Mudada

by M G Leslie

  The man’s voice spoke quickly, nervously and with a great sense of urgency, "I have the information we talked about before – it's very bad. We need to meet. I have the name."

  "I understand, but please remember, this is an open phone line," the MI6 officer’s calm and composed voice replied.

  "I know but you mustn’t tell anyone because," he tried to continue, but was interrupted.

  “Calm down. You can explain everything when we meet the day after tomorrow at the usual time and place.”

  “I know, but.”

  Again the MI6 man interrupted – this time with a more assertive tone, “Are you in any immediate danger?”

  “No, but.”

  “Then we will meet as scheduled. Do not be late."

  Then the phone went dead.

  “Damn you,” cursed the caller, as he threw down the handset of the telephone, demonstrating his frustration.

  Meanwhile, the MI6 intelligence officer who’d received the call went to his computer and sent an encrypted message to the headquarters at Vauxhall Cross in London. It read:

  URGENT!

  FOR ATTENTION OF HEAD OF OPS AFRICA

  POTENTIAL BRITISH LINK TO CS RESEARCH IN ZIMBABWE

  ASSET WILL PROVIDE CONFIRMATION AND NAME AT NEXT SCHEDULED MEETING

  In London, the message was routed through to Bill Phillips, the head of MI6 operations for Africa, and his deputies Fabio Alexander and Cale Jones – respectively, the heads of intelligence and counter-espionage for Africa.

  Bill Phillips had been tracking this operation very closely, so he immediately picked up the phone and called the MI6 officer in Harare. He didn't bother with any social formalities or security procedures – he relied on his voice being recognised and said, "I want to know the instant you know – call me – any time day or night – we need to keep on top of this. Understood?"

  “Yes, of course,” was the somewhat surprised response from the MI6 officer in Harare. However, before he could speak again, the phone call ended as abruptly as it had started.

  The next day had been a sunny Tuesday in Harare with unusually high temperatures.

  At an altitude of over four thousand feet, the weather in Harare is often quite mild. The city doesn’t generally suffer the intense heat you associate with other parts of Africa. However, the wind had been blowing in a different direction for some reason, making it extremely, and abnormally, unpleasant outside. As a consequence, the asset referred to in the MI6 message, had spent most of the day in his apartment – enjoying the cool refreshing breeze from his air-conditioning, whilst waiting for the temperature outside to become more pleasant.

  Once early evening arrived and the heat started to ease off, he turned to his wife, saying, "I’m just going out. I will only be five minutes or so."

  She nodded her approval – before giving him a short list of things to pick up whilst he was out. Then he left the apartment, hailed a passing taxi, and went to the local shopping centre – and more importantly, a pay phone.

  As he inserted some coins in the machine and typed an international phone number, his minded wandered and he looked out at the street. It was starting to get busy – evidently, everyone else had the same idea. Certainly, there was now a cool evening breeze, so it was far more pleasant than it had been in the intense heat of the day.

  Then a click in the earpiece jolted his mind back to reality – closely followed by a brief pause as his call was connected and started to ring. “Answer the phone, answer the phone – answer the damned phone,” he said to himself.

  Suddenly the ringing stopped – almost making him jump – but then he heard the voice. It sounded slightly muffled – it was a poor quality connection – but was still just about clear enough to give away its owner, who said, "Hello?" in a British accent.

  After a brief and uneasy moments hesitation, he spoke, “It's me again. I have the information I mentioned the other day," then he stopped speaking to listen to the reply – standing still for several minutes before saying, "OK I understand. So when will we speak again?"

  Again he listened, memorising everything, before hanging up the phone without saying another word – although, silently replaying the conversation in his head.

  He was just about to walk away, when he stopped. It was one of those moments of indecision that people sometimes get when they’re half-minded to do something – but not absolutely sure. After a moment of internal debate though, he made up his mind and picked up the phone again – this time dialling a different number, before confidently saying, “Hi, it’s me. How are you?”

  Then after a brief reply he said, “Oh I’m sorry – I didn’t realise you’d be out. I just wanted to check in with you. Everything should be going as planned.”

  Then he listened again before saying, “Yes, I’ve just done that. Thanks again for all your help.”

  Again he listened – before this time ending the call with, “OK thanks again. Bye.”

  As he walked away from the phone, seemingly with renewed confidence from the phone calls, he looked around to see if anyone had followed him – very quickly realising that it was going to be impossible to tell. Sure there were a few people milling around when he had first arrived – but now it was starting to get very busy with lots of people walking in all directions, some with no obvious purpose, but nothing out of the ordinary – just shoppers doing what shoppers do. So on balance, he decided he was probably OK and picked up some groceries from the local shop before hailing another taxi – arriving back home a few minutes later.

  The asset, an African born man in his mid forties, was named Mudada Iwu, and was happily married with two children.

  An incredibly hard working, physically fit individual, he had excelled academically as well as in sports. And as a result, a scholarship awarded many years earlier, had enabled him to attend university in the UK, where he later spent a brief spell in the British armed forces.

