Resolution to Kill Page 7

  She leant towards Seastrom, inclined her head, fixing him with her brown eyes. ‘What is really troubling you, Ingmar?’

  Seastrom looked her in the eye. ‘I wonder if a sinister pattern is emerging.’

  ‘If I may say so, I think that’s a premature assessment.’ Her voice remained a model of control.

  Seastrom deferred. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I do.’

  Relaxing a little, he studied her with a warm expression. ‘I know you have the constitution of several oxen, Isolde, but you’re looking tired.’

  ‘Nothing a holiday won’t cure.’ She brightened, a full smile splashing across her face. ‘But first,’ she said, pushing a dark lock of hair behind her ear, ‘there’s work to be done.’ Including the trip to London for talks with the British Foreign Secretary about tackling child poverty in the developing world, followed by a meeting in Paris to discuss a range of issues with the head of UNESCO. She glanced at her watch. Idly spinning the globe on her desk, she viewed it as a gambler watches the progress of a roulette wheel. When it finally stopped, her eyes fixed speculatively on the Sudan. Something needed to be done in that darkest of lands, she thought with a distant expression.

  Sudan/Chad border: 1213 hours local time

  The food convoy of seventeen trucks approached its destination, a camp along the border. With no roads and deep sands, progress had been slow and hazardous. The last time a convoy attempted the same trip it was hijacked and the drivers killed.

  A sea of white tents was visible now, the smell of squalor and degradation already pervading the sizzling desert heat. Inside the camp, the most desperate of people: young mothers raped when they ventured out among the acacia bushes for firewood to cook food to feed their children, old men and women who’d lost everyone and everything, the very young who’d witnessed inhuman acts that no child should ever see.

  Twenty soldiers wearing trademark blue helmets, their faces burnished to an intense shade of mahogany, guarded the supply route. Blinking into the distance, where blades of sunshine ripped through the sky and cast a shimmer of white across the sand, they were on the lookout for rebel soldiers or Janjaweed - Arab nomads riding camels or horses.

  The most dangerous and vulnerable time for the UN peacekeepers was at the point of entry to the camp. If the warlords struck it would be then.

  The commander of the protection force gave the signal. At once the convoy juddered to a halt. Peacekeepers exited the cabins and threw themselves to the ground, prone, stomachs burrowed into the dirt. Drivers grabbed weapons, M4 carbines, popular with US forces and almost four pounds lighter than the more universal FN-FAL, and took up positions alongside their comrades. Meanwhile, two soldiers, handling Barrett M82s took up sniper positions on top of one of the trucks.

  A thick, noxious silence hung over the desert.

  At first nothing happened, an absence of sound suggesting that the world had stopped turning. Eventually a silhouette appeared on the horizon, hazy at first, followed by a dust cloud from which dozens of black apparitions emerged. As the shapes came into sharper focus, they took the form of men on horseback. They wore shals or turbans on their heads, ammunition belts across their chests, AK-47s, supplied by China in return for oil, brandished high, muzzles pointing heavenwards. Hard men, weathered by violence, they thought nothing of running a child through with a bayonet, of mutilating a pregnant woman, of tying young men to trees and slicing off their limbs with machetes.

  Violence, whipped up on a barren breeze, gilded the air.

  The riders spread out in a menacing line. Outnumbered, the odds against the convoy were roughly five to one. Fingers danced on triggers. Nerves stung with adrenalin. Blood chilled in veins long accustomed to madness. Self-defence as laid down in the charter, however, was not on the agenda, but attack. At the unit commander’s signal, a rocket-propelled grenade scythed through the air and landed with devastating force in the middle of the tribesmen.

  Revenge usurped shock and awe.

  Pounded by the clatter of thundering hooves and the wild cries of men intent on evening up the carnage, the vast and arid land seethed and burst into life. Riders shaped a moving arrowhead, the ground beneath them a dust bowl. With a range of one thousand eight hundred metres, snipers picked off the lead tribesmen spearheading the attack one by one. Undeterred, the remaining riders picked up speed, their sturdy mounts, white-eyed and nostrils flaring, extending to a full gallop. As they, too, came into range, the blue helmets opened fire.

