Burning Angels (28 page)

But standing against the window facing Jaeger was the main threat: two seriously tooled-up, mean-looking individuals. Seasoned poachers – elephant and rhino killers – no doubt.

One had a belt of machine-gun ammo slung around his torso, Rambo style. In his hands he cradled the distinctive form of a PKM – the Russian equivalent of the British general-purpose machine gun. Perfect for cutting down elephants out on the wide-open plains, but not a great choice of weaponry for close-quarters combat.

The second figure held an RPG7 – the archetypal Russian-made rocket launcher. Great for blowing up vehicles, or blasting a helicopter out of the sky. Not good for stopping Will Jaeger in the close confines of a cramped room.

Part of the reason for the lack of space in here was the ivory piled in one corner. Dozens of massive tusks, each ending in a jagged, bloodied rosette where the poachers had hacked them off the animals they had slaughtered.

Fuzzt! Fuzzt!

Jaeger nailed the tooled-up poachers with head shots, right between the eyes. As they fell, he riddled them with six further rounds, three to each torso – the shots driven as much by rage as by any desire to ensure they were dead.

He caught a flash of movement as the big Lebanese went for a gun.
Fuzzt!

A scream rent the room as Jaeger pumped a bullet into the fat man’s gun hand, blowing a jagged hole through his palm. Then he pirouetted and nailed the African in his sights, putting a bullet through his hand too, at close to point-blank range.

That hand had been scrabbling about on the table, trying to gather up and hide a pile of US dollar notes, which were now getting soaked with his blood.

‘Have Beirut. Repeat: have Beirut,’ Jaeger reported to Narov. ‘All hostiles down, but check room second on right with TV. Three hostiles – check dead.’

‘Got it. Moving into corridor now.’

‘Once you’re done, secure building’s entryway. In case we missed any or they called for reinforcements.’

Jaeger stared down his gun barrel at two faces wide-eyed with shock and fear. Keeping his trigger finger at the ready and holding the Thread Cutter one-handed, he reached behind him with the other and grabbed his pistol, bringing it forward. He let the Thread Cutter drop on to his front, suspended on its sling, then brought the P228 into the aim. He needed one hand free for what was coming.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny black rectangular device. It was a Spy Chest Pro Minicam – a tiny, ultra-compact, idiot-proof video recording device. He placed it on the table, making a show of switching it on. Like most Lebanese businessmen, the dealer was sure to speak reasonable English.

Jaeger smiled, but his features remained indecipherable behind the stocking mask. ‘Show time, gentlemen. You answer all my questions, you might just get to live. And keep your hands on the table, where I can see them bleed.’

The fat Lebanese shook his head disbelievingly. His eyes were awash with pain, plus the glazed look of distress. But still Jaeger could tell that his spirit of resistance – his arrogant belief in the unassailability of his own position – wasn’t completely broken.

‘What in the name of God?’ He gasped out the question through teeth clenched in pain. His accent was thick, his English broken, but it was still quite intelligible. ‘Who in hell are you?’

‘Who am I?’ Jaeger snarled. ‘I’m your worst nightmare. I’m your judge, jury and probably your executioner too. You see, Mr Georges Hanna, I decide if you live or if you die.’

In part Jaeger was playing an act here – one designed to strike utter fear into his adversaries. Yet at the same time he was consumed by a burning fury at what these people had done; at the carnage they had wrought.

‘You know my name?’ The Lebanese dealer’s eyes bulged. ‘But are you insane? My men. My guards. You think they will let you leave this place alive?’

‘Corpses don’t tend to put up much resistance. So start talking, unless you want to join them.’

The dealer’s face contorted into a snarl. ‘You know something – screw you.’

Jaeger didn’t exactly relish what he was about to do now, but he needed to force this bastard to talk, and quickly. He had to break his spirit of resistance, and there was only one way to do so.

He twitched the P228’s barrel down and to the right a fraction, and shot the dealer in the kneecap. Blood and shattered bone spattered across the safari suit as the dealer tumbled off his chair.

Jaeger strode around, leant down and smashed the butt of the P228 into the big man’s nose. There was a sharp crack of breaking bone, and a stream of blood spurted down the front of his white shirt.

