by Chris Ryan
Ellie’s dad gave her a thunderous look. ‘You’re a very silly little girl, Ellie Lewis. A very silly little girl. I don’t know what’s gone wrong with you lately, but I won’t have it. Trouble with the police. Now this. You get into bed, young lady, and I don’t want to hear another peep from you. We’ll discuss this in the morning.’
Seconds later, they were gone.
Ellie was shaking. She switched out the light. It took a minute or two for her eyes to get used to the darkness again. She could hear the murmur of her parents’ voices in the room next door and could just guess what they were saying. The voices died down after about ten minutes. In the morning there would be hell to pay. But right now she had work to do.
She fumbled in the darkness for her bedside lamp and very quietly unscrewed the bulb from its fitting. She put her fingertips inside the metal shade and felt around. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds to locate a flat, round object, about the size of a twenty-pence piece. It was stuck to the inside of the shade, but it came away easily. Ellie had no idea what it was. She put it in her pocket and sat on the edge of her bed.
And waited.
She needed to be sure her mum and dad were asleep before she left the house again. It wasn’t until she heard the cuckoo clock cheep four a.m. that she dared listen in at their door to hear the steady sound of their breathing. Then she crept downstairs and out of the back door again.
It had turned colder. Ellie shivered as she crossed the road. Gabs was still waiting in the porch of Mr and Mrs Carmichael’s house, the gun still in her hand. ‘I found something,’ Ellie said.
But immediately Gabs put one finger to her lips. She led Ellie back into the house. Before they went upstairs, however, she held out one hand and nodded. Ellie understood what she meant. She put her hand in her pocket, pulled out the object she’d removed from the light shade and gave it to her. Gabs only examined it briefly before laying it on the kitchen table and leading Ellie up to the bedroom. Raf was waiting for them.
‘What kept you?’
‘My mum and dad woke up.’ The words tumbled out of Ellie’s mouth. ‘I had to tell them the gunshot was a cigarette burn, and … and …’
‘Nice hairnet your mum wears,’ Raf said. ‘Suits her. Not sure your about your dad’s pants, though. You should think about getting him a dressing gown for Christmas. Did you find anything?’
‘Listening device,’ Gabs said. ‘Looks like our friend Calaca wants to keep tabs on Ellie’s movements.’
The thought of that made Ellie feel sick. ‘I’m going to throw it away,’ she said. ‘Tread on it or something. Stick it in the bin. I’m not having that man listening in on me.’
But Gabs shook her head. ‘No, sweetie,’ she said. ‘If you do that, he’ll know you’re on to him. And he’ll know you’re receiving help. What you’re actually going to do is go back home and put the listening device back exactly where you found it. If you want to put an end to all this, that is.’
‘What? Didn’t you see what that man just tried to do to me? Are you crazy or something?’
‘No, sweetie. Not crazy. But I do have an idea.’ Gabs looked over at Raf. ‘You know, Ellie’s really got herself in trouble lately. First the police, now smoking in her room. I think it’s time she went the whole hog and found herself a boyfriend. Don’t you?’
10
RUSSIAN ROULETTE
Thursday, 08.00 hrs West Africa time
ZAK WAS DREAMING.
He found, these days, that his sleep was either dreamless, or haunted. Dreamless was good. Haunted was very bad. It was always the same. He was being hunted by a thin figure whose face was the stuff of nightmares even at the best of times. His pursuer only had one eye, and the skin had grown over the socket of the missing eye, smooth and unblemished. No matter where Zak ran, the one-eyed man appeared straight ahead of him. Zak would turn and run in a different direction, but Calaca was always there.
As the dream progressed, a second figure appeared next to him: Cesar Martinez, the drug dealer he had been sent to entrap on his first mission, had a rictus smile and a bloody patch on the front of his shirt. A third figure joined them. His son, Cruz. Zak’s former friend.
He tried to run from them, but they kept appearing.
And now, each time they appeared, they were a little closer.
Closer …
‘Jay! Jay! Wake up!’
