Hyena Dawn (57 page)

Now he would have to concentrate on Mugabe. The man was an intellectual and a Marxist. He might present problems, and then again he might not.

Restlessly pacing up and down the room, John Fry happened to glance down at a young couple in the street below, laughing, with their arms round each other. The thought crossed his mind that it might be nice to have someone to go home to, someone that he could talk to. But of course, everything he handled was classified, and the way he operated there was no one he
could
talk to.

He sipped meditatively at his drink. What had persuaded Rayne to disobey orders? The question bothered him, he had not expected this. It crossed his mind that Rayne might be involved with the magnate Aschaar. Fry was aware of Aschaar’s activities, knowledge which he kept to himself. Aschaar might be useful to him in the future. But if Gallagher and Aschaar somehow knew about
his
activities, what then?

He walked over to the filing cabinet and pulled out the file on Vorotnikov. Years of intelligence work, carefully analysed to build up an accurate picture of the man; now it was all wasted, they would have to start again on his successor. Fry must contact his agent in Maputo in the morning and begin to find out who that successor might be. He sat down at the desk again and pushed another set of buttons on the intercom.

‘
Control, get me London Section Six. Use code X12GTT, category Urgent. I want immediate clearance.’

‘
Yes, sir.’

It would take about ten minutes for the contact to be made. As he fed Vorotnikov’s file into the shredder next to his desk, he wondered again how Rayne and his men would feel when the plane did not land. Naturally they wouldn’t expect anyone to know where the pick-up point was, so that would come as a surprise too. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that the Soviets wouldn’t take prisoners. They’d be bitter, and bitter men never thought straight. It would be over a day before a senior Soviet officer took the reins, and by then it would be too late.

An orange light flashed on the intercom, indicating that the link-up had been made.

‘
This is Lynx, who is my quarry?’

‘
Badger, old chap. Bit late for you, eh?’

Bugger the Brits, he thought to himself, they always made fun of the CIA jargon. He tried to curb the irritation that was creeping into his voice.

‘
Operation Troy is complete. The elections can proceed, no need for any heavy metal.’

‘
Affirmative, Lynx. The kites were sent down just for a show of strength, if you follow my drift.’

‘
Understood, Badger. Task force has been abandoned as planned. Survival chances nil.’

‘
You’d better hope so, Lynx. Anything else?’

John Fry didn’t want to continue but knew he had to pass on the information he had just received. ‘The eagle has been killed.’ ‘I say, Lynx, you’re going to be in hot water over that one. Who’s the replacement?’

‘
Don’t know yet, Badger.’

‘
Naughty, you’re going to get your knuckles rapped.’

‘
Mugabe will be the favourite now. Can you handle the situation?’

‘
Mugabe won’t win. We’ll be bringing in policemen to control the polling.’

John smiled to himself. The absolute arseholes! Did they really think that British bobbies were going to control the intimidators?

‘
OK, Badger, you can return to your lair.’

‘
Good hunting, Lynx.’

He was alone again. What was worse was that he was conscious of it - a bad sign. Being on his own usually didn’t bother him.

He looked down at his silver-faced Piaget and saw that it was getting on. He was over half an hour late for the ball, and lack of punctuality always irritated him.

Rayne stared up at the sky in horror. The plane had ceased circling the runway and had disappeared into the clouds.

Sam clung to his side. ‘What’s happened?’

‘
The bastard’s not coming in.’

Major Navrativlova was so tired that he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. Even the endless cups of black coffee were failing in their usual stimulatory effect. He lit another cigarette and surveyed the ashtray full of butts on the table in front of him. The truth was, he was afraid of what would happen when General Vorotnikov’s replacement arrived. For the moment,
he
was in command of Beira, and with the port under attack it was an unenviable position.

Someone came into the room and he turned to see who it was. ‘Ah, Carl. You come in like a stinking jackal, ready to eat your prey when the killing has been done.’

Navrativlova hated the men from the KGB and their formidable power. He believed that the army came first and intelligence second. He also suspected they had something to do with Vorotnikov’s death - it was known that the General and the KGB did not see eye to eye.

‘
I have some intelligence information which may make you a little more relaxed.’

Major Navrativlova stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Don’t play games with me. Tell me what you know, Carl.’

‘
This enemy force. They’ve a rendezvous, now, at the site of the old airport.’

A smile lit up Major Navrativlova’s face. He ignored Carl Sverdelov’s warning - ‘Be careful. They’re obviously a crack unit’ - and jumped to his feet and ran for the door.

Carl gazed after Navrativlova’s departing back. The man was a fool. He hadn’t even bothered to ask how Carl knew where the rendezvous was. Not that Carl would have told him the truth.

And anyway, no one in the Russian military would ever have heard of John Fry.

