Defender (3 page)

The stench of rotting meat permeated the air with an intensity that would make any normal person gag. But there weren’t any normal people within 1000 miles of this shithole. Victor Lundt hated the smell of the place. Even referring to it as a shithole was generous. He was sure that the troops pissed and crapped wherever they felt like it – inside or out.

In the depths of the long house, somewhere to the rear and downstairs, he could hear the muffled cries of a man in pain. He stopped his shuffling and listened more intently, mouth open and eyes closed. There it was again. A series of dull thuds followed immediately by a strained, exhausted scream for mercy.
Overzealous
, Lundt thought with disdain. When subjected to torture there was always that point when death seemed preferable to living with the physical and psychological injuries of sustained brutality. Knowing how far to push was what separated the professional from the amateur. Then, checking his watch, Lundt realized that he’d been made to wait for twenty minutes. Standing around in the foyer of the old house like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster.
Another third-world wannabe
, he scoffed mentally.
Patience, man, patience.

He strolled outside onto the worn and splintered boards of the sagging verandah and took the last drags from yet another cigarette. There were rebel soldiers everywhere. They were lounging around the compound, leaning against Jeeps, or finding refuge under the shade of trees, while off in the distance, others moved in packs, creeping around the buildings of the surrounding village. There was no discipline among them other than that instilled by fear. Cruelty and an absolute lack of humanity was what made this rebel army move as one.

A couple of women, prostitutes from the local village, lazed across each other at the far end of the verandah. They were exhausted, sweating profusely, their tattered dresses barely covering them.
Rough night,
he thought. Lundt flicked the still burning cigarette contemptuously in their direction, gulping air in an attempt to fill his lungs. A faded denim shirt clung to his chest, stained salt rings of perspiration looped around the armpits and collar. The dry red dirt, so much the signature of Malfajiri, filtered through his uncharacteristically bushy dark hair and stubble. Bored and moderately annoyed, he reached high above his head, stretching his tall, lean body upward until his heels left the floor and his fingertips touched the roof of the verandah. He let out a long, low groan as he released the tension of the stretch and then, lazily returning his hands to the pockets of his cargo pants, kicked at the exposed, twisted head of a rusty nail. His eyes naturally found their way along the street to the ruin a couple of hundred yards away where he’d found Collins just a week or so ago. Those stupid bastards at SIS would think twice about interfering again, once they discovered their boy was dead. He let out a deep, remorseless sigh. Collins had known the risks of the game; at least, he should have. Lundt spat a remnant of tobacco upon the creaking boards at his feet. It was always the fucking ex-soldiers who came in draped in all the syrup of the Union-bloody-Jack, chests full of patriotism, doing everything short of singing ‘Rule Britannia’ as they marched into Vauxhall Cross for the first time. Truth be told, there’d been a time when Lundt had been like that himself. Although those days were long gone.
Yeah
, he thought again,
Collins had known the risks.
It was just too bad.

There came the thump and boom of half-a-dozen pairs of army boots crossing wooden floorboards.

"Good day, colonel," Lundt offered languidly. His hands tellingly remained in his pockets.

Baptiste, the rebel leader – tall, blue-black, with thick, wiry hair pressed awkwardly under a dirty green beret – ignored the greeting. Instead he stood close, bristling with self-importance, surrounded by three of his minders and his 2IC, Mobuto, the butcher. Their skin shone with sweat, contrasting with their dull jungle-camouflage uniforms, all tinged ochre by a permanent film of fine dirt.

"This sniper," Baptiste began. "Trouble is following you, English."

"Not me, colonel. You have a way of pissing off a lot of very important people, and all you do is draw unnecessary attention to yourself – and to me. I’m not at all surprised he was sent after you."

"Give Baptiste news of the soon-to-be-dead President Namakobo’s movements," demanded the colonel, pompously referring to himself in the third person.

"I’m afraid I have none. I’m expecting advice from London at any moment," Lundt replied.

The rebel leader moved in even closer, standing toe to toe with the foreigner.

"Mobuto tells me that you were waiting for advice from London yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, English. And today – still nothing."

