by Chris Ryan
‘I don’t know,’ said Porter.
Tannon bit her tongue, took a deep breath, nodded. The anxiety spreading from her eyes to the rest of her face.
‘What’s to stop them attacking us at night?’ Crowder said.
‘They won’t. They’ll be too busy getting pissed.’
‘So you say.’
‘We’re not dealing with Delta Force here,’ Bald said. ‘We’ve seen these guys out on the streets. They’re piss-poor shots and badly trained. Trust me, when they hit us, it won’t be anything sophisticated. They’ll come at us from the north and hit us with everything they’ve got.’
‘What’ll we do then?’ Tannon asked, her voice wavering.
Porter looked at her. ‘Got a sat phone?’
She nodded. ‘All the senior staff are given one.’
‘Get on it,’ he said. ‘Put in a call to everyone who owes you a favour and get them to apply pressure behind the scenes. Tell every other embassy official in the hotel to start doing the same thing. We have to make everyone understand that evacuating this hotel is a priority. Because if we’re still inside when the rebels break through, we’re royally fucked.’
THIRTEEN
0928 hours.
The meeting broke up. Porter emerged into the lobby with Bald and Tully and Tannon. While Crowder headed off to round up his staff, the others started working the crowd in the lobby to round up volunteers. The growing threat from the rebels outside had concentrated everyone’s minds, and within a few minutes they had thirty people offering to help.
As they moved through the crowd Porter spotted the five guys he’d bumped into earlier. They were dressed like they were going on a safari jaunt, milling around in the far corner and doing their best to look casual, their hands stuffed in their pockets as they scanned the sea of faces in the lobby. As if they were looking for a friend. The guy with the dumb goatee who’d bumped into Porter stood to one side of his mates. He had a chunky mobile phone pressed to his ear. From his animated body language the guy appeared to be having an argument with the person on the other end of the line.
Tannon kept glancing anxiously over at the hotel entrance while Bald and Tully assembled the army of volunteers. Porter noticed her right foot tapping on the marbled floor.
‘You okay, love?’
She nodded. Quickly. ‘I’ll be fine. Just, you know . . . I hope you’re wrong.’
‘About the Nigerians?’
Tannon nodded again.
‘Me too,’ said Porter.
Several moments later Crowder returned with a dozen hotel workers in tow. He directed them into the restaurant on the south side of the ground floor, overlooking the grounds to the rear of the hotel. Porter, Tully and Tannon followed along with the group of volunteers. Two of the workers cleared away the dining tables to make space for everyone. Then Crowder gave Porter the floor. He tried to sound as diplomatic as possible as he explained the situation.
‘Help is on the way. There’s an evacuation plan in place. But in the event of an attack we need to make sure the guests are safe and the hotel’s as secure as possible. From now on, no one enters or leaves the building.’
One or two of the staff muttered amongst themselves. One of the volunteers raised her hand. A middle-aged woman with a heavy French accent A Médecins Sans Frontières accreditation danged from her neck.
‘What about the people outside who are injured?’ she said. ‘We can’t just leave them in the streets. Some of them need medical attention. They’ll die.’
‘We can’t help them,’ Porter replied. ‘Our priority is to care for the people inside the hotel. That means fortifying the hotel against a possible enemy assault.’
Another volunteer raised his head. A Red Cross worker. ‘If we’re in danger, why don’t we start evacuating the hotel now, before the rebels attack us?’
Some of the other volunteers murmured in agreement. Bald stepped forward and said, ‘It’s too dangerous. The streets are crawling with hostiles. We’d run into an enemy checkpoint before we could get everyone to safety. There’s only one route out of the city, and it would take us in the direction of the rebels.’
‘Then what do you expect us to do?’ the Frenchwoman asked, throwing up her arms. She looked despairing. ‘Sit here and hope for the best?’
‘We bunker down in the hotel until help arrives,’ Porter replied forcefully, making sure everyone in the room understood the gravity of the situation. ‘This is where we’ll make our stand. You’ll need to make that clear to everybody inside the hotel. Anyone who loses their nerve and bolts will fall into the hands of the rebels and end up dead. Got it?’
