The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “Colonel, with the greatest respect, I left fighting to you and extraction planning to me. This needs to look half-convincing, if we’re all to enjoy a productive retirement.”

  Alan Brodie appeared, holding a rifle like it might bite him. The GCHQ technician pushed a badly beaten woman in front of him. Covered in filth and bruises, it was Juliet Easter. She smiled at me through swollen lips. “Credit where credit’s due, Cal: this bitch totally fooled me,” she said.

  Despite everything, I felt a surge of relief she wasn’t the Bad Apple. “You’ve set her up,” I said to Duclair. “Easter’s the fall girl, right?”

  “No, he set her up,” smiled Duclair, nodding at a spaced-out Tom Dancer. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you, Juliet… an affair with an upper-crust ex-SAS hero? Too much pillow talk, I’d say. You really are a sanctimonious cretin, lecturing me about operational security?”

  “Fuck you,” Easter grunted. She was wearing the clothes she’d worn on the prison assault, ripped and blood-stained. Her hair was matted, eyes blood-shot and swollen.

  “Duclair tried to get me to report you to SIS,” I said to Easter. “Amelia said the whole team had their doubts about you.”

  “My whole team were bent,” Easter spat, “and I never saw it coming.”

  “Gag them,” Duclair hissed. “Tom, for God’s sake get up and head for the ship. We’re going to leave two bags with the hawaladar and take one with us.”

  Dancer swayed slightly, hand clasped to his neck. “But we agreed…”

  “Just do it,” she barked, eyes narrowing. “You’re not in any state to make decisions. I’ve compromised with Zhang on this one, and that’s it.”

  Zhang Ki nodded respectfully. “Yes, Miss Duclair. Thank you.”

  Dancer staggered out of the room, hand clamped to his neck.

  “Where’s Murray?” said Duclair, motioning at Brodie.

  “I’ll get him,” said the GCHQ man, “he’s in the dinghy with Zhang’s men.”

  It made sense now, the photographs and comms data I’d found in Brodie’s room. They were stitching Easter up, fabricating evidence that tied their dirty satellite phone to the team leader.

  “They put together a fake comms package,” I said. “A lot of work went into making it look like you were making the calls to Zhang Ki.”

  Easter pulled a face, “how could I have been so blind?”

  “They could put the blame for mission failure on you,” I continued. “They had data, photographs, everything...”

  “I’m sure they did,” she replied. “And now, I suspect, comes the carefully orchestrated executions, to tie up any loose ends for their exfil plan.”

  “Shut up,” said Duclair, eyes darting around the room.

  “Can I ask one more question?” I said. I shook my head as a Chinese marine went to gag me.

  Duclair shrugged.

  “Why did you do it? And where were you when Operation STOWAGE was compromised? That was your alibi, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s two questions,” she smiled. Her eyes, piercing and blue, flashed. I guessed she was enjoying this, a fully-fledged risk junkie. There was adrenaline and dopamine pumping around her system, playing high-risk poker in one of the most dangerous places on earth.

  “I suppose it is,” I shrugged.

  “Perhaps the answer is the same,” she shrugged, a thin smile on her face. “I was on leave in the UK eighteen months ago, visiting my sister-in-law. My little brother died in Afghanistan, an IED attack. His first child was born a month later. I loved my brother. Matthew meant more to me than anything else in the world.”

  “That doesn’t explain anything.”

  “Oh, it does. Rachel, my sister-in-law, was left with nothing. She was given a medal and a shitty widow’s pension, less than the profit on a flipped MPs mortgage. So, Cal, let me throw the question right back at you… Why? Why were we in some godforsaken medieval country, trying to tame savages? Why? Every time you see some lying bastard politician on the TV, talking about how essential it is, don’t you want to wring the bastard’s neck?”

  Next to her, Zhang Ki nodded his agreement.

  Duclair tightened her grip on her rifle. “Why does every bastard politician who starts one of these stupid fucking wars end up a millionaire? Why don’t they ever send their kids down a two-way range?” Her eyes flashed as she drew breath, “and why do we always end up with the shitty end of the stick?”

