The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “Ahmed is the most trusted hawaladar in Afuuma, possibly in Zambute,” Adoyo replied. “The British man told me he needed a hawaladar. I simply pointed him in the right direction.”

  Bytchakov pulled a face, “what’s a hawaladar?”

  “A trust-banker,” I said. “Hawala is Islamic trust-banking. You move money via intermediaries. There’s no paperwork and no electronic transfer.”

  “Exactly,” said Adoyo. “It is the most popular form of banking here, among the common people.”

  “And terrorists,” I added. “Do you know how much money he wanted to move?”

  “No, but it must be a large amount,” said Adoyo. “Muxsin Ahmed said I would need never to pay for his services again. Muxsin is not a man known for his generosity.”

  “Does the trust-banking guy actually take possession the money?” said Alex.

  “Of course,” Adoyo replied. “He takes the total amount and deducts his commission. Then he instructs another hawaladar to pass that sum, or part of that sum, to the customer in another place. The hawaladars then recompense each other in kind. It might be in London or Paris or Moscow. Anywhere you find Muslims, you will find Hawala.”

  “Like a series of human ATMs, right?” Bytchakov shook his head, “it sounds crazy. All this just works on trust?”

  “It’s functioned perfectly well for a thousand years,” Adoyo said. “If a hawaladar cheats a customer, he is finished. It is an incredibly safe way of moving assets, I use it myself.”

  “How do you contact Moon?” I said finally.

  Adoyo reached inside his desk and produced a well-thumbed notebook. He tore out a page and pushed it towards me. “I understand he’s staying in a villa on the coast road. It’s called The Red House. I wouldn’t waste your time, the ship is due soon.”

  I raised an eyebrow, “how soon?”

  “This is Africa,” he shrugged. “It could be could be tonight, it might be tomorrow.”

  I took the piece of paper. “I’ll be back to pay you shortly.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “In the meantime, call your guards and ask them to put their weapons on the floor,” I smiled. “In case you decide to do something you might regret.”

  Adoyo picked up an old Bakelite telephone and muttered a few words of Swahili. “I take it our business is done?”

  “For now,” I nodded. I tucked the Walther in my waistband as I stood up. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve located John Moon.”

  Adoyo sneered dismissively, signalling for us to leave as he cursed under his breath.

  I stood my ground. A real Russian Mafiosi wouldn’t stand for the insult. “If I discover you’ve alerted the Englishman, I will return here and kill you. I will kill your family. I don’t give a fuck about your local police, your Jihadis, your rebels or your piece-of-shit army. There’s no roof here big enough to protect you. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t know if my threats were part of the act or not.

  “Go, Russian, and take your stink with you.”

  We left the office. The two guards stood outside on the landing. I motioned for them to put their weapons down again. I unloaded the Uzis and smiled as we trotted down the stairs. Alex covered them with his pistol as we left. I stepped out of the shadowy blockhouse. Ruben joined us and hailed a taxi.

  Now I had a location for Hugo and the name of an Islamic trust banker. The SIS report told me Hugo had tried to hack the Zambutan regime’s personal bank accounts. Although I didn’t have a deerstalker hat and a magnifying glass, I thought I’d figured it out.

  Hugo Jackson was the Bad Apple. He’d used his hacking skills to steal money from the regime. Now he was trying to move it out of Zambute via the hawaladar, an untraceable method favoured by terrorists. He was the guy who had created the computer modelling for our mission, and whose technical expertise equalled Brodie’s. It was Hugo who’d sold us out to the Chinese, probably using Zhang Ki as an intermediary.

  What I needed to know was what he’d done with the rest of his team, and how. Was he ruthless enough to kill his colleagues, incur the wrath of MI6? And where did Murray fit in? Maybe there was an explanation for the communications data implicating Easter…

  But, sadly, it looked like Duclair and Brodie were right. I wondered if their bodies lay somewhere in the desert, like Steve Bacon and Idris. I pulled the sat phone from my pocket and keyed a message to Marcus: HUGO IS MY BAD APPLE / MOTIVE – THEFT OF ZAMBUTAN ASSETS / STAND BY.

