Primal Exodus

by Jack Silkstone

  It was wall to wall with UN and NGO workers as well as the usual security types and a smattering of local and international businessmen. She found a space and caught the eye of the bartender. Ordering a gin and tonic she scanned the room for her target. It didn’t take her long to see that Bianca wasn’t there. For a moment she considered staking out the bar for the evening, but she didn’t have the time or the patience. She wanted to get this job done and then head directly to Spain to find Bishop and salvage their relationship, if that was possible.

  Waving the bartender over she slid a phone across the table with a picture of Bianca on the screen. “You seen this woman?” she asked in a faux American accent.

  He nodded. “Yeah, she came in last week.”

  “Have you seen her since?”

  “Not here. But she’s been over at Pepe’s Sports Bar on the other side of town.”

  Saneh shot him a judging look.

  “It’s my other job.”

  He scribbled the address on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She downed her drink and made for the door. As she crossed the room she spotted two men watching her from a corner table.

  They were both white, well built and wearing clothing that indicated they either had or still served in a government agency. She committed their faces to memory as she left the bar and asked the concierge to bring her SUV around.

  Twenty minutes later she’d located Pepe’s, a dingy drinking hole that felt way more local. She lodged herself in the corner of the bar with a viewpoint of the entrance and feigned an interest in the football match being played on the 80s-era television perched on a refrigerator. Unlike the hotel the place was relatively empty, obviously more of a late nightspot. She ordered a local beer and prepared herself for a long wait.

  ***

  KURDISTAN, IRAQ

  The Lascar Logistics Iluyshin-76 cargo jet thumped down on a short stretch of tarmac, its engines roaring as the pilot applied reverse thrust. The thirty-five-ton aircraft’s nose dropped as it braked, wheels squealing and smoke billowing.

  It came to a halt only a few yards from the yellow sand that stretched for hundreds of miles in each direction of the remote airstrip. As the jet backed up and turned to prepare for takeoff a second aircraft appeared in the sky.

  The approaching aircraft circled the strip at high speed, a sleek business jet with two massive propellers. As it came closer the props rotated skyward and the aircraft commenced to decelerate as it transformed into a rotary wing aircraft. Like a dragonfly it hovered in front of the Iluyshin then landed. When it touched down the blades flattened, and the side door opened and lowered into a set of stairs.

  A suited figure stepped out and strode across the tarmac. His jacket flapped in the wind as he climbed the stairs into the waiting transporter where the pilot met him.

  “Tariq, good to see you.”

  The CEO of Lascar Logistics shook his pilot’s hand. “You too, Mike. What have you got for me?”

  Mike directed him into the cargo hold and pointed to two large crates marked with red crosses strapped closest to the ramp.

  Tariq removed his jacket and tossed it on another crate that looked almost identical to the others.

  “The one on the end.” Mike passed Tariq a pry bar and used a hook knife to cut the straps holding the crate shut. Tariq pried the lid off with the bar and slid it onto the other crate. Sweeping the packing material aside he exposed green military munitions tubes.

  “Why the hell is Mossad shipping rocket launchers to Egypt?” asked Mike. “The last time I checked, a stable Egypt was high on Israel’s wishlist. What do they have to gain from rockets going off all over the place?”

  Tariq placed the pry bar on top of a crate. “I think it’s a safe assessment that the individual who’s authorizing this is not doing it in the interests of his government.”

  “That would explain why we’re making the drops. Are we going ahead with the mission?”

  “Yes, as briefed.”

  “Roger.”

  “And Mike.”

  “Yeah.”

  “This stays between you and me.”

  Tariq Ahmed left the Il-76 and a moment later his private AW609 tiltrotor rose off the tarmac, banked and raced away to the east. As it gained speed Tariq Ahmed stared out of a window at the desert racing past below, his hands clenched on the armrest of his leather chair. It was one thing to be manipulated by a nation-state; it was another for it to be a man driven only by his self-interest.

  CHAPTER 11

  ABU DHABI, UAE

  “Are we up?” the driver of the blue van asked the two men sitting in the rear of the vehicle.

  “Two minutes,” one of them replied as he inputted commands into a laptop.

  “Geeks, always dragging their asses.”

  The three-man team were security contractors hired to conduct a technical surveillance sweep of an upmarket coastal suburb located a dozen miles south of Abu Dhabi. Former members of intelligence agencies, they’d all made a move into the far more lucrative world of corporate espionage.

  “OK, we’re on,” said the technician.

  “A-firm,” replied the driver.

  The vehicle pulled out of a gas station and cruised along a stretch of highway, before turning on to a land bridge. They passed between rows of palm trees before entering a community of luxury villas built on an artificial island.

  “What we looking for?” asked the other passenger.

  “Anything out of the norm,” replied the tech. “More specifically, increased comms signatures.”

  “They give us any context or is this just another trawl?” asked the driver as they turned down a street lined with mansions.

  “We’re trawling. But, my guess is someone’s running a high-end hack shop out here. Or at least our client thinks they are.”

  The driver caught a glimpse of the sea between two houses. “Imagine what one of these places is worth. Not a bad spot to get your geek on.”

