Silent kill, p.14
Silent Kill, page 14
part #1 of Extreme Series
The authority in his voice was obvious. Stegman appeared impressed. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ A wave of relief instantly washed over Bald. ‘But this doesn’t mean you’re on the team,’ the South African cautioned. ‘That’s up to Pretorius. All I’m doing is ferrying you boys up there.’
‘What else do we have to prove?’ Bald asked, his voice tinged with frustration. ‘We’ve got the skills, we’re ready to go to work. That’s all there is to it.’
Stegman’s face clouded. ‘Not quite, my friend. Pretorius values loyalty and devotion above all else. You’ll have to prove that you’re a believer . . . like the rest of us.’
‘Believer in what?’ Bald asked, amused and intrigued.
‘Pretorius is a genius.’ Stegman’s expression was suddenly rapt. ‘He opens your eyes to a whole new way of thinking. He has four hundred men loyal to his cause, each one of them sworn to defend him and the ideals he represents: sacrifice, duty, rejection of the modern world, a return to the way we lived before we became slaves to the fucking machines.’
Seeing the sceptical look on Bald’s face, Stegman rolled up his sleeve and lifted his arm to him. The skin on his forearm was lacerated with scars.
‘My mark of devotion,’ he boasted. ‘Pretorius said I couldn’t see the light until I cut myself off from my past. So I carved out the tattoo I got while serving with the Recces at Speskop. Hurt like fuck for a month and I almost died from the infection. That’s how much I believe in Pretorius.’
Bald didn’t know what to say. He’d encountered a few ruperts who inspired utter loyalty in the men under their command, privately educated Sandhurst graduates who thought of themselves as Robin Hood leading their bands of Merry Men into the jaws of danger. Typically the squaddies they commanded were as thick as a shit sandwich and went along with it. But what Stegman was describing was something else entirely. Unease suddenly surged through him. Killing Pretorius, he realized, wasn’t simply going to be a matter of chummying up to the guy. He was going to have to buy into this devotional bullshit. And when he did manage to cut him down, hundreds of loyal soldiers were going to be baying for his blood.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Give us the chance and we’ll prove our loyalty.’
Stegman clapped his hands. ‘My ship is moored at the harbour. The Marlowe. She’ll take us up the coast. Our destination is the River Jubba inlet a couple of kilometres north of Kismayo. If the tides aren’t too rough we should reach the river tomorrow morning.’
‘Where are we going?’ Priest asked.
‘The camp that Pretorius established,’ Stegman said. ‘It’s on the banks of the Jubba. Fucking Americans with their Predator drones – means we have to stay well off the radar. That also means while you’re based at the camp you will have no contact with the outside world. No mobile phones, no radios, no email. Last thing we need is someone alerting the authorities to Pretorius’s whereabouts. If I catch either of you two shits compromising our location I’ll personally bury you alive. Got it?’
Priest and Bald nodded simultaneously.
Stegman fished a plastic bag out of his trouser pocket. The bag was filled with what Bald recognized at once as khat leaves. He pressed a wad of leaves into his mouth and it bulged in his cheek.
‘We leave immediately,’ Stegman said.
‘What’s the big rush?’ Bald asked.
The master and his slave traded wary glances.
‘Pirates,’ said Eli after a pause. ‘Hijacking the supertankers is too dangerous these days, because the American and the British navies patrol the waters. The pirates are getting desperate for money. They have turned to the trade route between Kismayo and Mombasa, looting any vessel they can get their hands on.’
‘Why would they attack us, though?’ Priest wondered out loud. ‘A couple of PMCs. We’re not exactly a lucrative target.’
Bald’s guts tightened into a knot and he shot a hard look at Priest. He was furious with him for delaying their exit when they had a body dumped nearby with their fingerprints all over it.
Stegman and Eli exchanged a knowing look. ‘These are darkie pirates, lad. They’re not exactly smart. They see a boat, pound signs flash in front of their eyes. There’s been stories of pirates boarding fishing boats, finding fuck-all of value, then executing the crew and burning the boat. We’re not taking any chances. The only safe time to make the journey is at night. Coasting it past Kismayo is the dodgy part. Once we reach the Jubba inlet we’ll be home and dry.’