  I hoped it was enough to keep the Fallen Eagle from taking flight. The satellite phone burned in my hand. It was my life line and death warrant, the electronic scent that the Predator would sniff. In the end I decided to keep it, another card in the poker game I was playing with The Firm.

  The taxi dropped us near the market. We ran a counter-surveillance route back to the hotel and met in my room. I briefed the others on what Adoyo had told me.

  “Hugo?” said Oz, shaking his head. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

  “Let me do it,” Ruben snarled. “I’ll get the fucker to talk.”

  I looked at the wiry Londoner, looked into his hate-filled eyes. If I let him loose on Hugo, there was only one way the story would end. Raphael Grey died in a hail of cannon fire, in an ambush set up by the bad apple. I’d watched him ripped to pieces like a sack of meat. This wasn’t a game, something I suspected Hugo had yet to find out.

  “Yes, Ruben,” I said grimly. “He’s all yours.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Cops,” Ruben hissed, standing watch at the bedroom window.

  Two canvas-sided trucks chugged to a halt in the town square below, disgorging armed men. They formed a line in front of the hotel. A Land Rover pulled up next to the trucks. Two men in smart blue-grey uniforms and sunglasses stepped out, shouting orders. They wore the red shoulder-boards of the despised Zambutan security police.

  The locals began to melt away. A tinny radio playing local music stopped. In the distance a dog whined.

  “All we need now is Clint Eastwood on a horse,” said Oz.

  “That sonofabitch Adoyo,” growled Bytchakov, “he must have given us up.”

  “Could have been anybody, I reckon,” Oz shrugged. “This town must be full of grasses.”

  “Grasses?” said the American. “For the love of sweet Jesus, Oz, speak English. I’m never working with Brits again. You need a fucking translator.”

  “Snitches,” I translated. “Duncan, get the Toyota and wait around the back.”

  “Roger,” he replied, shrugging on his Bergen, sword strapped to the side.

  “I’ve got the first floor landing,” said Ruben, snatching his G36.

  We had a bug-out plan, Ruben holding our floor while Bannerman cleared reception and got the wagon fired up. I watched as the security police officers barked orders, cops splitting into two groups. One headed towards us, the other fanning out towards the back of the building. They were armed with a variety of rifles and shotguns.

  “Aw, fuck it,” spat Bytchakov, shouldering his AK.

  “No,” I snapped. “We’ve got civilians down there.” Although the locals had kept their heads down, a full-scale gunfight in the square might still cause casualties.

  In my world there are two groups of people – those who’ve chosen to step into the arena and those who haven’t. You pick up a gun? You’ve stepped in. You’ve done something so bad I’m knocking on your door? You’ve stepped in. But civilians are off limits, at least in my book. And people who harm them, they step into the arena too.

  That was another rule I’d set myself, one I’d not heeded as resolutely in the past. That changed, right now.

  Bytchakov’s nostrils flared as he lowered his AK. “I’ll see you out back.”

  Oz gathered up our remaining weapons and slung his pack over his shoulder, “let’s get out of here.”

  I was still wearing my Russian gangster outfit: shiny grey suit from the market, a black polo shirt and pointy shoes. Tuckin
g the Walther in my waistband, I pocketed a smoke grenade and the satellite phone. I trotted down the staircase, the others already in reception and heading for the back exit.

  Ibrahim and his daughter were standing behind the scuffed front counter. The old man’s face was defiant, an ancient bolt-action rifle held in front of him.

  “Get out of here,” I ordered.

  “No!” He replied. “This is my hotel.”

  Tears rolled down Fathiya’s cheek. “Father, please…”

  The first security policeman strode towards the front door. He looked confident, head held high. This was his turf. Raising my Walther, I fired twice, into his face. “Get out of here,” I barked at the old man.

  Fathiya shoved her father into the corridor. The second security policeman hit the deck, pistol in hand. My Walther coughed again, a khaki-uniformed paramilitary spinning as the bullet ripped through his throat. Tossing the smoke grenade, I leapt behind the counter as incoming rounds rang out. I crawled on my belly, following Ibrahim, who now understood the sense of urgency. Chemical-stinking smoke swirled around us as I pulled myself to my feet and helped the two Zambutans to the rear exit.

