Payback (29 page)

Time
became elastic as he stood there, palms sweaty, the smooth stone feeling like wet soap. Rybinski’s footfall became louder outside on the terracotta tiles, but then so did the blessed bleeper call signal. He had not imagined it! The footsteps stopped...and then began again, becoming fainter. Tom opened the door and, seeing the corridor now empty, shot out. Light-headed with relief, he was almost back in reception before realising the pestle was still in his hand—gripped tightly like some comfort blanket. He almost dropped the thing in fright, then shoved it into his jacket pocket.

Gary,
his cynical Texan friend at the embassy, had been absolutely right. He
had
been crazy to put himself at risk like this for the likes of Mitchell. Amateur spying was for fools. And after this, Tom now wanted out at the first possible opportunity.

*

The tone of Noel Penny’s voice told Barton there was even more bad news to come that day. He had just got back to his suite from a very late dinner, having spent most of the evening giving yet more statements to the Portuguese police about Blacher. ‘How are things out there?’ the American went on, dreading having to tell Barton, and delaying the moment for a few seconds longer.

‘
Pretty good, on the technical side.’ Penny knew nothing about the biological weapons’ development, believing the group’s Oeiras lab was simply working in a different, highly confidential specialism of biotechnology to himself. In the way he knew Stow did on xenotransplantation.

‘
Good. I’d really like to visit sometime, and get to learn more of what we’re doing out there.’

‘
Sure. We’ll fix it. Sometime...But what is it?’ Barton pressed. ‘It’s almost three in the bloody morning here.’

‘
Sorry. But I thought I should ring. I’m getting worried.’

‘
Is it Bolitho? Is he back yet with that damned native?’

‘
No. But that’s another concern. It’s been almost a week now, and his last contact with the pilot was pretty worrying. Nothing since. It doesn’t look good.’

‘
But that’s not why you’ve called me.’

‘
No. It’s Lydia.’ He closed his eyes. ‘She’s missing.’

‘
What!’

‘
She went out in one of the Jeeps, before lunch. For a quick cruise up to the mountains. But she hasn’t yet returned. It’s night-time now, and she’s nowhere in town. She may be perfectly safe, but I felt I should tell you.’

‘
Was anyone with her? You didn’t let her go out alone?’ Barton thundered. ‘In an open Jeep!’

‘
It seems that’s what she wanted. I was working in the lab, as usual,’ Penny replied defensively.

‘
Are the police looking?’

‘
Yes. I called them. I hope that’s OK. We’ve also got our own men out, and the chopper on stand-by for first light.’

‘
Is there any other news?’

Penny
had been dreading this. ‘Some people questioned in town saw her around twelve-thirty. Driving towards the bridge and out of town. And a few said there was a black guy sitting beside her.’

Barton
’s heart lifted a little. ‘Then it could be a kidnapping? If so, we pay. No negotiating. We just give them what they want. Fast. Money doesn’t matter. No arguments with the police. And no cock-ups. You hear?’

‘
Sure. But I don’t think that’s it. You won’t want to hear my real worry. But here it comes. The description I’ve heard of the black guy sounded familiar.’

‘
What are you saying?’

‘
The description was of someone young. Not a local. Very short. Semi-naked...’

‘
Who?’

‘
James—I think it could have been Banto.’

Barton
went silent as he thought through the shattering implications of this. The way they had treated the man. Kidnapped, beaten, drugged and systematically drained him of his blood. His state of mind could only be imagined. And his hatred for the Bartons would be all-consuming. He remembered now the way the native had stared at him. It had been pure malevolence. If Lydia was in his hands, she was as good as dead.

‘
I’m flying straight back. Stop at nothing to get her back. Whatever it takes. Hunt him down and kill him.’ Then he hung up, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Suddenly, becoming the richest man in Europe was empty and hollow. But as a wounded animal, he was now even more dangerous. Even more unpredictable. Even angrier at the stinking world.

*

Perry Mitchell put down the files and looked at Neil Gaylord. ‘Is this your first operational involvement?’

‘
On something of this scale.’

‘
Well, the thing to remember is this. Once all the political decisions are out of the way, these things simply boil down to logistics. We gather as much intelligence as we need—more usually.
We
seize the initiative and then, the permutations and probabilities on what might follow are all predictable. Just like in those war games you’ll have played at the Fort on your training.’

‘
No room in your book for battlefield flair? Bravery? Charismatic leaders?’

‘
No room for recklessness, or big egos, if that’s what you mean. Take the SBS plan for Oeiras. Amphibious night landing and withdrawal in the bay, vehicular support to an emergency alternative pick-up two kilometres towards Carcavelos. Road blocks at each end of town, to close the coast road for the twelve minutes they need. The two night guards restrained and moved to a safe distance. DIS scientists inspect the plant, remove bench cultures for study, and direct the troops where to locate the high-temperature incendiaries to vaporise the vats. A button job, electronically detonated from the sea. No civilian buildings in the immediate area of the plant. In and out, twelve minutes. It all seems straightforward, doesn’t it? But what are the permutations? Let’s hear your ideas. Run through what could go wrong. “Think evil”, as the SAS boys say.’

Gaylord
thought hard. ‘There’s a force twelve blowing. The communications system goes down. Or they’ve been tipped off to expect us. More guards than normal. Armed, and they exchange fire. Or activate an alarm, also waking up the town. A passing police or military patrol challenges the road blocks. The scientists need a
lot
more time. The incendiaries fail to detonate. How’s that for starters?’

‘
Pretty good. And do any of those scenarios call for unpredictable heroics? No. Just pre-planning, training and repeated rehearsal drills. That’s why the best special forces people are as ordinary as hell. Not to say boring. Pros don’t rehearse until they get something right. They rehease until they can’t get it wrong.’

