The Five

by A P Bateman

  King wandered through the connecting corridor, bought a cup of tea at the hospital café and walked back around the main building. The hospital was a large site, with what looked to be four main buildings and a connecting corridor running between them. Many people were choosing instead to walk on the paths between the neatly kept lawns. He crossed over a helicopter landing pad, passed by the accident and emergency department and walked back around to the pathology unit. He sipped his tea, perched on a wall and thought back to the house on the Roseland Peninsula. Helena Snell and Viktor Bukov did not kill Sir Ian Snell. He had caught enough of their conversation in Russian to know that they hadn’t been anywhere near. But he was troubled nonetheless. Something was going on and he needed to connect the dots. He took out his mobile phone again, checked to see if there was a message from Caroline. There wasn’t. He just hoped she was ok.

  King had lost count of the amount of times luck had saved him. The amount of times he had walked away, when others every bit as good or as professional as him had died. He had begun to question whether he had been blessed with luck. Not from his childhood, that was for sure. Not many children would have lived a worse life than he had. Not children born and raised in Britain, at least. He had known hunger and pain. He had known true fear and despair. He had been beaten by his mother’s constant succession of partners. He had gone days looking after his younger brothers and sisters, without money to buy them food, or to pay the rent, while his mother had been coming down or out dealing drugs, or turning tricks to fund her habit. But he had survived. Survived the care homes after she had died. Survived life on the streets. Survived when he had a contract put on him by boxing promoters who had lost a fortune when he refused to take a dive in the ring. He had survived the deadly fight which had landed him in prison. He had survived his incarceration too, and the ex-soldiers in there who would look to even the score against the comrades he had slain. And he had survived his recruitment into the shadowy world of MI6 and the life they had channelled for him. He had survived against the IRA, secret wars against Russian spetsnaz and the FSB, the Taliban, Al Qaeda and most recently, the evil that was ISIS. He had survived even when his own people had turned on him. His luck was good. But was it luck? Did he possess a sixth sense? He wouldn’t say he did. But he had learned to trust his instincts. He had learned as a child to trust his intuition. When he had a thought, he simply went with it. He didn’t double guess himself, and he never deviated from his chosen path.

  King had felt his instincts start to doubt face value. And when that happened, it was enough for him to run with it. He unlocked his phone and typed out a quick message to Simon Mereweather. It seemed a simple request, but he had no idea how political it would be. What the repercussions would be. He would just have to wait and see.

  30

  Tokia

  South Africa

  “I don’t know how you swung that,” Kruger said.

  Vigus Badenhorst had been permitted a shower, had changed into the clothes he’d been sentenced in and had been begrudgingly given coffee and some biscuits by Governor Boesak at Caroline’s request.

  Caroline walked beside Kruger and Badenhorst followed a metre or so behind. He looked bewildered, had sobbed and could not seem to believe his good fortune. He had only been in Pollsmoor for a little over seven months, but clearly it had claimed him.

  It had taken two hours to process the prisoner. Several forms were signed, faxed, re-faxed, signed and countersigned. It had taken another hour to talk through the deal with him, and no matter how insistent Caroline had been, she could not persuade the man to continue the interview within the walls of Pollsmoor Prison. He remained adamant. He wanted out. It would go no other way.

  Caroline glanced at Kruger as they reached the top of the steps and squinted in the brightness of the South African sun and a crystalline blue sky. “He has information concerning the sniper. Interpol and Scotland Yard’s Special Branch are convinced that the man who wounded Vigus Badenhorst, and killed both his brother and their employee is the same man who has assassinated the four men on the kill list.”

  “Is it not a bit of a stretch?” Kruger asked, somewhat dubiously.

  “Timings,” she said non-committedly. “It’s all in the timings.”

  “Then you have someone in mind?” Kruger said wryly. “That helps.”

  She nodded. “But only because of the timings. Absence at the time of the assassinations, absence at the time of the Badenhorst shootings.” She slipped on a pair of black Gucci sunglasses and looked back at Vigus. “Now we need to fill in the gaps. See if it is more than mere coincidence.”

