by Chris Ryan
Zak nodded. ‘How did that happen?’ he asked.
Malek stared towards the orange flames of the fire. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. He paused, and Zak felt a bit guilty for asking. Maybe this was something Malek didn’t want to talk about. But then the Angolan boy spoke again. ‘There was a war in my country,’ he said.
‘I heard,’ Zak said quietly.
‘It was very bad. Nearly thirty years of fighting. Half a million people were killed. People like me …’ He looked meaningfully at the remnants of his arm. ‘People like me were the lucky ones.’
‘I guess we have different ideas of luck, Malek.’
Malek inclined his head. ‘Perhaps. Because of the war, there were many land mines in the countryside. I was with my mother. She had me in her arms. When she stepped on a land mine, she was killed immediately.’
Malek spoke without emotion. Zak didn’t know what to say.
‘It was only because her body took most of the blast that I survived. But a piece of shrapnel entered my arm. It took the townspeople two hours to find me. Any longer and I would have died.’
‘It must have been awful,’ Zak said.
Malek shrugged. ‘I was only three years old. The Red Cross were nearby and they amputated my arm. I have been like this for as long as I can remember.’
‘I lost my mother too,’ Zak said, before a warning bell in his head cautioned him not to say too much. ‘Jason Cole’ had lost his mother, but his father was still alive. He had to make sure he was keeping fact and fiction separate.
‘I’m sorry,’ Malek said, and all of a sudden Zak could tell that there was a bond between himself and this quietly spoken African boy.
‘Do you remember your mother?’ Zak asked.
‘Sometimes,’ Malek replied. ‘Maybe. I have in my mind the picture of a kind face.’ He shrugged again. ‘But they say your mind can play tricks on you.’
‘I’m sure it’s her you remember,’ Zak told him.
Malek smiled for the first time. A sad smile. ‘Thank you, Jay. It is kind of you to say that.’
‘What about your father? Is he still alive?’
A dark look crossed Malek’s face. ‘I don’t know who my father was,’ he said. Zak could tell this was something he didn’t want to talk about.
The two boys sat in silence for a minute. Malek, Zak could tell, was an open, honest young man. And he realized, with a pang of guilt, that he was looking at him not just as a potential friend, but also as a good source of information. ‘How’s it going with the school?’ he asked.
Malek looked at him in surprise. ‘They did not tell you?’
Zak shook his head.
‘Perhaps they did not want you to be scared.’
‘Scared of what?’
‘The men with guns.’
‘What men with guns?’
Again there was a pause. Malek appeared to be gathering his thoughts. ‘Lobambo needs a new school building very badly,’ he said. ‘The children here want to learn, but without a place for them to go, it is very difficult.’
‘In England,’ Zak said, ‘lots of kids don’t even want to go to school.’
Malek didn’t seem shocked by that. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘people do not understand what they have until it is gone. And when people don’t have something, they want it. We want a school in Lobambo very much.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘The money to build the school,’ Malek explained, ‘comes from abroad. From charities. There are men in Lobambo who think this money should be given to them. They say they will build the school. Everyone knows that if the money goes into their pockets, they will steal it. But they are stubborn. They stand at the building site from dawn until sunset. There are four of them. They have AK-47s. Loaded. They are the only weapons in Lobambo. It makes them very powerful.’
‘They wouldn’t do anything stupid, would they?’
Malek gave him a serious look. ‘In Angola,’ he said, ‘death is commonplace. Life is cheap. Yes, Jay, I believe they would do it if forced. Your friends here …’ He pointed at the English volunteers sitting round the fire. ‘They have not been to the building site now for two weeks. They are too scared. I do not blame them.’
‘Then why are they still here?’
Malek shrugged. ‘They think, perhaps, that the gunmen will get bored. That when they realize they are not getting any money they will stop trying.’ A dark look crossed his face. ‘I do not think they will get bored,’ he added. ‘One of them – he is called Ntole – is a cousin of mine.’ Malek looked as though this was a cause of deep shame. ‘He was violent even as a child. He will not get bored.’
