I shot him in the soft part of his left arm, just south of his elbow. He winced and fell to his knees, hand clutching at the exposed, glistening meat of the exit wound.
“Strip or the next one is in your head,” I said slowly.
“You’re not Russian” he said, his blue eyes watering.
“No, Sherlock, I’m not. Give me your hat.”
“Why?” he said, gazing at the blood running freely down his arm. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re swapping places. You’re going to dress as me and try to get away, like bait. Come back towards me and I’ll kill you. Get spotted by your customers and they’ll try to kill you. So you’re better off heading in their direction. I’m a good shot and I’m closer.”
“The first guy you killed was an idiot. He couldn’t shoot, but the others are big game hunters, experts. I won’t stand a chance!” If his eyes had gotten any wider they’d have fallen out of their sockets.
“You’ve got a better chance than the villagers you shot yesterday, or those Bosnians back in Sarajevo, right?”
“Sarajevo? That was before my time…”
“Tough shit, now get your clothes off.” I pushed my pistol into his head and treated him to one of my deranged smiles. I have about fifty to choose from and they all seem to have the desired effect.
We swapped clothes. I pulled my pistol belt tight around the waist of the shorts and rolled up the bloody sleeve of the camouflage shirt. Finally, I put the red baseball cap on my head. “Off you go,” I said, picking up my rifle.
The man looked down at the filthy jumpsuit he was wearing. He gripped the bullet wound in his arm and started off in a low run along the trench, then broke cover, waving his arms in the air and shouting. I peered through the scope of the SVU-A, my finger taking up the trigger pressure.
CRACK!
The faintest heat shimmer, and a wisp of smoke, rose from my adversary’s rifle on a ridge some five hundred metres away. I wasn’t watching the guy I’d shot in the arm, who I knew was already dead from the hunter’s bullet. The hunter was outside the effective range of the SVU-A but I took the shot, aiming off for windage and slightly high. I imagined where the largest part of the hunter would be, in relation to the smudge of smoke I’d seen from his rifle.
I waited. After half an hour I crept along the trench to the tree line, entering the woods where I’d started the engagement. I limped towards the hunter’s position. Apart from a whistling breeze and the chirrup of crickets it was eerily quiet. The ridge ran for about ten metres at an angle to the wood, edged with dirty grey-green and yellow foliage. I flipped the fire selector on my rifle to automatic and patrolled into the copse slowly, painting arcs as I went.
The boot was brown and waxy. It was sticking out of the bushes, attached to a camouflaged leg. Groaning and swearing, I hauled the body out of cover, a big bearded man who must have weighed eighteen stone. He was wearing a ghillie suit, jungle hat and a green net over his face. My bullet had hit him in the shoulder, underneath the clavicle, and exited his body below his shoulder blade at the back. He’d bled out, trapped in his fire position by his bulk. Beneath him was a rifle, a custom ’98 Mauser.
“You missed the other guy,” said a voice behind me.
I spun around, rifle shouldered. It was Bernie Schmidt, wearing jeans and a checked shirt. A Kalashnikov was slung over his shoulder, a cigarette smouldering in the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t ever creep up on me,” I hissed. My head was pounding from the heat and the stalking. The bleeding had stopped on my leg, a swarm of flies buzzing around the scab-encrusted wounds.
“Come on, there’s a first aid kit in their truck,” said Schmidt, offering me his hand.
I nodded and went with him. “Where’s the other hunter?” I said.
“In the truck,” he smiled. “I was just behind him when you shot his friend. He radioed to ask what was happening.”
We walked the half mile to a rusty pickup, Bernie offering me some water and a Russian menthol cigarette, which was a worse experience than the dog bites. In the back of the wagon was a sorry-looking man, hands and ankles bound with duct-tape.
“What’s your name?” I said to the prisoner in English.
The hunter was in his early fifties, as lean as his dead friend was big. His grey hair was cropped close to his skull. His flinty eyes narrowed. “Martin Weiss,” he said carefully.
“How much did you pay for this trip?” I said, resting my back against the truck.
