King Solomon's Curse

by Andy McDermott

  Mukobo grinned – then fired again. Plasterwork exploded from concrete as Eddie dived behind a gatepost. Sunbathers screamed and scattered. The warlord hurried towards the hotel.

  Eddie stuffed the Glock into a pocket, then scaled the gate. Mukobo was almost at the hotel’s entrance. He hared after him.

  The African ran through the doors, finding himself in an expansive marble lobby. He slowed, searching for the best escape route. A bearded man was at the nearby reception desk, complaining to the concierge. ‘Look, we specifically asked for a quiet room for our baby, and you’ve put us right above the disco!’

  The concierge smiled smugly. ‘I have worked here for fourteen years, I know which rooms are quiet—’

  The boom of a gunshot shattered the air-conditioned calm as Mukobo saw Eddie approaching the glass doors and fired at him. The Englishman saw the glinting gun just in time to dodge as the bullet exploded the pane. Mukobo ran through the nearest exit.

  ‘I will find you something quieter,’ said the trembling concierge.

  Eddie hopped through the hole in the door and chased the warlord into a large cafeteria – with no way out at its far end. Mukobo spun to face his pursuer. The golden gun came up—

  Click!

  The hammer fell on an empty casing. Mukobo hadn’t reloaded during the car chase. The Congolese glared at the revolver as if it had betrayed him personally – then charged.

  The two men collided, Eddie crashing backwards against a table stacked with glasses. Several shattered beneath him, dozens more smashing on the floor. ‘I did not think I would ever see you again, Chase,’ snarled Mukobo, forcing his forearm across the other man’s throat. ‘But now I have, I can finish what we started!’ He pushed down harder, trying to choke him. Something heavy clunked across the surface behind the Yorkshireman as the table shook.

  Eddie felt the cartilage of his Adam’s apple crunch. Broken shards stabbed into his back. He clawed at the tumblers, but they skittered away from his fingertips. Mukobo leered in triumph—

  The Englishman’s hand found a curved handle. He grabbed it, swung – and a large glass jug burst apart against Mukobo’s head. The African reeled away. Eddie jumped up and grabbed him, swinging around to propel him into one of the buffet counters. ‘Only thing you’re finishing,’ he growled as he delivered a savage kidney punch, ‘is lunch!’

  He slammed the gasping Mukobo on to a metal tray of greasy bacon strips. The warlord yelled as runny fat burned his face. He jumped up – and hit the heat lamp above, smashing the bulb and driving spears of hot glass into his scalp.

  Eddie hauled him out and punched him, then grabbed him in a fierce headlock. It would only take a twist and squeeze to snap his neck. He was sorely tempted – but instead forced him along the buffet, knocking abandoned trays to the floor. A large metal vat of baked beans stood under another heat lamp at the counter’s end. He shoved down Mukobo’s shoulders and ran him headlong into the pan with a flat bong. The dazed warlord staggered back – and Eddie swung the vat against his opponent’s head. Mukobo crashed to the tiled floor. Eddie tipped the beans over him, then dropped the empty pan after them. ‘You’ve bean done, mate.’

  Shouts from the entrance. He looked up – to see several policemen rush into the cafeteria, guns raised. He immediately lifted his hands in surrender as a cop screamed at him in Spanish. ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!’ he replied. ‘No hablo español. I got your guy.’

  Most of the officers advanced on the two men, the remainder ordering onlookers away. Brice ran in, only to be told in no uncertain terms to move back. ‘Chase!’ he shouted. ‘You idiot, what have you done? Now the local police are going to arrest him!’

  Eddie knelt in response to a gesture from a gun-wielding cop. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t kill him. And I caught someone on Interpol’s most-wanted list! What difference does it make who arrests him?’

  The MI6 officer seemed about to reply, but held back, aware that he was in a public place with numerous civilians. He settled instead for glaring at Eddie as he was handcuffed. Alderley caught up with him, one hand to his bloodied arm.