  Steel ripped through the air. Animals screamed. Riders pitched into the dust. The rebels registered what they were up against and, with that furious realisation, the scene slid into chaos, blood and confusion. Volley after volley fired, the tribesmen were cut down, causing panic and terror and mayhem. Only two, who rode with saddles, managed to skirt the hail of bullets and shoot to kill before they in turn were killed.

  With the last of the rebels dispatched, an eerie silence settled over the bloodstained sand. The soldiers lowered their weapons, wiped their brows and removed their helmets. Those with long hair shook it free. All smiled at one another in quiet satisfaction before burying their dead, abandoning the convoy and making their escape.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘When are you meeting your man?’ Beckett said.

  Asim glanced at his watch. ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘Think he’ll play ball?’

  ‘Difficult to say. He won’t like the change of emphasis. He’s never been an Establishment fan.’

  ‘Precisely why we employ him.’

  ‘So he won’t like the change of emphasis. He’s not comfortable behind a desk.’

  Beckett blinked. ‘Only a temporary state of affairs. Afterwards…’ Beckett’s voice trailed off. Asim caught the other man’s eye and held his gaze in a vice-like grip. As if in response, Beckett eyeballed him back, then cleared his throat.

  ‘The Balkan shooting: think there’s a connection?’

  ‘With the latest UN debacle? Too early to say.’

  Beckett took out a pair of rimless glasses and put them on. ‘To recap,’ he said, studying a recent intelligence report, ‘Emmanuel Afrah and his vile band of marauding thugs have engaged in a fierce firefight along the Sudan border with a group of UN peacekeepers and been eliminated - that’s the good news. Not so good: an entire troop of Ghanaian peacekeepers has gone missing, and two Alliance members undercover with Afrah have been killed.’

  ‘The Americans won’t like that.’

  Beckett glanced over his spectacle lenses at Asim. ‘There’s a lot they don’t like. Sudan is synonymous with Islamic terrorism, Chinese arms dealing and Russian interests, but they have acceded to my request to keep quiet, at least for the time being.’

  Asim shrugged his slim shoulders. He thought Beckett a little heavy on the my but, as if he needed no further reminder, it proved the point that Beckett was an extremely powerful individual, never to be underestimated. ‘No point running secret operations if you don’t keep them secret,’ he conceded.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And the UN?’

  ‘Chatelle has agreed not to go public for the time being. She wishes to be kept informed.’

  Asim raised an eyebrow.

  ‘She’ll be told what we bloody well choose to tell her,’ Beckett barked.

  ‘She clearly suspects that it’s part of a larger picture.’ Asim’s voice assumed a supreme calm worthy of a diplomat. Only the burning expression in his eyes gave the game away.

  ‘Clearly.’ Beckett turned his attention back to the file. ‘The Ghanaian conundrum is indeed puzzling. It’s assumed they came under attack, fought back with their usual skill and tenacity and disappeared to God knows where for unfathomable reasons.’

  ‘Twenty people can’t just disappear.’ Asim frowned. ‘Could they have been taken hostage by another rebel group?’

  ‘It’s a realistic possibility.’

  ‘What happened to the convoy?’

  ‘Left in
the desert, retrieved by NATO troops.’

  ‘Do we have assets in place?’

  Beckett blinked, overcoming, it seemed, a natural inclination only rivalled by his American counterparts to withhold information. ‘We do.’

  A matter of time then before the truth revealed itself, Asim thought. He pictured a tableau of slaughtered peacekeepers. The truth in his business was often ugly. A knock at the door temporarily rescued him from things he’d rather not dwell on.

  ‘Come,’ Beckett said.

  It was the desk officer assigned to supply administrative backup for active operations. ‘Report for you, sir,’ he said.

  Beckett took the single sheet of paper, glanced at it and frowned. He nodded for the desk officer to leave and, with a brisk but grim expression, handed the sheet to Asim. The content was as follows: Ghanaian peacekeepers found shot dead in a warehouse inside the Chad border.

