Devil’s Harvest (32 page)

‘And your father, Alek? Why was he killed?’

‘My father was a dreamer. He thought he could make all of this’ – Alek swept her arm across the vista of graves – ‘come to an end. He tried to bring peace to the different tribes in Abyei. He was a loved and trusted man in this state. But he was only thinking about the people living on top of the land. He should’ve been more careful about what was underneath them.’

‘What do you mean? What’s underneath?’

‘Oil.’ Alek made a small sign of the cross on her chest and blew a gentle kiss across her palm to the barren mound of earth at her feet. ‘This is all about oil now, Mr Gabriel. One day scientists like you – or the God you mock – may make oil and water mix. But oil and peace never will.’

Alek walked up the slope to where Margie was attending the small burial. They stood among a jumbled collection of graves, a few crows circling noisily, the small group of mourners mumbling their prayers. Behind him, along the edge of the designated cemetery, a sign had been nailed to a post sunk into the hard earth. ‘UN Mine Action Centre’ declared that this was the edge of the ‘UXO clearance zone’. The bush beyond it seemed no different, no more or less disturbed, purple-green castor plants giving it a false sense of lushness. Yet lurking there were landmines and explosives, planted by soldiers or rebels or militiamen or civilians, each with an enraged sense of justice in their heart, each fighting for their family, hoping for a good outcome for themselves, a blast of cordite and shrapnel for their enemies.

There were small, elongated stones scattered underfoot. The closer Gabriel looked the more he could see, collections of stones thrown like seeds all over the soil. He bent down and picked one up. Not stones, but bullets. His specimen was slightly damaged, with a dent near the tip, the bullet from some kind of automatic weapon, the telltale tapered head. Probably an AK-47, Gabriel thought, as he pocketed the bullet. It was difficult to imagine that the small piece of lead may have killed someone, passed through their body and then fallen to the ground, discarded, for him to find.

The camp provided no refuge from the heat and Gabriel spent the remainder of the day wandering from one baking portion of shade to another, aware of the continual activity of the camp, like an angry beehive, around him. By the time the sun started to sink behind the outline of thorn trees, the smoky haze giving it an outlandish orange hue, he was tired and ready for his camper bed.

He sat outside his room swatting at mosquitoes that had ventured out with the first hint of sunset. Alek arrived and asked him for the keys to the Land Cruiser. She was carrying an object wrapped in red cloth, the size of an A4 book.

‘What’s that?’ he asked as he handed the keys over.

‘Something my cousin was keeping for me.’ Her answer was noncommittal and did not invite further query. She walked off to the car and Gabriel watched as she stored the object under the passenger seat, pushing it securely into place. She locked the Land Cruiser and walked back to him, sitting down on the dusty porch alongside him.

‘Tomorrow we will leave early in the morning.’

‘To go and find my plants?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking down. ‘Yes, your plants. I know the way from here.’

A shadow appeared along the road that passed the office block towards the cemetery. Gabriel could just make out the figure of a man, the long peak of his baseball cap bouncing up and down as he trod, a small wrapped bundle in his arms.

Chapter 18

SIS BUILDING, VAUXHALL, LONDON

Richards was grumbling even before he met the MI6 agent. ‘Supposed to be a tunnel under the Thames to Whitehall,’ he noted sourly. Before the age of metrosexuals and male sensitivity training, the group captain would’ve been described, in complimentary terms, as a man’s man. He emitted a sense of rugged health, his jaw set squarely against any enemies plotting the downfall of the Empire. He was dressed in full formal uniform for the meeting. Bartholomew was surprised he hadn’t opted for combat field dress, perhaps complete with sidearm.

The Secret Intelligence Service Building was known internally as the MI6 building but locals referred to it as Legoland or Babylon-on-Thames, because of its resemblance to an ancient ziggurat, whether intended by its architect or not. It was a distinctive structure that had featured in at least four James Bond films, including a spectacular suspect chase in the opening scene of
The World Is Not Enough
. It had even come under real attack, when unknown assailants launched a Russian RPG-22 anti-tank missile from a nearby parking lot, taking out some eighth-floor windows. Yet, despite its history and integral role in the secret service, Bartholomew had never had occasion to enter its tall, rectangular entranceway. He was not overly pleased to be doing so now.