Zak sat bolt upright. For a moment he couldn’t work out where he was. This didn’t look like St Peter’s Crag, the place he’d come to think of as home. Then he saw the mosquito nets surrounding him and everything came flooding back. Lobambo. Black Wolf. The MV Mercantile. It was due to arrive today, and the thought made Zak very uneasy. Then he remembered Ntole, drunk and asleep, his weapon by his side. The building site with no building. Bernardo: the schoolboy with no school.
And Malek. Standing outside his tent, calling him. ‘Wake up, Jay. It’s morning!’
Morning. And Zak had work to do.
He jumped out of bed and shook his head to get rid of the remnants of sleepiness. Moments later he walked out of the tent. Malek looked tired. He also looked worried. He was holding the stump of his bad arm as though it needed protecting. ‘Jay, last night – I don’t know what you were doing but I think it was a mistake. Ntole is a very bad man. Very dangerous. I don’t think we should—’
Zak put one hand on Malek’s shoulder. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You’ll see. Just trust me.’
The other volunteers were all up. Marcus was stoking the camp fire while the others went about the business of collecting wood and preparing food. Zak walked straight up to Marcus. ‘We should go to the site this morning,’ he said. ‘Put in some work before it gets too hot.’
Marcus looked up from stoking the fire. His friendly, open face was apologetic. ‘Jay, mate, it’s not as easy as that. We’ve got this problem with—’
‘Yeah, I know. Malek told me. But Ntole and his buddies aren’t there this morning.’ He looked over at the Angolan boy, who was standing nervously about five metres away. ‘Right, Malek?’
Malek looked awkward. ‘Right,’ he said.
‘And anyway,’ Zak added, ‘if they turn up again, we’ll leave.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Jay mate. I don’t think we should mess with them.’
Zak shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then we might as well pack up and go home. We’re here to make a difference to Lobambo, not just have a holiday by the beach.’
Marcus stood up straight. ‘Jay, we’ve discussed this – all of us. And we’ve had a visit from the British Embassy too. They agree with us. Ntole and his men, they’ll get bored eventually. They’ll realize they’re never going to make any money out of keeping us away from the site. And when they understand it’s not worth their while, we’ll get back to work.’
‘How long’s that going to be? A month? A year?’
Marcus looked a bit shamefaced. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s what we’ve all agreed.’
The other volunteers had gathered round by now. They were clearly happy for Marcus to be their spokesperson. None of them said a word, and as Zak looked at each of them in turn, he noticed that Tillie, in particular, refused to meet his eye.
Zak hadn’t expected this to be so difficult. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m going up there by myself.’
‘Absolutely not!’ Bea had stepped forward and she was talking in her most matronly voice. ‘Jason, it’s far too dangerous. Those men have guns. Guns, Jason! You’re not to go anywhere near them. You shouldn’t even be going up into the village alone …’
‘I won’t be alone,’ Zak told her. ‘Malek will come with me, won’t you, Malek?’
The Angolan boy looked at him with a pained expression. He nodded his head with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Tillie looked around at the others. Her forehead had curled into a frown and she looked torn between two decisions. She swallowed hard. ‘Well, if Jay’s going, I’m going,’ she
said.
A murmur from the other volunteers. Marcus turned to look at them. He had the air of someone trying to stop a situation getting out of control. ‘If we all go,’ he said rather reluctantly, ‘I suppose it’ll be safer …’
‘Safer?’ Bea’s voice had raised at least an octave, and her eyes blinked even more than usual. ‘What do you mean, safer?’
‘Well at least Jay’s trying to do something,’ Alexandra blurted out. She had long dark hair that was tied back with a scrunchie.
Suddenly the mood had changed. Zak sensed he had the others – with the exception of Bea, who was looking at them all with thin lips – on side. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘anyone who doesn’t want to come doesn’t have to come. But I’m going to the building site now.’
‘Me too,’ said Tille.
‘Me too,’ said Alexandra.
And one by one the remaining members of the group – all except Bea – said: ‘Me too.’
