In Cold Blood (9 page)

“How many fighters?”

“It’s a major facility for them,” Pope said. “The hostages are a big deal, too, and they’ll be on the alert for an attack to get them back. I’d expect plenty.”

“Defences?”

“Weight of numbers for the most part. They’ve got anti-aircraft weapons on the beach, but it’s not as if the Americans are going to put Black Hawks over the town after what happened in Mogadishu.”

“What chance of the SEALs getting in and out?”

“Hard to say. They’ll kick the shit out of the locals, but will it work? I wouldn’t want to be a hostage, that’s for sure. That’s what I meant yesterday—there’s a very good chance Joyce doesn’t get out of this alive. You might not have to do anything.”

She waved it off impatiently. “I need to speak to him. He might know where Control is. And when his time comes, it needs to be me.”

“Alright,” he said, and then he paused. When he spoke again, it was reluctantly. “I have to be honest with you, Beatrix. If I was planning this operation, I wouldn’t do it like this. One agent, on her own, going into a place like that? No backup at all? It’s going to be very, very difficult.”

“Difficult,” Beatrix said. “But not impossible.”

Pope grimaced. “There’s something else you need to see.”

He navigated within the iPad to a video and set it to play.

The footage showed a wide yard with a white coral building behind it. The flag of al Shabaab had been hung on the wall and a group of men were gathered in front of the camera in a loose semi-circle. They were all armed with AK-47s and their faces were obscured by red and white chequered
kufiya
, the Arab scarf that distinguished the terrorist faction.

“That’s the house in Barawe?”

“Just watch.”

The footage was being filmed on a digital camera, but it was shoulder mounted and a little unstable. Beatrix watched as the semi-circle parted and three men came to the front. Two were dragging a third, his feet trailing behind him. It looked as if he had been beaten.

“Who is he?”

“One of the crew. A chef.”

“When is this?”

“Yesterday. They put it on YouTube until it was pulled.”

One of the men in the crowd came forward, stepping between the beaten man and the camera. The
kufiya
obscured his face save for his eyes.

He spoke into the camera: “My name is Abdulkadir Farax Abdulkadir and I am a representative of al Shabaab in Somalia. We will strike Americans where it hurts the most, turn their cities into graveyards, and rivers of blood will flow wherever they seek to make their incursions into Muslim lands. The American government’s decision to keep their invading forces in Afghanistan and Iraq is an indication that they haven’t yet learnt their lessons from the other attacks that we have mounted against them. The American government is now inviting unprecedented levels of insecurity, bloodshed and destruction. This is a demonstration of the punishment that we shall mete out to any representative of the unbelieving crusaders who we capture.”

Abdulkadir stepped aside as the prisoner was dragged forwards. One of the other men gave him a machete and he moved behind the beaten man, knotted his fist in his hair and yanked his head back to expose his throat.

“We will execute one hostage every day until the last zionist boot has left holy Islamic soil, Allah willing.”

He brought the machete across the man’s throat.

Pope paused the footage before it could continue.

“You know the kind of men they are. They’ll do it. The Americans are going to try once to get the hostages away. If the SEALs don’t think it can be done without taking heavy casualties, they’ll pull back.”

“And then?”

“And then there is Plan B. The Americans have an Expeditionary Base in Djibouti. USAFRICOM. They’ve got Reapers and Predators up there. If the SEALs have to pull out, they’ll light the house up, call in an air strike and drop a five hundred pound JDAM onto it. Boom. They’ll wipe it off the map.”

“And kill the hostages?”

“From what I hear, the President has already signed it off. If it gets to that, then they’re all dead anyway. It’d be a mercy killing.”

Beatrix chewed on that. It was difficult enough as it was and now she had a deadline to contend with, too.

“Are the SEALs in theatre?”

“Inbound right now on a C-5 Galaxy. They’ve got a Mark V insertion boat with them and they’re going to jump in range of the USS
Tortuga
. That’ll get them closer, they’ll ride the Mark V most of the rest of the way and then they’ll come ashore on RIBs. You know how that works. Very stealthy.”

