77 north, p.8
77 North, page 8
He was intercepted by a man dressed almost as immaculately as himself, like a Middle-Eastern version of the Russian, were it not for an extra inch of height. Another difference was that he held a cup of tea instead of a glass. He ran a hand through his quiffed hair.
‘Golubev, I must speak to you about these Verbas.’
He was referring, of course, to the latest Russian surface-to-air missiles, their version of a Stinger.
‘Mr Abid, tomorrow is for business. Tonight we—’
‘Do I know you?’ The man named Abid cocked his head and squinted at me. It seemed everyone here knew everyone.
‘This is Mr Chambers, representing our friend General Kayembe.’ He turned to me. ‘Mr Abid is a friend of mine.’
‘Have you ever been to Afghanistan?’ he asked me.
‘Haven’t we all, at some point?’
‘You are English?’ he narrowed his eyes. ‘You seem familiar.’
It clicked. He hadn’t been so immaculately dressed last time I’d seen the guy, in his fatigues and baggy shirt, with a wiry beard beneath his turban. No point telling him the last time I’d seen his face it’d been down the magnified lens of a rifle while staking out an enemy position.
‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ I smiled.
Across the room an argument erupted between a burly security guard and a couple of women serving canapes.
Golubev’s smile dipped briefly. ‘Mr Abid, control your man.’
Abid left us, shaking his head.
Golubev grinned. ‘You are not squeamish, Mr Chambers?’
‘It doesn’t bother you that you’re taking opium profits to prop up a horrific regime? Not to mention those rockets could be used to shoot down airliners.’
‘Does it bother you that your taxes pay for the torture and execution of innocent people around the world to prop up your country’s regime?’
‘You’re assuming I pay taxes.’
‘You are here to buy biological weapons for a Central African dictator, let’s not fall out.’
He tapped my scientist on the shoulder, she turned to look at him and smiled warmly. Then she saw me and the smile melted away. Despite me trying desperately to hold it together, I think mine must have done the same, as Golubev did a double-take and cocked his head, watching us both intently.
I’d been right, there was a reason my CIA contact had seemed familiar. Dr Susan Carr was, like me, travelling under a pseudonym. But she was someone I’d never thought I’d see again and, like Clark Griswold, if I’d woken up with my head sewn to the carpet I wouldn’t have been more surprised.
Mason’s tame nerd, as he’d called her, was a legitimate top-flight biological weapons expert with plenty of first-hand experience, forged at Porton Down in England. I knew this. I also knew from a job a couple of years ago that she was a traitor, a murderer, and she’d tried to kill me. The last time I’d seen her she’d been pulling the trigger of a gun, pointed at me, on a Royal Navy destroyer off an anthrax-infested island in north-western Scotland.
‘Good evening, Dr Carr,’ I hissed. It took every ounce of restraint not to call her by her real name of Dr Alice String.
Chapter Twelve
The Peoples’ Democratic Republic of Nambutu / French Equatorial Africa
1999
The rainforest at night is a hot, sticky mess for the senses. Whoops and hisses, crackles and drips. Stagnant water, rotten flesh, damp earth and sweet pollen. I coughed and inhaled sharply as that afternoon came swimming back into focus all at once. I wasn’t sure if the bastard had stuck me with something or belted me, but either way I didn’t like it.
My head was killing, my joints ached, my muscles were stiff and frozen. I tried to lift a hand but it wouldn’t move. I pulled my arms and realised they were bound behind my back. A wiggle of my feet told me my ankles were tied, too. My back was resting against something hard. When I stretched my fingers, I felt the rough bark of a young tree.
I could feel blood matting my hair, too, and as I squinted, dried blood on my cheeks cracked and pulled my skin. The high-pitched whine of a mosquito buzzed next to my ear. I shook my head to swish my hair, which hurt like hell.
Crackles of a fire came from behind, the orange glow flicking shadows across the dark tree trunks as if spirits were dancing through the undergrowth. Through the coppery tang of blood, I smelled the smoke. I leaned back and arched my neck. Sparks drifted upwards. I followed them through clouds of insects to see stars in a dusky blue sky way above, a circle of light surrounded by a dark canopy like the iris of an evil eye.