“More than I anticipated, I suspect,” said the German. “Is that a SVU-A?” he said, looking at my rifle.
“Yeah,” I said.
“That was a good shot at five hundred metres, the one that got Wili. You shouldn’t be able to do that.”
I shrugged. “Wanna know how this ends?” I walked to the tailgate with his rifle, a Steyr.
“I would be lying if I said no,” said the German.
I cut the hunter loose. “You get your hunt, Martin. Same rules I had. Except you get to keep your rifle. Here, have some water.”
Weiss rubbed his wrists then gulped down the water. He closed his eyes for a moment, then smiled, “how unexpectedly generous. May I ask you your name?”
“Cal Winter,” I said quietly, mouth dry. I passed him his rifle and told him to shift his arse.
He jogged back up the hill.
“That was very noble of you,” said Schmidt, shaking his head.
“Not really. I unloaded his rifle,” I replied, shouldering my SVU-A. I took a bead on Weiss’ back.
I’m a low-life wet-worker. I hate the life I’m in, the never-ending cycle of kill-or-be-killed. Still, I try to find some merit in my trade, and any scrap will do. This man had chosen to kill people for pleasure. Even I’d never done that.
Schmidt was laughing as I took the shot.
CHAPTER ONE
Johannesburg - The Zambutan Foreign Minister, Joseph Njenga, has alleged that a British Private Security Company has supported an attempted coup. Lt. Col. Mel Murray, 52, was arrested last week in Marsajir, capital of Zambute. Murray, former Commanding Officer of 22 SAS Regiment, is chief executive of Focus Projects. The company, based in Mayfair, specialises in providing protective security services to overseas energy, construction and mining industries. Doctor Kwame Nwebe, President of the African Union, said ‘despite the current conflict, UN-monitored elections in Zambute must go ahead. We urge President Aziz to honour promises made to The AU and the UN.’ President Omar Aziz, a reclusive and paranoid figure, has signed controversial trade agreements with China, but the regime is threatened by nationalist rebel groups and Islamist guerrillas. Zambute’s annexation of the disputed border zone with Somalia has intensified the conflict, displacing Al-Shabaab terrorists and their latest off-shoot, The Shadow of Swords militia. The crisis has also thrown the new Somali government into fresh turmoil, foreign Islamist fighters travelling from Yemen, Sudan, Pakistan and Syria to join the fighting.
The regime has been persuaded to hold UN-monitored elections, on pain of suspension of Western aid payments. Zambutan authorities have yet to release any specific allegations against Murray, who was arrested with political activists linked to Gen. Kanoro Abasi of the Free Zambutan Army (FZA). Tanya Rigby, Executive Director of Focus Projects, said ‘Mel Murray was on a feasibility trip for a Russian client in Northern Kenya, conducting routine logistics and security survey. Mel was not involved in any activity detrimental to the Zambutan government and we urge the authorities to release him immediately...’
La Rovellada, Catalonia, Spain
The Firm’s ‘decompression facility’ was a crumbling stone Finca overlooking the Mediterranean. An ask-no-questions local doctor visited to check my dog-bites. To begin with, they’d leaked stinking pus. Now they just leaked puss. The doctor said I’d be fully recovered in two or three weeks.
Whereupon we’d just be given another shitty, high-risk job... rinse and repeat.
I mooched around, itching for a fix a
fter the stuff I’d taken in Istanbul. Choosing the lesser of two evils is the story of my life, so I settled for cognac and tranquilizers. Sitting on a lichen-covered wall, I took another swig. I picked at scabbed-over bites, making them ooze. Everyone needs a hobby. Now and then I wondered where I could score some brown. An addict is always an addict, even when you’re more or less clean.
“It would be easier to cut it off,” said Oz, looking at my leg.
Neither of us wanted to be here. The Firm blackmails us all. I’m looking at a life sentence for murder after stalking and killing my former CO. I don’t regret it as much as I should, because the glory-hunting bastard deserved it. We get paid, but the money is held back until we’re time-served. I had fourteen months to do. Then I’d supposedly be free with just over three million quid in my back pocket. I wanted out, the sooner the better. Most of us died on ops before we got the pay-out anyway.
