Voodoo Dawn

by Greg Barron

  ‘Are you telling me to carry out an assassination?’

  ‘I’m telling you that Drake’s non-survival must be the overriding objective of this operation.’

  ‘More important than freeing the hostages safely?’

  A long pause, then, ‘Yes, even more important than that.’

  Marika ends the call and slides down the bulkhead to a sitting position. PJ walks over, stands above her. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yep. Turns out that this Drake guy used to work for SASS. And London ran him covertly for a while. Now he sees himself as some kind of Robin Hood.’

  ‘Makes it interesting.’

  ‘Sure does. I’ve just been told to make sure he doesn’t live.’ Marika’s eyes are dark, almost black, in the subterranean light of the dock.

  1830

  The man with the necklace of ears steals across the room, then leans over, whispering in Drake’s ear. The leader makes room beside him on the seat. The man with the necklace of ears and the man with the cowrie shell veil slide onto the vinyl seat.

  A conversation follows. Serious voices. One, then another, glances back at the hanging child. Peter tries to make sense of the occasional word in French or English, but the speed at which they converse is far beyond him.

  Finally, Drake clicks his fingers and points at Peter. ‘Hey. What do you know about African black magic?’

  Peter shakes his head slowly. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘West Africa is the source of voodoo. People think it’s from Jamaica, but Nigeria— Benin—Togo was the birthplace. Kossi is an adept, and beside him is Frederic. They are from Benin, where voodoo is the national religion. Neither can speak English, but if he could, Kossi would tell you that he is two hundred years old, and that his mother was a witch. Frederic is a practicing sorcerer. He makes big money casting spells—love spells, but his speciality is death. People pay him to make their enemies die violently. He’s very good at it.’

  Peter cannot hide his shock. He has travelled in the third world but on well-trodden tourist paths. Had he taken the opportunity to scratch beneath the surface, he might not have been quite so surprised to hear that a man could make his living from killing.

  Peter swallows, ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because Kossi has just come to tell me that if we let the boy die from hanging upside down, without blood, their voodoo god Koku will be angry.’

  The man with the veil of shells removes a stone knife from a rawhide sheath hanging near his armpit. The blade, made of chipped schist, is some five inches long, stained a deep black near the handle.

  Drake goes on. ‘Kossi says that if he cuts the boy’s throat it will satisfy Koku.’

  Victoria’s breath comes and goes like a turbine, ‘You said you’d let him down.’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t mess with these guys. They want to do something, I let them. They’re valuable to me. Do you know why?’

  Peter feels as if he is looking down on himself and this terrible drama from a great height. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because every fucking man, woman and child for a thousand miles is frightened shitless of them. People piss themselves when they see them. Do you know why Frederic wears the veil of shells?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because to look into his eyes means death. Even semi-educated African soldiers won’t come near him. He’s worth a thousand men to me. And he’s loyal—thinks I’m the reincarnation of some devil or other.’

  Drake turns to the two men beside him and says something. The man with the veiled face talks last, in a deep monotone.

  Victoria blurts, ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said that sacrificing your son will be a suitable method of giving thanks to Koku for our success. He says that he will cut his throat as soon as the plane carrying the money is in the air.’

  1900

  Sitting on a thwart seat, Marika watches on the sid unit screen as the three RIBs power across the surface of the sea. Voice transmissions come through from the London control room, hub of an electronics system known as SITPOL.

  ‘The latest satellite thermal imagery is that we have at least three hostiles sleeping or resting in berths in the starboard hull. Four are in the main cabin and seven on deck.’

  ‘Roger. Is the child still alive?’

  ‘We think so. We’re getting a heat signature from that location.’

  At first the helmsmen run the hulls at close to thirty knots. The sea is calm, the last glow of sunset fading. Soon the islet of Tinhosa Grande comes into view, rocky spires rearing high against the sky.

