“They look like wankers,” I shrugged. “You don’t.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he smiled, revealing the sort of teeth a druid might dance around. “OK, I might be interested. Unlike those wankers, this is my beat, from Sudan to Swaziland.”
“How did you end up here?” I asked.
“Ah, the Turpin life-story,” he grinned. “I was with Australian state broadcaster, ABC. I got a gig as an embedded journalist with the Yanks during Gulf War One. After that I freelanced, ended up covering the American fuck-up in Somalia. I’ve been in Africa ever since.”
“I missed the first Gulf War,” I said, warming to the boozy Australian. “I had a walk-on part in the sequel.”
Turpin chuckled and raised his glass. “So what’s your story, Adrian, mercenary or spook?” He took in my battered face, scuffed boots and assault pack, the butt of my Walther poking beneath my shirt.
“I’m a mercenary,” I shrugged. I could have insisted I was a contractor, protection officer, security consultant or one of the other polite euphemisms for hired gun. But I was tired and in a hurry. “I work for a PSC. We look after energy industry assets.”
“Which energy company would that be?” said Turpin.
I nodded as the waiter passed beer and food. I pushed fifty dollars across the bar and motioned for another bottle of Scotch, a decent one. “That doesn’t matter,” I smiled. “Let’s just say they’re scary and Russian.”
“That means BASNEFT,” Turpin scoffed. “OK, what have you got?”
I reached into my pack and put the video camera on the bar, flipping open the screen. “Watch that,” I said. The mutton was hot and charred on the outside, doused in chilli. I enjoyed the fiery flavour and gulped more beer.
Turpin looked at the camera quizzically. “What is it?”
“Forty-eight hours ago, the Zambutan energy ministry ordered a Manganese mine to be dynamited at the Buur Xuuq facility.”
Turpin shrugged. “And what happened next?”
“There were at least fifty kids down that mine,” I replied. “Average age twelve to fourteen. The rebels raided the mine, found out what happened and videoed the incident.”
“That video could get you killed around here,” he said matter-of-factly. “I suppose the rebels executed the guilty parties.”
“Yes, with extreme prejudice, including the Chinese engineers.”
“It’s a good story, if it’s true,” he replied carefully. He ran his tongue across his lips. “What do you want for it?”
“A cigar would be good,” I said.
Turpin chuckled and pulled a leather case from his pocket. He snipped the end from a Cubano with a pocketknife and passed it to me.
I lit it and happily rolled smoke around my mouth. Since I more or less gave up Class ‘A’ drugs, booze and cigars are my only remaining vices. I try to enjoy both as much as I can. “Thanks, Mister Turpin. The camera is yours.”
“Call me Mike. What do you really want?” He swiped the camera, which disappeared inside his threadbare jacket.
“What, apart from a cigar? Maybe you can help me with the whereabouts of some Brits who may have arrived here in the last twenty-four hours.”
Mike looked at the Scotch I’d ordered, Johnnie Walker, and poured a hefty glass. He threw it down his neck like a man who hadn’t had a drink for a month. “I know people in Afuuma who could ask around,” he shrugged. “Who are they and what do they look like?”
I described them all, except for from Mel Murray. I didn’t want to scare Turpin off by revealing that I was linked to Regime Enemy Number One.
“And why do you need to find these people…”
I smiled. “They owe me some money. Shall we leave it at that, Mike?”
“Here’s my card,” he nodded, passing me a yellowing piece of paste-board with a mobile telephone number printed on it.
“I take it you won’t simply disappear with the story?” I asked.
Turpin looked me in the eye, a smile on his leathery face. “I’ve been around long enough to know when not to fuck someone over, Adrian,” he replied.
“Fair enough,” I said. We shook hands again and Turpin gave me another cigar.
I drained my beer, finished my food and took a stroll over to the port. Apart from the Chinese navy, it hosted a collection of dhows, fishing boats and cargo vessels. A checkpoint guarded the entrance to the facility, guarded by a nervous-looking group of government soldiers.