  Mukobo had already been identified as responsible for the carnage along the seafront, other cops hauling him up and cuffing him with no small amount of force. Eddie was also pulled to his feet. ‘You’d better bloody get me out of this,’ said the Yorkshireman as he was hustled past his two countrymen.

  ‘I should let you rot,’ growled Brice.

  Alderley gave Eddie an unhappy look. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You’d better,’ he replied, ‘or I might tell ’em why we were here in the first place!’

  Brice prickled with anger, keeping pace with Eddie on the other side of the police cordon. ‘The Official Secrets Act still applies to you, Chase. Don’t tell them anything! That’s an order!’

  ‘I don’t work for you. But sort this out and I won’t need to tell ’em, will I?’ The cops took Eddie and Mukobo through the exit, an officer preventing the furious Brice from following. ‘And Alderley?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Alderley replied.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t tell Nina what’s happened!’

  ‘Hi, honey,’ said Eddie as he entered his apartment two days later. ‘I’m home.’

  His wife’s silence warned him to expect a frosty reception. He grimaced, then went into the living room. Nina Wilde was waiting on the couch, arms folded. ‘So,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened. Where’s Macy?’

  ‘Napping in her room. And what do you mean, “nothing happened”? You were supposed to come back yesterday!’

  ‘Things were a bit more complicated than I expected.’

  Nina stood, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘More complicated? How?’

  He decided not to tell her that he had spent a night in a cell, Alderley getting the British Consul to intervene the following day. Diplomatic strings had been pulled to suggest that delivering Mukobo to Interpol through the local police had been the objective all along. ‘I had to help Alderley with the paperwork,’ he said instead, giving her a technical truth. ‘But everything’s been sorted out now.’

  ‘And you’re still not going to tell me exactly what it was all about? I’m assuming it was something for MI6 since Peter got you involved.’

  The restrictions of the Official Secrets Act meant he wasn’t supposed to confirm or deny, but he knew that after nine years together Nina would read his expression easily enough. ‘Someone needed my help, and I helped them,’ was the best he could manage. ‘The world’s a better place for it, trust me.’

  ‘I do trust you, Eddie, you know I do. But I don’t like being kept out of the loop.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry. I really am.’

  She finally thawed, giving him a small smile. ‘The main thing is that you’re back. Come here. Give me a kiss.’

  He did so, embracing her. ‘Glad to be home.’

  ‘I’m glad too.’ Her smile widened into a grin. ‘Because our daughter has a smelly diaper that needs dealing with.’

  Eddie sighed. ‘Yep. Welcome home.’ He released the redhead and started for Macy’s bedroom.

  ‘Eddie,’ said Nina, the concern in her voice halting him. ‘This thing . . . it’s finished, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he assured her. ‘It’s all over.’

  1

  The Atlantic Ocean

  Two years later

  Deputy US Marshal Art Garrison peered through a porthole at the empty azure sea thirty-seven thousand feet below, then looked back at his prisoner. Younger and cockier men would have made a sardonic comment about it being the last good view the shackled man would ever have, but the craggy team leader merely gave him a cold stare, getting a sneer in response, then turned away.

  It had taken almost two years of legal wrangling for Philippe Mukobo, a native of the Democratic Rep
ublic of Congo but whose reign of terror had bloodied several other central African nations, to be turned over to the custody of Garrison and his two fellow marshals. Mukobo was high on Interpol’s most-wanted list for numerous crimes including mass murder, rape and drug running, but the diplomatic weight of the United States had decided for which he would stand trial – and where.

  The Skyblue Airlines 747-8 was on its way from Paris to New York. Mukobo’s lawyers had fought a long but ultimately futile battle at the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg to prevent his extradition for the murders of a group of American aid workers six years prior. All avenues now exhausted, the warlord was being taken in chains to face justice.

  The thought brought a brief smile to Garrison’s stern face. Mukobo was a monster, plain and simple, and he would finally get what he deserved. Life without parole in a federal penitentiary was the best he could hope for; execution was more likely. Though the plane was heading for New York, his trial would take place in nearby New Hampshire. Partly because three of his victims were from that state, but also because it maintained the death penalty. Those pushing for Mukobo’s prosecution wanted every possible sentencing option.

