Fire Force(23)

‘So here’s how it will work,’ said Bruce. ‘You take out the rebel, then when the President comes down to execute him, you take the bastard down. Newton will remind Esram of his old loyalties, and he’ll hold the Army back because he’s the guy that controls it. Afterwards, you boys can make a clean break out of the country.’

Steve hadn’t often seen Bruce look pleased with himself. He was a tough, sombre Scotsman, who only ever made jokes at the expense of other men.

But he looked pleased with himself right now. Like a fox who had just found a dead rabbit.

And why not? thought Steve. The plan had been thought through with ruthless precision.

‘How can we know that Esram will co-operate?’ demanded Ian.

‘He’s my brother,’ said Newton.

‘Brothers have been known to betray each other,’ said Ian. ‘It’s been a quarter of a century.’

‘He owes me,’ said Newton. ‘Anyway, if we reveal he was a sleeper for the Scouts then he’ll be executed on the spot. He won’t have any choice.’

‘Then why can’t he just let us into the Presidential Palace, allow us to finish the bastard, and then get a flight home?’ asked Steve.

‘The President is obsessive about his security,’ said Tokley. ‘He sleeps in different houses every night, and switches his guards every few days. Esram might be in charge, but he can’t just let a bunch of assassins walk straight in. The only way to hit him is to get him out of the capital, and away from his own guards, then Esram can let you boys do the business.’

‘Trust me, this is the only way to get to him,’ said Newton.

Bruce looked around the room. He pulled out a clutch of BA tickets. ‘Any of you boys want a seat on the eight-fifteen flight to London tonight?’ he said.

Each man shook his head in turn.

‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘Right - there’s a coffin with President Kapembwa’s name on it, just waiting to be filled.’





Ten

THE FARM WAS HIGH ABOVE sea-level, off a rugged dirt track. Steve steered the Land Rover Discovery through the rolling fields, ignoring the clouds of dust kicked up by its wheels. They’d hired the car at the airport after borrowing Archie’s private jet and flying up from Cape Town to Pretoria, and Steve was thankful they’d insisted on a four-wheel drive. ‘Christ, how can a man live up here?’ he grumbled. ‘It would drive me crazy.’

By South African standards, Chris’s farm on the Mpumalanga Highveld in the north-east of the country up close to the border with Mozambique wasn’t particularly remote. The nearest town was thirty miles away, and there was a hospital only sixty miles distant. But it was still the only building that could be seen on the flat plain that stretched as far as the eye could see. There were 2,000 acres to the farm, all of them planted with grains that grew well in the mild, wet climate, but with just a few guys and three big tractors to keep it all in order.

‘Think he’s home?’ said Ollie.

Steve shrugged. ‘With this place to look after, I don’t reckon he’s going anywhere.’

As soon as they’d accepted the job from Archie, both Steve and Ollie had known that Chris was the first man they wanted to put on the team. He’d been with them in Afghanistan, and they knew the quiet, burly South African was vital to the mission. He’d spent a career in the Recces, the feared South African Special Forces, fighting in the bush wars, then he’d bought himself this farm and tried to make a new life for himself on the land. When they’d found him in London, he was up to his ears in debt, the farm had been repossessed by the bank, and he’d been scratching around for work as a mercenary. But with the money he’d made from the Afghan job he’d paid off the debts, got the deeds back from the bank, and bought in enough seed to make the farm productive again.

‘Well, I’ll be buggered! Steve bloody West and Ollie sodding Hall,’ said Chris, bounding up to meet them.

The whitewashed bungalow consisted of three rooms, with a couple of pick-up trucks parked outside, and a small vegetable garden off to one side. It looked out over field after field of corn and maize. Chris was dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, his skin tanned from working the fields. But he looked well, like a man who was at home: not the fish on dry land he’d been in London.

‘Great place,’ said Ollie, stepping out of the Land Rover and onto the small porch of the bungalow.

‘It’s bloody fantastic, man,’ said Chris. ‘This is the life, I’m telling you.’

It was just after four in the afternoon, the end of the working day for a grain farmer. Ollie had mapped out the team they’d be needing for the job, and they’d decided to get Chris on board as fast as possible. They’d get to see him tonight, then fly the unit back to London tomorrow to start bringing the rest of the guys on board. There was no time to lose. A presidential election was looming in Batota, and they only had a couple of weeks to get Kapembwa’s name off the ballot paper. Permanently.