by Chris Ryan
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Bald demanded. He had moved over to the balcony next to Porter, his icy blue gaze fixed on the kid.
‘My name is Vandi.’ The kid swallowed as he looked from Bald to Porter and back again. Tears streamed down his face. ‘Please. Vandi not bad person. Vandi don’t make trouble. Vandi just work for Mister Ronald.’
‘You’re the houseboy?’ Porter said.
The kid nodded.
Every rich household in Africa had a houseboy, Porter knew. Usually a poor kid from the slums who did all the chores around the place, mowing the lawn, buying supplies from the shops and sweeping the floors, in return for board and food. It stood to reason that Soames would have hired one to help him with the day-to-day maintenance of the mansion. Then another thought tickled at the back of his throat. Maybe this kid knows where to find Soames.
And can tell us why there’s a dead Russian in the office.
‘Get up,’ he growled.
The kid rose unsteadily to his feet and dropped his arms by his side. Bald grabbed him by the collar of his Arsenal shirt and shoved him through the doors and into the musty gloom of the office. The kid stumbled inside, weeping and shaking. Bald ordered him to sit down on the leather chair in front of the desk. The kid did as he was told, looking up at Bald and Porter with a mixture of fear and helplessness.
‘Don’t kill me, mister. Please, I beg you,’ he said, frantically shaking his head from side to side. Like he was trying to shake something out of his ears. ‘It wasn’t me. I swear. Vandi is not bad.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Bald.
The kid started wailing again, rocking back and forth on the chair, tears welling up in his eyes. Porter could see they were getting nowhere with the heavy-handed approach. Someone had put the frighteners on the houseboy. He dropped to a knee beside Vandi, placed a hand on his shoulder and addressed him in a soft tone of voice.
‘Listen to me, kid. We’re not here to hurt you, all right? We’re friends of Ronald.’
The kid stopped snivelling. He wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up at Porter. His face relaxed slightly, the fear replaced by something closer to curiosity.
‘Friends? You know Mister Ronald?’
Porter grinned. ‘That’s right. Ronald is an old mate of ours. We’re worried that something might have happened to him. So if you know anything that might help us find him, you need to tell us now.’
Vandi sniffed. ‘Okay.’
Porter pointed to the dead guy and said, ‘Did you see who did this?’
The kid bowed his head. ‘Mister Ronald,’ he said in a barely audible voice. ‘Mister Ronald killed him.’
Porter did a double-take. Dread squirmed inside his guts, chilling the blood in his veins. He suddenly forgot about the booze in the drinks cabinet. Now he understood why Soames had disappeared off the grid. Why Hawkridge and March had been unable to locate him in the hours before the op briefing.
Because Soames is on the run. He murdered someone and then bolted.
He looked back to the kid. ‘What happened?’
‘Mister Ronald, he had a meeting with this man. Day before yesterday.’ He glanced across at the dead guy. The stench of faecal matter inside the room was becoming unbearable, mixing with the heat and the sweat and the dust. Porter felt a wave of nausea surge up inside his chest.
‘Who is he?’ he asked.
‘Mister Ronald did not say. But it was a very important meeting.’
‘What was the meeting about?’
‘I don’t know. I am just the houseboy. I show the man into Mister Ronald’s office. Then I leave.’ Vandi paused. ‘But I overheard them. The doors here, they are not so thick. I could hear them arguing. The other man threatened Mister Ronald. He said he was going to rob him.’
Porter swapped a look with Bald. He turned back to Vandi. ‘Go on.’
The kid rubbed his knuckles and lowered his head. ‘Then the bad men arrived. I saw them. So I went back to warn Mister Ronald. That’s when I saw the dead man.’
Porter stared intently at the houseboy. ‘Hold on. What bad men?’
‘The men with guns.’
‘Rebels?’ Porter asked.
‘No. White men.’ Vandi pointed with his wide eyes at the dead man. ‘Like him.’
‘How many?’
‘Four of them,’ the kid said. ‘They had guns.’
‘The Russians,’ Bald said. ‘Has to be.’
Porter nodded. That could only mean one thing. We’re too late.
