Kingmaker (Alex King Book 16), page 12
“It’s a great idea,” King replied. “But I grew up on a council estate in South London where it doesn’t sound much different to what you just described. Even ideology doesn’t work in some places where these things are a reality.”
The man shrugged. “I understand this,” he said heavily. “But we had a very real chance of freedom and opportunity, without corruption and avarice. How many African nations can say that?”
King nodded. They had reached the corner of the yard. Beyond the fence the brush offered if not sanctuary, then at least the chance of escape. King turned and looked at the hill on the other side of the compound. It was the ideal spot for a sniper, and he wondered why such an issue had been overlooked in locating the prison camp, but he supposed that the fact they had been compromised so quickly as they neared the camp meant that the Burindi regime were confident in the matter. Besides, who would want to kill a single prisoner? And attacking the prison camp by eliminating the guards with long-distance rifle shots would be inefficient, as after the first guard had been shot, they certainly wouldn’t stand around waiting for their turn. King discounted the thought. A sniper on the hill was the least of his worries right now.
Chapter Thirty
London
Sir Hugo Truscott had bumped his eleven o’clock and was now looking at moving his lunchtime meeting with the Department for Transport minister to discuss the possibility to link London and the North by a second high speed rail link, similar to the Eurostar. It was an important meeting and would attract many tenders, and a lot of controversy, but Sir Hugo had an inside track and held many interests in the construction industry. Between now and the tender date, he had enough time to hide his interests and drive a successful bid forward with the chance to make millions. If he could buy properties along the proposed route, then he would also benefit from high compulsory purchase orders. Why else would he have gone into politics and worked his way into the Cabinet?
He read the email again, his chest both fluttering and tightening at once. Everything he had been working towards in Burindi could come crashing down if he did not act both decisively and swiftly. He checked his watch deciding whether it was too early for a hard drink. Of course not. He opened his drawer and took out the bottle of twenty-year-old Haig. There were two crystal tumblers in the drawer, and he took one and filled it with two fingers of the single malt Scotch. He took a large gulp, held it for long enough to mellow the burn, then swallowed. It was a great deal of money, but he could trust the source and from the brief report, if he did not move on this now then he could kiss goodbye to his investments and interests in Burindi’s latest resource and the access that Lucky Man Jonathon Mugabe would give him once he regained his leadership.
Sir Hugo finished his whisky and contemplated another generous measure but decided on a single. He poured, and swilled the single malt down lavishly, then replaced the bottle and used glass back in the drawer. His secretary would wash out the glass for him before she left work for the night. She was loyal and discreet and had been with him since he won his first local election twenty-years ago. When he was in opposition as a backbencher and when he found his place in the shadow cabinet. Now, as a member of the cabinet with a prominent ministerial position, she knew all his secrets, but he paid her well and had furnished her with investment advice early on for her to make good money on the side, and her signature was on enough illicit paperwork for her to realise what fate would be bestowed upon her if she ever decided to have a crisis of loyalty or indeed, conscience.
He typed out a reply to the email and sent it on its way. He had used his own personal email account which was routed through Holland and unmonitored by the Personnel Select Committee and Standards Commission. He then logged into one of his offshore bank accounts and transferred the money. As expected, he received a text message with a six-digit code and entered it onto the screen. In under a minute, three-million pounds had left his account and with it, the very real possibility that his Burindi business interests were back on track.
Chapter Thirty-One
The mortar was a 60mm and originally issued to the US army in Operation Desert Storm and left behind by the Americans in their standard practice of leaving equipment rather than shipping it back - defence contracts were worth billions of dollars every year, and cuts were taken by politicians and the higher military echelons to constantly precure new equipment. The practice rather cynically armed the next threat and the cycle of armament naturally continued, feeding the need for arms dealers and contactors and keeping the weapons in perpetuity. Pierre had come by several of the mortars in Sierra Leone after he had been paid to shut down an illegal diamond mine operation using slave labour. He would have liked to think that slave labour was a reason to kill, but in reality it had been sanctioned by one of the five largest diamond companies who wanted to mine in the area. Before the authorities – also paid off by the internationally recognised company - had arrived to secure the work of the mercenaries many weapons had gone missing. The continent was the perfect example of recycling.
