“What are we going to do about this little situation then?” said Jake.
“Wo bei ren jia gong ji. Kuai la ya. Kuai la!”
He was taken aback. “What did you just say?”
The noise that gave her away was on the very edge of audibility: a little ‘schhhh’ sound, followed by a whisper of Mandarin. It came from her collar. Jake explored the material with his free hand – he felt two wires connecting to a solid blob. There was an imperfection in the seam. Jake tore the material apart, and a tiny transmitter fell into his hand.
“What’s this then?”
Florence spat in his face.
“Classy.” Jake wiped his cheek with his shoulder. “Very nice indeed.”
“Please sir,” said Berihun. “What is happening?”
Jake considered how to respond. Florence’s accomplices had to be close. But perhaps with assistance they could be fended off – Debre Damo was a natural fortress. He recalled Berihun’s suspicion of the work gang and inspiration struck.
“She’s a Chinese spy,” he said.
Florence’s body stiffened. The reaction lasted less than a second, but it was enough to betray her.
“My God,” Jake whispered in her ear. “Is that what you are, Florence? A Chinese spy? Have your guardian angels been following us all the way?”
Everywhere we go people start killing each other.
“You killed Jess Medcalf,” said Jake. “Or your friends did. You strangled Dr Gul. It was your people back there in Axum.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“The authorities in Istanbul,” he pressed. “Bending over backwards to facilitate your every request. Under pressure from the embassy, I assume?”
“If I was working for the Chinese, why the hell would I allow you to tag along?”
“At first because I had Britton’s notes. But later? You said it yourself. You needed me.”
“Please sir,” said Berihum. “What we do now?”
“Her friends are coming. I need your help.”
“Then we must pull up rope.”
Berihun dragged Florence to her feet and clasped her wrists behind her back. Before they left Jake photographed the ceiling; then he tucked Florence’s gun into his jeans – like they do in the movies.
When they arrived at the guardhouse two monks were already working the rope, feet braced against the doorstep and grunting. The cord was taut, skipping along the step with the pull of a pendulous weight. The elderly guard spoke to Berihun in Amharic.
“He says Chinese tourists already down there,” warned the driver. “One coming up now.”
Jake peered out. Swaying twenty feet below was a man wearing a sunhat and carrying a satchel. Five others watched him from the foot of the cliff, squinting into the light.
“They’re here,” he said quietly.
“Then we cutting rope,” said Berihun.
If Florence’s accomplices made it onto the plateau he knew they would be killed.
“Do it,” said Jake.
Berihun relayed the order to the monks, who stopped pulling and entered into debate. The driver gestured to Florence, forming a pistol shape with his fingers; Jake produced her gun, and at corroboration of Berihun’s tale the guard cut the cord and cast it over the edge. The rope pirouetted to the ground.
There were a few shouts between the Chinese team. Then the agent began to climb, gaining in confidence with each handhold. Beneath him three more men took to the rock, which was crisscrossed with fissures and natural grips. The guard removed the safety catch on his AK 47 and leaned out over the drop.
“No come up! Monastery closed! No come!”
The old man’s head jerked backward and a splatter of gore hit the rock. He stayed on his feet for a few seconds, rotating on the spot. Then he crumpled down quickly, like a child playing musical chairs. A tunnel was bored through his head.
Berihun snatched up the AK. “They want fighting? Ethiopian man can have hot blood too!”
He edged to the doorway and unleashed a ragged burst, aiming vertically down. The response was impressive. Six snub-nosed MI6 assault rifles and a heavy machine gun opened fire on the guard house, bullets whistling into the masonry in a fury of snaps and splinters. Jake had been under fire before, but nothing like this – the volume of lead made them powerless to manoeuvre. He cringed into hard cover, face in the dirt. The climbers would be there in moments. There was nothing he could do to stop them.
Suddenly there was a noise like the end of the world, and the mountain seemed to cave in around him.
