The tale was all highly improbable, of course, but it was the best Pender could come up with, and he'd put on a good act of making it sound semi-plausible. A lawyer would have laughed but the General was no lawyer (although he had allegedly ordered the murders of a few in his time, and good for him). Pender's hope had been that the promise of hard cash would be sufficient to distract Khosa from looking too hard for holes in the story.

And Pender's gamble had paid off. The offer of one-point-five million dollars, either in cash or wired to the account of Khosa's choice, had got the General's eyes twinkling exactly as hoped. For that sum, Khosa's task would be to supply the manpower and the means to whisk Pender and his precious 'doc.u.ments' away, mid-ocean.

It was Khosa who had come up with the clever notion of the faked-up pirate attack, and Pender had jumped at the idea as enthusiastically as Khosa had jumped at the money. Piracy offered the perfect cover for the hijack. So many ships were already being knocked off around Africa that one more would attract very few questions. Pender's only concern had been that there were so many real pirate gangs hunting about the Indian Ocean for easy victims. What if one of them hit the Andromeda before Khosa showed up? It was a risk he had to take.

An aggressive negotiator, Khosa had imposed certain conditions to sweeten the deal his way: in addition to the flat fee, which was quickly b.u.mped up to two million dollars, the General laid claim to both the ship and her cargo, as spoils of war to take away and dispose of as he saw fit. This would, of course, Khosa had added with a smile, include the crew, on the understanding that he could either just kill them all on the spot or put them to other uses of his own choosing. If Pender would agree to that, they were in business.

Pender had nothing to lose and everything to gain by going along with Khosa's whims. The $500,000 price hike had been expected and allowed for. He couldn't care less what happened to Eugene Svalgaard's valuable property, and he didn't give a rolling rat f.u.c.k if the General's band of cutthroats got their jollies slaughtering a bunch of ignorant sailors, either. Screw 'em.

And so, not without some trepidation, Lee Pender had entered into a binding agreement with the most notoriously unpredictable, grasping, violent and ruthless maniac in Africa. The phony legal papers purporting to be worth so much to his nonexistent client had already been forged, just in case he'd needed to show something to back up his cover story. White and Brown, the two expendables, had already been hired. The pa.s.sage from Salalah was all set up with Svalgaard and O'Keefe. All that remained was to break into the home of Hussein Al Bu Said at the appointed time, take care of business there, s.n.a.t.c.h the rock, race undetected across the city to the port, jump aboard ship, endure a few days' discomfort cooped up in the company of White and Brown, wait for Khosa's dramatic entry and, at last, get the h.e.l.l out of there a fabulously rich man. All the while letting not a living soul, least of all Jean-Pierre Khosa, know what he was really carrying. Piece of cake.

But for all its dangers and complexities, it had been the most beautiful plan. This had been the Big One that Pender had spent his life ready and willing to do anything to make happen. After surviving twenty-four years in the private military contractor business, he wanted out before his well ran dry or he met a bullet. At age fifty-five, with thirty more years of life expectancy, he'd literally wept with joy that such unbelievable good fortune could have fallen into his lap. He could walk away from the whole s.h.i.tty world, the richest fugitive in history. Another new ident.i.ty with pa.s.sport and driver's licence to match, a nose job to alter his appearance a little, a high-rolling lifestyle of fast cars and beautiful women and casinos and more money than he could hope to spend if he lived to be a hundred, no matter how hard he tried. That was the intoxicatingly wonderful future he'd envisaged.

He'd been so close to the finish line that he could taste the Martini c.o.c.ktails, feel the soft white warm sand between his toes and hear the giggles of the adoring bikini-clad girls.

And now everything was suddenly falling apart. Pender could actually visualise his plans cracking and raining to the floor in pieces like fragmented china.

