Copyright © 2017 Andy McDermott
The right of Andy McDermott to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2017
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
eISBN: 978 1 4722 3687 6
Jacket illustration by Lee Gibbons. Images © Makushin Alexey/Shutterstock (helicopter) and Thomas Barrat/Shutterstock (background)
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
About the Book
Also By Andy McDermott
Praise
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
About the Author
Andy McDermott is the bestselling author of the Nina Wilde & Eddie Chase adventure thrillers, which have been sold in over 30 countries and 20 languages. His debut novel, THE HUNT FOR ATLANTIS, was his first of several New York Times bestsellers. KING SOLOMON’S CURSE is the fourteenth book in the series, including digital short story THE LAST SURVIVOR, and he has also written the explosive spy thriller THE PERSONA PROTOCOL.
A former journalist and movie critic, Andy is now a full-time novelist. Born in Halifax, he lives in Bournemouth with his partner and son.
About the Book
Wilde and Chase return, this time on the trail of a Biblical weapon of immense power, hidden deep in the African jungle . . .
Nina Wilde is back on the hunt. Now presenting her own TV documentary series, Nina is in Jerusalem to explore the long-lost First Temple of King Solomon, buried beneath the Temple Mount. Inside, she discovers a hidden chamber: a map room with a model of a mysterious city holding a secret concealed by Solomon himself. Analysing its clues, Nina deduces that the city is located in the Democratic Republic of Congo – one of the most dangerous countries on Earth.
Eddie is visiting family in England with their daughter Macy, but a phone call from Nina is about to change his plans. He is all too aware of the threats waiting in the Congo, and isn’t about to let his wife go there alone.
Travelling to Africa, Nina and Eddie start an explosive chain of events from which there might be no return . . .
Also by Andy McDermott and available from Headline
Featuring Nina Wilde and Eddie Chase
The Hunt for Atlantis
The Tomb of Hercules
The Secret of Excalibur
The Covenant of Genesis
The Cult of Osiris
The Sacred Vault
Empire of Gold
Temple of the Gods
The Valhalla Prophecy
Kingdom of Darkness
The Last Survivor (A Digital Short Story)
The Revelation Code
The Midas Legacy
The Persona Protocol
Praise
Praise for Andy McDermott:
‘Fabulous action sequences . . . [an] epic contemporary adventure thriller’ Sunday Guardian
‘Adventure stories don’t get much more epic than this’ Daily Mirror
‘An all-action cracker from one of Britain’s most talented adventure writers’ Lancashire Evening Post
‘If Wilbur Smith and Clive Cussler collaborated, they might have come up with a thundering big adventure blockbuster like this . . . a widescreen, thrill-a-minute ride’ Peterborough Evening Telegraph
‘True Indiana Jones stuff with terrific pace’ Bookseller
‘A true blockbuster rollercoaster ride from start to finish . . . Popcorn escapism at its very best’ Crime and Publishing
‘A rip-roaring read and one which looks set to cement McDermott’s place in the bestsellers list for years to come’ Bolton Evening News
‘Fast-moving, this is a pulse-racing adventure with action right down the line’ Northern Echo
‘A writer of rare, almost cinematic talent. Where others’ action scenes limp along unconvincingly, his explode off the page in Technicolor’ Daily Express, Scotland
‘McDermott writes like Clive Cussler on speed. The action is non-stop’ Huddersfield Daily Examiner
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Morebus for demonstrating what a double-decker bus can do when the driver doesn’t have to worry about passenger comfort – and then letting me try for myself!
For Kat and Sebastian
Prologue
Tenerife,
the Canary Islands
Eddie Chase entered the arrivals hall of Tenerife-Sur airport and greeted the man waiting for him with a mocking grin. ‘So you’ve been demoted to my chauffeur, Alderley?’
‘Actually, I’ve been promoted since we last met,’ replied Peter Alderley. ‘Avoiding you does wonders for my career.’
‘Bell-end,’ said Eddie, though with humour. The two Englishmen shook hands. Neither would have described the other as a friend, but the past dealings of the former SAS soldier and the MI6 officer had at least given them a grudging mutual respect. ‘Promoted, eh? Things must be going well.’
Alderley nodded. ‘I’m in charge of the Africa desk, reporting directly to C.’
‘And who does C report to? B?’ Eddie grinned again, knowing full well that ‘C’ – not ‘M’, despite the claims of the James Bond novels and movies – was the codename for the director of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.
The older man’s drooping moustache twitched wit
h both amusement and faint exasperation. ‘Your sense of humour hasn’t changed. Sadly. But I understand other things have. You’re a dad now?’
