The Black Art of Killing

by Matthew Hall

  She nodded.

  Black detected something evasive in her manner as if whatever had occurred carried a taint of shame.

  ‘Any idea where the job was?’

  ‘He didn’t say exactly, but –’

  She stalled. Her eyes briefly glistened with tears. She lifted her chin and regained control of herself. ‘He told me it would be a lot of money – a hundred and fifty thousand. I had a bad feeling about it, but I knew he was thinking it might be enough to sell up here and move out to the country like he’d always wanted.’

  ‘A bad feeling because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary job?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Was this a mercenary contract, Kathleen?’

  ‘He didn’t say so.’

  ‘But that’s what you suspected? But thankfully he got ill and came back in one piece.’

  She nodded but was still keeping something back. Black could sense it.

  ‘You can tell me, Kathleen. It might help.’

  She turned away and moved over to the kitchen table, where she dropped into a chair. Black joined her, pulling up a seat opposite. They drank in silence for a short while before she steeled herself to speak. ‘I was worried it was something dangerous or illegal. He swore to me it wasn’t, but I always knew when he was lying.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Africa is all he would say. Reading between the lines I think it was the DRC. That’s where a lot of them go. He mentioned something about training troops to deal with illegal mining. But when they say “training”, they mean fighting, don’t they?’

  ‘If it’s any comfort, it sounds like a regular gig,’ Black said. ‘It could have been far worse. How did he come to get ill?’

  ‘It was a tropical fever of some sort. He said that as soon as he’d been sick for more than a few days they sacked him. Didn’t get paid a penny. The whole thing was a disaster. I should have stopped him going. As soon as he took that job I knew it was time for him to walk away from it all. I knew.’ Tears dripped from her eyes and spotted the tabletop. ‘The only reason I didn’t put my foot down was that I was frightened that he couldn’t stop, that he’d be like all those others who end up hitting the bottle or their wives. You won’t know what happens to all the regular soldiers when they come out, but I do. You can’t turn a man into a killing machine and expect him to walk back into normal life like none of it ever happened. It doesn’t work that way.’

  She dried her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘For what it’s worth it’s not everyone, Kathleen. And it’s never the guys who lasted as long in the game as he did. Ryan was just unlucky. There’s nothing you could have done to make things turn out differently.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  His words seemed to comfort her. The emotion that had briefly consumed her subsided. ‘I suppose I married the stupid bugger with my eyes open. I’m just about young enough to have another life, I suppose … Eventually.’

  Black couldn’t help but admire her strength. Finn would have been proud.

  ‘One last question. Had Ryan always been involved with Freddy Towers since leaving the army or was it a recent thing?’

  Another sore point. Kathleen sighed and closed her eyes. ‘After he came back he said people weren’t prepared to touch him. Someone had put the word out that he was a quitter. He was all set to pack it in when one of the guys from the Regiment told him to give Freddy a bell – said he might be able to pull a few strings for him.’

  ‘And that’s how he got the Paris job?’

  Kathleen nodded. ‘We could have managed … I used to tell him it was him I wanted, not a fancy house.’

  ‘It’s late. I should let you get to bed,’ Black said. He got up from the table and touched Kathleen affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Do you mind if I borrow the diaries? I’d like to check out some of the names.’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  He collected them from Finn’s desk and turned to go. ‘Look after yourself. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Leo?’

  He glanced back. She was still sitting at the table, cradling her empty glass, her back to him.

  ‘You will get to the bottom of this, Leo.’

  It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

  Black drove away from the house and once he had cleared the outskirts of the city, pulled over into a field gateway. By the dim light in the cab of the Land Rover he again checked a diary entry Finn had made on 15 May the previous year: Mitch Brennan, 1 p.m., The Lanesborough. He hadn’t made a mistake. When he had first seen the name it had hit him like a fist. He had hidden his reaction from Kathleen, but now the memories came cascading back.

