by Bear Grylls
‘But this kid’s story – it was unreal.’ Konig ran his hand through his wild blonde hair. ‘He claimed they were kidnapped and flown to some mystery location. Several dozen of them. At first things weren’t so bad. They were fed and looked after. But then came a day when they were given some kind of injections.
‘They were placed in this huge sealed room. People only ever entered in what the kid described as spacesuits. They fed them through these slots in the walls. Half the kids had had the injections, half not. The half who had no injections started to get ill.
‘At first they started sneezing and their noses ran.’ Konig gave a dry retch. ‘But then their eyes turned glazed and red and they took on the look of a zombie; of the living dead.
‘But you know the worst thing?’ Konig shuddered again. ‘Those kids – they died weeping blood.’
59
The big German conservationist fished in his pocket. He thrust something at Narov. ‘A memory stick. Photos of the kid. While he stayed with us, my staff took photos.’ He glanced from Narov to Jaeger. ‘I have no power to do anything. This is way bigger than me.’
‘Go on. Keep talking,’ Narov reassured him.
‘There’s not much more to say. All the kids who weren’t injected died. All those who were injected – the survivors – were herded outside, into the surrounding jungle. A large hole had been dug. They were gunned down and shovelled into that hole. The kid wasn’t hit, but he fell amongst the bodies.
Konig’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Imagine it – he was buried alive. Somehow he dug his way out again. It was night. He found his way to the airstrip and climbed aboard the Buffalo. The Buffalo flew him here . . . and the rest you know.’
Narov placed a hand on Konig’s arm. ‘Falk, there has to be more. Think. It is very important. Any details, whatever you can remember.’
‘There was maybe one thing. The kid said that on the flight in, they headed over the sea. So he figured this all took place on some kind of an island. That was why he knew he had to board the aircraft to have any chance of getting out of there.’
‘An island where?’ Jaeger probed. ‘Think, Falk. Any details – anything.’
‘The kid said the flight out from Nairobi took around two hours.’
‘A Buffalo’s got a cruising speed of three hundred m.p.h.,’ Jaeger remarked. ‘That means it’s got to be within a six-hundred-mile radius of Nairobi, so somewhere on the Indian Ocean.’ He paused. ‘You have a name? The kid’s name?’
‘Simon Chucks Bello. Simon is his English first name, Chucks his African. It’s Swahili. It means “great deeds of God”.’
‘Okay, so what happened to this kid? Where is he now?’
Konig shrugged. ‘He went back to the slums. He said it was the only place he would feel safe. It was where he had family. By that he meant his slum family.’
‘Okay, so how many Simon Chucks Bellos are there in the Nairobi slum?’ Jaeger mused. It was as much a question to himself as to Konig. ‘Twelve-year-old boy with that name – could we find him?’
Falk shrugged. ‘There are probably hundreds. And the people of the slums – they look after their own. It was the Kenyan police who rounded up those kids. Sold them for a few thousand dollars. The rule in the slum is: trust no one, and certainly not those in authority.’
Jaeger glanced at Narov, then back at Konig. ‘So, before the two of us do our Cinderella act, is there anything else we need to know?’
Konig shook his head morosely. ‘No. I think that is it. It is enough, yes?’
The three of them made their way back towards the vehicle. When they reached it, Narov stepped across and embraced the big German stiffly. It struck Jaeger that he had rarely seen her offer anyone simple physical closeness. A spontaneous hug.
This was a first.
‘Thank you, Falk – for everything,’ she told him. ‘And especially for all that you do here. In my eyes you are . . . a hero.’ For an instant their heads collided, as she gave him an awkward farewell kiss.
Jaeger climbed into the Toyota. Urio was behind the wheel with the engine running. Moments later, Narov joined them. They were about to pull away when she put out a hand to stop them. She gazed at Konig through the open side window.
‘You’re worried, aren’t you, Falk? There’s more? Something more?’
Konig hesitated. He was clearly torn. Then something inside him seemed to snap. ‘There is something . . . strange. It has been torturing me. This last year. Kammler told me that he had stopped worrying about the wildlife. He said: “Falk, keep alive a thousand elephants. A thousand will be enough.”’