Eddie beamed proudly. ‘Yeah. Me and Nina’ve got a little girl, Macy. She’s two.’ He showed off her picture on his phone’s lock screen.
‘She’s got Nina’s looks,’ said Alderley of the smiling young redhead. ‘Luckily for her.’
‘Yeah, sod off.’ His expression and tone became more businesslike. ‘But you didn’t ask me to come all the way from New York to see my baby pictures. You said this was about Mukobo.’
‘I’ll tell you on the way.’ Alderley led the way to a car park. His anonymous Peugeot 308 was unpleasantly hot inside; the Canaries were off the coast of North Africa, and the sun was blazing relentlessly down on the dry landscape.
‘Not much of a spy car,’ said Eddie. ‘Still, it’s better than your rubbish old Ford Capri.’
Alderley huffed as he started the car. ‘My Capri is officially a classic.’
‘That just means ancient, though, doesn’t it?’
‘And this one’s rented. Budget cuts, across all the intelligence agencies. If it’s not related to Islamic terrorists, Russia or Brexit, its spending’s been slashed. Same for the armed forces,’ he added.
Eddie had a long-standing antipathy to the intelligence services, but anything that made the job of the soldier on the ground more difficult made him bristle. ‘Ugh. Politicians.’
‘Yeah, whoever you vote for, some bugger wins,’ said Alderley as he headed for the airport’s exit. ‘Anyway, we can talk now. All this is top secret, of course.’
‘You don’t need to tell me the rules. I signed the Official Secrets Act when I joined the forces.’
‘So you haven’t told Nina why you’re here?’
‘Nope, and she’s not happy about it. I just said you needed my help. She didn’t think that justified swanning off and leaving our little girl, and she’s probably right. But I came anyway.’ The Yorkshireman regarded Alderley intently. ‘Mukobo. I assume he’s here.’
Alderley nodded. ‘We wouldn’t have asked you to come otherwise.’
‘You need me to ID him?’
‘You’re the only person we know of who’s met him face to face. Who’s still alive, anyway. Philippe Mukobo has been, ah . . . proactive about maintaining his privacy. Hardly surprising when he’s high on Interpol’s Red List, to say nothing of the Yanks wanting to get their hands on him.’
‘For killing those aid workers.’ It was not a question but a grim statement of fact. ‘And a load of other people. I should’ve shot him when I had the chance.’
Alderley hesitated as if about to say something reassuring, but then continued with his briefing. ‘Anyway, GCHQ picked up chatter that he’d made it over here by sea. He’s since been in phone contact with a man called Provone who’s arranging a fake European Union passport for him. As the Canaries are Spanish territory, once he gets it he can travel freely from here to anywhere in Europe – even Britain, since we haven’t finished the Article 50 negotiations and left the EU yet.’
The Peugeot merged on to a motorway. ‘You know where he is right now?’ Eddie asked.
‘In a villa outside Playa de las Américas.’
‘So why haven’t you grabbed him already?’
‘As I said, we don’t know what he looks like. There are no known photos of him. And he has at least nine guards at the villa, all armed. We don’t want to risk a bloodbath. We want him alive.’
Eddie cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why? If it were up to me, I’d just shoot the sod and be done with it.’
‘Not my department, I’m afraid,’ said Alderley. ‘This is a field operation, so technically I’m only here to advise the officer in charge. Okay, technically I’m not here at all, but you know what I mean.’
‘So who’s the OIC?’
‘John Brice, one of our top field men.’
‘John Brice?’ Eddie echoed, scoffing. ‘What is it with spies having the initials JB? James Bond, Jason Bourne, Jack Bauer, and now this guy. Surprised you didn’t change your name to Jethro Bollocks or something.’
Alderley chuckled. ‘Not sure my wife would have wanted to become Mrs Bollocks. Anyway, he’s got surveillance photos of the men in the compound. If you can ID Mukobo, Brice can take it from there.’
‘You couldn’t have just emailed me the pictures?’
‘MI6 doesn’t generally send classified imagery via Gmail.’
‘Suppose not,’ said Eddie, amused. ‘All right, let’s get this over with.’
Alderley brought him to one of Playa de las Américas’ numerous hotels – and then to its bar. ‘Why aren’t I surprised to find a spy hanging out in here?’ said Eddie.
‘There he is – oh,’ said Alderley, with distinct disapproval on seeing that the man they had come to meet was seated in a corner with a tanned young woman in a bikini. Brice whispered to her, then stood to usher her away with a swat to her backside as the visitors approached. She headed for a swimming pool outside. ‘Who was that?’