Stewart crouched behind a large rock on the hilltop, surveying the camp below through his binoculars. He could see King in the yard talking to an older man who was waif thin and walked with a limp. The operation had become compromised, and his orders were clear. Stop King from talking. Well, that was an easy order to give, but a difficult order to take, because rescuing King from prison with no time to plan and with no resources on hand, then there was only one realistic way to stop King from talking. But Stewart couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his stomach. He had trained King, had taught him everything he knew about being an assassin and field agent for MI6. And now he was effectively being told to kill him.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He knew that the operation now relied upon King’s silence, but it did not make it any easier. He thought back to the day they had first met, when King was in Princetown, better known as Dartmoor Prison. Stewart had seen potential in him as he researched him during his trial. King had been arrogant, but that arrogance had been knocked out of him when he realised that he was going down for a twenty-stretch and all the bravado, all the face he fought to keep didn’t really seem to matter anymore. Life was life. And it gave prisoners more than enough opportunity to reflect, none more so than in those first few months. After King had been ‘removed’ from prison and the body of an unfortunate homeless man who had died from exposure on the bitter streets had been placed in a peat bog on the moor in a scenario that Stewart had taken straight out of ‘Operation Mincemeat’ of World War Two, Stewart had taken him under his wing. And now, here he was, about to end the man’s life.
He closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions get in the way of the mission. He never had before. That was what he was known for, why he was held in such high regard by all the intelligence officers he worked with during a mission.
“He’s right there,” said Pierre. “I’ll use the rifle. It will be quicker for him, and easier for us. One shot and we exfiltrate back through the bush and get the reconnaissance back on track.”
“Wait!” Stewart snapped at Pierre, who was already nestling the stock of the SMLE .303 rifle into his shoulder. The rifle was British army surplus from the fifties when the British military had switched to the FN SLR, but with a decent 4x40 scope secured to retro-welded scope rails it had served as an excellent sniper rifle throughout campaigns all over the African continent. The camp was four hundred metres below them, and King was presently five hundred and fifty metres distant. Stewart knew this by counting the fence posts and estimating the height of the men against the height of the posts. For a man of Pierre’s experience, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. “He’s making his way inside…”
“I can do it on the move. There’s no wind and I have the elevation.”
“No!” Stewart snapped. “I owe him a clean death.”
“You have your orders,” he replied pragmatically. “And I want to be on the winning side of this debacle. We can’t wait any longer.”
Mercenaries… thought Stewart. Still, he could hardly blame the man. The Burindi authorities were not known for their leniency when they captured enemies of the state, which King would already know. Stewart wondered what they had done to him, but the fact that he was still standing and not limping around with crutches and a clear two-foot of air where his leg once was, told him that they had not yet finished with him, and that they wanted a bargaining chip for the future.
“Stewart, it’s time,” Pierre reminded him, a hint of urgency in his voice.
Stewart nodded, turning back to the camp below. He took one last look at King, then suddenly lashed out and knocked the rifle aside.
“Shit! I almost had an ND!” Pierre snapped. “A fucking gunshot would give us away, and without the kill!” He paused, sighing deeply. “Look, Stewart, I know this guy means something to you, and I know you don’t like the decision made in London, but…”
“Shut up, will you?” Stewart cut him off, focusing the binoculars. “There’s a vehicle driving in down there, and I recognise it.”
Pierre used the rifle scope to get a better look at the vehicle approaching the camp. The two men watched as it pulled in and parked outside the fence and two guards walked over, their FN rifles aimed at the occupants. Slowly, the driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out, his arms raised as he spoke to the two men.
“Fuck me…” Stewart said slowly.
“You know him?”
“I do. He’s a Russian I use from time to time. His name is Dimitri.”
“A fellow merc?”
“Yes. He got screwed over in Afghanistan and again in Chechnya and had a crisis of political conscience. He doesn’t care for Mother Russia any longer and has given me more than a few titbits of information over the years.”
“I think I know him,” he replied. “What the hell is he doing here, then?”
“Guarding her,” Stewart grimaced as the passenger door opened. He knew that it would be Lucinda Davenport before he saw her, but her lithe figure and glossy dark hair cascading around her shoulders confirmed it the moment she stepped out of the car and stood on the dry earth. “You can put a bullet in that one, if you like…” Pierre shouldered the weapon and took aim and Stewart said, “For fuck’s sake, man. I was only joking!”
Pierre shrugged and watched Lucinda through the crosshairs of the scope. “Who is she?”
“A bloody reporter. An entitled bitch whose husband is a politician and multi-millionaire with his fingers in many pies. She’s nothing but trouble and would sell her grandmother for a story.”
“What the hell is she doing here, then?”
