Nomad

by James Swallow

  “Ah,” said Grunewald. “Let’s just say his contract came to an unexpected conclusion.”

  “Silly bastard fell into a volcano,” offered Ellis.

  “You what?” The Englishman’s face soured. “Are you taking the piss?”

  “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds,” Grunewald replied, stepping down on to the weather deck. “Your boy Dane has quite the survival instinct.”

  “He ain’t my boy,” came the reply.

  “As you wish,” Grunewald shrugged. “But I’ll say this for him, he’s tenacious.”

  “What the fuck?” The other man shook his head in disbelief. “Shit, I’ve got here just in time, because obviously you lads don’t even know how to deal with one slippery little prick!” He advanced on Grunewald. “Listen. I don’t know what the SOP was before, but now I’m on side, there will be zero screw ups, you read me?”

  “You got a lot of mouth on you,” Ellis said, his eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you again?”

  “Who am I?” The Englishman’s fist came up in a blur and struck Ellis in the throat. Not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make him choke and stagger back against the lip of the cargo hatch. “I’m Tommy fuckin’ Atkins, pal. I’m the one running you now, so less of the lip.” Ellis reeled, and stopped himself on the verge of trying something in return. The other man looked back at Grunewald. “So. What’s that, two dead now? He’s doing better than you.”

  “It’s not all bad,” insisted the mercenary. “We leveraged the family to recover the hard drive from the yacht.”

  “It’s intact,” said Teape. “I checked.”

  “So push that, then.”

  Grunewald shook his head. “Dane’s sister is under police protection. We can’t get near them.”

  The Englishman spat on the deck. “Bollocks.”

  The mercenary had the good grace to look contrite. “Faso delivered the drive to the courier, as ordered … But I think we need to go up the line.”

  That earned him a challenging glare. “Oh yeah? You want to talk to the men in charge?” He shook his head. “That’s not your call to make.”

  “I know they are not pleased,” insisted Grunewald. “We have a lot of loose ends here, and I know there’s been talk about going dark until the Dane issue is dealt with.”

  “Yeah, well that ain’t going to wash with Saladin and his fucking children’s crusade.” He stopped as two figures approached from the stern, hunched forward against the wind. “Speak of the devil.”

  Khadir advanced, his face as stormy as the clouds. Jadeed hovered close to his side, his gaze in constant motion—back and forth between the mercenaries. “Why was I not told a helicopter was meeting us?” demanded Khadir. “Who are these men?”

  “Consultants,” said the Englishman.

  “This is our operation,” Khadir insisted, bristling at his tone. “The Combine involved you in order to assist us.”

  “And that’s what we’re doing,” replied Tommy. He looked back at Grunewald. “Tell me you got one thing right, at least. Did you bring him his toys?”

  The mercenary gave Teape a nod, and the dour American went to the rear of the helicopter. He opened the curved cowling around the BK117’s cargo compartment, and removed a pair of long slab-like containers. Khadir jerked his chin and Jadeed stepped up to assist him.

  “Open them,” he commanded.

  Teape gave Grunewald a questioning look, but the other man waved him away. “He bought them. Let him see them.”

  “Al Sayf bought these weapons,” Khadir corrected.

  Jadeed produced a lock-knife and used it to slice open lines of bright red security tape around the latches. Cracking the seal, Jadeed gave a grunt of approval as the contents were revealed.

  Each container held a trio of narrow white tubes just under three meters in length, terminating in bright red caps and festooned with safety pins and warning tapes. Fins sprouted from the rear and the front of the tubes, and down the length of their bodies were lines of component numbers.

  “From Hangzong Nanfeng, via Pyongyang, to you,” said Grunewald, with a smirk. “The PiLi-5 short-range air-to-air missile. Accept no substitutes.”

  “Happy now?” Tommy demanded.

  Khadir met his gaze. “And what of the other issues you spoke of?”

  “That’s a work in progress,” offered Grunewald. “He got away from us in Sicily and resurfaced in Rome, but British Intelligence lost track of him there.”