Jaeger dragged him to his feet by his hair, and thrust him back into his chair. Then he drew his Gerber knife and slammed it point down into the guy’s remaining good hand, nailing it to the table.

He swivelled his gaze across to the local poacher chief, his eyes blazing murder from behind the distorted veil of the mask.

‘You watching?’ he hissed. ‘’Cause you mess around, you’ll get some of the same.’

The poacher was frozen with terror. Jaeger could see where he had pissed himself. He figured he had these guys exactly where he wanted them now.

He raised the gun until the dark maw of the barrel was levelled at the dealer’s forehead. ‘You want to live – start talking.’

Jaeger fired off a series of questions, delving further and further into the details of the ivory-smuggling business. Answers spilled forth: routes out of the country; destinations and buyers overseas; names of the corrupt officials facilitating the smuggling at every level – airports, customs, the police, a handful of government ministers, even. And finally, the all-important bank account details.

When he had milked the Lebanese man for all he could, he reached forward, switched off the SpyChest camera and pocketed it.

Then he turned around and shot Mr Georges Hanna twice between the eyes.

The big Lebanese keeled over, but his hand was still nailed to the table. His weight pulled it with him, overturning it, his body ending up crumpled beneath it and slumped against the heap of plundered ivory.

Jaeger turned. The local poacher leader was suffering from a full-on adrenal freeze now. All energy had drained from his system, and his mind had little control over his body any more. The fear had shut his brain down completely.

Jaeger bent until his face was spitting-distance close. ‘You’ve seen the fate of your buddy there. Like I said – I’m your worst nightmare. And you know what I’m going to do with you? I’m going to let you live. A privilege you never afforded any rhino or elephant.’

He smashed the butt of the pistol across the man’s face, twice. An expert at Krav Maga – a self-defence system developed by the Israeli military – Jaeger knew only too well how a blow delivered by your own hands could end up hurting you almost as much as your opponent.

Think teeth embedded in knuckles, or broken toes resulting from kicking a hard, unyielding part of your adversary, like his skull. It was always better to use a weapon, one that shielded your body from the blow. Hence his use now of the pistol butt.

‘Listen carefully,’ he announced, his voice laced with a sinister quiet. ‘I am going to let you live so that you can go give your pals a warning. You tell them from me.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the Lebanese man’s corpse. ‘That is what will happen to you –
all of you
– if one more elephant dies.’

Jaeger ordered the man to his feet and marched him down the corridor, to where Narov was standing guard at the entranceway.

He shoved the sorry figure at her. ‘This is the guy who has orchestrated the slaughter of several hundred of God’s most beautiful creatures.’

Narov turned her cold eyes on him. ‘He is the elephant killer? This man?’

Jaeger nodded. ‘He is. And we’re taking him with us, at least for part of the way.’

Narov drew her knife. ‘One breath out of place – the slightest excuse – and I will carve your guts out.’

Jaeger stepped back inside and made for the building’s kitchen. There was a stove of sorts: a burner ring attached to a gas bottle. He reached down and turned the gas to the ‘on’ position. It hissed reassuringly. Then he stepped outside, grabbed the lighted storm lantern and placed it midway along the building’s hallway.

As he hurried from the building into the darkness, a thought struck him. He was well aware that their recent actions had been way outside the strict rule of law. He wondered why it didn’t bother him. But after witnessing the elephant slaughter, the boundaries between right and wrong had become irrevocably blurred.

He tried to figure out if this was a good thing, or whether it was a reflection of how his moral compass was being led astray. Morality had become a blur in so many ways. Or maybe it was all crystal clear. In a sense he’d never seen with such clarity. If he listened to his heart, buried deep under the pain that was his constant companion, he had few doubts that what he’d done was right.

If you joined forces with the devil and targeted the defenceless – as the poaching gangs had – then you had to expect retribution.

57

Jaeger reached forward and powered down the SpyChest camera. He, Narov and Konig were seated in the privacy of Konig’s bungalow. They’d just watched Georges Hanna’s confession, from bloody beginning to bloody end.

‘So there is it,’ Jaeger remarked, handing the camera to Konig. ‘You’ve got it all. What you do with it is your decision. But either way, that’s one African poaching cartel closed down for good.’

Konig shook his head in astonishment. ‘You weren’t kidding – you nailed the entire network. That’s a game-changer in terms of conservation. Plus it’ll help the local communities involved in the wildlife here to thrive.’

