Close Call (13 page)

‘Oh him. The French have been looking for him for years. He stole a lot of cash and set himself up as an arms dealer. If he’s reappeared it will have set the cat among the pigeons. He used to work with Liz Carlyle’s boyfriend Martin Seurat; Seurat’s sworn to get him.’

‘Well, apparently they have got him. They pinned him down in a hotel in Berlin and they’re hoping to find out why he was meeting this guy in Paris’ – he waved at the photograph of the young Arab – ‘and what he went to Berlin for.’

Five hours later Miles Brookhaven was driving the Embassy SUV along the road through fields and small apple orchards. The sun was setting over the line of hills in a clear pink and red sky.

‘No clouds tonight, thank God,’ remarked Miles. ‘Last time I came along here there was a downpour. I couldn’t see a thing. Had to stop dead in the middle of the road.’

‘Hmm,’ said Bruno, who was sitting uneasily sideways in his seat, keeping an eye on the road behind them and looking from side to side.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Miles. ‘I’m sure it’s OK. I told you, he’s got this road monitored. It feels safe to me.’

‘Hmm,’ said Bruno again.

Miles drove on another few miles and then Bruno, who was peering out of the front windscreen, said, ‘I thought you said there were no clouds tonight. What’s that then?’ He pointed to what looked like a small black cloud low in the sky ahead of them.

‘It looks like smoke. It’s just about where
Donation
’s compound is. Perhaps they’re burning rubbish.’ But as they got nearer the cloud seemed to separate itself and gradually it became a moving mass of birds.

‘Vultures,’ said Bruno. ‘Something’s died.’

‘Probably a cow or a buffalo. We’ll soon find out. We’re less than a mile away from the farm now.’

As they came up to the walls of the compound, another cloud of flapping vultures rose up to join those circling in the sky. Miles turned the car to go under the arch and then slammed on the brakes.

‘My God,’ shouted Bruno. ‘What the hell’s that?’ A body clad in what had been white robes was swinging in the arch, dangling from a rope round its neck. Its face was a raw mass of bloodied flesh and its eyes had been pecked out. The legs, swinging in mid-air, ended in shiny black leather shoes.

‘It’s
Donation
’s son.’ Miles’s voice shook.

‘Turn round,’ yelled Bruno. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘
Donation
may be inside. He may need our help.’

‘If he’s in there,’ said Bruno, ‘he’s long past our help. Can’t you see? It’s a warning. Go on, get out or we’ll be next.’

Suddenly Miles jerked into action. With squealing tyres throwing up sand and stones he turned the car and drove off, back down the road they had come along.

Bruno was leaning forward now, holding on to the dashboard. ‘I thought you said they had security on this road.’

‘That’s what
Donation
told me and I believed him. I thought they knew what they were doing. It all seemed very casual but I figured they were the best judge of what was safe. I bet it’s that bloody French surveillance operation that’s blown it. The guy in Paris knew he was being followed, so he knew there’d been a leak and they’ve traced it back to
Donation
and his son.’

They fell silent, each thinking over the implications of what had happened. Miles drove fast, bouncing the heavy car over the ruts in the road, while Bruno kept a sharp eye on the fields to each side. The light was fading now as Bruno turned to look over his shoulder at the road behind them.

‘How much further?’

‘About six miles.’

‘Well, get a move on. There’s company behind us.’

‘I know. It came out of a field track just back there.’

A battered-looking pickup truck was approaching at high speed. As it got nearer two men in black balaclavas stood up in the back, each waving a heavy weapon in one hand.

Miles had his foot on the floor but the pickup truck was gaining on them. ‘Hold on,’ shouted Miles, ‘I’m gonna knock them off,’ and as the pickup drew alongside them, he turned the wheel of the SUV hard to the left.

But the truck driver had anticipated the manoeuvre and with a burst of acceleration managed to block their sideways move. There was a loud bang as metal hit metal, and the two vehicles each did a sweeping one-eighty and came to a halt side by side, slewed along the road.

