Condor (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 3)

by Andy Maslen

  In front of him, Jardin’s smirk slid away to be replaced by a look of puzzlement, eyes narrowed, brow creased in a frown of incomprehension. Then, in its place, came a look of purest hatred. The top lip was pulled back, the front teeth were bared and the skin looked greasy and taut.

  “I said, shoot yourself!” he screamed. “I said, Condor!”

  “And I say we off him now, Boss. This guy’s a pain in the fucking arse.”

  The gauze burned away, and the sounds of the forest sharpened in Gabriel’s ears.

  Jardin turned and ran, straight towards the centre of the village square.

  As Jardin hopped and leapt to avoid tripping on the scarlet-faced corpses of his former followers, Gabriel found he had regained control of his own limbs. He shook his head, then set off after Jardin, weaving amongst the dead and trying to keep his target in range.

  Jardin looked over his shoulder. It was a mistake. His holdall swung in front of him and altered his centre of gravity so that he stumbled left and caught his leading foot under the thigh of a redheaded female corpse. He fell heavily onto the holdall, winding himself as the bag punched the air out of his lungs.

  As Jardin staggered back to his feet, Gabriel dropped to one knee, held the pistol out in front of him cradled in both palms, and squeezed off a shot. It took Jardin on the outside of his right thigh, a through-and-through that drew a high-pitched scream from him. He hobbled off, blood running freely down the side of his leg from the entry and exit wounds. Perhaps realising flight was no longer an option, he stopped and turned to face Gabriel, who was now walking towards him. Jardin’s former disciple held the Glock in both hands, aimed directly at Jardin’s head.

  Jardin spread his arms wide, wincing from the pain in his thigh, placing his weight on his left leg.

  When Gabriel caught up with him, he began speaking.

  “Child Gabriel, don’t kill me. Help me. Come with me. Toron and I are planning to restart our operation in Colombia. You could join us. Be my second-in-command. You could become a very rich man.”

  Gabriel drew his lips back from his teeth.

  “Toron’s dead. I killed him. And his men. Nobody’s getting rich. Especially you. Not after what you did in London. Not after, after this.” He let go of the gun with his left hand to wave it around them at the sea of dead bodies. “How could you do it?”

  Jardin smiled, grunting with the effort. “Them? They were my followers. You know. Like Twitter.” Gabriel jerked his head back in shock. “Oh, yes, Child Gabriel. I know I look like a ragged old prophet, but it pays to keep up. So, like I said, they were my followers. Mine to do with as I wished. And I wished them dead. Now they are dead.”

  “And London? The bus bomb? Eloise Payne?”

  “I saw how many died. Less than a hundred, wasn’t it? Do you know how many people get killed in traffic accidents in the UK every year? Do you? Let me enlighten you. Seventeen hundred. A year! And how about the Americans? Twelve thousand gun deaths a year. Their military forces killed thousands of civilians in their foreign adventures in the Middle East. So forgive me for not sharing your horror, but death is everywhere.”

  Gabriel straightened his arm again. He aimed the Glock at Jardin’s forehead. At this range he didn’t need to go centre-mass for the kill shot. He was gratified to see Jardin flinch. He tightened his finger on the trigger, remembering the carnage at Oxford Street.

  “Wait!” Jardin shouted, eyes wide with terror. He put his hands out in front of him, palms towards Gabriel. “God doesn’t want you to kill me, Child Gabriel.”

  “Nice try, Jardin. Maybe He doesn’t. But Barbara Sutherland does.”

  Gabriel fired twice in quick succession, a double-tap to the head that threw Jardin backwards, blood and brain tissue spraying from the exit wound as the bullet tore away the back of his head.

  Gabriel thought he heard a voice saying, “Nice one, Boss.” He shook his head and looked around. But Smudge was gone. Or not completely. There was a voice inside his head, faint but audible.

  “Nathalie, Boss. Go and see her. For me. Tell her what happened,”

  Then it was gone and the sounds of the rainforest returned. And with them, the realisation that the mission was over. He turned to look at the dead. All those believers. In what? The promises and bluster of a self-made messiah. Why did they trust him? Why come all this way to live with nothing but the promise of being allowed to kill yourself and many others? He realised he would never know. He was a fighting man, not a philosopher. And right now, the thorniest question facing him was how he was going to get out of Eden.