  “I will tell you everything,” Vigus Badenhorst said, somewhat meekly from behind them. “But only when we’re clear of this cesspit.”

  “Then where?” Kruger asked. “We could go to service headquarters in Cape Town,” he suggested.

  Caroline wanted to avoid being on the agent’s home turf. She needed to keep control of Vigus. Interpol was running this aspect of the case and she could not afford to get bogged down in bureaucratic disputes. Besides, from her experience this morning, she knew that the South African Secret Service was leaking information and confidentiality like a sieve.

  “My hotel would be the best bet,” said Caroline. “They have some spare rooms, or did when I checked in last night. And it will give you a chance to get the SASS report on the incident before he flies back with me. You’ll forgive me for not wanting to go into your headquarters. You’re getting information from him regardless.”

  Kruger merely nodded. He slipped on a pair of Ray Ban aviators, which he had been wearing stylishly tucked into the vee of his shirt, possibly unstylishly worn open four buttons down.

  “Fly back? Where?” Badenhorst asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” Kruger added. “Where?”

  “To London,” she said. They had reached the Land Cruiser, waited while Kruger unlocked it with his key fob. “And then on to Lyon in France to help Interpol and relay the information you have on this sniper to other law enforcement agencies. Numbers one and two on the kill list were American software and social media billionaires, so the FBI will want to follow up as soon as possible. Either at their New York office, or through Interpol with American staffers.”

  “I don’t want to go to…” Badenhorst started.

  “You’re mine now,” Caroline interrupted. “Or Interpol’s. You’ll do what we say and go where we tell you.”

  “For how long?” he asked, dejected, the enormity of his co-operation deal dawning on him.

  “Until it’s done,” she said. “And then you will be flown back here for your co-operation with the South African wildlife agencies and their fight against the ivory trade.”

  Kruger laughed. “Well, if you want to dance, ‘bro, you’ve got to pay the band!”

  “Nicely put,” said Caroline as she got into the front of the vehicle. She discreetly picked up the Sig pistol and slipped it back into her handbag.

  “I’ll move this,” Kruger said, picking up the assault rifle from the rear footwell and sliding it alongside Caroline’s leg. She nudged it against the centre console. “Not that you could make it ready with one arm,” he smirked, but seemed to realise it was in poor taste when Caroline pulled a face. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Sorry, bad joke.”

  Badenhorst shrugged. “It won’t be so bad when I can get fitted for a prosthesis,” he paused. “Not that I have any money for a good one now. But I’d rather have this,” he paused and held up the stump for Kruger to see in the mirror. “Than the shot that bastard gave my brother.”

  “I guess you know what it’s like to be hunted now, eh?” Kruger said. “Like those poor lions and elephants that you got paid to track down. It’s a pretty low thing to take money in return for allowing a wealthy American dentist to kill an innocent, majestic beast.”

  “Yeah? Well, fuck you! We employed almost forty people, culled wounded or aggressive animals to keep the rest of the animals safe and
healthy and we organised the butchery and distribution of bush meat to over three hundred people who live below the poverty line. Without operations like ours, there is little employment, no conservation of animals, nobody to scare off poachers who will kill indiscriminately, and no extra food for people who are practically starving. So, go sign a Facebook petition and post a sad face with fuck all clue what we really do. Fucking bleeding heart, city boy.”

  Kruger glared into the rear view mirror, but said nothing as he started the engine.

  Caroline turned in her seat. “Okay. Feel better? I don’t buy the whole conservation thing, but that’s my choice as well. You profited extremely well from your hunting activities. And you sold illegal ivory, helped perpetuate the trade, so it’s time to get off your high horse and do what you’ve been released to do.” She had taken out her iPhone and pressed the voice memo function. She propped it in the coin tray beside the armrest. She looked back at him and pointed at his stump. “So, start with the man who did this to you.”

  “Oh, come on woman,” Badenhorst said, looking subdued. “Let’s wait until we’re at your hotel. Where are you staying?”