  “Except they’re probably in the garage mining bitcoin,” said the passenger.

  “How on earth do you mine a digital currency?” asked the driver.

  “It’s easy,” said the passenger. “You get kids to play computer games and they find it in the different levels.”

  The technician raised his eyes from his laptop. “Really? You actually think that’s how you mine bitcoin? Seriously, I’m working with idiots.” As he glanced back at his screen, he spotted a spike of activity. “Hey slow down.”

  “You find some bitcoin?”

  “No, there’s a lot of Wi-Fi traffic in the area. Way more than normal. Turn left up here.”

  The driver followed his directions and they cruised into an area still under development. The roads were empty and many of the luxury villas that fronted a man-made beach were half constructed. “Do you think people actually live here?”

  “Slow down.” The tech’s fingers raced across his keyboard. “Yeah, definitely something fishy going on.”

  “Wicked,” said the passenger. “How awesome would it be if they let us bang it in? We’d scare the crap out of those bitcoin hackers.”

  ***

  CAMP, SOMALIA

  Kurtz was lying on his stretcher staring at the mosquitoes bouncing against the ceiling of his tent when his phone chimed. It was a little after six in the morning but he’d been awake for over an hour, dwelling on their failed mission to find the last of the girls. As he read a message from Chen Chua his frustration evaporated.

  “We’ve got a location!” he yelled as he rolled off the stretcher and stormed out of the tent.

  There was a loud groan from the back of the Mi-17 helicopter where Toppie slept and a grunt from Kruger’s tent.

  “Where is it?” Booyah asked from where he was crouched over a small fire tending a pot of coffee.

  “Kampala, Uganda.”

  “That’s not far. We can get there real fast in the helicopter,” said the scout as he poured thick black coffee into enamel cups
.

  “Chua came through?” asked Kruger as he emerged shirtless from his tent. The South African was built like a gorilla with massive arms and a barrel chest covered in hair.

  “Ja, we have a complete target pack on Krenich and his residence.” He took the cup that Booyah offered him. “I’ll put it up in the chopper.” He climbed into the rear of the Mi-17 helicopter and was immediately hit by the smell of booze and cigarettes. “Toppie, wake up you stinky dummkopf.”

  The pilot was asleep on the floor of the aircraft wrapped in a poncho liner.

  “I’m awake you Kraut bastard.”

  Kurtz activated the LED screen they’d bolted to the back of the cockpit wall and transferred the target package from his iPRIMAL. He felt the aircraft lurch and turned to see Booyah and Kruger join him and Toppie inside. The scout passed a mug to the pilot and all three men turned their attention to Kurtz.

  “What have we got?” asked Kruger. The South African had donned a skin-tight Under Armor shirt.

  “Krenich has a house in Kampala.” Kurtz gestured to the screen where a satellite image of the target building appeared.

  It took the team a little over half an hour to work through the package that Chua had built them. Once they’d reached the last of the twelve slides they had a comprehensive picture of their new target.

  “OK, so what do you guys think?”

  “I say we bang it in and work the fucker over.” Kruger sipped from his mug. “Trust me, I’ve seen pricks like this before and he’ll talk once we apply a little heat.”

  “Fok yeah,” agreed Toppie.

  Booyah nodded.

  Kurtz frowned. “This isn’t another rag-tag rebel gang. Just this once I think it might be better to employ stealth and guile rather than brute force.”

  “That’s no fun,” said Kruger.

  Kurtz shot him a shark-like grin. “Trust me. This will be very fun.”

  ***

  REQUENA, SPAIN

  A stone cottage on a flinty hillside overlooking rows of green vines was Aden Bishop’s place of solitude. The residence on the outskirts of Requena had belonged to his parents, and he’d been coming here since he was a boy. In recent years the original single room structure had been renovated and he’d once dreamed of settling here with Saneh to start a family.

  He sat on a low stone wall gazing out over a valley of vineyards. A warm breeze caressed his face as he considered the tension that had been mounting between him and Saneh. It had started months earlier. She’d continually pushed him away, becoming more and more distant as the days wound on. For a man who loved his partner more than life itself, it was heartbreaking. Nothing he did seemed to fix the problem. He hoped that time apart would give her the space she needed to deal with whatever it was.

  A nudge against his leg told him that Daisy, his Border Collie, had returned from sniffing around the perimeter of the two-acre property.

  “No squirrels?” he asked as he ruffled her ears.

  The dog looked up at him with bright eyes and nuzzled his hand with her snout.

  He tapped the wall next to him and Daisy jumped up alongside. Then he threw an arm around the dog and pulled her in close. “You always know how to make me feel better, don’t you?”

  She let out a bark.

  “OK, I hear you. Let’s get inside and get something to eat.”

  As Bishop rose and the dog jumped down from the wall he had no idea that he was being watched by a sophisticated electro-optic sensor. The high-tech camera was hidden in a distant vineyard. Connected to a powerful battery and a short-range data transmitter the device was being monitored remotely by two men sitting in a hired sedan.

  One of the men sat in the passenger seat cradling a tablet that displayed images from the camera.

  “Is that him?” asked the driver.

  “Yeah, we’ve got PID,” said the second man.