He paused. Narov and Jaeger let the silence hang in the air. Give him time. The Toyota’s diesel engine thumped out a steady beat, as the conservationist mustered his courage to continue.
‘When he comes here, he likes to drink. I think he feels safe and secure in the isolation of this place. He is near his warplane in his sanctuary.’ Konig shrugged. ‘The last time he was here, he said: “There’s nothing more to worry about, Falk, my boy. I hold the final solution to all our problems in my hands. The end, and a new beginning.”
‘You know, in many ways Mr Kammler is a good man,’ Konig continued, a little defensively. ‘His love of wildlife is – or was – genuine. He speaks about his worries for the earth. Of extinction. He talks about the crisis of overpopulation. That we are like a plague. That humankind’s growth needs to be curtailed. And in a way, of course, he makes a fair point.
‘But he also enrages me. He speaks about the people here – the Africans; my staff; my friends – as savages. He laments the fact that black people inherited paradise and then decided to slaughter all the animals. But you know who buys the ivory? The rhino horn? You know who drives the slaughter? It is foreigners. All of it – smuggled overseas.’
Konig scowled. ‘You know, he speaks about the people here as the Untermenschen. Until I heard it from him, I did not think anyone still used that word. I thought it had died with the Reich. But when he is drunk, that is what he says. You know of course the meaning of this word?’
‘Untermenschen. Sub-humans,’ Jaeger confirmed.
‘Exactly. So I admire him for setting up this place. Here, in Africa. Where things can be so difficult. I admire him for what he says on conservation – that we are ruining the earth with blind ignorance and greed. But I also loathe him for his horrific – his Nazi – views.’
‘You need to get out of here,’ Jaeger remarked quietly. ‘You need to find a place where you can do what you do, but working with good people. This place – Kammler – it’ll consume you. Chew you up and spit you out again.’
Konig nodded. ‘You are probably right. But I love it here. Is there any place like this in the world?’
‘There isn’t,’ Jaeger confirmed. ‘But still you need to go.’
‘Falk, there is an evil here in paradise,’ Narov added. ‘And that evil emanates from Kammler.’
Konig shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But this is where I have invested my life and my heart.’
Narov eyed him for a long second. ‘Falk, why does Kammler feel he can trust you with so much?’
Konig shrugged. ‘I am a fellow German and a fellow lover of wildlife. I run this place – his sanctuary. I fight the battles . . . I fight his battles.’ His voice faltered. It was clear that he was reaching the absolute heart of the matter now. ‘But most of all . . . most of all it is because we are family. I am his flesh and blood.’
The tall, lean German glanced up. Hollow-eyed. Tortured. ‘Hank Kammler – he is my father.’
60
High above the African plains the General Dynamics MQ9 Reaper drone – the successor to the Predator – was preparing to gather its deadly harvest. From the bulbous head of the UAV – unmanned aerial vehicle – an invisible beam fired earthwards, as the drone began to ‘paint’ the target with the hot point of its laser.
Some 25,000 feet below, the distinctive form of a white Land Rover – ‘Wild Africa Safaris
’ emblazoned on its doors – ploughed onwards, those inside utterly oblivious to the threat.
Woken in the early hours, they had been sent on an urgent errand. They were to drive to the nearest airport, at Kigoma, some three hundred kilometres north of Katavi, to collect some spares for the replacement HIP helicopter.
Or at least that was what Konig had told them.
The sun had not long risen, and they were just an hour or so out from the airport. They were intent on getting the errand done and dusted as soon as possible, for they planned an unscheduled stop on their return. They had prize information to pass to the local poaching gang, information that would earn them good money.
As the Reaper’s laser beam secured ‘lock-on’ with the Land Rover, so the calipers holding a GBU-12 Paveway laser-guided bomb released their grip. The sleek gunmetal-grey projectile dropped away from the UAV’s wing and plummeted earthwards, its homing system locking on to the hot point of the laser reflecting off the Land Rover’s upper surface.
The fins on the rear section folded out to better perform their ‘bang-bang’ guidance function. Adjusting minutely to every move made by the vehicle, they steered the smart bomb in a snaking flight path, constantly correcting its trajectory.