  The surface of the stone island appears to be moving, but Marika realises that it is a vast colony of birds. The smell of guano is overpowering. They have used the cover of the island to speed close, now they will skirt the sides at a much slower rate, revs dropping so the engines are scarcely audible. Members of the team strip down into the neoprene suits they will wear in the water.

  ‘Load up, guys,’ Marika calls.

  There is the sound of charging handles. They carry a range of weapons. Marika has her Glock 22 in .40 calibre, the other 2CG members HK417 rifles with various mods, and the Marines carry SA80a2s, mostly in the carbine configuration. Each RIB also carries a M249 squad automatic weapon, belt ammunition rolled up in a triangular green case. Shoulder weapons, however, will stay in the RIB, the swimmers will carry only handguns.

  The uninhabited island is a scant two hundred metres long, and finally the yacht itself comes into view, the mainmast stabbing deep into the darkened sky. Marika signals, and all personnel crouch to prevent a silhouette. The motors cut back to idle. Big south Atlantic rollers push sideways on the RIBs.

  Marika uses handheld night-vision binoculars to study the deck. They have opted not to use night vision goggles for the op. Less encumbrance will be an advantage while gaining entry, and there is a good moon.

  There are seven men on deck. Three sit in deck chairs in the aft cockpit, two are lying down. One is asleep on the nets at the bow between the two hulls, one prowling fore and aft, Kalashnikov held loosely under the crook of his elbow. The two RPGs are lying unattended on the main cabin roof. With luck, the men on deck won’t have time to get near them once the engagement starts.

  The man in the nets is a problem: they will either have to pass below him to access the tunnel, or approach from the stern, where there are more eyes and ears. Eliminating risk is not just a good idea, but standard operating procedure.

  ‘Pass me an oar,’ Marika hisses, and she hears it being detached from the hooks on either side. She unsheathes the Gerber knife from her ankle. ‘You got duct tape?’

  The sound of a locker being opened and closed. Every tool compartment in the Navy has a roll of duct tape.

  Taking the thick roll she tapes the knife hilt to the aluminium butt of the oar so the blade stands proud, finally tearing off the tape with her teeth.

  ‘OK, let’s go,’ Marika orders. She lowers her mask and snorkel, then watches the others roll over the sides, easing themselves silently into the water. She goes last. There are ten of them in the swimming team. The remainder will move in slowly and engage the men on deck as soon as they hear a shot fired.

  1905

  Years earlier, Marjory stopped using a telephone and moved to a headset. The lightweight Plantronics system is much more comfortable for long periods, and she is able to move around while talking.

  Long phone calls, she’s found, can be difficult mentally, as well as on the hands and the ears. Once, when a man in Cornwall had been holed up in a basement with his wife and two daughters at gunpoint, she had logged a six hour call. She had listened to his story from birth, through school, and an apparently brilliant career that had been dogged by angry rivals who slowly but surely brought him down.

  For all those hours she had kept him talking, knowing that SO15 officers were making their way into the house. When she heard the gunshot that ended it all, there was no sense of anything but relief. The self-absorbed monologue was o
ver. Finally she could go home. The man—like most people who do such things—was obsessed with himself. The world spun on an axis around him. No one else really mattered.

  So many times, when she walks down the street and sees parents indulging their children—giving in—buying them whatever they want, she feels like running up and shouting, ‘No! Don’t let your children think that the world and everyone in it is focussed on them. Teach them that their own fate is bundled up with that of others.’

  Now, before dialling, she glances at the notes she has made on the pad. The last call did not end well, and she has given him a full hour to recover. Thermal imaging from a ScanEagle UAV overhead indicates that the child is still hanging, barely moving.

  Military assets are moving into position. Her brief now is to keep him busy. Keep him talking.

  She picks out the number on the keypad on the laptop screen in front of her. This time it rings out. She tries again. Usually the noise will drive them to pick up eventually.

  A long period of silence, then Drake again. ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘In the air. Are you watching Sky?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’ll be footage at any minute.’