The Russians got to Soames first.
‘What happened to Ronald?’ Porter asked. ‘When the bad men arrived.’
‘Mister Ronald, he ran away,’ Vandi replied. ‘The bad men tried to shoot him. I heard their guns go bang bang.’ The kid mimed a pistol action with his forefinger and thumb. ‘Then Mister Ronald drive off in his car. The bad men left and followed him.’
Bald nodded at the houseboy. ‘Where were you in all of this?’
‘I was hiding in there.’ Vandi pointed out a wardrobe in the far corner of the room, next to the balcony doors. A big old thing with dark wooden panels and worn brass handles. ‘I waited until all the bad men leave.’
Porter said, ‘Where is Soames now?’
Vandi shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘This I do not know. I don’t go outside now. Not safe. Too many rebels. I stay here. Wait for Mister Ronald.’ He made a pained face. ‘But he not come back.’
‘That’s why you hid in the balcony just now,’ said Bald.
The houseboy nodded. ‘I heard a car outside. For a moment, I think maybe Mister Ronald is coming home. That he has not abandoned me after all.’ He sighed. ‘Then I see your faces. I think maybe you are with the bad men. Maybe they come back to kill me.’
‘Any idea where Soames might have gone?’ said Bald. ‘Any clue at all?’
Vandi eyed the two men suspiciously. ‘You swear you are friends of Mister Ronald?’
‘Aye,’ said Porter. ‘We’re best mates, us. We go way back.’
The kid considered them both for a moment. Then he said, ‘There is a friend of Mister Ronald. They were talking on the phone before the bad men arrived.’
‘Who?’ Bald asked.
‘I don’t know his name. I have seen him a few times. He has visited this house before. He and Mister Ronald are close. Like this.’
Vandi crossed his index and middle fingers to illustrate the point.
‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’ Porter said.
‘Not really. I only heard them talking for a few minutes. But Mister Ronald, he was worried about Kono.’
‘The diamond mine?’
Vandi nodded. ‘Yes. He sounded very worried. He said the Russians knew about Kono and were planning to steal everything from him. I’ve never seen him look so worried.’
Porter digested the int then dug the Iridium Motorola 9500 out of his back pocket. He had switched off the sat phone before their flight in order to preserve battery life. Now Porter twisted up the bulky antenna and hit the red button to power up the unit. A basic graphic played out on the small digital screen while the sat phone began searching for a signal. He told Bald to keep an eye on the houseboy, then stepped out onto the balcony, pointing the antenna at the sky until he got three bars flashing on the monochrome display. Once he had a signal Porter tapped the Menu button, bringing up the Contacts list. He scrolled down to the single pre-installed number, hit Dial. There was a pause of static while the call patched through to London. Then the phone rang. After four rings, a voice on the other end of the line answered.
‘John? Is that you?’
He recognised the nasal voice at once. Hawkridge. The guy sounded breathless, thought Porter. Harassed. Angry.
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Listen, we’re at the office. Soames isn’t here. Looks like the guy’s done a runner.’ He looked over his shoulder at the body slumped on the floor. ‘And he’s left a present behind for us.’
‘Eh?’ Hawkridge snorted down the line. ‘
What the hell are you talking about, man?’
‘There’s a dead guy in Soames’s office. We found some ID on him. We’re not sure, but we think he might be Russian.’
There was a long pause. Then Hawkridge said, ‘We know.’
Porter jolted. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’
‘We’re one step ahead of you, old bean.’ There was a pause, followed by the sound of rustling papers. ‘The dead man’s name is Viktor Sergeyevich Agron. He’s a senior agent with the Russian Federal Security Services. Height six-three, dark hair, tattoo on his neck of a wolf, the mark of members of a Moscow biker gang. The new Russian president is a big fan of the Night Wolves, apparently. They’re proven themselves very useful at roughing up the political opposition, kidnapping journalists, that sort of thing. He’s placed several of them in the FSB. According to our intelligence Agron arrived in Freetown three days ago on a diplomatic passport.’
