Scooping up all my kit, I returned to the hangar alone. I’d moved my bunk into a quiet area, screened off and positioned behind a rusting tractor. As team leader I reserved the right to privacy, not least if I had to send a message to Marcus. A cigar and a drink helped me relax while I adjusted my body armour, getting it just right. Then I stripped down to shorts and a tee shirt, ready to sleep. My bunk was comfortable enough. I lay down and blew a smoke ring, then reached for the fresh bottle in my rucksack.
I heard a noise, the faint creak of metal and footfall on concrete.
Rolling off the bunk, I drew the Walther from its holster and readied it, tracking movement in the tritium rear-sights. There was definitely someone in the shadows, darkness scudding across the bare flesh of an arm.
“Who is it?” I barked. “I’m armed.”
“I’m sure you are, Captain Winter,” said an amused female voice.
Someone stepped out of the shadows.
It was Amelia Duclair.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You’re good at sneaking about,” I said, lowering my Walther.
“You were concentrating on all those… straps and zips,” she replied, nodding at my armour. Her lips were glossy in the half-light
“Quite.”
“Are those Russian tattoos?” she asked, nodding at the wolf and pentagram on my bicep. “They’re very… unusual.”
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s a long story.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and plugged the cigar back in my mouth.
“I wasn’t going to ask,” Duclair smiled, pushing a bang of thick black hair behind her ear. I noticed she was wearing a wisp of makeup that had been absent earlier. I’ve been fooled by enough women to know when the charm’s being switched on, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like it.
Amelia Duclair was the last of the suspects Marcus had identified. Her file was sketchy, noting only that she’d completed a short service commission in the Royal Engineers. She’d proven adept at field survey, leading to work in the energy industry before joining SIS. Mentioned in dispatches in Afghanistan, she came across as a seasoned operator. I noted that her brother, a lieutenant in the artillery, had been killed in an IED attack in Helmand.
She’d been on leave during one of the compromised ops, reducing her status as a suspect. “I wanted to talk through the infil plan for my team once you’ve secured the perimeter,” she said. I tried to establish eye contact, which she avoided. I’m sure if she put her mind to it, she’d make an excellent liar. She wanted me to know she was making up an excuse.
“Dancer’s leading on that,” I replied, playing her game.
“Sure,” she replied. “Dancer’s a good guy.”
“Dancer’s all-round awesomeness isn’t the reason you’re here.”
She smiled and sat on the bunk next to me. “Tom told me you were a sound person. He said I could trust you.”
I felt her thigh touch my leg. “Did he?”
“Yes, he said that you’d been in this sort of situation before.”
“I’ve never broken into an African prison, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, that’s not what he meant,” said Duclair, rolling her eyes. “But you’re neutral. I mean, you’re not linked to SIS or Focus Projects.”
There is a first time for everything. Being described as an honest broker was one of them.
The intelligence officer leaned forward and glanced at the door. “Our last two operations in Zambute went badly wrong.” Her voice lowered to an urgent whisper.
“What happened?” Of course, I knew already, but wanted to hear Duclair’s version.
Duclair glanced at the door. “The first operation involved a meeting with one of President Aziz’s ministers. He wanted to come across and give intelligence on Zambutan money-laundering and trade negotiations with the Chinese. He never made the appointment we’d set up, he’d been arrested for corruption by the secret police and hung.”
“How did you know it was a compromise?”
“I didn’t, until the second op. We’d managed to get a virus into a computer in the finance ministry, one Hugo had written. It was going to flag every corrupt Zambutan account in the Swiss banking system.” She brushed away a flying bug and frowned.
“Don’t tell me, they executed the computer for treason.” I opened a bottle of Chivas Regal and produced two plastic beakers from my rucksack, “fancy a drink?”
“God, yes,” she said, shaking her head at my awful gag. “Whisky seems to keep these bastard mosquitos away. No, they spared the computer. Instead, Aziz’s circle transferred their loot back to Zambute three hours before we went live. It was a blatant leak. It could have come from outside the CORACLE team, but it’s unlikely.” She chugged down her drink and motioned for me to pour another.