  Ruben Grey was crouched in the doorway as we approached, the black snout of his assault rifle pointing over my shoulder. Looking back towards the hotel reception, I saw nothing but smoke. The cops were shouting at each other, coughing as they advanced. They were taking their time, expecting an ambush.

  I wasn’t going to disappoint.

  The back of the hotel was a dusty yard, surrounded on two sides by a crumbling brick wall. A couple of battered cars and our truck were parked near the exit. Bannerman gunned the engine, Bytchakov sitting next to him.

  “Go,” said Ruben to Ibrahim and his daughter.

  We bundled them into the pick-up, covered them with blankets and equipment. Ruben was climbing in when the first Zambutan cop stepped around the corner, pump-gun ready. The gunfire from my team was instant and overwhelming, a torrent of bullets from the belt-fed MG4 and Kalashnikovs tearing across the wall. The cop disappeared in a cloud of gore and brick dust. Hearing footsteps and barked orders, I stalked towards the exit to provide cover.

  “Move!” Ruben shouted, smacking the roof of the cab with his free hand.

  “I’ll cover you, RV at a safe position near the Red House,” I shouted to Bytchakov in Russian. Many Zambutans spoke English, and I didn’t want to advertise.

  “Copy that,” yelled Bytchakov, “you take care, OK?”

  This wasn’t the movies, where your mates beg you to get out while you can. I was big enough and ugly enough to make the call, and the men respected it.

  The Toyota motored out of the yard, into the fetid backstreets of Afuuma. Slamming the fire door closed, I hurled myself at the wall nearest me and scrambled over, Walther ready. Two security policemen peered around the corner, earning each of them a bullet in the head. Bullets chasing me, I vaulted the car park wall and dropped into an alleyway. My choice was to head south back into the square, or north into the back-streets.

  I heard a shotgun blast, then the crash of the door coming off its hinges.

  I ran north. After twenty metres the path petered out into a baked-mud track. Locals watched sullenly from doorways, tinny music drifting from shacks and lean-tos. I ducked as I heard another shotgun blast, buckshot peppering a nearby wall. I returned fire. Two cops disappeared into cover, back towards the hotel.

  I fired two more shots and ran, the labyrinthine backstreets swallowing me. I turned left then right, racing through shady alleyways and dusty, narrow streets. People eyed me warily, a hefty white guy in a crumpled suit. I patted my pocket, checking the precious satellite phone was still there. Finally, I emerged into a larger thoroughfare, maybe a couple of hundred yards north of the souk. I heard gunfire and shouting in the distance, a battered police car trying to force its way past livestock and taxis. Vehicle horns blared, goats bleated, the stink of animals and raw sewage in my nose.

  “Over here,” called a familiar voice. “Nice shoes, by the way.” The Aussie journalist, Mike Turpin, sat in the front of an old Mercedes with bright orange paintwork. The universal word TAXI was painted across the bonnet. A powerfully-built Zambutan glowered from behind the wheel.

  “Cheers, Mike,” I replied, hopping into the back of the car.

  “You seem to have upset the security police,” the journalist chuckled. “Luckily, that’ll make you more friends than enemies around here.”

  “Doesn’t feel like it at the moment.”

  “Meet Xaashi,” Turpin replied, the Merc accelerating deeper into the back streets. “He’s my stringer in Afuuma.” Turpin tossed a baseball hat at me. I nodded my thanks and pulled the peak low over my eyes.

  “Jambo,” said the big Zambutan gruffly. He was eighteen stone of glistening ebony muscle, topped by a strangely small head with bulging, manic-looking eyes. He wore a string vest and tracksuit pants, a crucifix dangling at his throat. “Is this story, the one you tell Mike about the mine, true?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Xaashi studied me in the rear view mirror. “There is someone you must meet.” It sounded too much like a demand for my liking.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Mike…”

  The journalist shrugged. “Xaashi has family working at the mine. The BBC took the story, its big news. People are getting worried about their missing relatives.”

  “I’ve got to get to the Red House, on the Via Roma.”

  Xaashi slammed on the brakes, eyes flashing with anger. “This is not a game, Englishman. My brother’s nephew ran away last year. The last thing we hear, he is working in Buur Xuuq. Speak with him and answer his questions. Then we take you to the Red House.”