  Heavy breathing down the line.

  ‘Is Tasman still alive?’ It’s important to use specifics—names and personal details remind the hijackers that these are real individuals.

  ‘You think I’m a fucking doctor, hey?’

  1910

  As they swim towards the yacht, Marika recognises PJ beside her in his black neoprene wetsuit, passing through the water so smoothly as to be invisible at more than a few metres. The black Force ‘Fin Pro’ swim fins he wears are designed to create the minimum of turbulence, and under the control of a skilled operator, almost never break the surface.

  Halfway in she sees the corks low in the water, dark coloured. She stops the group with a hand signal. There is a gill net slung around the boat. Clumsy, but occasionally effective in turbid water.

  PJ goes ahead, and uses his knife to cut an opening, before swimming on, the others following in file.

  They approach from the bow—the knife blade edges of the twin hulls, the entry points standing almost ninety degrees to the water. Slowly, still holding the oar below her body, Marika swims between the two hulls and into the tunnel.

  She stops, treading water, looks up at the nets and the silhouette of a sleeping man spread out, black against the starlit sky. Slowly she raises the paddle, knife end first, grips it in both hands and aims upward.

  The first blow has to be swift, sure and soundless. A stomach wound will not stop him from shouting. The throat would be swiftly fatal, but gurgling sounds might well be loud enough to alert the others. There is only one sure target—the heart.

  Marika judges the spot, and with a powerful thrust of her arms and shoulders, drives the blade upwards, through the net and into the man above. Feels the silvery blade drive deep into his chest, feels him shudder, then uses the weight of her body to withdraw it, driving it in again, three times until she is certain he’s dead.

  Blood trickles from the net down onto the water surface, discolouring it. Marika fins away, stops and unwraps the duct tape, freeing the knife and replacing it in the ankle sheath. Leaving the oar behind, she swims deeper into the tunnel.

  Darker now, waves compressing and sucking as they pass through, the surfaces of the hull dripping with water like an underwater cave, every sound magnified. Marika surfaces again, tearing the mask from her face, mouth opening and drinking in air, moving her fins only enough to maintain station.

  Voices reverberate through the hull from inside. A woman’s voice, disconsolate, near hysteria. Marika feels her resolve harden further.

  PJ appears beside her, then the others, heads bobbing up back along the tunnel. They make no sound, but gather below the outline of the escape hatch.

  As the marine had pointed out, catamaran hulls are hard to tip, and even harder to right again. Thus they are made with an escape hatch just above, or even below, the waterline to allow the crew of an overturned yacht to climb out of the interior. This hatch will now, hopefully, allow them to board the vessel undetected.

  Marika swims forward gently to touch the square, judging it to be about the width of her shoulders. Inside, she knows, are five locking handles pressing it tight against the seals. It is not intended for casual entry and exit, and most definitely not from the outside.

  The hatch itself, however, is made not of thick GRP—glass reinforced plastic—like the rest of the hull, but Lexar clear plastic. They can see dimly into the starboard hull of the boat, an unlit storage area.

  A two-man team gets to work. Kutay attaches two heavy-duty suction cup handgrips to the area, and one smaller one to the hatch itself, then Jay removes a hand held laser from a floating waterproof case. He begins to burn around the edges of the hatch, the fine red beam easily searing through the plastic.

  The main problem, Marika knows, will be the smell. Now that they are committed, they have to be fast. The laser is doing its work swiftly, and the team assembles in a line behind PJ, ready to penetrate the hatch.

  Marika takes second place, feeling the nerves return, the adrenalin jolting into her system, her heartbeat accelerating and keeping her breathless. Gentle clicks as the others raise their weapons, making sure that water is out of the chamber and barrel.

  Her own Glock 22 she lifts one handed, points upward, then pulls the slide partly back to break suction and let water dribble out. Only then does she chamber a round. Still holding the handgun out of the water she reaches down with her free hand to peel off her fins one at a time. Jay pulls on the suction cup gently, and the square of thick Lexar comes away. He takes it down to the water surface and lets it drop to the sea floor.