‘Bloody spooks,’ Richards moaned. ‘I still don’t understand what we are doing here, George.’

‘Keep to rank structure and etiquette in the meeting, Captain,’ Bartholomew instructed. ‘Let me do the talking and we can get out of here as quickly as possible. Say nothing unless you absolutely have to.’

His week of rest had turned into only four days and it had done nothing for his anxiety. Lilly had been particularly fussy after Hussein’s intrusion into their home, masking her anxiety with layers of meaningless chatter. He had considered contacting Todd to tell him about the unexpected visitor, but realised that he would then have to divulge the existence of the Reaper Project, a fact that Todd was either unaware of or had studiously avoided bringing up so far.

Then, within a day of Hussein’s visit, the MI6 agent had made contact and summoned Bartholomew to a meeting in London, insisting that Richards attend as well. His group captain’s name had never been mentioned before in their discussions. Bartholomew feared that it could only mean that MI6 had full knowledge of the Project.

Richards grunted but remained silent until they were crossing the marbled foyer and Bartholomew nodded towards the impeccably groomed figure of Todd, waiting patiently for them. Richards hissed something through his teeth. ‘Fucking faggot’ seemed to be formulated in the escaping air, but Bartholomew could not be sure. Certainly, Todd had taken even greater care with his appearance, if that were possible, his black hair sculpted into a perfect form, the trousers pressed and pleated, narrower at the ankles, the shoes pointed and extending well beyond his toes.

‘Wouldn’t like to go into combat wearing those,’ Richards observed, a little louder than was necessary.

Todd ignored him and ushered them towards the lifts. His floral cologne intensified as the doors closed with a hush and the lift hummed its way up an indecipherable number of floors. The three men waited in uncomfortable silence for the doors to open. Then Todd led the way down a bright corridor and showed them into a conference room. Once more, he pressed the button near the doorway, and a low murmur filled the room.

‘Interception mode,’ Bartholomew mouthed knowingly to Richards, who remained looking none the wiser.

Todd made his way to the other side of the conference table, placing a slim pile of papers in front of him. He offered them tea, which they both declined, still hopeful of completing their business – whatever it might be – in quick time. But Todd appeared to be in no hurry, shuffling his papers thoughtfully in front of him.

‘The Reaper Project. An apt name, Air Marshal – the grim reaper and all that.’ Todd studied the paperwork in front of him before looking up at Bartholomew. The air marshal immediately felt queasy.

‘I think I’ll take that tea now.’

‘Yes, I rather think you might.’ Todd turned to Richards. ‘Captain?’

Richards glowered back, his arms folded across his chest in a childish gesture of defiance. Todd gave a rather coy smile before pressing a button on the small console in the middle of the table and meticulously repeating the order for one tea for Air Marshal Bartholomew. Then he sat back and continued to consider the documents in front of him, deliberately refraining from any interaction until the door finally opened and a pencil-skirted secretary appeared with a tray, ceremoniously placing a single cup of tea before Bartholomew. Milk had been added; no sugar was offered. Only once the secretary had closed the door did Todd sit forward. By this time Richards had clearly had enough.

‘Jesus Christ, are we going to waste the entire day on bloody pleasantries? You’ve dragged us here for a reason, so perhaps we can bloody well get on with it.’

‘All right, Rambo. Keep calm.’ Todd’s voice was icy.

Richards’s cheeks coloured and for a moment Bartholomew thought the military man might resort to throwing a punch at their dapper host.

But before Richards could launch any attack, Todd neutralised him with a few choice comments: ‘MI6 is aware that you two gentlemen have been managing a covert operation. An operation that resulted in the termination of a civilian target in a non-combative and independent state at the request of a country still on the American list of states that sponsor terrorism.’

The effect on Richards was remarkable. It would have been amusing, watching the gruff man slowly pick his way through the sentence, his limited intellect sorting through the words to discern their meaning. Bartholomew could almost see the cognitive process play across the captain’s face – first blank, then slowly reddening, like a sun rising. His eyes widened and, as the statement finally berthed, his breathing dropped, a shallow hyperventilation that seemed only to redden his face further. He half-stood, as if to run away, and then, while still crouched over the table, turned to Bartholomew.

