Payback (21 page)

Tapping
into another data source headlined ‘Sverdlovsk’, Mitchell read the top line report from 1979 on the accidental release of anthrax in the Urals town. There had been scores of deaths, which TASS had described as being due to an outbreak of E. Coli toxin in a supply of meat. Then he saw another headline that took him back twenty years. It drew him into reading once more of the
poligon,
the firing range on Vozrozhdeniya, an island in the centre west of the 27,000-square-mile Aral Sea. The Soviets had used part of the island—comfortably far away from Moscow—as a test range for experimental viruses and delivery weapons. Hundreds of animals, tethered to posts, had been killed to test killing power and dispersal capabilities.

He
could still vividly recall the first time he had learned about this place. And the satellite photographs the Americans had got of one of the test firings. The imagery of the scene on the ground—the frightened, uncomprehending suffering of the farm animals and apes—was still too strong for him, even after all this time. ‘Avoid Aral Sea caviare’, he had written flippantly on the file at the time, before throwing it gratefully in his out-tray for the next recipient. It had been an act of phoney bravura to hide what, at the time, he considered a worrying and uncharacteristic sign of sentimental weakness in himself. Certainly, he had by then seen and witnessed much worse than this in the field. It was just that some things get through to a man. There was no rhyme or reason why one horror should affect an agent more than another. But that was how it was, and the sight of those bewildered animals had never left him.

So
now, reasoned Mitchell, Barton had teamed a top Western expert, Blacher—someone with practical applications’ experience—alongside Rybinski, and all his Volchov experimental research knowledge. And further married all this to the leading-edge genetic work going on at his own laboratories. Conceivably, all underpinned by the Aruban billions. The man was acting exactly like a foreign power. Yet why? What would he do with his biological weapons? Load them in Russian-built Scud missiles? But aimed at whom?

There
were far too many questions. It was vital that Tom Bates came up with some answers—fast. Because if he failed, the Special Boat Service would within seven days be tasked to destroy the Lisbon plant and make it safe. So reducing immediate tension, but simply pushing the unknown problem back a matter of months, before like a hydra it would rear another head. Time was running out. And corners would have to be cut. Bates would have to take more risks than he would be allowed to realise.

Chapter Eleven

Banto had sensed that a battle was coming. And before it did he needed weapons, and the protection of the spirits. He was pleased with the powerful sturdy longbow. His father would also have been satisfied that his eldest son had learned well from him. It was six feet long, had a powerful sixty-pound pull, and was fashioned with the dead guard’s knife. Steel had made the job fast and easy. It was much, much better than his village knives, made from hard wood or a sharpened cassowary thigh bone. The right kind of strong, flexible species of willow had been easy to find, although the vines needed for the bow string were not quite the same as in his forest. The six
pitpit
bamboo arrows had razor sharp point-heads, fixed with rubber sap. Vital, but time-consuming now, was the careful preparation of the poison for the tips. For this he hacked off the stringy red bark from a
tiki
uba
tree. It looked like the entrails of an animal, but its sap was an anti-coagulant curare that would cause his victims rapidly to bleed to death. It needed hardening by fire, but this presented him with a dilemma. Leave an easy sign for the hunter he knew would follow him, or have his warrior tools? The answer was in the end simple. Above all else, efficient weapons were essential. The risk was necessary.

The
steel also made the slow job of making sparks from flint rock easy—much easier than using slim shafts of wood as fire drills—and after less than an hour the lethal arrow point-heads were ready. The next priority was to catch a pig to kill for dedication to the spirits. During his search at first light for the weapons’ materials, he had looked for signs of pig. Spoor, fresh droppings, mounds of loose earth where they had been rooting for food...but nothing. In his own forest he could hunt for eleven hours some days and still not be successful. A sacrifice was vital, however, because without the spirits’ protection he knew the
dimanples
would let the hunter kill him.

A
three-hour hunt had so far revealed only birds, maddening red-eyed tree frogs and assorted ugly-looking creatures—iguanas, anteaters and fat armadillos. Spider monkeys looked down lazily, howlers let rip their deep-throated roar, and Technicolor toucans and parrots flitted in the forest canopy. But Banto needed a sizeable mammal if he was to please the spirits. There was a fleeting chance of a small brocket deer, but not one good enough to risk a precious arrow.