‘What about Mr Dallas?’ Eli asked.
Stegman rolled his tongue around his mouth. ‘Screw him. If he can’t be bothered to make the meeting, that’s his tough shit. He’s missed his big chance. We’ll have to leave without him.’
Eli grimaced. ‘Pretorius will not be pleased, master.’
Stegman grunted. ‘We have no choice.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Let’s go. Smile, boys. Play your cards right, and you’ll both be rich beyond your wildest dreams.’
Nineteen
2208 hours.
They sailed out of Kilindini Harbour thirty-four minutes later. The moon was bright, a spotlight in an ocean of dark. Bald stood on the deck of the Marlowe, watching the island city of Mombasa melt into the night, until all that was left was a faint glow on the horizon, like an afterthought. Unease weighed like lead in his guts. Stegman made Bald and Priest chuck their BlackBerries overboard. Priest winked at Bald. The Scot understood. His partner had the SIMs hidden inside his G-Shock. But as they headed out to sea a single thought jarred inside his skull.
There’s no going back now, John-Boy.
The boat was a wooden dhow some twelve metres in length, with a tall prow jutting out above the bow and half a dozen fenders hanging over the sides of the hull. At the stern there was a wheelhouse covered by a canopy and, stashed under the wheel, a Pelican box containing a flare gun. A strong smell of diesel in the air mixed with the smell of saltwater spraying off the sides of the boat. The crew was Stegman, Eli and three other slaves, wearing threadbare T-shirts and shorts. Stegman referred to them as his children. When he and Priest had arrived at the harbour, Bald had seen them loading wooden crates from a pallet onto the deck. Twenty-four crates in total, filled with AK-47 assault rifles, RPG-7 grenade launchers, hand grenades and ammunition. Supplies for the militia.
They pushed on into the mouth of darkness. Bald touched a hand to his head. A migraine was beginning to grow as they cut through the night, the diesel engine chugging as they motored up the coast at a steady eighteen knots.
To the east, the black swell of the Indian Ocean; to the west, the coastline like the slash of a knife blade. Scattered along it, like pearls ripped from a necklace, the lights of luxury holiday resorts, interspersed with gated communities secure behind electrified fences. They passed the port city of Malindi, a garish sprawl of Portuguese villas and Swahili ruins. Farther north they scraped past exotic islands, white sand glowing purple in the moonlight, paradise gouged out of the misery of Africa. Three hundred kilometres up from Mombasa the lights studding the coastline abruptly vanished, and there was nothing. No beaches, no resorts, no signs of civilization. Just a strip of neglected coast.
They had entered Somali waters.
At first light they swept past Kismayo. In the distance the darkness lifted like a veil to reveal a beach littered with trash and the carcasses of several boats. A swarm of barefoot kids ran along the shore, waving at the Marlowe and shrieking. Priest waved back.
Bald felt his migraine worsen as Stegman steered them into the Jubba. The banks were lined with tracts of mangrove trees and thorn bushes silhouetted against the lightening sky. A strikingly green landscape that was a far cry from the dust bowl of Mogadishu.
By the time the sun scudded out of the horizon, Bald felt as if his head would explode. He gripped the gunwale and forced his tensed muscles to relax. Another few hours to the camp. There’d be booze there, surely. A skinful of the hard stuff would put the lid on the pain scraping inside his skull.
Just hold on until then.
And he did, for another thirty minutes, before the migraine overwhelmed him. It was sudden and explosive and he clamped his hands to his head, as if a grenade was about to kick off in there and he was trying to prevent his skull shattering into a million tiny fragments.
Shit! Not this. Not now.
Priest knelt beside him.
‘You OK, sir?’
‘Fuck it,’ Bald spat out a bad taste. ‘I’m fine.’
Then he heard a distinctive click.
Stegman was standing there, head cocked curiously at Priest. He looked like he had been getting bang on the khat. His eyeballs were bulging in their sockets, his facial muscles twitching frenetically. The wad of khat pressed against his cheek had swollen to the size of a tennis ball. In his right hand he was gripping an M1911 semi-automatic pistol. Pointing the muzzle at a spot between Priest’s eyes.
‘What did you just fucking call him?’ he whispered.
