‘You want me to go down there?’ asked Rampy.
‘Give it some time, then check them out.’
Fifteen minutes later, Rampy took a dirt bike down to the bodies. He laid one over the front and the other over the back and drove slowly back up the track. He offloaded them in the courtyard and put the dirt bike away. Jensen lifted the hoods. The first body was that of Françoise Lapointe; the second was Mercedes Puerta. Françoise had an eye put out and cigarette burns all over her face and back. She’d been shot in the forehead. Mercedes no longer had any fingernails, but ripped and bloodied stubs, and from the rope burn around her neck, she’d been garrotted or hanged. There was a note attached to her shirt, which Jensen read out loud.
‘“You can still walk away from this. Just leave the hostages and clear out. We guarantee you free passage to the desert border south of Bouanane and you can take your chances with the Algerians. If you agree, put a white sheet on the rocks and we’ll let you ride out under cover of darkness.”’
‘Anybody put their name to that?’ asked Rampy.
‘Unsigned,’ said Jensen, who turned to Boxer. ‘You think that’s any way for the head of counter intelligence for the UK, Europe and Russia to behave?’
Rampy called out to one of the Berbers and they put the bodies in the basement of one of the disused buildings.
They left Boxer alone for the rest of the afternoon to think about what he’d just seen. Jensen and Rampy took it in turns to keep watch and sleep until the light started to fade and the cold descended.
‘Earlier you talked about a conductor,’ said Boxer. ‘Do you know who he is? And if so, why don’t you set about eliminating him rather than the foot soldiers?’
‘We’re not talking about one person,’ said Jensen. ‘They’re a group of influential businessmen, politicians, religious leaders and thinkers.’
‘A group with a cause normally has a name.’
This time Jensen was ready to come through.
‘They call themselves the ARC – pronounced Ark. The American Republic of Christians. They like the biblical idea of being a safe ship in the flood. They’re a radical group of fundamentalists who made a decision after 9/11 to ensure the integrity of the United States and the beliefs of the founding fathers. The only problem is that they decided it was best not to do it in a democratic way, but rather by stealth, by infiltrating organisations with the power to create or heavily influence policy. And like the Hydra, if you cut off one head, two more will grow. Our aim is to make it more difficult for them to operate within the intelligence community, and the best way to do that is by cleaning our own back yard.’
33
18.04, 20 January 2014
the mountains outside Er-Rich, High Atlas, Morocco
As dusk was falling, Rampy came down from the roof.
‘We’ve got some activity out there now.’
They went upstairs. In the grey light, the landscape had become darker. Nothing was visible to the naked eye, but the telescope was fitted with a night sight and the covered pickup could be seen making its way up the dirt track.
‘Let them come in,’ said Jensen. ‘We’ll get armed up.’
In the carpeted room Rampy and Jensen opened a chest and strapped ammunition belts around them stuffed with spare 9mm magazines. They took two handguns each.
‘You seen enough?’ asked Jensen. ‘Or are you still undecided?’
‘No, I’m with you,’ said Boxer, struck by Jensen’s humanity, his insight, and sure that, wherever his loyalties lay, it wasn’t with the people in the pickup.
‘You don’t have to get involved in the battle we’re fighting here,’ said Rampy. ‘I see you’ve got your own weapon in your case but with limited ammo, so you might want something more for your own protection.’
‘What happens if you two don’t make it out of here?’
‘You came here because of the hostages. You brought the ARC guys here through your own investigative talent,’ said Rampy. ‘As far as they’re concerned, your motives are still good.’
‘I mean if you don’t succeed,’ said Boxer. ‘Is that the end of the road?’
‘You remember Louise?’ said Jensen. ‘She disappeared, but not totally, and she spoke very highly of you. You’ll hear from her and she will know what to do.’
Rampy handed Boxer his case and gave him another gun and some spare magazines.
‘Stay in here for as long as you can. There’s a back way out through that door.’