Zak sniffed. ‘Sounds to me,’ he said, ‘like someone needs to do something about it.’
‘Of course,’ Malek said. ‘But what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Zak murmured. ‘Stand up to them, I guess.’
‘It is difficult to stand up to armed men when you have no guns yourself. It is difficult when they are not our equals.’
Zak looked around the fire. The other volunteers were chatting quietly, but he caught Marcus staring at him. It was almost as if the long-haired volunteer knew what he and Malek were discussing. He looked a bit sheepish.
‘Well, maybe we should make ourselves their equals,’ Zak said.
An idea was forming. It would have to wait, though, until tomorrow.
* * *
There are different kinds of darkness, Zak thought to himself as he lay in his tent covered with his mosquito nets. When he lived in London, he’d barely ever seen real darkness. There was always the glow of a street lamp, the beam of a car headlight. Never the kind of darkness so thick you thought you could touch it. It was only on the bleak outpost of St Peter’s Crag that he had learned what darkness was really like.
It was this kind of darkness that surrounded him now. The only whisper of light came from his diver’s watch. The glowing hands told him it was 2.30 a.m.
Darkness, but not silence. All the camp volunteers were in bed. Malik had wandered back up into the town. But there were still noises. The lapping of the sea on the shore. The occasional cry of a wild animal that Zak couldn’t place.
He’d got into bed fully clothed after placing his fishing gear by the tent door. That way he could find it without turning on his lamp. He did this now, grabbing the rod and tackle bag and slipping out of the tent.
Zak could see the glowing embers of the camp fire. There was no moon, but the stars were still incredibly bright. Bright enough for the pier to be visible 500 metres south of Zak’s position. He set off quietly. The ground underfoot was rocky and hard. For a moment, Zak was back on St Peter’s Crag with Raf. If you don’t want to be heard on hard ground you need to step toe first. Make sure you have a firm footing and you’re not going to dislodge any stones. Then bring your heel down slowly. Balance on the back foot until the front one can support your body mass.
It was slow going. Three minutes to reach the camp fire. When he was there, he bent down and picked up a handful of dust. He threw it in the air and watched it fall. A gentle breeze blew it back towards the camp. That meant it would carry the noise of his footsteps too, so he continued tiptoeing until he was 100 metres away. Only then did he pick up his pace.
The area around the pier was deserted. At least, Zak couldn’t see anybody. The pier itself was a rickety old thing. It stood at a slight slant. His first few steps were nervous. The boards creaked underneath him, but after a few seconds it was clear they would hold his weight so he increased his speed. As Zak ran down it, he crouched low. He didn’t want to be lit up against the starlit horizon. Once he reached the end, he sat down quickly with his feet dangling over the edge, opened up his rod case and fitted the three sections of the rod together. He removed the reel from its tackle bag and flicked the switch on its underside. A whirring sound. The front and back edges of the reel opened up. Zak held it up to his eye and looked out to sea.
The night-vision capabil
ity of the camouflaged scope bathed everything in a ghostly green glow. He looked up to the stars. Through the NV they were even more spectacular than to the naked eye. Zak could have looked at that sight all night, but he couldn’t. There was work to do. In the absence of any suitable camouflage on land, this pier was his best observation post. When the Mercantile came into harbour it was from here that he would have to carry out surveillance – just an innocent volunteer passing the time fishing. He turned his head towards the harbour. He could see the ramshackle African fishing boats – five of them – in great detail. He could make out the knotted bundles of fishing net and the big lumps of concrete tied to ropes that clearly acted as anchors. When the Mercantile arrived, Zak was confident he’d be able to see everything that happened on deck.
Something flapped in the water. Zak looked down in time to see the shiny arched back of a sea creature. He remembered the moray eels at Scapa Flow, and shuddered.
