Defender(7)

"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."





CHAPTER 5





INTREPID HQ


BroadWay, London





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.