‘What’s the craic?’ he asked.

  He saw relief flush through Chance at once. She breathed like she was coming up for air. But as quickly as she dropped her guard she ducked behind it again, composing her face and clearing her throat diplomatically as she closed the folder. A lifetime of caution, thought Bald. Immersed in her profession, fearless when it came to rooting out terrorist cells, but afraid to peek into the shadows of her past.

  ‘What do you recall about Colonel Jim?’ Chance asked.

  Bald thought for a moment. The name rang a bell. ‘The guy who was the arms smuggler in Belfast? Trying to sell Stingers to the Provos?’

  Chance nodded. ‘He was going to use the proceeds to fund a private militia and launch a coup in Zaire. After you wiped out their Nutting Squad, the Provos pulled the plug on the deal to buy the Stingers. Colonel Jim aborted his coup attempt and went underground.’

  ‘Tragic. But why are you telling me this now?’

  There was a glow to her eyes, Bald noted.

  ‘Colonel Jim is back,’ she said. ‘I need you to find him for me, John. And then I need you to kill him.’

  Fifteen

  0034 hours.

  Chance let the words hang in the air. Bald was being asked to do again what he knew he did best, and – if he was honest with himself, which wasn’t all that often – what he truly lived for: killing.

  ‘Colonel Jim’s real name is Kurt Pretorius,’ said Chance. ‘He acquired the nickname “Colonel Jim” after serving with the Second Paratroop Regiment, French Foreign Legion. Then he became a mercenary. You might call him the founding father of the Circuit.’

  Bald frowned. ‘Never heard of the guy.’

  ‘He’s a British national, but born and raised in Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. A white supremacist who counts among his friends the late Colonel Gaddafi, Robert Mugabe and the Equatorial Guinea dictator Teodoro Mbasogo.’

  Bald puffed out his cheeks. ‘With friends like that, you’ve got to watch your back. Those three bastards have killed more Africans than AIDS.’

  Chance shot him a look.

  ‘Pretorius is an Africa junkie,’ she said. ‘He cut his teeth there after joining the Legion, fighting in various internecine conflicts across the continent. He was injured during the Battle of Kolwezi in Zaire in ’78 and medevac’d to the French Bouffard military hospital in Djibouti. There he befriended an officer from the SDECE, France’s overseas intelligence agency. The two men stayed in contact after Pretorius was discharged from hospital. He left the Foreign Legion but stayed on in West Africa. The SDECE gave him implicit financial backing to launch a coup d’état against the self-proclaimed Emperor of the Central African Republic, Jean-Bédel Bokassa. That was in 1979.’

  ‘Why would the French leave a military coup to a British ex-Legionnaire? Surely that’s the kind of op they’d handle in-house.’

  ‘France has long pursued an underhand policy in Africa. Françafrique, they call it. They offer military aid and financial backing to those leaders who best represent French interests, and crush those who oppose them. But removing African dictators from power is a sensitive business, particularly when it backfires. So the French reasoned that it was better to achieve regime change at a distance. They employed Pretorius to get the job done, without the risk of any official involvement by the French state.’

  ‘Like the PMCs today, then,’ Bald cut in. ‘They go in and get the job done for a big pile of cash and the politicians get to tell the media that they’ve got no boots on the ground.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was a grating buzz as the door unlocked and Inspector Kaminski entered the room. Chance pursed her lips while Kaminski shoved a can of Coke and a slice of cheese and tomato pizza in front of Bald. They were the wrong way round: the pizza was cold and the Coke was warm. He washed the scran down anyway, as he hadn’t eaten in more than fourteen hours. He raised the Coke to the Inspector. Kaminski shot back a final fuck-you glare. Then he exited the room. Chance watched him go before turning back to Bald.

  ‘I was telling you about Pretorius.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The French decided to pay Pretorius to oust Bokassa after he butchered a hundred schoolchildren for refusing to wear the uniform manufactured at his private factory. Pretorius led a troop of undercover commandos into the country under cover of darkness, secured the main airport early the following morning and by nightfall they had control of the entire country. Bokassa was exiled. Pretorius won.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Bald replied drily. ‘But what has any of this got to do with you wanting Pretorius dead?’

  Chance narrowed her gaze at him. ‘You’ll need to learn everything about Pretorius, John. What motivates him, his personality, his background. Until you know him better than your own mother. Because he’s got more bodyguards than Lindsay Lohan at a court hearing – and the only way to kill Pretorius is to get close to him and win his trust.’

  A hot sense of anticipation flooded through Bald. He knew it then. How much he’d missed the game. All those hours beasting himself in the gym – it was like he’d been training for something. He remembered reading somewhere that you had to do something for ten thousand hours before you got to be an expert at it. He hadn’t counted the hours but he knew he was an expert at killing. The thought of getting stuck in again gave him a renewed sense of anticipation and he nodded keenly at Chance. She went on.