There was a general bobbing of heads around the room. Porter nodded in satisfaction. His words had helped to focus the volunteers’ minds on the task ahead, and they listened in silence for the rest of the briefing as he went over the plan in detail. He divided the volunteers into fifteen pairs, with each group given responsibility for a specific area. Two pairs would help clear the luggage from the lobby and stow everything in an unused conference room on the first floor. Another eight volunteers would help clear the corridors and stairways on the upper floors, so that the staff could easily relocate guests to the rooms. The remaining twenty volunteers were tasked with fortifying the upper floors by putting all the internal furniture up against the windows, as well as transferring the non-perishable foodstuffs upstairs.
At the same time the hotel workers would knuckle down to the task of organising the guests into the rooms on the top four floors, while the kitchen staff were tasked with rationing supplies and drawing up a meal roster for everyone. Guests would be told to report to the main restaurant at 0900 hours and 1700 hours each day for a daily briefing led by Deputy Commissioner Tannon. When he had finished, Porter went through the plan again so that everyone understood their jobs. Then Crowder called an end to the meeting and they went to work.
There was a bustle of activity in the lobby as the hotel porters began ushering the guests towards the stairs. Volunteers scurried around the lobby, grabbing suitcases and holdalls and backpacks and anything else cluttering the space, lugging everything up to the conference room on the first floor. Kitchen staff hurried in and out of the restaurant, bringing in extra tables and chairs for the evening meal. As the crowd started to filter out of the lobby Crowder made a beeline for Porter and Bald. A squat old white guy in overalls and a utility belt marched alongside him.
‘This is Fischer,’ Crowder said. ‘He’s our handyman. He’ll show you the exit and entry points.’
‘You know your way around?’ Porter asked him.
Fischer nodded. ‘Been working here since they opened the place,’ he said in a thick Afrikaans accent. ‘Nobody knows this building better than me, bru. Not even the guys who built it.’
Porter nodded then looked to Tully. ‘You go with Fischer. Any exit points other than the fire doors should be nailed shut. Staff entrances, delivery bays. Board them up with whatever you can find.’
‘What about the front doors?’ Fischer asked.
‘Leave them open for now. We’ve got the Nigerians covering the front. They’re our barricade. But everything else needs to be sealed or blocked off.’
‘We’ll sort it,’ said Tully. ‘Where are you fellas going?’
‘Upstairs. Me and Jock will do a recce of the upper floors. Set up fire points on each floor. Some of those rebels we saw on the drive over are packing RPGs. If one of them fuckers lets off a round and hits the hotel, the whole place could go up in flames.’ He turned to Crowder. ‘We’ll need fire extinguishers at each fire point. We’ll give you a list once we’ve done the rounds. Have your people fill up the bathtubs and sinks in the upper-floor rooms. If the water supply gets cut off, we’re going to need drinking water for everyone inside the hotel.’
‘Sure,’ said Crowder. ‘I’ll get on it now.’
He turned and wandered back towards the reception desk. Tully followed the handyman across the lobby. As Porter turned to hea
d for the stairs he heard a scuffle coming from the direction of the entrance. He looked across and saw one of the volunteers arguing with a trio of dark-haired guys in garish suits. From their accents and clothes Porter guessed they were Lebanese. Wherever there were diamonds in Africa, you could find a community of Lebanese running the merchant side of the business, fencing diamonds to the big companies in the West. He and Bald paced over to the Lebanese men as they continued to shout at the volunteer. At the sound of their approaching footsteps one of them turned towards the Blades. A hairy, morbidly obese guy with a pencil moustache and chunky gold rings on every finger. The man reeked of rich cologne.
‘What’s the problem here?’ Porter asked, directing his question at the volunteer.
‘This woman says we aren’t allowed to leave the hotel,’ the Lebanese scowled, waving a fat hand at the volunteer blocking the entrance doors.
Porter nodded. ‘That’s right. Everyone is to say inside from now on. It’s for your own safety.’
The Lebanese shook his fat head. ‘This is unacceptable! We have businesses to run. How are we supposed to protect them from the rebels if we’re stuck inside here?’