Jaeger smiled. ‘You opened the door; we just oiled the hinges.’

‘Falk, you played a key part,’ Narov added. ‘And to perfection.’

In a way Konig
had
played a key role. He’d guarded Jaeger and Narov’s back, keeping watch over their getaway vehicle. And as they’d driven away from the scene, the gas-filled building had erupted into a ball of flame, incinerating all evidence in its wake.

Konig scooped up the SpyChest gratefully. ‘This – it will change everything.’ He eyed them for a second. ‘But I feel as if there must be some way I can repay you. This – it is not your war. Your battle.’

Now was the time. ‘You know, there is one thing,’ Jaeger ventured. ‘The BV222. The warplane beneath the mountain. We’d like to see inside it.’

Konig’s face dropped. He shook his head. ‘Ah, this . . . this is not possible.’ A pause. ‘You know, I have just taken a call from the boss. Herr Kammler. From time to time he checks in. I had to report to him your . . . transgression. Straying into his domain beneath the mountain. He wasn’t best pleased.’

‘Did he ask if you’d arrested us?’ Jaeger queried.

‘He did. I told him it was impossible. How do I arrest two foreign nationals for doing something that isn’t a crime? And especially when they are paying guests of the lodge. It was plainly ridiculous.’

‘How did he react?’

Konig shrugged. ‘As always. Very angry. Ranted and raved for a while.’

‘And then?’

‘And then I told him you had hatched a plan to take out the poaching gang; that you were fellow wildlife lovers. True conservationists. At which stage he seemed to relax a little. But he reiterated: the BV222 is off limits to all but himself and . . . one or two others.’

Jaeger fixed Konig with an inquisitorial look. ‘Which others, Falk? Who are they?’

Konig averted his eyes. ‘Ah . . . just some people. It doesn’t matter who.’

‘
You
have access to that warplane, don’t you, Falk?’ Narov queried. ‘Of course you do.’

Konig shrugged. ‘Okay, yes, I do. Or at least I have had. In the past.’

‘So you can fix a brief visit for us?’ she pressed. ‘Quid pro quo and all that.’

By way of an answer, Falk reached forward and pulled something from his desk. It was an old shoebox. He hesitated for a second, before handing it to Narov.

‘Here. Take it. Video tapes. All filmed inside the BV222. Several dozen of them. I expect there is not an inch of that aircraft that has not been covered.’ Konig raised one shoulder apologetically. ‘You gave me a film to die for. This is the best I can offer in return.’ He paused, then glanced at Narov with a tortured look. ‘But please – one thing. Do not watch them until you are gone.’

Narov held his gaze. Jaeger could see that there was real compassion in her eyes. ‘Fine, Falk. But why?’

‘They are . . . somehow personal, as well as being of the seaplane.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t watch until you leave. That is all I ask.’

Jaeger and Narov nodded their consent. Jaeger didn’t doubt Konig’s honesty, and he was dying to see what was on those tapes. They’d stop somewhere on the drive out and spin through a few of them.

Either way, they knew now what lay beneath the mountain. They could always return, parachuting in there in force if need be, and fight their way on to that warplane.

But first, sleep. He craved rest. As his body came down from the massive rush – the buzz of the assault – he felt waves of deadening fatigue wash over him.

Tonight, doubtless, he’d sleep like the dead.

58

It was Narov who woke first. In an instant she’d grabbed her P228 from beneath the cushions. She could hear a desperate hammering on the door.

It was 3.30 a.m. – not the best of times to have been dragged out of such a deep and leaden sleep. She stepped across the room and wrenched the door open, thrusting her gun into the face of . . . Falk Konig.

Narov brewed coffee as a visibly distressed Konig went about explaining why he was there. Apparently, when he’d reported their trespassing into the caves, Kammler had asked to see some of the video surveillance footage. Konig had thought nothing of it; he’d emailed over some clips. He’d just received a call.

‘The old man seemed very agitated; overwrought. He wants you detained for twenty-four hours, minimum. He said that after what you achieved with the poachers, you were the kind of people he could use. He said he wants to recruit you. He told me to use all means necessary to make sure you do not leave. If necessary, to disable your vehicle.’