Burning Angels (30 page)

Or at least that was what Konig had told them.

The sun had not long risen, and they were just an hour or so out from the airport. They were intent on getting the errand done and dusted as soon as possible, for they planned an unscheduled stop on their return. They had prize information to pass to the local poaching gang, information that would earn them good money.

As the Reaper’s laser beam secured ‘lock-on’ with the Land Rover, so the calipers holding a GBU-12 Paveway laser-guided bomb released their grip. The sleek gunmetal-grey projectile dropped away from the UAV’s wing and plummeted earthwards, its homing system locking on to the hot point of the laser reflecting off the Land Rover’s upper surface.

The fins on the rear section folded out to better perform their ‘bang-bang’ guidance function. Adjusting minutely to every move made by the vehicle, they steered the smart bomb in a snaking flight path, constantly correcting its trajectory.

According to Raytheon, the Paveway smart bomb’s manufacturers, the GBU-12 yielded a circular error probable of 3.6 feet. In other words, on average the Paveway struck within less than four feet of the hot point of the laser. As the Land Rover Defender barrelling through the African bush was five feet wide by thirteen long, there should be ample room for error.

Bare seconds after its release, the Paveway cut through the dust cloud thrown up by the vehicle.

By chance, this bomb wasn’t quite as smart as the majority of its brother munitions. It ploughed into the African earth three feet wide of the Land Rover, and just off its front nearside wing.

It didn’t particularly alter the outcome of the kill mission.

The Paveway detonated in a massive punching explosion, the blast wave driving a storm of jagged shrapnel into the Land Rover and flipping it over and over, as if a giant hand had grabbed it and was pounding it into oblivion.

The vehicle rolled several times, before coming to rest on its side. Already, hungry flames were licking around the twisted remains, engulfing those unfortunate enough to have been riding inside.

Some eight thousand miles away in his Washington DC office, Hank Kammler was hunched over a glowing computer screen, watching a live feed of the Reaper strike.

‘Goodbye, Mr William Jaeger,’ he whispered. ‘And good riddance.’

He reached for his keyboard and punched a few buttons, pulling up his encrypted email system. He sent a quick message, with the video from the Hellfire hit as a low-resolution attachment, then clicked his mouse and fired up IntelCom, a secure and encrypted US military version of Skype. In essence, via IntelCom, Kammler could place untraceable calls to anyone anywhere in the world.

There was the buzzing of IntelCom’s distinctive ringtone before a voice answered.

‘Steve Jones.’

‘The Reaper strike has gone ahead,’ Kammler announced. ‘I’ve just emailed you a video clip, with GPS coordinates embedded in the footage. Take a Katavi Lodge vehicle and go check it out. Find whatever remains and ensure it’s the right bodies.’

Steve Jones scowled. ‘I thought you said you wanted to torture him for as long as possible. This robs you –
us
– of revenge.’

Kammler’s expression hardened. ‘It does. But he was getting close. Jaeger and his pretty little sidekick had found their way to Katavi. That’s more than close enough. So I repeat: I need to know that their remains are within the wreckage of that vehicle. If they’ve somehow escaped, you’re to track them down and finish them.’

‘I’m on it,’ Jones confirmed.

Kammler killed the link and leaned back in his chair. On one level it was a pity to have put an end to the torture of William Jaeger, but sometimes even he tired of the game. And it was fitting, somehow, that Jaeger had died in Katavi – Hank Kammler’s favourite place in all the world.

And for what was coming – his sanctuary.

Steve Jones stared at his mobile, a frown scrunching up his massive, brute features. The twin Otter light aircraft droned onwards across the African savannah, buffeted by pockets of hot, riotous air.

Jones cursed. ‘Jaeger dead . . . What’s the point of bloody being here? Sent to scrape up some roasted body parts . . .’

He became aware that someone was watching him. He glanced towards the cockpit. The pilot – some hippy-dippy-looking Kraut called Falk Konig – was staring at him intently. He had clearly been listening in on the phone call.

The veins in Jones’s neck began to throb, and under his shirt his muscles bunched aggressively.

‘What?’ he growled. ‘What are you staring at? Just do your job and fly the bloody aircraft.’

61

Jaeger shook his head in amazement. He still couldn’t get over it. ‘Did you ever see that coming?’

