Tenth Man Down (49 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: Tenth Man Down
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‘They’ll never make that. Muende can’t walk that far. He’s fat as butter.’
For the first time in days Jason gave a little laugh. I grinned back, and pulled a water-bottle out of my belt-kit. We were going to have to watch it with our water; expecting a short, sharp contact, I hadn’t brought very much.
‘They won’t walk all day,’ I said. ‘They’ll stop soon and sit out the midday heat. We’ll catch up with them then.’
The diversion caused by the vehicle cost us dearly. By the time we’d climbed back up the hill, the trail had gone cool, almost cold. Bent stalks of grass had straightened, and the dew had long since burnt off. Even Jason had a job to detect traces, and he made frequent moves that turned out to be false: he’d go ahead on a speculative quest while I stood still to mark the end of the sure route, then come back and cast about again.
I kept thinking, Muende must have been desperate, to come out here with a lone woman, one jeep and no back-up, and then to shoot his only able-bodied accomplice. Once again I saw what damage colossal wealth, or even the promise of it, does to you. It stops you trusting anybody else, so that you immediately become isolated and get forced into crazy actions.
By 1100 the heat was ferocious. The sun was beating straight down on us, and tsetse flies were bombing out of every bush we passed. Lines of sweat were running down Jason’s scrawny neck from behind his ears, and he was stinking like cat’s piss. High above us enormous birds had begun to ride the thermals, swinging in wide, wide circles. When I pointed up at them and suggested, ‘Eagles?’, Jason said, ‘Vultures. White-headed vultures.’ Any minute now, I thought, they’ll be plummeting on to the fresh corpse behind us.
I happened to have looked at Andy’s watch a moment earlier, so I know it was 1124 when, in the middle of quite a fast advance, my tracker stopped short and raised his right hand with index finger extended to our right front.
‘Go-away bird,’ he said, softly.
I had to listen for several seconds before I heard it. Then I picked up the raucous
go-wee, go-wee
of a grey lourie scolding some interloper who had trespassed into its territory.
‘Has it seen us?’ I whispered.
Jason shook his head. ‘Too far. Other persons.’
That bird was a star. For the next half hour, as we worked our way steadily forward, it kept calling. Every now and then it moved to a different tree, but it hung around the same area, persistently giving out its mocking cry. We saw it once – a flash of pale grey, with a spiky tuft on the back of its head, as it looped from one perch to another – and at the end we knew there was a chance it had started to mob us as well. But by then it had done a brilliant job, leading us to a particular spot and putting us on maximum alert.
It was Jason who saw the pair first. They were sitting on the ground in an ebony grove, their backs against a big tree, looking utterly knackered. Inge had her head thrown back, resting against the trunk; Muende’s was hanging down, chin on chest, as if he were asleep. His peculiar, yellowish hair was unmistakable. Beside each of them was an open haversack.
The sight sent a huge surge of adrenalin round my system, part excitement, part hatred of the pair who had murdered Whinger. We could easily have dropped both of them from where we stood, behind some bushes sixty metres off. They had no clue that anyone was near them, and there was no way we could have missed. A couple of bursts from the 203s, and that would have been that. But it would also have been too easy. Before I killed them, I wanted to look in their faces and let them see me. I wanted to tell them what I thought of them. I wanted them to know that retribution had caught up with them and run them down. So I breathed ‘This way’ to Jason, and we moved silently round to our left until we were behind them, hidden by the trunk of their own tree. Then we walked straight in. Whatever else happened, I was going to make them shit themselves with fright.
Twenty metres short of the tree, I motioned Jason to stay put and cover me. I eased myself out of the straps of my Bergen and lowered it gently to the ground. Then I crept forward alone with my 203 at the ready. The lourie was still calling away to our right front. Apart from that there was no sound.
I came to within four metres of the tree. Three. It may have been a slight scuffle that my boot made on a dry leaf. It may have been a sixth sense of danger. Whatever triggered her reflex, Inge suddenly leapt into view, going to my left with amazing agility. Already she was facing my way, and there was a pistol in her right hand.
Before she could bring it to bear, before I could raise my own rifle, a three-round burst hammered out behind me. The rounds cracked like thunderbolts as they passed my ear and put the woman flat on her back. For a moment she writhed about, struggling to get up, but the pistol had fallen from her hand and I could see she was dying.
I stood braced, with the rifle in my hands, finger on the trigger, ready for Muende to appear. When he didn’t, I yelled, ‘Come out!’
The trunk of the ebony was nearly a metre thick, and although I knew he was there, about ten feet from me, I couldn’t see any part of him. Glancing at Inge, I saw she’d stopped moving.
I took a step to my right, then another. After the second, I could see boots – black, army-type boots with the heels together, toes pointing downwards. The guy was stretched out on his front, grovelling into the earth. Two more steps, and his whole body was in view. He was wearing pale-coloured, lightweight DPMs, and had his face pressed into a groove between two large roots, as though he was trying to shut out the danger. His forehead was against the base of the trunk, hands clasped on top of his head. There was a sub-machine gun lying on the ground beside him, but it was out of his reach.
I went forward and kicked him in the ribs. ‘On your feet, cunt!’ I shouted.
His eyes were rolling as he looked up at me. For a few seconds he seemed paralysed by fear. Then, slowly, he hauled himself up and stood shaking with his back against the tree.
‘All right, Muende,’ I went. ‘You know who I am.’
He ran his tongue round his lips as he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen you in my life.’
‘You fucking have. It was me you had beaten up the other night. The night you tortured my mate and ate his liver. You may have been pissed, but you can’t have forgotten.’
As comprehension dawned, the guy’s terror increased. He began to shake so violently that drops of sweat went flying in all directions off his forehead.
‘What do you want?’