A pulse of hot rage swept through Porter’s veins. He gripped the sat phone so hard it threatened to crack open.
‘How long have you known?’ he said.
‘About the murder? A few hours. GCHQ picked up incoming messages to the FSB from one of their field agents, openly discussing Agron’s murder. They’re convinced Soames is responsible.’
‘You should have told us.’
‘We’ve been trying to reach you, but your sat phone was switched off.’
‘We’re trying to save the battery.’
‘Going against orders, you mean.’ Hawkridge’s voice took on an edge. ‘From now on, you will do as I damn well tell you and keep the phone switched on at all times. Understood?’
‘Fine,’ said Porter.
‘Did you find anything else?’
‘There’s a houseboy.’ Porter glanced at the kid. ‘We found him hiding in the back of the office. He reckons Soames killed the Russian, then legged it when the guy’s mates rocked up.’
A pregnant pause. ‘The boy is certain of this?’
‘Positive.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘He’s got no reason to lie.’
Hawkridge muttered something inaudible. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘The kid overheard Soames and the Russian having an argument. Sounds like the Russian made some kind of a threat against Soames. He lost his rag and strangled the guy to death.’
‘That does make a certain amount of sense. It ties in with a theory we’ve been working on, ever since we learned about Agron’s death. We think Viktor Agron made an offer to Soames, on behalf of the FSB.’
‘What sort of offer?’
‘Hand over control of the diamond mines, or die. Soames naturally refused. He could never agree to such a deal.’
‘But he still went ahead with the meeting.’
‘He had to. Otherwise Agron would have gone public with the rumours.’
Porter tensed. ‘What rumours?’
Hawkridge took a few moments before he answered. ‘There are reports that Soames may have been smuggling diamonds out of the mines illegally, using his inside knowledge as the security contractor to bypass the guards. Then he’d sell the diamonds onto the black market for a tidy profit.’ He added hastily, ‘Nothing has been proven, of course.’
‘Why didn’t you share this with us before? Or do you lot over at Thames House just have a fucking allergy to telling the truth?’
‘We didn’t consider it vital to the operation. You don’t need to know everything, John. You’re just the collection team.’
Porter shook his head in anger. ‘So Soames planned to kill Viktor Agron all along? The meeting was just a convenient way of getting the Russian alone?’
‘It appears that way. Unfortunately, Soames didn’t count on the Russian having backup. Which explains why he’s gone to ground.’
‘What do you want us to do?’
‘As far as we’re concerned, this development changes nothing,’ Hawkridge said flatly. ‘Your mission remains the same as before. Find Soames, and get him on a plane back to London.’
‘What about the dead Russian?’
‘I’m sure Soames had his reasons. The fact remains, Soames is a vital British asset and it’s imperative you find him before his enemies do. Especially now the Russians know he’s killed one of their own.’
‘How are we supposed to locate the guy?’ Porter snapped. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, there are rebels all over the fucking place.’
‘Already taken care of, old fruit,’ Hawkridge replied airily. ‘We now have a fix on Soames’s location. The Ambassadors Hotel, on the western side of Freetown next to Lumley Beach.’
‘What’s he doing in the hotel?’
‘Hiding out. Along with every other expat inside the city. Since the events of yesterday most Westerners have fled for the hotel. Aid workers, consulate staff, journalists. As of this moment, it’s the last safe place in Freetown. Hundreds of people are cooped up inside. Including Soames.’
Porter remembered what Shoemaker had told him back at Lungi airport. If it gets too hot, you can always retreat to Lumley Beach, the guy had said. The rebels won’t dare approach that area.
Not yet.
‘How do you know he’s there?’
‘Because we have someone watching him.’
‘One of our own?’
‘A friend, more like,’ Hawkridge said. ‘Angela March has a contact inside the British High Commission. Dominique Tannon. She’s the deputy commissioner. A colleague from Angela’s days in the Foreign Office. Tannon is ex-army intelligence. She’s been helping to keep tabs on Soames during his stay in Freetown.’
‘Making sure he stays on the straight and narrow?’
