Ghost Flight (6 page)

Raff curled his fingers around his beer bottle, knuckles white. ‘Lungs half full of water. Dead men don’t breathe. Go figure. Plus, there’s more.’ He glanced at Feaney, the bottle twisting under his tightening grip.

Feaney reached below the table and pulled out a plastic folder. He removed a photo, sliding it across to Jaeger.

‘Police gave it to us. We went to the morgue anyway, to double-check. That mark; that symbol – it was carved into Andy’s left shoulder.’

Jaeger stared at the image, an icy chill running up his spine. Cut deep into his former second-in-command’s skin was a crudely stylised eagle. It was standing on its tail, cruelly hooked beak thrown to its right and wings stretched wide, talons grasping a bizarre circular form.

Feaney reached forward, stabbing a finger at the photo. ‘We can’t place it. The eagle symbol. Doesn’t seem to mean much of anything to anyone. And trust me, we’ve asked.’ He glanced at Jaeger. ‘Police argue it’s just some arbitrary pseudo-military image. That Smithy did it to himself. Self-harm. Part of the case they’re building for suicide.’

Jaeger couldn’t speak. He’d barely registered Feaney’s words. He was unable to tear his eyes away from that image. Somehow the sight of it eclipsed even the horrors he’d suffered in Black Beach Prison.

The longer he stared at that dark eagle symbol, the more he felt it burn into his brain. It summoned terrible memories hidden deep within him.

It was so alien yet so familiar somehow, and it threatened to drag those long-buried memories back to the surface, kicking and screaming.

8

Jaeger grabbed the heavy bolt-croppers and clambered over the fence. Luckily, the security at east London’s Springfield Marina never had been too hot. He’d left Bioko with the clothes he stood up in. He’d certainly had zero time to grab his keys – including those that opened the gates leading into the marina.

Still, it was his boat and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t break into his own home.

He’d brought the bolt-croppers at a local store. Before leaving Raff and Feaney he’d asked them – plus Carson, Wild Dog Media’s MD – for forty-eight hours. Two days in which to decide if he was up for taking over from where Smithy had left off – leading this seemingly ill-fated expedition into the Amazon.

But despite the time he’d asked for, Jaeger knew he really wasn’t kidding anyone. Already, they had him: for so many reasons, he just couldn’t refuse.

First off, he owed Raff. The big Maori had saved his life. Unless Pieter Boerke’s mercenary forces had liberated Bioko in record time, Jaeger would have perished in Black Beach Prison – his passing unnoticed by a world from which he had so utterly withdrawn.

Second, he owed Andy Smith. And Jaeger didn’t leave his friends hanging. Not ever. There was no way Smithy had taken his own life. He intended to triple-check, of course. Just to be absolutely certain. But he sensed that his friend’s death had to be linked to that mystery air wreck lying deep in the Amazon. What other reason –
what other motive
– was there?

Jaeger had an instinctive feeling that Smithy’s killer was amongst the expedition team. The way to find them had to be to join their number and flush them out from the inside.

Thirdly, there was the aircraft itself. From the little that Adam Carson had been able to tell him over the phone, it had sounded intriguing. Irresistible. Like the Winston Churchill quote Feaney had attempted – it absolutely was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.

Jaeger found the draw of it utterly compelling.

No. He was already decided: he was going.

He’d asked for the forty-eight hours for entirely different reasons. There were three visits he intended to make; three investigations to undertake – and he would be doing so without breathing a word to anyone. Maybe the last few years had left him deeply distrustful. Unable to put his faith in anyone any more.

Maybe the three years in Bioko had rendered him something of a loner; too at home with his own company.

But maybe it was also better –
safer
– that way. It was how he would survive.

Jaeger took the path that skirted around the marina, his boots crunching through the slick, rain-soaked gravel. It was late afternoon by now, dusk settling over the marina, cooking smells drifting across the still winter water.

The scene – the brightly painted boats, smoke curling lazily from funnels – was all so out of kilter with the leafless, washed-out February greys of the canal basin. Three long years. Jaeger felt as if he’d been away a lifetime.

He came to a halt at the mooring two before his own. The lights were on in Annie’s barge, the old wood-burning stove puffing and smoking wheezily. He climbed aboard, poking his head unannounced through the open hatchway that led into the galley.

‘Hi, Annie. It’s me. You got my spare keys?’