Sitting down on a rocky premonitory overlooking the bay, I pulled the satellite phone from my pack and called Marcus. “Do you have anything for me?” I asked. “We’re in Afuuma. I’ve put out feelers to find your officers.”
“The data you found at the camp, the table Brodie prepared?” he replied, “It looks like Duclair was onto something. Juliet Easter’s comms data shows contact to a source in Eastern Zambute and the Somali border at key events during the two compromised operations.”
“So you think it’s her?” I said, heart sinking.
“At the moment, I’m inclined to. The entire CORACLE team has disappeared: no GPS activation, no compromise protocol initiated. Four officers – vanished into thin air.”
I pulled a face. I didn’t want the traitor to be Easter, but the evidence was compelling. “What about a motive?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. I could hear him eating, mashing and chomping noises on the end of the line. “It’s unprecedented, treachery on this scale. Losing agents is one thing, we’ve had that before. But losing officers like this? Even Philby didn’t do that.”
“If they’re here we’ll find them,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt.
“Are you sure their bodies might not be at the mine?” he asked hopefully.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “If they’d executed them I reckon there would’ve been more blood and signs of a struggle.”
I could hear Marcus’ breathing, heavy and strained. “I agree. I find it difficult to believe the Chinese would execute them out of hand.”
I explained Zhang Ki had been happy for us to be beaten, but was more eager for us to sign confessions. “Is there more SIGINT from the Chinese?”
“Only that Beijing is furious with the PLA Navy,” said Marcus. “Tell me about this Colonel Zhang character.”
I thought about it for a moment. “He’s in his late thirties, tall, speaks fluent English. The statements prove he knew SIS was involved.”
“I’m wondering if he’s actually a marine Colonel,” Marcus pondered. “Is he a MSS with military cover?”
It struck me as possible. “Perhaps, but he’s a trained soldier. He’s not just playing the part. I suppose you’re guys are digging into his background?”
“As best we can,” Marcus sighed heavily. “There are only two-and-a-quarter million people serving in the People’s Liberation Army, after all.”
“We’re searching Afuuma,” I said. “But the place will be locked down now the rebels are advancing.” I didn’t tell Marcus we’d spear-headed the offensive. He sounded pissed off enough as it was.
“I’ll be in touch,” he replied. “In the meantime, get on the internet. I’m going to message you two temporary email accounts. One will have a file, the other the encryption key.”
“What’s on the file?” I asked.
“The details of the last two compromised CORACLE operations,” he replied. “We’ve looked at the data you found in Brodie’s room, and the material Duclair provided. Maybe you can see something in it, now you’ve been on the ground.”
“Okay, I’ll take a look.”
“Apart from that, you’re on your own.”
“No change there, then,” I said.
“One last thing, Calum” said Marcus.
“Yes?”
“The Firm have been on to the DIADEM. They’ve asked for a view on the need to implement what they call Fallen Eagle.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Marcus. I’m the one who implements
Fallen Eagle, not SIS.” Monty had made that much clear: the emergency protocol was my call as the team leader, The Firm’s secret prerogative.
“What?” he replied, astonished. “Say that again.”
“Fallen Eagle is our last-ditch exfil protocol. I call it as a last resort in the event of irreversible compromise.”
Marcus’s laugh was bitter. “Is that what the bastards told you? Cal, Fallen Eagle is the protocol whereby you all get neutralised. It’s a failsafe to cover The Firm’s backside, not yours.”
“What?”
Marcus chuckled, “and they’ve tricked you into calling it in yourself? It’s sheer genius.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“If your mission fails and The Firm decides it’s holed beneath the waterline, they get you to call it in under the pretext of a rescue. That’s when a CIA team holed up in Djibouti flies in a Reaper and gives you a Hellfire missile or two.”
“What the hell have the CIA got to do with it?”
“The Firm has a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. The CIA will write you off as a target on their Signature Strike list. They keep fictional terrorist profiles on the list as spares, for when they need to go off-policy.”
“What did the DIADEM say?” I asked. “Did he agree?” Without thinking about it, I scanned the skies. Although I doubt you’d spot a drone, let alone a Hellfire missile, until it was too late.