He could already have been out of here, if f.u.c.king Khosa hadn't insisted on personally staying aboard the cargo ship until his guys finished off the last of the crew and sorted out the mysterious engine and power failure, instead of taking straight off in the fishing boat as first agreed. They were wasting time. What Khosa did with the ship was his business; Pender had been hopping with impatience to get on with his own. He'd been so disgusted with the circus up on the bridge that he'd wandered down to the empty mess room to find some coffee. And now look what had happened! Who let some young whippersnapper of a sailor go running amok like that? Pender couldn't believe that he'd survived decades of warfare and dodged bullets everywhere from Angola to Libya, only to get cold-c.o.c.ked by some kid with a flashlight.

Now Pender was compelled to remain aboard until he got back what was his. He'd tear the vessel apart with his own bare hands if he had to.

Furious, still clutching his splitting head, he stormed up onto the bridge to marshal a few men to come help him find that little s.h.i.t who'd clobbered him, take back what he'd stolen and then disembowel the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. About eight Africans were scratching their heads around the dead instruments of the conning station, debating in flurries of their own language what switch they could press or lever to pull to restore the power. Until they could figure out what had caused the shutdown, the ship was going nowhere.

'Maybe if you a.s.sholes didn't butcher everyone on sight,' thought Pender the man who'd murdered the captain and mates 'then you might have a clue how to sail the ship.'

He was about to start yelling at them in fury when he saw the formidable figure of Jean-Pierre Khosa standing by the windows, casually lighting up another of his giant Cohibas. Standing with him was his right-hand man, Zolani Tembe, tall and muscular and apparently made of granite. Tembe wore ammunition belts the way Los Angeles rappers wore gold chains. His personal weapon was an M60 machine gun that was never out of his huge hands. A long, curved machete was stuck crossways in his belt.

Pender swallowed and tried to play it cool. Only a very foolish man would vent his anger to the General's face. Pender had no wish to end up as chopped shark bait.

'You, you and you,' he said, jabbing a finger at three Africans who didn't seem to be doing much. 'Come with me.'

'What do you want them for?' Khosa said, in that deep, calm voice of his. Whenever he spoke, it was always with great deliberation, as if he considered every syllable in advance.

'I've been robbed.' Pender held up his left arm with the empty case dangling from it. 'One of the crew is running around loose, and he took my papers.'

Khosa's mutilated brow distorted into an even deeper frown. 'Why would he do this?'

'How the h.e.l.l do I know what some illiterate deckhand would want with them? Use them to wipe his a.s.s with, for all I know. That's not the point. I have to have them.'

Khosa roared with amus.e.m.e.nt amid a cloud of cigar smoke. Then, turning to the puzzled gang at the conning station, he dropped the smile and laid a big hand on the dead electronic consoles. 'The problem is not with the equipment. The crew have done this. They are controlling the ship from the engine room. That is where we will find them. And that is where you will find your paper thief, messenger boy,' he added for Pender's benefit. He motioned at Zolani Tembe. 'Gather the men and find this engine room. We must get this ship working.'

'And the crew?' Tembe said.

'Bring them to me. We will take the ones that we can sell or use, and kill the rest.'

Chapter 19.

The first of many urgent calls that day had an instantly positive outcome. The octogenarian billionaire Auguste Kaprisky was overjoyed by the chance to repay what he saw as his debt to Monsieur Hope for saving his life. His greatest fear, he told Ben on the phone, had been that Ben would never ask. Without any hesitation and not a single question about why it was needed, Kaprisky granted them full and free use of his private jet. The aircraft was kept in its own hangar at Le Mans Arnage airport, just a few kilometres from Kaprisky's estate, and he maintained two pilots on full-time salary, ready to fly at a moment's notice. The weather forecast was looking dicey, but they'd taken off in worse.

The old man upgraded his plane every couple of years. His latest acquisition, he proudly declared, was a brand new Gulfstream G650ER, capable of covering thirteen thousand kilometres at a stretch, travelling at a steady Mach .85 with up to nineteen pa.s.sengers on board.

'That's more than plenty,' Ben said. 'I can't thank you enough, Auguste.'