The bushes behind me rustled. I turned, but got a slap around the face for my efforts.
‘He’ll pay good money for you, son. Yep yep yep.’
I waited until the sting had subsided then tried to keep my voice steady. ‘What’s going on, Walshe?’
‘Horror has a face,’ he cackled. ‘Befriend horror. If you don’t, horror becomes your enemy.’
He was babbling, crouching in front of me, then started singing quietly in a language I didn’t understand. He was so close I could smell alcohol, coffee, and stale sweat. He pulled out a knife and grinned broadly, turning it over so the campfire light flashed on his teeth. Strings of meat were stuck between them. He took off his cap and ran the knife across his hair like a comb, then wiped the blade on his shorts.
He disappeared behind me, making a crashing noise in the brush as he stamped away, leaving me alone with the crackling fire and the ominous animal sounds coming from the treeline. I tried to think about the animals that lived in the equatorial rainforests. Jaguars? Were they South American? Leopards? Zoology was not my strong subject, although I suspected the insects were probably more dangerous. I just hoped the fire would keep anything away.
I pulled at the ropes on my wrists, straining as I watched the undergrowth. Something moved in the trees in front of me. I froze, eyes on stalks. It didn’t move again. I pulled at the ropes with renewed vigour, scanning the trees. Then I saw it.
A dark shape, almost imperceptible in the orange glow, but definitely a pair of eyes flashing in the firelight. The figure was staring at me intently. I shuffled back against the tree and held my breath.
It was a man, head and shoulders slowly rising above the bushes. As he continued to stand up I saw he carried a rifle that looked like an AK-47 in the dim glow. He looked around then quietly stepped into the clearing, rifle up at his shoulder.
It was another out-of-towner: shaved hair, big moustache, tight dark T-shirt and combat trousers over heavy-looking boots. He didn’t look at me as he stalked closer, scanning the clearing until he reached me. He crouched, eyes still on the bushes.
He kept the rifle up, finger hovering near the trigger, and brought up his left hand, putting a finger to his lips. I stared at the thick hair across the back of his hand. He reached down to his belt and came up with a knife, flicking it and slicing the ropes between my ankles then reaching behind and cutting the ropes on my wrists, nicking my skin.
I grimaced as he sheathed the knife and held the rifle solidly, before he walked backwards into the bushes.
Finally he gave me an exasperated look, gesturing for me to follow him. I did, walking as quickly and quietly as I could. There was a noise from the other side of the clearing. In the light of the fire, I saw my rucksack. The new guy was waving his arm but I ran to the fire, grabbed my rucksack, then pelted towards the trees.
The man turned and walked quickly, somehow moving at speed through the dense undergrowth without disturbing it, as I seemed to crash in his wake. After a couple of minutes, we stopped.
He turned and crouched, pulling a water bottle from his hip and offering me some.
‘You bloody wetwipe,’ he said in broadest Cockney. ‘You’re just like your brother.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Walshe, but people call me Triple-F.’
‘You’re Walshe?’
‘That’s what I said, prick. People call me Triple-F, or Eff for short.’
‘Why?’
He grinned. ‘Cos I was put on this Earth to feed, fight and fuck, and I don’t do nuthin’ else.’
‘I’ll just call you Walshe.’
The grin slipped. ‘Mummy never tell you not to get into strangers’ cars?’
‘Who is that guy?’
‘Bad news. Keep bloody moving.’
He pushed through tight ferns and crept forward. I followed, but we’d gone no more than a few paces when a roar rolled through the trees behind us. Walshe picked up the pace, I followed suit.
‘I’ll get you, boy!’ came a shout from somewhere behind.
Walshe crouched at the edge of the trees, I came up next to him. We’d come to a road. He motioned further down, where a big old brown Chevy Suburban was pulled into the bushes.
‘You were the one following us?’
‘Go,’ he whispered.
‘Boy!’ came another shout, closer this time.
