Bolt Action

by Charlie Charters

  ‘You mean a negotiation?’ Badgett blinks his incomprehension. ‘This is seriously late in the day . . .’

  ‘No, Jim. Not a negotiation . . . but a dialogue. Let’s hear what the man has to say.’ And the president’s voice is calm, and assured, authority restored. At last he can see his way through this, a little doorway of light opening in the distance. ‘It takes just one person to have the courage to ask the first question.’

  Immediately outside the situation room, from along the tight thread of carpeted corridors and tucked-away meeting rooms, come mutterings of concern about the spineless Canadians and the future of NORAD.

  But the National Security Advisor and the acting CIA director have more base motives in play. James Romen has pulled his erstwhile confidant to one side, prevented him re-entering the room. Giving the man a sharp taste of the misery he’s suffering. He hisses his words with venom. ‘Do you understand . . . those freaking cables from Lamayette . . . to think I trusted you, and to think frigging Lamayette was basically right all along . . . they’re going to clean my clock, when this is over . . . whatever big plan you and the president have of reforming the CIA in his master’s image, forget it . . . because you need me and I’m fucking dying in there, man.’

  The National Security Advisor, seriously buck-toothed, is rock steady, shameless, and tough as old boots. Goat’s eyes, no sign of shock or tension. Chosen to put a bit of bite into the president’s security priorities, he’d had almost four decades of gun-slinging and knife-wielding in the dark alleys of the global oil game, and finds Washington politics by comparison, and people like this Romen, too soft, too damned obvious.

  So he takes the bull by the horns, steps well inside Romen’s personal space and, with a finger, taps out his message on the other man’s chest. Strong, rich, east Tennessee accent. ‘Listen. Quit your pissy whining and get your game-head on for today. Understand this. For you, the key play here is that Trident DRAM chip.’

  Romen frowns. His face saying, You mean we can forget Pakistan?

  The National Security Advisor clamps his hands on Romen’s shoulders. ‘You make sure your people in London get at least one of those pukes involved in stealing the damned thing. All the better if there is some kind of British Army tie-up ‘cos then we can rub their stuck-up noses in it big-time, hold the mother of all swords to their necks and then drip-drip the story at this end. Remember, kiddo, all we need is for fifty per cent of them folks out there to think we know what we’re doing. We can’t be Superman all the time, but we can be halfway competent. That’s why we need to get an arrest on this DRAM thing. We’ll show ‘em there’s nothing we won’t do to protect the United States of America.

  ‘Understand this and you may get the key to the big boy’s toilet, James . . .’ Slap, slap on Romen’s cheek, with a gunslinger’s cool smile. ‘The administration of Charles Hannah does not compromise when it needs a huge distraction to stop them grubby little media types from pissing all over the president.’

  The Green Bean Coffee Shop

  Camp Lemonier

  US Combined Joint Task Force Djibouti, Horn of Africa

  1741 local time, 1541 London time, 1041 Washington time . . .

  Nineteen minutes to estimated point of engagement

  The ensign trots towards the coffee shop, a hand shielding his eyes from the blaze of the setting sun and the little zephyrs of sand that cut across this 500-acre desert-blast camp.

  In air-conditioned comfort, Lieutenant Commander Nancy Breen watches the young man as he moves from being framed in the windows to the translucent, sealed door panels designed to keep out the unforgiving Djibouti summer heat. Instinct tells her he brings bad news. More bad news; for the coffee shop’s chocolate shot machine is kaput.

  ‘What is it, Ensign?’

  ‘MacDill. On the phone. Urgent, ma’am. The White House on the hoof about something.’ MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, where Central Command, USCENTCOM, is based. Camp Lemonier used to fall under USCENTCOM, as did every US military asset from the Horn of Africa, through the Gulf and into Central Asia. Then it was transposed into the newly created AFRICOM, based out of Stuttgart, Germany.

  Which is why Breen is a little put out, discomposed, as she strides quickly into the broiling heat towards the camp’s intelligence HQ, threading her way past the sand-painted hard billets used to accommodate the 1,800 military and civilian staffers.

  Anxious calls from Stateside are not usual. Camp Lemonier is a political hot potato, a base for Predator strikes into wild and woolly places like Somalia to the south, and Yemen to the north; a staging point for naval anti-piracy efforts in the busy, strategic straits of Bab el-Mandab, and an out-of-sight holding area for select, high-value detainees.