“When?”

“The next couple of days is what I’m hearing.”

“Alright,” she said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I can’t think of a better distraction than a gun battle. I’m going to take advantage of it.”

BEATRIX WATCHED through the window of the Gulfstream as they descended towards the airport at Dadaab. They were far to the east of Nairobi in the high desert, the single asphalt runway glittering like a ribbon of mercury as the pilot circled to line up with it. The pilot announced that they were on approach and Beatrix buckled up. The airport became clearer as they descended. Only Kenya Airways flew out of the facility, flying domestic hops around the country. There were a couple of turboprops parked next to the ramshackle terminal building.

As they descended she saw the enormous refugee camp that had gathered on the edge of the city. It had originally been built twenty years ago to accommodate the human detritus that had been pushed out of Somalia by the civil war but, in the time since then, nothing had been done to solve it. It had lingered, metastasising until it was a seething mass of three hundred thousand souls. It was the largest camp in the world and still it was growing. It was a vivid reminder that Somalia was a failed state, that its problems kept its own citizens away and that, above all else, it was a dangerous place.

And Beatrix intended to drive right into the black heart of it.

She looked across the cabin at Pope. He was gazing out of the window, too, a thoughtful and slightly pensive expression on his face. He would try to persuade her again to choose a different course, she was sure of that.

And she would deny him.

She felt the buzz of an old excitement tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. It was a familiar sensation, the anticipation of imminent action, but this time the edge was whetted by the knowledge that this particular target was personal, very deserving, and long overdue.

THREE SOLDIERS from the Kenya Defense Force were waiting for them as they disembarked. Pope introduced himself to the corporal. Beatrix left her Oakleys on and Pope did not introduce her. It was much better that way. The corporal led them to the old Toyota Landcruiser that was parked on the edge of the strip. It was at least twenty years old and was in a bit of a state: the tyres were bald in several places, the bodywork was festooned with rust, the front lamp housings were both broken, and, when she opened the hood, she saw that the radiator and engine were corroded and smothered in grease. The blackened firewall indicated that there had been a problem with overheating.

“As requested,” the corporal said. “Fully serviced and fuelled. And you have another twenty gallons in the back.”

She followed him around to look: four five-gallon jerrycans had been roped into the wide cargo area.

“Thank you,” Pope replied.

Beatrix’s disappointment must have been palpable. The soldier turned to her and said, “It is suitable?”

“Yes,” she said, finding a little enthusiasm. “I’m sure it will be perfect.”

Pope thanked the corporal again.

Beatrix waited until he was out of earshot before speaking. “He thinks this rust bucket is going to get me four hundred miles?”

“Best I could do on short notice,” he replied.

“They gave it to us?”

“No. Her Majesty bought it for you.”

“I don’t know.” She rapped a knuckle on the hood. “As long as it runs, I suppose it’ll do.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I could speak to the Americans—”

“No,” she said. “Thanks, but I’ll take my chances.”

They went around to the front of the Land Cruiser, Pope slapping the bonnet with the palm of his hand. “Alright then. Good luck.”

Beatrix pulled herself into the jeep and shut the door. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”

“Be lucky.”

Beatrix turned the ignition and gunned the engine. It rumbled to life, shaking the hood, and sounded healthy enough. It was just over four hundred miles from Dadaab to Barawe. The tank held fifteen gallons and she estimated that the jeep would do twenty miles to the gallon. The tank would run dry after she was just over three quarters of the way there, but she could refill it from the jerrycans and that should be enough to get her to her destination. There ought to be enough left to at least put a little distance between herself and the town after she accomplished her mission. She would have to find more fuel on the way back, but she would worry about that when the time came.

She crunched the gearbox into first and rolled away. Pope shielded his eyes against the sharp morning rays as she went by and then raised his hand in farewell. She gave a curt nod in response.

