Devil’s Harvest (21 page)

The strength of the grip on his arm was matched by a steely expression that made the fixed hair and scrubbed skin suddenly sinister. Bartholomew nodded, looking down at the man’s hand in a plea for release. The grip was eased and the man adjusted his jacket sleeves, as if recovering from a brawl. He beckoned Bartholomew to follow him, walking with a straight back, the hint perhaps of a mince, his polished shoes making little clipping sounds on the marble floor. He was probably twenty years Bartholomew’s junior, but there was something unnerving about him, a confidence, a restraint, that made the airman comply.

Bartholomew was shown into a meeting room, bare save for the table and chairs. The man flicked a switch on the wall and a low humming sound started. Then he sat down opposite him and rather deliberately placed his hands into a steeple, looking over the top at Bartholomew. There was an unreasonably long pause.

‘My name is Todd. This room is in interceptor mode, so we can talk freely. I’m the person who will, from now on, be dealing with you on the issues that you wished to raise with the secretary of state.’

‘And who exactly are you, Mr Todd?’

‘Just Todd, Air Marshal. It doesn’t matter who I am, just that I am the person authorised to deal with you on these matters.’

‘And these matters are what, exactly?’

Todd smiled. The teeth were, of course, perfectly matched and beautifully white. But the smile wasn’t warm, more like a mocking grin. Bartholomew felt a little dizzy, as if his blood pressure had plummeted. He could have done with a glass of water, but had no intention of asking his interrogator for the favour.

‘Well, I should ask
you
that, Air Marshal,’ Todd said, ‘since you set up the meeting with the secretary. But let me pre-empt you for the sake of expedience.’ He put his hands palm-down on the table. ‘You’re in discussion with Mr Khalid Hussein, a Saudi national who is brokering a substantial contract between a foreign government and BAE Systems. The undersecretary is aware of the importance – financially – of this potential contract for BAE Systems and, indeed, the MoD. We’re also not naive and we understand that your involvement in this transaction may be inevitable. Even beneficial.’

Bartholomew was feeling nauseous now and his hearing seemed to be affected by a high-pitched whine, perhaps the interception device he thought, though he could also still clearly make out the rumbling drone. His stomach clenched and a spasm passed across his belly. Goddamn this impudent man.

‘But we want to make one thing absolutely, positively, undeniably clear,’ the man was saying. ‘We’re aware that the foreign power involved may not, in the greater scheme of public perception, be the most glamorous or … presentable of nations. To put it plainly, Air Marshal, you’re brokering a deal with a nation that still appears on America’s list of terrorist states.’

Bartholomew tried to intervene but Todd put up his hand to stop him. ‘Yes, yes, no doubt the deal is conditional on the Saudis negotiating the removal of your buyer from that particular list, but I assure you it gives this government cold comfort indeed.

‘We’re also aware of Hussein’s passing involvement in the Chinook helicopter deal. Under no circumstances … and, Air Marshal, we mean
under absolutely no circumstances
, will this government, this ministry or the secretary of state accept any knowledge, responsibility or involvement in the conclusion of or negotiation for this contract. If you choose to assist in smoothing the course for the contracting parties, that’s entirely your decision, your risk and your career on the line. Do I need to make anything clearer for you, Air Marshal?’

Bartholomew thought he might throw up. He nodded, his collar damp and tight around his neck. ‘It’s perfectly clear. I expected nothing else.’

‘Now, Air Marshal. What was it that you wished to convey to the undersecretary? Is there a problem, something we need to know about?’ Todd had leant forward and was staring at Bartholomew, daring him to blink or look away. ‘Anything at all?’

Was this a test, Bartholomew wondered. Did this man know about the Reaper Project perhaps, was he testing his frankness? Or perhaps his trustworthiness? If he said something would it be seen as laudable honesty or a breach of security protocols? How exactly did one nonchalantly disclose the event of a covert strike conducted in a foreign state?

‘Nothing. Just wanted to give an update. There are a few outstanding matters, but it seems the contract is on track.’

Todd nodded thoughtfully as if Bartholomew had said something of great complexity.

‘Nothing at all,’ Bartholomew said, immediately regretting the suspicious-sounding repetition.