The two armed men leapt down and pulled open Miles’s door.

‘Get out. Both of you,’ said one in an accent straight from the streets of south London.

The two climbed out of the SUV, and the man with the London accent motioned with his rifle for them to move away from the car. ‘Get down on your knees,’ he ordered, and when Bruno hesitated he pointed the gun at his head. ‘Get down, I said.’

As they knelt on the sandy road, Miles glanced at Bruno. He had clasped his hands behind his head and was staring straight ahead. Miles knew he was waiting for the shot. Then they’ll shoot me, he thought. There was silence for a moment. A breeze had picked up, bringing a faint smell of petrol from the pickup truck. Behind them one of the men moved close; Miles could hear him breathing, noisily and fast. This is it, thought Miles, trying to come up with something meaningful for his final thought.

But then the Londoner spoke again. ‘This is a warning. Keep out of our business and go home or you’ll end up like that corpse at the farm. Now get back in that car and bugger off.’

And as Miles got slowly to his feet, he saw the man and his colleague leap back into their pickup truck. The engine started, the truck turned in a cloud of dust and drove back along the road the way it had come.

Miles stood with Bruno in the road for a moment, looking after the rapidly disappearing truck.

‘What on earth was that all about?’ said Bruno, his voice shaking very slightly. ‘Why did they let us go?’

‘Are you complaining?’ asked Miles with a tremulous laugh. ‘Perhaps they’ve got too much going on to want two dead diplomats on their hands.’

Bruno said, ‘Maybe that’s it. We’ve been lucky this time. Let’s get the hell back to your Embassy.’

Chapter 20

‘I need a drink,’ said Miles as he parked the dusty SUV in the car park underneath the US Embassy. ‘Come on up. I’ve got a bottle of Scotch in my cupboard.’

As he was getting the bottle and glasses out, Miles’s eye fell on a piece of paper propped up on his desk. He read its message out loud:
The Ambassador would like to see you in his office as soon as you get back.

Looking at Bruno he said, ‘Something must have happened. I have a regular meeting with him on Monday mornings and he never asks to see me otherwise.’

‘Surely he won’t still be in his office at this hour,’ said Bruno. ‘Sit down and drink up. You’ve deserved it.’

But Ambassador Thomas B. Rodgers III, not a man to leave his post when there was still business to do, was at his desk.

‘Come in, young man,’ he called out as Miles appeared in his outer office. ‘I’ve had a complaint about you.’

Ambassador Rodgers was a State Department professional. Sana’a was a tough posting, potentially dangerous, requiring diplomatic skills; not the sort of plum Embassy that presidents gave as a reward to their business friends and supporters. Thomas B. Rodgers had been round the block a few times, served in more junior posts in some tough places, and now in his mid-fifties had made it to Ambassador. He was used to dealing with the CIA.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Miles’s voice was calm but his heart lurched. He hadn’t yet made up his mind what, if anything, he was going to say about the events of this evening. He knew for certain that if the Ambassador found out that not only had he nearly got himself kidnapped or killed, but that he had led a British colleague into the same danger, there’d be a request to Langley for his withdrawal. Yet surely the news couldn’t have got back to the Embassy so quickly.

‘It concerns Minister Baakrime. You told me that you were hoping to use him as a source of information on arms supplies. Well, you should know that your contact with him has been noticed by the Yemenis, and I’ve been warned that we should steer clear of him. Other members of the government don’t trust him. He’s been making too much money on the side.’ He waved an exasperated hand. ‘I know, I know, most of them are at it in one way or another, but he’s been making more than other people.’

‘I see,’ said Miles, wondering what else the Ambassador had been told.

‘I don’t know how much you know about him, but apparently he’s working with the Russians.’

‘With the Russians?’ Miles was taken off guard and his surprise showed. ‘No. I didn’t know that. What’s he doing for them?’