  The latter is Breen’s particular area of expertise. She is the camp’s military liaison with a twelve-strong team of Behavioural Science Consultation operatives, known as Biscuits. A mix of CIA staffers and deniable freelancers. The interrogators.

  When she grasps the handset, it’s still clammy to the touch. Disconcerting. ‘This is Lieutenant Commander Breen . . .’ Instinctively straightening. She recognises the voice on the other end. An army lieutenant general, based originally at Fort Bragg, but now working out of MacDill. One of the military’s top psychologists.

  ‘Breen. A heads-up for you on General Ali Mahmood Khan.’

  ‘What exactly, sir?’

  ‘In about one hundred and twenty seconds’ time you’re going to get a call asking you to present the general for a live video link-up with the White House. It appears he was high value, after all. So he needs to look . . . decent. You understand?’

  Breen puts a hand to her mouth, anxious, not wanting to say the wrong thing. Not yet. ‘Can you just hold for a moment, sir.’ And she quicksteps behind her desk, starts roaming through her computer files. Lists of detainees and the day-to-day sequencing of their interrogations. Sleep deprivation, the old Yoko Ono albums and Star of Israel flag treatment. Here we are . . . General Ali Mahmood Khan. She opens the file with a double click. Scans the latest paperwork. Rechecks it, because the guy is a general after all. I thought so . . . and she picks up the handset again.

  ‘Sir. That detainee is deceased.’

  No small measure of panic in the voice. ‘Whaaaat?’

  ‘Sir, we sent through a notification to AFRICOM almost forty-eight hours ago. I believe the Biscuits did the same, to Langley. Asking for direction on the corpse.’

  ‘How is that possible? Don’t tell me bedsheets, please?’

  ‘No, sir. Not at all.’ Breen smarts a little at that. What kind of operation do you think we’re running here? ‘We haven’t done a full autopsy, but this is what it looks like. The detainee pulled all of his hair out, sir. He had a good head of hair. Must have timed it to perfection between the hourly inspections. Balled it up with a lot of spit and faeces, and packed it, like a wedge, into his airway. Drifted into unconsciousness, at which point his tongue muscle would have loosened, closed things off for good. Died from lack of oxygen.’

  Breen feels a little peppy to have got that right. She had known it was Khan. The paperwork to AFRICOM was correct, all properly time-stamped. So, with confidence restored, she offers a small observation of her own. ‘I got a sense, talking with the Biscuits, that the deceased knew something was coming . . . something ominous.’ And now, feeling positively on top of her game, Breen pushes the point. ‘Sir, so what should we do with the body?’

  But there’s nothing on the other end of the line.

  On board PK412

  Meanwhile, at last, there’s a hole in the ceiling of the cabin. It had started off as a series of cracks, forced by Whiffler and his swinging aluminium galley inset. He and the wrestlers had then taken turns forcing their fingers through, trying to break off or peel back as much of the fibreglass composite as possible. Nasty work, evidenced by the vivid smears of blood at the workface.

  But, at least, there’s an opening. Sort of a modest, star-shaped r
ip. And as a consequence there’d been no suggestion that anybody but Tristie be the one to try to worm up into the roof cavity.

  Captain Salahuddin is kneeling on seat 1D, dismally looking up at the hole. ‘I do wish you the best of luck, Ms Merritt.’ He doesn’t quite shake his head in hopelessness, but near enough.

  ‘When I get up there, what should I expect?’

  ‘Up there?’ Salahuddin blanches. ‘To be truthful I don’t really know. It’ll be pitch black first of all . . .’ And suddenly helpful, he clap-claps his hands, rabbits off an Urdu instruction for, presumably, a torch. ‘You will find a series of cross-ways spars, like ribs, designed to reinforce the shape of the fuselage. If there is room, you must cross these, to keep going forward. Of course, the roof will be tapering downwards all the time. Less and less space the farther forward you get. Other than that, a lot of foil-wrapped cladding will separate you from the actual skin of the fuselage.

  ‘Can I rip that off, if I need to, to get more space?’