A face looked up at him, eyes staring fearfully wide. ‘
Will
? My God . . . But where on earth . . . We all thought . . . I mean, we were worried that you’d . . .’

‘Died?’ Jaeger flashed a smile. ‘I’m no ghost, Annie. I’ve been away. Teaching. In Africa. I’m back.’

Annie shook her head, confused. ‘My God . . . We knew you were a still-waters-run-deep type. But three years in Africa . . . I mean, one day you were here. The next gone, without a word to anyone.’

There was more than a little injury in Annie’s tone, not to mention resentment.

With his grey-blue eyes and dark hair worn longish, Jaeger was handsome in a chiselled, slightly gaunt and wolfish way. There was barely the faintest streak of silver to his head of hair, and he looked younger than his years.

He’d never shared many personal details with the others on the marina – Annie included – but he’d proven to be a reliable and loyal neighbour, not to mention one who was always on the lookout for his fellow boaties. The community prided itself on being close. That was part of what had drawn Jaeger to it; that, plus the promise of having a home base with one foot in the heart of London, the other in the wide-open countryside.

The marina lay on the River Lee, in the Lee Valley which formed a ribbon of green that stretched north into open meadows and rolling hills. Jaeger would return here after a day’s work on the
Global Challenger
and pound the riverside paths, running the tension out of his system and some much-needed fitness back in.

He’d never had much need to cook: Annie was forever pressing him with home-made goodies, and he particularly loved her smoothies. Annie Stephenson: single, early thirties, pretty in a skittish, hippyish way – he’d long suspected she had a crush on him. But Jaeger had been resolutely a one-woman man.

Ruth and the boy: they were his life.

Or at least they had been.

Annie – much as she’d proven a wonderful neighbour, and much as he’d enjoyed teasing her about being such a hippy – had never stood a chance.

She rummaged around and handed him his keys. ‘I still can’t believe you’re back. I mean – it’s great to have you back. That’s what I mean. You know, Tinker George – he was just about to grab your bike and claim if for himself. Anyhow, the stove’s hot.’ She smiled. Nervous, but tinged with a hint of hope. ‘I’ll bake a celebratory cake, shall I?’

Jaeger grinned. He could look so young and boyish on those rare moments when the darkness fell away from him. ‘You know something, Annie – I’ve missed your cooking. But I’m not going to be around for long. Few things I need to get sorted first. Plenty of time for a slice of cake and a catch-up after.’

Jaeger stepped ashore, passing by Tinker George’s barge. He allowed himself a wry smile: typical of the cheeky bastard to be eyeing-up his motorbike.

Moments later he climbed aboard his own vessel. He kicked away the piles of fallen leaves and bent at the entrance. The thick security chain and padlock were still very much in place. It was about the last thing he had done – chaining up the barge – before he’d left London, catching a flight to the ends of the earth.

He gripped the chain in the bolt-cropper’s jaws, tensed his aching limbs, and snap! – it fell away. He slipped Annie’s spare key into the main lock, and pulled open the split doors that gave access to the interior. His was a Thames barge. Wider and deeper than your average narrowboat, they tended to offer the space to indulge in a little luxury.

But not Jaeger’s.

The interior was strikingly sparse. Utterly functional. Devoid of all but a few personal effects.

One room formed a makeshift gym. Another a spartan bedroom. There was a tiny kitchen, plus a living area with a few worn rugs and cushions scattered across the wooden floor. But the majority of the interior was given over to desk space, for it was from here that Jaeger preferred to work whenever the hectic commute into head office – the
Global Challenger
– could be avoided.

He didn’t linger for long. He grabbed a second set of keys hanging on a nail and stepped outside. Lashed in the prow of the boat and firmly sheeted over was his Triumph Tiger Explorer. The motorbike was an old friend. He’d bought it second-hand to celebrate passing SAS selection a good decade or more ago.

He untied the sheeting and rolled it aside. He bent over a second security chain, cut it, and was just about to straighten up when he detected a faint noise; just the barest hint of a heavy footfall in wet, greasy gravel. In an instant he’d wrapped a loop of the thick chain around his hand, leaving a generous two feet hanging free, the heavy padlock swinging on one end.

He spun around, the makeshift weapon poised like a medieval ball-and-chain.

