The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “We should move them to the prison,” said the Zambutan in the khaki uniform. He had a crown on his epaulettes, red tabs on his collar and a Sam Browne belt which strained against his hefty gut. A shiny, well-oiled .38 revolver sat in a holster on his waist.

  “Of course,” said the second Chinese suit.

  Zhang Ki barked more orders. His marines bundled us back into the armoured cars and drove back to the prison. Daybreak revealed bodies strewn by the roadside, the area littered with smoking vehicles and the detritus of battle. We arrived at the slab-like fortress, walls streaked with bullet holes and pock-marked from the impact of rocket strikes. The breach we’d blown in the wall was a jagged black scar, smoke still drifting from the rubble.

  Alex Bytchakov grinned bloodily. “This is a professionally satisfying level of destruction,” he croaked.

  Kicked out of the truck, we were herded towards the gate. I studied the marines, expecting another beating or worse. They were too busy covering their noses from the stench of death. We passed a detail of Zambutans piling the bodies of prisoners by the gate. No doubt our raid had been used as an opportunity for some extra-judicial administration. Zambutan soldiers were dousing piles of bodies with petrol and burning them, the stink of charred flesh and burning hair drifting on the breeze.

  We were led through the courtyard and thrown into a sweltering office in a flurry of slaps and rifle butts. The Chinese sergeant was competing with the two uniformed Zambutans for who could hit us most. Another marine arrived and dumped our stuff on the floor, presumably for further examination.

  Grey suit number one, who smelt of sweat and garlic, glowered at the soldiers with a raised eyebrow before returning our fatigues and boots. “Please, gentlemen, get dressed. Major Kito, may I have a moment alone with the prisoners?” he said to the burly Zambutan. The MSS agents pulled their pistols and covered us.

  “If you must,” Kito sniffed. He looked around the office disapprovingly. Like everywhere else on the ground floor, it had been shot up by either us or escaping prisoners.

  “Yes, I must,” replied the Chinese intelligence officer icily. His English was excellent, with only a trace of Oriental inflection.

  We pulled on our fatigue pants and jackets while nodding our thanks. I wanted the spooks to like us, think we were compliant and grateful. Stuffing my feet into my Lowas, I checked the concealed boot-knife. When we were dressed, the spooks re-cuffed us.

  Grey suit number one pulled up a chair and plucked an Ashima from a white-and-gold pack. “The fat Zambutan major is from army intelligence. He found out about this incident first – so you are lucky. If you play the game properly we can keep you from Aziz’s security police. The army hates them.”

  “The army hate the secret police?” I grunted. “That sounds pretty par for the course.”

  “Indeed, the secret police are out of control and completely incompetent. We try to avoid dealing with them when we can. The army intelligence people are slightly easier to deal with, for Africans that is.”

  “Yes,” said Grey suit number two quietly. He had a reedy voice, acne-scars and a shaved head, “the story is simple: a group of mercenary soldiers manipulated by British intelligence rescue the spy, Murray. This is more or less the truth, no?”

  “We could make it look like rebels shot down our helicopter,” said Grey suit number one, a sly smile on his waxy face. “The whole incident was the result of an unfortunate mistake by trigger-happy… bandits.”

  “That would be better,” agreed Grey suit number two.

  “What if I sign your statement on the condition I make a couple of amendments?” I said.

  “It would depend what the amendments were,” said Grey suit one easily. “But we are reasonable men.”

  “Something that spreads responsibility more fairly,” I said, injecting a note of desperation into my voice. “There’s more to this affair than you know – we shouldn’t take all the blame. I could tell you about the organisation I work for, which isn’t MI6…”

  “As you wish,” the MSS agent replied, smiling at his luck. Spooks love talkative prisoners, it makes it easier for them to write reports and impress the boss.

  They released my plasticuffs, Grey suit two producing a notepad from his pocket. They ushered me to a rickety desk. I took a pen in my bloodied fingers and started writing in the margins of the statement, scribbling down stuff about the CIA and other random bollocks.

  The Chinese read with interest over my shoulder. One of them produced a satellite phone from a chunky black briefcase and began talking excitedly in Mandarin.