I stood up and started stowing my kit. “Rooting out spies isn’t my speciality. If you think you’ve got OPSEC problems then why are we even flying in tomorrow?”
“Balance of risk,” she shrugged, sipping the whisky. “If Mel ends up in Marsajir it’s nothing short of a disaster for HMG.” She stood up and put her hand gently on my shoulder, “we’re taking a risk if we go, but a bigger one if we don’t.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“You can help me find out who leaked those details.”
“How am I meant to do that? We fly in less than twenty-four hours.”
Amelia reached into the pocket of her cargo pants. “Hugo ran some diagnostics on the encrypted network we run here. Alan manages it, but Hugo deputizes. He was able to put a covert packet-sniffer into the system.”
“A packet-what?” I laughed.
“It’s a program that monitors ingoing and outgoing data packets from a network. It allows us to monitor all email, satellite phone and internet traffic on every device connected to CORACLE, either going in or coming out.”
“How do you know Hugo isn’t the leak?”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Hugo hates the Chinese regime. His mother’s family were persecuted for opposition activities.”
“Shouldn’t you be a suspect too?” I took a slug of the golden whisky, felt the burn and sighed happily. Then I took another.
“It’s a fair question,” she replied grudgingly, handing me a tightly folded piece of paper. “The minister who was executed was my agent. It took me a year to recruit him. We had a good rapport going, but I sweated fucking blood getting him to turn. I go on leave and when I come back he’s swinging from a gibbet in Traitor’s Square. The idea I’d do that is bollocks.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You would say that, though, wouldn’t you?”
Amelia’s nostrils flared. “I wasn’t here when the op was actually compromised. The details of the meeting were caveated for OPSEC reasons. It couldn’t have been me.”
“So it’s either Alan or Juliet?”
“Yes, I think so,” she nodded. “On that piece of paper is the CORACLE team’s telecommunications data for the dates around both operations. Interestingly, they were wiped because of a ‘critical systems failure’ Brodie reported. Hugo scraped them back.”
“And what am I meant to do with them?”
“Get them back to SIS, by any means you can. We’re locked down for the exfil and Brodie has full control of all our comms. The slimy bastard probably has kit we don’t know about. There’s no point me pointing the finger until I have proof. I’m sure you’ve got independent comms.”
I remembered Easter had asked for all of our phones and internet-capable devices. I’d complied with the rest of the men, but kept the satellite phone Marcus gave me.
“That data might hold the answer,” said Amelia urgently. “If it can be looked at independently, investigated, then we’ll see who was talking out of school.”
“If the camp is locked down comms-wise, how can I help?”
“I’m DIADEM-indoctrinated,” Duclair replied. I detected a hint of pride in her voice. “I don’t know much, but I do know within SIS you
r organisation is viewed as a bunch of wily and resourceful bastards.”
“Why, thanks,” I smiled. She was good at what she did: attractive, personable and an outstanding flirt. But I know when smoke’s being blown up my arse.
“You’re in charge, Cal. You’re my best chance of getting a message out of this place before we either get killed by bandits or die in Zambute.”
“So who do you think it is?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It doesn’t give me any pleasure saying it, but Alan Brodie doesn’t strike me as ruthless enough to crucify an agent, even for money. But Juliet’s a hard bitch, and penniless. We all know it, and it’s the oldest motive of all.”
I didn’t tell her about the list I’d found in Brodie’s trailer. It looked like he shared Duclair’s suspicions. “Why is Juliet broke?” I asked innocently.
“Her brother, poor bastard, has cerebral palsy. He’s about to lose his place in a private care home. There are big problems with his health insurance.” She shook her head sadly.
“I’ll see what I can do, OK?” I took the paper from her and put it in my pocket.
“I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us,” she whispered, leaning forwards. I could feel her breath, hot on my ear.