‘I wasn’t told. But probably much the same as you were hoping he’d do for you. Whatever it is, he’s visited the Caucasus twice in the past year. Dagestan apparently. God knows what for, but whatever it is it seems to be making Minister Baakrime a lot of money. I’d be grateful if you’d steer clear of him from now on. I think he may shortly find himself in prison.’

If he’s not already dead, thought Miles, remembering the hideous sight of the Minister’s son, dangling in the entrance to the farm.

Chapter 21

It was hard work trying to extract any useful ­information from Milraud. It had needed frequent reminders from Martin that Annette’s treatment depended on his cooperation to get him to fill in any of the details; even then he could only be described as a reluctant witness.

Eventually Liz had got him to admit that the Arab had got in touch with him via a contact in Yemen – a man who had put business his way before. He did not know his identity, he’d said, or who the Arab was – he never asked such questions. The request had been for comparatively small arms, as he’d said at the beginning, and he had been told these were for use by rebel groups in the Arab Spring countries. He had assumed this meant Syria, but he had not asked. It was not his concern. The Arab had said that the arms were to be delivered to Dagestan, one of the former Soviet republics, from where they would be moved on to their destination. He’d quoted an inflated price for the deal and there had been a bit of haggling, but he was very pleased with the final bargain they’d struck.

When Liz asked if he was not surprised that the delivery was to be to Dagestan, he’d said that nothing surprised him. He had both delivered arms to Dagestan before and bought arms there. When she asked more about the black man he’d met in Berlin, all he would say was that the Arab had asked him to meet the man – who he guessed must be arranging the onward shipment, though he couldn’t be sure of this as the man was so jumpy they had had no significant conversation.

As Martin drove her to the Gare du Nord to catch the last Eurostar to London, Liz was mulling over all this.

‘You know,’ she said after a while, ‘I don’t believe a quarter of what Milraud said. The trouble is, I’m so tired I can’t work it out.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised to hear you say that. Milraud’s not one to give up easily. It sounded unlikely to me too; I’m sure some vital parts are missing. I just don’t believe he wanders around the world having meetings with people he doesn’t know anything about. He wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has, with me on his tail, if that’s how he did business.’

‘I know. And I can’t understand why the Arab Spring rebels would want to buy small weapons at a high price from someone like him. Surely they are getting all they need from Iran and Hezbollah and the like.’

‘Why don’t you stay the night and we can talk about it in the morning?’

‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Peggy rang to say there was some new information about the black man. One of the Special Branches think they know who he is.’

‘Let Peggy deal with it,’ he said, as he stopped the car at the station.

She touched his hand on the wheel. ‘No. I want to do it myself. I want to be sure Monsieur Milraud isn’t going to get away with anything now we’ve got him. For your sake, as well as my own.’

She kissed him on the cheek, jumped out of the car and was gone into the station before he could say anything.

Liz got up early in the morning and was at work by eight. Peggy Kinsolving, another early riser, was already there at her desk in the open-plan office.

‘Here’s the number to call,’ Peggy said, handing Liz a piece of paper. ‘It’s DS Halliday from Cheshire Special Branch. He said he’s fairly sure he knows the black man.’

Halliday wasn’t in his office until ten, but when he answered the phone he sounded cheerful and eager to help. ‘I’ve had your photo. I’m pretty certain I know your guy. It looks like Lester Jackson, who owns a club in Wilmslow. I’ll send you one of our pictures of him, so you can see what you think. He’s well known to me and my colleagues.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘He’s a tried and true bad guy, involved in trafficking drugs and women. But the frustrating thing is we’ve never managed to pin anything on him – not a single thing. The only trouble he’s been in that I know of was years ago. Some teenage scrapes, and one arrest for burglary – but he was underage, and I don’t think he even saw the inside of a young offenders’ institution. He’s never done time as an adult.’