They switched off the light and went outside. The pickup’s engine was audible. Boxer camouflaged himself with large cushions, which he propped up around him and sat by the window looking through the crack of the shutter. It was dark now. He could just make out the two men standing in the courtyard, waiting. As the pickup, with no lights on, rounded the corner, Rampy’s hand twitched. Lights came on in the courtyard – an empty circle into which the pickup rolled and halted. The engine continued to run and then cut.
Silence.
A hand came out of the window.
‘Are we free to come out and talk?’
‘Sure,’ said Jensen.
‘Are we allowed to see you?’
‘You show yourselves and we’ll follow.’
Sutherland got out of the driver’s side, stood under the light, his slightly closed eye making him look as if he was already taking aim. Clifford Chase climbed down from the passenger side with the righteous arrogance of a man with a higher power on his side. They were both wearing fatigues and flak jackets. Rampy and Jensen stepped into the circle of light.
‘We’re here to negotiate,’ said Sutherland.
‘What’s there to negotiate?’ asked Rampy.
‘Your fees,’ said Sutherland. ‘That’s why we’ve brought Ken with us.’
Ken Bass stepped out of the rear door, passenger side.
‘We were already beyond that point even before you sent us Françoise Lapointe and Mercedes Puerta,’ said Jensen.
‘The Moroccans got to them before we could intervene,’ said Sutherland. ‘You know what they’re like, Conrad.’
‘I know you better.’
‘What’s it going to take?’ said Sutherland. ‘Ken has a satellite phone and he can make an immediate transfer. You just have to give me the numbers.’
‘There are no possible numbers,’ said Jensen. ‘You must know that by now.’
‘You’ve taken our money before,’ said Bass. ‘What’s so different now?’
‘You’ve gone too far,’ said Jensen.
‘What could go further than extraordinary rendition?’ asked Sutherland. ‘You didn’t have a problem with that. You accessed excellent intelligence. You saved American lives.’
‘We’ve already seen the Senate report due out at the end of the year,’ said Jensen. ‘That and Benghazi: blocking intelligence so our own people got killed in the hope of making the Secretary of State look so bad she’d be forced to stand down from running for president.’
‘We were looking at sixteen years of Democrat rule. It would have changed America into a socialist state. Something had to be done,’ said Sutherland. ‘And Con, you’ve got no idea how powerful we already are. You think that by getting rid of us you’ll be arresting the movement? Think again. We’re everywhere, right through the system. If I was you, I’d take what you can and get out with your hide intact.’
Boxer glanced back as the door at the end of the room opened and somebody came in. From the cracks of light penetrating the room, he could make out a heavily built man, gun in hand, striding across the room. Somebody was up on the roof as well. Boxer crouched behind the cushions. The heavily built man paused, listened, and then ripped open the front door. He raised the gun to fire into the courtyard. Boxer stood and shot him twice in quick succession hitting him first in the shoulder so the man dropped his gun and following it with a chest shot.
Gunfire roared outside.
The two Berbers who’d been guarding the hostages left their building an
d ran into the darkness. Rakesh Sarkar wanted to follow.
‘Remember what he said. We stay here,’ said Karla.
The little ones were squeaking with fear. There was nothing to hide behind in the room. They retreated to the corner, pulling their mattresses with them, which they piled over their trembling bodies.
Boxer looked out of the door to see Rampy already face down on the ground, his upper half in the circle of light. Sutherland had been flung back on to the bonnet of the pickup with a gun still hanging from his slack hand, his cheek obliterated by a bullet taken in the face. Clifford Chase was lying on his back with a large burgeoning stain on the ground behind his head. No one else was visible. Gunfire continued around the courtyard. Boxer ran up the steps, keeping low, saw a slim blonde guy kneeling at the wall, both hands clasped around a handgun, shoulder jolting with the recoil. Boxer fired once. The man went down, holding on to his neck. Four more steps and Boxer was over him. Black blood was squeezing through the man’s fingers. A single head shot finished it.
And then silence.
‘You all right, Charlie?’ said Jensen, from below.
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘One more to go. Ken Bass.’