  But first he needed to set the stage for the Brazilian police. Give them a clear-cut narrative that would make sense in terms of their mission.

  Jardin lay face upwards, eyes wide but already dulled as if coated with matte varnish, staring sightlessly at the Brazilian sky. His arms were flung wide and his legs were twisted around each other. Gabriel got to his knees, then lay on his back on top of Jardin. He grabbed the outstretched arms and pulled them down over his shoulders and across his chest like the straps of a Bergen. Then he rolled onto his stomach, dragging Jardin with him so the dead man rested on Gabriel’s back. He pushed up onto his knees and then, holding the corpse’s arms, got to his feet.

  Carrying the deadweight of Jardin’s body was a struggle, but Gabriel was still fit enough to manage. He carried the corpse at a fast walk back the way he’d come until he reached the bodies of Toron and his henchman. Turning to face Toron, he released Jardin’s arms and let the body fall behind him.

  Next, the pistols. He ejected both magazines and emptied the remaining rounds from the one he’d used to shoot Jardin onto the ground. Using his shirt, he meticulously cleaned both pistols, the magazines and the rounds, before reloading, this time sharing the remaining rounds equally between the two Glocks.

  He pressed one of the Glocks into Jardin’s unresisting right hand and curled the dead man’s index finger round the trigger. He fired a couple of shots into Toron’s body.

  Then he went over to Toron with the second pistol. Gabriel lifted the corpse’s right arm and let it fall. He smiled grimly. The body was still flexible. He wrapped the dead man’s fingers around the Glock’s grip and pushed his index finger through the trigger guard. Holding the hand out in front of him, he aimed into the trees and fired twice to ensure some gunshot residue ended up on Toron’s fingers. Then he let the hand holding the gun fall, and stood. He bent to recover the brass, then stopped. The police would find it odd that Toron and Jardin had killed each other in a dispute over a drugs deal gone bad then somehow contrived to vanish their spent cartridge cases.

  He walked away from the scene, figuring he’d head back to the clearing where the planes flew in and out from. Which is when he remembered.

  Child Sarah.

  Apart from himself, she was the only survivor of Christophe Jardin’s murderous reign.

  He ran back through the huts and onto the track. Fifteen minutes of jogging brought him back to the clearing.

  He cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted out to her.

  “Sarah! Child Sarah! It’s safe.”

  She didn’t emerge from the abandoned factory, so he walked towards it, calling out every few paces. At the halfway point between the edge of the clearing and the building, he tried again.

  “Sarah! It’s me. Gabriel. It’s over. You can come out.”

  He stood, hands on hips, panting, waiting for her to emerge.

  Just when he had resigned himself to having to cross the remaining expanse of grass to fetch her, a flash of white in the doorway caught his eye.

  70

  Leaving the Garden

  GABRIEL STOOD PERFECTLY STILL, ALLOWING her to see that he was alone. That there were no gangsters or gunmen waiting to grab her. He held his arms out wide.

  Hesitantly at first, then with a sudden burst of speed, she came towards him, closing the gap between them in thirty seconds before flinging her arms around his neck and burying
her face in the crook of his neck.

  “It’s OK,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s OK. He’s gone.”

  She jerked her head up. “Who? Who’s gone?”

  “Jardin. Père Christophe, I mean. He’s dead.”

  Her eyes widened and her chin trembled. “What do you mean, dead? How? Who’s going to look after us now?”

  “Sarah, listen to me. I killed him. He was evil. I’m afraid there is no ‘us’ now. Everybody else is dead. He poisoned them. He would have poisoned you too.”

  “No!” she hissed. She writhed in his arms and tore herself free. “You didn’t. You can’t. He was good. He was going to save me.” She stood in front of him, eyes red, hands covering her mouth.

  “He wasn’t good. He brainwashed you. He brainwashed everyone. Me as well. You need to come with me. I’ll show you. Come.”