“DIADEM was disturbed The Firm has such… high level liaison within the CIA but he’s considering it, to keep things tidy,” Marcus whispered. “There’s enough Shadow of Swords HVTs in the region for them to justify a strike. So, for God’s sake, give me some progress to take upstairs so I can dissuade him from doing something stupid.”
“Do I dump my phone?”
“No,” Marcus sighed. “If you do that you’ve told The Firm you’ve resigned. Good luck with the rest of your life. You should be fine as long as you don’t call it in, Cal.”
“So now I’m a High Value Target? I’ve never been a high-value anything. As for progress, I’ll get back to you.”
“Remember, Cal, I can help you with The Firm.”
“Talk is cheap,” I hissed. I jabbed the ‘off’ button and ended the call.
I was getting to the end of my cigar. I enjoyed the last of the smoke and flicked the butt into the murky water. I looked at my satellite phone and thought of doing the same. Then I thought better of it and headed back to the hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The internet café was three doors down from The Afuuma Lounge. I saw Mike Turpin was gone, but the foreign correspondents were still there, listening to news bulletins about the rebel offensive. Al-Jazeera was reporting that reinforcements camped on the Ethiopian border had linked up with General Abasi’s ramshackle army. Although poorly-equipped, it was growing every day as disillusioned Zambutans defected to the rebel cause. And the Ethiopians, no great lovers of Aziz, were turning a blind eye to the military build-up on their territory.
Next up was a gloomy-sounding President Aziz, claiming the rebels were secretly backed by Islamists. The allegations smacked of desperation and no one was buying it. Already Abasi’s forces had clashed with the Shadow of Swords, uploading videos of executed Mujahedeen to prove they weren’t in league with Al-Qaeda’s East African franchises. As a result, the Jihadis were retreating north, towards the Somali border in order to escape the opposing armies. That would drag them towards Afuuma.
I stopped to listen to the journalists loudly discuss the war.
“This is a mess,” slurred an Australian, draining another beer. “It’s a three-way death-fuck. You’ve got the Yanks, Aziz’s forces and Abasi attacking the Muj to prove they’re on the side of the angels.”
“Well,” opined a long-nosed Brit with a plummy accent, “as long as the Muj get a kicking I couldn’t care less.” He drained his beer. “Discretion being the better part of valour, I think it’s time I buggered off back to Nairobi.”
The media pack started bullying their stringers to get them back to Marsajir, camera crews sighing as they asked for the bill and receipts.
The internet café was quiet, a few locals sending email or watching lagging football footage on YouTube. I sipped coffee and logged onto a 90’s-vintage terminal, slowly downloading the reports Marcus promised on a dial-up modem. The email accounts were in the name of a company I’d never heard of, using long alphanumeric usernames and passwords. I wore the novelty beer-bottle opener on a chain around my neck. Sliding it into the computer, I saved the file and encryption key onto it. Leaving a handful of dollar bills on the counter, I headed to the market and bought a cheap Chinese laptop computer.
Back in my room I found Oz snoring gently under his mosquito net. I booted up the laptop and opened the file using the decryption key. From a field of random gibberish two reports emerged, a warning flashing that they would be wiped when I closed them:
Op. STOWAGE (CORACLE sub-operation)
Objective: Recruitment of key agent in Zambutan finance ministry
Intelligence Requirement: (a) Strategic intelligence, Chinese economic policy in East Africa and (b) fraudulent use of UK aid by Zambutan regime and money-laundering aid payments via third parties
Outcome: COMPROMISED.
OPSEC REVIEW: Zambutan agent cultivated by DUCLAIR and EASTER in Marsajir and Zurich over eight-month period. A final meeting was arranged in Marsajir to confirm status as SIS asset. Agent arrested by Zambutan security police the day prior to meeting, tried and executed within two weeks. DUCLAIR was on leave in UK at time of incident and was not aware of the meeting location. EASTER was in the field, assisted by JACKSON. Comms data for all suspects examined. EASTER’S satellite phone linked to an unidentified number traced to Zambutan location in border region (a commercial satellite telephone number from a Chinese service provider). EASTER’S use of the phone is partially corroborated by images and meta-data acquired by WOODSMAN. The provenance of these images is via suspicious colleagues. SIGINT on day of arrest suggests congratulatory messages were sent from Beijing to MSS listening post traced to Eastern Zambute / Somali annexed territory.