‘Something like that. One of Tannon’s contacts reached out to her earlier this morning and said someone checked into the Ambassadors Hotel under Soames’s name. Tannon called it in straightaway.’
‘When was this?’
‘An hour ago.’ A note of urgency tinged Hawkridge’s voice as he went on, ‘We don’t know how much longer Soames is going to remain at the hotel. You must hurry, John. Get there immediately. Before he disappears again.’
Porter consulted his G-Shock Mudman. It said 0728 hours. According to the map of Freetown he’d studied earlier, the western tip of Lumley Beach was roughly four miles from their present location. A fifteen-minute journey by car. Maybe thirty minutes if they stuck to the back streets and steered clear of the RUF. Which meant he and Bald could be at the hotel by 0800 hours.
Hawkridge said, ‘Deputy Commissioner Tannon will be waiting there for you. She’ll lead you directly to Soames.’
‘We’re leaving now,’ said Porter. He went to hang up.
‘One more thing,’ Hawkridge added hastily.
‘What’s that?’
‘The dead Russian. He’s a problem. We don’t want anyone stumbling on the corpse and putting a warrant out for Soames. Can you get rid of him?’
Porter glanced down below at the rear garden. Amid the weeds and spent shell casings he spied a square manhole cover covering a low brick rise in one corner of the garden. From the shape of the manhole cover he figured he was looking at a septic tank built under the rear of the property. A thought took shape in his head.
‘Well?’ Hawkridge asked.
‘I think I know a place,’ Porter replied.
‘Get it done. Then get the hell out of there and find Soames. Hurry, man. There’s no time to lose.’
NINE
0733 hours.
Bald and Porter bugged out of the mansion nineteen minutes later. They spent sixteen minutes disposing of the dead Russian. They dragged his distended corpse out of the office, down the stairs and into the rear garden, the two of them buckling under the heavy mass of his dead weight. They dumped him beside the manhole while Porter jimmied open the cover using the pair of lifting keys that Vandi had retrieved from the garden shed. A rancid stench wafted up from the tank as Porter removed the cover, his eyes stinging from the potent fumes. The opening wa
s roughly the size of a storm drain. And Viktor Agron was a big guy. It took both of them to force him into the half-empty tank head-first. The body landed with a wet splat in the festering pool of excrement. The dark brown slime quickly closed around his body. Then he was gone.
‘What about me?’ Vandi said, looking up hopefully at the operators as they prepared to leave.
Porter said, ‘Have you got somewhere else you can go?’
‘My aunt,’ the kid replied. ‘She lives in the old town. But it is long way from here. Many bad men on the streets.’
Porter sighed, took the sheaf of bills from the dead Russian’s wallet and handed them over to Vandi. A little over two hundred dollars in US currency. Practically a year’s salary in Sierra Leone. The kid’s eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets.
‘Here,’ Porter said. ‘This should be enough to get you past any checkpoints. Take this, find your aunt and get on the next ferry out of here.’
Vandi nodded quickly. ‘Yes, boss. Next ferry.’
He pocketed the bills and ducked out of the garden, heading for the front door. Bald stared wide-eyed at his mucker as Vandi left the house. ‘That’s all the Russian had in his wallet? A couple of hundred dollars?’
Porter nodded.
‘Fuck me,’ said Bald. ‘I knew the Russians were hard up, but that’s taking the piss. They’ll be sending out their field agents with luncheon vouchers soon enough.’
As they were leaving Porter cast a mournful look at Soames’s drinks cabinet. An idea occurred to him, and he considered sneaking out a bottle. But there was no time. Bald had spotted a group of rebels looting one of the colonial-style hotels located a hundred metres further north on the main road. One or two of the looters had started to take an interest in Soames’s office, pointing out to their mates the Range Rover parked in the driveway. Porter knew they couldn’t afford to stick around the office for a moment longer than necessary. We’ve got to get out of here and get to the Ambassadors Hotel, he thought.
Before Soames gives us all the slip.
Once they’d replaced the manhole cover on the tank they hurried out of the front door and climbed inside the Range Rover. Thirty seconds later, they were rolling south on Spur Road and heading towards Lumley Beach.