Then
he heard it. Standing perfectly still, weight forward, balanced on the balls of his wide feet he tuned his ears to this one noise, excluding all else. Whatever it was, the timid animal was not very big. But not small either. No pig, but maybe...Its snout pushed through the vegetation first, sensing something wrong but not finding any obvious warning signals. Nothing moving. No noise. No scent. Banto had as usual when hunting stained himself with mashed vine leaves, blocking out his scent. At last the gibnut appeared, foraging in the small clearing. A nocturnal herbivore, feeding early, it was nosing a particularly pungent root. The creature was brown-spotted, a kind of badger-sized guinea pig. Known locally as a
paca
, it is a regional delicacy. When served to the Queen on her last visit to Belize, the UK tabloid press had great fun describing—erroneously—how she was forced to eat a rat.

To
satisfy the spirits of ancestors, only one arrow is allowed for the kill.

Only
one was needed, as the animal was skewered by the long arrow, writhing, unable to run back to the dark safety of the deep jungle. Banto walked over, dispassionately pushed the arrow in and out and finished it off. Satisfied, he slung the gibnut over his shoulder, its blood dripping down his back, mingling with the green slime of the vine mash.

He
had weapons. He had hunted down atonement for the spirits.

He
was now invincible.

*

She was in no mood to watch the in-flight movie, a soppy romantic comedy. An uninspired, tourist-class vegetarian meal lay untouched in front of her as she forced down another paracetamol to fight off the threat of migraine. The fat man next to her window seat was asleep, snoring wetly, and she needed to get to the toilet. Her pounding head and general nausea were not helping her sudden misgivings about what she was doing. Flying alone into the unknown now seemed a very stupid, spur-of-the-minute idea.

For
a start her boss, the Media Director, had been none too sympathetic to her request for a short-notice holiday. It was still the tail end of her team’s busiest time of the year. TV Buying Group Heads simply don’t take holidays in November, December or early January. And the Metropolis deal was still in the air. Knowing he effectively had no choice, he had agreed without much grace to her few days off, while making it clear that she had just cashed in a lot of her hard-earned Brownie points with him. This thing with her father was in danger of taking over her life, and serious though the bigger issues appeared, this loss of face at work did worry her. A woman alone, the job was her only anchor.

The
stewardess caught her eye and intuitively understood. From her pallor and the analgesic bottle she knew that Lydia needed to get out. Waking the grumpy man for her, she asked if Lydia needed anything after she had climbed free.

‘
Thanks,’ she said, gratefully, giving her a woman-to-woman smile. ‘There is one thing. Does this flight have those air-phone things? Or are they only for the people up front?’

‘
This is charter. There
is
no up front! Come and find me in the galley when you’re ready. I’ll show you.’

Tom
was signing the hotel bill when her call came. He was taken aback to hear her voice. ‘Lydie! Great to...But how the hell did you know I was here?’ he asked. Elkins had just gone out to the limo, and he knew they had to hurry to make the Belize flight.

‘
I got your itinerary from your office. Before I left London.’ She felt better hearing his voice. It seemed at last that there was someone on her side. Someone she could talk to about things; someone with whom she could be weak and uncertain.

‘
Before you left... Where are you? On business somewhere? Sunning yourself in Cannes with the rest of your crazy industry?’

‘
I wish...I’m on a flight—to Belize.’

Tom
’s immediate reaction was that she was flying out to see him. Great as their early relationship was, he would be disappointed and alarmed if she now turned out to be too clingy. Too serious too soon. ‘Why? What brings you out?’ he asked cautiously.

She
noticed. ‘I can’t stay away from you, lover boy. I want to have your babies, grow old and die with you,’ she replied with an edge.

Not
sure how to respond, he stammered, ‘That’s what all the girls say. But...’

‘
But. But—
seriously
...’ she cut in, finishing for him. While understanding his initial panic, she had not liked it much. ‘Hard as it is to believe, I’m not actually flying halfway around the world to see you. There’s a big, older guy with touched-up fair hair out there. Answers to the name of Father.’

‘
When do you get in?’ Lydia could be unnecessarily aggressive at times.

‘
Sevenish.’

‘
Does he know you’re coming?’

‘
No. And don’t tell him. I want to surprise—or rather confront him. But I’d like to see you first, Tom. Can you get away tonight?’

‘
Late, probably. Yes. Yes, of course.’ The spikiness of their conversation now began to melt away for both of them. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘
I’ve booked a room at the Hotel San Ignacio. The travel agent said it was the best in town.’

Tom,
like Elkins, was staying in one of the luxury cabanas on Barton’s ranch, a couple of kilometres outside San Ignacio. ‘I know it. On Buena Vista Street, up from the police station. It’s good. Nice and high. And cool. How are you getting out there from the airport?’