‘That’s very considerate of you, Air Marshal. I will give the secretary your happy news.’ Todd handed him a white card with nothing but a mobile telephone number printed on it. ‘If you do have anything to tell the undersecretary, please contact me directly. And only me.’

Bartholomew took the card with some reluctance and slipped it into the top pocket of his jacket. He had to fight back a churlish impulse to tear up the card and throw it at the man’s overly pointy shoes. Todd nodded to him without conviction and concluded the meeting, holding the door open and then escorting him to the entrance, rather like a prisoner. There was no handshake offered, no pat on the back, just a curt ‘goodbye’.

Bartholomew headed for the cloakroom to douse his flushed face with handfuls of cold water. When he looked up into the mirror he saw an ageing, ruddy-faced man, his jowls loose, his eyes tired. And behind the red-rimmed eyelids, he saw something else. Fear. Not of death, but of death with ignominy.

Once out on Horse Guards Avenue he started to feel a little better, his nausea subsiding and the stiff breeze cooling him down. He passed the corner of Whitehall, the spot where the IRA had launched its mortar attack on Downing Street. The causes may change, but war remains the constant human endeavour, Bartholomew thought as he headed past the statue of Spencer Cavendish. He had just reached the Embankment public gardens when his cellphone started ringing, an annoying, shrill noise emanating from his breast pocket. The number was not identified.

‘Air Marshal Bartholomew,’ he answered, pressing the phone against his ear to cut out the sound of the wind.

‘Ah, George. My client wants to know when you can proceed with that little favour.’

It was Hussein. The absence of any greeting, the familiarity of the tone, the timing of the call, all smacked of disrespect and a certain entitlement.

‘The window of opportunity is not a big one,’ the Saudi added.

Bartholomew’s customary annoyance at such an intrusion was replaced by queasy anxiety. ‘That favour may have to be delayed for a while,’ he said. ‘There may have been a … problem with the last gift for your friend. I can explain if we meet.’ His throat seemed tight, as if a tablet had got stuck above his windpipe. He coughed dryly.

‘There’s no need. I have no interest in your problems. But my client will be most disappointed that you’re so unwilling to assist.’

‘It is not that we’re unwilling—’

‘I don’t think that you quite understand, Air Marshal,’ Hussein interrupted him, raising his voice. ‘Let me state it quite plainly for you: your failure to provide this favour to my client will cause us to terminate the sale negotiations. That is how my client views the position. My client requires a sign of your good faith. Its absence will result in our supplier preference being transferred to competing parties. The decision is yours.’

He hung up before Bartholomew could respond. The air marshal felt something flutter in his chest, then a strong tickling feeling, like someone drumming their fingers on his breastbone. The phone slipped from his hand but when he looked down for it he realised that his vision had blurred. The knocking feeling was confusing him, as if something had attached itself to his chest, although it seemed to be burrowing from the inside out rather than trying to get in. He slapped his chest weakly with his arm. He was increasingly dizzy and aware of a burning pain starting at the base of his skull. He put his hand out towards the railing to steady himself, but he grasped at air and stumbled forward, his shoulder jarring into the metal bars instead. He could hear himself groaning, though he’d made no conscious effort to make a noise.

Someone was talking to him, asking him if he was all right. He could see the pair of dark trousers, a man’s black shoes. He tried to say something, to ask him to find his phone, but the low groaning continued. The pain had spread across the back of his head now and seemed intent on reaching his forehead. He was no longer sure if his eyes were open or closed, the world reduced to a black sky, the stars pulsating back at him.

Dear God, he thought, his knees buckling. Let me not go this way, wetting my trousers and lying in a heap like a homeless man on the Avenue.

Chapter 13

TRAVERSING THE LAKES AND WARRAP STATES, SOUTH SUDAN

The first setback came early. Rasta arrived the following morning with Alek, driving a beaten-up Toyota Land Cruiser, the mustard-brown colour making the rust appear to blend into the bodywork. Gabriel could make out the old signage of the UNHCR across one door, but clearly the vehicle’s days of assisting the global good were long past. Its brakes shrieked as Rasta pulled to a stop, and the car rocked on its springs, the dust settling around it.

