World War Moo (15 page)

Geldof knew the face was misleading. His grandfather had told him all about the man he would be hiring. His name was Andy Scholz, a South African who'd served in 32 Battalion—a group of soldiers who earned the nickname “The Terrible Ones” during South Africa's border wars with Namibian and Angolan forces. Scholz had excelled, gaining medals and promotion to captain for his planning skills and cool under fire. Once the force was disbanded in 1993, many of the soldiers went on to form mercenary groups. Scholz set up on his own, fighting in dozens of conflicts and carrying out one shady gig for the coffee magnate. In 1998, when South Africa banned mercenaries from operating from its soil, Scholz shifted to Nairobi: according to Grandfather Carstairs, officials were easier to bribe there, and Kenya was closer to the action now that southern Africa was quieter. He was not a man to be trifled with.

As Geldof battled to slow his quickened pulse, Mwangi got up and met the mercenary halfway to the table. After a quick conversation Geldof couldn't hear above the blaring racket of the band, Mwangi wandered off to start chatting to one of the prostitutes. Scholz sat down across from Geldof.

“So you're the progeny, heh?” he said.

“I'm sorry?”

“You're that old bastard's grandson. You don't look like him.”

Unsure how to respond to such an opening, Geldof held out his hand. “I'm Geldof.”

“Like the wizard?”

“No, Geldof. Like the scraggly old Irishman.”

“Jesus Christ. That's worse,” the mercenary said, taking the offered palm and giving it a firm squeeze that indicated there was a lot more power lurking in those fingers. “I'm Andy Scholz. You can call me Scholzy. Tell me, how are you enjoying the delights of Nairobi?”

Geldof shot another glance at the girls and tried to paint a worldly look upon his face. “I've not been here long enough to enjoy them properly.”

“Well, let's get business out of the way first and maybe you'll get the chance.”

Geldof took a deep breath. Even though no other mercenaries were in the frame, his grandfather had been very clear that he shouldn't seem too keen. He'd been instructed to ask some probing questions, so he stuck to the only script he knew: that taken from his unsuccessful interview for a part-time job in a small newsagents' booth in Partick train station.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” he said. “We've got a few people to talk to about this. Perhaps you can start by telling me why you want this job.”

Scholzy crossed his arms. “I didn't say I wanted it. You came to me.”

Geldof shifted in his seat. “Okay. What's your greatest strength?”

“Doing bad things for money.”

Already this wasn't going terribly well, which wasn't surprising considering he was looking to employ a man to stage a raid in the world's most dangerous country, not stock shelves with Mars Bars. In the absence of another plan, he ploughed on with his questions. “Perhaps you could outline your relevant experience?”

“Your grandfather knows what we can do.”

“I'm not my grandfather,” Geldof said, narrowing his eyes into what he hoped was a mean squint.

“I can see that,” Scholzy said. “Let me put it this way: Simon Mann and Nick du Toit are babes in the woods compared to us.”

Geldof's research on mercenaries had largely involved downloading Frederick Forsyth's
The Dogs of War
and watching a DVD of
The Wild Geese
, both of which Google alerted him to when he was searching for appropriate literature. However, he'd also read some old articles about real-life cases and recognized the names as the men caught planning the botched Equatorial Guinea coup Mark Thatcher was involved in. “I've heard of them. How come I've never heard of you?”

Scholzy leaned across the table. Geldof flinched as the hard gaze met his. “We've overthrown dictators and democratically elected presidents; we've put down rebel uprisings; we've rescued hostages from Somali pirates; we've done just about every dirty and downright dangerous operation you can think of. Nobody knows who we are because we never get caught. If you want something done, we're your men.”

As it often did when he was nervous, Geldof's mouth merrily skipped out of reach of his brain, shot him the finger, and blurted out something utterly stupid in an attempt to introduce some levity it idiotically thought was needed. “I suppose you're better than the A-Team as well.”

