Johnson's grave expression answered her. Arena took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
"Davenport's going to send a man into the middle of this private military company and he needs an experienced analyst - an ally on the ground for his man. You'd be reporting directly to me, of course, operating behind-the-scenes - trawling through books, files, personnel records and so on. Davenport's man cannot know who you are. The mere hint of collusion could give you both away. Do you understand?"
"Well, yes. Of course."
"Very good. This man recently returned from a mission in Australia. He received his briefing from Davenport earlier today. You're to leave him to deal with the operational matters," Johnson instructed.
Arena's heart was racing. This was completely unexpected, the reality of it began to dawn on her. She dreaded to ask, but already knew the answer. "Where?"
"Malfajiri." He fixed his eyes on her across the expanse of the broad desk. "So, you'd better get organised. You're on the next UN flight out of Gatwick tomorrow."
CHAPTER 10
Gatwick Airport West Sussex, England
"Ladies and Gentlemen, let's come to an understanding. If I have to stop suddenly, any loose items that you may have lying around instantly become projectiles. They will fly around the cabin at great speed and they will hurt people. So, it's your job to make sure that you secure your gear. If you don't and it hurts someone, then I'll hurt you. That's my job."
The aircraft was a World Food Program C-130 Hercules converted to take passengers, with conventional aircraft seating rolled into the cabin area on pallets. It was a far cry from the red canvas strapping and tubular frames Morgan remembered from his days cramped into military C-130s, crushed between packs, parachutes and paratroopers. This was luxury by comparison. To a spellbound group of international passengers, mostly UN and assorted aid agency types, the big South African pilot, dressed in simple navy blue overalls, black boots and a pale blue, well worn United Nations baseball cap well and truly commandeered their attention. He had clambered down from the cockpit, and honoured his captive audience by personally delivering the anything but standard safety spiel.
Behind the pilot, the words 'GET IN. SIT DOWN. SHUT UP AND HANG ON!' were splashed irreverently in bold yellow lettering across the forward metal panel of the bulkhead, and for a moment, Morgan thought he'd mistakenly stepped onto an aircraft chartered by some famous rock band rather than the WFP. He put down the copy of Eric Ambler's Passage of Arms he'd been reading, to enjoy the informality of the briefing. It momentarily eased the general feeling of foreboding that had affected his mood since heading off from Farnham to Gatwick Airport earlier that morning.
"My English may not be the same as your English," the pilot continued, "so there's lots of pretty pictures on these cards," he held them aloft, "to show you what I just said." And with that final cryptic piece of advice, he disappeared to join his co-pilot at the controls, leaving the passengers in the capable hands of the loadmaster.
* * *
Just a few rows ahead, Arena Halls sat back and took in what had to be the most engaging aircraft safety brief she'd ever experienced. This was not the first time she'd flown on a non-commercial aircraft but it was certainly the most entertaining. Back in her university days, not all that long ago, her natural facility for languages and studies toward a Bachelor of Arts majoring in psychology and philosophy had drawn the interest of an old family friend, a former colleague of her father's, who was the Director of Emergency Response for a major international aid agency. With a thirst for adventure inherited from her globetrotting parents, primarily her mother, Arena had eagerly accepted his invitation to put her name on the agency's volunteer register. Joining their developing psychosocial program, she took time away from her studies to deploy to Pakistan in 2005, and went on to assist in Tanzania in 2007. Those experiences had been the foundation for her career in government service. And, while her ultimate objective was the Secret Intelligence Service, she at least had her mentor, an Oxonian alumni, to guide her. "Your time will come, dear," her mentor would often say. "We can't rush these things, too much." Meeting her through the Oxford University Society had been invaluable. Although, Arena dearly wished that she'd been able to contact her mentor before leaving London this time. As the pilot disappeared up into the cockpit and the loadmaster continued the floorshow with a couple of coarse references to airsickness, Arena chose the moment to turn, and casually scan the passengers. Now, where did he go? Careful, don't be too obvious, she told herself. Ah, there, right at the back, looking out of the window.