Zak gently placed the reel down on the boards of the pier. From his tackle bag he removed a thin torch with a red filter. Its beam was only the thickness of a pencil lead but it would give him enough light to work by. And as the filter was red, it wouldn’t wreck his ability to see in the dark like white light would. He recalled Michael’s words to him in the chopper. You’ll find your gear five boards back from the end of the pier …
He counted the boards, keeping the torch low so it wouldn’t be seen from a distance. When he reached board number five he dug his fingertips along its side and pulled. The board didn’t lift easily. Zak had to worm his fingertips a little deeper into the gap, but after thirty seconds he managed to lift it up onto its edge. He directed the torch into the cavity.
There was a package there, wrapped in what felt like polythene. It looked red, but that was just the light of the torch. Whatever colour it was, it was definitely opaque. Don’t remove the equipment until you need it, Michael had said. Zak wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he should lift it from its hiding place now. Unpack it. Check everything was there …
His decision, though, was made for him. Because just then he heard footsteps.
Quickly he pushed the board back down. It landed crooked, not quite fitting into its proper place. But Zak didn’t have time to adjust it. He only had time to hide. But at the end of a pier, where could he hide?
His hands were trembling as he packed away the fishing gear. The footsteps were getting nearer, and the closer they came, the more he felt himself panicking. His fingers and thumbs wouldn’t do what his brain was telling them. By the time the fishing gear was packed away and the bag slung over his shoulder, he was sweating, and he could see the faint shadow of a person approaching.
Zak kept low. He crawled to the end of the pier and, still trembling, eased his body over the side, grasping the wooden floor with his fingertips. The muscles in his hands and arms burned as he hung there; his knuckles creaked. All he could do was concentrate on not falling, and pray that whoever was coming wouldn’t notice his hands gripping the end of the pier.
The footsteps were just metres away when they stopped. Zak held his breath. He could hear the water below lapping against the legs of the pier, and the occasional creaking of the wooden joints; his hands, pinching the end of the pier, shrieked at him; his biceps were on fire and so was his mind. If he was discovered, what then?
He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. His fingers were slipping …
Something slammed. From the vibrations on the pier, Zak deduced that whoever was above had kicked the loose board back into place.
And then the footsteps started walking away.
Zak gave it thirty seconds, then slowly, painfully, started to pull himself back up. It took all his strength to raise his head above the level of the pier, where he could just see the shadow receding. And by the time he had pulled his whole body back, he was drained and breathless. But he couldn’t rest. Quickly taking the fishing bag off his shoulder, he pulled out the reel and took a look through the night sight.
There was no mistaking her. Zak recognized Bea’s gait, the shape of her hair; her face.
He heard Michael’s voice in his head. Remember, Zak. Black Wolf are pros. They know what they’re doing. They’ll probably have an agent on the ground and it’ll probably be the last person you expect. Don’t get lazy.
The last person you’d expect? Or the first person you meet? Zak waited for Bea to disappear. Then he checked that the board had definitely slotted back, stowed away the NV device and followed her back to the tents.
8
A MIDNIGHT VISIT
Wednesday, 08.40 hrs GMT
ELLIE WALKED SLOWLY to school. She was later than normal. She had waited for her mum and dad to go to work before leaving her bedroom. After that awful policeman, DI Andersen, on Monday and the atmosphere at home all the following day, when they had kept her off school in case the policeman called again and had barely let her out of their sight, she just couldn’t face her family.
Now it was twenty to nine. The rush-hour traffic on Camden Road was heavy and the grey sky and exhaust fumes made London look bleak. Ellie knew she should hurry. Her teachers would give her a hard time if she was late. Somehow she didn’t care. Her mind was still full of other things.
It was just gone quarter to when she approached the gates of Camden High School. Ellie wasn’t the only latecomer. There were nine or ten others approaching; they all looked scruffy and were kicking their heels. Ellie realized that she probably looked the same. On the other side of the road, huddled outside a newsagent’s, was a group of four boys she recognized from further up the school. She couldn’t see exactly what they were doing, but she knew they were probably sharing out cigarettes. A member of staff would be out soon, but they were the types not to care if they were told off.