There was a buzz among the little group of seven volunteers, Marcus, Zak and Malek as they set off from the camp. An anxious excitement. As they came to the outskirts of Lobambo, however, their nervous chatter quietened down. They walked in a slow, silent group with Marcus, Zak and Malek in the lead. The villagers gave them curious glances. Zak could see them whispering at each other. Now and then he saw children running ahead of them. By the time they reached the middle of the village, it was clear that the news of their arrival had gone before them. Everyone knew who they were.
And as they drew closer to the building site, Zak noticed mothers hurrying their kids back inside.
The group of volunteers was twenty-five metres away when it became clear that, far from being absent, Ntole and his men were very much in attendance. But the children running ahead to announce their arrival had obviously not been brave enough to carry their news to the gunmen. The Angolans were slouched lazily around the site, marking time. When Zak and the others approached, however, they jumped to their feet and grabbed their AK-47s. Five seconds later they had formed a line between the volunteers and the building site.
The volunteers stopped. ‘I thought you said they weren’t here,’ Marcus breathed.
There was fifteen metres of open ground between them and Ntole’s men. Nobody spoke. Somewhere in the distance Zak heard a dog barking. Apart from that, silence.
He took a step forward, but stopped when he heard a voice behind him. ‘Jay, no!’ It was Tillie. He looked over his shoulder to see her face full of anxiety. The others were shrinking back – all of them except Malek, who looked torn between Zak and the volunteers.
Zak gave Tillie what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Deep down, though, he was far from confident. This had seemed like a good idea back at the safety of the camp, but now that he was faced with four scowling gunmen, he felt a lot less sure of himself. He felt eyes on him too, and he could imagine the look of disapproval on Michael’s face at the way he was drawing attention to himself.
But then another part of his mind fought back. Why shouldn’t he use what he had learned to help the people of Lobambo? As long as he wasn’t compromising his real mission …
He walked directly up to Ntole. The Angolan’s eyes were even more bloodshot than yesterday and he still smelled of alcohol. His hands were trembling, but it was obviously not through fear. Zak stopped five metres away and watched as the Angolan’s lip curled.
‘What,’ he asked, in hesitant, accented English that was no way near as good as Malek’s, ‘do you want?’
Zak didn’t take his eyes from Ntole’s. ‘To build a school,’ he said.
Ntole’s face remained expressionless. He looked left and right at his men. Suddenly he started to laugh. The other three gunmen did the same. They looked and sounded like Zak had told them a very good joke. But ten seconds later, as if someone had flicked a switch, Ntole stopped laughing and the others followed suit.
‘Go home,’ Ntole said, ‘if you know what is good for you.’ All traces of mirth had left him.
Zak stood his ground. ‘I don’t think I’ll be doing that,’ he said.
Ntole raised his weapon. Zak could tell, by the way he dug the butt firmly into his shoulder, that he knew how to use it. His hands had stopped shaking. ‘Go home, little boy,’ he said.
Zak remained just where he was.
Footsteps behind him. Running. He felt someone tugging on his clothes and turned to see Tillie pulling him away. ‘Jay, this is really stupid. Look at him – he’s not joking.’
‘Let go, please,’ Zak said calmly. ‘Tillie, please let—’
He was cut off short when one of Ntole’s men – the one with the scar down the side of his face – raised his weapon and aimed it towards Tillie. She let go of him and Zak could sense her backing away, rejoining the other volunteers.
He stepped closer to Ntole. He was just a metre away from the barrel of the AK now. ‘Get out of my way,’ he said.
He could see sweat on Ntole’s brow. Now that he was closer, the stench of last night’s alcohol was even stronger and he also caught a whiff of stale tobacco.
Ntole spoke very slowly now. ‘I will shoot you,’ he said.
For a moment Zak wanted to run. It took all his courage to keep his feet planted on the floor.
Ntole sneered again. With a flick of his thumb he released the safety catch of the rifle. ‘You have three seconds,’ he said.
‘Jay!’ Marcus’s voice ten metres behind him. ‘Get back from there!’
‘One,’ said Ntole.
Zak didn’t move. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face.
‘Two.’
‘Jay! Move!’
‘Three.’
Ntole smiled.
And then he pulled the trigger.