I assumed I was WOODSMAN. There was little I didn’t already know in the report, except nobody had mentioned Hugo Jackson’s involvement on the mission in Duclair’s absence. I scrolled down to the second operation:
Op. TRICORN (CORACLE sub-operation)
Objective: Online penetration of, and disruption to, Zambutan regime financial assets.
Operational Requirement: Covert retrieval of corruptly obtained HMG International Development payments
Outcome: COMPROMISED
OPSEC REVIEW: Cyber-exploitation by JACKSON and BRODIE, leading to penetration of systems at National Bank of Zambute. This enabled CORACLE to trace and identify laundered assets estimated at UK£175 million across numerous private European financial institutions. DUCLAIR and EASTER managed HUMINT to add value to online operations. Authority granted to penetrate and sequestrate funds to HMG covert accounts. Forty-eight hours prior to JACKSON’S penetration attempt, funds and physical high-value assets were transferred back to Zambute. Data provided via WOODSMAN shows EASTER making calls to the same unknown satellite telephone on six occasions in the forty-eight hour period prior to the compromise. In light of WOODSMAN’S reporting, it is now assessed that Duclair and Jackson’s email traffic during this period cast doubts over EASTER’S integrity.
I copied the satellite phone number from the first report onto a piece of paper and closed the document. A pop-up told me that they’d been deleted permanently from my system.
Easter’s fingerprints were all over the compromised operations, damned by the calls to the Chinese-registered satellite phone. Although Easter struck me as hyper-professional, she was having an affair with Dancer. That was a big professional no-no, and from Dancer’s level of knowledge it was obvious that there had been indiscreet pillow-talk between them. I wished I could ask Dancer’s opinion. He would be devastated if
he knew Easter had betrayed Mel and the rest of the CORACLE team.
There was a knock on the door. Oz rolled out of bed, Kalashnikov ready.
“Who is it?” I called, snatching my pistol from the bedside table.
“Mister Cal, it is Ibrahim,” said the old hotel owner.
“One minute,” I replied, motioning at Oz to stay out of sight. I held my pistol behind my back and opened the door a few inches.
Ibrahim was alone, a knowing smile on his deeply-lined face. He was wearing a neat brown suit and an open-collared shirt, a cigarette smouldering in the corner of his mouth. “It is only me,” he said. “There is a message for you.”
“Thanks, Ibrahim,” I replied.
He handed me an envelope. “My daughter is cooking for your men. It will be ready in an hour, but I would ask that you eat in your rooms OK?”
“That’s very kind of her.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of yellow notepaper from a legal pad.
“What’s that?” said Oz curiously.
“I went and did some nosing around,” I replied.
The note was short but sweet: I spoke with a friend. A Brit showed up yesterday at Adoyo Shipping and Transit on the Via Roma (near the police barracks). He’s a young guy with spiky hair, looks Chinese but speaks English like he went to Eton. Adoyo is a local fixer and criminal, be careful. Best regards, Mike Turpin.
“Hugo’s turned up,” I said.
We studied our map and found the Via Roma. The road ran through the centre of Afuuma, north towards Somalia, then dog-legged west towards Marsajir. The police barracks was just over a mile out of town, the road hugging the hilly coastline.
“Doing surveillance on that is going to be fun,” said Oz, in a tone of voice that suggested it wouldn’t.
We went downstairs and collared Ibrahim. He ushered us into an office at the back of reception, a gloomy cell with a slow-moving ceiling fan. It was furnished with an ancient TV, a fridge and the world’s oldest desktop computer. A joss-stick smouldered in the corner, the smell of lavender tickling my nose.
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