  In the end though, he’d only regarded one place as home and had returned to Harare – shortly after being recruited by the UK's Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, as an asset – or as they are sometimes referred to, an agent or even, a spy.

  But that was years ago – indeed, a lifetime in the ever-changing and unpredictable life of an MI6 asset.

  4. Two Deadly Meetings

  It was early evening with a pleasantly cool breeze in the air as the African man sat on the rooftop restaurant, watching the sun descend over the horizon whilst waiting for the man he was meeting to arrive. The words, “Good evening,” caused him to look around. But he could only see the outline of a figure – light in that corner of the rooftop was quite poor.

  He opened his mouth to draw in air and reply, but was stopped by the quiet thuds from a pistol with a silencer fitted.

  The first two bullets hit him square in the centre of the chest and propelled him backwards, causing him to fall off the chair. Then, as he lay, slumped on the floor with his eyes wide open, desperately trying to breath as a red stain from the bullet holes spread down his body, a third bullet, fired at almost point blank range, created a dark red hole in the centre of his head.

  His breathing stopped and his eyes glazed over – no longer reacting to the light as the mystery figure returned to the shadows, before inconspicuously leaving the building.

  As a result of the subdued lighting, it was nearly five minutes before someone, wandering idly around the rooftop in search of the bathroom, cried out in horror – causing restaurant staff to run across the roof to see what had happened.

  Even the manager, who thought he had seen everything before, exclaimed, “Oh my lord,” as he retrieved his mobile phone and called the police whilst one of the waiters covered the body with a spare tablecloth.

  Unfortunately, the MI6 officer, who arrived fifteen minutes later for his scheduled meeting, was turned away when he tried to access to the rooftop restaurant – the police had blocked all the entrances whilst they gathered evidence and took witness statements. However, af
ter discreetly depositing some cash in several police officers' hands, twenty minutes later, he was allowed upstairs to inspect the scene.

  This had been their meeting place a few times before – and they'd always considered it relatively discreet and safe.

  The wooden-decked rooftop looked more like something you would find outside a country pub in the UK – and perhaps that was part of its appeal. Certainly, it was often quite busy – they’d always presumed, at least in part, because of the impressive view over the city and the distant landscape – although it was never too busy or noisy that you couldn't hold a private conversation.

  They generally chose the same place to sit – a table on it's own in a quiet corner, that afforded them the degree of privacy they needed.

  Normally, the first few minutes of their meetings would be consumed with idle chatter – ordering drinks and maybe some food, whilst looking over the side of the building at the view – so anyone who did see them, would think they were just friends meeting socially. However, once they felt it safe to do so, the real reason for the meeting would become their topic of conversation – Mudada Iwu would explain what was taking place at the chemical research laboratory where he worked.

  Tonight though, it was a very different scene. Police officers were taking statements, paramedics were treating a couple of people who had fainted from the shock of seeing a dead body and instead of the usual discreet lighting, the rooftop was now as clear as daylight – the police had erected huge lamps in each corner of the restaurant.

  The MI6 man made his way towards the body that lay unmoved, although now covered by a grey police blanket. A senior police officer – a large, over-weight and imposing figure – was standing next to it and could be heard barking orders in a loud and unpleasant tone.

  During a brief period of respite between orders, the MI6 man casually asked, "Do we know who the deceased was?"

  "Who are you?" the police officer replied in an aggressive manner, as he spun around to face the MI6 man -or more accurately, look down at the MI6 man, who, whilst being above average height, was nowhere near has large as the police officer.

  Undeterred, the MI6 man replied, "A friend of your colleague downstairs – a Captain I believe? He said he would radio you that I was coming up here to take a look? I'm with the press." Then he held out a Press ID that identified him as working for the Harare Metro – a local, and well-known, newspaper.

  "Oh yes," was the reply – this time in a much calmer tone. "Yes, the dead man was named Mudada Iwu.”

  “That’s confirmed is it? How do you know?”

  “What?” the police officer replied – once again returning to his irritated tone of voice.

  “I just wondered how you could be so sure?”

  “He had his ID on him. Why did you know him?"

  "No – I just wondered. Can I examine the body? I used to be a doctor," the MI6 man lied.

  "No you cannot, get your story and get out of here," was the irritated reply. Then the police officer turned and started to walk away, barking more orders in the process.

  The MI6 man was still unsatisfied and wanted to see the face so he could check if it really was Mudada – because if so, that could mean he was also in danger. However, he was blocked by the senior police officer as he started moving closer in order to lift up the blanket.

  Neither man spoke – but the MI6 man got the message and stepped back. The last thing he needed was to upset the local police chief. So he carefully examined the seat where Mudada always sat – now resting on it's side and splattered with blood.

  As he walked around, pretending to look over the side of the building, he could see part of the body's torso, where the blanket hadn’t fully covered it. There was the green shirt, he noted – the pre-agreed item of clothing for Wednesday meetings that meant everything was OK.