  I coughed and reached down, catching Oz and Bytchakov’s eyes. I tapped the top of my boot-knife. They both nodded.

  My hand swept up. The curved blade caught the first MSS guy in the throat, just north of his Adam’s apple. Dragging the blade across his neck, I slashed the brachial artery and pushed his blood-slicked carcass into the second intelligence officer…

  …Oz and Bytchakov were already on him, pummelling the spook with their fists. I planted my boot in his mouth to stop him screaming. I tossed my knife to Oz who opened his neck, spraying us with a fine mist of blood.

  Within five seconds both men were dead. Oz cut Alex’s plasticuffs and patted down the shocked-looking corpses. Each wore a small black pistol in a shoulder holster, with a spare magazine each.

  I picked up the blood-stained statements and stuffed them in my pocket. “We go out of the side door, see if we can make for one of those armoured cars.”

  “That’s not a plan, Cal, that’s a suicide note,” Oz hissed.

  There was a knock on the door. Oz readied his pistol, tossing the second to Alex. He nodded and took cover behind a desk. I held my knife loosely by my side. The Zambutan, Major Kito, opened the door and stepped in. Oz pistol-whipped him, the butt of the handgun bouncing off the side of his skull. I stepped behind him and closed the door.

  “Shut up,” said Oz, tucking the snout of his pistol into the Zambutan’s chubby jowls.

  Major Kito winced. “I cannot say I will miss those Chinese bastards,” he said, rubbing his swollen temple. The MSS men were in a tangled heap of limbs, blood and bad tailoring.

  “I’m not feeling the love,” said Oz. “Between you and the Chinese.”

  “They say they are here to help us, but behave like they own Zambute. Just like every other bastard foreigner who comes here,” he snorted. “They buy everything for a fraction of its true value.”

  Although I was sympathetic to his views on Third World exploitation, now wasn’t the time for a chat. I pulled Kito’s revolver from its holster and cut the lanyard with my knife, “How are you going to get us out of here?” I said, stuffing the .38 into the waistband of my fatigues.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that Chinese Colonel doesn’t kill us all when he sees them,” said Kito, pointing at the dead agents sprawled at his feet, “Zhang is a ruthless bastard. He spends more time with spies than he does hunting pirates.”

  “Start thinking,” I grunted. “How did you get here?”

  “In a Chinese helicopter, with those two,” he replied. “We were going to take you to Marsajir for interrogation, before the secret police discovered we’d arrested foreigners.”

  “Well that’s fascinatin’, but how you gonna get us outta here?” Bytchakov growled.

  “That is possible,” said Kito nervously. “I will say you are under arrest and escort you to our helicopter at Quaani, if you can get out without these bodies being discovered. You will have to disarm my men, of course. I would be grateful if you let them live.”

  I narrowed my eyes, hefted the revolver in my hand, “what about the Chinese?”

  Major Kito rolled his eyes in disdain, “those yellow bastards can go and fuck their mothers. I have to take direction from their spies... but their navy? Besides, there is a tunnel that leads from the governor’s office to the service road. Zhang won’t know about it.”

  “A tunnel?” said Alex.

  �
�Yes,” said Kito nervously, a bead of sweat tracking down his chubby face. “The Italians built an ammunition resupply tunnel in the thirties, when yet more bastard foreigners interfered in Zambute.”

  “Call your men Major,” I said. “I swear you’ll come to no harm.”

  Kito pulled a radio from his belt and ordered his men to join us. Hiding our pistols, we stood sullenly in front of him like obedient prisoners. I picked up my assault pack, our radio and satellite phone tucked safely inside. Alex and Oz checked their belt-kit and chest-rigs, clambering back into their fighting rig. Outside, in the courtyard, I could hear Chinese troops moving about.

  I again considered calling in the Fallen Eagle protocol, although I wondered what The Firm could do to get us out of Zambute. The direction was clear – Fallen Eagle was only to be used when there was unambiguously no hope of mission success. As far as I knew, Murray was safe and nobody had mentioned The Firm or our status as anything other than mercenaries. I decided to hold fire. I still tapped the code into the sat phone’s memory, to save time if the worst happened.

