The Kill Zone (27 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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Jack felt his lip curling in the darkness. It wasn’t as easy as that, and really he knew that the decision he had to make was no decision at all. Siobhan, whether she meant to or not, had outmanoeuvred him. Just like she always did.
It had grown cold. The broken window was letting the elements in. Jack stayed where he was. His mind was churning. Working things out. Planning.
He could get to Djibouti the same way Siobhan had. That was the easy bit. Finding her would be more difficult; and finding her before she got transport into Somalia even more so. He knew nobody in-country and locating a fixer who could sort him out with the equipment he needed would take time. No. Following Siobhan to Djibouti would be pointless. Finding her in Mogadishu was riskier – but perhaps achievable. There were a limited number of places where Westerners could stay. Where
anyone
could stay. Yes, if he could make it into the Somali capital, he had a better chance of locating Siobhan and then getting her the hell out of there.
Jack sat himself down at the laptop again and brought up a map of East Africa. He picked up the shape of Somalia’s angular coastline, then examined the borders. Djibouti to the north, Ethiopia to the west. Somalia’s long western border was a violent badland populated by dissolute Ethiopian troops and African mercenaries who’d slaughter anyone if the price was right, or who got in the way of their primary objective of looting or raping. The Ethiopian border was Somalia’s longest, and it was porous. With a decent fixer, an SAS unit and the appropriate weaponry, it could be crossed. But to try it alone would be stupidity.
Which left the southern border with Kenya – a country he knew well from a stint he’d spent there training Kenyan troops. He could be on a flight to Nairobi within hours, and the internal flight system was reasonable. All he needed then was a fixer. Someone discreet. Someone with the local knowledge that would enable him to get tooled up and in-country.
A face rose in his mind. It was deeply lined and grizzled, the skin tanned like leather, the hair gun-metal grey and cropped – at least it had been last time Jack had seen it. Jack hadn’t seen this man for years, but rumours of his whereabouts occasionally reached him. It wouldn’t take long to find out if they were true. He scrolled through the contacts on his phone until he found the number he was looking for: Lew Miller, an ex-Delta Force operator who was now enjoying his retirement taking rich tourists game fishing off the west coast of Florida and fleecing them for the privilege. Lew never changed. Jack just hoped he was by his phone and not screwing whichever of his female clients were tanned and buxom enough to pass his undemanding criteria.
The phone rang several times before a voice answered. ‘Jack fucking Harker,’ it drawled. ‘To what do I owe the goddamned pleasure?’
Jack didn’t have time for small talk. ‘I need a favour, Lew. Under the radar. Urgent.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Markus Heller. He still got that set-up in Kenya?’
‘Last I heard,’ Lew said warily.
‘Can you get me a number?’
A pause. ‘Under the radar, huh?’
‘Can you get it?’
‘Call me in an hour.’ A click, and Lew hung up.
Jack looked about. In the near darkness he would have to feel around for what he wanted, and his fingertips touched it soon enough. A crumpled piece of paper, the one Siobhan had thrown at him last night. When he unfurled it, he saw that it contained the scrawled address of a lock-up in West Belfast.
Jack memorised the address, then dropped the paper back on the floor and started searching the flat again. It didn’t take long to locate Siobhan’s car keys; and knowing her as he did, he realised that if he looked hard enough he’d find a set of picks and a tension wrench. They were in the cabinet from which Siobhan had brought out the papers on Habib Khan. He found something else there, too – something that almost made him smile. A thin torch with a piece of red lighting filter taped to the front. Jack pocketed his discoveries, then helped himself to Siobhan’s M66 from under the bath. He noticed something else in the bathroom – an open packet of coloured contact lenses with one of the sachets missing. He had to hand it to Siobhan: she still knew what she was doing . . .
He left the flat by more conventional means. Outside, the old woman had her fist round a bottle of Thunderbird. She gave Jack a hard, unapologetic stare. He found Siobhan’s car, kicked it into life and hit the road. Fifteen minutes later he was parked up a dark side street of a West Belfast estate.