  “If you want to ask questions like that, lady,” said Bytchakov, “you shouldn’t have joined. You weren’t forced, and neither was your brother. He sounds like he was a better person than you…”

  “Didn’t I tell you to gag these men?” Duclair yelled, face flushed. “Zhang, have them gagged, except for Easter and Winter. When Murray arrives we finish this.”

  Zhang Ki translated and his men roughly wound tape around the men’s faces.

  Duclair took a knee, close enough for me to smell her perfume. She was clean and wearing fresh makeup, her voice low. She smiled her vixen’s smile. “So there’s your answer. People like us take all the risk for shit pay and no thanks, while the creatures above us thrive. So I decided, sitting there with my sister-in-law, trying not to notice that she’s on a bottle of vodka a day to numb the pain… that if I ever saw the chance I’d take it. My nephew will never want for anything again. Neither will his mother and neither will I…”

  “And you took the rest of your team with you?”

  “They didn’t take much persuading. It was a theoretical challenge for Hugo, and Brodie hated Juliet so much he’d do anything to see her screwed over. Never underestimate a geek genius with a grudge.”

  “And what about Dancer?” I said.

  “Dancer, well he’s a piece of work.” Duclair chuckled throatily, tossing her head at Easter, “after he’d fucked you, Juliet, he’d come and tell me everything you discussed for me to pass on to Zhang. Then I’d fuck him, while he still smelt of you.”

  Easter ignored the barb, stared blankly at the wall.

  Duclair laughed. “I served in the army with officers like you, Juliet. Oxygen-stealing creeps who thought the whole thing was worth a toss. All for some shiny medals and your head patted by the brass. Jesus, I despise you.”

  Brodie came back into the room, pushing a quivering Mel Murray in front of him. Murray, like Easter, had been badly beaten. He was a broken man, eyes black pits of despair. Brodie pushed him to the ground, the ex-SAS colonel collapsing into a gibbering ball.

  “Well, here we are,” said Duclair brightly, like we were at an English country picnic. She pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and tossed copies of the statements Zhang Ki had tried to force us to sign. Of course, they corroborated the narrative she’d fabricated. “I have a deal. Sign the statements and you’ll die quickly and cleanly. Refuse and I’ll leave you to the Xaboyo. They make ISIS look like social workers when it comes to their treatment of prisoners.”

  “Your generosity is staggering,” I replied. “Fuck you, I’ll take my chances.”

  “As you wish,” she shrugged, uttering a few words in Arabic. A tall Xaboyo warrior entered the room, Kalashnikov levelled at me. His face was a study in cruelty, narrowed eyes flashing with hate.

  Duclair couldn’t have known I spoke Arabic. She told the Xaboyo to kill us slowly, that we were the worst type of Zionist-loving western Kaffur. Then she explained that two of the Chinese marines would wait for the hawaladar, to hand over the last sack of cash. She warned that if the sack wasn’t delivered, then the Xaboyo would be hunted and killed by the Chinese.

  The Xaboyo leader growled at being threatened by a woman, but agreed to her instructions anyway. No doubt they were being paid handsomely for their trouble.

  “Good luck,” she hissed at us. “I’m sure you’ll go down in SIS lore as brave chaps, dying at the hands of Johnny Foreigner on a mission for Queen and Country.”

  “If you change your minds about the statements, we’ll be in screaming distance for another f
ew minutes,” said Zhang Ki. He chuckled and shouldered his assault pack. His men dragged the dead marine’s body away, washing away the blood and policing the scene for any clues they’d been there. “It was nice to meet you, Colonel Murray.”

  Murray was still curled in a ball, eyes wild.

  The tall Xaboyo started issuing orders. More militiamen rushed into the room, jabbing at us with rifles and the tips of machetes. Outside, I could hear the flames from the fire I’d started, smelt the stinking smoke drifting through the open window.

  “What now?” Easter whispered.

  A Xaboyo tribesman answered her question, kicking her in the belly then grasping at the waistband of her fatigues. The rest laughed as their leader unbuckled his belt.

  “I would ’nae do that if I were you,” said Duncan Bannerman, ripping off his gag with his injured hand. He staggered forward, into the middle of the hall.

  The Xaboyo looked up. Bannerman held a fragmentation grenade in front of him, the pin dangling from his finger. I realised it was the item he’d taken from the Chinese marine’s belt kit during the earlier melee. “Get away from the woman,” he hissed. “Or I swear to God we’ll all die.”

