Burning Angels (31 page)

‘Why do you speak so oddly? I mean, your voice has a kind of odd, flat, robotic ring to it. Almost like it’s devoid of feeling.’

‘Have you ever heard of echolalia? No? Most people haven’t. Imagine when you are a child, you hear words spoken but
all
you hear is the words. You do not hear the stresses, the rhythm, the poetry or the emotion of the language – because
you can’t
. You do not understand any of the emotional inflexions, because that is not how your brain is wired. That is how I am. It was via echolalia – mimicking but not understanding – that I learned to talk.

‘Growing up, no one understood me. My parents used to sit me in front of the TV. I heard the Queen’s English spoken, plus American English, and my mother also used to play Russian movies for me. I didn’t differentiate between the accents. I didn’t understand not to mimic – to echo – those on screen. Hence my accent is a mishmash of many ways of speaking, and typical of none.’

Jaeger speared another succulent chunk of lamb, resisting the temptation to do the unthinkable and add some green beans. ‘So what about the Spetsnaz? You said you served with the Russian special forces?’

‘My grandmother, Sonia Olschanevsky, moved to Britain after the war. That was where I was raised, but our family never forgot that Russia was the mother country. When the Soviet Union collapsed my mother took us back there . I got most of my schooling there and went on to join the Russian military. What else was I to do? But I never felt at home, not even in the Spetsnaz. Too many stupid, mindless rules. I only ever truly felt at home in one place: the ranks of the Secret Hunters.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Jaeger announced. ‘The Secret Hunters – may our work one day be complete.’

It wasn’t long before the food lulled both of them to sleep. Jaeger awoke at some stage to find Narov snuggled close. She had her arm linked through his, her head on his shoulder. He could smell her hair. He could feel the soft touch of her breath upon his skin.

He realised that he didn’t particularly want to move her. He was growing used to this closeness between them. He felt that stab of guilt again.

They’d gone to Katavi posing as a honeymooning couple; they were leaving looking like one.

63

The battered-looking Boeing 747 taxied into the cargo terminal at London’s Heathrow airport. It was remarkable only in that it lacked the usual row of porthole like windows running down the sides.

That was because air freight isn’t normally alive, so what need would it have for windows?

But today’s cargo was something of an exception. It was very much alive, and made up of a bunch of very angry and stressed-out animals.

They’d been cooped up bereft of any daylight for the whole of the nine-hour flight, and they were not happy. Enraged cries and whoops rang out all down the 747’s echoing hold. Small but powerful hands rattled cage doors. Big, intelligent primate eyes – brown pupils ringed with yellow – flickered this way and that, searching for a means to escape.

There was none.

Jim Seaflower, the chief quarantine officer at Heathrow Terminal 4, was making sure of that. He was issuing orders to get this shipment of primates moved across to the big, sprawling quarantine centre that was tucked away to one side of the rain-swept runway. The business of primate quarantine was taken very seriously these days, and for reasons that Seaflower understood well.

In 1989, a shipment of monkeys out of Africa had landed at Washington DC’s Dulles airport on a similar flight. Upon arrival, the cages of animals were trucked from the airport to a laboratory – a ‘monkey house’ as those in the trade called it – in Reston, one of the city’s upmarket suburbs.

Back then, quarantine laws were somewhat less stringent. The monkeys started dying in their droves. Laboratory workers fell sick. It turned out that the entire shipment was infected with Ebola.

In the end, the US military’s chemical and biological defence specialists had to move in and ‘nuke’ the entire place, euthanising every single animal. Hundreds and hundreds of diseased monkeys were put to death. The Reston monkey house was rendered into a dead zone. Nothing in there – not the smallest microorganism – was allowed to live. Then it was sealed off and abandoned pretty much for ever.

The only reason the virus hadn’t killed thousands – maybe millions – of people was because it wasn’t transmitted via aerial means. Had it been more flu-like, ‘Reston Ebola’, as it became known, would have ripped through the human population like a viral whirlwind.

As luck would have it, the Reston Ebola outbreak was contained. But in the aftershock, far tougher and more stringent quarantine laws were introduced – ones that Jim Seaflower had to ensure were observed at Heathrow airport today.

