Jungle Kill (2 page)

Whether Zakhovsky would actually show up at the Excelsior today depended on how much he needed Mitch. He would be annoyed at having to go through this ritual and Mitch knew that very rich men can be very dangerous when they are annoyed.

On full alert now, his eyes continued to watch the crowds of people passing through the lobby, waiting for the action to happen. It came in the form of a tall black man wearing an overcoat, heading towards Mitch. Everything about the man said
‘Special Forces'. Mitch slid his right hand inside his jacket. The man saw the move and stopped, opening his coat so that Mitch could see he wasn’t armed. Mitch gave the slightest of nods, and the man continued walking. He settled down in an easy chair opposite.

‘Paul Mitchell,’ said the man with a smile. ‘Good to meet you.’ He was American. Mid-twenties at the most. East coast accent. Boston, possibly. ‘I’m Charles Nelson.’

‘Are you a messenger from Mr Zakhovsky?’ Mitch asked.

Nelson shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Mr Zakhovsky won’t be joining us.’

Mitch stood up. ‘Then I guess our business here is done.’

Nelson held up a hand. ‘Whoa there, Mitchell. The fact is Mr Zakhovsky was never coming. He just helped us out by agreeing to act as an intermediary. To set up this meeting.’

‘And who exactly are you?’

‘Colonel Nelson. US–UK Combined Special
Forces. You might have heard of us.’

USUKCSF. Delta Force and the SAS. Black Ops, thought Mitch. He had heard about them during his time in the SAS, but he’d never actually met any of them. At least, not that he was aware of. And for Nelson to be a colonel at such a young age meant he must be something special.

‘I’m out of Special Forces, Colonel,’ said Mitch. ‘I left four months ago. Check my record.’

‘I already have,’ said Nelson.

‘If you’ve read it properly, I think you’ll see the regiment won’t want me back. I killed the wrong guy,’ Mitch said. ‘At least, as far as they’re concerned. To them, I’m trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Nelson. ‘Besides, I think there’s more to it than that. Want to tell me about what happened?’

‘No,’ said Mitch. ‘But I’m curious why we’re having this meeting.’

‘You were in West Africa.’

Mitch nodded, then he smiled. ‘That text message
in Igbo. It was you.’

Nelson gave a half-smile. ‘Not me, someone else who talks Igbo. We wanted to see if you still remembered the language. We have a situation in West Africa.’

Mitch shook his head. ‘No, you’ve got a situation in Nigeria. Igbo is one of the country’s languages.’

Nelson smiled. ‘I knew you were the right man for this.’

‘I’m not the right man,’ said Mitch. ‘I left the regiment, remember.’

‘But this isn’t about rejoining the regiment,’ persisted Nelson. ‘And, even if it was, you wouldn’t have a problem. They’ve looked into what happened. They know the truth. Captain Danvers was –’

Mitch held up a hand to stop him.

‘Let’s not talk about it,’ he said. ‘Just get to the point.’

Nelson nodded. ‘How are your other Nigerian tribal languages? Yoruba? Hausa?’

‘Yoruba, not too bad. Depends where it is.
The dialect’s different from region to region.’

Nelson nodded again. If he was impressed, he didn’t show it. ‘Do you know much about the current situation in Nigeria?’ he asked.

Mitch shrugged. ‘Civil war, same as always. Rival factions. Mayhem and murder. Oil.’

‘Ever heard of a man called Joseph Mwanga?’

Mitch nodded. ‘When I was there Mwanga was trying to get some sort of unified government together. Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa, everyone, all working together.’

‘But first he has to get elected,’ said Nelson. ‘And there are plenty of people who don’t want to see that happen.’ He paused. ‘In our book, Joseph Mwanga is one of the good guys. Problem is he was kidnapped last week.’

‘Government, rebels or criminals?’ Mitch asked.

‘No one’s sure,’ said Nelson.

Mitch sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘He’s dead by now.’

Nelson shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. There was
a sighting two days ago. One of our spy satellites picked out a group of people moving across an area of bush on foot. Our techies have enhanced it and we’re fairly sure that one of the men in the picture is Mwanga. His hands are tied behind his back, but he’s on foot, so that means he can walk.’

‘How big is the group with him?’

‘About twenty. All heavily armed.’

Mitch considered the situation. If Mwanga was still alive, then he was being kept for trade. Either for political reasons, or for money.

‘You’re going to try to spring him?’ asked Mitch.

‘Provided we can find him,’ replied Nelson, nodding.