‘Nobody,’ said Brice, shaking Alderley’s hand. ‘Peter.’ He faced Eddie, blue eyes looking the stocky, shaven-headed Yorkshireman up and down and not appearing particularly impressed. ‘And Eddie Chase.’
‘That’s me,’ said Eddie, giving Brice an assessment of his own. Late thirties, tall, sharply handsome, jet-black hair conservatively yet carefully styled. His clothing was similarly neat; overdone for the climate, but the athletic MI6 officer didn’t seem the kind to break a sweat for much. There was a glass of whisky before him.
‘John Brice.’ He briefly shook Eddie’s hand, then sat again. ‘I assume Peter’s told you why you’re here.’
‘Yeah, Mukobo,’ said Eddie. ‘You need me to ID him for you.’
‘That’s right.’ Brice opened a slim laptop. ‘Our pictures of the men in the villa are here.’ A few clicks, then he slid the machine to Eddie. ‘Oh, screen facing the wall, if you don’t mind. Wouldn’t want anyone looking over your shoulder.’
‘Your girlfriend have clearance, did she?’ said Eddie, irked by the younger man’s patronising tone. He sat with a wall behind him, then regarded the screen. The image, taken with a telephoto lens, was of a scowling black man in mirrored sunglasses. ‘That’s not him. Too young.’
‘Swipe through to the next one,’ said Alderley. Eddie did so. The next man was older, but also unfamiliar.
‘By the way, I read your file, Chase,’ said Brice. ‘Interesting career you’ve had.’
‘Yeah?’ Eddie replied, bringing up the next image.
‘Yes. Edward Jeremy Chase, born 1975. Joined the army at sixteen the day after finishing your GCSEs, so the earliest possible time allowed by law. Problems at home?’
‘None of your business,’ was the irritated reply.
‘Served competently but unremarkably,’ Brice went on, unfazed, ‘as a squaddie for six years with a promotion to corporal, then applied to join the Special Air Service. On your first selection attempt, passed the endurance, jungle training and escape and evasion phases, but failed on tactical questioning and returned to unit.’
Alderley was surprised. ‘You didn’t pass first time?’
‘“Tactical questioning” is basically being tortured,’ said Eddie. ‘Whatever they do, you’re only supposed to give ’em your name, rank and serial number, or say “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that question.”’
‘So what did you say?’
‘One of the interrogators started on about how he’d shagged my mum. So I told him I’d shagged his girlfriend. Which . . . I had.’ He grinned, exposing the gap between his front teeth. ‘He got pretty annoyed with me.’
‘I can imagine!’
Brice exhaled impatiently. ‘Reapplied the following year, this time succeeded. Joined 22 SAS “A” Squadron, promoted to sergeant in 2000,
court-martialled and demoted back to corporal following an incident in Afghanistan when you struck a superior officer. Redeemed yourself in 2002 when you were awarded the Victoria Cross’ – a hint of disbelief, as if unable to accept that the man before him could have received the British military’s highest honour – ‘for rescuing your wounded commanding officer while under fire. Married Lady Sophia Blackwood in 2004 after saving her from terrorists in Cambodia, left service in 2005, divorced in 2006.’
Eddie looked up from the laptop. ‘You got all this fu— . . . flippin’ memorised?’ He caught himself before saying something stronger; he had promised his wife – and himself – when Macy was born that he would stop his habitual swearing for his daughter’s sake. ‘Thought you were a spy, not presenting This Is Your Life.’
‘I like to know as much as possible about the people I deal with.’ He indicated the laptop. ‘Have you seen Mukobo yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Then keep looking.’ Eddie frowned, then turned back to the screen. ‘After that, you worked as a mercenary in numerous countries. Including Rwanda, where you encountered Mukobo . . . and let him go.’
The Yorkshireman’s gaze returned to Brice. ‘Got something to say?’
He shrugged. ‘Merely an observation.’
The dismissive response annoyed Eddie still more. ‘Our convoy ran into him by fluke – he wasn’t expecting trouble, or he’d have had more than one bodyguard. He was outgunned, and surrendered. I wasn’t going to shoot a prisoner, so we took their weapons and told ’em to piss off. I didn’t know he was a warlord who’d been killing and raping people in four different countries. If I had . . .’
‘You would have done something about it?’
‘Turned him in, at the very least.’ A shake of the head. ‘But I didn’t, so now we’re here. None of these guys are him, by the way.’
‘Damn,’ said Brice quietly. He retrieved the computer. ‘Then I’ll need you to come to our observation post and see if you can identify him from there.’
‘I was planning to be on a flight back home tonight.’
‘As soon as you ID him, you can go.’ Brice finished his whisky in a single slug. ‘All right, let’s move.’
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