'Anything for you, my friend. I mean it.'

Jeff was on his iPhone, cancelling clients and calling in the security firm they employed to look after Le Val when there was n.o.body around. With time so short, the rest of the plan was going to have to come together en route.

Kaprisky had additionally offered to send his personal Bell 407 helicopter up to Le Val to collect them, but Ben had declined, thinking he could make slightly better time by road in the Alpina. While Jeff was making the last of the calls, Ben and Tuesday set about transferring equipment from the armoury to the back of the car.

'I got to spend a little time with Jude while he was here,' Tuesday said, a little awkwardly, searching for the right words. 'I like him. I'm really sorry, you know?'

'He's not dead yet,' Ben said.

Le Val's armoury room was buried beneath several feet of reinforced concrete, with an armoured steel door and hi-tech security system. It housed scores of military-grade weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition, all painstakingly licensed by the authorities, itemised down to the last round and wrapped in enough red tape to tie up the French navy. One or two items stored down there, however, had never been registered officially, so that they could be set aside for a rainy day and never traced if things went awry or the guns had to be ditched. Over the years Ben had 'collected' four MP5 submachine guns and an a.s.sortment of shotguns, rifles and pistols whose serial numbers were unlisted. It was the pick of those that would be travelling with them to Africa.

Ben was still unsure about the wisdom of bringing Tuesday Fletcher along. The young guy had proved his worth as a soldier, no doubt about that, but he was an unknown quant.i.ty. 'How's that leg?' Ben asked him as they hauled the gear up from the armoury.

'Never better,' Tuesday replied, grabbing another case of ammo.

'This isn't going be a walk in the park. I don't want to be responsible for you if it goes south.'

'I get it,' Tuesday said with a frown. 'Just because I was invalided out of the service, you think I'm not fit for this, yeah? You worry about Jude. I'll worry about my leg. I won't let you down.' He paused. 'It's an honour working with you, man. You're a legend.'

'I'm just a person like anybody else,' Ben said, wishing Tuesday would shut up.

'Seriously. I heard stuff some of the older guys still talk about. Like the thing in Basra in 2003. That was the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. I mean, forget the Iranian Emba.s.sy siege, right? Who dares wins.'

Ben put down the heavy kit bag he was carrying towards the car and turned to glare at him. 'What you've heard is bulls.h.i.t. You want to know what your glorious SAS were really doing in Basra? Setting up false-flag bombing targets against civilians to create PR spin for the war on terror. Killing innocent people so that puppet leaders in the West could wave their b.l.o.o.d.y flags on TV and get re-elected. That's what we were doing. It's why I disobeyed orders and almost got myself court-martialled. It's also one of the main reasons I quit the regiment and never looked back. So you can stuff your "legend". Don't ever call me that again, okay? If you want to come, come. Just try not to get killed out there. I've enough c.r.a.p to deal with already.'

Tuesday looked as if he'd been gut-punched. His smile vanished and he fell silent. When Ben's anger died down, he felt bad for having lashed out at the younger guy and thought about saying so, but didn't.

Minutes later, they were throwing hastily packed personal belongings into the back of the car and piling in after them. Jeff sat up front next to Ben, still talking on his iPhone, and Tuesday clambered in the back. Ben fired up the engine, popped the clutch and scattered gravel as the BMW took off.

It was 3.16 p.m.

Le Val to Le Mans Arnage airport and the waiting jet was just over two hundred and sixty kilometres. For the next two hours, Ben concentrated on getting them there in one piece and not attracting unwanted police attention, while Jeff worked the phone and covered pages of a pad in his lap with scrawled notes and numbers.