A scream from behind. Zak didn’t know who it was. He was more interested in the sound that came from the AK-47. It was not the retort of a round. It was just a thin, metallic click. The stoppage caused a look of annoyance to cross Ntole’s forehead. He fired again.
Click.
Zak reached into his pocket. ‘Looking for these?’ he asked, and he pulled out a handful of 7.62 rounds.
Rounds that he had removed from Ntole’s weapon – and from the weapons of his men – the night before.
Ntole lowered his gun in astonishment and looked, perplexed, at the magazine. Zak took his chance. He grabbed the barrel and with a sharp tug removed the weapon from Ntole’s grasp. He heard more clicks – the other gunmen trying unsuccessfully to discharge their rifles. ‘You can try to shoot us with empty magazines,’ Zak said, ‘but it might be a bit of a waste of time.’ He turned round to look at the volunteers. ‘Get their weapons!’ he instructed.
The shocked volunteers didn’t move immediately. They were staring at Zak like he was insane. Marcus was the first to step forward. He was soon followed by the others, who surrounded the remaining three gunmen, but then looked at each other, apparently unsure what to do. Their decision, though, was made for them. The gunmen dropped their useless weapons on the floor and edged nervously backwards. The bullies looked a lot less brash now they were unarmed and outnumbered. Once the volunteers had collected all the weapons, they turned to Zak. But they didn’t look pleased. Their expressions of shock had turned to anger.
‘Me and Malek will throw the weapons off the pier,’ Zak said. ‘I guess the rest of you can stay here and start work.’ He turned to Ntole. ‘You and your men should probably go now. I think your little game of soldiers is over.’
Ntole’s face was a picture of hatred. He’d been outsmarted. Humiliated. He clearly didn’t like it. He looked like he wanted to pounce on Zak, to do some him damage. But he could also see that he and his men were beaten.
He turned to the other gunmen and nodded at them. And then, with a final, malevolent glare at Zak, he led them away and they disappeared from sight.
The volunteers were silent as they watched Ntole go. Marcus turned to Zak. ‘Jay, that was incredibly …’ He looked like he couldn’t find the right w
ord.
‘Stupid?’
They all turned to see Bea standing about ten metres apart. For once, however, she seemed lost for further words.
‘You could have been killed,’ Tillie said. ‘How … how dare you not tell us what you were planning.’
‘I thought you wanted to get rid of Ntole …’
‘In our own way. We’re not idiots, Jay.’
‘Tillie’s right,’ said Marcus. ‘This isn’t a game, you know. Ntole and his men are dangerous.’ He nodded at the weapons. ‘And so are those. Mate, I think you’d better go back to the camp. We need to have people we can trust around us. And Malek, I’d have expected better of you …’
Malek looked like he didn’t know where to put himself.
Zak looked at each of the volunteers in turn. Their faces were serious. They clearly agreed with Marcus’s suggestion. He felt his own face flushing red with embarrassment. When he’d disarmed Ntole, he’d felt so clever. Now he felt totally stupid. Worse than that, he had a sudden vision of his Guardian Angels, a look of disappointment on their faces. It was that imagined look that stung more than anything. He turned to Malek. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s get rid of these AKs.’
Malek could only carry a single weapon on account of his arm. It was up to Zak to carry the remaining three. He strapped one over each shoulder and held the third with both hands. The villagers drew back nervously as they passed. Zak could tell Malek felt very uncomfortable carrying a weapon. He held it with his arm slightly stretched out, like it was a snake. And it was a full five minutes before he even spoke.
‘They’re right,’ he said as they walked down the long, dusty path between the village and the pier. ‘You could have been killed.’
‘Calculated risk,’ Zak replied, trying to sound casual. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to—’
‘No!’ Malek’s eyes were ablaze. ‘You don’t understand. Bea was right too. It was very stupid.’
‘Malek, I—’
‘If I’d known that was what you were up to, I would never have taken part. You think we want to see more bloodshed in Angola? What would it have meant if an English boy had been shot by an Angolan thug? You think you were just risking your own life? Wars have been started for smaller things than that, Jay. Perhaps if you had seen babies slaughtered by enemy troops, you would not have risked your childish game of Russian Roulette.’