‘And you want me as part of the team?’

Nelson nodded. ‘Standard USUKCSF: three Brits, three Americans,’ he said.

Mitch paused. ‘Why me?’ he asked.

‘Because you’re Special-Forces trained. You know Nigeria, the country, the languages and the people. You’re young and fit, resilient, and you’re
a survivor. You showed that last night at Zakhovsky’s. You could have continued into the house, but you didn’t. I liked that thing you did with the mobile phone too. And the fact you never once showed up on the CCTV.’

‘How do you know?’

Nelson grinned. ‘I was inside the house with Zakhovsky, waiting for you. The plan was for us to talk there.’

‘How did you get Zakhovsky to take part in the whole business?’ asked Mitch.

‘He owes us one,’ said Nelson. ‘So tell me, Mitch – are you in?’

Mitch thought it over. He’d seen Mwanga just once, when he’d been on leave during a tour of duty in Nigeria. The politician had been making a speech in Kano, the country’s second largest city, in which he urged the people to believe in the idea of a government that distributed the country’s wealth fairly. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor. An African Robin Hood, in a suit and tie. Mitch had
no time for most politicians, but as he’d listened to Mwanga he felt that the man was sincere. He was certainly brave, to talk publicly about taking money away from the wealthy. No wonder someone had kidnapped him. And now Mwanga was a prisoner, and prisoners in West Africa often had very short lives.

There was another reason for signing up. If he was honest, Mitch missed the action. Since leaving the force he’d kept active, mostly bodyguarding, but it hadn’t given him that same buzz. He missed being part of a Band of Brothers, guys who loved being in the thick of it, depending on their nerves, adrenalin, and fighting skills to keep them alive. He’d been out of that for too long. Nelson was offering him a way back.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m in.’

After that, things moved fast. Mitch and Nelson headed for a secure building within a Ministry of Defence compound in Whitehall. Mitch followed Nelson down to the basement, which looked like a standard briefing room, except for the array of weapons on a large table, which a group of men was examining. The men turned as they came in.

‘Guys,’ announced Nelson, ‘meet Trooper Paul Mitchell, our new unit member. Henceforth to be known as Mitch, unless he’s got any objections?’

Nelson looked at Mitch, who shook his head. ‘Mitch’ was fine by him. It was what he’d always been called.

‘Mitch, meet Delta Unit. Your own countrymen first: Captain Bob Tait – known as Tug – my
second in command.’

Tug was young, five foot seven, serious-looking, with longish fair hair. He nodded and said, ‘Welcome,’ but there was no accompanying smile. Even in that one clipped word, there was a hint of the upper class that nettled Mitch.

Mitch knew he had a chip on his shoulder about people like Tug. Mitch came from a very poor background on one of London’s sprawling, lawless sink estates. People like Tug would never know the daily struggles that people like Mitch had suffered.

‘And this is Trooper Danny Graham,’ continued Nelson. ‘Or Gaz, as everyone calls him.’

Gaz looked about the same age as Mitch and was built like a rugby player, with the broken nose to go with it. He was slightly shorter than Tug, about five six, but much friendlier. He shook Mitch’s hand with a firm grip, grinned and said, ‘Good to have you aboard, pal!’ in a strong accent. Newcastle, Mitch guessed. His hair was cropped so short it was almost just stubble on his
bony head. With his build and his shaven skull, Gaz looked like a human version of a pit bull terrier.

At five foot eleven, Mitch knew he himself was tall by SAS standards, almost as tall as the six-foot Nelson.

‘Now your American cousins …’ said Nelson. ‘Sergeant Tony Two Moons.’

The taller of the remaining two soldiers stepped forward, his hand held out.

‘Welcome to the tribe.’ He grinned, shaking Mitch’s hand.

‘Two Moons.’ Mitch nodded. ‘Native American?’

‘From the Sioux tribe, before the white man persuaded me to join up.’

The others had obviously heard the joke before, but they all grinned, especially the black Colonel Nelson.

‘And this is Lieutenant Bernardo Jaurez. Better known as Benny. He’s from Texas.’

Benny merely nodded and said: ‘Welcome to the unit, Mitch.’ No smiles. He was short, thin and wiry
and Mitch guessed he was a man who took himself seriously.

Like Tug, Benny looked to be a few years older than Mitch. Early to mid-twenties.