  We left the office. Kito’s men trudged along the corridor, rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them threw a lazy salute towards Major Kito, who returned it smartly. We drew our pistols.

  “Lower your weapons,” said Kito to his men, hands spread in front of him. “They have given me valuable information, but want nothing to do with the Chinese. Unload your rifles.”

  “Are they paying us?” grunted the first Zambutan soldier in good English.

  “A thousand dollars each,” said Bytchakov. We still had US dollars sewn into our clothing, part of our escape and evasion kit.

  They lowered their weapons, lit cigarettes and chatted to each other in Swahili. They didn’t seem bothered about the situation, not with a thousand dollars attached. When we demanded their AKs, they shrugged and handed them over.

  We made off down the corridor, led by the parade-ground smart Major Kito. We reached a bullet-riddled office. Two dead prison officers lay nearby, a neat bullet hole in their foreheads where prisoners had taken their revenge.

  “This is the place I remember,” he said. Kito motioned for the two soldiers to move a desk, a black wooden monstrosity the size of a piano. Underneath was a panel with a flat metal ring fitted flush into it. Threaded through the ring was a piece of nylon cord. I tugged on it. The metal panel lifted with a creaking sound, revealing a hole tunnelled into the rust-red earth below.

  “Lead on, Major,” I said, motioning with my pistol. My mind raced… was this a trap? I looked at Oz and Bytchakov, both men looking straight back at me.

  “In for a penny,” said Oz, who I’m pretty sure can read my mind.

  I took one of the AKs and re-loaded it, relieving the soldier of his ammo-stuffed chest rig. Bytchakov took the other. The tunnel dropped horizontally for ten feet, a rusting ladder set into the wall. I flicked a metal switch and a tear-drop bulb cast a sickly light in the darkness.

  There was more shouting. “Move,” I barked. The Zambutans lowered themselves into the tunnel.

  Oz plucked a grenade from his webbing. Looking around he found an old fruit tin on the desk, now used as a holder for pencils. Emptying it, he slid the pin from the grenade and pushed it gently into the tin, so the lever was held in place by the rim. He crept towards the wooden door and placed the tin behind it. “Go!” he whispered, nudging his improvised booby-trap into position.

  I dropped down behind Alex, already scurrying along the circular tunnel. The air was dank but cool, a relief from the stifling heat above. Decaying rails for ammo trolleys ran along the floor, electric lights fed by rotting cables snaking along the walls. Oz crouched behind me, rifle trained on the return path. We jogged along the tunnel, breathing hot, stale air.

  The grenade detonation, when it came, was a dull thump.

  “Run,” I hissed.

  “They’ll search for more IEDs,” sniffed Bytchakov approvingly. “It’ll slow them down.”

  The tunnel curved to our left before straightening out into the distance. The lights dimmed then went out completely. One of the Zambutan soldiers flicked on a torch and we tip-toed forward.

  “Here,” whispered Kito. The tunnel began to slope upwards, another metal ladder set into the wall. There was a circular opening in the ceiling. “This is the way out.”

  Oz pushed the Zambutans aside and told them to wait. I trained my rifle on them as he shimmied up the ladder. I climbed up next, emerging in a clearing several hundred metres from the prison, shielded by a sad clutch of outbuildings. The Zambutans emerged and we scrambled away, Alex dragging the rusty metal grille back over the exit. He wedged another grenade into a gap between the rim of the tunnel and the cover.

  I realised we were parallel with the road that led from the airbase to the prison. Parked nearby were some battle-damaged soft-skin vehicles. The most serviceable was a Land Rover, scarred with bullet holes from last night’s fighting. A dead soldier lay nearby, flies swarming over a gelatinous mass of entrails.

  “Get in,” I said to Kito. “One of your men will drive.”

  Kito nodded and gave an order in Swahili.

  “When we get to the Chinese aircraft, will it have enough fuel to get us to Kenya?” I asked.

  “I’m not a pilot,” said Kito cussedly, “but I expect so. It is a large helicopter.”

