out his hand. ‘Quentin Swanevelder.’
Irina shook his hand. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice. Miro has briefed you on our mission?’
‘He’s briefed me that as well as illegally flying out to your ship and picking up these okes we’re flying into the desert to pick up some cargo and then back out to the trawler, under the radar, in every sense of the word. There may also be people with guns trying to stop us.’
‘You have no problem with this?’ she asked.
‘The pilot of the other helicopter you chartered was my boet, like a brother to me. We served in the same squadron during the bush war, and later in Angola with a mercenary outfit. If those same people who killed him try and stop you and your men, I’ll help you get them.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘You passed over the lodge on your way in?’
‘Yes, I saw it. Impressive place.’
Irina pointed along the gravel road behind them. ‘Take the nearest Land Rover to the lodge. Mary there has prepared food. You can freshen up.’
‘I’d prefer to stay with my helicopter.’
Irina stared him down. ‘I’d prefer you not to be here.’
Swanevelder looked as though he might reply, but thought better of it and, instead, nodded and went to the nearest vehicle. The key was in the ignition and he drove off.
Irina walked along the rank of men. Most of them bore tattoos, some done in prison. All of the men here had willingly participated in Irina’s criminal activities. Her trawlers regularly smuggled contraband – drugs, arms, women – so moving several crates of rhino horn would not concern them. This could, however, end in a firefight, and some of them might not have fired a weapon recently.
She stopped in front of Miro. ‘“All is in order”?’ she said to him in Russian, mimicking him. ‘You’re told to get rid of two men, a safari guide and an old lawyer, and they kill your hit men.’
‘I can explain –’
‘Shut up. You then send a helicopter with a man on board with a machine gun and because a woman joins these two men they are able to kill the pilot and the gunner and destroy an aircraft I paid good money for. Do you think no one will notice the downing of a helicopter and the deaths of four people in Namibia, Miro?’
‘Irina Petrovna, I am sorry. I should have seen to matters myself.’
She raised the AK-47, gripping it with both hands, and levelled it at Miro. ‘That is the first thing you’ve got right in a long time. Get down on your knees.’
He put his hands out to her. ‘Please.’
Irina raised the rifle to her shoulder. ‘On your knees!’
He complied, looking up at her, his mouth slack.
‘All of you, listen to me,’ she said to the sailors. ‘The stakes in this operation are too high for failure. This is the most valuable single movement of cargo any of you will have taken part in. There are other people looking for this stuff and they are armed. If I tell any of you to do something, I expect my orders to be obeyed. The rewards will be good, the punishment for failure not so good. Miro?’
He looked up at her. ‘Yes, Irina Petrovna.’
‘Stand
up.’ She lowered her rifle. He looked, she thought, pathetically grateful for his life.
‘I will not disappoint you again.’
‘I know you won’t, Miro.’ She smiled for him. ‘Go to the Land Rover and get the rifles for the men.’
‘Yes, Irina Petrovna.’
As Miro began to walk the short distance to the Land Rover, his back to them, Irina raised the AK-47 to her shoulder again, flicked the safety, and pulled the trigger twice. Miro was pitched forward, one bullet in his back, the other in his skull.
‘Mikhail, hand out the rifles,’ Irina said. Her underling gave a half-smile. While he was issuing weapons and ammunition to each man Irina took the satellite phone out of the console between the Land Rover’s two front seats. She dialled.
‘Yes,’ said Andre Horsman on the other end of the line.
‘The helicopter and the men are here now. We will be with you within two hours,’ Irina said.
‘Good. You have the money?’
‘Of course.’ What she had was eight men armed to the teeth and ready to kill. What she did not need was a greedy South African who, once this operation was done, would be of no use to her. Never again would she get hold of a shipment of rhino horn this size. Tran had wanted to corner the market, to build up a stockpile and name his own price. She would succeed where he had failed.
‘Can you get here sooner?’ Andre asked.
Horsman was scared, she could hear it in his voice. If Brand and Kurtz beat them to the crashed Dakota there was a very good chance they would be able to rescue Kurtz’s daughter and the other archaeologists. Yes, Irina thought, I could be there sooner, but I’m not going to be. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said instead.
‘I know I’ll be fine,’ he said, the anger bubbling up, ‘but we want to get out of here before the others arrive.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘You still want me to keep the girl alive?’ Horsman asked.
‘Yes. Even if Kurtz doesn’t get to you first she won’t stop looking for her child. I need leverage over her and I need to get the cargo to the ship. The girl is insurance.’
‘All right. And the others?’
‘Kill them.’
*
Andre walked back into sight. Emma had watched him take the satellite phone with him when he had trekked over the nearest dune. They had worked through the night, digging in shifts, moving sand and heaving and sweating to try to move the heavy cargo bundles out of the aircraft.
Andre and Sebastian had allowed them a break to eat some more canned food for breakfast. Their guards had been keeping a close eye on them so communication between Alex and Emma had been limited to quick, whispered messages. They were all tired and Andre and Sebastian had both stayed up all night following their previous attempt to take Andre’s gun. Emma and Alex had decided to hold off making their move until, inevitably, one of their captors decided to take a rest break.
‘Alex, Natangwe, break’s over, get back to work,’ Andre said. Emma, the two young men and Professor Sutton had been sitting with their backs to the fuselage of the Dakota, hiding in what shade they could find. ‘Sebastian, have a rest.’
Sebastian had been sitting on a folding camping chair under the roll-out awning on the side of the Land Cruiser, covering them with the AK-47. Sebastian nodded, handed the rifle to Andre and crawled into the back seat of the Cruiser and lay down, his boots sticking out.
It was already oppressively hot. The wind had died and Emma swatted away a fly. Professor Sutton was sweating profusely. He mopped his forehead with a sodden handkerchief.