  He glanced at his watch. Four hours before landing; halfway across the Atlantic. Garrison permitted himself to relax a little, leaning back in the comfortable business-class seat. The Justice Department had booked every seat on Flight 180’s upper deck to isolate Mukobo from the other passengers, any displaced travellers getting upgrades to first class courtesy of Uncle Sam. Pricey, but less so than despatching a US government jet solely to transport one prisoner.

  A quick check on his team. Radley was behind him, guarding the spiral staircase down to the main deck, while Szernow sat by the cockpit door. Should anything happen, they were ready for it.

  Another look through the porthole. The sky was clear. It would be a smooth flight.

  ‘You okay, Pierre? You look a bit airsick.’

  Pierre Noret, the 747’s co-pilot, laughed to cover his nervousness. ‘I’m okay. Thirsty, that’s all.’ He looked at his watch, then drained a plastic water bottle.

  The plane’s captain, Paul Watley, nodded. ‘Call one of the girls, have them bring you some more water.’

  ‘No, I’m okay.’ Noret stood. ‘I have some in my bag.’

  ‘Don’t get lost,’ said Watley with a chuckle.

  Noret smiled thinly, then headed aft. Despite its size, the 747 was designed to be flown by just two pilots; he and Watley were the only people in the cockpit. With the reinforced door locked, the only way for anyone else to gain access was if one of them allowed it.

  There was a small crew rest area at the cockpit’s rear. The Frenchman entered, collecting his bag. He suddenly felt hot, sweat prickling his skin. Nervousness became nausea as he took out a fountain pen. It appeared perfectly ordinary, if pricey, but airline pilots were well known for ostentatious accessories. Certainly this one had drawn no attention at the security check.

  Noret carefully removed the cap, realising his fingers were trembling. Calm, calm. If he aroused Watley’s suspicions, his only hope of making a fresh start free of his mounting debts and rapacious ex-wife would be over before it even began.

  His hands steadied. He slowly turned the pen’s body. A slim needle extended from the nib. The Frenchman hesitated, then tipped the pen downwards, as he had been instructed. A tiny dewdrop of colourless liquid swelled on the silver sting’s point.

  One last tense time check, then he headed forward, the pen clutched in his right hand like a dagger. Watley, reading the news on an iPad, didn’t look around at him. Noret advanced on the American, eyes fixed on his target: the right side of Watley’s neck, just above his collar. He would only get one attempt . . .

  The captain sensed the co-pilot’s approach. ‘When we land, it might be worth you seeing the company doctor.’ He turned his head. Noret froze. ‘You really didn’t look well – and God, you look even worse now! Are you sure you’re okay?’

  Noret felt sweat sting his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He didn’t dare move, terrified of drawing attention to the object in his hand.

  Watley gave him a look of concern . . . then returned his attention to the iPad. ‘Just so long as you—’

  The Frenchman lunged, stabbing the pen’s tip into the pilot’s neck. There was a flat phut as a gas injector forced its contents into Watley’s bloodstream.

  The captain gasped and jumped up. ‘What was – what the hell?’ He stared at the pen as the Frenchman drew back. The needle was still clearly visible, its tip red with blood. He clambered from his seat, Noret fearfully backing away. ‘What did you . . .’

  Watley staggered, clawing at his co-pilot . . . then crumpled to the cockpit floor.

  Noret stared at him, breathing heavily, before checking Watley’s pulse. He was unconscious, but alive. The sedative had worked as promised.

  He dragged the taller man back into his seat and fastened his belt, then went to the engineering consoles and switched the circuit breakers to cut off power to a specific system: the satellite link connecting the aircraft’s wi-fi and telephone services to the outside world. Now, the only working communication channel was via the cockpit radio.

  There was one more breaker to open. He hesitated, then tripped it – deactivating the cockpit voice recorder. There would be no audio record of what was about to happen.