A silence fluttered across the dhow as it moved slowly upriver. Stegman spat his khat wad into the water, flashed a brutal smile at Priest. Bald watched him, fearing for their mission, forgetting about his migraine.
‘Nothing,’ Priest replied nervously.
‘Bollocks! You called this cunt “sir”. What the fuck was all that about?’
Priest had no answer. The look on his mug forced a laugh out of Stegman. His index finger teasing the M1911’s trigger mechanism. Bald eyed the man rather than the gun. Some sort of paranoid delusion seemed to be gripping the South African. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a year.
‘Ten years in the business, I never heard one PMC call another one “sir”.’ Stegman machine-gunned the words, Bald struggling to follow what he was saying. ‘Something ain’t right with you, boy. Who are you working for?’
Stegman was losing it, Bald realized. Worse, he was losing it with the business end of a pistol six inches from Priest’s face. Bald spied Eli and the other three slaves looking on, one inside the wheelhouse, two leaning against it. He stretched a hand out to Stegman.
‘Easy, pal. This is a big misunderstanding. Put the tool down and we’ll clear it up.’
Stegman rounded menacingly on Bald. His eyes gleamed with intent. Bald stood very still, trying not to think about the damage a .45 ACP round would do to him at point-blank range.
‘Let’s do that,’ Stegman said. ‘You tell me who you two are working for, or you’ll be scraping your friend’s brains off the deck.’
‘That cunt?’ Bald said, gesturing to Priest. Calling Stegman’s bluff. ‘He’s not my friend. Kill him if you want.’
Priest looked mortified. In the same instant Stegman swung back to him and applied a degree of pressure on the trigger. Priest visibly shrank, went from enormous to just really fucking big as his entire body tensed with fear.
‘I’m not even going to count to three,’ Stegman rasped. ‘I’ll shoot your pal here. You’re next. The pair of you will be fish food.’ The guy was foaming at the mouth, seized by a kind of manic rage.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Bald said evenly. ‘I swear it.’
‘Bollocks. First Vinnie goes missing. Now your friend is calling you sir for some fucking reason I can’t figure. Your story’s got more holes in it than a golf course full of hookers.’
Stegman scowled at Priest. For a cold beat Bald thought the guy was actually going to put a bullet in him, send the fucker south. The Scot was OK with that. The way he saw it, that was one less liability on his hands. Coolly, he studied Stegman, the way his fingers quivered slightly around the pistol grip, the feverish look in his eyes. Bald instinctively tensed his muscles, watching for an opportunity to pounce on Stegman if he was distracted for even a split second. He would grab the tool, use it smash the guy’s face in.
Then Eli stepped forward and said, ‘You misheard the man, master.’
Everyone turned at once to Eli. Stegman, Priest, Bald. All three looking at him in puzzlement for a few seconds. It was the South African who broke the silence. ‘I did?’
Eli shook his head softly. He hobbled over to Stegman. ‘Of course, master. He didn’t call this man “sir”. If he had done, I would have heard it myself. But I heard nothing.’
Stegman hesitated. The tension in his face visibly slackened. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, master.’ Eli’s voice had slid from its usual mean grunt into a soothing lilt.
Suddenly reassured, Stegman let his right arm fall to his side. The rage drained from him. He ran a hand over Eli’s smooth scalp, considering him with affection. ‘My child,’ he said.
Eli bowed his head. ‘I live to serve you, master.’
Priest stepped away from Stegman.
Bald tried to shake the fuzziness out of his head. Could still taste puke on his tongue. His teeth felt like they were covered in fur, his brain like someone had scraped it out with an ice-cream scoop. He watched Stegman stride back towards the wheelhouse. Then, as he turned to Priest, he felt a cold, clammy hand grip his wrist.
Eli’s hand. The slave glanced across his shoulder to check his master was out of earshot. Then he said, ‘I know what you did.’
‘No idea what you’re talking about, mate.’ Bald trying to shake Eli off, failing. The guy had a surprisingly firm grip.
‘Mr Dallas,’ Eli said. ‘You killed him.’
Bald snorted. ‘You don’t know shit.’