Rayne turned round with a start. The rain had stopped. Then he heard the sound that had scared him, the heavy roar of approaching trucks. He pulled Sam down, ran into the trees at the side of the runway and looked down the road. Was it Michael Strong with Bunty and the rest of the men?

The trucks moved onto the centre of the runway. Even if the plane did come back, it could not possibly land now. Now he could see the troops sitting in the back of one of the trucks, the barrels of their rifles glinting ominously.

No one had known about the pick-up point beside himself, Bunty, Mike and John Fry. And even if Mike or Bunty had already been captured, they would never have talked so quickly under interrogation. He heard the engines being switched off, and saw the Russians leap out of the trucks and run into the trees. It was an ambush. His worst fears were confirmed.

Rayne’s mind raced as he racked his brains for a solution. Sam had crawled up next to him.

‘
What the hell’s going on?’

‘
Double-cross. The Russians must have been told about the rendezvous. I don’t know how the hell to warn the guys.’ He gave her a kiss on the lips. ‘If I don’t make it, just remember that I love you.’

‘
If you die I’ll never forgive you.’

Not bothering to silence their movements, they moved quickly through the trees in the direction from which the trucks had come.

Another truck came tearing along the road and turned onto the runway. To his horror, Rayne saw that Ted Donnel was driving.

‘
Ted! It’s a trap!’ He screamed the words out of his lungs, but Ted didn’t hear him.

A rocket, fired by the Russian troops in the trees, hit the front of the lorry, killing Ted instantly. The vehicle burst into flames. Michael Strong and the rest of the men dived out of the back into a withering hail of gunfire.

‘
Oh, my God!’

Rayne grabbed Sam and pulled her down as she cried out in horror. A bullet passed through the air where her head had been.

Then Rayne opened fire on the Russians.

Navrativlova screamed out in agony as a bullet ripped through his right buttock and flung him to the ground. He lay in the dirt, biting it with pain, clawing for something to grip onto.

Carl Sverdelov had been right. This was the rendezvous-point all right. But these men were very good. Already they were returning fire.

All round him there were explosions and screams. His men were dropping all the time. The enemy fire was now coming from two directions at once, although he had only seen one truck.

After ten minutes the firing stopped, and Navrativlova could hear the screams of wounded men in the failing light. He pulled himself to a standing position, and another bullet slapped into his back and flung him face down on the dirt.

Michael Strong lay on his back, his rifle held hard against his chest. The attack had come as a complete surprise; they’d been a sitting duck for the rocket as they drove onto the runway, and then the machine-gun fire had caught them as they bailed out at the back. He knew the enemy must have been told exactly where to find them - but he couldn’t believe that Rayne would have double-crossed them.

The man next to him lifted himself up and started to run. Bullets tore into his body and he collapsed to the ground. Another man raised himself and a bullet smacked into his head, covering Michael with blood and bone.

Now it was do or die. He had no idea how many soldiers had ambushed them; all he could do was retaliate whenever someone fired. Every time he fired, he gave away his position and had to move on.

The screaming of the wounded turned the whole thing into a nightmare. In the growing darkness Michael glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and saw that it was six-thirty. He wondered if he would ever see daylight again.

Rayne whispered to Sam to keep down. Then he eased the paper- thin combat knife out of his waistband and dragged himself forward. It would be a grim business, but he could think of no other way of getting to his men. He had to cross the runway. The enemy were moving in under cover of darkness, and he knew he would have to be careful he didn’t bump into them.

He came across the first shape in the darkness, and slowed down. There was a slight movement, and he could see the form of a man holding his rifle, lying face-down on the ground.

He leapt on top of him, made instant identification, and shoved the blade in hard below the lower ribs. The Russian’s head fell forward, and Rayne waited for all movement to cease before crawling on again. Sam followed behind him, horrified at the loss of life. Bodies were strewn around the truck.

Rayne moved more cautiously now, knowing he was in the area where his own men should have been. Sure enough, he found three of their bodies. He felt the bile rise in his throat. To have gone through so much, and then to be cut down by an act of treachery . . .

In front of him he saw another still body, but he was wary. The man was holding a rifle close to his stomach - like himself, he was alive, and hyper-aware. Sudden tension gripped him. He remembered back to the ambush of months before, the horror of having killed his own men.

Very softly, in English, he said, ‘Please identify yourself.’ There was no movement. Rayne swallowed, moved closer and spoke again.

The shape moved - and at once Rayne was poised like a cat, hand tensed round his knife-handle, ready to leap forward onto the body. The man put the rifle down and turned over.

‘
It’s Michael, Rayne. There’s hardly anyone left alive. Where the hell have you been?’

‘
We had problems. That bastard Larry turned on us and then we got ambushed. I’m the only one left, except for someone I found along the way.’

‘
And what’s going on here?’

‘
It’s the bloody Russians. Someone’s double-crossed us.’