Narov settled back into her seat and closed her eyes. ‘See what? There have been any number of surprises over the past few days. And I am tired. We have a long flight ahead of us and I would like to sleep.’

‘Falk. Being Kammler’s son?’

Narov sighed. ‘We should have seen it coming. We clearly did not listen properly to the Falkenhagen briefing. When SS General Hans Kammler was recruited by the Americans, he was forced to change his name to, amongst other things, Horace Konig. His son changed his name back to Kammler to reclaim the family’s glorious heritage. General Kammler’s grandson clearly didn’t feel it was quite so glorious, and decided to revert to Konig; Falk Konig.’

She cast a withering glance at Jaeger. ‘As soon as he introduced himself we should have known. So, sleep. It might sharpen you up a little.’

Jaeger grimaced. Back to the old Irina Narov. In a sense he regretted it. He’d rather liked the Katavi version.

They’d chartered a flight in a light aircraft, routed direct from Makongolosi’s tiny provincial airport direct to Nairobi. On touchdown, they planned to track down Simon Chucks Bello, which would mean heading into the chaotic and lawless world of the Nairobi slums.

Narov tossed and turned under her airline blanket. The small plane was being buffeted by the turbulence, and sleep just wouldn’t come. She flicked on her reading light and pressed the call button. The hostess appeared. They were the only passengers, this being a private charter.

‘Do you have coffee?’

The hostess smiled. ‘Of course. How do you take it?’

‘Hot. Black. Strong. No sugar.’ Narov glanced at Jaeger, who was trying to sleep. ‘Bring two cups.’

‘Of course, madam. Right away.’

Narov nudged Jaeger. ‘You, I think, are not asleep.’

Jaeger grumbled. ‘Not now I’m not. I thought you said you wanted to rest.’

Narov frowned. ‘I have too much going on in my head. I have ordered some—’

‘Coffee.’ Jaeger completed the sentence for her. ‘I heard.’

She jabbed him harder. ‘So wake up.’

Jaeger gave up trying to rest. ‘Okay. Okay.’

‘Tell me: Kammler, what is he up to? Let’s put the pieces of the puzzle together and see what we have got.’

Jaeger tried to shake the sleep from his head. ‘Well, first up we go find the kid and verify his story. Two, we head back to Falkenhagen and get access to their resources and expertise. Everything and everyone we need to take this further is there.’

The coffee arrived. They sat quietly, savouring the brew.

It was Narov who broke the silence. ‘So how exactly do we go about finding the boy?’

‘You saw Dale’s message. He knows people in the slums. He’ll meet us there and together we’ll find the kid.’ Jaeger paused. ‘That’s if he’s still alive, if he’s willing to talk, and if he is for real. A lot of ifs.’

‘So what is Dale’s connection to the slums?’

‘A few years back he volunteered to teach slum children camera operating. He teamed up with a guy called Julius Mburu, who grew up in the slums. He was a small-time gangster, but then he saw the light. These days, he runs the Mburu Foundation, teaching orphans video and photography skills. Dale’s got him searching for the kid, using his ghetto network.’

‘He is confident we will get to him?’

‘Hopeful. Not confident.’

‘It’s a start.’ Narov paused. ‘What did you make of Falk’s videos?’

‘His home movies?’ Jaeger shook his head. ‘That his daddy is a sick bastard. Imagine holding your son’s tenth birthday party in a BV222 buried beneath a mountain. Bunch of old men teaching Falk and his friends Hitler salutes. Kids done up in shorts and lederhosen. All those Nazi flags around the walls. No wonder Falk turned against him.’

‘The BV222 – it is Kammler’s shrine,’ Narov remarked quietly. ‘His shrine to the Thousand-Year Reich. Both the one that never was and the one he hopes to usher into existence.’

‘Sure looks that way.’

‘And what about finding Kammler’s island? If the kid is for real, how do we track its location?’

Jaeger took a gulp of coffee. ‘Tough one. Within a six-hundred-mile radius of Nairobi there are hundreds of possibilities. Maybe thousands. But my guy Jules Holland is on to it. They’ll get him to Falkenhagen and he’ll start digging. Trust me, if anyone can track that island, the Ratcatcher can.’

‘And if the kid’s story is true?’ Narov pressed. ‘Where does that leave us?’

Jaeger stared into the distance – into the future. Much as he was trying to downplay it, he couldn’t keep the worry and tension from his voice.