  “Fucking morons,” snapped the Englishman, and his use of foul language made both Khadir and Jadeed glare at him with open disdain. He didn’t appear to notice, gesturing at Grunewald. “They’re worse than you are. Can’t find their arses with a torch and a road map…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The Combine have a contingency is in place. Dane thinks he’s clever, so we let him be clever. We’re gonna kill two birds with one stone. We set out a box, we just have to put him in it.”

  * * *

  At first Marc thought he was drowning, and it was that hot flash of naked panic that kicked him back up above the surface of the chemical sleep dragging on him. He struggled against the pull of waves that wrapped themselves around him, catching him in a net he could not escape from.

  Marc remembered the impact as the Lynx collided with the whitecaps off Truro Shoal, the cold waters of the South China Sea filling the helicopter’s cockpit and battering him back against his seat. He remembered it as if it were happening now, only this time he wasn’t getting out, this time he was going to follow the crashed aircraft down into the deeps along with the rest of his crew—

  And then he was kicking weakly at a snarl of fine cotton bed sheets, sliding against his own clammy skin. Marc rolled back and saw a curved arc of ceiling lit by soft lamps. His head felt thick and heavy, and it made it hard for him to think straight. Everything seemed to have an unreal, dreamlike quality.

  “What was in that dart?” he said aloud, croaking the question through an arid mouth. Marc’s hand went to his throat where the needle had gone in, and there was the raised dot of a fresh scab there.

  As he climbed from the embrace of the bed, Marc was rewarded by a thudding headache that emerged from the depths of his skull and set up residence right between his eyes. Blinking, he surveyed his surroundings. He appeared to be in a small, oddly-shaped but very well-appointed hotel room with no windows. The air tasted dry and even draining the water glass he found on the bedside table didn’t lessen that.

  There was a vibration underlying everything that put him off-balance, but Marc couldn’t tell if that was real or just some strange artifact of the drugs working themselves out of his system. A set of clothes—an expensive Nike tracksuit and matching trainers—had been left out for him, and he dressed as quickly as he could. Of the suit he had stolen from Callum Torrance, the daypack, the Glock pistol and his laptop, there was no sign.

  Marc tried the door handle, expecting it to be locked. The fact that it wasn’t caught him off-guard.

  Stepping out of the room, he found himself in a thin corridor, and suddenly the reason for the unusual dimensions of the “hotel room” became clear. The curve of the ceiling over his head, the steady vibration, the narrow confines; he was on board a wide-body airliner, one that was clearly designed around the needs of some very well-heeled passengers.

  Marc crossed to a window and peered out. He saw the arc of a wing and an engine in the spill of illumination from the cabin, the pulse of a running light flashing steadily. He guessed that the jet was at cruising altitude, but in the darkness it was hard to be certain. After a moment, he gave up looking for landmarks and used the visible stars to figure a rough directional fix. They were flying east. He wondered about what that could mean, and turned away.

  Across the cabin there was a man of average build and pale skin, his hair hidden under a watch cap. He gave Marc an even look, showing no sign of alarm at finding him up and around. Then, almost carelessly, he jerked a thumb at a door leading toward th
e aircraft’s forward compartments. Without a word, he walked away, down the corridor Marc had emerged into and disappeared through a door to another cabin.

  In its own way, Marc reflected, that was almost insulting. The pale man—Marc was pretty sure it was the same one who had been driving the RAV4 in Rome—considered him so little a threat that he didn’t call for help or otherwise raise the alarm.

  Scowling at the thought, he went through the next door, revealing a large conference room that filled the width of the aircraft. On one wall was an oil painting of the African veldt, and Marc’s eyes were drawn to glassy plates in the surface of the table that dominated the room. He guessed that there were projectors, screens and other digital tech embedded in the rich wood. Like everything else on the plane, it was a bespoke setup.

  The next compartment was a lounge area with a curved bar made of glass, dark red leather and brushed steel. Seated by a window, the woman who had drugged him looked up from the pages of a glossy French fashion magazine.

  “Enjoy your nap?”