"These are difficult times, colonel. It’s very important that you make your move deliberately and at just the right moment. When they learn that you’ve killed their man, the British Government won’t be so keen to intervene here. They’ll be afraid that by helping President Namakobo they’ll be over-committed; they’ve already got enough on their plate in Afghanistan. For years they’ve had great influence in Malfajiri. Now, they won’t be so confident. But we can’t afford to have Namakobo here in Cullentown when you make your move against his government. With or without British help, he has strong tribal alliances throughout this country, and he and Dr. Siziba are the only two who could turn things against you. Siziba being in exile, he’s not an immediate problem for you. You must wait until—"

"No! No more wait. You come now." Baptiste turned on his heel and moved swiftly back into the house. His minders closed around Lundt and led him away in the wake of their Colonel. Mobuto followed.

The rebel_ soldiers herded the foreigner deep into the house. Baptiste led the way, his chin jutting in the air and his right hand resting habitually on the butt of his holstered .44 Magnum. The stench grew worse as they frog-marched along the corridors, and then in file down a set of stairs that must have been condemned 20 or more years ago. Lundt fought the temptation to retch. The rotting concrete walls that cocooned the stairs were smeared with the brown stain of blood splatter, and underfoot the wooden steps reeked of urine. What had been a basement at one time, was now an endless black cavern, a torture chamber. In those first seconds as he was pushed away from the stairs, the darkness, smell and incessant moans of invisible prisoners gave the impression of infinite space. The rebel soldiers moved through the darkened abyss comfortably.

Gradually, Lundt could distinguish shapes and movement. Cages materialised along the walls to his left and right, four or five on each side, and each with a dozen or more people inside. Baptiste withdrew the Magnum from its holster and rattled the barrel along the bars of the cages, taunting the terrified occupants with each calculated step. Clang, clang, clang! Wretched, lucifugous creatures, all of them. They fell silent at the very sight of Baptiste, and scuttled away
to
the rear of their pens like nocturnal animals away from light, as Baptiste and his posse cut a swath along the bars. The fear was palpable, the stench inhuman.

At the end of the chasm, Baptiste came to a stop. "Come here," he snarled. Lundt was grappled forward by the minders and within a second found himself thrust alongside the Colonel. "See what Baptiste has for you."

"I don't know why you've brought me here, Colonel," he replied. For the first time in a very, very long time Victor Lundt was feeling dread. Surely this wasn't the end of the line. Not like this, down here. "This has nothing to do with me."

"It has everything to do with you." Baptiste pushed him into an open cage.

Lundt stumbled against a solitary figure, a man, sitting in a wooden chair. In the same instant, Baptiste pulled a length of string suspended from the roof and a blazing single bulb came to life, illuminating a space ten feet square in blinding yellow light. Lundt staggered back towards the wall, his face frozen in disbelief. Baptiste smiled.

The man in the chair, or what was left of him, was the sniper, Collins, arms bound behind him and ankles strapped to the legs of the chair by strands of thin copper wire. Deep blood-encrusted gouges, the result of many days in this position, were evident around the wrists and ankles. His face was a mess, the flesh battered and swollen, both eyes completely closed over. Blood dripped from his open mouth. Teeth were missing. His head was hanging at a repulsive angle, no doubt from the sheer exhaustion of lasting through the beatings he'd received. He stunk of his own excrement. The only sound was the bubbling rasp of his attempts to breathe with lungs full of blood, as the ribs had been broken early in the treatment. Occasionally, the head would move, and Lundt realised that Collins was sobbing, barely audible amidst the laughing and jeering of Baptiste's men. "You assured me this man was dead, Colonel." Lundt spat the words at Baptiste.

"I am fighting for the destiny of my country, English. My destiny is my country's destiny and I will take control." He glared at the man in the chair. "Nobody will stop Baptiste. Not this spy. Not Namakobo. Not even your British Government."

The rebel soldiers began to laugh. Baptiste smiled, enjoying his audience. Mobuto moved into the cell and was hovering behind the chair, but his attention was fixed on Lundt.

"He's done," Lundt said, staring at Collins. "You'll get nothing from him now. Finish him and be done with it."