According to Raytheon, the Paveway smart bomb’s manufacturers, the GBU-12 yielded a circular error probable of 3.6 feet. In other words, on average the Paveway struck within less than four feet of the hot point of the laser. As the Land Rover Defender barrelling through the African bush was five feet wide by thirteen long, there should be ample room for error.
Bare seconds after its release, the Paveway cut through the dust cloud thrown up by the vehicle.
By chance, this bomb wasn’t quite as smart as the majority of its brother munitions. It ploughed into the African earth three feet wide of the Land Rover, and just off its front nearside wing.
It didn’t particularly alter the outcome of the kill mission.
The Paveway detonated in a massive punching explosion, the blast wave driving a storm of jagged shrapnel into the Land Rover and flipping it over and over, as if a giant hand had grabbed it and was pounding it into oblivion.
The vehicle rolled several times, before coming to rest on its side. Already, hungry flames were licking around the twisted remains, engulfing those unfortunate enough to have been riding inside.
Some eight thousand miles away in his Washington DC office, Hank Kammler was hunched over a glowing computer screen, watching a live feed of the Reaper strike.
‘Goodbye, Mr William Jaeger,’ he whispered. ‘And good riddance.’
He reached for his keyboard and punched a few buttons, pulling up his encrypted email system. He sent a quick message, with the video from the Hellfire hit as a low-resolution attachment, then clicked his mouse and fired up IntelCom, a secure and encrypted US military version of Skype. In essence, via IntelCom, Kammler could place untraceable calls to anyone anywhere in the world.
There was the buzzing of IntelCom’s distinctive ringtone before a voice answered.
‘Steve Jones.’
‘The Reaper strike has gone ahead,’ Kammler announced. ‘I’ve just emailed you a video clip, with GPS coordinates embedded in the footage. Take a Katavi Lodge vehicle and go check it out. Find whatever remains and ensure it’s the right bodies.’
Steve Jones scowled. ‘I thought you said you wanted to torture him for as long as possible. This robs you – us – of revenge.’
Kammler’s expression hardened. ‘It does. But he was getting close. Jaeger and his pretty little sidekick had found their way to Katavi. That’s more than close enough. So I repeat: I need to know that their remains are within the wreckage of that vehicle. If they’ve somehow escaped, you’re to track them down and finish them.’
‘I’m on it,’ Jones confirmed.
Kammler killed the link and leaned back in his chair. On one level it was a pity to have put an end to the torture of William Jaeger, but sometimes even he tired of the game. And it was fitting, somehow, that Jaeger had died in Katavi – Hank Kammler’s favourite place in all the world.
And for what was coming – his sanctuary.
Steve Jones stared at his mobile, a frown scrunching up his massive, brute features. The twin Otter light aircraft droned onwards across the African savannah, buffeted by pockets of hot, riotous air.
Jones cursed. ‘Jaeger dead . . . What’s the point of bloody being here? Sent to scrape up some roasted body parts . . .’
He became aware that someone was watching him. He glanced towards the cockpit. The pilot – some hippy-dippy-looking Kraut called Falk Konig – was staring at him intently. He had clearly been listening in on the phone call.
The veins in Jones’s neck began to throb, and under his shirt his muscles bunched aggressively.
‘What?’ he growled. ‘What are you staring at? Just do your job and fly the bloody aircraft.’
61
Jaeger shook his head in amazement. He still couldn’t get over it. ‘Did you ever see that coming?’
Narov settled back into her seat and closed her eyes. ‘See what? There have been any number of surprises over the past few days. And I am tired. We have a long flight ahead of us and I would like to sleep.’
‘Falk. Being Kammler’s son?’
Narov sighed. ‘We should have seen it coming. We clearly did not listen properly to the Falkenhagen briefing. When SS General Hans Kammler was recruited by the Americans, he was forced to change his name to, amongst other things, Horace Konig. His son changed his name back to Kammler to reclaim the family’s glorious heritage. General Kammler’s grandson clearly didn’t feel it was quite so glorious, and decided to revert to Konig; Falk Konig.’