  Marc held up his hands. “I really don’t want you to shoot me again.”

  She cocked her head. “I really don’t want you to give me a reason to.”

  His frown deepened, and he went to the bar, helping himself to a bottle of mineral water, draining it halfway in a single pull. “What am I doing here? Maybe I should start with that.” His eyes flicked around the small sink behind the bar. There was a sharp cocktail knife for cutting limes within arm’s reach. He thought about palming it.

  “You’re being kept alive,” she replied. “All part of the service.”

  He didn’t like the way that came out, but before Marc could question her further, two men approached from the corridor leading to the jetliner’s nose. Both well-dressed, one of them slender with a Gallic face, the other tall, dark and imposing, a serious cast to his expression.

  He surveyed Marc with a measuring look, taking him in with a nod. “Mister Dane,” he said. “I am Ekko Solomon. Please accept my apologies for the manner in which you were brought here. I hope you understand it was the most expedient choice under the circumstances.”

  “Right. Of course.” Marc met the man’s gaze and found what seemed like honesty looking back at him.

  “You’ve already met my driver Malte and Miss Keyes.” He nodded toward the woman.

  “Call me Lucy,” she smiled.

  Solomon indicated the man at his side. “This is Henri Delancort, my executive assistant.”

  Delancort inclined his head. “Bonjour.” He showed a brief, practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I apologize about the clothes. Your … suit … was quite soiled by your escape.”

  “It was on loan, anyway,” Marc replied. “Where’s my gear?”

  “Your computer is safe,” Solomon explained. “I hope you’ll understand that I had Henri examine it.”

  “Custom encryption, very good,” said the other man. “Not standard MI6 issue.”

  “I don’t work for Six,” Marc corrected. “Not anymore.” He carefully put down the bottle. “Look, if you’re after Novakovich’s drive, I don’t have it. The Swiss guy took it.”

  Solomon sighed and took a seat. “Mister Dane … I think you may be operating under a mistaken assumption.” Marc listened as he spoke, trying to place the man’s accent. East Africa, at a guess, perhaps Kenyan. It was hard to be certain. “My people have been tracking you since you walked into Vauxhall Cross. I have been very eager to have a conversation with you. What I want … is to hear your side of the story.”

  Marc said nothing for several moments, turning the man’s words over in his thoughts. “I know your name,” he said, at length. “You’re the founder of the Rubicon Group. A bit of a mystery man, someone who likes to keep himself off the stage.”

  “That is so,” Solomon allowed. “I prefer my anonymity.”

  “I also know that your company has a small division that’s active in the field of private military contracting.” Rubicon, like any number of other PMCs working in the global theater, were monitored as best they could be by British Intelligence. K Section back in London were peripherally aware of Rubicon’s involvement in kidnap and recovery operations in Chad and Bolivia, work on close-protection details in Iraq and China, but that was their above-board stuff.

  There were rumors that Rubicon had a hand in a number of less than legal incidents as well, but as with most ghost stories in the spec ops community, actual details were sketchy. Marc said as much to Solomon, watching the man for any reaction.

  “There’s a good reason for that,” said Lucy, answering for him. “We work very hard at staying off the radar. And my boss here is pretty wealthy.”

  “We don’t fight wars for people, Mister Dane,” said Solomon. “The majority of the operations my employees take on are subsidized by Rubicon itself, not those whom we assist. I have a different take on what soldiers without flags can accomplish for the world. Do you follow me?”

  “Not really. And to be honest, corporate mercenaries don’t have the best reputation these days.” Marc saw a glitter of silver as Solomon leaned forward, a thin chain showing against his throat through the open collar of a sea-blue silk shirt. There was something hanging at the end of the chain, but he couldn’t quite make it out, some abstract piece of curved metal.