  Noret returned to his own seat and belted up. Wiping away sweat, he redonned his headphones and tuned the radio to a memorised frequency. ‘Dragonfly, Dragonfly, do you hear me? This is Papillon. Do you hear me?’

  No response for several seconds, then: ‘Papillon, Papillon, this is Dragonfly.’ A man’s voice, electronic masking rendering it almost robotic. ‘We hear you. Situation?’

  ‘Phase one complete,’ said Noret, surprised at his own ability to reduce the enormity of what he had just done to a euphemism so quickly. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Flight level three-eight-zero, one kilometre directly behind you. Are you ready to commence?’

  He had to compose himself before answering. Assaulting Watley was one thing, but what he was about to do was the antithesis of every commercial pilot’s instincts. Even if everything went perfectly, there was still an element of risk to the three hundred and five passengers and crew. ‘Yes. I’m ready.’

  ‘Proceed.’

  The voice went silent. Noret took a deep breath as he reached the point of no return . . . then disengaged the autopilot and shoved the control yoke forward, throwing the 747 into a steep dive.

  Nausea rose in his stomach as the huge aircraft dropped towards the ocean. He could hear screams through the floor from the passengers below. Trained responses kicked in: he hit the button to turn on the seatbelt lights, then activated the emergency oxygen supply. Muffled bangs echoed through the fuselage as ceiling panels disgorged breathing masks. He switched on the intercom. ‘This is the co-pilot! All passengers must return to their seats immediately! Remain calm and put on your oxygen masks. We have a system malfunction, and are descending to a lower altitude for safety. Everything is under control.’

  He eased back the four throttles to lower the stress on the airframe. The altimeter spun downwards, nothing but ocean visible ahead. Passing thirty thousand feet, twenty-nine. He needed to get the airliner to no more than eight thousand feet above sea level and hold it just above stall speed, which in the current conditions would be about one hundred knots. It was balancing on a knife-edge, but Noret was confident in his skill as a pilot.

  A voice came through his earphones. ‘Captain! What’s happening, what’s going on?’ Rose Dewar, the chief purser. ‘Captain Watley! Are you there?’

  ‘This is Noret,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘We’re losing cabin pressure. Everything is under control, so please keep the passengers calm.’

  ‘But – but the cabin pressure seems okay down here.’ Dewar was a hig
hly experienced flier, and even through an oxygen mask he could hear her confusion.

  ‘We don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but there is definitely a major malfunction. The captain is taking us down before it gets any worse.’

  He switched off the intercom and checked the altimeter. Twenty thousand feet and still descending rapidly. Someone hammered on the cockpit door. ‘Captain! What’s going on? Captain, answer me!’

  ‘Go back to your seat!’ Noret shouted. He had been warned that the US marshals would try to assert their authority once it became clear something was wrong.

  More pounding. ‘We have a high-risk prisoner here – I demand to know what’s happening!’

  ‘What’s happening is that we are trying to keep this plane in the air!’ Noret yelled back, still watching the altimeter. Sixteen thousand. ‘Sit down and put on your seatbelt! Our first priority is the safety of this aircraft and its passengers, so let us do our job!’

  Garrison started to say something else, then stopped. Noret assumed he was returning to his seat, but even if he was not, there was no way he could enter the cockpit.

  Thirteen thousand feet – and now the co-pilot pulled back the yoke, easing the Boeing out of its dive. Ten thousand, the blue horizon sliding back into view. He reduced the throttles still further. The airspeed indicator dropped, two hundred knots, one-fifty. A course adjustment to bring the airliner directly into the wind, giving him the maximum possible lift.

  Eight thousand feet. He levelled out. One hundred and twenty knots, still slowing.

  Phase two was complete.

  As if in response to his thought, the flat voice returned to his headphones. ‘Papillon, Papillon. Status?’

  ‘This is Papillon,’ Noret replied. ‘Holding at flight level eight-zero, bearing two-four-seven degrees, slowing to one hundred knots.’

  ‘Roger. We are moving to transfer position.’

  Noret leaned forward and looked up. Nothing but empty sky – then a white shape hove into view overhead.