‘
They booked me a driver. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Come over to the hotel any time you can get away. Any time, no matter how late. I won’t be going anywhere.’

‘
Great. Look forward to seeing you. We’ll make a night of it,’ he said enthusiastically, hanging up.

The
ache in her head became more intense again. No chance, she said in frustration to the dead line.
No
bloody chance of that.

*

Peregrine Mitchell was also caught by an unexpected phone call just before leaving for his plane.

‘
I’ve just got your postcard.’ It was Neil Gaylord. Mitchell’s short CX report had just a few minutes earlier pinged on his screen.

‘
That was damned quick! I’ve only just sent it.’

‘
If you look at your watch, you’ll notice it’s also damned early over here.’

‘
Well, I don’t get to fill out anyone’s appraisals these days, so don’t expect any house points,’ Mitchell replied. ‘Anyway, what is it? You didn’t call to praise my literary style.’

‘
It’s just that now I know you’ve had a positive result, we have to talk. Real quick when you’re back,’ Gaylord said tersely.

‘
Something up?’

‘
Cousin David’s cutting up rough. Won’t wait long for us.’

‘
Understood. I’m on a red-eye. I’ll call in to see you as soon as I get back.’ Mitchell hung up, said goodbye to the Consul General and got in the car they had laid on.

So.
Now Israel was also pressing for early action. Briefed almost certainly by the Americans who kept little going on in the region from them. No doubt they would be threatening to go it alone to eliminate any threat from Barton if Britain did not move soon. After the fears they had for years of biological Scud attacks from Iraq, now Syrian chemical weapons, and the worry about Iran’s theoretical nuclear capability, he certainly did not blame them. But it all added massively to the urgency for a fast result.

*

The humidity was unbearable but Bolitho resisted the temptation to wipe the sweat from his face. It’s the body’s cooling system working efficiently, he told himself, as he pressed on through the now increasingly dense forest. The pilot had, as instructed, flown over first thing with the excellent news that the native had not moved at all since yesterday and was still just circling around a small clearing. He must have found a base that suited him, at least for a night or two. Armed with a precise compass bearing, Bolitho was now within a three-hour march of his prey.

Struggling
over long-fallen trees, he fully recognised the strain he was putting on his failing constitution. Not only his gut ached, his varicose veins felt about to burst with the heat and his heart was thumping dangerously. Every mile felt like ten. Despite all this, however, his earlier years of training had taught him a fluid technique which still enabled him to set a pace fit but inexperienced younger men found hard to better. There were, he prided himself, still a few more fights left in that hulking old frame.

Looking
up to the high canopy, he was watching patches of bright blue turning to grey, thick cloud. With regular checks on the compass, he forced his way through the mangled roots and rotting vegetation, his hands one minute grabbing tangled vines—some barbed and painful—and the next disgusting, fleshy fungi, its sweet odour nauseous, or a large twig that became a stick insect. Land leeches seemed to fall like blood-sucking hail, especially from the large ferns near streams where animals drink. Epiphytes flourished everywhere, piggy-backing other species like mistletoe on an English apple tree. From time to time he rested, eating figs and drinking vine water.

When
at long last he estimated he was within a few kilometres of Banto’s last sighting, he began to look more carefully for sign from his track. It was half an hour until he thought he had some success, before deciding the trampled vegetation was made by an animal. The disturbed forest-floor vegetation was that of a quadruped. But it was footprints twenty minutes later, in the soft soil of a stream bank, that first gave him cast-iron evidence that Banto had passed that way. The bootless spoor showed the characteristic wide, splayed prints of a native. Having at last picked up the spoor, the task now was to keep the trail when the few footprints soon disappeared into the forest. At first his practised eye was easily able to keep it hot, spotting fresh scuff marks on the moss enveloping rotting logs. And in the densest patches, Banto had left clear holes, not yet closed by the forest. But when cover became a little lighter, it was again very difficult to pick up the direction. That was when he had to rely on spotting cobwebs broken above animal-head height, cobwebs already being frantically spun back, but with still enough damage for his sharp eyes to read like a rambler’s footpath sign. He did lose the track completely once, however. But confident of his direction, he did a cast, backtracking and sweeping in a five-metre circle from the last evidence of sign. An unusual scattering of dry broken leaves, and a clean break in a twig—all things he had unaccountably missed earlier—suddenly screamed at him, and he was hot on the trail once more.