The smile on Eli’s face was thin as spider silk. ‘I was watching you from the shadows at the Zanzi Bar, my friend. I saw Mr Dallas enter the toilets. I saw you go in after him. But Mr Dallas never came out. He was a good friend of master. If master learns the truth, you are in big trouble.’
‘Not if I break your neck first.’
Eli suppressed a chuckle. He pressed his hands together under his chin as if making a prayer. Bald could swear the guy stood taller now, his hunched shoulders broadening with confidence. ‘I have a better idea – a proposal.’
‘You must be fucking joking.’
‘Not at all. Why else would I stop master from killing you?’
Bald looked Eli hard in the eye. The slave was putting the squeeze on him and he was powerless to do anything about it. A rage coursed through his veins as he said, ‘What do you want?’
Eli grinned. ‘When we arrive at the camp – when master’s back is turned – you are going to help me escape.’
Bald laughed. He was about to tell the guy to fuck off when a droning noise filled the air. It was coming from the rear of the dhow. Bald turned towards the sound. He saw it then. A motorboat. It was fifty metres behind them, surging menacingly down the river, spray hissing either side of its battered bow.
Heading directly at the Marlowe.
Twenty
0707 hours.
Bald counted four guys hunkered down on the deck, two either side of the pilot. All wearing the same gear: black trousers, baggy tunics, faces masked with sunglasses and tartan shemaghs. They were brandishing AK-47s and had bandoliers of two-hundred-round link strapped across their chests. In the early-morning light the assault rifles’ barrels glinted like spear points. From fifty metres away the gunmen were bringing their weapons to bear on the crew of the Marlowe. The motorboat was rapidly closing in on the dhow, much slower with its heavy cargo. Forty metres between the two vessels. Another forty or fifty seconds, Bald figured, and the motorboat would be level with them.
‘Shit!’ said Stegman, now coming to his senses. ‘Bloody pirates.’
‘How the fuck did they find us?’ Bald shouted to him. ‘I thought you said once we’d entered the Jubba we’d be clear of these pricks?’
‘Spotters,’ Eli cut in, struggling to make himself heard above the dhow’s engine and the incessant drone of the motorboat as it cut through the water behind them. ‘The pirates hire gangs of children to monitor the coast around Kismayo. Every time the kids point out a ship, the pirates reward them with a bag of sweets.’
Bald thought back to the kids he’d seen waving on the beach. He remembered Priest waving back to them. Idiot, he thought. He shot a withering glance at the MI6 operator.
‘Bastards must have seen us heading for the Jubba and held back,’ Stegman said. ‘They know these waters better than the fucking Koran. All they had to do was wait for us to steer into the river and bang, they’re all over us like flies on shit.’
Then a loud crack ripped through the air.
Thirty metres aft of the dhow, the pirates had opened fire.
Stegman and Eli hit the deck as the first shot hit its target. The slave manning the wheel howled in agony as the bullet severed his spinal column before exiting through his throat. His head tilted back grotesquely, blood spurting out of the exit wound in a hot red flurry and spraying the canopy. His arms fell away from the wheel. The rest of him fell a split second later. Priest looked on, stunned. Bald pushed him down onto the deck as three more shots rang out in a single burst. The calm air was broken by the harsh thwack of rounds chopping up the hull, and by the terrified cries of the slaves wailing for their dead mate. Splintered wood showered onto Bald.
‘We need to put down suppressive fire, boss,’ Priest said.
‘No chance, pal.’
Bald jerked his thumb at the crates stacked up at the bow. ‘Those bastards will have the drop on us before we can even crack open the weapons.’
Priest thumped his fist against the deck, exhaling hard.
Bald lifted his head. The motorboat was just twenty metres behind the dhow. Fifteen, perhaps twenty seconds and the pirates would be clambering aboard. He saw the whole clusterfuck unfolding before his eyes. Knew he had to take charge of the situation. Then he remembered something. The Pelican box. He crawled to the wheelhouse but the box was no longer there. Scanning the deck, he spotted it beyond the two slaves, who were cowering face down. It was just three metres from him. He slithered to the box and grabbed it just as three more rounds smacked into the stern. They shredded the wheelhouse, ripping holes in the blood-stained canopy and spitting fragments of wood across the deck. Stegman was on his belly near Bald, muttering curses in Afrikaans.
