Predator: A Crossbow Novel

by Wilbur Smith

  “One last important point about the guards: they’re armed, but only with pistols, rather than any fully automatic weapons. Turns out the gun-control laws are surprisingly strict in Venezuela. All guns apart from licensed hunting weapons are banned for private citizens. So the guards carry pistols, keep them well hidden and the local police turn a blind eye. So now the second group of people at the house: domestic staff.”

  Cross pressed the key several times in quick succession and a series of images of men and women in different uniforms flashed by. “There’s about a dozen in all: the housekeeper, the chauffeur, plus assorted maids, cooks, gardeners and car-mechanics, some of them resident at the property, others just part-timers. Our only interest in them will be making sure they don’t get in our way.”

  “So how are we going to do it?” asked Paddy O’Quinn.

  “Very carefully,” Hector answered him. “This isn’t like charging into Africa, landing a bloody great plane filled with trucks and ordnance in the middle of nowhere and blasting away anything that moves. We’ll be operating in a guarded house in a fancy neighborhood, in the capital city of a relatively wealthy, sophisticated western nation. So, just for a start, we can’t take any weapons into the country. In fact we’re going to be completely unarmed when we breach the perimeter—which reminds me, something I forgot to say earlier: there’s an alarm system, a good one: cameras, motion sensors, pressure pads, panic buttons, the works. The feed from the CCTV cameras goes to the gatehouse. All the alarms are connected to the local emergency services. And one final thing: the doors to the house itself have all got keypad locks, each with a different code, and no one apart from Congo knows all the different codes.”

  “Excuse me for repeating myself,” said O’Quinn, “but once again: how are we going to do it?”

  Cross grinned: “Easy. So gather around, children, and I’ll tell you how . . .”

  Hector needed three men for the Caracas job, so he made a quick trip to Abu Zara, where Cross Bow’s main operational base was located: there and back in under twenty-four hours. He spoke to half a dozen of his best men, telling them that he was looking for volunteers for an off-the-books mission, making it very clear that this was highly risky work that could end up with any or all of them in jail, or in the ground. More than once he was asked, “Are you going after Congo?” He didn’t reply to the questions, which was all the men needed to know. They all said they were up for it and so Cross drew lots, selecting Tommy Jones, Ric Nolan and Carl Schrager, who were veterans of the Parachute Regiment, SAS and U.S. Army Rangers respectively. They were booked on to separate flights that would take them on three different routes to Caracas. They were all staying in different hotels, just as Paddy O’Quinn and Hector himself would be doing.

  Before he returned to London, Cross gave them a thorough briefing on precisely what he had in mind. Valencia had by now managed to get hold of the original architect’s plans for Chateau Congo and the men were given PDF copies and told to memorize them before they left Abu Zara, because they weren’t taking anything with them that could possibly link them to the property. On the night of the operation, they wouldn’t be carrying any form of ID.

  “If anyone’s KIA, they’ll have to be put into an unmarked grave,” said Cross bluntly. “But I’ll know, and I’ll make sure your loved ones are looked after.”

  The final instruction he gave them was to make sure they would be able to dress for action head to toe in black. “It’s stating the bleeding obvious, but don’t wear it all on the flight, or stick it all in the same case. I don’t want you walking into immigration at Caracas looking like a bloody SWAT team. Wear a black T-shirt, pack the black trousers—that’s pants to you, Schrager.”

  “Yeah, he is pants and all,” bantered Jones.

  “Balaclavas go in the carry-on. Roll ’em up so they look like socks. Right, any questions?”

  Cross dealt with a few queries about the practicalities of the journey to Caracas and how to make contact when they got there. He listed a few items of civilian equipment that should be brought for use on the night. “Right, gentlemen,” he concluded. “Next time I see you, it’ll be in Caracas on the night of the mission. Good luck . . . and good hunting.”

  The Duchêne apartment was located on the first and second floors of a mansion block on the Avenue de Breteuil, within a stone’s throw of both the Eiffel Tower and the Invalides. It was the epitome of Parisian elegance and sophistication. The building looked out on to a broad, tree-lined esplanade that provided a delicious sliver of parkland—immaculate lawns and paths made for slow, romantic strolls—running beside the avenue. Nastiya stood on the edge of the esplanade, in the shadow of the trees and watched for a few minutes as a stream of limousines disgorged the evening’s guests. The men were mostly dressed in anonymous suits and ties, though a few signaled their intellectual leanings in the slightly longer hair that was immaculately swept back off their foreheads and over their ears; the shirts daringly unbuttoned to mid-chest and the casually draped velvet scarves that kept those exposed, middle-aged ribcages protected from the winter chill. The women, of course, were as fanatically dieted, groomed, coiffed and couture-clad as Paris, that most fashionable of all cities, demanded.