  The driver took a phone from his pocket and typed a message into a secure chat application.

  Target located and identified.

  It was a matter of seconds before the device pinged, announcing a response from their mission director, Avi.

  Continue to monitor. Be prepared for rendition.

  ***

  NYAGATARE, RWANDA

  It was Saneh’s second night staking out Pepe’s sports bar in Nyagatare. She’d made a few subtle enquires as she evaded the approaches of no less than a dozen men. Eventually, someone had confirmed that Bianca did, in fact, drink at the bar, but hadn’t been around for the last few days.

  As she sat drinking a beer in the corner of the dingy watering hole her thoughts strayed from the mission, to Bishop. She wondered what he and Daisy were doing. Knowing him, he’d be in front of a crackling fire with a whisky in hand, Daisy curled at his feet. What she wouldn’t give to be there with them.

  She sipped her beer and was considering leaving when a woman entered the room and made for the bar. She instantly recognized Bianca Paquet. The blonde Canadian ordered a drink then turned to scan the room. Saneh dropped her head to avoid eye contact.

  “Mind if I take a seat?” The accent was uniquely French Canadian.

  Saneh looked up and smiled. “Sure, why not.” It was just her luck that Bianca was the type of person who was comfortable enough to approach a complete stranger in a bar.

  “So what brings you to Nyagatare?” asked the former Canadian Special Forces operator as she placed her drink, what looked like a whisky on the rocks, down on the table and sat.

  “I’m working a contract for the UN.”

  “Human rights?”

  “No, medical supplies,” replied Saneh.

  “That’s a pity.” Bianca raised her glass. “Well, here’s to meeting another English speaking woman in the armpit of the world. Bianca, nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Sarah.” She touched her beer to Bianca’s glass. “So, what are you doing out here?” She instantly regretted asking the question. She’d broken the first rule of assassinations. Never make it personal.

  “I’m doing some investigation work.”

  “You’re a journalist?”

  Bianca laughed. “No, far from it. I’m a concerned citizen trying to right a wrong.”

  The phrase sounded exactly like something that Bishop would say. It could also go a long way to explain why Lisker wanted this woman dead. “Wrong?”

  Bianca nodded and sipped her drink. “I found out there’s a medical research facility here that’s testing on children.”

  Her first thought was that Bianca was some kind of conspiracy nut job and possibly an alcoholic. However, the fact that Mossad’s Director of Special Operations wanted her terminated added a level of credence to what she was saying.

  “And you’ve got proof?”

  The Canadian glanced around the room. “I heard rumors and then I connected the dots. Look, I don’t want to say anything else here. The guys running security on the facility have ears everywhere. If you’re interested, we can meet tomorrow and I’ll give you the details. You might have an idea on how to help.”

  The investigation was something that Bishop would have leaped on, but Saneh already had a mission of her own and his survival depended on it. “Sounds good. I’ve got a few contacts that might be useful.”

  “Don’t bother with the UN. I’ve already tried the human rights office.”

  Saneh smirked. “Weren’t interested?”

  “Let’s just say that it didn’t fit in with their agenda.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me, can I get you another drink?”

  For the next hour Saneh kept the booze flowing and Bianca kept talking. It was a tactic that she’d employed previously. The alcohol would slow her target’s reaction time, making it easier to deliver a lethal strike with the stiletto blade hidden in her cargo pants. Or so she thought. The problem was how much she and her target had in common. Bianca, like her, had come from a broken family and had escaped into government service. And, despite being security savvy, had let slip a few comme
nts that made Saneh think she was most likely from a ‘special activities’ background. As much as she tried to dehumanize her target, she couldn’t.

  “Well, I’m going to get out of here, eh. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Bianca. “Been real nice talking to you.”

  “I think I’ll go too. Did you need a lift anywhere?”

  Bianca shook her head. “No thanks, I’m walking distance.”

  As Saneh followed her out of the bar into the dingy street she slid her knife from its sheath and palmed it. Guilt assailed her as she mentally rehearsed driving the thin black blade into the woman’s neck and leaving her crumpled corpse by the road. It was something she’d done half a dozen times previously at the behest of her masters. However, things were different now. Now she’d do it for Bishop and the rest of the PRIMAL team, her family. She let the blade slide through her fingers and gripped the handle. Bianca had to die so that she could protect the ones she loved.

  She spotted the threat a split second before her target did. Three Caucasian men appeared from the shadows cast by a flickering street lamp and made a beeline for her target. Saneh ducked in behind a parked car and watched.

  One of the men grabbed Bianca from behind, clamping his hand over her mouth. The Canadian ducked and spun, driving her elbow into her assailant’s flank. She moved with a level of expertise that implied hours of training in self-defense.

  Saneh caught a glimpse of a flash of steel as one of the men pulled a knife from his jacket. With one man winded it was still two to one, a fight that Bianca was never going to win. Her mission was about to be completed for her, and yet she felt nothing but regret and anger.

  One of the other men punched Bianca in the stomach and she doubled over. The man with the knife stepped in for the kill as Saneh leaped into action.

  “Hey asshole,” she yelled as she sprinted toward the assailant, her own blade ready.