  The Mitch Brennan he remembered was a newly promoted captain of the Australian Special Air Service Regiment. He had been seconded to Black’s squadron in the early days of the occupation of Iraq, between 2003 and 2004. His role had been chiefly to observe and learn as part of a professional exchange programme. But in the maelstrom of Baghdad and the daily missions to kill or capture insurgents who seemed to multiply like maggots on a corpse, Brennan had taken an increasingly active role. Soon he was leading missions of his own and earning a reputation for being a fearless then a vicious and reckless operator. He had been known to hang suspects out of upstairs windows by their ankles then drop them when they failed to talk. Eventually Brennan’s behaviour became too much even for Towers, who sent him back to his regiment before his six months was up. Several years later Black had heard a rumour that Brennan had gone missing during a covert operation to track down al-Qaeda militants in Indonesia. He remembered thinking it was a good day for the Australian army.

  Missing but not dead.

  Black switched off the map light and sat in the darkness contemplating the call he felt compelled to make. He peered up out of the windscreen at an ink-black sky smeared with stars. It had always amused him to think that his eyes were receiving photons emitted at the dawn of the universe at the same time as others only seconds old and every age in between, that a simple tilt of the head raised the vision from the present to the whole of eternity. Most would live their entire lives unaware of this simple fact, but every soldier knew it, whether by book or by instinct.

  He drew out his phone, brought it to life and dialled Freddy Towers’ number.

  Towers answered enthusiastically. ‘Leo! I was going to call you. I’m in your neck of the woods. Any chance you could pop by tomorrow?’

  ‘Pop by?’

  ‘To Credenhill.’

  ‘You’ve had me followed?’

  ‘Let’s not quibble, shall we? We’ve a mission to organize. The Committee has got the all-clear from the Director, Special Forces. I hear you’ve been talking to Kathleen.’ He offered the non sequitur without explanation.

  ‘What of it?’ Black answered, concealing both his surprise and indignation.

  ‘Anything I should know?’

  ‘I found a name in his diary. Mitch Brennan. They met in London last May. I think he may have given him a lucrative job in Africa. It didn’t work out. Finn left early and didn’t collect his pay cheque.’

  ‘Brennan. I remember that bastard. Well, well, well.’ Towers sounded genuinely delighted. ‘Looks like you may be on to something. About time. Midday tomorrow, then? Main gates. They’ll be expecting you.’

  He rang off, leaving a roaring silence.

  Black started the engine, switched on the headlights and pulled away. He glanced in the mirror and caught a glint of moonlight glancing off the car travelling without headlights some fifty yards behind him. Towers had had him tailed. Whether he liked it or not, his life was no longer his own.

  Black drove into the dark tunnel of the night resigning himself to one unavoidable fact: wherever he was going, there was killing to be done.

  38

  Black drew up to the guard post at thirteen minutes past twelve. His lateness was deliberate. The sooner Towers realized he was here on his terms, the better. />
  What he still thought of as the new SAS camp, even though it had occupied its current home for eighteen years, was a former RAF base three miles outside the city of Hereford. From the outside it was an unassuming collection of 1940s brick buildings enclosed by fences and the obligatory coils of razor wire. It sat on a quiet road on the edge of the village of Credenhill surrounded by fields and wooded hills. All that distinguished it from other military bases was the conspicuous lack of signs at its entrance and the extra armed police officers unobtrusively patrolling its borders. Britain’s most secret military installation, the repository of some of the world’s most sensitive intelligence, was hidden in plain sight.

  Black lowered his window as a young corporal of the Military Provost Guard Service approached.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Would you mind looking this way?’

  From the pocket of his camouflaged tunic the soldier produced a hand-held device with which he took a picture of Black’s face. Within seconds it had confirmed his identity.