A giant figure loomed in the darkness. ‘Thought I’d find you here.’ The eyes flicked down to the chain. ‘Figured on a warmer welcome, though.’

Jaeger let the tension drain out of his bunched muscles. ‘Fair enough. Brew? I can offer you three-year-old milk and stale tea bags.’

They stepped inside. Raff glanced around the barge. ‘Blast from the past, mate.’

‘Yeah. We spent some good times here.’

Jaeger busied himself over the kettle, then handed Raff a mug of steaming tea. ‘Sugar’s hard as rock. Biscuits’re soft as shit. Presume you’ll take a pass.’

Raff shrugged. ‘Tea’s good.’ He glanced out the open door at the Triumph. ‘Planning on taking a spin?’

Jaeger was giving nothing away. ‘You know how it is: live to ride.’

Raff delved into his pocket and handed Jaeger a slip of paper. ‘Smithy’s family – their new address. No point going to the old one. They’ve moved twice in the past three years.’

Jaeger’s face remained an unreadable mask. ‘Any particular reason? The moves?’

Raff shrugged. ‘He was making good money working for us. For Enduro. He kept upsizing. Needed the extra room. Planning on having another kid, so he said.’

‘Not exactly suicidal behaviour.’

‘Not exactly. Need a hand with the bike?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

The two men manoeuvred the Triumph across a makeshift gangplank and on to the riverside path. Jaeger could feel that the tyres had gone half flat. They’d need a good burst of air. He returned to the boat and fetched his biking gear. Waterproof Belstaff jacket. Boots. Thick leather gloves. His open-faced helmet. Lastly he grabbed a scarf and an ancient pair of what looked like Second World War flying goggles.

Then he pulled out a drawer, turned it upside down and ripped off the envelope that was taped to the underside. He checked inside: £1,000 in cash, just as he’d left it.

Jaeger pocketed the money, locked up and rejoined Raff. He plugged in an electric compressor and reinflated both tyres. He’d left the bike with a solar charger wired to it. Even in the depths of winter it provided enough of a trickle charge to top up the battery. The engine turned over a few times, then roared into life.

Jaeger wrapped the scarf around his lower face, pulled on his helmet, then dropped the goggles over his eyes. They were special to him. Precious. His grandfather, Ted Jaeger, had worn them during the Second World War when serving with some sneaky-beaky outfit. He’d never spoken much about it, but from the photos that had graced his walls, it was clear that he’d taken his open-topped jeep into a whole lot of remote, battle-torn terrain.

Jaeger often wished he’d asked more about it when Grandpa Ted was still alive; about what exactly he’d got up to during the war. And after the last few hours, Jaeger found himself regretting not having done so many times over.

He climbed aboard the Triumph, eyeing Raff’s empty mug. ‘Leave that on the boat, will you.’

‘Yep.’ Raff hesitated, then reached out a massive paw, placing it on the bike’s handlebars. ‘Mate, I saw that look in your eyes when you clocked Smithy’s photo. Wherever you’re going, whatever you’re planning – be careful.’

Jaeger stared at Raff for a long moment. But even as he did, his gaze seemed turned inwards. ‘I’m always careful.’

Raff tightened his hold on the bars. ‘You know what – at some point you’ve got to start trusting someone. None of us knows what you went through. We wouldn’t even pretend to. But we are your mates. Your brothers. Don’t ever forget that.’

‘I know.’ Jaeger paused. ‘Forty-eight hours. I’ll be back with an answer.’

Then he blipped the throttle, accelerated across the darkened gravel and was gone.

9

Jaeger made only the one stop on the drive west – at a Carphone Warehouse to pick up a pay-as-you-go smartphone. He’d kept the Explorer at a steady 80 mph on the M3, but it was when he hit the A303 turn-off and the smaller Wiltshire roads that he finally began to immerse himself in the ride.

During the long motorway slog his mind had drifted. Andy Smith. Friends like that didn’t come easy. Jaeger could count those he had – Raff included – on the fingers of the one hand. And now there was one fewer, and Jaeger was damned if he wasn’t going to find out exactly how and why Smithy had died.

Those Brazilian anti-narcotics training missions had been some of the last on which they had served together. Jaeger had left the military shortly thereafter, to found Enduro Adventures. Smithy had stayed in. He’d argued that he had a wife and three young kids to provide for, and he couldn’t risk losing his regular military pay.