Stragglers. Smokers. Ellie wasn’t really paying attention to any of them as she walked up to the gates. She’d noticed someone else standing there. Balding head. Comb-over. An unpleasant look of suspicion on his face and a cloud of aftershave pong around him. Ellie could smell it from three metres away.
‘Good morning, Miss Lewis,’ said DI Andersen. ‘I’m quite surprised to see you here.’
Ellie jutted her chin out at him. ‘Why? It’s my school, isn’t it?’
‘I just thought you might still be recovering after your late night on Sunday …’
‘Haven’t you got any proper criminals to catch?’ She was amazed by her own boldness. She’d never normally speak to a police officer like this. Or anyone, for that matter.
DI Andersen’s lips thinned. ‘You should realize, young lady,’ he said quietly, ‘that speaking to me like that is not the way to get yourself out of trouble.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘I’m watching you, Ellie Lewis. Very carefully. My advice to you is to stay at home after school. Because if you put a foot wrong, I’ll be there.’ He gave an nasty smile. ‘And even if you don’t put a foot wrong, I’ll be there. I can tell a troublemaker when I meet one. You might be able to make a fool out of your parents, but you can’t make a fool out of me.’
‘I suppose that’s because,’ a new voice, just behind Ellie, said, ‘someone’s already done it.’
Ellie spun round. The woman standing behind her had approached silently. She was in her mid-twenties, had white-blonde hair, a tanned, pretty face and was wearing all black. Her eyes were an intense blue, her arms were folded and she was looking at DI Andersen like he was a piece of mud on her shoe.
‘I’m sorry?’ said the police officer. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah,’ the woman replied. ‘You can help me by not hounding school kids. Or do I need to discuss this with your Chief Superintendent?’
Andersen frowned. He looked like he was thinking up a reply, but there was something about this strange, blonde woman that seemed to catch him off guard. He looked at Ellie. ‘Just remember what I’ve said, young lady.’ He smoothed down the strands of hair combed over the top of his head before
walking away. The pungent smell of aftershave, however, lingered.
‘You know,’ said the newcomer, ‘I’ve never understood why some guys douse themselves in perfume like that. Makes them smell like a department store.’ She smiled at Ellie.
But Ellie didn’t smile back. She’d been meeting too many weirdos lately – it looked to her like this was just another one to add to the list. She stepped to one side and walked past the blonde-haired woman, heading in through the school gates. The stragglers had all gone in.
‘Ellie Lewis?’
She stopped. But she didn’t turn round.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘The same way,’ replied the woman, ‘that I know you might be having trouble with this guy.’
Ellie felt herself shaking. She turned to see the woman holding up an iPhone. On the screen was a photograph. It showed a very thin man. He had only one eye. The skin had grown over the missing eye and it was smooth, with no marks. Ellie recognized him, of course. She’d met him in Burger King on Sunday, only then he had been wearing a patch over the eye that was not.
They stood in silence as Ellie stared at the photograph.
When the woman spoke, her voice was much gentler than before. The voice of a friend. ‘I don’t blame you if you’re scared, Ellie,’ she said. ‘You should be. He’s a dangerous man. The police don’t know what they’re dealing with. It’s out of their league. I’m here to protect you from him, if you’d like me to.’
Ellie swallowed hard. She looked from the photograph to the woman. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Because you haven’t got a choice, Ellie. That man is a killer. If he’s made contact with you, it puts you in a dangerous position. A very dangerous position. Like, potentially fatal. He won’t want you to identify him in the future. Do you understand?’
Ellie nodded. She didn’t know what to say.
‘You’d better get into school,’ the woman said. ‘He won’t try anything there. Too many witnesses. Act normal. If we’re going to deal with this, we don’t want other people sticking their noses in. Don’t tell anybody what’s happening. I’ll meet you here after school and explain what we’re going to do.’ She winked. ‘I’ll even help you with your homework, if you like.’