Personally, he felt that a six-week quarantine period was somewhat draconian, but the risks very likely justified the new laws. And either way, it gave him and his staff decent, reliable, well-paid employment, so who was he to complain?

As he observed the crates of animals being unloaded from the aircraft – each with the words ‘Katavi Reserve Primates Limited’ stamped across the side – he figured that this was an unusually healthy batch. Normally a few animals died in transit; the stress of the journey saw to that. But none of these little guys had succumbed.

They looked full of beans.

He’d expect nothing less of Katavi Reserve Primates. He’d

overseen dozens of KRP shipments, and he knew the company to be a class act.

He leaned down to look into one of the cages. It was always best to get a sense of a shipment’s general health, so you could better manage the quarantine process. If there were any sick primates, they’d need to be isolated, so the others didn’t fall ill. The silver-haired, black-faced vervet monkey inside retreated to a far corner. Primates don’t tend to enjoy close-up eye contact with humans. They view it as threatening behaviour.

This little guy was a fine specimen, though.

Seaflower turned to another cage. This time, as he peered inside, the occupant charged at the bars, pounding them angrily with his fists and baring his canines. Seaflower smiled. This little guy was certainly full of fight.

He was about to turn away when the animal sneezed, right into his face.

He paused, and gave it the visual once-over, but it seemed to be perfectly healthy otherwise. Probably just a reaction to the cold, damp, moisture-laden London air, he reasoned.

By the time the seven hundred primates had been transferred to their quarantine pens, Jim’s working day was done. If fact he’d stayed an extra two hours to oversee the last of the shipment.

He left the airport and drove home, stopping for a beer at his local. It was the usual crowd, as always enjoying a chat with their drinks and their snacks.

Totally unsuspecting.

Jim bought a round of drinks. He wiped the beer foam off his beard with the back of his hand, and shared some packets of crisps and salted peanuts with his mates.

From the pub he drove home to his family. He greeted his wife at the door with a beery hug, and was just in time to kiss his three young children goodnight.

In homes across the London area, Jim’s Heathrow staff were doing likewise.

The following day, their kids went to school. Their wives and girlfriends travelled here and there: shopping, working, visiting friends and relatives. Breathing. Everywhere and always – breathing.

Jim’s buddies from the pub went to their places of work, taking tubes, trains and buses to the four corners of this massive, bustling metropolis. Breathing. Everywhere and always – breathing.

All over London – a city of some eight and a half million souls – an evil was spreading.

64

Steve Jones moved surprisingly fast for such a massive beast of a man. Using fists and feet, he delivered a series of machine-gun-swift blows, smashing into his adversary with a fearsome force and leaving little time for recovery, or to fight back.

Sweat poured off his semi-naked torso as he weaved, ducked and whirled, striking again and again, merciless despite the searing heat. Each blow was more violent than the last; each delivered with a ferocity that would shatter bone and shred internal organs.

And with each strike from fist or foot, Jones imagined himself cracking Jaeger’s limbs; or better still, beating his oh-so-well-bred face to a bloodied pulp.

He’d chosen a patch of shade in which to train, but even so the midday stupor made such intense physical activity doubly exhausting. He thrilled to the challenge. Pushing himself to the limit – that was what gave him a sense of self; of his own stature. It always had done.

Few were the men who could deliver – or take – such extreme and sustained physical punishment. And as he’d learned in the military – before Jaeger had got him thrown out for good –
train hard, fight easy
.

Finally he called a halt, grabbing the heavy RDX punchbag that he’d strung from a convenient tree and bringing it to a standstill. He hung on to it for a second, catching his breath, before he swung away and headed for his safari bungalow.

Once there, he kicked off his boots and laid his sweaty bulk on the bed. No doubt about it, at Katavi Lodge they knew how to do luxury. Shame about the company: Falk the hippy-dippy shit, and his band of tree-hugging jungle-bunny locals. He flexed his aching muscles. Who the hell was he going to drink with this evening?

He reached across to the side table, grabbed a packet of pills and swallowed several. He hadn’t stopped taking the performance-enhancing drugs. Why would he? They gave him an edge. Made him unstoppable. Unbeatable. The military had been wrong. Dead wrong. If the SAS had listened, they could all be taking them now. Via the drugs, they could have made themselves into superheroes.

