King Solomon's Curse

‘There’s been rumours for years that some special forces team was ordered to assassinate Princess Diana ’cause she was protesting against the arms business and wanted to marry a Muslim. Didn’t believe them, sounded like a load of conspiracy bullshit – nobody I ever knew in the SAS would have followed that order, not against Diana – but after what Brice said about GB63 crashing that 747 . . .’ He shook his head. ‘If they wanted to be absolutely sure of shutting us up, that’d be who they’d send.’

  ‘So people with the exact same training as you, but younger, and more of them, and with the backing of the British government? Great.’ Nina gloomily regarded the river ahead. ‘So what happens now?’

  He considered the situation. ‘Brice’s probably fucked off with the Shamir already. He’ll have got MI6 to extract him.’

  ‘And take him back to England?’

  ‘Probably. But he’s still got contacts here. I doubt he’d rely on the militia, especially now Mukobo’s dead, but he hired all those mercs we saw at Butembo airport. He might send someone to intercept us before we can leave the Congo.’

  ‘To get the laptop?’

  He nodded. ‘That video’s like a time bomb. He’ll do anything to stop it from going off.’

  Paris turned in alarm. ‘What about a bomb?’ His question drew the attention of the others.

  Eddie and Nina exchanged resigned looks, then the Yorkshireman raised his voice. ‘Okay. There’s something we need to tell you all . . .’

  The revelation of Brice’s true agenda predictably did not lift anyone’s spirits. ‘Fantastic,’ said Lydia plaintively. ‘So now the British government as well as everyone else in this bloody country wants us dead?’

  ‘It’s us two they want the most,’ said Eddie. ‘We’re the ones Brice actually told what he was really up to.’

  ‘But he’ll assume the rest of you either saw the drone recording, or we told you about it,’ Nina added.

  ‘Which . . . you just did,’ noted Rivero sardonically.

  ‘I doubt he’d accept a plea of ignorance. He won’t take the chance that you know nothing about it. He can’t.’

  ‘I imagine he will not be satisfied if we give him the recording,’ said Fortune.

  Eddie shook his head. ‘He’ll want us all dead, whether or not he gets it. We can link him to Mukobo.’

  Lydia put her head in her hands. ‘Oh, God. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re nearly at Nakola,’ announced Paris. Ahead, garbage was strewn along the riverbank.

  Eddie joined him at the bow. Buildings came into view through the trees. He surveyed the shoreline, wary of an ambush, but saw nobody. ‘If Brice sent anyone, they’ll probably be coming from Butembo. They might not have arrived yet.’

  ‘But that means they’ll run into us on our way there,’ said Rivero.

  ‘I know a back road,’ Fortune told him. ‘It will take much longer to get to Butembo, but there is another way out of here.’

  ‘Brice’ll still be looking for us, though,’ said Nina. ‘Sooner or later, his people’ll find us. What do we do then?’

  Eddie had no immediate reply. He instead turned his attention to the village. A couple of locals came to the waterfront to watch their approach.

  Fortune called to them in French, a brief exchange following. ‘They say no strangers have arrived recently,’ he reported.

  ‘Good,’ said the Yorkshireman. ‘Brice hasn’t got anyone here yet – so we might have a chance of leaving by the back road before they turn up. We’ll need to get everyone into the buses, quick.’

  The prow bumped on to land, Lydia immediately disembarking. Paris collected a line and hopped off to moor the boat, but Eddie took it from him. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, just because I’m hurt doesn’t mean I’m useless,’ Paris protested. ‘I’ve only got one hand, but it’s a good one!’

  Nina climbed out after the two men. While Paris had on the surface handled his mutilation with a mix of stoicism and dark humour, during the night she heard him struggling to contain sobs as he hunched up, cradling his missing hand. ‘We know – but you are hurt. You need a chance to recover, and if you push yourself too hard, that won’t happen. Please, let us help you.’

  He reluctantly acquiesced. ‘Okay. But I’m not going to stand around doing nothing!’ He reached back into the boat and lifted out one of the expedition’s packs.