“Of course…”
She kissed me, slowly, on my unshaven cheek. I felt her tongue just shy of my ear. It’s not normally a part of my body I’d describe as an erogenous zone, but Duclair managed to change my mind. She smelt of perfume and body spray, which made a change from unwashed men and weapon oil. Her teeth brushed my ear-lobe, a buzz of pleasure travelling down my spine.
“Thanks, Cal,” she said. She smiled, drained her cup and left the hangar, a swing to her hips.
I looked at the slip of paper. It was a densely printed table of IP addresses and meta-data sorted by dates and times. It might as well have been written in Sanskrit for all the sense I could make of it. Booting up the satellite phone hidden in the bottom of my day-sack, I walked out to the moon-washed vehicle park. I found a battered cargo truck rusting in a corner and climbed in the back.
I didn’t know if this was progress or not. The truth was I liked Easter. And selling out some corrupt Zambutan government minister to earn enough to look after your critically ill brother?
I’d have done exactly the same thing.
I made the call. Marcus answered immediately. “Do you have an update?”
“We were attacked by bandits,” I said.
“I know,” Marcus replied. “Duclair made a report.”
“There’s something she doesn’t know,” I replied. I told Marcus about the slip of paper with Mandarin writing I’d found on the dead Vulture.
“If it was the Chinese, that’s a massive tradecraft balls-up,” said Marcus.
“There’s also suspicion within the team. Duclair shares your concerns.” I told Marcus about the conversation I’d had with Duclair, and the strange note I’d found in Brodie’s trailer.
“So Juliet Easter’s team have lost confidence in her, and she’s having an affair with the hired help?” Marcus said gently, “what do you think?”
“Duclair’s smooth, very smooth. And Easter is very capable. It could be the GCHQ guy, Brodie. I’m going to reserve judgement.”
“That’s very wise. Can you read out the material on Duclair’s note? I’ll record the conversation and transcribe it later.”
“Why did she ask me?” I said suspiciously.
“She’s not aware of my investigation, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Duclair is smart. If she’s marooned in an area where a potential hostile has access to all comms traffic and records, it makes sense for her to approach a third party. It’s what she’s trained to do, take calculated risks.”
“Even with someone like me?”
“It’s an indicator of her desperation, Calum,” the old spook replied.
I read out the data. It took almost five minutes. Marcus told me to wait for a message, and to check the phone on the hour. I grunted in acknowledgement and hung up. The monster in my brain, the crushing depression, was being held back by booze for now, but what I really wanted to do was sleep.
I crossed the shadow-dappled compound and returned to the hangar. I was pleased to see Oz talking with Alex. The Yank took a while to unwind, but seemed a decent guy. After Andy died I was worried that it would take some time for Oz to accept a new team member, but he seemed to like the croaky American. Even Bannerman seemed to warm to him when Alex showed off some moves with the Scotsman’s claymore.
Despite my thirst, I shared the remainder of the whiskey with the men. It was gone in twenty minutes, and Alex produced some more. After some more booze, a brew and some banter we turned in for the night.
The next day began with heavy rain, the sandy earth transformed into rich ochre mud. The men cursed as they prepped weapons in the hangar, brewing up tea and coffee. The South African pilots came and cooked porridge and scrambled some eggs, which was the first time I’d ever had a cab driver make me breakfast. After they’d eaten, Bannerman announced that he would set up a range and zero the weapons.
“If it ain’t raining, it ain’t training,” Ruben shrugged.
We all trudged outside. The rain was warm enough to shower in. All of us had ran enough ranges to take turns playing instructor and safety officer, and we sent a thousand rounds each into a series of targets. We trained, got plastered with mud and trained some more for the rest of the day. Then, after some more walk-throughs on the computers, it was dusk. Idris, the pilot, appeared in the doorway.
Juliet Easter was at his side, wearing a green flight suit. “Ready when you are,” she said.