‘The hotel is on lockdown,’ Bald cut in. ‘Now shut the fuck up and deal with it.’
The Lebanese glowered, his sweaty features bristling with rage. ‘You have no authority here. You’re not in charge.’ His eyes shifted to Porter. ‘Either of you. We’re leaving.’
He reached for the door. Porter stepped forward and planted his palm flat on the door, slamming it shut then stepping between the Lebanese and the entrance. He glared at the businessman.
‘Step away from the door.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do.’
‘If you step outside, you’re a dead man. The rebels will get to you before you get anywhere near your precious shops. They’ll take you alive and torture you in ways you can’t even imagine. By the time those animals are done with you, you’ll be begging them to put a bullet between your eyes.’
The Lebanese hesitated for a beat. His eyes narrowed to tiny dots and twitched at the corners. As if he was trying to decide whether to turn away or barge past Porter, and which one was more profitable for him. Then one of the other Lebanese cleared his throat and placed a hand on the fat guy’s shoulder. A younger man dressed in a bright blue suit, with a thick beard and bushy eyebrows.
‘Perhaps this man is right, uncle,’ the younger Lebanese said. ‘Maybe it is safer if we stay.’
Pride demanded that the Lebanese hold his ground for a few more seconds. Then he snorted at Bald and Porter and spun away, cursing under his breath. Bald watched them disappear up the stairs with the rest of the guests.
‘Let’s hope no one else tries to leave,’ he muttered. ‘We’ve got enough problems on our plate without the guests kicking up a fuss.’
Once the lobby had emptied, Bald and Porter got to work. They moved steadily up each floor of the hotel, checking that the fire doors were properly sealed and unobstructed, inspecting the emergency stairwells to make sure the volunteers could easily move from one floor to the next. As they went around Bald made notes with a pen and a pad of blank paper he’d taken from one of the staff at the reception, identifying where the fire points on each floor should go. By midday they had cleared most of the floors and as they climbed the stairs to the top floor Porter breathed a slight sigh of relief. They had restored a semblance of order to a chaotic situation, and given the people inside the hotel a fighting chance of survival.
I don’t give a toss about protecting Soames, thought Porter. But there are a thousand people in here depending on me to keep them alive. I’m not going to let them down. No fucking way.
As they reached the sixth floor a high-pitched scream split the air. Porter and Bald both stopped cold as they hit the landing, and glanced down the corridor to their left. They saw a guest standing ten metres away, in front of the door to one of the luxury suites. He was arguing with one of the hotel porters. He wore the hotel uniform of short-sleeved white shirt, dark trousers and polished black shoes.
He was maybe the biggest guy Porter had ever seen. His shoulders were like a pair of basketballs stuffed into sacks. His neck was as wide as a lampshade. He towered over the guest. The latter looked to be in his sixties. He wore a pair of chinos and a wrinkled linen shirt. He had a liver-spotted left hand clasped around the wrist of a rakishly thin black woman standing next to him. The woman wore the same kind of clothes as Tully’s night fighter. She had the same deadened look in her eyes too. She could have been the hooker’s twin sister, thought Porter. The woman screamed again as the old man yanked her towards him.
‘Sir, please,’ the porter said. ‘You need to let her go.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ the guest spat.
The porter tried again. ‘Sir, as I have already explained, all the guests must share their rooms. The boss has ordered it.’
‘Tell your manager to fuck off.’ The old man spoke in a harsh, guttural accent. German. ‘I’m not sharing with anyone. I paid for this room, just like I paid for this whore. She stays with me.’
‘Please . . .’ the woman whimpered as she struggled to break free from the man’s grip. ‘Let me go. You’re hurting me.’
‘Shut up, whore!’ the German snapped at her. ‘Get back inside the room. I won’t ask you again.’
The woman shrieked as he shoved her inside the room. The man-mountain looked on, his hands clenched into fists the size of bowling balls. The veins on his neck bulged like water in a couple of twisted hosepipes.
‘Sir, I cannot let you do this.’