She rolled out of the airport and south towards the A3. It ran west to east from Nairobi to the border. She edged the jeep up to fifty miles an hour. She guessed the roads would be decent enough until she got to the crossing but, after that, it would be a lottery. If she could maintain an average speed of fifty she would be at the coast in eight hours.

It was a hot day and the air that blew over the windscreen and over her was warm. She looked at her watch: it was a little past eight in the morning. She would be in Barawe by the early evening.

POPE WATCHED Beatrix drive away. He wondered, for the hundredth time, whether he was doing the right thing. This was what Beatrix wanted, he reminded himself. All he had done was to present her with the intelligence. She had insisted on how things would play out from here.

There were wheels within wheels, just like there always were, but she was being put into a position to do what she wanted to do.

But it was still difficult to accept that his orders were pure.

The sun battered down as he turned and went back to the jet. He collected his suitcase and returned to the airstrip, finding his way back to the corporal from the Kenyan Defence Force.

“Do you know where they are?” he asked the man.

The clatter of noise that became audible in the distance and then steadily grew louder was his answer.

He turned towards the east and watched as the helicopter appeared through the haze, flying low and fast. The corporal led him out onto the airstrip as the chopper breached the airport perimeter, flared up as it killed its speed and then descended, the rotor wash generating a cloud of sand and grit.

It was an MH-60S Knighthawk, the multi-mission platform that the US Navy deployed for combat search and rescue, vertical replenishment, special warfare support, and mine countermeasures. The turbines whined, not winding down. They weren’t stopping long.

Pope thanked the corporal again and jogged across the airstrip, pressing his shades against his face as the miniature sandstorm whipped around him. The side door of the Knighthawk slid back and Pope reached up to take the hand of the Navy flyer inside.

“Good morning, sir,” the man said.

“Morning.”

“We’re just going to fill up and then we’ll be on our way.”

The Knighthawk was designed around the Black Hawk’s airframe and Pope was familiar with the robust and versatile aircraft from his operational days. The pilot and co-pilot sat side by side on armour protected seats. The crew member who had helped Pope inside took his seat next to the forward cabin window. Pope sat down in one of the cabin’s bucket seats and strapped himself in. He watched through the glass cockpit as an airport tanker truck pulled alongside and the third crewman worked with the ground crew to refill the Knighthawk’s tanks.

“We all set?” the co-pilot called back as he clambered back inside.

Pope nodded. “Let’s go.”

The twin T700-GE-401C turboshaft engines powered up again, filling the cabin with noise. Pope took the headphones that were hanging from a hook on the side of the seat and slipped them over his ears. He watched through the gunner’s window as the chopper rose up, the terminal building sliding out of sight.

The nose dipped as the helicopter picked up speed, heading east. Pope looked down at the fast moving terrain below, on the road that led from Dadaab to Somalia, and wondered whether he might see the Landcruiser with Beatrix inside, rushing headlong into the most dangerous failed state on earth.

THEY FLEW east and then southeast, staying on the Kenyan side of the border until they reached the sea. The pilot turned to the north and they flew on, the coast of Somalia just visible on the port side of the aircraft. It was six hundred miles from Dadaab to their destination, but a Knighthawk with a full tank of fuel had plenty of range.

The pilot’s voice came over the headphones: “We’re coming in now. On deck in five minutes.”

Pope saw the big warship five hundred metres ahead of them. She was the USS
Tortuga
, a Whidbey Island class landing ship that belonged to the US Navy’s Amphibious Group. As they drew closer Pope could see the distinctive welldeck to stern, the door raised and the interior not yet flooded.

The Knighthawk slowed and descended carefully, the pilot positioning it precisely to land on the small flight deck. The wheels touched down with a gentle bump, as the pilot powered down the engines and started to work through the post-flight checks.

Pope unstrapped himself as the door was opened from the outside by a stocky sailor wearing a utility uniform with a blue and grey digital print pattern.

“Request permission to come aboard,” he said.

The man reached up his hand to help him down. “Good to meet you, Captain Pope.”