“Hell, I’m ready,” said Alex, hefting the heavy Barratt onto his shoulder. He wore a ghillie suit over his fatigues, camouflaged with strips of fabric, scrim and hessian. He carried his scoped M-14, a pistol, the .50 AM rifle, a compact satellite radio and an antitank rocket. It would be difficult to be more dressed for war. “This is my disco gear, you like it?” he croaked.
I laughed and checked my G36. I would ride shotgun and cover Alex at the LZ. I followed Alex out of the hangar, towards the waiting helicopter.
Standing watching us was Alan Brodie. He waved as we passed. “Good luck!” he said cheerfully. Slightly pigeon-toed and awkward, he didn’t seem a likely candidate for prime bad guy. Then again, if you’ve seen The Usual Suspects, you’ll know all about Keyser Soze.
“Cheers,” I said. He thought I’d turned away, but I saw his expression change when Easter walked past. His bloodshot eyes blazed angrily. The guy was unhinged. And he was in charge of our mission-critical communications. I sighed and boarded the Puma.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“We’re crossing the border now,” Idris reported, his sing-song voice crackling in my headphones.
Easter peered into the gloom through night-vision goggles while Steve chugged coffee from a flask. He sat at the fuselage door, feet dangling over the deck. The sky looked bigger, somehow, in the inky-blue African twilight.
“You OK?” I said to Alex.
“I’m fine, boss,” said the American drily. “I’ll put in a report soon as I’m dug in.” He gave thumbs up and plugged his headphones into an MP3 player.
We sat in silence, the throbbing engines pounding in my skull. Easter scrambled over and strapped herself into the seat behind me, “what do you think?” she said.
“The flying suit is a bit last season, but it complements those lovely grey eyes,” I said, “and your hair looks nicer down.”
“Fuck off,” she laughed, “and good luck, Alex.”
“The harder I work, the luckier I get,” Alex drawled. “Now I’m going to listen to some music to get me in the mood.”
Easter touched his shoulder, “what’s on the iPod tonight, DJ Alex?”
“Mussorgsky: a Night on Bare Mountain.”
“Cheery,” I noted.
“Lovin’ that Mussorgsky,” said the American, plugging in his ear-buds.
> Easter smiled and shook her head. I wondered if Duclair was right, if Easter really was selling out her team to the Chinese. I’d spent years surrounded by liars, mercenaries and thieves. Dammit, I was all three myself. So I liked to think I knew a wrong ‘un when I met one. “Anyhow, I agree with Dancer,” I said. “We need to be fast. Whatever your team are doing in there, do it quick.”
“Roger that,” she replied. “Alan assures me it’ll be twenty minutes at most.”
“Is everything else OK?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe I’m being out of turn, but is there a bit of atmosphere in camp?”
Easter sighed. “Alan Brodie is an arsehole and a drunk. The rest of the team are just freaked out by the operation going so badly wrong.”
I nodded. “I can understand that.” I remembered Hugo seemed sanguine about it back in London and hoped she wasn’t just seeing what she wanted to see.
“Thanks,” she replied. “How about you - are you OK?”
I pulled a face.
“You stink of booze, you look like a tramp and I’m wondering if you’re actually up for this.”
I looked at the steel deck beneath my feet. “I’ll be alright on the night.”
“No more booze until we get back, OK?”
I shot her a look. “I didn’t say that.”
“Look, I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. We know very little about The Firm.”
I let my head rest on the bulkhead behind me. “Did you know we’re all blackmailed? That none of us want to work for them.”
“No I didn’t,” she replied. “I’ve only heard rumours.”
My laugh was bitter. “Want to share?”
“I’ve heard eighty per cent of you die before you finish your contracts, that most of you don’t have any place else to go.”
“Those are facts, not rumours.”
Easter touched my hand. I felt the scrape of a fingernail on my skin. “No more booze, Cal, OK?”
“I’ll try,” I said. I couldn’t meet her gaze. “It’s not like I want to be like this.”
The Devil's Work Page 10