Jack searched for the lock-up with a confidence bolstered by the weapon in his jacket. Once he had the place in his sights, he stopped and loitered in a dark corner. A couple of kids were playing footy, kicking the ball against the iron doors of the lock-ups so that they boomed with tinny thunder. Luckily they got bored after ten minutes and moved on, giving Jack a clear run at it.
He picked the lock in less than a minute.
Inside it was pitch-black. Jack was glad of Siobhan’s torch. The red filter lit up the place without wrecking his night vision and he found what he wanted in no time at all.
A pile of cash and enough drugs to put a hundred girls like Lily in the ground.
That was what Siobhan had said he’d find and she wasn’t wrong. To Jack it had all the hallmarks of an emergency stash, a place O’Callaghan could go when the shit hit the fan to supply himself with weaponry, cash and a means of making more. Jack ignored the guns and the drugs. All he wanted was the cash. He helped himself to two bundles of money – three or four G, he reckoned – and stuffed it in his pocket.
In Jack’s experience, no one did anything for nothing. On overt or covert ops, he could expect to be given whatever funds he needed to grease whichever palms came his way. But this was different. Personal. Nobody was going to give him cash for such a trip, so it seemed only right that O’Callaghan should foot the bill.
Jack clutched the M66 as he stepped outside and locked the garage again.
A moment of doubt. Perhaps he should just alert the authorities, tell them about Siobhan. But what would they do? She’d travelled to Djibouti. That wasn’t a crime. And start feeding them her fears about Habib Khan and he’d be laughed out of town.
No. This was his call. He ran back to Siobhan’s car and headed towards the airport. As he neared the perimeter, he dialled Lew Miller again. His American friend was curt as he read out a number with a Kenyan prefix. ‘You didn’t get it from me, Jack. You got that?’
‘Yeah, I got it.’
Once Lew was off the line, Jack thought of the furrowed face again, and heard his laid-back, southern American accent almost as clearly as if the guy was standing next to him. Markus Heller. Formerly of A Squadron, Delta Force, now plying his trade in Africa. Would he help? Jack snorted. For a price, Markus Heller would help anyone.
Jack dialled the number. A low African voice answered. ‘Rainbow Safaris.’
‘Listen to me carefully,’ Jack said. ‘I need to speak to Markus Heller. Tell him it’s Jack Harker and I need a favour.’
And he continued to drive towards the airport as he waited for his old friend to come on the line.
Habib Khan was not a fool.
He would not be making this phone call from his flat; he wouldn’t even be making it from the
vicinity
of his flat, preferring instead to take the pay-as-you-go mobile phone that he had bought under an assumed name to a quiet car park in the east of London, well away from any masts that would track the location of the call to his house. As he travelled there, he thought of O’Callaghan, who was similarly distrustful of telephones. Khan didn’t like the man, didn’t like his avarice. Everything O’Callaghan did, he did for money. Still, at least it meant he was loyal to something. Cormac O’Callaghan might be loathsome, but he had his uses. In the days to come, Khan knew he would prove to be invaluable, even though Cormac himself didn’t realise it.
Other people were invaluable too, like the person he was about to call. It pleased him that this person was not a slave to money. That their loyalties to his cause had more reliable, solid foundations. That they
believed
.
The voice was curt when it answered the phone. ‘Yes?’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘Is everything ready?’ Khan asked.
A pause. ‘I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘I’m sure.’
Khan nodded in the darkness of his vehicle. ‘Good. I fly to Paris tonight. The United Nations plane will drop me in Mogadishu tomorrow afternoon.’
‘I don’t see why I can’t be on the same flight. It would be safer.’
‘If you think about it,’ Khan replied, ‘as I’m sure you have, you will understand why. I will have to spend time with journalists when I arrive. If they see you there, they will want to know why. It is much better that you join me later.’
‘And a lot more dangerous.’
‘You will have security. It is already arranged. And besides, our objective is important. If we must endure hardship, it is of no importance. You understand that?’
A pause.
‘Yes,’ the voice replied. ‘I understand that. You’re sure nobody knows what you’re doing?’