  “No, Badenhorst!” Caroline snapped. “We’ll start now. We’ll do it my way, on my schedule and wherever the hell I chose. That will be in the car, the hotel and even on the flight to England. I’ll remind you that I got you out of Pollsmoor and I can send you back anytime. I bet your husband is missing you already.”

  “Jeez, lady!” Badenhorst looked taken aback. “You play rough!”

  “You haven’t got a clue,” Caroline said. “Now, make a bloody start.”

  Badenhorst shrugged. “Okay,” he said as he rubbed his stump subconsciously, turned and looked out of the window as Kruger wound the vehicle through the last of the twisting streets of Tokai and onto a quiet road into wine country. The vineyards were lush and green. New growth sprouting through.

  Vigus Badenhorst thought he’d never see such beauty again. He sighed, leaned back in the comfortable leather seat. “Well, the guy was about thirty to thirty-five.”

  “Why so specific?” Kruger asked.

  “Hair, creases and wrinkles,” Badenhorst shrugged. “He just looked older than a carefree twenty something. Younger than a world weary forty something.”

  “So, how old am I?” Kruger asked incredulously. “Just to test your abilities.”

  “I’m guessing about forty,” he said. “On the world-weary spectrum. A bit of grey, a few creases. Yeah, at least forty.”

  Kruger looked annoyed. Caroline smiled, she could tell he had been hoping for a younger guess. Kruger looked back in the mirror. “I’m thirty-eight,” he replied emphatically.

  “Pretty accurate then,” Caroline said. She smiled. “What’s two years?” She nodded for Badenhorst to continue.

  “Short-cropped dark brown hair. Not quite black, but dark. It kind of lightened in bright sunlight.”

  “Greying?” she prompted.

  “A little at the sides. Just a few flecks.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Dark.”

  “Colour?”

  “I don’t make a habit of looking into another man’s eyes.”

  “Funny,” Kruger said. “That was the reason you were so desperate to get out of Pollsmoor.”

  Vigus Badenhorst flung himself down into the seat like a stroppy teen. “Fuck you!”

  “No,” Kruger said. “That’s a prison thing, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Okay!” Caroline snapped. She looked at Badenhorst sternly. “For Christ’s sake, you couldn’t have said he looked thirty-two, could you?” She turned to Kruger. “If it makes you feel better, I thought you were thirty-four. Is that better? Can we get down to why we’re all here now? At least it proves the man can guess a person’s age.”

  Kruger shrugged. He glanced into the mirror, studied the car behind, then nodded. “Okay,” he conceded.

  “What else?” Caroline asked.

  “He had a scar on his chin,” Badenhorst said. “A thin one, about two centimetres long. And another at the corner of his eye.”

  “Which eye?”

  Badenhorst thought for a moment. No doubt he was picturing a conversation, an incident. Maybe they were having a drink at the bar in the hunting lodge, or telling tales around the firepit. “His right,” he said, measuredly. “Yes, his right eye.”

  “Height and weight?”

  “Just under six foot, perhaps seventy-five kilos.”

  “What’s that, eleven or twelve stone?”

  “About twelve, I think,” Kruger said. “He eyed Badenhorst in the mirror. “Around my size?”

  “A bit thinner,” he replied. “He had a flatter stomach than you. He was more muscled too. Like he worked out.”

  Kruger looked about to rise, but seemed to think better of it. He smoothed a hand over his own trim stomach. He glanced at Caroline, caught her smiling. He turned back to the road, checked his mirrors.

  “It’s the shot you have to look at,” Badenhorst said. “You need to check other militaries. Try special forces personnel, rather than regular infantry.”

  “You think?” Kruger asked. “What makes you say that?”

  Vigus sighed. “I take,” he paused. “I used to take hunters on shoots. Professional marksmen. Some of them were even sponsored by firearms manufacturers, shooting supply companies, ammunition producers. Especially some of the seppos.”

  “The what?” Caroline interrupted.