‘Come on, get up,’ said Andre, motioning with the barrel of the AK.
Alex got to his feet and dusted down the back of his pants. ‘What are we digging for?’
‘I need holes deep enough and big enough to fit half of the crates. I just made a call; I was expecting some more transport to come and collect the stuff, but they’re not going to make it any time soon, so we’re going to load what we can into our two vehicles and come back later for the rest.’
‘Where does that leave us?’ Emma asked. Alex went to the back of the Land Cruiser under Andre’s watchful gaze and pulled out two shovels. He tossed one to Natangwe, who was already on his feet and caught the tool with one hand.
‘You might have to ride on the roof.’ Andre laughed, but no one else did. ‘Start digging.’
Alex looked to Emma as he stabbed the ground with the blade of the shovel. She caught his eye. Emma knew what he was thinking; Alex and Natangwe were digging their own graves, and those of Emma and Sutton. The time for her to act had come.
Emma felt the hard bulk of the pistol pressing into the small of her back. There was no better time than now. Something was in the offing, which was why Andre had given the young men the order to dig. Also, for the first time Sebastian was lying down, off guard, in the back of the truck. He had swapped Andre the rifle for the pistol, and with luck would soon be asleep.
Emma reached behind her back.
‘What are you doing, Emma?’ Sutton whispered beside her.
‘Stay calm, Professor, don’t move. Don’t draw attention to me.’ She watched Andre and then flitted her eyes to Alex. He saw her and must have sensed what she was up to, because he threw his shovel down on the sand, in the shallow pit he had dug so far.
‘Fuck you, Andre,’ Alex said in a voice laden with threat, but not loud enough to rouse Sebastian from inside the truck.
Andre stood under the awning, his head touching the fabric. He swung the rifle so that it was pointed at Alex.
Emma used the distraction to pull the pistol from the small of her back. She glanced back at Sutton. The professor’s eyes and mouth were wide open. Emma brought the pistol up, wrapping her left hand around her right as she walked towards Andre, who was still looking at Alex.
Emma counted off the metres as she closed the gap and slid her right index finger through the trigger guard. The pistol was already racked, cocked for just this eventuality, a round already in the chamber. She had carefully eased the hammer back into place after she had quickly cleaned and reloaded the pistol under the truck. Her mother had taught her how to carry with ‘one up the spout’, but also advised her never to do so unless she found herself in hostile territory in a war zone.
Just as Sonja had shown her, Emma readied the pistol by using her right thumb to pull back the hammer. She raised the pistol and pointed it at Andre, lining up the centre of his torso.
‘Not the head, not the heart, not an arm or a leg,’ her mother had taught her on the shooting range. ‘You don’t shoot to be clever or to wound, you aim for the centre mass of the target to put the target down. Two shots, always – the double tap.’
Emma had joked with her mother, asking her if she had any advice for dealing with men. Her mother had replied by putting nine rounds into the heart of a paper target, plus one into the head and another into where the balls would have been. ‘I’ve been doing this all my life, with targets and men. You aim for centre mass.’
Andre was not stupid. He glanced around to check on his other captives and he saw Emma coming towards him. She felt a stab of pure fear and suddenly panicked, thinking she would not have the courage to pull the trigger.
Emma stopped and steadied her aim. In slow motion she watched Andre swing the rifle towards her. Off to the left she saw Alex bend and pick up the shovel and run towards the older man. Natangwe was on his heels, holding up his own tool like a club. Sebastian was sitting up in the back seat of the truck.
Andre’s mouth was open as if he was screaming something, but Emma heard nothing except the pounding of her own heart in her ears. She closed her right hand as though she was making a fist. The pistol bucked in her hand, harder than she remembered, and the noise of the shot seemed to bring her back to the present as it restored her hearing.
Andre pitched backwards l
ike he’d been punched in the chest, his rifle flying up at a crazy angle. His finger must have been wrapped around the trigger because a burst of rounds stitched holes in the canvas awning above his head.
Emma pulled the trigger again, but this time there was no jolt in her hand, no noise. She pulled it once, twice more, but there was nothing but a dull click.
She heard her mother, in her mind, a memory from their time on the shooting range. ‘Weapon fires, weapon stops!’
Emma looked at the pistol, panicking, then she heard Sonja again in her head. ‘Weapon fires, weapon stops!’
Her mother yelling in her ear, over and over again on the range, trying and succeeding in rattling her. Sonja had taught her the drill for what to do if she had a jam or a misfire. The bullets in this pistol were more than thirty years old. Something had gone wrong.
‘Cock, lock, look,’ Sonja said.
‘Cock, lock, look,’ Emma mumbled to herself. She pulled back the slide on the top of the pistol, thumbed up the locking device and tilted the pistol over. Emma saw the bullet stuck in the chamber. She shook it, as she’d practised with her mother, and the dud round fell out. That left her only one more. She could see it, sitting there, seemingly so tiny and inoffensive, a little piece of brass, copper and lead.
In front of her, Andre was on the ground, and, worryingly, Alex was falling, pitching forward as though he’d been shot, though Emma couldn’t recall hearing another bullet fired. Professor Sutton, she saw in her peripheral vision, had dived to the ground to save his own skin. Natangwe had been behind Alex but now he was ahead of the white man, one palm outstretched and the other hand holding his shovel, which he now grabbed again with two hands. Emma realised Natangwe had pushed Alex out of the way for some reason.
As Emma ran towards the men she released the lock with her thumb and the slide slammed forward again, chambering her last round. She brought the pistol up.
Alex crawled to Andre, who, even though he was wounded with blood spitting from his mouth was trying to bring his rifle to bear. Alex punched Andre in the face and wrenched the AK-47 from his hand.