  He makes a who-knows face, palms upward. ‘I don’t think that would make any difference. But maybe. Why not? What have we got to lose?’ And he moves on, quickly. ‘Just don’t pull any of the wiring. Running underneath you, from the back of the plane forward, will be a lot of cables. Bundles this thick,’ he makes an O with his thumb and index finger, ‘coming over the cabin and into the cockpit. Bundles and bundles sleeved together with tie-backs and cushion clamps.’ And, putting aside the ‘no-touch’ rule, he rests a worried hand on Tristie’s arm. ‘I imagine there’ll be many sharp edges. Exposed metal beams and brackets, hex nuts. That sort of thing. So painful.’

  ‘I’m OK with that, Captain. If the cause is good enough,’ and she starts to disrobe. Talk of hex nuts and clamp brackets means she can’t afford to snag on anything. The pinstripe ivory twill skirt suit has to go. She lays the jacket on the seat-back next to Salahuddin.

  He sizes her up closely. You’re really going to do this? Searching her eyes for any sign of weakness and, evidently satisfied, offering a smile of encouragement. ‘The way the beams and spars are laid out you might find you need to go sideways, even backwards, just to keep going forward, if you know what I mean.’

  She nods her understanding. It’s a horrendous proposition. Slide, slither, get there how you will. She unzips the side panel of her skirt. Steps out of it, and lays it flat on the seat-back, flicking a little piece of dirt off the lace hem. ‘And when I get into the cockpit?’

  Mouths open, their eyes on little stalks, about a dozen men are staring at her. Salahuddin. Whiffler. Button, and the eight or nine goggle-eyed Pakistani wrestlers . . . quite a sight.

  ‘What is it?’

  Oh.

  Now Tristie understands. The woman wears undergarments . . . shock horror. A garter-belt pantyhose. Quick, make the sign of the cross. White lace thong with polka dots and matching bra . . . She is the Devil . . .

  ‘What did you guys think I had under my suit. Army fatigues?’

  Outside MI5 headquarters

  Thames House

  1545 London time, 1045 Washington time, 2045 Islamabad time

  A touch of irony, as Sheila ‘Noppy’ Davane waits by the vast, neoclassical structure that houses Britain’s domestic security service. Her protection team consists of two of Tristie Merritt’s former comrades. Current, serving members of 14 Coy., who do a lot of MI5’s muscle work.

  All three scan the approaches to the junction where Horseferry Road comes in from their left, heading straight over the roundabout to the north end of Lambeth Bridge, as Millbank runs up the side of the building and continues parallel with the river.

  Just the lightest traffic. Except, of course, for the two vans parked as inconspicuously as possible. A bespoke laundry service and a flower delivery agency, complete with Interflora logo. Nice touch. The laundry service is MI5’s. The other, Davane presumes, with a wry grin, must be somebody scrambled on behalf of the CIA. All told, probably about twenty different sets of people are waiting to listen in live to her cell phone . . .

  Boy. She’d enjoyed giving it both barrels on the link-up with Washington. Real catharsis. There’s something ornery and obtuse hard-wired into her Protestant, Carrickfergus-farming DNA that loves drawing America’s attention to the perils of terrorism. Such johnny-come-latelys they are. This, after monitoring the cash flood coming across the Atlantic all those years, for Sinn Fein and the Provos, from church groups, social clubs and bars. Dippy Irish idiots, most of them were, with their mawkish, romantic sense of patriotism.

  See how it feels, friend?

  Her phone rings, and she’s quick to answer.

  ‘Noppy. I’ve got to make this speedy.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do.’ Davane looks left and right. ‘How close are you to the Canadian coast?’

  There’s a long pause. Wasn’t expecting that, were you? She can hear a quiet discussion in the background. ‘Salahuddin guesses about a hundred and fifty miles.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got seventy miles to go, then.’

  ‘That’s when it’s going to happen?’

  Davane doesn’t offer anything. Just sniffs rather loudly, before continuing, all business. ‘So let’s get this over with. I’ve got your letter from the Attorney General. Just as well he was in London . . .’ She tightens her grip on the slim brown attaché case.

  ‘You don’t sound particularly cut up.’

  ‘Tristie, I had a look at your file. You do good stuff. You did choose a worthy cause with those injured soldiers. And well done, by the way, from Colonel Molloy. He likes you very much, and I do trust his judgement. So between the three of us, things could have worked out . . . but for today’s unfortunate circumstances, of course. If I could have helped, well, I would have tried. Belie that reputation I have.’ One of the 14 Coy. squad-dies moves away from Davane’s shoulder . . . points across the bridge facing them, to a pale grey Bentley. Moving very slowly, about halfway across, travelling at kerb-crawl speed towards them. They can’t get a read on the plates. Not yet.