  I translated Bannerman’s threat into Arabic. “He has nothing to lose, he will kill us all. If you think Duclair will keep her word, you’re a fool.”

  “What do you mean?” the Xaboyo leader grunted, buckling his belt.

  “This is a trap, for my country’s traitors,” I explained, sounding more confident than I felt. “I was sent to catch them by my Government. Take me to the hawaladar and I’ll explain.”

  “No, I gave my word to the Chinese,” he said proudly.

  “Alex,” I said, “you can take the gag off.”

  Alex ripped the tape away and got to his feet, pushing away the rifle muzzles. Some of the younger fighters saw the look in his eyes and retreated.

  “Is the nearest CIA SAD station in Djibouti?” I whispered. Rumour had it the US Special Activities Division operated a covert Aerial Interdiction Program in East Africa, codename URGENT STEPPE. That was spook jargon for a deniable Reaper Drone team. They had three birds constantly in the air, sniffing out High-Value Targets.

  “They moved it last time I heard,” he replied.

  “How long does it take them to respond to an urgent HVT?”

  The American shrugged. “It depends on how much due diligence they have to run, and whether they’ve got a bird on-station. Assuming it’s in Kenya…”

  “Let’s say zero due diligence,” I replied. “A juicy HVT, top five say?”

  “Speak in my language,” ordered the Xaboyo leader. He recognised the English acronym for High Value Target and was all ears.

  “Wait,” I replied in Arabic, “this is important, I swear. Our lives depend on it.”

  The Xaboyo told his men to shut up, be calm but keep their weapons readied. Bannerman grinned, waving the grenade slowly in front of him. The look in his eyes suggested he’d be happy to use it.

  Bytchakov did some math in his head. “A Reaper MQ9 flies at three-hundred miles per hour; if it’s on station then I guess they could be sighted on target in a half hour?”

  The English word Reaper got the Xaboyo’s attention too.

  I glanced at my watch. I estimated it was at least thirty minutes since Dancer had taken my phone, maybe longer.

  “Cal, what the hell are you talking about?” said the American.

  “I activated Fallen Eagle on my satellite phone, when Dancer asked how to figure out the call register. It’s geo-located to the handset.”

  “Where’s the phone?” Easter asked.

  “Clipped on Dancer’s belt,” I replied. “And he’s drugged up to the eyeballs.”

  “Englishman, start talking,” the Xaboyo hissed. “Or we will kill you. I say to hell with your crazy friend and his grenade.”

  I pushed past the crowd of gunmen and jogged to the open window. The cargo ship was edging along the coast, lights twinkling on deck. “Give me until the hawaladar arrives,” I shrugged. “Until then, watch the sea.”

  The tall Xaboyo roughly grabbed my shoulder, breath sour in my face. I smelt the sharp tang of his sweat as he went to say something…

  …And The Cleopatra exploded with a sound like a thunderclap, a ball of white flame rippling from the centre of the hull. A secondary explosion rocked the cargo ship, tossing it like a child’s bath-time toy. We watched it disappear into fizzing black water, leaving nothing but burning wreckage bobbing on the surface.

  All of us, Xaboyo and Westerner alike, watched the fireworks together in awe.

  Easter laughed giddily, like a mad woman. “Burn, you bitch!”

  “That was Fallen Eagle? It was meant to rescue us,” said Oz, eyes wide.

  “There’s a lesson well-learnt.” I looked at the tall Xaboyo. “You know what that was, don’t you?”

  “Hellfire,” whispered the Jihadi in English, invoking the word like a curse.

  “Yes, it was Hellfire. There are thirteen more on that bird. If you don’t let us go, you’re next. The drone is circling now, but if it sees you leaving this place you’ll be unharmed. You have my word.”

  “You try to trick us,” he hissed.

  “No, I’m giving you a chance to live. To the south are the rebels. They want to destroy you. To the west are tanks from the Zambutan 21st Brigade, and the 2nd Regiment of the Presidential Commando. Guess what? They want to kill you too. To the east is the sea…”

  The tall Xaboyo bawled at his men, telling them to return to their vehicles and head north.