51
Frank Davis had watched the arrival of the Chinese tourists with concern. Several elements of their cover were lacking: they didn’t have a guide, they weren’t taking photographs and their bags were too large. Moreover, they were wary but comfortable – and this was bandit country. Hostile environment training was written over every movement. And then the shooting began.
Davis’s GPS showed Jake was in the guardhouse. That meant he was pinned. Soon the Chinese would take the plateau along with anything they found up there – and this was not something Davis could allow. The agent smiled coldly as he unzipped his backpack and saw oiled metal inside. Before being recruited to MI6 as part of the so-called ‘Increment’ of ex-forces personnel, Davis had been an SAS sniper. In Afghanistan and Iraq he had come to take great pleasure in the game of ending other peoples’ lives. Losing Guilherme was a setback, but at heart he was a lone wolf – it felt good to be operating by himself again. Now the only cock-ups to worry about were his own.
He loaded five rounds into the L115A3 Accuracy International sniper rifle and snapped its stock into position. Next he screwed in the weapon’s noise suppressor, admiring the finesse of its thread as it turned. The British-made weapon was considered the finest sniper rifle in existence. In Afghanistan he’d made a kill at more than a kilometre with this puppy, sending the bullet high into the sky and watching as it plummeted to earth to decapitate its target. Now he was at a twentieth of that range: it would be a doddle.
The machine-gunner was positioned some distance from the others on the rooftop of a mud hut. He was using tracer fire to direct the bombardment, every fourth bullet laced with phosphorus, and it was strangely beautiful to watch the glowing bullets ricochet in all directions before the straight line of their travel became a curve with the tug of gravity. But tracer rounds were always a double-edged sword, as they betrayed the machine gun’s exact location. Davis peered down the telescopic sight. The gunner’s head bobbed above the lip of the hut every few seconds, distorted by the heat coming off the weapon. Davis didn’t open fire. The Chinese deployment might be careless, but they were packing some serious firepower. Once he’d committed he had to be sure of killing every last one of the motherfuckers. A bit of shock and awe was in order. Davis smiled again as he retrieved an M79 grenade launcher. It resembled an oversized sawn-off shotgun, like something a cartoon character would carry. He broke the weapon and inserted a mini-artillery shell into the breech. Now he was ready.
Davis took a moment to become calm, breathing deeply, allowing himself to settle into what the British Army calls the ‘Condor Moment’. The sensation is of soaring: watching the battlefield from upon high, a waking dream imbued with laser-like focus. Most soldiers experience it in combat, brought on by training, adrenaline and knowledge of the possibility of death.
One hell of a feeling.
Davis took aim with the blooper and pulled the trigger. The projectile fizzed across the barren terrain at seventy-five metres a second, hitting the first climber between the shoulder blades as he reached for the guardhouse. The explosion propelled bits of the agent over a wide radius and a ball of fire rolled up the cliff, morphing from orange to red and then chemical black. His accomplices clung to the rock as the shockwave rushed down. Already Davis had the rifle pressed to his cheek. And he was firing repeatedly. The machine-gunner’s skull vanished in a cloud of red. The second climber was shot in the neck, the third t
hrough his heart. One after the other they peeled away from the cliff, spinning through the air and hitting the ground with a ‘thunk’. Davis’s movements were languid as he selected the next target. He was mildly disturbed to find he had an erection.
*
The flight of the grenade shell was just visible in the air, like a rocket at a daytime fireworks display. Jenny traced the line of sparks to its point of origin. Even before she peered through her goggles she knew it would be Davis. For once in her life she didn’t know what to do. This was not the MI6 she knew: the organization had spent decades trying to dispel the myth it was some sort of a paramilitary group, permitted to kill and maim at will. The MI6 of Ian Fleming was pure fiction, or so she had thought. Certainly in all her service she had never heard of lethal force being deployed by an officer – and now this carnage was unfolding before her eyes. Even as she watched, another coil of smoke shivered through the air. The grenade hit the Chinese Jeep, which was racked by a double conflagration. First the high explosive shell lifted it into the air. There followed a secondary blast as the petrol tank ignited, jerking the vehicle onto a new flight-path. The agents sheltering behind the car were riddled with shrapnel. The mangled Jeep crashed to earth. A pair of human torches fled across the sand; Davis finished them off with the sniper rifle. And with that the slaughter was over.