  Nastiya paid particular attention to the women. She was looking for signs of competition: single, predatory females who might have their own reasons for wishing to seduce a rich, handsome African leader-in-exile. Having made her assessment, she emerged from the trees, picked her way across the road and went through an arched gateway lit by flaming torches that led to an inner courtyard on to which the main entrance to the building opened. A line of guests awaiting admission trailed down the low flight of broad stone steps that led up to double doors, both open. These were flanked by a pair of black-suited security guards, complete with earpieces and, Nastiya noted, guns holstered beneath their jackets. Every so often a guest would be asked, very politely, to step to one side to be frisked. Just inside the door, two more female operatives were casting an eye into all the women’s bags. Finally another pair of younger, prettier women in matching cocktail dresses were checking guests’ names and IDs against a list. The very visible security precautions only added to the cachet of the event. They suggested the presence of something genuinely dangerous: an idea of liberty by which a government might be threatened and against which it might act. And that, she knew, would only serve to flatter the guests and make them feel all the more daring for attending.

  Nastiya made her way past all the various checks and into a hallway floored in white marble on which exquisitely patterned Persian rugs had been laid. The magnificent staircase that rose up from an atrium to the first floor was marble, too, with an iron balustrade whose pattern was picked out with dashes of gold. Family portraits, lit by electric candelabra, lined the walls of the atrium, as if to remind anyone who wished to enter the Duchênes’ apartment that this was a family that could trace its line back through the centuries and would surely endure for centuries more to come. Waiters stood poised at the top of the stairs, bearing silver trays on which glasses of champagne sparkled invitingly. Nastiya took one and walked into the main salon. All the furniture, bar a few antique armchairs, had been removed to allow maximum space for guests to mingle, talk, admire themselves in the full-length mirrored panels set into the wood-panelled walls, or wander out through the three sets of French windows on to a terrace surrounded by stone balustrades and warmed by patio heaters.

  A small dais with a microphone had been placed at the far end of the room, in front of a grand marble fireplace which was now flanked by a pair of loudspeakers on stands. Nastiya had just completed a circuit of the entire room and terrace when she saw a man who she knew to be almost eighty walk up onto the dais. This was Jérome Duchêne, the family patriarch. Now I know where da Cunha gets his looks, Nastiya thought to herself, for Duchêne could easily be taken for a handsome man in his sixties. He was still blessed with a full head of silver hair and slim enough to carry off an ensemble
of a midnight-blue velvet dinner jacket with satin lapels, open white silk shirt and narrow-cut black evening trousers. He walked up on to the dais, tapped the microphone to check that it was on and, speaking in French, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure and a father’s pride that I present to you my grandson, Mateus da Cunha!”

  There was a polite ripple of applause, followed by something that seemed like a mass intake of breath as the women in the room caught sight of their host. It was partly in the fluid, athletic way he strolled up on to the dais. His suit and shirt were both black, but his skin was a perfect, smooth café-au-lait and his features seemed to combine the strength of African features and the refinement of Nordic ones to create a perfect combination: a vision of what humanity would look like in a post-melting-pot age. He was tall and very obviously in excellent physical shape beneath his perfectly tailored clothes. But there was something more that became apparent the moment he looked around the room and was only underlined when he started to speak. It was that quality which can be called charisma, stardom, leadership, even charm, but which amounts to the ability to make oneself, without the slightest obvious effort, the center of everyone’s attention, while at the same time persuading every individual, male or female, that you are talking directly to them, that you are as fascinated by them as they are by you and that their wellbeing matters even more to you than your own. Da Cunha had it, and knew it, and every single person in the room soon knew it, too.

  Da Cunha held out his hands, palms up, as if reaching out to everyone in the room. “My friends . . . my dear friends . . . first I must begin by begging your forgiveness. Here, in the capital of France, the city of my birth, I am speaking to you in English. It is, I know, an inexcusable treason . . .” He gave an almost bashful, apologetic smile that provoked a ripple of laughter. “But there are people here tonight from many nations and it is, perhaps sadly, a fact that English is the language they are most likely to share.”

  It’s also, thought Nastiya, the language in which your French accent makes you sound the most charmingly seductive.

  “So,” da Cunha continued, “thank you all for coming tonight. Simply by being here you are expressing your belief in the dream of an independent, prosperous, peaceful nation of Cabinda. And how perfect that we are sharing this dream in the city where the greatest of all rallying cries for people yearning to be free was born: Liberté, égalité, fraternité! That freedom, that equality and that brotherhood are what I desire for my people. But those blessings cannot be secured without the support of the outside world, a support that is moral, political and—yes, I cannot deny it—also financial. And so tonight I am announcing the creation of the Cabinda Foundation, a non-profit organization that will campaign for the cause of a free Cabinda. The foundation will hold events to raise money and awareness of the political situation in Cabinda, but also, more importantly, to educate people about the beautiful land of my forefathers.

  “Now, I know what you are thinking . . .” da Cunha paused, looked around the room and again let the hint of a smile play around his lips. “Where the hell is Cabinda?”

  This time the laugh was louder, an outburst of relief that he had acknowledged what all but the African experts were thinking, and forgiven them for thinking it.