  ‘How they wound up there is anybody’s guess,’ Beckett said.

  Asim could not help but agree. Lawlessness was no stranger to Africa. Even so, the news was dismal. ‘I’d better break the news to the secretary general. Before I do,’ Asim said mysteriously, ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘That’s what you’re here for,’ Beckett said with a sly smile. The temporary softening of his sharp features suggested that he was starting to enjoy himself. ‘Does it require the need for dirty tricks?’

  Asim batted a sly smile back.

  Tallis crossed Centenary Square in Birmingham and headed for the domed Hall of Memory, a commemoration of the twelve thousand fallen in the First World War. Pushing open the door, he went inside. In front, a stained-glass window depicting scenes from the conflict, the floor, once lined with wreaths of paper poppies, empty. To the left, a corridor-like room in which an elderly man was sitting. At Tallis’s arrival, the man turned his rheumy eyes towards him and exchanged a curt nod. Tallis reciprocated and crossed the floor to a door on the right. Locked, as far as the British public was concerned, it was presumed that it led back out on to the square. Fortunately, with all the construction work for the new library, nobody had noticed that earth-moving works extended far and wide. Tallis touched a button in the door moulding and the door slid back, revealing a hidden compartment. Stepping inside, the door sliding back to its original position, he placed his face against a retinal scan to gain clearance and descended to the bowels of the secret building.

  Birmingham and its environs had long been deemed a flashpoint for terrorism, and inside the building was a hive of activity. From a security point of view, where better than to be in the thick of the action?

  The corridors were lit by LED. Works of art adorned the walls, some contemporary, most not. Tallis paid them scant attention. Caught in a web of officialdom, he felt well outside his comfort zone. This wasn’t how he normally operated. He was accustomed to working alone and out in the field. But Asim, for reasons that had not been made plain, had insisted. He promised that it was only for the initial part of the operation. After that, Tallis would have free rein as usual. To do what, he didn’t know.

  On a more personal level, after the screw-up in Croatia, he felt bruised. His mother had left increasingly desperate messages on his phone and he still hadn’t returned her calls. To deflect her would require the utmost guile. He would deny all knowledge of any involvement, of course. He would feign surprise and confusion. He would maintain that he was already in the UK when the killings took place. Lying was part of the job description. He was good at it. But he did not relish the prospect of pulling the wool over his mother’s eyes. He feared that she would spot his subterfuge. Allied to this, his personal determination to uncover the truth extended beyond professional interest, and that made things risky.

  Asim, as usual, greeted him with a ready smile. They were in the one room in the building assigned to Asim’s covert band of operatives. It was small, dark and clubby. Asim suggested that Tallis drew up a chair, which he did, and sat down.

  ‘Your debrief,’ Asim said, waving a sheaf of papers.

  Tallis gave an inner groan. He’d already given an account of his actions in triplicate. He didn’t relish the prospect of going over them again.

  ‘Ballistics confirmed that both Americans and Croats were killed by the same weapon,’ Asim announced. ‘Most likely culprit: the US manufactured M40 rifle. From your description, I believe that Goran was shot first, the next two shots reserved for the Alliance team, followed by Garich. Is that your understanding of events?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Narrow escape, Tallis thought.

  ‘You suggest that the sniper is a woman. How did you arrive at that conclusion?’

  Fleeting images of Chechnya crowded Tallis’s imagination once more. It was as if the ghosts of the dead were rattling their bones at him. Crushing the memories, he told Asim what he’d discovered on close inspection of the area.

  Asim nodded thoughtfully. ‘And you suggest that the Alliance may have sprung a leak?’ Amusement danced in Asim’s eyes.

  ‘Only a suggestion.’ Tallis shrugged. ‘I didn’t realise it was going to create such a stir.’ He did, actually, but who cared?

  ‘Won’t do them any harm to be more alert to the possibility,’ Asim said smoothly. He studied Tallis for a long moment. ‘Paul, are you all right?’