A pall of smoke and silence fell across the landscape.
Jenny let her head fall into her arms. Once again she heard her father urging her to consider a career in the City; her ex-fiancé’s pleas for a family; Angela’s orders to return to Nottingham. But this had all been her choice. She had made an appointment to be here.
Jenny couldn’t have returned to work as though Axum never happened. She didn’t want to be involved in a road accident or spontaneously decide to throw herself under a tube. As she saw it, the choice was stark: nail Charlie Waits to the wall or live in fear.
She could have posted Davis’s boasts straight to Newsnight. Yet that wasn’t sufficient. Waterboarding would enrage the left, but it was old hat and Waits might survive the scandal. All this death had been unleashed because of his fixation with the Disciplina Etrusca: that was what needed to be exposed. But if she began talking about Etruscan soothsayers they would paint her as deranged. She didn’t have enough evidence – no journalist would give her the time of day.
Except one: Jake could be an ally.
Jenny glanced at her scanner. The reporter had survived the bombardment – the blue dot was on the move again, tracking across the plateau and away from the church. Davis must have spotted it too, for he broke from cover, dashing towards the cliff. He had abandoned the sniper rifle for an automatic pistol.
He’s going to kill Jake too.
Jenny glanced in the direction of her four-by-four, hidden by a dip in the terrain. It was do or die time. She looked at the scanner, recoiled, looked at it again.
Jake had disappeared.
52
Plumes of dust erupted from the wall and the floor was a sea of geysers. Jake’s head rang as if it had been smashed with a sledgehammer. His organs shook. His heartbeat was knocked out of synch. The guardhouse became illuminated as the fireball rose up past the doorway.
The explosion diminished: BANG! Bang! Bang.
It was replaced by a thrumming that seemed to emanate from Jake’s very eardrums. When he asked Berihun if he was hurt he couldn’t hear his own voice. He put his hands to his ears and inspected them, but there no blood. The driver’s face was streaked with dirt, contorted into a pastiche of shock; his mouth could have accommodated a fist. The monks were spread-eagled against the rock. There was mud in Jake’s mouth and he spat on the ground. But something had changed. They weren’t under fire anymore. The battle had ended.
Jake stole to the doorway and peered out. Two climbers lay at the foot of the cliff, limbs broken at horrible angles. It was not immediately obvious what had become of the man who had nearly made it to the top. But then Jake spotted his head, a few scorched lumps of clothing. Something fired in his memory. Florence! She had vanished during the bombardment. Jake’s hand went to her pistol, still tucked into his waistband.
He leaned into Berihun’s ear. “How can we get out of here?”
The Ethiopian crossed to the other side of the room and spoke to the monks, who huddled in conference. The teenagers pointed fretfully across the plateau.
The huts around were abandoned, the church empty. In the space of ten minutes the community had become a ghost town. The monks led them to the far side of the mountaintop and began picking their way down a path that offered a three-foot leeway between the cliff and a terminal drop. The rock face was honeycombed with caves and a stench like rotting fish arose.
“This is monk graves,” said Berihun.
Some caves had been blocked up, but others remained open. Inside one Jake saw a wooden coffin, in another a fibula, blackened fibres stretched across it. The first monk clambered into the sepulchral cavern.
“We’re going in there?” said Jake.
“Yes, quickly,” insisted the driver.
The stench of putrefaction inside was unbearable. There was something greasy about it, and Jake swallowed hard as vomit rose up his throat. Soon the fissure narrowed to a crack. He wriggled through to find himself in a hollowed out space. It was pitch black and he shivered. The air felt thick in his mouth; he could actually taste the decay.