“Please give us somewhere warm for the next job,” said Oz, basking in the afternoon heat.
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“Have you spoken to Sam recently?”
Sam Clarke was the nearest thing I had to family, and even she was wary of me. Oz thinks we’re an item, or it’s a severe case of unrequited love. The truth was Sam and her kids were my window on normality. I spent three months in a mental hospital after I was invited to leave the army, via military prison. Her visits stopped me making a noose from my bed sheets, or slashing my wrists with a piece of glass. Then she let me kip on her sofa, until I got a job.
Got back on the straight and narrow, right? What a joke. I became a security contractor, straight back to the sand-pit. Then the murder, and The Firm…
Sam’s late husband, Clarkie, was my platoon sergeant in Iraq. We’d done our infantry training together, before I became an officer. He died near Amara when a Yank airstrike went wrong. It wasn’t the pilot’s fault, it was mine - I called it in.
“She thinks I’m still doing energy security work,” I said uneasily, tapping the rubberized satellite phone on the balcony. “When will this bloody well ring?”
It rang.
“You can’t teach that,” Oz grinned.
Harry’s voice was scratchy over the encrypted line. “When are you two good to go?”
“According to the Doctor, I’ll be match fit in a couple of weeks.”
“I said when are you good to go, not what some local quack’s diagnosis is,” he snapped. Something in his voice sparked me up. He sounded in a hurry, which was unusual. “I need you in London on Thursday. I’ve also assigned Syndicate Three, they’ll arrive after you.”
I sat up in my chair, “what’s the deal?”
“What if I said you’re going to break into an African prison?”
“I’d put my head in my hands and cry,” I replied, taking another gulp of cognac.
“Prison breaks are the most fun you can have with your clothes on,” he said, lightening up a bit. “It gets even better: you’ve got a new handler. You’ll know him as Monty. And you’ll be picking up a new team member, to replace Andy.”
When Andy died on Salisbury Plain, trying to disarm an IED, he saved my life. “You can’t replace Andy,” I said.
“Sure, I understand. Anyhow, the new fella is American,” Harry continued. “A hard bastard, but this is only his second operation for us.”
I’d never met Harry. He was a just voice on the phone, my remote control gaoler. But I still felt a sort of closeness to him, which I put down as some especially twisted variant of Stockholm syndrome. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“Retirement: I’m too old for this shit.”
“Is that it?”
“More or less, anyhow I hope you make it to the end of your contract.”
“Why” I snorted, “do you know something I don’t?”
“I know lots of things you don’t. Just be careful with Monty and keep your head down. Stuff’s happening on The Firm, it’s going through one of its reinventions.”
“What does that mean?” I said quietly. Harry had never elaborated about The Firm before.
“It means there are new butchers operating the meat-grinder, and you poor bastards are the cheap cuts,” he sniffed. “Just do your job, ask no questions and you’ll be OK.”
“Harry, give me a break. What’s going on?”
I heard him exhale smoke, his gravelly voice lowering to a growl. “I know how you feel about The Firm. Fuck it: I used to feel the same way too, so I’ll go out on a limb. In London there’s a tailor’s shop off Old Street, run by a man called Isaac Samuels. Tell him The Saint sent you. He can help you…”
“What’s this about, Harry? Why help me?” I tried to keep the note of pathetic gratitude out of my voice.
“Two reasons,” he said. “First, once upon a time I was sat where you are, with The Firm holding a gun to my head. Second, if things ever go tits-up, I’m going to need you on my side. Are we agreed?”
“Yes,” I said. “We’re agreed.”
“Roger that,” he replied. “Good luck with Africa.”
“You know if I can take The Firm down one day, I will,” I promised.
“You won’t be the first to say that,” he sighed. “Chances are you won’t be the last either.” He hung up.
“What was that about?” sniffed Oz.
“Harry’s retiring, we’ve got a job in Africa and we brief in London on Thursday. And we’ve got a new handler.” I decided not to tell Oz about Harry’s strange offer for now.
“Is there any good news?”