‘Of course not,’ Khan replied mildly. ‘I know how people think. The bigger the lie you tell them, the more they are likely to believe it. I will be waiting for you in two nights’ time at the Trust Hotel in Mogadishu. Until then,
Allahu Akbar
.’
‘
Allahu Akbar
,’ came the reply.
Khan smiled, hung up the phone and drove away. He needed to be at the airport in a couple of hours, and there were still preparations to make.
3 JULY
14
07.30 hrs, local time.
The sun was already fierce and Siobhan Byrne was wet with sweat.
She had arrived in Djibouti just after nine the previous evening. On the plane from Paris she had locked herself in the toilet the moment the seatbelt lights had gone off. There she had inserted her brown contact lenses and smeared her face with fake tan that she’d bought at Charles de Gaulle and decanted into a small pot to get round the safety restrictions. By the time she’d got to Djibouti her eyes and skin were dark.
The airport was practically deserted, and the first thing she’d done was walk up to the Daallo Airlines counter. She knew from her research that this was the only airline operating to Somalia. The man at the desk was elderly, his curly hair short and grey. He wore thick spectacles and, to Siobhan’s surprise, a Manchester United football shirt. He spoke no English, but they managed to converse using Siobhan’s schoolgirl French. ‘
Le vol prochain à Mogadishu?
’
The man had raised an eyebrow at her. ‘
Vous y allez toute seule?
’
She nodded. ‘
Oui.
’
‘
Ça n’est pas une bonne idée
.’ Not a good idea? Siobhan was getting tired of people telling her that. ‘
Le vol prochain?
’ she repeated.
It was with apparent reluctance that the man had sold her a ticket on the flight that left the following day, and his reaction had given Siobhan an uneasy feeling that lasted long after she had checked into a hotel in the European quarter of Djibouti City. Not one of the big-name places. If someone came looking for her, they’d try the Sheraton first, then work their way downwards. The place she had researched while she waited for her connecting flight back in Paris was something more modest. Unassuming. The building looked faintly colonial, with balconies and colonnades. It had the air of a place that was once desirable, but its splendour had faded. The beige exterior paint was peeling away and the arched wooden window frames were rotten. Siobhan wasn’t used to Africa. She wasn’t used to the shanties and the run-down vehicles and the strange looks, not all of them friendly. She wasn’t used to the heat or the smells – a strange mixture of sewers festering in the heat, exhaust fumes and grilled meat from roadside stalls. And although the inside of her hotel was clean enough, the streets outside were filthy and rubbish-strewn.
As her taxi driver had driven her through some poor-looking places on the way to the European quarter, she found herself wishing that her handgun was in her jacket, not hidden behind the panels of her bath thousands of miles away.
Siobhan spent the night recovering from her journey on an uncomfortable bed underneath a circular ceiling fan that did little to keep her cool. Sleep had been impossible. Her mind had whirred as incessantly as the fans, and the recklessness of her actions surprised even her. In Belfast, this journey had seemed her only serious option; Jack’s objections had sounded like the words of a coward. But she’d had time to reflect. Jack had his faults, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. Perhaps she should have listened.
But listened and done what? Sit around impotently and wait for Lily to show up – or not – when her only lead was slipping through her fingers? Doing nothing wasn’t her style. As daylight arrived and the tinny sound of the call to prayer curled above the rooftops of the city, she managed to sideline her tiredness and her fear and concentrate on what she had to do. After an unappetising breakfast consisting of some kind of highly spiced meat stew, she headed out of the European quarter and found herself in a street of ramshackle market stalls. Everything was on sale here: bleating livestock allowed to roam the streets; unfamiliar vegetables; hunks of meat plastered in crawling flies; bunches of what she assumed was khat, the mildly hallucinogenic herb that practically everyone here chewed. Large, dirty umbrellas marked with logos for familiar drinks – Coca-Cola, Schweppes Indian Tonic Water – covered the market stalls to protect them from the sun’s rays, and the air was thick with the smell of animal shit. People shouted in Arabic and French. Beggars – even they were chewing khat – lined the walls and the whole place was made more unpleasant by the ever-increasing heat.

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