When Berihun sparked a lighter Jake saw they weren’t alone. Monks were dotted about the cave like a parliament of owls, staring down at him. Three bodies bound in cotton sheets lay on the cave floor.
“If is danger, monks are coming here,” said Berihun. “Is secret place. You first white man coming here.”
“Amesegenallo,” Jake thanked them, touching his heart.
Heads nodded all around the cave.
“Minimaydelem,” they murmured back. “Ishee, ishee.”
“What now then?”
“We waiting,” said Berihun. “We waiting long time.”
Waiting, while killers combed the plateau. It was not an appealing thought. Jake sat on a rock and tried to meditate.
Ink. It was his mantra, learned years ago in a failed attempt to control his neuroses. Ink. He breathed in; he breathed out. That was better. From nowhere a measure of relaxation materialized. Ink. A thought bubbled up through the barrier. They would be searching the plateau. Ink, Ink. They would find it empty, they would know there was a hiding place. Ink, Ink, Ink. They would look in the caves, they would be systematic. Ink! Ink! Ink!
Jake’s eyes shot open. “I don’t think we’re safe here.”
Meditation had never bloody worked.
53
Berihun inclined his head. “Why is not safe?” he said in a musical voice. “They not finding us. This is grave, faranji not like go in.”
“You don’t know these people. They are not normal faranji. They will come.”
A discussion arose in the subterranean chamber, the replies of the monks bouncing from the walls of the cavern.
“They say cave goes far,” said Berihun translated. “There is way out of mountain. But hard to find exit. And bad men still out there. Is better stay, I think.”
Jake felt his gut swirling. The restlessness accumulated in his knees and calves until he wanted to kick out at the air. He switched on his phone and stumbled to his feet. “Which direction is it?”
Berihun pointed into the gloom.
“Will you come?”
“I am staying. You want, you go. No problem.”
“Thank you, my friend. Goodbye.”
Jake stumbled through the intestines of the mountain, brushing the ceiling with his fingertips. He forced himself through defiles, blundered into rock, dodged a cavity that yawned up beneath his feet. Just when the claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm him he saw a glow. As Jake got closer it brightened, morphing into a bar of yellow that burned the eyes. And then he was out, laughing with relief as tears streamed down his face. He
fumbled his way to a boulder, wedging himself behind it until his eyes accustomed themselves to light. Degree by degree he prised open his eyelids; finally he could see.
When Jake stepped out from the rock a man was standing there.
He looked tough. His features were chiselled and he stood at ease, one hand on his waist, the other behind his back. There was a white patch in his hair. Jake felt the world rushing around him. This man has just killed six people.
“Find anything up there, did you, fella?” The stranger spoke with a slight London accent. “Well? Chop-chop. I haven’t got all day.”
Frank Davis produced a pistol from behind his back and pointed it at Jake’s face. His eyes were a flat grey, the colour of the Irish Sea, and with a lurch Jake realized these might be the final moments of his life.
“Yes, yes we did actually,” said Jake. “A new inscription. Florence will have destroyed it – but I took photographs.”
Davis’s eyes widened. “Show me.”
Florence’s gun was still tucked into his belt.
Jake had never fired a gun – and this guy was MI6. What chance did he have? But what other choice was there? As Jake braced himself for the denouement a nasty thought occurred to him. Didn’t guns have a safety catch? What if it was on? His fingers quivered, like those of a Wild West gunslinger.
Davis read it in a heartbeat.
“Put your hands up,” he shouted.
Blown it.
Jake could feel Florence’s pistol in the small of his back, hopelessly out of reach. He raised his hands and looked into the stranger’s eyes, trying to connect with him.
It was like trying to connect with a drill-bit.
Suddenly Jake couldn’t be bothered anymore. He looked at the rock behind his killer. How red was the stone, how beautiful. It was a pity he wouldn’t experience more of this world – he rather loved it. But the thought was abstract. There was no more terror left in him.
“Enough of this,” the stranger was saying.
Foretold by Thunder Page 15