  ‘Good afternoon, Major Black.’ The corporal dipped into his pocket and handed over a ready-prepared security pass. ‘If you’d like to drive through the gate and park outside Block C, Colonel Towers will be there to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  A barrier lifted. Black drove on through the entrance and into a camp that hadn’t visibly changed since his abrupt departure. He turned left and made his way past a row of anonymous buildings surrounded by neatly cut grass. He hadn’t known what his reaction would be on returning to the place which for so many years had been the closest thing he had had to a home. Passing the entrance to the officers’ mess and then the offices from which he and Towers had meticulously planned so many operations, he felt strangely detached. The old sensations, the excitement and anticipation that had propelled his younger self into action, refused to stir.

  Towers burst out of the entrance to Block C as Black parked nose first in a space reserved with a sign: MJR L. BLACK (RETD). He hovered impatiently, radiating nervous energy as Black switched off the engine and climbed out.

  ‘You’re late! Come on. Hurry.’

  He turned and darted back into the building.

  Black glanced up and down the empty roadway expecting to see a familiar face, but all was quiet. Most of the officers and their staff would be at home with their families. The young troopers and NCOs training for ops would be over at the Pontrilas training area ten miles to the south, where the Regiment had its Close Quarter Battle House, more popularly known as the Killing House. There buildings as diverse as the London Iranian Embassy and Baghdad apartment blocks could be simulated for rehearsals so rigorous that, by their end, troopers could have navigated the real thing blindfold.

  Pontrilas was also home to the shell of a Boeing 747 in which, during the mid-1990s, Black had learned to take out hijackers without killing passengers. Back then they hadn’t planned for dealing with suicidal terrorists. After 2001 it was all they did. The shift had made them more brutal. It was no longer a question of attempting to save every innocent life but merely as many as possible. A numbers game. Every member of the Regiment became an instinctive utilitarian. They were all men who in Truman’s shoes would have dropped the bomb. It was one of the many things that set them apart.

  With these thoughts still circulating in his head Black followed Towers into the building.

  Block C was, like most military buildings, a strictly functional place. Stark corridors with hard, shiny floors, hung with regimental photographs. In Black’s time ‘C’ had been the home of the back-office staff who dealt with kit, basic logistics and finances, and he got the impression little had changed. Like the rest of the camp, the building was virtually deserted. Towers scurried up the stairs to the second floor where he ushered Black into a spacious office that contained little more than a large desk, a computer with an outsize monitor and a number of chairs.

  ‘Blagged this yesterday,’ Towers said. ‘It’s not much, but it’ll do for our purposes.’ He gestured Black towards the desk. ‘The Director has been good enough to grant me access to images from our Carbonite-2 satellite. I think I’m on to something.’ He sat at the computer and started working the mouse. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Leo, but I had to assume you’d come round. This Mitch Brennan connection really starts to unlock things. I got on to the CO over in Perth first thing this morning. He wouldn’t quite admit that Brennan had gone AWOL, but he certainly gave me that impression. According to the official record, he went missing presumed dead in 2007. My guess is he made dubious contacts in Africa – the Australians have been all over it in recent years: Nigeria, Kenya, Zimbabwe. Don’t buy all the PC bullshit their politicians spout; they’re as rapacious as the rest of us.’

  ‘Have you found any record of him since?’

  ‘Not a thing. Which I’m sure is entirely intentional.’

  ‘And Finn didn’t mention him?’

  ‘No. I got the impression there was a good deal of injured pride and a fair degree of shame connected with whatever he had been up to, so I didn’t press him. If Brennan was in any way involved, I can see why. It also explains why he jumped ship halfway through his contract.’

  ‘You don’t believe he was ill?’

  ‘Do you ever recall him having a day sick?’

  Black had to admit that he didn’t.

  ‘So I think we may be on to something. The Ryan Finn we knew had his red lines. From the little I recall of Brennan he was a thorough-going bastard. Here – something for you to read. Had a friend of mine in the City get one of his analysts to do a bit of digging.’ He hit some more keys, causing several pages to spew out of a printer beneath the desk. ‘Those are for you. Now where the bloody hell are those pictures?’