  He held out his right hand to guide her towards the track. She surprised him by taking it and letting him lead her back to the village.

  As they stood on the edge of the square, Sarah began to sob. Wet spots from fallen tears blossomed on the top half of her dress, turning the white cotton grey. More flies and beetles had found the bodies, alerted by the scent of decomposition, even if the humans’ noses weren’t alive to the subtle changes in the air around them.

  “They’re all dead,” she wailed. “All my brothers and sisters.”

  When Gabriel tried to pull her away she stood her ground at first, then, as if someone had thrown a switch inside her, all the resistance disappeared. He placed a protective arm around her waist and led her back to the clearing.

  As they neared the end of the track, Gabriel cocked his head.

  “Do you hear that?” he said.

  Sarah closed her eyes and mirrored his pose.

  “Yes,” she said. “It sounds like a plane.”

  “Come on, quick.”

  Holding hands, they ran towards the end of the track where it opened out into the clearing. Way above the trees on the far side, a white shape was growing larger. It was the plane Toron had ordered to take him and Jardin back to Bogotá.

  They watched as the pilot brought the small craft down for a perfect three-point landing. The prop roared then died to a soft buzzing as the pilot cut the throttle and taxied towards them, past the factory.

  A figure descended from the cabin and stood by the side of the plane, arms folded, legs apart. A figure wearing a leather, shearling-lined flying jacket. It was the same man who’d dropped Gabriel from a thousand feet just a few hours earlier.

  “Come on,” Gabriel said. “Someone’s smiling on us today.”

  They ran across the open ground to where the pilot waited for them.

  “Greetings, my friend,” the man said as they arrived, red-faced and out of breath. “We meet again. And you found us an extra passenger.”

  “You worked for Toron all along?” Gabriel said.

  The man smiled. “No. But I had a funny feeling you might be needing a ride out of here. I know all the pilots, including the guy who usually flies Toron. I bought the job off him.”

  “I’ll pay you back. I mean, I don’t have enough cash left, but I’ll get the money to you.”

  “No problem. It felt like I was doing the right thing, you know? Now, we could stand around talking or we could get out of here. Which is it to be?”

  Once airborne, Sarah became talkative. It was as if leaving Eden had unlocked a part of her that Jardin had suppressed all the time she’d been there.

  “I have no money. And nowhere to live. And no clothes. Apart from these,” she plucked at her torn dress. “How am I going to live? Where am I going to live?”

  “Do you have any family?” Gabriel said, twisting around in his seat to talk to her.

  “My mom and dad, but they’re the reason I joined the Children of Heaven in the first place. They just don’t understand me. I can’t go back to them. They’d never forgive me for leaving.”

  “You might be surprised how much forgiveness there is in the world. The real world. Look, let’s get to Nova Cidade and talk about it all then. I still have some money. Enough for two hotel rooms and something to eat.”

  Sarah seemed pacified by this and lapsed into silence, her face turned away and pressed against the window. Gabriel faced forward again.

  “So, I’m guessing I won’t be making any more flights to Eden then?” the pilot said.

  “Not unless it’s to bring police out here. And would you mind just calling me by name? Please. It’s Gabriel. It would mean a lot to me right now.”

  The pilot turned and offered his right hand with a smile. “Sure, Gabriel. I’m Tiago. Short for Santiago, you know? But only my momma calls me that, eh?” He laughed then, a friendly sound in the cramped cabin that made Gabriel smile in response. Mothers. They wrapped you up and protected you for as long as they could, but then … No! Not now. Save it for another session with the good Doctor Crace. He turned to check on Sarah. She was fast asleep, her head slumped forward on her chest, and snoring. While they flew on, he closed his eyes and began a sequence of meditation exercises, going deep into his memory to find Don’s mobile number. He’d called it many times, and though he’d forgotten it during his time with the children of Heaven, he knew it was there somewhere.

  Tiago landed at the airfield in Nova Cidade thirty minutes later. He stared at Gabriel and Sarah as they faced him outside the plane.