"Yes, English. I will finish him. Here. Now. You will see. This spy from your England. Sent to kill Baptiste - in my country. To kill Mobuto. Probably to kill even you, English." Baptiste was shouting at the wretched mess in the chair. "He thought he was clever. Too clever for we simple Africans." The shouting turned to a shriek of naked rage. "Can you believe that?" As if to accentuate the question, Baptiste lashed out, pistol whipping Collins across the face. Lundt remained silent. He'd seen this before. Witnessed Baptiste's rants. He knew what was coming, knew that death was only seconds away, knew there was no stopping it. Not that he would. This was just sport now, an amusement for Baptiste, nothing more. "Kill him, Mobuto," barked Baptiste.

Mobuto stepped forward, gripped Collins cruelly by the face, drew the blade of an M9 bayonet from a scabbard, and stabbed it hard through the side of the man's neck. Collins' entire body contorted, straining against the wire lashings, as Mobuto forced the blade in deep. A succession of convulsions shook the man before he finally fell silent.

Mobuto casually wiped the blood from the bayonet on Collins' body and re-sheathed it. His expression did not change. Lundt didn't move. Instead, he remained pressed up hard against the wall, watching a pool of blood creeping across the short distance from the chair toward the soles of his desert boots. His jaw was clenched tight, his mouth dry as he attempted to read the expression on the face of Baptiste.

"And, now he is dead." Baptiste walked up to Lundt, looking into his eyes, close, as if for the first time. "You do not want to end up in that chair, English. Although, I think my friend Mobuto would like to see you in it."

The rain had set in and showed no sign of retreating. People were tumbling in and out of St. James's Park Station and rushing along Broadway, winds whipping at the tails of their long coats and wrenching at the umbrellas that were barely holding up against the relentlessness of the elements. The tail-end of British winter had wrapped London in a depressing bleakness.

Major General Reginald 'Nobby' Davenport CBE, DSO, MC gazed out over Westminster from his office. His expression was grave.

The son of a former Sergeant Major of the New Zealand Army, Davenport had come a long way from his boyhood years in Auckland. But wherever he'd been since, the rain, whenever it came, always reminded him of growing up in New Zealand and dreams of old friends and long departed family. And now, as a man so many years removed from the boy, he remained still for a few moments and closed his eyes, allowing himself a childhood indulgence, shutting out the world, embracing the soothing rumble of the rain as it drummed against the bullet resistant glass. Whilst he'd always found comfort in the rain, under current circumstances, he looked forward to the spring. A little sunshine right now would go a long way
to
soothing his sombre mood.

Surrounding him, dotted along the oak-panelled and volume-lined walls of his spacious office, were the mementos of a lifetime dedicated to the protection of others. A plethora of awards and presentation plaques from military units, legal bodies and law-enforcement agencies across the world, stood proudly alongside photographs and certificates chronicling Davenport's career. Caps, badges and statuettes, including Davenport's very well-worn SAS beret and the light blue beret he had worn with the UN Transitional Authority in Cambodia, and numerous old and new military, police, UN and INTERPOL photographs, showcased 50 years of contrast between past and present soldiering and policing. A photograph with Queen Elizabeth II, at his investiture as a Commander of the Order of the British Empire, took pride of place on a cleared area of shelf behind his desk.

As Director-General of INTREPID, this was the inner sanctum Davenport had established as his personal field office - his 'War Room' - separate from, yet complementary to, the austere glass-and-steel enclosure he maintained as his second office at the INTREPID command centre, deep within the complex in Lyon where INTERPOL was officially headquartered. Despite its late 19th century far;ade and decor, the London office was buried behind a veritable labyrinth of state-of-the-art biometric and physical security systems and was accessed via a nondescript entrance, within a nondescript building, off Queen Anne's Gate in the busy heart of Westminster. Increasingly, the necessary expansion of INTREPID dictated that London was where Davenport and his personal staff needed to be, and the Secretary General of INTERPOL to whom Davenport answered, was, thankfully, in agreement. London was proving to be much more functional as the centre for INTREPID field agents, rather than suburban France, particularly in view of the covert nature of their operations and the necessity to maintain the absolute secrecy of their identities. To him, the safety of his agents and the
integrity of their personal security arrangements were everything.