‘Go!’ hissed Walshe, more insistently.
We ran down the dirt road, he flung open the door and turned the key as I jumped up into the passenger seat.
‘You know how to use this?’ he asked, thrusting the rifle into my hands.
‘Yes, I use them all the time at home,’ I said.
He must have missed the sarcasm as he said simply, ‘Well, shoot, then.’
He shoved the Chevy into drive and took off down the road. I wound the window down and pointed the gun out, just as a figure darted into the road ahead of us. I pulled the trigger but nothing happened. I tried again.
‘Safety! Give it here, you fucking pansy.’
Too late, we were past the guy. Walshe slammed on the brakes, I smacked my head on the brown plastic dashboard as he put the truck in reverse. He snatched the rifle off me, and with one hand on the wheel he reversed up the track at high speed, holding the rifle steady on the top of the door.
The figure darted back into the trees. Walshe skidded to a halt across the road and pulled the trigger, raking the bushes with a deafening burst of automatic fire.
‘Fucker,’ he shouted. ‘Come back!’
‘I’ll get you, boy,’ drifted the reply.
‘Creepy bastard,’ said Walshe. ‘No chance of getting him in the jungle.’ He threw the rifle on the back seat, slammed into drive, and pulled away again. ‘You see him again, you run to mommy, yeah?’
‘Run. Yeah.’
The trees flashed in the yellow beams of the headlights. Soon they thinned, the dirt gave way to concrete road. A brick shanty up ahead was smoking; as we passed I saw it was on fire. The flames licked out of the corrugated tin roof as a bunch of people stood around staring at it. We carried on, slowing for a street dog with a death wish, another small fire up ahead, a burning oil drum surrounded by a small crowd of people. Walshe slowed, then at the last moment sped up.
‘Ten points for a native!’ he laughed, swerving towards the crowds as they darted to the verge.
I grabbed the door. ‘Bloody hell, what are you doing?’
He beeped the horn, still laughing. ‘Silly bastards shouldn’t be in the road.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ I slammed my hands against the window, turning and arching my neck to look back. ‘That wasn’t a bin fire.’
‘Woo hooo.’ Walshe whistled. ‘Smells good, right?’
‘It was a man.’
Walshe grinned and put on an accent. ‘Smells like KFC.’
I turned and stared through the back window as Walshe accelerated. ‘Why… why would someone do that?’
‘Traitors to the revolution. Père Lebrun, it’s called, they stand you up straight and pull a tyre filled with petrol over you, pinning your arms. One match, whumpf.’
‘That’s fucking brutal.’
‘It’s a brutal fucking country.’ Walshe slowed for a corner. ‘Don’t fuck with the PVN if you don’t have the skills to back it up.’
‘The who?’ I turned to face the front as we came around a curve in a rocky pass, starting down a long snaking hill.
‘The militia, something something Nambutu, Christ only knows.’
I caught myself nodding, as if this were an entirely normal concept. I brushed my hair behind my ears and gazed out of the window. Everyone gets what they want eventually. I’d wanted adventure, and for my sins, I’d got it.
Chapter Thirteen
Severnaya Zemlya, Siberia
Present day
Dr Alice String of Porton Down – for that’s how I knew her despite her current alias of Susan Carr – quickly turned back to the redneck, face aglow. I could see my presence was as much a surprise to her – and an equally unwelcome one. Mason had known full well what he’d been doing, and had screwed both of us. I swore if I got out of this he was bumped to the top of my list.
Alice downed her champagne and handed her glass to the bemused redneck, who’d gone quieter now in the big man’s presence.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to borrow Dr Carr,’ I said.
‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ she hissed out the side of her mouth.
‘Dr Carr, we need to discuss—’
Redneck found his voice. ‘Lady said she ain’t goin’ with you, buddy.’
‘Wind your neck in, sunshine.’ I grabbed her arm but she shrugged me off.
The skin under the redneck’s combover went as red as Alice’s face but he didn’t know what to do about it.
Golubev looked amused. ‘Mr Chambers, have you met Mr Peterson of the Fifty Rifles group?’ The way he said it made it clear what he thought of them.