Gaylord
had to agree these guys could be boring, having been stuck with some of them in assorted pubs and messes over the years. ‘What about Belize?’

Mitchell
looked grim. ‘They’ve been told this is a hard-arrest job. I want these drugs barons and their goons arrested. For deportation and trial. That’s their brief. Left to me, I’d go for air intercepts for those on short hops over from the States, Mexico and Colombia, with the long-haul people picked up on arrival at the airport or
en
route
from Belize City to San Ignacio. What I wouldn’t do is what their ops planning groups come up with. Let them all get to Barton’s ranch and then mount a raid. Security there will be head-of-state standard. And we know he’s hired a team of mercenaries, with serious firepower.’

‘
The SAS argue that taking them in one location minimises risk. You don’t buy that?’

‘
No. That’s not what I’m saying. My way
would
be more fragmented, and risk frightening one or more of the others away. But then arresting Barton and just one or two of the others is more than good enough. We’re going to freeze their funds under UK management anyway. I don’t need a clean sweep. But that’s what they’re shooting for, the bloody moon, and I don’t like it. These drugs barons will have their own serious protection with them, in addition to that laid on by Barton. There’s no way this can be a clean, hard-arrest operation given that background. It’s got all the hallmarks of exactly the carnage I want to avoid. The Gadarene swine.’

The
SAS ops planners had come up with an early evening assault plan, for the first night of the Alliance meeting. They figured that the minders and mercenaries would still be getting in each other’s way, sniffing each other out, and all of them still disorientated. No line of command. Barton himself would be completely preoccupied with his VIPs. They would use a Trojan horse tactic to get the ten-man assault team through to the inner security circle at the ranch. Tom Bates had briefed them on a huge firework display planned for that first evening to impress the guests. The SAS ‘team job’ would replace the Californian pyrotechnic crew, due to arrive earlier that day. Sporting the right paperwork and equipment, courtesy of the CIA, and showing up in a large truck, specially equipped with false floors and walls, five of the SAS team would spend the afternoon setting up, leaving the rest, with their own no less pyrotechnic equipment, hidden in the truck.

‘
Can’t you have them rework it? After all, you are heading the joint ops centre.’

‘
Surprisingly enough, it had been informally seen and “liked” by the head of JIC, before it ever got to me. Who Dares...eh? I’ve spent my life fighting Britain’s enemies abroad, but pit me against the Whitehall warriors, and I’m still a rookie.’ Mitchell’s menacing mask of a face looked anything but. ‘So. We’ll just have to help make it work, won’t we?’

*

Banto made her leave the Jeep several miles before they had to, but he was feeling bad and needed the ground under his feet.

It
was still night, and pushing Lydia in front of him, he made her run. Run and run. Not the fittest of people, it was just five minutes and half a mile on before she abruptly stopped, her lungs heaving. He thought she was ill, not comprehending that someone could possibly be tired after such a short time. To be marooned between the village and his forest was dangerous though, and he made her stand, lifted her over his back, and ran on at exactly the same pace. Lydia’s body was draped around his neck like a stole, her face bouncing into his chest, his huge hands gripping her hand and foot vice-like. His animal scent, pungent and manly, was almost overpowering, yet the strength of his body, and the realisation of what a machine it could be, was somehow both exhilarating and comfortingly protective. It was like being carried by a pit pony.

Finally,
even he needed to rest, and he gently put her down as they reached a stream. Kneeling, he drank. Then he turned, offering her water in his hands, cupped as if in prayer. He urged her with his hands and eyes, knowing now she was weak and would need to drink often.

‘
No. Thank you.’

‘
Drink. Water. It’s good.’

She
noticed he spoke his obviously limited English in the gentle, naïve way she had heard before in native, missionary-taught Africans. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?’ she pleaded.

He
sat open-legged on the grass opposite her, his face lost in the darkness. ‘I am Banto.’

‘
Banto. OK. Well, Banto, where are you from? Belize? Guatemala? Venezuela maybe?’

The
concept of nationality was alien to him. ‘I am Banto. My people, my village is near Chenga.’

Lydia
was puzzled, never having heard of the place. Trying another tack, she asked, ‘Why did you take me? Why me?’

‘
Kepala
. Big Man. Payback.’

The
meaning, crystal clear, was extraordinarily contemporary. ‘You’re taking revenge on my father. Why? What has he done to you?’

Banto
shuddered and made a whimpering noise, like a small wounded animal, hugging himself defensively. ‘He
take
from me.’

‘“
Take”? I don’t understand, Banto.’ She was slowly losing her fear of him.

‘
Take. Take!’ He jumped up and grabbed her arm roughly. ‘
Take.
’ He pinched her hard at the point they had rammed in the endless needles. Then he scampered the few yards to the stream. Returning with a little water, he carefully poured it slowly on her arm, so it flowed down and dripped to the ground.

Lydia
felt sick as she thought she understood what he was trying to tell her. ‘He’s been “taking” your blood. Is that it?’ Suddenly his wide face and aboriginal features began to make some kind of horrific sense. ‘Banto, where is your village—what was it, Chenga?’

‘
Long time. Long time.’

‘
It’s a long time away? OK. I think I understand you.’ The realisation hit her. ‘Banto, do you know the nation called Papua New Guinea?’

‘
Gav-man. Gav-man, missis!’ he confirmed, excited. It was a name the American missionaries had used a lot. To describe some big village which ‘governed’ everyone. Governed all the tribes. It was a name he had also heard Chancey use, when he had been encouraging him to leave his village.