‘If the kid is right, Kammler’s got the
Gottvirus
refined and tested. All the kids who weren’t inoculated died. That means it’s back up to a near one hundred per cent lethality. It
is
the God Virus once more. And as all the inoculated kids survived, it looks as if he’s sorted his antidote. All he needs now is a weapon delivery system.’

‘That’s if he intends to use it.’

‘From what Falk told us, the signs are that he will.’

‘So how close d’you think he is?’

‘Falk said the kid escaped six months ago. So Kammler’s had at least that long to work on delivery. He’d need to ensure the virus is infective via airborne means, so that it’ll spread as far and fast as possible. If he’s cracked that, his vision is nearing completion.’

Narov’s face darkened. ‘We’d better find that island. And I mean like yesterday.’

62

They’d ordered an in-flight meal and it proved surprisingly good. Pre-packed, frozen and microwaved – but for all that eminently edible. Narov had gone for the seafood selection – a platter of smoked salmon, prawns and scallops, served with an avocado salsa.

Jaeger watched curiously as she proceeded to push the food around her plate, rearranging it with seemingly exacting precision. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her do this segregation act. She didn’t seem able to start eating until each type of food had been moved into a place where it couldn’t touch – contaminate? – the others.

He nodded at her plate. ‘Looks good. But what’s with quarantining the smoked salmon from the salsa? You worried they’re going to fight?’

‘Foods of differing colours should never touch,’ Narov replied. ‘The worst is red on green. Like salmon on avocado.’

‘Okay . . . but why?’

Narov glanced at him. The shared mission – the sheer emotional intensity of the past few days – seemed to have softened her hard edges a little.

‘The experts say I am autistic. High-functioning, but autistic nonetheless. Some people term it Asperger’s. I am “on the spectrum”, they say – my brain is wired differently. Hence red food and green cannot touch.’ She glanced at Jaeger’s plate. ‘But I don’t much care for labels, and frankly, the way you shove your food around like a cement mixer makes me want to be sick. Rare lamb speared on a fork with green beans: I mean,
how can you do that?
’

Jaeger laughed. He loved the way she’d turned it right back on him.

‘Luke had a friend – his best buddy, Daniel – who was autistic. The Ratcatcher’s son, in fact. Great kid.’ He paused guiltily. ‘I said “had a friend”. I meant “has”. Luke
has
a friend. As in present and still very much with us.’

Narov shrugged. ‘Using the wrong tense doesn’t affect your son’s fate. It won’t determine whether he lives or dies.’

Were Jaeger not so used to Narov by now, he could have punched her. The comment was typical: lacking in empathy; a bull-in-a-china-shop kind of remark.

‘Thanks for the insight,’ he shot back, ‘not to mention the sympathy.’

Narov shrugged. ‘You see, this is what I do not understand. I thought I was telling you something you needed to know. It is logical and I thought it would be helpful. But from your viewpoint – what? I have just been rude?’

‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘Many autistic people are very good at one thing. Exceptionally gifted. They call it savant. Autistic savant. Often it is maths, or physics, or prodigious feats of memory, or perhaps artistic creativity. But we are often not very good at many other things. Reading how other – so-called normal – people tend to think isn’t our strong point.’

‘So what’s your gift? Beyond tact and diplomacy?’

Narov smiled. ‘Hardly. I know I am hard work. I understand that. It is why I can seem so defensive. But remember, to me
you
are very hard work. For example, I do not understand why you were angered by my advice about your son. To me it was the obvious thing to say. It was logical and I was trying to help.’

‘Okay, I get it. But still – what’s your gift?’

‘I excel at one thing. I am truly obsessed by it. It is hunting. Our present mission. At its most basic you could say
killing
. But I do not see it that way. I see it as ridding the earth of unspeakable evil.’

‘Mind if I ask a further question?’ Jaeger prompted. ‘It’s kind of . . . personal.’

‘For me, this entire conversation has been very personal. I do not normally speak to people about my . . . gift. You see, that is how I think of it. That I am indeed gifted. Exceptionally so. I have never met another person – a hunter – as gifted as I am.’ She paused and eyed Jaeger. ‘Until I met you.’

He raised his coffee. ‘I’ll drink to that. That’s us – a brotherhood of hunters.’

‘Sisterhood,’ Narov corrected him. ‘So, the question?’