  ‘Sure, why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You seem distracted, a little brittle.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,’ he said absently. ‘It’s not how I do things. I’m not a desk man.’ Tallis locked eyes with Asim, who studied him some more. Tallis wondered whether confining him to quarters was Asim’s attempt to keep a close eye on him.

  Eventually Asim spoke. ‘I understand, but bear with me on this for a little longer. Comes down to whether you want the job or not.’

  If it hadn’t been for Garich, Tallis would probably have walked. To what and to where, he didn’t know. As things were, he felt he had no choice other than to stay in the game even if he didn’t wish to abide by the current set of rules.

  Sensing Tallis’s hesitation, Asim made good his advantage. ‘We have an accord?’

  He waited a beat. Never good to look desperate. ‘Yes.’

  Asim flicked a smile and silently pushed a thick file towards him.

  Tallis eyed it for a moment. What a weird job this was, he thought. Out in the field with the threat of having your balls blasted off one moment, in some dark dingy office smothered by a mountain of paperwork the next. The spy game suddenly got mundane again. He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Read and inwardly digest,’ Asim said with a crisp smile.

  ‘Here?’ He’d rather have taken it home and read it to the accompaniment of loud progressive classico-rock from his new Muse CD.

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  Ultra-sensitive then, Tallis thought.

  ‘It details a series of incidents against United Nations staff.’

  ‘I don’t wish to seem callous, but…’

  ‘This is beyond the norm. Hit-and-runs, bomb attacks, staff picked off by snipers. And Americans always caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘Probably because they’re often in the thick of it,’ Tallis said with a dry laugh.

  Asim elevated an eyebrow. ‘Criticising the Americans is terribly passé, Paul.’

  ‘I wasn’t criticising, simply making an observation.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. They also broker a number of deals and help to keep the peace.’

  ‘And they’re allegedly our co-partners in crime. It’s fine, Asim,’ Tallis cracked a smile. ‘In the interests of international co-operation, I’ll play nice.’

  ‘Something else you should know,’ Asim said, informing Tallis of the latest twist of events in the Sudan.

  ‘Worrying,’ Tallis admitted. ‘Al Qaeda have quite a foothold in the region.’

  ‘So do the Russians,’ Asim said.

  For two incestuous reasons: oil and arms. ‘FSB up to no good again?’ Tallis didn’t relish another encounter with the Ru
ssians so soon after his last excursion.

  ‘Not sure. What would be the motive?’

  ‘I don’t know. To piss off the Americans? Do the Russians know about the Alliance?’

  ‘Bound to.’

  ‘Then perhaps that’s where the connection lies.’ Alliance members, he reminded himself, were bumped off in the Balkans and now the Sudan.

  Tallis turned to the first page, the dense text making his heart sink. Then he had another thought about a possible Russian connection. ‘Wait a minute - the Russians are pro-Serb.’

  ‘Go on.’ Asim’s eyes glittered.

  ‘During the war the Americans were fairly anti-Serb, so maybe we’ve come full circle.’

  ‘Back to the UN?’

  ‘Goodness, Asim, I don’t know. There are so many variables.’

  Asim gave a slanted smile. ‘As you say, it’s not a good idea to make a premature assessment.’

  Then why did he get the idea that Asim already had an agenda? Tallis thought. ‘You think Garich was bait, the real goal to attack the Americans and pass some kind of weird ideological statement about the United Nations?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Tallis found that very hard to believe. Asim was a cerebral man, full of ideas. ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘As long as it takes. There’s coffee in the machine.’ And with that Asim got to his feet, touched Tallis lightly on the shoulder and left the room.

  Berlin: 2250 hours: local time

  Skyscrapers and impoverished-looking buildings covered in graffiti pave the route from Alexanderplatz to Prenzlauer Berg. Huge blocks of flats sit in the middle of the newly built commercial sector. For all its disadvantages, it remains home to the bohemian set. Lately it’s moved up in the world. Young families and students looking for cheap accommodation are moving there in droves.