“Stirring up a fucking hornet’s nest I suspect…”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lucinda Davenport wore a determined expression as the man approached. He wore a white shirt and jeans, and his eyes were hidden by a cheap pair of mirrored aviators. He walked with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, and as she watched him, she thought the walk was more of a strut. Lucinda’s expression hid the sense of trepidation inside her. She had heard stories of the ruthlessness subjected to the prisoners of the unofficial prisons dotted over Burindi and had heard that the guards had a penchant for violence that the Mustafa regime mirrored from Mugabe’s time in power, but she was determined to secure King’s release. The irony that her husband’s money could secure the release of her one-time lover was not lost on her, and even though Hugo likely suspected something more, he had not voiced it. He was committed to the financial gains in Burindi first and foremost. The awkward questions could come later, and between them, there had been more than enough of those in their marriage.
The man studied her for an uncomfortable minute. His eyes turned to the large aluminium briefcase in her hand, but behind the mirrored sunglasses, his thoughts were readable. He met her eyes once more and beckoned her to follow him inside. The two guards halted Dimitri’s progress and Lucinda regarded him for a moment, then nodded that it would be alright. Neither of them seemed to have any choice in the matter. She was led into the building past several armed guards along the way. Inside, the building smelt fetid, and the heat was almost intolerable. Inside the man’s office, the smell and the heat wasn’t much better, but a slow-turning ceiling fan managed to take the edge off it.
“You are here to pay for the release of your colleague?” he said, his tone somewhere between menacing and incredulous.
The journalist nodded. “Yes,” she replied, holding out the large aluminium briefcase as if to validate her presence. “I have the money.”
“You have connections. Not many people know that this place exists.”
“I won’t lie, my husband is in government,” she replied. The man could search her on the internet and find the connection within minutes so there was no point in lying, and no harm in the credibility it gave her. “He knows a lot of things,” she added.
The man regarded her, trying to make her out as much as he studied her figure, his focus on her firm breasts underneath the damp shirt. “I see… Tell me, who does your colleague work for?”
“He is a freelance photographer. I have worked with him many times.”
“Then who has hired him?”
“Another freelance journalist. I do not know him, but I know Alex and I have the resources to broker a deal. If you’ll allow it.”
The man shrugged impassively. “I could just take the money.” He paused reflectively, letting the fact sink in. “My guards could kill your bodyguard and after I have finished with you, the guards could share you around the barracks. Nobody outside would ever know.”
Lucinda nodded. “You are certainly no fool,” she replied. “But you would be if you thought that nobody knew I was here. My editor for one, a Burindi government contact for another,” she lied. “And I have political allies and family money. Your life would not be worth living. As we have established, my husband is extremely well-connected. He could wage war on you from behind his desk.”
The man snatched the case from her and slammed it down on the desk. “You have a wealthy husband, that is all!” He attempted to open the case, but the two, four-digit combination locks were not going to get him any closer to his money. He stared at her and said, “After you contacted the ministry, I searched online and learned all about you and your wealthy husband. The British government are impotent. They can do nothing. They cannot simply invade Burindi, so they must wait until our government is willing to talk to them about their precious mineral rights.” He paused. “But this is not enough money. You left a trail finding this place. And a trail finding me. This is Africa. People need paying off. The three million you promised me is now worth less than half to me.”
She had known that the ‘ransom’ would be steep, but she had not anticipated that it would be so high. Three million was a lot of money in the West, and an unimaginable fortune in a Central African nation like Burindi, but even here the amount had dwindled with payoffs to get to the source. “That’s not my problem,” she said defensively. “You need to renegotiate with your people. Now, bring him to me.”
“You are in no position to…”
“Bring him to me!” she raged. “We have a deal! There is a total of three million pounds in that case, in one-hundred-dollar bills, fifty-pound notes and five-hundred-euro notes. It was drawn in Basel, Switzerland this morning and flown here by private jet. That same jet will take you and your case full of cash anywhere you desire. You have my word. No need for pay-offs, no need to jeopardise your own security waiting for someone to rob you of your new-found wealth. I will make sure that the plane can land and be refuelled before taking off again, so the world is your oyster.”
The man contemplated this. He had been visibly irked by her outburst. In Burindi, it was uncommon for a woman to be anything other than subservient, and he really wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner. But the thought of someone taking his money was food for thought. He looked back at Lucinda his expression full of loathing. However, somewhat pragmatically if not willingly, he shouted something at the guard standing outside the door and his running footsteps echoed down the corridor. Lucinda had not caught the sentence, shouted in a mixture of pidgin English and heavily accented native dialect. She had once holidayed with Hugo in Jamaica and found Jamaican Patois almost impossible to understand. The language was a lyrical mixture of Creole, English and West African (and a good deal of slang), originally developed to stop slave traders and slave owners from understanding them. She had found that Jamaicans all spoke excellent English but resorted to Patois when she and her husband had walked nearby or stepped into a shop. The language that the locals spoke to each other in was just as indecipherable.