  “You know,” he said, “you two don’t exactly look like the ideal hotel guests. Are you hungry? You want a shower?” Gabriel and Sarah nodded in unison. “OK. I got a suggestion, and don’t go all polite on me. My momma lives about ten miles from here. Nice big house, plenty of space, hot and cold running water, all that. Let me make a call.”

  He turned his back on them as he fished his phone out of his flying jacket. Either Tiago was very persuasive or his momma was very hospitable because after a few minutes he turned back to them, pocketing the phone.

  “We’re good?” Gabriel said.

  “All set. Come on. My truck’s out back.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Gabriel and Sarah were sitting at a scrubbed pine table in Mrs Rosario Pereira’s spotless kitchen, eating a spicy rabbit stew that apparently she’d been cooking anyway.

  She’d fussed over them from the moment they crossed the threshold of her home, Gabriel in particular. She applied an herbal salve to the ant bite on his ankle, which, miraculously, stopped the pain almost immediately. She’d found clothes for both of them, “my late husband’s,” she’d said to Gabriel as she handed him a stack of neatly folded trousers and work shirts; “my daughter’s, from when she used to live with me,” to Sarah, as she offered a dress.

  “Mrs Pereira,” Gabriel said, “May I …”

  She placed her flat palm against her chest and rolled her eyes. “What’s that? I feed you my best ensopado de coelho and you call me, ‘Mrs’? No, no, no, Gabriel. Anyone who eats in my house calls me Momma. Now, you were saying?”

  He smiled, happy to be bossed around by someone with no motive beyond feeding and clothing a house guest. “Momma. I have to make a phone call. An international phone call. It might be expensive. I have money.”

  As the words left his lips, he knew what her response would be. It was almost comical in its intensity.

  She opened her mouth into an “O” and dropped her head back, replacing the fan of fingers across her bosom.

  “You have money? Good for you! So do I! Gabriel, I am not some peasant from the forest. I own a business. I am an empresária! Please do not come to my house and insult me with offers of money. Now, go, you silly boy. The phone is through there.”

  She pointed to the hall, letting him see just the hint of a smile as he excused himself and left the table.

  He punched in the number he’d brought to the surface during his in-flight meditation session. While the local, national and international exchanges talked to each other, routing the fourteen pulses of the number along copper wires and fibre-optic
undersea cables, he tried to condense his narrative into some sort of situation report.

  The phone at the other end of the line rang. Twice.

  “Don Webster.”

  “Don, it’s me.”

  There was warmth in the voice. Real, fatherly warmth.

  “Hello, Old Sport. Been wondering when I’d hear from you. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Jardin’s no longer a problem. There were some complications. I dealt with them too. But listen. He gave them all poison. His followers, I mean. There must be five or six hundred bodies out there. Someone needs to deal with them.”

  There was the briefest of pauses.

  “Right. I’ll put wheels in motion. We’ll have to leave this to the Brazilians, but we’ll work on a story they can give their media that leaves you out of it. Now, we need to extract you. Where are you?”

  Gabriel smiled. “Well, right now I’m in the home of a businesswoman who insists I call her Momma. But the city is Nova Cidade. I’m not alone, though. I pulled one of Jardin’s followers out with me.”

  “Do you want to bring her along?”

  “No. She’s American. But can you fix her up with some kind of consular assistance to get her home?”

  “Consider it done. OK, look. Can you stay where you are?”

  Gabriel laughed. “I have a feeling your main problem will be extracting me from Momma’s clutches.”

  “Sounds like a hospitable lady, so mind your manners. I’ll call you back when we’re ready with a flight plan. Give me your number there.”

  Gabriel read out the number on the little slip of paper beneath its Perspex cover on the phone.

  “OK, Old Sport, stand by to stand by.”

  71

  A Blast from the Past

  BACK IN LONDON, GABRIEL STOOD, glass in hand, staring out of the window of his fourteenth-floor hotel room. Don hadn’t scrimped on his accommodation budget, and the view was spectacular. He could see St Paul’s cathedral from his balcony, its golden dome luminous against the night sky. Or he could turn to the river, and the light sculptures of the South Bank arts complex. Further away, the London Eye, that high-tech Ferris wheel, was lit with red spotlights around its circumference.