The sky was darkening as the sun, invisible all day behind a blanket of grey cloud, now began to set. Ben kept his foot down hard while icy rain lashed the Alpina and the wipers worked hard to swat the deluge aside. The road was slick and shiny, too treacherous to be driving so fast. The taillights of other vehicles starred and flared on the wet windscreen as Ben blew past everything in front of him. Lost in his own anxious thoughts and chain-smoking one cigarette after another, he was barely aware of what Jeff was saying over the phone. Every minute felt to him like days. He gripped the wheel and fought to stay focused, telling himself over and over again that Jude was still alive. He was tough and resourceful. He'd hang in there. He'd make it through this.

'Okay,' Jeff said, after a series of long calls and internet searches. They were speeding at a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour along the Nationale 13, just past Caen. 'Here's what we've got so far. The plane is fuelled up and good to go the second we get the gear on board. There won't be any questions the other end. We wing it to Obbia that's the nearest airport to where we need to be. It's right on the Somali coast, next to the town of Hobyo, 'bout five hundred klicks up from dear old Mog.'

The Somali capital Mogadishu had been the scene of several incidents involving British and US Special Forces over the years, and wasn't a place much beloved by anyone who'd been remotely involved.

Jeff went on, 'Le Mans Arnage to Obbia is just a shade over six and a half thousand Ks. I just talked to Adrien, that's Kaprisky's pilot, and he reckons at a steady Mach point eight-five, depending on conditions, we're looking at less than six and a half hours in the air, point to point.'

'Not counting the hundred and thirty-plus nautical miles east to the ship's last position,' Ben reminded him.

'That's where it gets trickier. Hobyo isn't exactly a thriving metropolis, even by African standards. It's supposed to have a port, but I wouldn't expect to find much there. So the big question is, how do we get a fast boat from there to take us out the rest of the way? We'll be lucky if we can find a rusty fishing trawler.'

'There's got to be a bigger port where we can charter a speedboat or a fast cabin cruiser,' Ben said.

'Yeah, no problem, if we travel from Mombasa. I've already checked. World's your oyster down there. Only problem is, you're looking at over sixteen hundred kilometres distance. There isn't a small, fast craft that'll cover it.'

'How about the Seych.e.l.les? The islands are full of boats, and they're a little bit closer to where Jude is than Mombasa.'

'Thought about that already,' Jeff said. 'Not much in it, distance-wise. Same problem.'

Ben tossed the stub of his Gauloise through the inch-wide gap in the window and instantly lit another without taking his eyes off the road. His thoughts were rushing faster than the tarmac under the wheels of the speeding Alpina. 'Remember Chimp Chalmers?'

Jeff looked at Ben. 'Mate, Chimp Chalmers is a f.u.c.king lunatic.'

'I know he is,' Ben said. 'But he might be a useful f.u.c.king lunatic. We can't afford to get picky. Can you get his number?'

'I can ask around,' Jeff said reluctantly.

'Do it.'

'You don't want to deal with that bloke. He's not stable. And he's a crook.'

'Do it, Jeff.'

Chaz 'the Chimp' Chalmers, named as much for his physical appearance as for his ever-readiness to pull apart with his bare hands anyone who crossed him, had been one of the many who had quit the SF track to pursue a marginally safer and far more lucrative career in international security, and other things. Ben and Jeff hadn't heard from him in a few years, but rumour had it he'd jobbed around central and east Africa for much of that time, not always on the right side of the law. He was the kind of person who could thrive and make contacts in places most sane men would steer well clear of, which had made him a natural to drift into arms dealing. These days, he was reportedly based in Prague and had built himself up to be the go-to guy for anyone looking to get hold of anything from an ex-Soviet tank or attack helicopter to a Scud missile, delivered to the location of your choice, anywhere in the world, for the right fee. He had connections everywhere, an extensive bag of tricks and a magician's reputation for being able to pull rabbits out of hats, to order. Something as mundane as arranging a fast boat from Hobyo port should be a cinch for him.

Jeff got straight back on the phone while Ben, stealing a glance at the dashboard clock and wincing at the time, drove faster.

Chapter 20.

It took three more calls before Jeff finally managed to dig up the number for Chimp Chalmers. He dialled it and was put through to Chalmers's offices in Prague, where he was put on hold by a receptionist before getting to talk to the man himself.