  ‘A car is approaching you, Noppy. Nice car. You need to get into it. Just you. Not Pinky and Perky by your side.’

  It doesn’t surprise Davane in the slightest that Merritt’s got a pair of eyes on the ground. Good eyes evidently because the body they’re attached to is not visible to her and her protectors. Merritt, you’re actually OK, Davane acknowledges. Better than OK. ‘The Bentley?’ The silver-haired Ulsterwoman has to squint a little, even with her thick bifocals. ‘I’m not getting in.’

  ‘When you see who’s in the car, you’ll get in . . . I promise it’s safe.’

  One of the army guys is reading the plate number into a cuff-microphone. Delta Three. Juliet. Uniform. Romeo. Three.

  ‘Pinky and Perky can trot along beside the car, you’re not going far.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘Noppy. I’ve got to run. It’s getting a bit sporty at this end . . .’

  ‘Tristie . . .’ But the line is dead.

  The Bentley pulls to a halt at the roundabout at the north end of the bridge, maybe thirty yards away, giving way to a trail of cyclists passing down Millbank. That’s when the realisation hits Davane. Her instant reaction is to choke and splutter, and – dammit all – appreciate. Another plus-mark for this girl Merritt.

  She nudges the cuff-mike soldier. ‘Stop the plate check. Look . . .’ And she points to the front of the car. Delta Three Juliet . . . stupid way to check vanity plates. It spells out D3 JUR3. Or, from a distance, DE JURE, a Latin legal expression, meaning ‘by right’.

  Davane and her protectors can’t help but be entranced as the car eases towards them, and its cream-coloured, retractable canvas roof starts to fold away mechanically. One layer into another, until all is safely tucked out of sight. Twenty-five seconds, and by that time the Bentley has eased up on to the kerb in front of them. There’s a heavy bass, reggae beat.

  The liveried chauffeur quietens the music. And beckoning to Sheila ‘Noppy’ Dav
ane, from the back seat, with his gold-encrusted fingers and a Caribbean smile of purest white teeth, is the most irritating, vexatious barrister in Britain. Defender of villains, upholder of human rights, perpetual scourge of the police, and MI5 in particular. Thick dreadlocked hair spilling over his shoulders. Basking in the fact that the car, his taste in European women, the music and the Rastafarian dreadlocks drive most people, certainly every last Sun and Express reader, to absolute distraction.

  In the most polished of upmarket accents, the barrister belly-laughs his welcome. ‘Do come and join me, Ms Davane.’ So speaketh Beveridge Clairmonte, native son of Hagley Gap in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, LLB, qualified 1984, Queen’s Counsel 2007.

  With the shiniest of white teeth, he radiates bonhomie. ‘Let’s put past hostilities to one side. I believe my client might have something of value for you, and vice versa. Shall we proceed without further ado?’

  The White House

  In a small communication suite off the main situation room an urgent conference is taking place. Leading it is the Secretary of State. Although the president is also present, he’s been asked to say nothing and stay out of vision of the various phone cameras. ‘Keep yourself in the background, Mr President . . . but you need to listen to all of this . . . so you know what’s happening out there.’

  The past five minutes have been a roll-call of disaster. From the US embassies throughout the world the first diplomatic reactions are being filtered, passed up to the State Department’s various bureaus and on to the White House.

  By phone, from the State Department complex on C Street, comes a trembly voice, wired with too much coffee. ‘So far we’ve heard word formally from . . .’ The undersecretary of political affairs, reading through a long list of countries ‘. . . Tajikistan. Afghanistan. Brunei. Malaysia. Maldives. Niger. Jordan. Oman. Indonesia. Kyrgyzstan. Nigeria . . .’ There’s a pause, paper is shuffled, and the roll-call continues. ‘. . . Bahrain. Bangladesh. Chad. Morocco. Tunisia. Algeria. The UAE. Pakistan, obviously.’ The undersecretary takes a long, despairing breath. ‘The footprint is the Middle East, South, South-East and Central Asia, and basically the whole of sub-Saharan Africa.’