‘The diamond. That’s all.’
‘What diamond?’
‘The one you’ve just recovered from the plane.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘take it easy. There’s some mistake here.’
He sounded pure American, and for a few moments his easy natural authority started to assert itself. But I wasn’t in a mood to argue.
I drove the muzzle of the 203 hard into the top of his bulging stomach, stepped back, and said, ‘You’ve got thirty seconds to produce it.’
He doubled forward with a gasp. As he straightened up again, his bloodshot eyes went fromthe barrel of the rifle to my face and back. Then, he said, ‘You win.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On my belt.’
I looked at his midriff and saw a pouch of thick black canvas. It was too small to contain a pistol, the wrong shape for a knife.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Take the belt off and throw it to me. Then get your hands above your head.’
He did as ordered. The belt landed at my feet. I picked it up and withdrew another pace. The pouch was modern, with a Velcro fastener on the flap. With one hand I ripped it open. Inside was a suede leather bag with something hard inside.
It needed teeth as well as fingers to pull out the string round the neck of the bag, but at last I got it open and looked down. There, in the nest of blue suede, sat a lump of what looked like brilliantly flashing glass. Forget pigeon’s eggs, this thing was the size of a chicken’s egg, for God’s sake. The sight of it made my breath catch. I closed the bag by folding the long neck over and rolling it round, then stowed it in my right-hand belt pouch.
Muende’s eyes had followed every movement of the stone, as if it were magnetic. Then, suddenly, he came away from the tree a couple of paces.
‘Stop!’ I yelled.
But he was only trying to buy time. He went down on his knees, with his hands together up in front of him, like he was praying in church.
‘Look!’ he cried, in a high, beseeching voice. ‘You’ve got it! You’re going to be rich for the rest of your life. You don’t ever need to work again.’
I was too fired up to feel embarrassed at this grovelling. I just felt hatred, mixed with contempt. All I spat at him was, ‘So?’
‘Who gave you the diamond?
I
did! You don’t need to shoot me. It won’t get you anywhere.’
The guy was screaming pitifully. Still I just glared at him. Then, I said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to shoot you.’
He didn’t know what I meant. How could he? He couldn’t see what I could see. Jason was silently creeping up on him from behind. But until the last second even I didn’t realise what my trusty henchman was planning.
Suddenly, I saw that in his right hand he was holding aloft his fearsome machete. From a metre behind Muende, he sprang. The blade flashed through dappled sunlight and buried itself –
thunk!
– in the right-hand side of its victim’s neck. The blow was so violent that it almost severed the head. Blood spurted from the jugular, fountaining on to the ground at my feet. With half a groan the self-styled President of Free Kamanga toppled sideways to the ground. Before his limbs had stopped twitching, Jason swung in a backhanded second strike from the other side and cut through the rest of the neck. The next thing I knew, the head came rolling towards my feet with the eyes still opening and shutting.
I stood rooted, too shocked to speak. Jason was exactly the opposite. He went stomping off round the ebony glade, throwing back his head, letting off triumphant yells, leaping in the air, whirling his machete in fancy passes above his head. His wildness scared me shitless. What if he decided he wanted the diamond for himself?
The headless body kept quivering. I walked away from it and sat down heavily on a fallen log with my back to the scene of the massacre. The first thing I needed was a drink. My hands were shaking as I unscrewed the cap of the water-bottle. I took two big gulps, then steeled myself to save the rest.
It was several minutes before I’d chilled out enough to look at the diamond again, and when I got it in the palm of my hand I began to shake again, from wonder at the sheer size and brilliance of the stone. It didn’t take an expert to see that this was one in a million, worth millions. I stared into its glittering depths half mesmerised. Here in my hand I held a secure future, not only for myself and Tim, but for all the survivors of the team. I thought of the night we’d sat round the fire with Rhino Bakunda, joking about what we’d do if we won the lottery. Well, now Pav would be able to hire Concorde and go screwing in the South Seas, Chalky could buy his yacht, Danny his arms business.
Or would any of that happen? Immediately, I began to think of problems. Number one: in the SAS you’re supposed to hand in any booty that comes your way. Often, with minor gains, the lads ignore the rules, but what would I do with something of such value? Number two: the diamond would have to be cut before it was worth anything. How would I find a cutter or a dealer who could be relied on to keep quiet? Would I get landed with an asset I couldn’t cash in?
Suddenly, a gust of wind got up. I heard it coming, a stir in the ebony grove. Leaves began to flutter, branches swung, and a cool blast of air came swirling past me from behind. In that stifling noonday heat any drop in temperature should have been welcome. But to me it was sinister and full of menace, because I instantly associated it with the night that Phil, Mart and I had stood in front of the witch doctor, when the child had died.
The breeze died away as quickly as it had come. All round me the leaves settled. Except for the go-away bird, which was still calling, stillness returned to the trees. I glanced across to see what Jason was doing. He’d gone down on his knees at the foot of a tree, and appeared to be praying, giving thanks.
I looked back at the great rock. Why had that wind come at the very moment I held it in my hand? Was it a natural phenomenon, caused by the hot air rising somewhere else, and the shape of the grove we were in? A couple of months before I’d have said it was. I’d have believed the timing of it was pure coincidence. Now I wasn’t so sure. What I did know for certain was that I wanted nothing more to do with the diamond. No matter how many millions it might be worth, I knew it would only bring me bad luck. I didn’t even want to look at it any more. Hurriedly, I fumbled it back into the blue bag and drew the neck strings together.
Jason was back on his feet and walking towards me with a big grin on his face. Skirting the bodies, I went to meet him. As we met he put up his right hand, palm forward, and I smacked mine against it – high fives, like footballers celebrating a goal.
‘Fucking great!’ I went. ‘You got ’em.’

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