‘What the hell is he saying, George?’ Bartholomew could see fear in his eyes; for the first time Richards looked panicked. ‘What the fuck, George? This was an operation with the Americans. It was
their
target. What’s this jerk on about?’

‘No, Captain,’ Todd intervened, with apparent relish. ‘The target was a South Sudanese political figure by the name of Matthew Deng. Your missile took him out while he was on South Sudanese soil. The target had been identified by SAF – the Sudan Armed Forces. Your client, Captain, was Khartoum. The Americans may have turned a blind eye, but they certainly didn’t commission an operation on behalf of a state that still sponsors terrorism. And Mr Deng was no Al-Qaeda operative. Of that I can assure you.’

Richards exploded: ‘Are you fucking mad! At no stage were we running any operation for Khartoum. Bashir! Bombing for Bashir! George, what the hell is he going on about?’

‘Bombing for Bashir. You have a poetic touch, Captain. Perhaps you missed your calling. Maybe a career in literature, now that your military career is in free fall.’

Todd let his jibe sink in before he continued: ‘But, please, Captain Richards, don’t be naïve. Who did you think you were ultimately working for? The British Children’s Library Fund?’

Todd’s scorn was palpable, but Richards was glaring at Bartholomew, ignoring his taunter.

‘You didn’t need to know the ultimate requestor, Frank,’ Bartholomew responded. ‘It was better that way. It was sanctioned at the highest level.’ He knew it sounded weak, but the truth was that Richards hadn’t been given the security clearance to know all the finer details. ‘And that stupid American list is completely irrelevant. Do you think the US isn’t buying oil from Bashir as fast as they can?’

‘Which brings me to the reason for our little gathering …’

Bartholomew looked up at Todd in alarm. He had rather thought the reason for the meeting had been disclosed. Todd held his gaze evenly, just a faint raising of his eyebrows suggesting the seriousness of what was to come.

‘The Royal Air Force’s decision to embark on cross-border strikes without consulting MI6 was ill-considered, no doubt. The almost certain involvement of beneficial arms trade negotiations is a further problematic factor. But recent events are of far more concern to the secret service and to government. It appears that there are other players who may be conducting an investigation into the Deng strike. It’s unclear to us precisely who’s behind this, but the obvious concerns would be a home-based investigation, either MI5 or the Serious Fraud Office, or something emanating out of Europe, perhaps the Overseas Corruption Unit. I don’t need to remind you, Air Marshal, that all three have experience in investigating surreptitious government contracts. The devastation rent by Ms Garlick in the al-Yamamah probe still sends shivers down spines in Whitehall. I think I also do not need to remind you that Britain is a founding signatory of the OECD Anti-Bribery Convention. Does the ministry of defence need another scandal? I rather think not.’

Richards had sunk back into his chair. He had become a mere spectator, exhausted by the spectacle and unable to participate or even react. He sensed now, no doubt, what Bartholomew had himself known for some time: that the Reaper Project was not to be their cosy retirement, but their conflagration.

Still, Todd hadn’t said anything new. He was treading on known, if frightening, territory. He’d spoken without glancing down at the papers in front of him, but now he paused, looked down and took a minute to study the typed notes, before looking up again. Bartholomew knew that whatever was coming would not be good.

‘As no doubt you know, there was collateral damage in the strike. A child. We have reviewed the footage’ – at this revelation Richards sat bolt upright once more, outrage formulating on his lips and then withering before Todd’s implacable disinterest – ‘and it’s apparent that the strike could’ve been aborted when the child was seen running out towards the target. You elected to continue. A further unfortunate decision on your part.’

They were to be hung out to dry, Bartholomew saw it now. It would be labelled a ‘rogue mission’, unauthorised by anyone higher in MoD than himself, a crusade undertaken by a morally destitute soldier prepared to take the lives of innocents in the pursuit of financial gain. It would be a crucifixion. Lilly would never understand.

‘However, regardless of whose fault that might be,’ Todd was saying, ‘the MoD recognises that the press are unlikely to maintain the fine distinction between your personal responsibilities and those of the ministry as a whole. And, quite frankly, MI6 isn’t particularly interested in the short-term fallout from another arms deal turned sour. What’s more troubling to us is the fact that a foreign player may have infiltrated our institutions.’