  Rivero put the surviving laptop in Lydia’s backpack before starting to gather his own gear. Nina retrieved its damaged twin. Howie’s blood had been wiped off the casing, but there were still dried traces around the bullet hole. She suppressed a shudder, but the underlying pain was harder to push down. She would have to contact the families of all those who had not returned, not only to express her condolences but also to explain how their loved ones had died, and her part in their deaths . . .

  The rising rasp of an engine cut through her grim thoughts. ‘Someone’s coming!’ Eddie warned. The expedition’s vehicles were parked not far from the shore; he pointed to them. ‘Get in, quick!’ Fortune jumped from the boat and hurried after Lydia towards the buses, but Rivero remained aboard, stuffing the last of his gear into a bag. ‘Just leave it, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘No way,’ the cameraman insisted. ‘I almost died to get this footage, I’m not leaving it behind!’ He yanked the zip closed and grabbed his camera before climbing out, about to turn back for the remaining packs and equipment until he wilted under Eddie’s impatient glare and followed his companions.

  Everyone hurried to the minibuses. Eddie looked down the village’s main street as the approaching vehicle came into sight. It was a dirt bike, riding high on its heavy-duty suspension and chunky off-road tyres: the perfect choice for anyone who wanted to traverse the DR Congo’s rutted, broken roads at speed. The rider had a gun slung over his back – not the ubiquitous Kalashnikov of the militia, but its American equivalent, one of the many variants of the M16 assault rifle.

  The man drew nearer, his attention fixed upon the minibuses. There was no way the group could make a getaway without being seen . . . ‘Nina, give me the laptop,’ ordered Eddie.

  ‘But it’s our only bargaining chip,’ she protested.

  ‘It’s also what he’s been sent to get – so I’m hoping it’ll hold his attention while the rest of you escape.’

  ‘We are not leaving you behind,’ Fortune insisted.

  ‘Hopefully you won’t have to. Come on, hurry up.’

  Nina reluctantly gave him the computer as the rider pulled up near the parked vehicles. The villagers retreated nervously at the sight of his gun. He dismounted and took off his helmet, revealing a tanned Caucasian face and a greasy blond mullet. ‘Saw him at the airport,’ Eddie muttered. ‘One of the mining company bodyguards.’

  ‘Not one of these Removal Men?’ Nina asked.

  ‘No, he’s just a mercenary – but Brice’ll definitely have sent him—’

  ‘Eddie Chase!’ the man called in confirmation. ‘Nina Wilde! Show yourselves! I know you’re here!’ His accent was German or Austrian.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ Eddie shouted back.

  ‘A man called Brice.’ He unslung his rifle, a Bushmaster M4 carbine painted in striped jungle camouflage – but rather than ready it, he held it in one hand while he took something from his dark jacket with the other. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Yeah, to hear our last words,’ said Nina, seeing the merc hold out a satellite phone – the one Brice had taken from the expedition. ‘Can we trust him?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Eddie. ‘But he could have just come around here and shot us all if he’d wanted, so . . .’

  He stepped out from behind the bus, the laptop in his hand. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Eddie!’ Nina gasped, but the mercenary’s rifle remained lowered.

  The blond man regarded Eddie with suspicion. ??
?And Nina Wilde?’

  She leaned cautiously out from behind the bus. ‘Hello, hi.’

  He waved the phone impatiently. ‘Come here. He’s waiting.’

  ‘Keep everyone safe,’ Eddie told Fortune quietly before he and Nina went to the new arrival. ‘All right. Give us the phone.’

  The merc handed it to him, then stepped back. Eddie brought the phone to his ear, Nina craning her neck to listen in. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Good morning, Chase,’ Brice replied. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. You and your wife survived, so I have to assume that your friends did as well – and that you’ve told them about our little chat at the bottom of the mine.’

  ‘I didn’t tell ’em anything,’ said Eddie, deciding the lie was worth trying. ‘Safer that way.’

  ‘Sadly, I don’t believe you. Or rather, I can’t believe you. Occupational hazard. Considering the circumstances, however, I am prepared to offer you a deal.’

  ‘Which is?’ Nina asked.

  ‘Ah, the redoubtable Dr Wilde, sharing your husband’s indestructibility as ever. Simply put, I want you to turn over all your electronic equipment to Mr Hapen. Laptops, hard drives, SD cards, phones, anything and everything upon which you might have made a backup copy of the drone recording.’

  ‘You put a bullet through the laptop,’ Eddie reminded him. ‘And the kid holding it, you bastard. It’s wrecked, we haven’t been able to copy anything off it.’

  ‘Again, I can’t risk believing you. But if you do as I ask, I give you my word that you and your friends will walk out of there alive.’

  ‘And if we don’t, we all die, right?’ said Nina.

  ‘Oh, much worse than that,’ Brice told her. ‘Your daughter will die.’

  The threat sent a fearful chill through her. ‘What?’ she gasped.

  Eddie’s response was one of fury. ‘You listen—’

  ‘No, you listen, Chase!’ barked the MI6 officer. ‘Macy is currently in Southampton with her grandparents – your father, Larry Chase, and his wife Julie. Quite the age difference there, but that’s by the by. My watchers tell me that Macy’s wearing denim dungarees with a purple long-sleeved top underneath, and red shoes. Does that sound familiar?’

  Macy’s parents looked at each other in appalled shock. They did indeed know the outfit. When Eddie spoke again, the anger in his voice was ice cold. ‘If anything happens to Macy, when I find you you’ll fucking beg to end up like Mukobo. Do you hear me?’

  Brice’s snort of disdain was faint, but still audible. ‘You’re making a threat you can’t carry out, Chase. But you know full well that I can carry out mine. And I will – but only if I have to. I’m a professional, not a psychopath. Turn everything over to Hapen, and you’ll get to walk away. And so will your daughter.’

  ‘Why would you let us go?’ Nina demanded, not believing him for a moment. ‘We could tell the world what you were doing in the Congo.’

  ‘This may come as a surprise, Dr Wilde, but outside your insulated little echo chamber of United Nations do-gooders? Nobody cares. Nobody cares what happens in the Congo, or the rest of Africa either.’

  ‘The people who live here care,’ Eddie growled.

  ‘What they think doesn’t matter. Not to me, not to my government – our government, I’ll remind you – not to any other government in the civilised world. Without proof, you can tell the world whatever you want, but even if you shout it from your media bully pulpit, Nina, nobody will care. Anything you say about Mukobo or the crash of Flight 180 will be met with a shrug of indifference or dismissed as a conspiracy theory. The moment you mention Africa, eyes will glaze over.’

  ‘And with proof?’ said Nina.

  ‘Well, that would be more complicated, wouldn’t it? The British government implicated by one of its own operatives in the downing of an American airliner and actively backing a coup in a supposedly democratic nation? It would be . . . troublesome, to say the very least. This isn’t 1953 any more.’

  ‘What happened in 1953?’ Eddie asked.

  The mention of a coup and the date had already given Nina the answer. Ancient history was her passion, but she was still well versed in the more modern variety. ‘Iran,’ she said. ‘MI6 and the CIA overthrew the democratically elected government of Iran to reinstall the Shah as ruler. All because the Iranians wanted to take back control of their own oilfields from British and American companies. And the Shah was a repressive dictator, so there was eventually a revolution against him – which brought the Ayatollah to power.’

  ‘Oh, no blowback there, then!’ said Eddie sarcastically.

  ‘It was somewhat more complicated than that – the Shah has been grossly maligned by the liberal media – but still, in hindsight, not one of SIS’s greatest successes,’ said Brice. ‘But it did teach us to be much more circumspect in our regime change operations.’

  ‘Hence your faked resignation,’ Nina noted.

  ‘Quite. Which is why I want the recording where I admit to that. That means the laptop, of course, but I still want all your other storage devices as well. Before you have a chance to reach somewhere with internet access and start disseminating copies across the globe.’

  ‘We’ve got the laptop here,’ Eddie told him, still seething.

  ‘Good. Then hand it over to Hapen.’

  He reluctantly held it up – but before he could turn it over to the mercenary, Nina stayed him. ‘This laptop,’ she said, directing her words as much at the blond man as the phone, ‘it’s really valuable, yes? As in, anyone who had it could potentially blackmail MI6 and the British government for millions of dollars to get it back?’