She cast a withering glance at Jaeger. ‘As soon as he introduced himself we should have known. So, sleep. It might sharpen you up a little.’
Jaeger grimaced. Back to the old Irina Narov. In a sense he regretted it. He’d rather liked the Katavi version.
They’d chartered a flight in a light aircraft, routed direct from Makongolosi’s tiny provincial airport direct to Nairobi. On touchdown, they planned to track down Simon Chucks Bello, which would mean heading into the chaotic and lawless world of the Nairobi slums.
Narov tossed and turned under her airline blanket. The small plane was being buffeted by the turbulence, and sleep just wouldn’t come. She flicked on her reading light and pressed the call button. The hostess appeared. They were the only passengers, this being a private charter.
‘Do you have coffee?’
The hostess smiled. ‘Of course. How do you take it?’
‘Hot. Black. Strong. No sugar.’ Narov glanced at Jaeger, who was trying to sleep. ‘Bring two cups.’
‘Of course, madam. Right away.’
Narov nudged Jaeger. ‘You, I think, are not asleep.’
Jaeger grumbled. ‘Not now I’m not. I thought you said you wanted to rest.’
Narov frowned. ‘I have too much going on in my head. I have ordered some—’
‘Coffee.’ Jaeger completed the sentence for her. ‘I heard.’
She jabbed him harder. ‘So wake up.’
Jaeger gave up trying to rest. ‘Okay. Okay.’
‘Tell me: Kammler, what is he up to? Let’s put the pieces of the puzzle together and see what we have got.’
Jaeger tried to shake the sleep from his head. ‘Well, first up we go find the kid and verify his story. Two, we head back to Falkenhagen and get access to their resources and expertise. Everything and everyone we need to take this further is there.’
The coffee arrived. They sat quietly, savouring the brew.
It was Narov who broke the silence. ‘So how exactly do we go about finding the boy?’
‘You saw Dale’s message. He knows people in the slums. He’ll meet us there and together we’ll find the kid.’ Jaeger paused. ‘That’s if he’s still alive, if he’s willing to talk, and if he is for real. A lot of ifs.’
‘So what is Dale’s connectio
n to the slums?’
‘A few years back he volunteered to teach slum children camera operating. He teamed up with a guy called Julius Mburu, who grew up in the slums. He was a small-time gangster, but then he saw the light. These days, he runs the Mburu Foundation, teaching orphans video and photography skills. Dale’s got him searching for the kid, using his ghetto network.’
‘He is confident we will get to him?’
‘Hopeful. Not confident.’
‘It’s a start.’ Narov paused. ‘What did you make of Falk’s videos?’
‘His home movies?’ Jaeger shook his head. ‘That his daddy is a sick bastard. Imagine holding your son’s tenth birthday party in a BV222 buried beneath a mountain. Bunch of old men teaching Falk and his friends Hitler salutes. Kids done up in shorts and lederhosen. All those Nazi flags around the walls. No wonder Falk turned against him.’
‘The BV222 – it is Kammler’s shrine,’ Narov remarked quietly. ‘His shrine to the Thousand-Year Reich. Both the one that never was and the one he hopes to usher into existence.’
‘Sure looks that way.’
‘And what about finding Kammler’s island? If the kid is for real, how do we track its location?’
Jaeger took a gulp of coffee. ‘Tough one. Within a six-hundred-mile radius of Nairobi there are hundreds of possibilities. Maybe thousands. But my guy Jules Holland is on to it. They’ll get him to Falkenhagen and he’ll start digging. Trust me, if anyone can track that island, the Ratcatcher can.’
‘And if the kid’s story is true?’ Narov pressed. ‘Where does that leave us?’
Jaeger stared into the distance – into the future. Much as he was trying to downplay it, he couldn’t keep the worry and tension from his voice.
‘If the kid is right, Kammler’s got the Gottvirus refined and tested. All the kids who weren’t inoculated died. That means it’s back up to a near one hundred per cent lethality. It is the God Virus once more. And as all the inoculated kids survived, it looks as if he’s sorted his antidote. All he needs now is a weapon delivery system.’