Amazingly, instead of plucking out Geldof's Adam's apple to use as a grisly cocktail cherry in his drink, Scholzy let out a snort of laughter. “You're damn right. The
A
stands for amateurs.”

Encouraged by the response, Geldof pushed a little further in an attempt to build up some rapport. “So you can make an armored car in half an hour with just a blowtorch, a beat-up old truck, some scrap iron, and a couple of bolts?”

“No. But we do manage to kill people every now and then,” Scholzy said, no longer smiling. “You've had your little joke. Time to stop dicking around. I've looked at your briefing. I'll need a team of four. One week to prepare. We'll be in and out in three days.”

“Really?” Geldof said, unable to hide how impressed he was with the deadpan response. “You're not concerned about the whole infection thing?”

“We'll have guns. Anybody tries to bite me, I'll shoot his bloody teeth out through the back of his head.”

“And it'll really just take one week to prepare? I thought it would be a few months. Don't you need to buy weapons, forge certificates, move money through Swiss bank accounts, all that kind of thing?”

“You've been reading
The Dogs of War
, heh?”

When Geldof nodded his assent, Scholzy sighed. “If I had a dollar for every person who read that book and thought they could tell me my business, I wouldn't have to do this for a living. That book was written over thirty years ago. The world's moved on. It'll cost you one million dollars, including equipment and running costs.”

Geldof's grandfather had given him a budget of one and a half million dollars, but he'd been told to talk down the initial quote. However, coming from a culture where you automatically paid the price that was on the sticker in the shops, bartering was as natural to Geldof as putting the toilet seat down after a pee. The steady look in the mercenary's eyes told him he would be wasting his time trying. Plus, he wasn't finished yet. There was something he'd resolved to do, something he hadn't told his grandfather. “There's one more thing. I'm coming with you.”

“No way. We don't take passengers.”

Now it was Geldof's turn not to react. He didn't want the mercenary to see how terrified he was at the prospect of returning to Scotland. In the days since meeting his grandfather, he'd spent his time deep in thought. There was no guarantee these men, good as they were supposed to be, could extract his mum. The mercenaries and Fanny could be killed, and he would never see her again. He didn't even know if she would agree to leave. If she'd decided to play some messianic role in Britain, the only way to get her to depart would be to drag her. That wouldn't exactly lead to a pleasant reunion. If he went with the mercenaries he would have a better chance of seeing her one more time, and, if she really did love him, he could persuade her to leave with them. There was, of course, a strong chance he could get killed, but that was something he chose not to dwell on.

“You take me, or I find somebody who will,” he said.

Scholzy held his gaze for what felt like hours. Geldof had to fight hard not to look away.

“You've got guts,” Scholzy said finally. “I'll give you that. We'll take you for an extra five hundred thousand.”

“Done,” Geldof said.

His grandfather wouldn't be happy that he'd spent the whole budget and would freak out if he found out about Geldof's plan to tag along. Considering Geldof didn't intend to go back to the villa, he didn't really care as long as his grandfather didn't discover his intentions until it was too late. “What happens now?”

“You give us half the fee up front. Then we get planning.”

“That won't be a problem,” Geldof said. “Can you send us your bank details and we'll do a transfer?”

“No banks. You send the money through Hawala.” Scholzy grunted at the look of incomprehension on Geldof's face. “You don't know a damn thing, do you? It's a trust-based transfer system run by the Somalis, beloved of many a jihadi. Your grandfather hands a wad of cash to somebody, tells him where and who for, and then we pick it up. Totally untraceable. The old man knows the drill.”

“So, we have a deal, then?”

“We have a deal.”

Fighting the conflicting emotions of sheer terror at going back to the U.K. and elation at the prospect of seeing his mum, Geldof held out a trembling hand to shake on it.

Scholzy lit a cigarette and blew a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “So, tell me. Are you still a virgin?”

Geldof blushed. “That's a very personal question, and I don't feel comfortable answering it.”

“Ah, so you are a virgin. How about I buy you one of these ladies to get you going, heh? A little gift to seal the deal.”