Just as he had. Or so he believed.

He propped himself on the pillows, punched the keys of his laptop and called up IntelCom, dialling in Hank Kammler’s details.

Kammler was quick to answer. ‘Tell me.’

‘Found it,’ Jones announced. ‘Never knew a Land Rover could do such a fine impression of a crushed sardine can. Completely burned out. Ruined.’

‘Excellent.’

‘That’s the good news.’ Jones ran a massive hand across his close-cropped hair. ‘Bad news is, only two bodies inside, and both were deep-fried locals. If Jaeger and his woman were in that vehicle, they escaped. And no one could escape from that.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Sure as eggs is eggs.’

‘That’s a yes, is it?’ Kammler snapped. Sometimes he found this Englishman’s phraseology – not to mention his uncouth manner – insufferable.

‘Affirmative. Roger that. It is.’

Kammler would have found the thinly veiled sarcasm infuriating, were it not for the fact that this man was about as good as it got in terms of enforcers. And right now, he had need of him.

‘You’re on the ground. What do you think happened?’

‘Simple. Jaeger and his woman didn’t leave in that vehicle. If they had, their body parts would now be scattered across the African bush. And they’re not.’

‘Have you checked – is one of the Lodge’s vehicles missing?’

‘One Toyota is gone. Konig says they found it parked up at some provincial airport. One of his guys is bringing it back tomorrow.’

‘So Jaeger stole a vehicle and escaped.’

Well done, Einstein
, Jones mouthed. He hoped Kammler hadn’t caught the gist. He had to be careful. Right now the old man was his sole employer, and he was getting paid big bucks to be here. He didn’t want to blow it just yet.

He had his eyes on a little piece of paradise. A lakeside house in Hungary, a country where he figured they had the good sense to hate foreigners – non-whites – almost as much as he did. He was banking on Kammler’s little gig earning him enough to achieve that dream.

More to the point, with Jaeger having survived the Reaper strike, there was still every chance that Jones might get to kill him. Plus the woman. He’d love nothing more than to mess her up, right in front of Jaeger’s very eyes.

‘Okay, so Jaeger lives,’ Kammler announced. ‘We need to turn this to our advantage. Let’s up the psychological warfare. Let’s hit him with some images of his family. Let’s wind him up and lure him in. And when we’ve wound him in far enough, we’ll finish him.’

‘Sounds good,’ Jones growled. ‘But one thing: leave that last part to me.’

‘You keep delivering, Mr Jones, and I may just do that.’ Kammler paused. ‘Tell me, how would you like to pay a visit to his family? They’re being held on an island not so far away from where you are now. We can fly you out there direct. How d’you think your buddy Jaeger would react to a nice picture of you with his wife and child? “Hello from an old friend.” That kind of thing.’

Jones smiled evilly. ‘Love it. It’ll finish him.’

‘One thing. I run a monkey export business from that island. I have a high-security laboratory there, for researching some fairly nasty primate diseases. Some places are strictly off limits – the labs for developing cures for those pathogens.’

Jones shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t give a damn if you were deep-freezing African babies’ body parts. Just get me out there.’

‘I keep the location of this venture a strict secret,’ Kammler added, ‘to deter my would-be business rivals. I’d like you to do the same.’

‘Got it,’ Jones confirmed. ‘Just fly me to wherever his family are, and let’s get this show on the road.’

65

Over the years, Nairobi had earned the nickname ‘Nairobbery’, and with good reason. It was a hectic and lawless kind of a place; a place where anything could happen.

Jaeger, Narov and Dale edged into the downtown chaos, honking bumper-to-bumper through streets crammed with cars and battered
matatus –
garishly painted minibus-taxis – plus people heaving cumbersome handcarts. Somehow, in spite of the desperate crush, the riotous mass of humans and machines continued to function.

Just.

Jaeger had spent a good deal of time in this city, for it was a transit point for British military training grounds in desert, mountain and jungle warfare. Yet he’d never once set foot in the teeming Nairobi slums, and for good reason. Any foreigners –
mzungus
– dumb enough to stray into the forbidden city tended to disappear. Down there in the ghetto, a person with a white skin wouldn’t stand much of a chance.