“You wanted to go somewhere hot?” I shrugged…
Oz shot me a look as he left the room. He doesn’t see The Firm as a prison sentence like I do. He must have done something beyond the pale to end up on it.
My head booze-heavy, I took a shower and went to bed. I dozed for an hour, under wrinkled, sweat-stained sheets. Sam was in my dreams, skin pale and cool as I undressed her. She straddled me, freckled breasts squashed against my face. Then the roof disappeared from her house, armed men peering in, laughing as they readied weapons. Planes circled above, dropping bombs on a desert. They dragged Sam away and attacked me, bullets tearing into my chest, freeing me from the crushing black fist of guilt…
I was woken, gasping, by the trill of my sat phone. Looking around, there was no sign of Oz. My body was slick, sheets stained with blood where my bandages had slipped.
“I’m Monty,” said a man with a nasal Northern accent.
“It’s Winter.”
“I know. I’ve heard about you,” he sniffed, like I was some sort of venereal disease doing the rounds. “You’ll be met at Heathrow on Thursday by a man called Jackson. Questions?”
“None,” I said, remembering Harry’s warning.
“Good. We might get on at this rate.” The phone clicked off.
Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted, so my next call was to Marcus. He’s a serving Secret Intelligence Service officer. On my last UK job circumstance led to me doing him a big favour, off-policy. He owes me one in return, which is the way these things are meant to work.
“It’s Cal, how’s tricks?” I said.
“Synchronicity, Calum. I was going to call you later,” he purred. “I take it you’re relaxing in that Spanish bolt-hole you think we don’t know about?”
“We’re heading back to the UK on the hurry-up. Would that be for your lot by any chance?”
“It might be,” he said carefully. “We need to meet, before you fly back. Toulouse, I think. Lose Mister Osborne. I’m sure you’ll find an excuse.” He gave me the address of a budget hotel near the airport, on the Avenue du Général de Gaulle. “Meet me at ten, the day after tomorrow.”
“Has this anything to do with Africa?”
“Yes, it’s all about Africa,” he replied. “And if you help me, you might get back from the place in one piece.”
CHAPTER TWO
Toulouse was spitefully hot. At the hotel lobby I stood under the air-conditioning
unit and scanned the room. Marcus had brought hired muscle, a sinewy, olive-skinned dude sitting on a sofa reading a magazine. He saw me, raised an eyebrow and tapped a message into his smartphone.
My phone buzzed. The message said Room 308.
It was a conference suite, decorated in tones of grey and beige. The window looked out over the cargo terminal, UPS planes lined up like giant toys. Marcus, all twenty-odd stone of him, was buttoned into a heavy woollen suit, a stained club tie knotted around his chins. He looked at a pile of croissants, like a greyhound eyeing a rabbit.
“Not like you to have a bodyguard,” I said.
“Times have changed,” he shrugged. He shuffled over to a percolator and poured me a coffee.
I took a seat. “How can I help?”
“I need a favour,” said Marcus easily, like he was asking me to lend him a tenner. His accent suddenly sounded harsher, more Scottish. He’d shifted from friendly Highland GP to Glaswegian docker.
“This relationship seems one-sided,” I replied. “Once upon a time you told me to think of you like a kindly uncle.”
“Uncle Marcus will make sure there’s a quid pro quo.” He smiled, returning to friendly Highland GP mode. Then he mashed a croissant into his mouth.
I raised an eyebrow, “hopefully with the emphasis on Quid.”
“Quite,” Marcus replied, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “The senior management at SIS trust me to carry out reviews into internal… issues.”
Marcus was an inveterate rule-bender. I suppose poachers make the best gamekeepers.
“Generally speaking,” he continued, “SIS has a remarkably honest workforce. But we occasionally pick up a bad apple. It’s inevitable in our line of work. The responsibility is great but the pay is awful.”
“Like Philby?” I smiled.
“Ideological traitors are very twentieth century. No, generally speaking our bad apples want money. Either that or they have a Damascene conversion about the ethics of our trade and squeal to The Guardian.”
“Which one is worse?”
The Devil's Work Page 2