‘All white?’ I said.
‘We got a problem, buddy?’
‘All right,’ I smiled. ‘I said, are you all right? Enjoying the party?’
Alice gave me shit-eye then looked at Golubev. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said. ‘I said I’d call in on Professor Balakin.’
‘Ah yes,’ Golubev glanced round for a waiter to take his empty glass. ‘Has the professor emerged from his room?’
‘Not yet, but I thought I’d try.’ Alice was doing a fantastic job of avoiding looking at me.
Golubev turned to me. ‘Of course, you will meet Professor Balakin. A great man, he is facilitating the sale of some of our products, but unfortunately he seems to have been taken ill.’
‘Ill?’ More like scared shitless because they’d sent the wrong man to extract him, who’d wound up dead for his troubles.
Golubev said something but I wasn’t listening. I noticed redneck Mr Peterson was still staring at me, now more puzzled than angry.
‘Dr Carr, we have matters to discuss first,’ I said, ignoring the redneck’s gaze. ‘Then perhaps we can go and see Professor Balakin together?’
She still didn’t look at me, and Golubev had picked up on it, watching us with a mixture of amusement and interest.
Alice gave me more side-eye, then said, ‘I’m fine here.’ She made a grabbing motion to the redneck, who passed her another glass of champagne from the side table. She downed it in one and finally looked at me. ‘I don’t need a chaperone, thank you.’
‘I’m sorry, Dr Carr, but your safety is my responsibility.’ I took her arm to steer her towards the door. ‘And we have a lot of detail to go over.’
She snatched her arm away. ‘Mr Chambers,’ the venom dripped from the syllables, ‘General Kayembe entrusted me to advise on this deal, and this is not my first rodeo.’
‘General Kayembe entrusted me with your life, just like he entrusted my predecessor, who…’ I lowered my voice, ‘…it seems was probably murdered yesterday, surprise, surprise. For all we know, you could be next.’
Golubev was still observing our exchange amusedly when one of his men walked over, leaning in close to whisper something into his ear. They moved away towards the wide door, which I presumed led to the lobby.
Watching Golubev out of the corner of my eye, I tried to take Alice’s arm again. ‘We’re here to do a job,’ I reminded her, hoping she got the inflection as I lowered my voice. ‘So we’re going to get on nicely, and we’re going to do that job, then we’re going to go home.’
Redneck moved to intercept but Alice handed him her empty glass. ‘Mr Peterson, I’ll no doubt see you tomorrow.’
More security guards were materialising at the doorway like wasps at a picnic bench. A towering, suited woman glared at me as she spoke to Golubev; from the way she carried herself, she obviously held some authority.
I started pulling Alice towards the door, keen to get out of here before the swarm increased. This time she relented.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ she hissed.
‘Honestly, I have no idea,’ I whispered back.
‘But… you’re dead.’
‘Then you’re stuck in Hell with me.’
Alice’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘This is my job, and I’m fucked if I’m letting you—’
‘Look, this guy Balakin managed to get a message out on the radio.’
‘So you’re Burton’s replacement?’ She stopped, hands on hips. ‘They’re blaming me for his death, aren’t they? What are you, divine punishment?’
‘Keep your voice down.’ I looked round, satisfied no one could overhear us. ‘Now’s not the time.’
‘But Mason never mentioned—’
‘Mason screwed us both,’ I snapped back. ‘Balakin asked for me. I don’t know why, and believe me if I’d known you were here I’d still be in California right now. Don’t forget it was you tried to kill me!’
‘And it was you who ruined my life!’
I led her forward. ‘We’re in a ton of shite here and we’re neck deep together, understand?’
She nodded. I looked straight ahead as we neared the doors. The tall woman motioned towards me, Golubev said something to her and she pulled out a Makarov pistol in response. As we reached the doors, Golubev put a hand up.
‘Dr Carr, I’m afraid I’m going to have to borrow Mr Chambers for a short while.’
The woman next to Golubev waved her pistol.
Alice looked between us, unsure of what to do for the best.