  Black took the three freshly printed pages to a chair by the window, leaving Towers to wrestle with his computer. The document set out what little was known about the corporate history of Sabre. It had begun life in 2004 as Sabre Systèmes de Défence Internationale SARL, a private company with registered offices in Marseille. The two directors were listed as Colonel Auguste Daladier, formerly of the French Foreign Legion, and Pierre Gaumont, a retired investment banker. The firm offered corporate asset and personal protection services and was known to have operated extensively in Africa and the Middle East, specializing in protecting mining and oil-drilling operations in conflict zones. After two years in business its turnover was north of ten million euros. In 2007 it relocated to Panama, where the law allowed for almost complete corporate secrecy. Daladier and Gaumont’s names were replaced on the register of directors by local nominees and thereafter no accounts were made publicly available.

  The trail went cold for over a year, but, according to unconfirmed reports that had circulated among commodities traders, in late 2009 Daladier was one of a small number of international businessmen invited by the then Venezuelan president, Hugo Chavez, to a secret summit at which he discussed the potential for exploiting the country’s untapped natural resources in the southern Amazonian jungle. 2008 had seen the price of crude oil crash by nearly three hundred per cent, leaving Chavez’s economic miracle in tatters. In desperate need of a quick fix Chavez swallowed his pride and prepared to enter into murky deals with the hated capitalists.

  Geological surveys had revealed huge potential deposits of gold, diamonds, rare earth metals and coltan. In a separate boxed-out section of the report the author explained that, of all these, coltan was the biggest prize. Columbite-tantalite, coltan for short, is a dull metallic ore, which when refined becomes a heat-resistant powder that can hold a high electrical charge. Critical in the manufacture of miniature circuit boards, coltan is found in virtually every modern electronic device. The proliferation of mobile phones, laptops, games consoles and every conceivable gadget besides has driven demand ever higher. When, in the early 2000s, Sony released its PlayStation 2, global demand for coltan outstripped supply and poured fuel on the flames of civil war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where c
ompeting factions fought for control of the lucrative illegal coltan mines.

  Among the other guests reputed to have attended this gathering was Carl Mathis, a publicity-shy serial entrepreneur who, over a long career, made his billions successfully anticipating the next wave of technological revolution. He had backed personal computers in the early 1980s, mobile phones in the 1990s and biotech in the 2000s. In 2009 rumours circulated that he had liquidated $800 million from across his portfolio. A freelance journalist based in Silicon Valley sold a story to Inside Business magazine reporting that Mathis had signed a deal with China’s biggest manufacturer of printed circuit boards, guaranteeing their supply of coltan for the next twenty years. A source close to Mathis was quoted as saying that the digital, electrically powered future would create a demand for certain materials, coltan among them, that would outstrip supply by a multiple of at least five. Governments were unprepared for the consequences of such a dire shortage, leaving the field open for smart investors. The article was taken down from the magazine’s website within six hours of publication and never made it to the print edition.

  As a result of the article, rumours spread through the markets that Mathis had signed a deal with Chavez but no proof of this could be found, and as Mathis owned all of his businesses personally, there were no shareholder prospectuses to mine for information. Nevertheless, the global supply of coltan remained roughly equal to demand, suggesting that new sources of supply had indeed come on stream.

  The report ended near the top of the third page. In the space below were two separate items pasted from other documents. The first read:

  CARL MATHIS. MALE. DOB 09.07.47 (USA) appears only once in our files.

  Item: Station report of Alan Huntley, British Embassy, Caracas, 28.02.13

  … agent reports Pres. Chavez received a number of visits in private room at Hospital Militar Dr Carlos Arvelo during the afternoon. Security passes issued to … Mr Carl J. Mathis (USA) and Col. Auguste Daladier …

  The second item read like dialogue from a bad play and featured Freddy Towers in the lead role. It was a transcript of a phone call he had made only three days before: