Black Pearl (14 page)

‘Someone who isn't part of the situation. Someone they'll listen to.'

‘It can't be Kebila or Caleb Maina. They're tainted in Russian eyes.'

‘Who else do we know, then? Who else can we suggest?' mused Richard.

‘What was the name of the man who commanded the squad that went in alongside you and the tank when I managed to talk you out of dressing up as Ngoboi and going in undercover the last time we crossed swords with the Army of Christ?' asked Robin.

‘By the grace of God you did …' Richard nodded.

‘Hmmm. But what was his name, Richard? What was his name?'

‘Huge guy. Really good commander. Steady as a rock. Moro? No … Draco? That's not it. But a top-flight soldier all the same – just the man we need to keep the peace between the two warring factions if we can get him. I know,' said Richard insouciantly, ‘let's go to bed and think on it. Maybe something'll come up in the night …'

Robin tilted her head a little sideways. The corners of her grey eyes crinkled into a knowing smile. ‘You're still full of it, aren't you, sailor?'

‘Adrenaline?' he asked innocently. ‘I certainly am! How about you?'

‘Fizzing,' she admitted. ‘And this coffee hasn't helped at all. How on earth are we ever going to get to sleep?'

‘I'm sure we'll think of something. Let's go.'

 

Richard and Robin attended a brief planning meeting at eleven the next morning; the earliest a clearly hungover Max could manage. ‘I've sent the lot of them back,' he snarled. ‘Those damned RUS clowns were more trouble than they were worth.'

‘And that confrontation has shown us that it would be better to move the men for the time being,' added Felix. ‘What's left of Ivan's group would be better aboard
Stalingrad
with the Russian captain and crew while Kebila has agreed to move his men on to Caleb Maina's
Volgograd
. But that still doesn't solve the problem of losing a dozen or so RUS men.'

‘And to make matters worse,' snarled Max, switching the dyspeptic beam of his red-rimmed gaze to Ivan, ‘you were relying on those RUS masturbators to get your men ready for the jungle. Now what are you going to do?'

‘As a matter of fact,' inserted Richard smoothly, ‘Robin and I came up with something after we got back last night …'

‘Y
ou want me to go easy?' whispered Ivan. But only Richard and Mako heard him.

‘No need,' answered Mako, like distant thunder. ‘Give it your best shot.'

Both men were squared off, facing each other in the centre of
Stalingrad
's massive storage bay. They were both stripped to the waist. And, as well as Richard and – more distantly – Robin, Max and Felix, they were surrounded by what remained of Ivan's Spetsnaz command.

Mako was even bigger than Richard remembered him. His shaven head looked like a black bowling ball. The muscles of his upper torso seemed to have been carved in anthracite. And, of the two men, he was by far the more massive. Even his neck, short as it was, seemed thicker than Ivan's thigh. Richard thought he heard the word ‘
Gorilla
'
–
the same in Russian and English – but the tone was, if anything, awestruck.

Mako stood like a mountain – like Karisoke itself – and waited. He seemed calm. Relaxed. Neither fazed nor bothered by his position or his opponent. He oozed a quiet confidence that Richard, for one, would not have felt for a moment had their places been reversed.

Then, an instant before Ivan attacked, in that micron of time when his eyes dilated, his breath hissed in and his muscles tensed, the decision made, Mako struck. He moved incredibly swiftly. Ivan, mentally committed if not quite physically so, was too late to adapt his move and when the two bodies crashed together, he was the one who span away, barely able to keep his feet. There was no science to that first encounter – no hand-, arm- or foot-work. No chops, punches or kicks. Mako's charge simply slammed them hard against each other like a pair of charging bulls. The sound of the impact echoed around the massive space, extended by a kind of gasp from the Spetsnaz men.

Ivan danced back a little unsteadily. Mako seemed to settle into himself again, statue-still – except that he shook out his arms, easing and relaxing the massive muscles, opening and closing his fists. Richard noticed with some surprise that Mako was wearing a ring; what looked like a plain gold band on his wedding finger. Richard had always assumed the man was married to the service. And even if he wasn't, the glittering circle seemed somehow out of place. Out of character.

Ivan came in again at once. He had taken less than a step before Mako erupted into motion. But this time the Russian had been feinting and the massive African was met by the sole of a left boot that would have flattened his already battered nose if he hadn't caught it in those enormous fists and twisted it viciously. Ivan kicked his other leg high at once, using Mako's grip as a fulcrum, and swung his right boot at the black cranium. Mako saw it coming and looked down. His head sank between his shoulders like a turtle's into its shell. The bull-thick black neck seemed to vanish. The boot skidded off the top of the bald dome and Mako let go, leaping back as Ivan landed lightly and span into position once again.

‘Hey,' rumbled Mako in an amused, friendly voice which carried effortlessly to the farthest corner of the place. And in fluent, if American accented, Russian. ‘You give ballet lessons, Senior Lieutenant?'

The laugh that went round the audience was one of genuine amusement – and suddenly there was an air of excited expectation.

Mako threw himself forward and battle royal was joined.

An hour later, Richard, Robin, Max and Felix were in
Stalingrad
's otherwise deserted mess, gathered round a table, drinking coffee, when Kebila, Mako and Ivan came in. Kebila was, as always, in his perfectly pressed colonel's uniform, complete with cap and swagger-stick – both of which were tucked firmly under his arm. His cap badge, like his pips and collar-tabs, brightly proclaimed his rank, nationality and allegiance.

Both of the others were dressed in fatigue cargo pants and sleeveless green vests. Neither was wearing any badges of rank but both wore berets. Ivan's was deep red and Mako's sage green. The cap badge on the front of Ivan's consisted of gold leaves, red star and hammer and sickle. It was the old-fashioned GRU Spetsnaz badge on a beret awarded to only the fittest, toughest half-dozen men in the whole Spetsnaz organization each year. Richard had made it his business to find out about that beret. Mako's badge was less easy to see but it looked like a dagger shaft going into a green shield. American Special Forces.
That
kind of green beret. The pair of them were well matched.

‘Sandhurst …' Mako was saying in his abyssal growl. ‘Like I keep saying to Kebila, Sandhurst's for parade ground men. Now, while I was at West Point …'

And suddenly Richard understood Mako's ring. Wedding finger, left hand. Plain band outermost. Stone and embossing innermost. On the finger that was traditionally joined to the heart. The ring worn with the seal and stone closest to the heart. It was Mako's West Point graduation ring.

‘Well?' snapped Max impatiently, cutting through Richard's thoughts.

The three soldiers stopped talking. Stopped walking. Came to attention – or, in Mako's case, something like it. ‘Perfect choice from my point of view,' answered Ivan easily. ‘Except that he kicked my ass. Colonel Mako will fit right in. And I believe the men will listen to him.'

‘Mako?' Max rapped.

‘No trouble, sir. I can brief these guys. If they don't listen then I'll kick ass till they do. The men seem to have taken a shine to me, though, so it shouldn't be necessary. Especially as the senior lieutenant here let me kick
his
ass a little to boost my standing with his troops.'

‘Kebila?' asked Max, visibly relaxing.

‘I'm not sure that popularity with the men is the highest requirement for an instructor, sir. But if that's the way the colonel and senior lieutenant want to proceed then that's fine. The president has already given his authority for the transfer of Colonel Mako's duties, as suggested by Captain Mariner. So it only remains to establish how quickly Colonel Mako can get his kit and whatever he needs to begin briefing Senior Lieutenant Yagula's men aboard.'

‘Couple of hours,' rumbled Mako.

‘Then I believe we can brief the captains and their crews with a view to departing immediately after the men have been fed their midday meal. On
Volgograd
, that will be at fourteen hundred hours.' He looked at Ivan.

‘Fourteen hundred's fine,' said the Russian easily. ‘We'll just have to settle for a light
obed
.'

‘Fourteen hundred,' said Richard half an hour later. ‘That's not much time. Can you both make that?'

Richard, Robin, Max and Felix were in the hotel's bistro, finishing a light and early lunch. Taken, Richard noted, without the traditional bottle or two of vodka. ‘I can make it,' promised Max. ‘I've got the hotel staff to start moving my stuff aboard
Stalingrad
. I assume you'll be going on to
Stalingrad
too, now there's more room.'

‘We will,' confirmed Richard. ‘But what about you, Felix? Are you coming aboard
Stalingrad
?'

‘No,' said Felix roundly. ‘I'm staying here. There are still some important details to be ironed out. The contracts between President Chaka's government and Bashnev/Sevmash for the deployment of the Zubrs is not yet satisfactory and we also have to firm up details about oil concessions and whether we can return our placer systems to the delta – or even get involved in the promising situations with regard to gold and diamonds upcountry. Not to mention, of course, dotting the ‘i's and crossing the ‘t's about Lac Dudo and all that coltan.'

‘I smell a rat,' muttered Robin in their room half an hour later still. ‘That stuff Felix was talking about is only relevant under one set of circumstances.'

‘Yes,' agreed Richard. ‘If Julius Chaka retains the presidency. However, if Celine replaces her father in the Oval Office, then Felix will have wasted his time, effort and money. And he'll look like a fool.'

‘Felix won't like any of that – particularly not the last bit. Not at all.'

‘I agree. Look, if you trust me to get the kit packed and aboard, I think you ought to make a little visit to the offices of the loyal opposition. It was part of your job description anyway.'

‘That's just what I was thinking, my love. And of course I trust you to pack,' answered Robin. ‘But I am certainly coming upriver so you just remember where we're going and how much privacy we'll get. Don't get too adventurous with my underwear.'

‘Right,' said Richard, crestfallen. ‘See you aboard
Stalingrad
at four bells. And don't be late.'

In a lingering memory of the dark days of President Liye Banda, the offices of the opposition party were in the centre of Granville Harbour, immediately opposite the forbidding fortress of the central police station. Robin wondered how Celine Chaka felt each time she came in to work past the sinister building where she had spent so much time in the cells – and a certain amount of it in the brutal regime's torture chambers.

But she was far too sensitive to ask. Instead, when Celine rose from behind her desk, offering a hand and a smile, Robin forgot all about her friend's past, preferring to focus on the present and the future.

‘Robin!' said Celine, coming round the desk, hand held out, to enfold her friend in an embrace. ‘How lovely!'

Lovely was the word Robin would have used to describe Celine. Tall and reed slim, black hair pulled back from her high forehead in the local style. Dark almond eyes. Full, smiling lips. The traditional costume emphasized the depth of her chest, the breadth of her hips and the length of her thighs. There were very few women whose figure Robin envied. Celine was one of them.

‘I thought you ought to know at once, Celine,' announced Robin, ‘that things are about to get dirty.'

‘Really? How so?' Celine was gently amused, both by Robin's forthrightness and by her genuine outrage.

‘Felix Makarov!' spat Robin, as though the syllables explained everything.

‘What's he up to now?' probed Celine, still amused rather than concerned.

‘The rest of us are just about to head upriver, but Felix is staying behind. He has one or two more details he wants to firm up with your father.'

‘I see,' said Celine. Her tone made it clear that she did.

‘He knows any agreement he makes with your father will have to be renegotiated with you if you win. So in between discussions, he'll be doing his damndest to make sure that you
don't
win!'

‘He'll have to join a long line, Robin,' Celine admitted, shaking her head.

‘Felix doesn't
join lines
, Celine. He takes action. And heaven alone knows what he's dreamed up!'

‘But this is becoming a civilized country, Robin. There is the rule of law. There is security!'

‘And that's another thing. Do you suppose it's just a simple coincidence that your father chooses now – of all times – to send his chief of security upriver when there's no one here in Granville Harbour to watch your back?'

Celine gave her bell-like laugh. ‘But Robin,' she said. ‘I believe it was your Richard who caused Laurent Kebila to be reassigned!'

‘It was. But that doesn't stop it being politically expedient.'

‘I know that. And I'm prepared for a vigorous campaign. No holds barred. But still, Robin, we're not talking about Amin, Mobutu, Bokassa or Liye Banda here. We're talking about my father!'

‘It's not your father I'm worried about. It's Felix. You could cost him millions if you win – and a lot of time and face starting all over again. I think he'll be quite happy to act behind your father's back and deny all knowledge later.'