  ‘That would have very unfortunate consequences for your little girl,’ Brice replied coldly.

  ‘I’m not talking about us. I’m speaking – purely hypothetically, of course,’ she added, her eyes fixed meaningfully upon the mercenary’s, ‘about somebody else. If they had the laptop, they could demand as much money as they wanted for it, couldn’t they?’

  Hapen had clearly understood her inference, his gaze locking greedily on to the damaged machine. Eddie also realised what she meant. ‘Yeah, they could,’ he added. ‘Be worth a fortune! Probably a lot more than you’re paying to have it collected, right?’

  The spy’s response was impatient – but couldn’t hide a hint of concern. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work. Let me talk to Hapen.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Nina. ‘Either you trust him, so you don’t need to talk to him, or you don’t . . . in which case, there’s nothing to stop him from doing whatever he wants with the laptop. Can you trust him to hand it over without asking for a million dollars first?’

  There was a lengthy silence – then to their surprise, a laugh came from the other end of the line. ‘Congratulations, Dr Wilde. You found the weak point in my plan. I knew from the start that relying on a mercenary was risky, of course, but unfortunately I didn’t have anyone more loyal available in such a short timeframe.’

  ‘Out of the country already, are you?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘A long way out, thankfully. I’ll be back in England in a few hours. But,’ he went on, ‘you’ll be here with me soon enough. With the laptop, and anything else that might store the recording.’

  ‘Oh, we will, will we?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. Remember, I have watchers keeping an eye on your daughter. They’ll take her if I give the word.’

  ‘They wouldn’t hurt a little girl,’ Eddie snapped.

  ‘They would hurt whoever they’re told to hurt. Which includes Macy’s grandparents as well. Now, here’s the new plan. I’m going to tell Hapen to catalogue all your friends’ electronics. You will bring everything, including the laptop, to me at Heathrow airport on the earliest possible flight. If I’m satisfied that the recording hasn’t been copied or disseminated, Macy will be safe. Otherwise, well . . .’

/>   ‘We get the picture,’ said Nina.

  ‘Good. Now put Hapen back on.’

  Eddie returned the phone to the mercenary. A brief discussion, then Hapen gestured towards the minibuses. They went to them. ‘Turn out your packs. He wants to make a list of all the electronics,’ Nina told the group disconsolately. ‘Brice wants everything that might store the recording.’

  ‘Wait, he wants all our backups too?’ Rivero asked. ‘But – that’s everything we shot! If he takes those, we’ll have nothing!’

  ‘Steven and the others will have died for nothing,’ Lydia added angrily.

  ‘He’s got people watching our daughter,’ said the redhead. ‘If we don’t turn everything over, he said he’ll kill her.’

  ‘Then we have to give him what he wants,’ Fortune said. Rivero’s reluctance was plain, but he started to unpack his bag. The others followed suit.

  Hapen recited his findings to Brice over the phone before searching everyone at gunpoint. Finally, he was satisfied. ‘Quite the collection,’ said Brice after the satphone had been returned to Eddie. ‘You can leave the video camera, but I want its memory card, and all the others. Even though it’s broken, the laptop is the top priority, of course.’ The mercenary had, at his employer’s directing, tried to boot up the machine, but it had remained dead.

  ‘Of course,’ the Yorkshireman echoed sarcastically. ‘So now what? You want us to stuff all this lot in a bag and meet you at Heathrow?’

  ‘Succinctly put, yes. Don’t dawdle, though. By my estimation, you should be able to get from where you are to London in forty-one hours. I’ll be generous and give you forty-five. Third World airports don’t always function smoothly.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ said Nina.

  ‘The clock starts now, so don’t waste any time. By the way, just so it’s clear: I’ve arranged for GCHQ to monitor the phones and internet of anyone you might think to contact. If you try to warn Macy’s grandparents, or your friends at the United Nations, or anybody else in a position to interfere, bad things will happen. The same applies should there be so much as a whisper of online chatter about SIS’s activities in the Congo.’