Jeff quickly explained what he required, managing not to reveal any specifics about their situation while stressing that it was urgent. The conversation lasted nearly ten minutes, during which the Chimp did most of the talking and Jeff did most of the listening, bent over his phone with a finger in his other ear to keep out the roar of the Alpina's engine.

'Hmm,' Jeff said to Chalmers after a long silence. 'We're not looking to buy it, Chaz. We just want to charter it. Day, maybe two.'

More silence. Jeff looked dubious and impatient. 'Okay. Okay. Then talk to your guy and call me back as soon as you know. Make it snappy, all right? We're on the clock here.'

'Well?' Ben asked as Jeff ended the call.

'That a.r.s.ehole can't get enough of talking about himself,' Jeff said with a sigh. 'But anyway, we could be on to something. Chalmers deals with some bloke who deals with some other bloke who plays poker with the head of the port authority in Mog.'

'They can get us the kind of boat we need?'

Jeff shook his head. 'Not a boat. They have a seaplane in the harbour that was confiscated from a Somali smuggling gang the cops nabbed last month. It's been sitting there waiting for some legal clerk to sign off on a compulsory destruction order for it. Chalmers heard about it a couple of weeks back through the grapevine and was thinking of taking it off their hands to sell on, but the port authority guy was being awkward over the price. Theoretically, it's still up for grabs.'

'What kind of seaplane? What condition is it in?'

'Some kind of big ex-Soviet flying boat, he says. The smugglers souped up the engines and kitted it out with extra-large tanks for long range. It's old and tatty as f.u.c.k, but Chalmers reckons it's in good nick.' Jeff spread his hands and looked sceptical. 'I don't know, Ben.'

'How much does this guy want?'

'Unknown. The Chimp says he needs to make a couple of calls and get back to us.'

'We don't have a lot of time,' Ben said. They were three-quarters of the way to Le Mans now, and the minutes were ticking by faster than he liked.

'You heard me tell him that. We'll just have to wait, for what it's worth.'

Fifteen anxious minutes later, Jeff's iPhone started buzzing in his hand. He answered immediately. 'Dekker.'

Jeff listened, stone-faced. Ben glanced at him as he drove, trying to gauge what was being said.

'Let me think about it and call you right back,' Jeff said after a couple of minutes.

'What did he say?'

Jeff still didn't look happy. 'He talked to his guy. The port authority fella will rent us the plane, and he's got a local pilot called Achmed Mussa who'll agree to fly it the five hundred klicks from Mog and meet us at the port in Hobyo. Reckons Mussa can be on his way within the hour and be there waiting for us when we arrive. In with the deal, no extra cost, there's another local guy who'll drive us there from Obbia airport in his Land Cruiser.'

Ben was well aware of how things worked in Africa. You could get pretty much absolutely anything you wanted there, which was what made the place such a goldmine for the likes of Chimp Chalmers. Across much of the continent, laws were seldom observed and even more seldom enforced, especially when the odd palm was crossed with silver and the odd blind eye was turned, both of which were the norm. But that kind of handy corruption inevitably came at a price.

'Money?'

'Thirty thousand dollars for the rental, plus another ten for the pilot. Plus another ten as a finder's fee for the Chimp.'

'What?!' Tuesday exclaimed from the back seat.

Ben didn't blink at the extortionate price. There was no choice, and they were in no position to haggle. 'I'll pay you back,' he said to Jeff, immediately back to wondering how much he could get for his place in Paris.

'I'm not worried about the money,' Jeff said. 'I'm worried that we get there and this thing's missing its props and the f.u.c.king wings are about to drop off. I told you, Chimp Chalmers is a shyster. But it's your call, Ben. The money's in the bank. I can wire him the fifty grand online, right now. Take me half a minute.'

'Do it,' Ben said.

Without a word, Jeff got to work.

'It's done,' he said soon afterwards.