  “I will tell you. It sits on the west coast of Africa, just five degrees south of the equator, surrounded by much bigger, more powerful countries. One of these countries is Angola, which claims Cabinda as its province even though there is, as a matter of fact, no common border at all between Cabinda and Angola. This geographical reality is supported by historical precedent. Cabinda has been recognized as a distinct entity, separate from Angola, since the Treaty of Simulambuco of 1885, which was agreed between King Louis the First of Portugal and the princes and governors of Cabinda. The treaty also stated, and I quote: ‘Portugal is obliged to maintain the integrity of the territories placed under its protection.’

  “So we are not asking for something new. We are demanding that the imperialist Angolan government, along with the entire global community, recognize a Cabinda that has existed for more than a century. So, you may ask yourself, what kind of place is this country of which, until this evening, I had never previously heard? Why should I care about it? What reason can there be for investing money in this Cabinda project?

  “Well, mine is a small country, but it produces seven hundred thousand barrels of oil a day, generating enough revenue to provide an income of a hundred thousand dollars a year for every man, woman and child in the state. Think of the houses, the schools and the hospitals that could be built for those people. Think of the clean water they could drink and the roads, the airport, the telecommunications network that could be created for their benefit and that of overseas visitors and investors.”

  Again, da Cunha paused to survey the room, but this time it was not for comic effect. “And consider this: a nation state that has a population of about four hundred thousand and an income of forty billion dollars does not need to levy income tax, sales tax or property tax on its citizens, or anyone else. And to anyone who loves to lie on a sunny beach I say that this is also a country with a tropical climate, one hundred kilometers of undeveloped coastline and no jetlag for anyone flying from Europe because Cabinda is just one hour behind Central European Time.

  “My friends, I am talking of a Dubai with rainfall and lush green forests, or a Monte Carlo with oil. This is Cabinda, and I hope, and believe, that its future will be your future, and its prosperity will be your prosperity. Now, ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses and join me in a toast . . . to a free Cabinda!”

  “A free Cabinda!” a chorus of voices replied as warm applause broke out around the room.

  Da Cunha basked in the success of his speech for a moment and then said, “We are fortunate enough to have a number of respected members of the press here this evening. I am happy to take a few questions. But only a very few—this is a social occasion, after all. So if anyone would like to ask me anything, this is your chance.”

  This was Nastiya’s moment. If she could engage da Cunha now and pique his interest, she could shortcut the whole process of getting to know him. But for that to work, she had to be the last person to whom he spoke and thus the freshest in his mind. So she did nothing as an earnest-looking woman, standing directly in front of the dais, raised her hand and said, “Pascale Montmorency, from Le Monde. My question for you, Monsieur da Cunha, is this: For many years FLEC-FAC, the organization that you represent, like your father did before you, supported the use of violence as a means to gain the freedom of Cabinda. Where do you personally stand on the question of violent action?”

  Da Cunha had given a couple of thoughtful, appreciative nods as the question was asked. Now he replied, “I stand by my personal belief in seeking change by peaceful, political means, so I do not advocate violence. But I understand that when the conditions of life are intolerable, then some people will feel impelled to fight for their freedom. That has been the case for centuries. It was the case for the people of France when they rose up against the House of Bourbon in 1789, and when they resisted the Nazi occupiers of their nation during the Second World War. So I will not condemn those inside my country who wish to fight now, though I do counsel them that their actions must be proportionate and must never be targeted at the innocent. That I can never condone.”

  An unshaven man in a shabby corduroy suit and a loosened tie gave his name as Peter Guilden from the London Daily Telegraph, then said, “Isn’t that just another way of saying that you don’t want to get your hands dirty, but you don’t mind if someone else does it for you? Surely you cannot hope to persuade the Angolan government to give away the most valuable province in their entire country, just by force of argument.”

  Nastiya could see that the question irritated da Cunha, but the flash of anger in his eyes was swiftly replaced by humor as he smoothly replied, “How is it that a nation as polite as Britain can produce an institution as rude a
s the British press?”

  Guilden pressed on, ignoring the laughter around him. “We’re not rude, Mr. da Cunha, just independent. As a lover of freedom, surely you welcome that.”

  “Up to a certain point,” da Cunha said, with a very French shrug of the shoulders and pouting of the lips, earning more smiles from his audience. “But to answer your original question, I don’t believe that violent action is an essential prerequisite for regime change, or national independence. I think there comes a point when the injustice of a situation becomes intolerable to the whole world and change is then the only possibility. Violence did not end apartheid in South Africa. The Berlin Wall came down without a shot being fired. And neither South Africa nor East Germany had oil, which, as we all know, has a way of making the West pay attention. One last question . . .”

  This was Nastiya’s moment. She fixed her most dazzling smile on her face, stuck up her hand, prayed that da Cunha would notice her and was relieved to discover that she, too, could still attract attention when she wanted to.

  “The lady over there, in the green dress,” da Cunha said, looking straight into Nastiya’s eyes.

  “Maria Denisova,” she said, looking right back at him. “Forgive me, Monsieur da Cunha, I am not a member of the press, but I do have a question to ask you.”