Boxer looked down over the wall. Three dead in the circle of light. He moved to the side of the roof near the steps, surveyed the night. Keeping low, he ran to the back of the building, thinking this was how the two men he’d shot had come in. There was a steep but climbable rock face, and halfway up it was a man on all fours, crabbing his way up to a ridge. Boxer tried to take aim in the poor light and let off a shot, heard it ricochet off the rock face. The man worked harder, faster, and disappeared over the ridge.
‘He’s at the back here,’ shouted Boxer. ‘Just gone over the ridge.’
‘You have to kill him,’ said Jensen. ‘There must be no surviving witnesses from their side. This is unfinished business.’
Boxer threw himself off the roof, landed on the rock face and powered up to the ridge, put his head over the top. No light, just stars in a black firmament and a cold wind blasting across the rock. He scoured the landscape for movement, his eyes getting accustomed by the second. A twitch of the night off to his left and he saw Bass running and stumbling, not caring, crazed with fear, heading across a basin of rock and up to another ridge. Boxer checked the terrain and dropped down into the basin. Bass had reached the ridge and appeared not to like what he saw over the other side. He was jogging, falling over, clambering to his right now, heading for a pinnacle of rocks. Boxer changed direction and made for the other side of the pinnacle, got up there and started to work his way round. He could hear Bass coming towards him, unknowing. He waited, gun at his side, until Bass was within a few metres of him.
‘Stop,’ he said.
But an uncontrollable terror had already seized Bass and he immediately turned and ran, arms flailing, back the way he’d come. He hit the ridge, tripped and disappeared into the darkness with a protracted scream that was interrupted by two thuds as his body made damaging contact with the rock face, followed by a final crunch and then silence apart from the dry, cold, howling wind.
Boxer checked over the ridge but couldn’t make out where Bass had landed. He went back to the hostages’ building, found them huddled under the mattresses, told them it was all over, they were safe, but to stay put for the moment. He went back to the courtyard where Jensen had lined up four bodies in the circle of light. Rampy had been left where he’d fallen, only rolled over, face up. Jensen was checking the covered back of the pickup. He came round from behind the vehicle.
‘Is Rampy dead?’ said Boxer.
‘He was unlucky,’ said Jensen. ‘He caught a ricochet in the eye.’
‘Did you get who you wanted?’
‘Ray Sutherland was the one we were after. He brought along Clifford Chase, the chief of the London office of the CIA, who we were not expecting. We were hoping Sutherland would bring Ryder with him for protection, but maybe he was told to keep him for another day. The other two are just soldiers.’
Jensen bent down and picked up the satellite phone that had fallen from Bass’s hand, threw it at Boxer.
‘Use that to bring in the cavalry. Maybe your friend from MI6 would be best for this.
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll take my chances across the desert through Mauritania, lose myself in black Africa for a while.’
‘And what do I do?’
‘You’ll have your hands full with the fallout from this for a bit,’ said Jensen, moving off towards the building with the dirt bikes. He kicked open the door, threw his leg over one of the bikes, tucked the gun he’d used into his belt. ‘And then you wait for Louise to make contact. We’ll need you to deal with Ryder. I’ll work out the details and she’ll brief you.’
‘But when?’
‘When we’re ready.’
‘And why should I do this for you?’ asked Boxer, surprised at himself, his sudden motivation to help this man in his strange quest.
‘You’re asking me that?’ said Jensen, nearly amused.
‘There was something you didn’t tell me when you gave your reason for choosing me. I mean, there are plenty of good people out there prepared to kill bad guys, so why me?’
‘I know you, Charlie.’
‘I don’t think so. I’d remember you if we’d met.’
‘You do know me,’ said Jensen, reaching back for the helmet.
Boxer looked at him hard, trying find him amongst all the faces he’d ever known.
‘Where from?’
‘I was the man you always thought of as your father, until I left you,’ said Jensen. ‘David Tate. Remember him?’
‘I thought I did,’ said Boxer, stunned.
Jensen strapped on the helmet, kick-started the bike.
‘Why should I believe you?’ roared Boxer, over the blat of the engine.