  “Seppos,” Badenhorst said. “Septic tanks – yanks. Some of those Americans are on another level. Serious marksmen who can shoot the centre out of a bullseye, consistently. This man trumped them all. He shot a springbok at seven hundred metres with a varmint rifle.” He looked at Caroline, whose expression seemed to question him. “That’s a deer like creature with a rifle no more powerful than a military personal weapon system, like five-point-five-six. Good for three hundred metres on a man. Not meant for a tough hide and over twice the distance. Our head tracker said that the man was testing himself. I believe he was right. He hit me and killed my brother at around six thousand metres. That’s almost four miles. He is a sniper, I’m certain of it. One of the world’s best. And you only get proficient at that sort of distance in the military. The inquest said it was a point fifty calibre. That’s why it blew my arm clean off.” He held up his thumb between the seats. “That’s a bullet about this big. Just the head.” He spread his thumb and forefinger as wide as they would go. “With a cartridge casing that size. Full of powder.”

  “With a bullet that big, and a range that long, perhaps it’s not such a difficult shot?” Kruger ventured.

  “Rubbish!” Vigus chortled. “You’re not a military man, I can see that. No, to make a shot that far, the marksman would have to consider not just ground and air temperature and wind speed, but the actual curvature of the earth. Not only that, but the angle of seasonal tilt in the hemisphere and the direction and speed of the earth’s rotation.”

  Kruger frowned. “Really?”

  “That’s what I understand of it,” Vigus said resolutely. “I’m only familiar with close-up shots. We go for our client standing a chance of hitting what they’ve paid twenty thousand dollars to shoot. That, and a guaranteed kill. One hundred metres is about the most common distance.”

  Caroline hated the idea of wealthy businessmen or brokers killing elephants and lions, but she wasn’t about to launch into a debate. She’d already let her feelings be known. “What else?” she prompted him. “Where was he from? Accents, colloquialisms, the way he talked?”

  “Easy,” Badenhorst said. “Now here’s the thing…”

  “Watch out!” Kruger screamed. He struggled to control the vehicle, the impact from behind shaking them in their seats and shunting the vehicle forwards.

  Caroline turned around in her seat, just caught sight of the front grille of a large, black SUV, but was then thrown forwards as it struck them hard. It looked like an American truck, oversized and towering over even the
considerable size of the Toyota’s rear window. The truck rammed them again, but this time there was a surge of speed as the pursuing vehicle accelerated. It was far more powerful than the Land Cruiser and the engine and exhaust note were clearly audible. Kruger dropped a gear and rammed the accelerator to the floor, but they were under the power of the truck. Kruger changed tack and slammed on the brakes. The rear of the Land Cruiser rose off the road and then slammed down, the tyres struggling for traction on the tarmac.

  “If he hits us on an angle, towards the edge of our bumpers, we’ll spin!” Kruger yelled. “Better brace yourselves!”

  Caroline knew this. She had trained in evasive and defensive driving, knew how to force a car off the road. The guy in the American SUV did not, but he might well get lucky. Even so, he had the size and speed advantage. She was about to turn around again, but saw the pickup pulling across the road in front of them. It was another oversized American make and it filled the road. A double cab and a double bed. More than twice the length of the Land Cruiser.

  “Look out!” she hollered.

  Kruger hit the brakes and the pursuing truck rammed into them again. He held the steering straight for as long as he could, but the Toyota started to slew sideways, and like a pendulum, once it started it was inevitable. The vehicle swung wide, the tyres smoking as they fought for grip travelling sideways against their tread. They must have been travelling more than forty miles per hour, and with the big SUV being top heavy and still propelled by the truck, the tyres gripped the road too much and centrifugal force came into the equation. The body rolled away from the spin and inertia did the rest. Caroline screamed as the Toyota toppled onto its side and rolled a complete rotation, coming to rest on the driver’s side. Kruger grunted as his door hit the road and the window smashed. Caroline was propelled out of her seat, but her belt stopped her falling onto Kruger. The Toyota became airborne for a moment again, as the truck hit them on the underside, then smashed back down.