  1915

  The Sky news footage of the C130 access ramp closing at Lagos international airport is grainy. Drake appears to study it closely, breathing noisily through his nose as he does so.

  Finally, as the plane heads down the runway and lifts into the air, the lights of Lagos look like earthbound stars below.

  Drake turns to them. ‘That’s good news, hey. As long as there are no tricks.’

  The other gunmen in the cabin, even the ones that didn’t understand the English words, certainly understood the footage of the plane taking off. There is an outbreak of excited chatter, and the attention turns to the boy, still hanging from his feet.

  Eight hours have passed since they hung Tasman there. Veins in his temple stand out like garden hoses. His eyes have rolled in his head so only the whites are visible.

  Victoria’s head starts shaking. ‘No, I’m begging you. You said you’d let him down, as soon as the plane is in the air. Please, now do what you said you were going to do.’ Her words tail off.

  The two practitioners, with priest-like deliberation, move across to the hanging boy. Frederic, eyes still hidden behind the veil of shells, holds the unsheathed stone knife in his hand. Kossi kneels first, taking the boy’s weight, placing his knee in Tasman’s back to support him, so his head lolls down with his throat exposed.

  The boy makes a noise, the first one in more than an hour, and now Victoria fights the men who restrain her. It is Drake himself who grabs her by the throat, dragging her down so she is half on his lap.

  Frederic kneels in front of Tasman, then pushes his face close. For just an instant he sweeps the veil aside.

  To look into his eyes means death.

  The sound of Victoria’s sobbing is muffled by Drake’s hand.

  1916

  PJ drives his head and shoulders into the hatch. Marika assists with a push on his neoprene covered rear end. Finally he is through, and she follows. The ceiling is too low to stand fully, but she walks hunched over, Glock in her right hand and knife in the left. The others are coming, but there isn’t room for all of them, nor time to wait.

  They pass through an open bulkhead and into another space, a diesel generator on the right, a
chemical ‘head’ on the left, then an engine box. Rope sheets hang from hooks on the starboard side. Up some steps is a berth, and a pair of black feet hanging over the edge.

  PJ half climbs the ladder, knife ready, and in the dim light Marika watches his knife hand rise and fall, the feet tremor over and over again until they stay still.

  Two down, Marika thinks to herself.

  Laughter comes from the main saloon while Kutay and one of the others climb up into the berth occupied by the now dead man. There is a skylight hatch above it, opening out onto the deck. That opening will become a firing position in a few moments. Marika and PJ head towards the companionway into the main cabin from which light spills down.

  She holds her right hand up, counts to five by extending fingers from a bunched fist. Index finger first. One, two, three, four …

  1916

  Holding the stone knife like a surgeon’s scalpel, Frederic chooses the most precipitous place to start. The first tiny droplet of blood appears below the left ear.

  ‘Koku,’ Frederic shouts, and his muscles flex, gathering strength to make the stroke.

  1916

  ‘Five!’ The last word is shouted. Marika turns the handle and PJ kicks in the door. This is the moment of success or failure, the identification of targets over hostages.

  The Glock, held in both Marika’s hands, arms extended, barks once, a flower of blood spearing onto the forehead of a tall hostile. More than one runs for the cockpit. At least two are cut down on the way.

  ‘Down, down,’ Marika shouts, the words carrying over the gunfire. More shots fly past, her ears are ringing, brass cartridges hitting the deck.

  She sees the child hanging limp, upside down from the rope. His face is dark red— almost black, veins standing in bas relief on his forehead.

  Drake is the main target, and she seeks him out. Praying that she can end this quickly. She sees him with the female hostage held tightly by one arm, pistol in the other, standing beside the dinette table. Marika hesitates. Training dictates the rule of the clear shot within reasonable bounds of accuracy.