  A police car chugged by, the cop’s eyes scanning the sidewalks. I hunkered down in the back of the Mercedes.

  “It is dangerous north of here,” the Zambutan continued. He nodded at the cop and shouted something in Swahili. The cop laughed and drove on. “The Jihadist’s use the roads as a short cut to Kismayo.”

  “I can only tell your brother what you can already see on the video,” I replied.

  Xaashi drove deeper into the old town. “Do you have children, Englishman?”

  “No,” I said.

  “That explains it,” he grunted.

  “He wants five minutes of your time,” said Turpin. “I’ll promise you’ll make it to where you need to go. Like Xaashi says, the further north you travel the more chance you’ve got of bumping into those Shadow of Swords bastards.”

  “The Jihadis are worse than Aziz,” nodded Xaashi, shadowy streets flashing by.

  We drove for another five minutes. Now the shooting had stopped, people were emerging from their homes.

  “Seriously,” the Australian replied, “Xaashi’s older brother is the head of his family, one of the big clans. They’ve stayed neutral up until now. But this incident at Buur Xuuq…”

  “My family will make Afuuma ungovernable,” spat the big Zambutan, hammering a fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck Aziz.”

  “What about Julius Adoyo?” I said.

  Xaashi laughed. “Julius Adoyo? That piece of shit is only safe because he is Aziz’s kin. He does not worry me, the one-eyed goat-fucker.”

  We drove on, bumping across winding dirt roads. I was now completely lost, any attempt to orientate myself to the old town’s geography doomed.

  “Here we are,” said Turpin.

  The house was studded with laundry-fluttering balconies, another peeling Italianate pile marooned between two brutalist apartment blocks. A fleet of battered cars and trucks were parked outside, a young kid with a rifle keeping an eye on them. I smelt cooking on the wind, something spicy-sweet and meaty. My stomach rumbled.

  “Follow me,” said Xaashi, folding his bulk out of the Mercedes. He went to the boot and took out a canvas bag containing fruit, meat and a stubby AKS carbine.

  “Everybody carries guns here,” shrugg
ed Turpin.

  “Yes, we need to protect ourselves from the police,” smiled Xaashi. He pointed at the Walther tucked in my belt. “It would be better if you gave that to me for now. I will return it, of course.”

  I nodded, cleared the weapon and handed it over.

  The house was dark and cool, plainly furnished and spotlessly clean. I was led to a yard where a group of men were holding a meeting. They were drinking coffee, chewing Khat and clearly unhappy. The mood seemed tense, conversation a low growl. If there were any women in the house, I couldn’t see them. All of the men carried weapons, bandoliers of ammunition around their chests.

  Xaashi said something in Swahili and a tall, pot-bellied man wearing dark clothing stood up. He embraced Turpin, whispering something in the Australian’s ear. The Zambutan had narrow, almost oriental, eyes and skin the colour of teak. His hair was a glossy mop of oiled ringlets. He nodded at me and smiled, showing crooked but gleaming white teeth. “I am Cawaale Warfa,” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome to our home, please, have some coffee.” Cawaale snapped his fingers and a young boy brought drinks. I gulped the coffee, the boy pouring more. It was delicious, thick and sweet.

  “I apologise if Xaashi was rude to you, or if bringing you here was inconvenient,” said Cawaale, his English excellent and precise. “He is known as The Bull in my family.”

  The other men laughed, Xaashi proving the point by snorting and stomping off. He arrived at a large steel urn and poured himself a brew.

  “The Warfa’s are the oldest clan in Afuuma,” Turpin explained. “They own the market and the fishery here.”

  “We are Somali-Zambutans,” said Cawaale, nodding. “We are not Zambutan-Kenyan, so we are hated by the government.”

  “We are survivors,” shrugged Xaashi.

  Cawaale nodded. “I will get to the point. My nephew, Idris, is a difficult boy. He is from my wife’s side of the family, and they are crazy.”

  A number of the men who understood English nodded and mumbled in agreement.

  “He was going to work in the market, learn how to be a trader like his father,” Cawaale continued, “but he ran away. He got mixed up with a bad crowd, drinking whisky and smoking too much bangi. The last news my wife had of him, he had taken work at Buur Xuuq, to pay back his debts.”