That’s two friendly faces, thought Mitch: Two Moons and Gaz. The other two, Tug and Benny, are definitely suspicious of me. The two officers. He wondered if their attitude was because of what had happened with Captain Danvers – all written up in his case file. Mitch didn’t blame them – they didn’t know the
whole
story. Still, he didn’t like talking about it, so he wasn’t going to start explaining himself. If they wanted to know what had happened, they could ask.

It was an interesting group: a Sioux Indian, a Hispanic Texan, a Geordie and himself, a Londoner. Where was Tug from? There was definitely something aristocratic about him. Maybe the second son of some titled family. He’d find out later, if it mattered. And the unit was led by the tall, charismatic black colonel from Boston, Massachusetts. Mitch was
intrigued.

‘OK, introductions over, guys,’ said Nelson. ‘Five more minutes checking out the hardware, then take your seats for the briefing.’ And with that, he headed for the door.

‘Where’s he going?’ Mitch asked.

‘Gone to take a leak, I expect,’ grinned Two Moons. ‘Why?’

Mitch shrugged. ‘Just worried he’s going to suddenly appear with a bunch of heavies as some sort of test for me.’

Two Moons chuckled. ‘You are one suspicious fella, Mitch! You’re the one who killed his captain, right?’ The rest of the men in the group had moved away.

Mitch hesitated, then shrugged. He’d already guessed that everyone knew what he’d done. Maybe it was best that way.

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he said.

‘On purpose?’

‘Right again.’

Two Moons nodded. ‘I know how that feels. I killed my sergeant when I was in the regular army, back in the States.’

Mitch was surprised, both at the information, and at how willing Two Moons was to reveal it.

‘On purpose?’ he asked, echoing Two Moons’ question to him.

‘Yes and no,’ said Two Moons. ‘The court martial said it was an accident. But I gotta tell you, Mitch, when I hit that nasty piece of work I may not have been intending to kill him, but I sure as hell wasn’t pulling no punches.’

‘You killed him with a punch?’

Two Moons nodded. ‘One punch,’ he affirmed. ‘Turns out he had a thin skull. He was also the most racist man I ever met in my whole life. Enjoyed making life miserable for anyone who wasn’t purebred white. Indians, blacks, Asians, Mexicans – you name it, he hated them. He should never have been made a sergeant in the first place.’

‘What happened?’ asked Mitch, curious as to
what could have made the friendly Two Moons go so far.

‘As I said, he had been making the lives of all of us non-whites a misery,’ said Two Moons. ‘But I learnt to handle it. Kept my head down and just got on with things. But there was this young black guy from Chicago: skinny kid, seventeen. Brand new. No confidence in himself. Everything he did, this sergeant found fault with and kept punishing him. And I mean
really
punishing him physically. Finally the boy couldn’t take it no more and he took a gun and shot himself.

‘Well, when I heard that news something inside me sort of snapped, but I still kept my cool. Then, at parade the next morning, this sergeant comes out to give us the official announcement about the kid killing himself, and he makes some sick joke. It so happens that when he said it he was standing right in front of me. If he’d been a few yards either way to my left or my right, I’d have left it. But he was right in front of me, with that stupid grin on
his face, and before I knew it: wham! Smack!’ Two Moons held up his right fist, and Mitch saw that it looked pretty powerful. ‘Got him right between the eyes. End of story. Lucky for me my court-martial decided there’d been strong provocation.’ Two Moons gave a wry smile. He paused. ‘So that’s my story, let’s hear yours.’

Mitch shrugged. But before he could say a word they heard Nelson’s voice rap out: ‘OK, take your seats, guys.’

‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ said Mitch, relieved at the reprieve.

Along with the others, they took their seats in front of a screen fixed to one wall. It showed a map of the Niger Delta. Nelson waited until they were seated, then he addressed them.

‘This is Plan A to rescue Joseph Mwanga,’ he said. ‘And just to let you know, there is no Plan B.’ Nelson pointed to a spot east of the Delta. ‘This is where Mwanga was last seen, out in the bush, before he and whoever’s holding him disappeared into the
jungle. Our job is to get in, find him and get him out. One thing’s for sure, people will know about us. So, we’ve fixed up a cover story.

‘Spencer-Tado Oil and Gas, one of the many American-British oil companies drilling for oil in the Niger Delta, has recently received threats that some of its employees are going be taken hostage and held to ransom.’

Mitch nodded to himself. Kidnapping for ransom was something that happened all the time in Nigeria. The American or British hostages were generally released when a substantial ransom had been paid, but in a few cases they had been killed and their bodies found floating in the waters of the Delta.