Then Rasta announced that he would not drive beyond the town of Yirol. His reasons – anxieties really – were indecipherable. He had blithely portrayed the trip to Wau as safe the evening before, but now refused to venture forth himself. The personal reasons he cited – a blossoming romance, his nephew’s birthday – were unconvincing. Gabriel decided not to push him, but the barman’s blunt refusal disturbed him. Rasta’s usual jovial mood also seemed subdued. Gabriel tried asking Alek what the issue was.

‘He’s Bor Dinka.’ She shrugged. ‘They’re cowards.’

Not only did the racial categorisation seem unhelpful, but the suggestion that the undertaking was one that cowards would eschew was itself not comforting.

‘But I thought you were Dinka yourself?’

Alek gave him a withering look. ‘We’re both
Muonyjieng
, in the same way you and I are both human beings. I am Malual Dinka. We’re not the same.’

They would have to find a replacement driver, she advised him, glaring at the crestfallen Rastafarian. She would need some money upfront to secure this. And she needed to give the owner of the vehicle a deposit. Gabriel pulled out two hundred British pounds from the side of his camera bag.

‘What’s this?’ Alek snatched the notes from Gabriel and waved them at Rasta as if he were a disobedient child, lambasting him in their language. The barman refused to look at Gabriel, scratching his foot in the dust. Alek again shouted at Rasta and then marched away.

‘Now what?’ Gabriel asked. It was already hot and his mood was deteriorating.

‘She wants to know if you think this is still a colony,’ the barman said, grinning sheepishly now. ‘She’s a fierce lady.’

The next two hours were wasted drinking instant coffee and waiting for something to develop. Gabriel gave Rasta a large amount of money to change into South Sudanese pounds on the black market. He returned with a plastic packet full of grubby notes, folded into bundles and tied with frayed elastic.

Gabriel had developed diarrhoea during the night and, despite having only bowel-cementing starch for breakfast, he still had to slip away to the communal toilets every twenty minutes. Rasta’s refusal to drive was undoubtedly a setback, but sitting with his stomach heaving on the rim of the bowl, he was grateful not to be stuck in the rocking Land Cruiser. He’d also developed some fungal rash between his toes, and his skin itched maddeningly. Altogether it was an unfortunate start to the journey.

He returned from one such bout to find Alek sitting alone at the bar drinking cold water.

‘No driver?’ he asked, annoyed by her inaction.

She shrugged, unconcerned.

‘If we’re not going today, could you at least have the decency to tell me?’

‘He’s coming.’

‘The driver?’

‘The driver.’

‘When?’

She shrugged again. ‘Nothing happens in a hurry here. Be patient. You must learn to wait.’

He sat next to her seething, trying to quell his anger with water from the bar fridge. Eventually, after another hour, a surly-looking man with a scrawny chest and neck loped into the bar area. His hair had receded to a line on top of his head, leaving a vast expanse of forehead with an alarming number of trenches and foxholes, like a scarred battlefield.

‘
Salaam alaikum
,’ the man said to Alek, pointedly ignoring Gabriel.

‘
Aiwa, ana kwais. Shukran jazeelan
.’

A short conversation in Arabic ensued before Alek introduced him as Kamal Maarouf, their new driver. The man seemed to scowl at Gabriel’s outstretched hand, but shook it nonetheless, his offering limp and greasy. He apparently spoke no English and his only interaction with Gabriel thereafter was to rub his fingers together as an indication that he required a part-payment upfront. Gabriel deposited a liberal quantity of Sudanese pounds into the man’s snatching hands, which seemed to placate him temporarily. He then retreated to the shade of a low tree, seemingly still unimpressed, and proceeded to roll a cigarette that smelt like burning cowpat.

It was left to Gabriel to heave their bags into the back of the Land Cruiser. He was strapping a battered jerrycan to the back of the vehicle when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Where you off to, Birdman?’ The accent flat and nasal. The smell of cigarettes and whisky. Gabriel turned to find himself almost touching the taut, brown face of Jannie. Alek walked past and the South African blew her a mock kiss. ‘Bit of an away game, hey?’ She flinched and pulled away with a scowl. Jannie just laughed, more a twisted sneer than a show of humour. ‘So what’s the destination,
boet
?’

‘I’m doing some research. Up north.’

‘Research?’ Jannie said, as if Gabriel’s answer was somehow bizarre or irrational. ‘Up north?’