  “That is so,” Solomon went on. “But let me offer you a simple truth as a counter. It is a regrettable fact that no government can ever be fully trusted to make the truly right choice when confronted by an impossible situation. People elect their leaders in the hope that they are moral souls, but no one is perfect. Inevitably, men are loyal in one of only two ways. They are loyal to their nation, even if that nation is misguided or wrong. Or they are loyal to avarice and greed, interested only in power and wealth. They do what they will to serve one of those masters.” He brought his hands together. “When the time comes to make a moral choice between right and wrong, few can faithfully follow that path to the end. Men will do what is right for them, not what is right.”

  Marc shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t know where this conversation was heading, but he didn’t like the tone of it. He couldn’t be certain if Solomon was trying to convince him or threaten him.

  “I built Rubicon from ashes,” said the other man. “Ashes of war. I have worked hard to raise myself up from the poverty I was born into. Believe me when I tell you I have seen every kind of injustice, all across the heartland of my mother Africa. And now I have made billions of dollars from land and mining and technology. Now I can do something about it. As Lucy says, I am a very rich man.” He reached up to his neck and pulled out the silver chain between his fingers. “I see you looking at this. Do you recognize it?”

  Marc gave a slow nod. Now it was clear to him, he could see that the odd bit of discolored metal was actually part of a weapon. It was the trigger from an AK-47 assault rifle.

  “This is a reminder of the reasons I built Rubicon,” Solomon told him. “I did it with one thought in mind. To serve no nation but justice.”

  The other man’s words didn’t sit well with him, and Marc couldn’t stop himself from showing doubt on his face. “So … You’re telling me that you founded a PMC force to act as, what? Vigilantes on a global scale?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose…” said Delancort. “But Mister Solomon prefers to consider the group’s work as a force for good.”

  “And what gives you the right to do that?” Marc studied Solomon, his own circumstances forgotten for the moment. “What makes it okay for you to take the law into your own hands?”

  “Many nation states have done that in the past. Your own Great Britain once did so. But it is not about power, Mister Dane. It is about responsibility. In a lawful, moral society, it is the responsibility of the rich man to see that the poor man does not starve. It is the responsibility of the strong man to see that the weak man is not preyed upon.” Solomon stood up again. “Once a man has power, as I do, he has a moral
imperative to use it for the betterment of the world.”

  “That’s a very laudable goal,” Marc replied, after a moment. “How exactly do I figure into it?”

  “You put your foot in something nasty, and some of it has stuck to you,” said Lucy. “The Combine.” She said the name and Marc couldn’t help but grimace. “Rubicon have been tracking their network for a while now. We think your people at MI6 got caught up in something they are planning, and…” She trailed off. “It hasn’t gone well.”

  Marc felt an irrational flash of annoyance at the woman’s words, but he pushed the emotion away. “I may be on the run from my own countrymen, but if you think I’m going to compromise MI6, you’re way off base.”

  “That’s not it at all,” insisted Delancort. “After we learned that you fled, we deduced that you would most likely come to Rome looking for John Farrier. You trained with him, oui? You trust him?”

  “We are trying to do the same thing you are,” said Solomon. “I want to find the members of this group and expose them. They are anathema to Rubicon and its ideals. The Combine exists solely to supply weapons and support to terrorist groups around the world. To maintain a state of global instability and gain wealth by abusing that imbalance.” He hesitated, glancing at Lucy. A silent communication passed between them, as if he were giving her permission to reveal a truth.

  “We believe that the radical terror group Al Sayf are working with the Combine to prepare another major strike against the West. You’re familiar with the bombing in Barcelona … That was just the curtain-raiser. All indicators point to an imminent attack on a major American city, but we don’t know which. Rubicon was tracking a consignment of six Chinese-made missiles bought illegally from North Korea, and we believe that the Combine is going to supply them to Al Sayf.”

  “We have lost our lead on the missiles,” Delancort admitted. “The North Korean general brokering the deal died in what appeared to be a road accident.”

  “Emphasis on appeared?” suggested Marc.

  Delancort gave a grim nod. “That is representative of a major alteration in Combine tactics. It is what the Americans would call a “game-changer.” They are moving from dealing in weapons to being pro-active in organizing a terror strike. Al Sayf are the partners they have chosen for this unpleasant endeavor.”