‘Do something for me when you get back to London,’ said Jensen, revving the engine. ‘You’re still in the flat which used to be the top floor of our family home. You remember the room I used as my study? Take a look under the floorboards. You’ll find a tape there. All the answers are in it.’
He flicked the bike into gear, opened the throttle, took off out of the building, flashing past Boxer, round behind the back of the pickup, out of the circle of light and into the dark.
34
14.00, 18 April 2014
Chelsea and Westminster Hospital Neonatal ICU
This was the day, ninety-two days after Isabel’s admission for the emergency C-section, that Boxer took delivery of his son, weighing in at five pounds and three ounces, to bring him home. He’d called him Jamie. He didn’t know why. He just liked the sound of Jamie Boxer. The baby had been breathing on his own since the middle of February, when he’d also taken to kicking his legs out as if he needed to make progress out of the aquarium of his incubator. Boxer had been to see him every day since he’d got back from Morocco.
It had not been easy to extricate himself from that mess. The first call he’d made on the satellite phone that Jensen had thrown him was to Simon Deacon. He was the only person he could rely on completely who could influence the outcome of his predicament. Deacon had taken the number and told him to await further instructions. Boxer then wiped the gun he’d used to kill the two CIA operatives and tucked it into Rampy’s belt.
As soon as Boxer had straightened out the scene to his satisfaction he’d gone to see the hostages again and called them together. He stood amongst them, told them to hug each other and him. They began to cry at the release from shock and stress. He got the two girls to look after Sophie and Yury while Wú Gao and Rakesh Sarkar went with him to make mint tea. He made them sing and tell each other stories and stayed with them until they were all sleeping.
At dawn, two helicopters landed in the valley and four army vehicles arrived and drove up to where Boxer was waiting for them on the roof of the main building. A man from the Moroccan secret service, the Direction
de la Surveillance du Territoire, introduced himself as Youness Benjelloun. He said they were going to remove the bodies first and take them to a nearby military base. Boxer told him about the bodies of Mercedes Puerta and Françoise Lapointe and led him up the rock face behind the building to point out where Ken Bass’s body had fallen a hundred feet below.
Once the bodies in the compound had been removed, the hostages were led out and driven down to the helicopters, which flew them to a military base on the outskirts of Marrakesh. Boxer was kept separate from them. Later he found out that a private jet had come in from London City airport during the early evening and taken them all back to the UK.
Boxer’s debrief started on the night they brought him in. It was not as civilised as he’d expected. As Benjelloun set about breaking him down through a process of sleep deprivation with loud music, bright light, freezing conditions, no bedding, poor food, no washing facilities and constant interrogation, he realised that his role in the scenario was far from clear to the DST.
First Benjelloun wanted to know what he’d been doing up there in the High Atlas using a passport belonging to Chris Butler. Boxer didn’t lie, he just omitted things: how he knew Mercedes, buying the gun from Ali Mzoudi, meeting al-Wannan. His story was looking thin. Benjelloun set to work on him. He wanted to know how he’d found out about Rampy’s involvement and the Moroccan connection. He spent several days wearing down Boxer’s considerable resistance to revealing that the connection to Mercedes Puerta had been Omar al-Wannan. He jabbed and poked him about his relationship with Françoise Lapointe, then hit him with the bombshell that they’d arrested Ali Mzoudi, who under heavy interrogation had admitted to supplying Boxer with a Springfield XD-S 9mm, which was one of the weapons found on the body of Evan Rampy. That opened up a whole new avenue of investigation, as Benjelloun now wanted his confession that his role had not been as passive as he’d maintained.
Boxer told him of his intention to kill Jensen and free the hostages, but with Mercedes and Françoise dead, he had no way of proving the one incontrovertible truth as to why he had been at the scene: Rampy had kidnapped him and taken his weapon. Before the hostages had been flown out they’d revealed that Rampy had brought Boxer into the room where they were being held, and he had told them he was going to get them out of there. This was a source of great confusion to Benjelloun. Whose side was Boxer on?