The German spun back to face the porter. Scowled at him. ‘I don’t give a shit what you think. You have a problem, take it up with your boss. I’m sure he’ll be interested to hear about how you’ve treated one of his most important guests. Now get out of my face.’
The porter didn’t move. He just stared at the old man. The guest stared back at him and smiled arrogantly. Then there was a flash of movement as he reached a hand around to the back of his chinos and whipped out a pistol from under his shirt. A stubby black Russian-manufactured PSM pistol with a steel barrel and a long curved trigger guard. The old man swung up his right arm and brought the PSM level with the porter, training the muzzle on a spot between his eyes.
The porter threw up his arms. His eyes were glued to the black hole of the PSM’s muzzle six inches from his face. Beads of sweat trickled down his head. His hands trembled.
‘Sir, please,’ he said. ‘I beg you. Don’t do—’
‘Don’t tell me what to fucking do!’
The old man tensed his finger on the PSM trigger. All his energies were concentrated on the gun in his hand and the vast spread of a target standing in front of him. Which meant he didn’t see Bald charging at him from behind. At the last second the German heard the pounding of footsteps on the soft carpet and spun away from the man-mountain to face the new threat. Bald sprang forward before the old man could react, swinging his right arm in a rapid chopping motion and aiming for the guy’s neck. The German gasped as the outer ridge of Bald’s hand slammed against his windpipe, driving the air out of his throat. He folded at the waist in shock, his right arm falling away as the semi-automatic tumbled from his grip and thudded against the carpet.
The guy tried to retreat from Bald. He didn’t get very far. Bald grabbed the German by the hair and brought up his right leg in a sharp upward jerk. There was a sickening crack as the bony edge of Bald’s knee slammed into the bridge of the man’s face, shattering the bones in his nose and breaking several of his teeth. Bald released his grip and the old man stumbled backwards, groaning nasally as he pawed at his broken nose. Then Bald stepped forward, throwing a sharp uppercut at the German that caught him square on the underside of his chin and sent his jaw crashing into the roof of his skull.
The old man grunted and fell backwards, landing on the floor next to the man-mountain. He rolled over and reached for the semi-automatic glinting on the carpet
. Bald stepped forward again, kicking the weapon out of range. He slammed his boot down on the man’s balls for good measure. The German gasped for breath, cupping one hand to his groin while the other staunched the flow of blood from his broken nose.
Bald quickly scooped up the PSM, racked the chamber and slid out the mag. He counted eight rounds of 5.45x18mm brass in the clip. A full magazine. He inserted the clip back into the heel of the grip and stashed the pistol in the waistband of his combats. The man-mountain stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment.
‘You saved my life, sir,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Forget it, mate. That wanker had it coming.’ Bald rolled the German onto his front and pinned his arms behind his back, pressing down on his spine with his right knee.
‘Bastard!’ the old man rasped. ‘Get off me!’
‘Give us a hand here,’ Bald called out. ‘Help me restrain this cunt.’
Porter ducked inside the suite, looking around for something to tie the old man’s hands together with. The hooker was lying on the king-sized bed, rubbing her sore wrists and staring in horror at the scene outside. Porter paced over to the window, grabbed the thick cord tied around the curtains and yanked it free. Then he approached the bed and offered his hand to the prostitute. She stared at him for a beat before accepting it. Porter helped her to her feet, escorted her out of the room and handed the curtain cord to Bald. The old man groaned as Bald bound the cord tight around his wrists, until he’d almost cut off the blood supply. When he’d finished, Bald hauled the German to his feet and shoved him towards the man-mountain.
‘Dump this prick in one of the rooms on the first floor. He can sweat it out down there.’
‘This man . . . he was going to kill me.’ The porter bowed his head at Bald. ‘Sir, I am in your debt. If there’s anything I can do to repay you—’
Bald waved him away. ‘Buy me a drink when this is over.’
‘Please, sir. Call me Solomon.’
‘You’ll regret this,’ the German snarled at Bald. ‘You and your nigger friend. I’ve got friends in the police. I’ll make sure they hear about this. They’ll make you pay. Both of you.’