  Cursing to himself, the MI6 man reluctantly assumed it was, indeed, Mudada Iwu – his asset and, most recently, as they’d got to know each other better – his friend.

  Nevertheless, he waited a few more minutes, as the senior police officer moved out of earshot. Then walking over to a more junior, and considerably younger, police officer, he said, “Did you determine the time of death?”

  “Not yet – we’re waiting for the police doctor – should be here soon.”

  “I used to be a doctor. I could take a quick look and then you could tell your boss – it would make you look good. How about it?” he asked.

  The young officer seemed to think for a few seconds – but to the MI6 man’s disappointment, he said, “I’m not sure I should. I could get in to a lot of trouble.”

  “Hey look – all I’m going to do is lift the blanket and touch the head of the body to see how cold it is. It’s not like I’m going to disturb the evidence,” the MI6 man continued.

  “Yeah but I’m not sure. I will get in to trouble – we can’t mess with the body – it’s evidence. I think you’d better go.”

  “It will take two seconds – no more – I promise.”

  “I don’t think so – you should go.”

  “Trust me, I’ll be really quick,” continued the MI6 man as he stepped forward and started to bend down.

  “Stop!” said the young officer. “You should go now. If you don’t, I will report you and you will be arrested.”

  The MI6 man sighed. “OK, I’ll go. But before I do, tell me the cause of death – is that fair?”

  The young officer seemed to think again – then he said, “He was shot. Two shots to the chest and one to the head.”

  “Sounds like a professional hit.”

  “What do you know about professional hits?”

  “Just an observation – you know – two shots to the chest and one to the head – it’s like in the movies.”

  The police officer almost laughed as he again said, “You should go now.”

  “Thank you,” said the MI6 man who, realising there was nothing more he could do, turned his back and walked away – returning to the British embassy to send a brief report of the incident to London before going back home.

  Once home, and still preoccupied with the events of the evening, the MI6 man retrieved a can of beer from his fridge and, almost in a daze, walked on to the balcony of his apartment – taking in the fresh air of the evening as he looked out at the sprawling city of Harare below.

  “What now?” he said to himself as he took a first sip of the beer.

  Unfortunately, however, he had failed to notice a man standing in the shadows. It was only when the man raised his arm, with a gun in his hand, that the MI6 man's peripheral vision registered movement and he spun round to face the threat. But it was too late – two more quiet thuds sent bullets passing through his chest, smashing the glass side of the balcony behind him.

  As he staggered backwards, clutching his chest, the assailant leapt forward and with a flying kick to the abdomen, sent the MI6 man crashing through the broken glass, over the edge of the balcony and 20 floors down to certain death on the concrete below.

  5. Post Mortem

  It is fairly well known that UK–Zimbabwean relations have, at times, been somewhat strained. So it was nearly a week before the Foreign and Commonwealth Office was informed of the death of a British citizen.

  The FCO report triggered alarms in MI6 and the head of the service, known only as the “Chief” demanded to know what had happened.

  After a series of phone calls, including a brief message from the Chief to Price, four men sat quietly in the Chief’s office as he opened the meeting.

  “Gentlemen, you all know why we are here. I believe most of you know each other. But for completeness, starting on my left, Bill Philips, overall head of SIS operations in Africa, Fabio Alexander, head of intelligence for Africa, Cale Jones head of counter-espionage for Africa, the Chief of Staff of course, and on my right, Price, who will be assisting me.”

  Then he paused – seemingly thinking about something, before saying, “Oh, and of course, you all know
my assistant, Julie, who will be taking the minutes."

  As part of his role in counter-espionage, Cale had heard of Price – so he observed him uneasily. He’d worked with members of The Increment, or E-Squadron as it is sometimes called, before. His experience was that they mostly provided protection for MI6 officers during meetings in hostile territories. However, he’d ended up chatting to several of them on an assignment a year or so earlier and recalled Price’s name had come up. The rumours were that Price worked closely with UK Special Forces and was frequently involved in some of the more dangerous assignments – in many cases not just acting as a minder. Indeed, one of them had said that, more often than not, Price was involved in taking an offensive role. And looking at him sitting quietly in the corner of the Chief’s office, Cale believed it. “He’s a big guy,” he thought. “You wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side.”

  Price, however, didn't say a word – in fact he barely even acknowledged the other gentlemen – spending most of his time seemingly typing on his mobile phone – whilst in reality, discreetly watching the men's expressions and listening to the tone of their voices.

  Price took his job very seriously, and the cold-blooded murder of an officer in the field was something he would not take lightly. He was an officer as well – so it could have been him – and that meant he had to find the murderer and deal with him. Indeed, that had been the Chief’s brief. He'd said, "Price, I want you to just sit in the corner, watch and listen – don't say a word – we'll talk afterwards – I want to know who killed Baines and I want to send a message."

  As the most senior officer representing MI6 operations in Africa, both from an intelligence gathering and counter-espionage perspective, Bill Philips spoke, “Sir, perhaps I can set the scene for those who may not be aware of the operation?” Then he glanced at Price as if to indicate that was who he was referring to.