The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “Very good, Hugo,” Ruben replied, clapping softly. “Bedouins used to do it to Legionnaires, too. Well, that’s what I’m going to do with you, except I ain’t gonna wait for you to die. I’m going to peel you like an orange. Then I’ll peg you out on that cliff. The fucking vultures and jackals and insects can eat you alive. It might take them a couple of days.”

  “Given what you’ve done, Hugo, I reckon that’s generous,” I said. “Betraying your team, and my men, for what?”

  “Guys, you don’t understand,” he whispered, tears tracking down his cheeks. “You just don’t see the whole-bloody-picture.”

  “Where’s Murray?” I said.

  “Murray is alive,” he replied. “We were betrayed by Easter, I swear…”

  I squatted on my knees, inches from Hugo’s face. “Educate me,” I said. “You need to understand, Ruben wants to kill the person who betrayed his brother. If someone else did it, then you need to tell us. It’s the only way you can save your life…” I knew he’d want a crumb of comfort now, a tiny sliver of hope. He glared at me, trying to take it all in.

  “I’m going to need some persuading,” Ruben nodded. He ran the tip of the blade across Hugo’s cheek, drawing blood. “I think it was you, I can feel it.”

  Hugo’s teeth chattered, a hiss of fear escaping his lips. “Oh my fucking god,” he said finally.

  I heard Bannerman and Oz stomping about, clearing the rest of the villa.

  And Hugo told us his story, teeth chattering and crotch wet, where he’d pissed his pants. “I worked out that Easter was talking to the MSS before the first operation failed, the one we codenamed STOWAGE. She was taking money from the Chinese, her contact was a marine Colonel called Zhang. He was an MSS asset, working undercover in the military.”

  “And how did you know all this?”

  “I hacked Brodie’s network security. That enabled me to trace Easter’s satellite comms. She’d been calling into Zambute, the pattern of comms just looked wrong. Then it was just a matter of intercepting the telephone calls, which took a while…”

  “Spare me the technical details,” I said, looking pointedly at Ruben’s knife. “Tell me about what happened back at the prison.”

  “Zhang Ki turned out to be a freelancer, he wanted out of China. He’s just a thief,” he said. “I had no idea he’d order his men to attack us.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I said. “Why didn’t you report Easter?”

  “I was going to,” he replied. “I knew Amelia was suspicious of her, as was Brodie.” He sniffed bloody snot, shivering despite the heat. “But after the second job, I realised we had an ideal opportunity to steal the Zambutan government’s slush fund. Easter had compromised the operation, and the cash disappeared. I put it to Easter, told her I knew about her treachery but we could share the money if she was up for it.”

  “So it is your fault,” snapped Ruben.

  “No, you don’t understand,” he cried. “Zhang Ki was involved in the theft too. Easter roped him into it. I told Easter that after the money was transferred out of Switzerland, it was stored at the same prison Murray was held in. It was an amazing opportunity: we could kill two birds with one stone. But the plan was Easter’s and the Chinese ambush must have been her idea.”

  “That’s convenient,” I snapped. “So you were just following orders?”

  “Yes, for Christ’s sake!” Hugo gasped. “She cooked up the idea about the Chinese electronic warfare kit as a pretext to getting me into the prison, so I could hack the security system and take the money. That’s why you didn’t get to see all the plans and learn there was a vault down there…”

  “So you were blackmailing her?”

  “Exactly,” he said hopefully. “I know my hands aren’t clean, but I swear I had no idea she planned to double-cross me too. I got too big for my boots, I realise that now. I’m just the technical guy.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re still here, trying to employ a hawaladar,” I smiled. “We know you were negotiating with one.”

  Hugo’s eyes widened, caught in a lie. “I’ve got my share,” he said desperately, his voice slipping into a near-babble. “We split up. I wanted nothing else to do with her, and it was the perfect way to move my cash. It’s totally untraceable.”

  “And where are the rest of the team?”

  “Easter and Zhang took them hostage.”

  Hugo might have been able to hack a Swiss bank, but he was a poor liar. “What about the cargo ship you’ve chartered via Julius Adoyo, The Cleopatra? You’ve asked for, what, six berths?”

  “Jesus, you’re full of shit,” Ruben spat. The knife flashed. A quivering chunk of flesh flopped wetly to the floor.

  “My ear…” Hugo cried, clamping a hand to the side of his head.

  “Cal,” said Oz, striding into the room. “You’ve gotta come and see this…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I left Hugo with Bytchakov. The SIS man sobbed and clutched the side of his head, realising he was now doing a passable impression of Vincent Van Gogh.

  Oz led me and Ruben into a master bedroom. The domed ceiling had been painted with now-faded frescoes of palm trees. Snakes and lions crept through them, looking for prey.

  “Here,” said Bannerman, letting out a whistle. “Look at this, it’s Christmas, Hogmanay and ma fucking birthday all in one.”

  It was the canvas sacks we’d seen the spooks take from the bowels of the prison.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  “Fuck me,” Ruben Grey gasped.

  “That’s a lot of sweets and Airfix kits,” Oz laughed.

  The first bag was stuffed with glossy green blocks of vacuum-packed bank notes, US dollars, UK Sterling and Euros.

  The second contained more cash, plus velvet-covered stacks of jewellery boxes. Oz opened several, treasure spilling out onto the floor like a dragon’s hoard. “I bet these aren’t chocolate,” he smiled, picking up a gold coin the size of a saucer.

  The last bag contained pressurised specialist art containers. I spotted a Renoir, Orthodox icons and a couple of Old Masters, as well as sickly yellow blocks of a resinous substance. A rogue Faberge egg rolled on the floor, golden filigree glinting invitingly.

  “What are those?” I said, nudging the blocks with my toecap.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Bannerman, crouching down and picking one up. It wobbled slightly, like thick jelly. “See inside there?” he continued, pointing at some glittering objects entombed in the resin.

  “Fuck me, these are diamonds,” said Ruben Grey, running an expert eye over the loot. “You don’t get shit like this knocking off your local H. Samuel with a sawn-off. These are all at least fifty-point stones, uncut.”

  The gold glittered in the shadowy light. We’d all heard about conflict diamonds, the forbidden fruit of Africa’s vast natural resources. “How much do you reckon?”

  “I dunno,” Ruben replied, “but there’s a fair few million here, less laundering fees. Those sit at thirty to forty per cent, last time I checked. Jesus, I never thought that plum Hugo had it in him.”

  “Well, the only question is how we get this loot out of here so we can retire,” Bannerman grinned. “I fancy somewhere extradition-lite, with hot and cold running lap-dancers.”

  He had a point. “Sure, Duncan, after we find Murray and Easter.”

  “What?” He snapped.

  “Whoah, listen to Cal,” said Oz. “Now ain’t the time to get gold-fever. The last thing we need is The Firm after us: you wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy the dough.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but now wasn’t the time. The money would make a mighty war chest for the day I planned on taking the bastards on.

  Duncan pulled a face, teeth bared like a cornered wolf. He knew we were right, but was too proud to admit it. “I suppose I’ll follow orders for a change,” he sulked, jabbing a finger at the sacks. “But I want my share.”

  “You will,” I sa
id. “When we get Easter’s location from Hugo we’ll…”

  A burst of gunfire riddled the room, masonry and plaster chopped to pieces by high calibre rounds. Bannerman groaned as he was thrown on his back. I rolled to the floor, bullets blasting holes in the wall like a devilish power-tool. Downstairs, I heard return fire, Bytchakov’s weapon chattering in reply.

  “I’ve got him,” shouted Ruben, crawling towards Bannerman.

  “On me,” I yelled.

  We scurried from the room, onto the balcony overlooking the hall. A group of grey-hooded men were hurrying up the stairs, weapons ready. They, like the other guards, looked Somali. Oz and I opened fire, hosing the hall with bullets. Two men crumpled and fell, the others ducking back into cover. The muzzle of a rifle popped into view and spat fire.

  The stairway was suddenly a maelstrom of gun-smoke, muzzle flash and hot brass. An injured gunman scrabbled on the ground, our bullets punching bloody gobbets of meat from his body. He twitched like an electrocuted man as he died. More men flooded into view, firing wildly.

  I hit the deck. Squinting through the iron sights of my AK, I exhaled and squeezed the trigger, a stream of bullets stitching across the hallway below. I flinched at the volley of return fire, splinters of glass and plaster peppering my face. On the balcony to my right, Oz continued to fire, face calm. It was like watching a robot with a Kalashnikov attached, the ex-SBS man coolly hosing fire into the hall.

  I climbed out of cover, the stairwell littered with bodies. Taking the steps two at a time, I ducked into a small room on the ground floor. I snatched up an RPG from a dead fighter, the bulbous green rocket ready to fire. Glancing out of the window, I saw two rusty pick-ups screech to a halt outside. One of the pick-ups had a recoilless rifle mounted on the flat-bed, a machinegun fitted in front of the passenger seat. The pick-ups were crudely camouflaged in muddy hues, black flags decorated with Arabic lettering fluttering from the aerials. It was The Shadow of Swords. I pulled a face, imagining a suicide truck or solo bomber wearing a Semtex waistcoat rushing us. I had no doubt they’d think nothing of levelling the villa.

  Bytchakov opened fire, scattering our attackers. Two men on the pick-up worked a round into the recoilless rifle, flinching as bullets hissed by them. I aimed the RPG-7 at the trucks then looked over my shoulder. There was a wall directly behind me. Aiming my AK at the wall, I emptied a magazine into the plasterboard, making a tall U-shape. Kicking and stamping, I made a hole into the corridor beyond. Now I had an exhaust port for the RPG back-blast. As it was I was already likely to turn myself into a boil-in-the-bag meal, but there were too many attackers for our depleted force to fight off with small-arms.

  Sighting the RPG on the engine block of the technical, I squeezed the trigger. The back-blast roared behind me, the rocket-propelled grenade zipping across the compound. It detonated a metre high and right of my aiming point, into the open cab of the vehicle. Several bodies were tossed into the air like dummies by the explosion, lacerated by white-hot shrapnel. The first truck was also on fire, gunmen taking cover wherever they could. The recoilless rifle was gone, its crew lying motionless on the floor.

  Oz appeared at my shoulder, looking at the smoking hole in the wall behind me. “What did I tell you about firing rockets indoors?”

  The gunmen retreated to the walls beyond the compound. Oz crouched by the window, his AK aimed at the gate. Incoming RPGs exploded on the ground floor.

  “I’m going to see Alex,” I said.

  The American was sprawled on the floor of the main living room, peering over the iron sights of his Kalashnikov. Behind him, Hugo sprawled on his back in a puddle of grey-and-red gloop. The top of his head was missing, like a neatly cracked egg.

  “Marksman took him out,” Bytchakov sniffed. “He’s on a ship out there. Whoever the shooter is, he’s good.”

  Getting on my belly, I slithered across the room. Bytchakov tossed me the flat green video panel for the PD-100. The toy-sized surveillance drone sat in front of him, rotor blades spinning. I manipulated the controls and it took off, tiny cameras panning and tilting as it drifted through the window. In the dying light, I saw the outline of a cargo ship. I guessed it was The Cleopatra, the charter Hugo had negotiated with Julius Adoyo.

  “What’s it like out front?” he asked.

  I landed the tiny helicopter on the bare stone floor. It buzzed like a wasp and the rotor-blades powered down. “It could be worse,” I replied. “We’ve screwed their trucks.”

  “OK, Captain. Let me know when there’s a plan.”

  Crawling back into the lobby, I headed for the stairs. A half-hearted volley of gunfire rang out, bullets smashing into the blood-slicked marble floor. Oz returned fire, muzzle flash lighting up the room. Upstairs, Ruben was kneeling over Bannerman. The Scotsman’s face was a rictus of pain, one side of his uniform soaked in blood.

  “How is he?” I said.

  “Not as bad as it looks,” Ruben replied, pushing a field dressing onto his shoulder. “The first bullet hit his body armour dead centre, the second looks like it’s a ricochet. The bullet’s embedded itself in his upper arm.

  “It hurts like fuck nurse,” Bannerman groaned, eyes watering. “Gimme some disco biscuits.”

  “Typical Jock, all he’s interested in is getting off his tits,” said Ruben.

  I left them bickering and crawled on my belly over to the window. I had a panoramic view, tracking from the sea to the front of the compound. Carefully, I raised my head high enough to take a look. Dead ahead, the ship steamed towards us. It was a rust-streaked tub, fifties vintage, about sixty metres long. It was still too far away for me to see anyone on the bridge much less the sniper lurking on board. To my right, gunmen had taken cover in the trees and behind smouldering pick-ups.

  “Ruben, once you’ve patched Duncan up, can you go and get Bytchakov? I want him up here with the RPG, in case we have to warn that ship off.”

  However grave the tactical situation, we had the loot. If they wanted it, they’d have to either come and get it by force or negotiate. Using heavy weapons would risk destroying their booty, something I was confident they’d want to avoid.

  Ruben nodded as he finished tying off a field dressing. Bannerman was sitting with his back to the wall, left arm lying uselessly in his lap. With his free hand he lit a full strength Marlboro Red. “These things will kill me one day,” he grinned.

  I heard Oz’s voice from downstairs. “Cal, come down.” I darted across the lobby, the blown-off doors giving a view onto the compound where enemy gunmen lurked.

  Oz was standing in a tiled room to the rear of the house, in what had once been a kitchen. Stood with him, breathless and standing in a pool of seawater, was Tom Dancer. “Glad you made it,” he gasped. Dancer was still wearing the fatigues he’d worn on the raid, soaked through and ripped, his ruddy face bruised and swollen. He had no weapons or equipment.

  I levelled my AK at him. “Tom, until you can persuade me otherwise, you’re a hostile.”

  “Agreed,” said Oz.

  “Cal, calm the fuck down,” he said gently.

  “Hugo told me your girlfriend is responsible for this fuck-up,” I said. “Am I right?”

  “She is,” he nodded sadly. “I’ve been taken for a ride. Put the bloody gat down, Cal. I’ve just swum half a mile. I had to kill a sentry to get away. Is Hugo here?”

  I kept the barrel of my rifle aimed at his chest. “Hugo’s dead.”

  “Good riddance,” spat the ex-SAS man. “He was a fucking weasel. Did he tell you about the plan he and Easter cooked up? Amelia and Brodie have the evidence.”

  “Hugo told us a bullshit version of it, yeah,” I replied. “Now tell me yours, because I’m sure you swimming all the way here had nothing to do with the loot upstairs.”

  “For God’s sake,” Dancer snapped. “I knew nothing about the money until Easter and Hugo hi-jacked the chopper. They took me out first, stabbed me with some sort of muscle relaxant. When the Puma took ground fire we had
to do an emergency landing at a mine complex. The Chinese arrived and murdered Steve and Idris. Amelia and Brodie are still on the ship out there, Easter’s holding them hostage.”

  “If Easter was in bed with the Chinese, why did they shoot down the chopper?” asked Oz.

  “Fog of war,” he shrugged. “No plan survives first contact with the enemy and all that. Easter’s business partner, a Chinese colonel called Zhang, wasn’t in a position to let his superiors know what he was up to. He had to set up a battle instead. Only a handful of his senior NCOs were in on it, they’re on that ship with him.”

  “You haven’t mentioned Mel,” I said, “remember, your best friend?”

  “He’s alive, trussed up with the others,” he said, looking hurt. “God knows what the plan is for us all? Maybe they want to use the dirt from CORACLE as leverage?”

  “So what’s their plan?” I asked. “Who are the guys outside?”

  “According to Easter, Zhang Ki did a deal with the Xaboyo to provide local muscle. The guys outside are Xaboyo, ex-Shadow of Swords militia.”

  I lowered my rifle and laughed. “You’re telling me MI6 officers did a deal with a Chinese marine colonel and Al-Qaeda affiliates to pull off a glorified bank robbery?”

  “It’s a lot of money,” said Oz.

  “Yes, you’ve got to hand it to Juliet,” Dancer winced. “And there was me saying she lacked ambition. I’ve overheard her speaking to Zhang Ki. I got the gist of their plan.”

  I pointed to the bodies littering the hall. “Grab a weapon, Tom. Our only option is to break out, get Murray and head for Afuuma. We can link-up with the rebels and head back to Kenya.”

  “The Zambutan cache is still here?” Dancer asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Good,” he said. “The guys outside are meant to protect the handover. There’s a financier coming to pick the loot up, a…”

  “…Hawaladar called Muxsin Ahmed,” I finished. “I know the plan, Tom, we tracked Hugo from Afuuma.”

  Dancer’s eyes were wide, “you’ve being doing your homework. The money and the diamonds belong to the people of Zambute,” he continued. “Mel will be adamant about that. We need to return it…”