  We were pulling out onto the road when Alex’s booby trap went off. The Zambutan driver hooted with laughter and gunned the engine, sirens ringing in our ears.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  To the north, Quaani shimmered in a distant heat-haze. Above us, impatient vultures circled. We slowed down to negotiate the chicane of wrecked vehicles littering the road, weaving in and out of debris and bodies. A pall of black smoke hung over the air base, and in the distance I spotted teams of Zambutan soldiers working on clearing the runway.

  “Abasi’s men were repelled,” said Kito haughtily. “The Chinese arrived with helicopters and the terrorists fled.”

  “It feels like everyone’s a terrorist nowadays,” I said, hunkering down in my seat.

  “You are terrorists,” he snapped. His men murmured their agreement. “Or in your world do terrorists only have brown skin?”

  I suppose he had a point. “If that puts me against your President Aziz then I can live with it,” I replied. And I meant it. If I was going to wade in blood again, it would be on the least-worst side. From the file I’d read, The Firm used to send bad men to do good things. I guessed that was the best I could hope for, mitigation for all the wrongness I’d done.

  The sentry on the gate saluted Kito and raised the barrier. I saw three Chinese Z9 helicopters parked on the apron nearby, beyond them stood rows of rusting hangars and a control tower. On the apron, two Chinese pilots examined battle damage to one of the helis.

  “Where’s your helicopter?” I asked.

  “It was on the other side of the hangars.”

  We drove by the bullet-holed control tower, no one taking much notice of Kito’s Zambutan military detail. Driving straight into the belly of the beast was audacious, bordering on crazy and I hoped it was the last thing Zhang Ki would expect of us. The alternative was to risk getting lost in the desert in a rickety Land Rover. We chugged past the tower and took a right, into a warren of workshops and more hangers.

  “There,” said Kito, pointing to a bulbous grey transport helicopter. A pair of Chinese pilots wearing dark blue flight suits lounged nearby. He waved at the pilots, who nodded back. “They will want to know where the two MSS agents are,” he said nervously.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I replied, fingers curling around the grips of my AK. “Tell them the spies have discovered a new lead to investigate.”

  “Cal, look,” said Oz.

  A heavily tooled-up squad of Presidential Commandos prowled towards us, led by a stiff-backed officer wearing a beret. They wore camouflage fatigues, closely-fitted in the French style, parachute wings on their sleeve
s. “Major Kito,” said the officer, saluting smartly.

  One soldier can easily tell if another’s got his shit squared-away, and these blokes did. They moved with a purpose, weapons and equipment well-maintained. They looked like the sort of operators you killed before they killed you. My finger slid to the trigger of my Kalashnikov.

  Kito leapt from the Land Rover, hollering a warning in Swahili. Alex shot him twice with his AK before rolling deftly out of the vehicle, shooting the Commando officer in the chest. Oz slid his pistol against the skull of our driver and fired once. The last of Kito’s men cowered in the front. I emptied my magazine at the commandoes before kicking him. Clambering into the driver’s seat, I revved the engine and reversed into cover behind a neighbouring hangar.

  Soldiers scattered, taking cover behind the grey heli, the aircrew sprinting away as well-disciplined shots rang out. Alex and Oz tossed grenades in the direction of the Zambutans. There were two explosions, shrapnel zipping off concrete and the helicopter’s fuselage.

  “I’m going back to the control tower,” I said, hitching a grimy thumb behind me. It looked like the largest, most defensible building on the base. Which was when I realised I was going to die. There’s never a good day for it, but I’d always promised myself I’d die well. Not rotting in a Third World prison cell.

  I looked at Oz. He grinned back, reading my mind again.

  “Well move then,” said Bytchakov.

  The Land Rover jolted over smouldering rubble as we headed back towards the tower. The white-painted building was streaked with smoke and scarred with bullet holes. Every window was broken, the ground littered with spent brass and blood splashes. Airfield staff, from mechanics to men in civilian clothes, scattered as they looked for cover. They were Russian and Zambutan, the Russki contractors making straight for any unattended vehicles so they could flee the carnage.