Before Geldof could respond, Scholzy waved over a woman in a tight, glittery dress that struggled to make it over her curvaceous hips. “Tell the boy your name.”

“Lucy Pussy.”

Scholzy slapped the woman on the behind. “Don't worry, it's just a name. Her pussy isn't as loose as it should be considering the number of cocks that have been up there.”

Lucy rubbed her firm breasts against Geldof's arm and put her hand on his thigh. His body thrummed in response. It would be so easy to say yes and lay his lack of sexual experience to rest. The fact that he was about to put himself in mortal danger and may never get another opportunity made it more enticing. Yet as much as his body urged him to respond in the affirmative, he brushed her hand away.

“The boy's nervous, Lucy,” Scholzy said. “He's a virgin. You have to be gentle.”

Lucy nibbled on his ear, sending fresh waves of electricity coursing down his neck. “I like virgins. It's over fast fast. I'll do you for a special price.”

Even though every hormone-soaked muscle in his body resisted, Geldof pushed back his seat. In all his fantasizing about his first sexual experience, he'd never imagined an impersonal transaction. With Mary and other focal points for his nocturnal fiddling, there had always been one commonality: the object of his affection finally realized what a handsome, smart, and beautiful human being he was and fell into his arms in a fugue of passion. Most likely this would never happen, but better to wait decades for that special moment than toss his cherry away on a seedy encounter that would make him feel as grubby as the wanked-in socks he used to stuff down the bottom of the washing basket in more horny times. None of these romantic sentiments made the mutinous erection he tried to hide by tugging down on his shirt any less throbbing.

“I'd better go back to the hotel now,” he said, signaling Mwangi with a tilt of his head.

Lucy, seemingly unoffended, moved off and draped herself over a short, fat white man who looked as though his seventieth birthday was a distant memory.

“I've got one last question,” Geldof said, keeping his hand firmly on his shirt. “How do you plan to get us in?”

“When you want to get something insanely suicidal done,” Scholzy said with a broad smile, “you call the Russians.”

 

SEVEN
DAYS TO EXCISION

 

13

In this, Lesley's second incarceration while chasing a story, nobody had interrogated her. Considering the last time it happened she'd been reduced to a quivering wreck, this could be chalked up as a positive. Unlike Brown, who needed to find out if she'd backed up any of the information and seemed to delight in tormenting her, these men didn't have to grill her. They saw her meet Jack and heard everything he told her. They would have checked she hadn't contacted anyone and they had her laptop. They most likely also kidnapped Jack. The worse thing was that they'd been there all along as she bashed away on the keyboard, so sure she wasn't repeating the mistakes of the past. She hadn't even noticed the watcher. The ghost of the old, incompetent Lesley hadn't been as thoroughly exorcised as she'd believed.

At least Terry would have reported her disappearance. However, he didn't know she was working on such an incendiary piece, and there were all manner of ways to go missing in New York. He would most likely think she'd been murdered or fallen down a manhole cover. Given her heavy drinking lately, the latter would probably be his chief suspicion. The police would be looking for her, but if they probed too closely she was sure they would get the message from above to back off. She didn't know if Homeland Security, the FBI, the CIA, or the Secret Service were holding her. Not that it mattered. A turkey ended up just as firmly trussed whether it was the farmer or his wife who tied the knots. All she could do was hope a Thanksgiving Dinner wasn't in the offing for this particular bird.

On that front, she wasn't too concerned. The cab had headed up Sixth Avenue before her captor jammed a black canvas bag over her head. That relieved rather than terrified her. The fact they were obscuring her vision meant they didn't want her to know where they were going, which in turn suggested they would release her once the attack was under way and couldn't be stopped. She tried to keep track of their movements through Manhattan, but quickly lost her bearings. Her best guess, once they hit a straight stretch of road, was that they were heading upstate. They drove for what felt like hours. The only break in the monotony came when the car juddered and the driver cursed.

“I think I just hit a coyote,” he said in a New Jersey accent.