  “Yes, my friend,” I said in Arabic, “and above us is a Reaper MQ9 drone, controlled by The Great-fucking-Satan. If I were you, I’d leave that sack of money and head back to Somalia.”

  The tall Xaboyo looked at me for a moment, rage burning in his eyes. Then he sucked in his pride. He glanced at Bannerman and saw the grenade, realised the crazy Scotsman was as good as his word.

  “The bags,” I said. Stepping forward, I scooped up the Claymore from Bannerman’s assault pack and unsheathed it.

  Bannerman laughed.

  “Give me the bags,” I repeated, the sword blade flashing in the torchlight. “Or as God is my witness, you’ll fall under the shadow of this sword.” It was a tad theatrical, but I was in the mood. I stepped forward, the edge of the blade ready to strike.

  The Xaboyo hissed an order and backed away. Bannerman limped towards them, brandishing the grenade. “Fuck off, the lot of you!” he bawled, like the madman he was.

  Oz and Alex picked up Murray, Easter snatching up a rifle. She passed the weapon to me and picked up another. Outside, The Red House was streaked with dirty smoke, the compound swathed in fire and still-smouldering vehicles. Flaming sparks carried on the smoke, into the scrub where fresh fires flared.

  The tall Xaboyo stepped closer. Behind him, two of his men carried the bulky grey sacks. I pointed at the stars. “Do you see the drone, that bright light?” I was bluffing. The Reaper would be too high to see.

  The Xaboyo looked skywards anyway. “Take the money, kaffur,” he spat. “I hope it brings you nothing but misery and death.”

  “You have a nice day too,” I replied. The Jihadis melted into the desert night, the engines of their pick-ups revving as they fled. They’d decided today wasn’t theirs for martyrdom.

  Oz was still shaking his head. “The bastards were going to blow us up?”

  I nodded.

  Our little group staggered towards the road. In the distance I saw headlights on the Via Roma, heard the clanking of military vehicles.

  “I hope that’s the rebels,” said Oz.

  I clutched Easter’s trembling hand, felt her racing pulse, “so do I.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Antwerp

  “The cheque will clear in seventy-two hours,” I said, my breath making clouds in the chilly evening air. “The account is with a bank in Zurich, called Tete Noir.”

  Juliet’s hand rested on my arm. �
��Thanks, Cal.”

  Killing two birds with one stone, I’d accessed the safety deposit box the week before. The code Isaac Samuels had given me was good, unlocking a long-forgotten steel tray in the bowels of the Swiss bank vault. The contents, reams of type-written reports, were more valuable to me than any diamonds.

  Juliet and I strolled along Wisselstraat, towards the Christmas market on the Grote Markt. People walked happily through the bustling, brightly lit streets. Snow had fallen earlier, the city resembling a Victorian Christmas card. It was scenic, but I’d chosen the route because it would be a nightmare for a surveillance team.

  Everybody knows Amsterdam is the centre of the world diamond trade, which was why I’d chosen Antwerp. Belgium’s diamond industry is almost as big as the Netherlands’, but twice as discreet. The old Jewish guy, a central casting Hasidim with glasses like the bottom of coke bottles, was happy to move our share of the diamonds. Of course, that was less a fifteen per cent handling fee. We were paying another fifteen to launder it, but I’m one of those old-fashioned guys who reckon seventy per cent of a tax-free haul of cash is better than none.

  She squeezed my hand, her face gaunt.

  “Cheer up,” I smiled. “You’re not in debt and you can look after your brother properly now.” Juliet had used her share of the loot to buy her disabled sibling a specially-adapted house near the family home in Winchester. That and the best medical treatment money could buy, for the rest of his life.

  “I know,” Juliet replied, a wan smile on her face. “I should shake myself out of it.” She wore a waxed jacket, jeans and knee-boots, a thick woollen scarf around her neck. She looked good and smelt good, the scars and bruises from Zambute faded. Well, the physical ones, anyway.

  “It takes time, dealing with stuff like this,” I said gently. Since Zambute my nightmares had stopped. Learning more about The Firm helped too, the gaps between the bars on my cage getting wider.

  Soon I’d blow the cage apart.

  “Mel was right,” she continued, “about the diamonds. It’s not our money.”