  ‘After deposing Bokassa, Pretorius began his career as a gun for hire. He helped prop up despotic regimes in Guinea-Bissau, Mauritania, Chad, Burundi, São Tomé and Príncipe. After he tried to unseat Mobutu in Zaire in 1993, Pretorius ran out of money and drifted aimlessly across Africa, a man with grand ambitions but no way to realize them. Until he cropped up in Somalia.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’ Bald asked.

  ‘We believe someone has backed him to launch a coup against the transitional government. This would be the same West-friendly alliance we’ve worked so hard to build from scratch. The situation on the ground is tenuous. Security is provided by a small number of Kenyan and African Union troops. They have restored some semblance of order to the capital, Mogadishu. But much of the land beyond is under the control of al-Shabaab.’

  ‘I’ve heard of those tossers,’ said Bald, polishing off the pizza and the Coke, feeling refreshed and excited and a hell of a lot better about life than he had an hour ago. ‘African al-Qaeda.’

  Chance nodded.

  ‘Al-Shabaab has a degree of independence from their Arab brethren,’ she said, voice rising as she warmed to her subject. She spoke with a passion that impressed Bald. ‘Think of them more like a franchise. Like Subway, or Burger King. Al-Shabaab controlled vast swaths of Somalia, from the Puntland province in the north to the port of Kismayo in the south. The Americans are worried about Islamic fundamentalism taking root. So are we. There is a huge diaspora of Somalis with British and American passports, and that is a potential security nightmare. What do you think will happen when they return to their homeland and al-Shabaab is running the show?’

  Bald shrugged. ‘They put out the bunting and crack open a beer?’

  ‘They’ll be radicalized, John. Then they’ll carry out attacks against the West. There are a hundred thousand Somalis with British passports. Imagine a hundred, two hundred Boston marathon bombings and Woolwich murders, and you start to get an idea of what we’re dealing with. That’s why we need this transitional government to thrive.’

  ‘And Pretorius is pissing all over your plans somehow?’

  ‘Pissing would be putting it lightly. Pretorius and his men are seizing villages and launching attacks against key strategic African Union assets across the country. Last month they overran Kenyan forces close to the border. The soldiers were taken hostage, castrated and forced to eat their own testicles. Some had live grenades inserted into their anuses. Others had their skin burnt off. At the same time Pretorius went on a recruitment drive. Child soldiers, John. Some are as young as ten. Plying them with drugs. They’re taught to worship Pretorius as a god.’

  ‘Christ!’ Bald spluttered. ‘And I thought some of the lads in the Regiment were a few French fries short of a Happy Meal.’

  ‘There is method to the madness,’ Chance replied. ‘There always is with Pretorius. We don’t know who is paying him to be there. Perhaps a neighbouring African power with an interest in overthrowing the government. But whoever is backing Pretorius, his actions are undermining our efforts. If he topples the government, it will create a power vacuum, allowing al-Shabaab to thrive.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why you want me to kill Pretorius, and not some other cunt. I’m not exactly on the Firm’s Christmas card list, Avery. Why don’t the Yanks just take the fucker out with a drone strike?’

  Chance acknowledged the truth of that statement with an uncomfortable nod. ‘They tried. Someone tipped off Pretorius. He swapped vehicles at the last minute. The drone strike ended up killing four of his foot soldiers. Pretorius fled into the jungle.’

  Chance paused and wrung her hands. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, Bald noted. A woman married to the job. Then he remembered the savage injuries she’d suffered in Northern Ireland and figured that maybe her single-minded focus wasn’t entirely a matter of choice. She wouldn’t have been able to have kids or even a normal sex life. Not after what the Nutting Squad had done to her.

  Then she said, ‘Something happened to Pretorius.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Chance cleared her throat. ‘We have eyes on the ground in and around Mogadishu. British Somalis who act as sources. One of them came back to us with a report about Pretorius from within his camp. According to our source, Pretorius experienced what he called an awakening.’

  ‘The fuck does that mean?’

  ‘He converted to Islam. He preaches the survival of the fittest, how the strong should rule over the weak. He’s set up a training camp to expand his militia. His men call him a genius.’

  ‘A twisted fuck, more like.’

  ‘You need to stop Pretorius, John. His ultimate goal has always been power and satisfying his greed, and he doesn’t care who he has to work with to achieve it. But in the end his only allegiance is to himself. Chaos and bloodshed are his trademark – he’ll stop at nothing. If he succeeds in overthrowing the government, Somalia will become a crucible of extremism directed against the West. We’ve invested too much to let that happen.’

  Tension simmered under the smooth lines of Chance’s face. There was something she wasn’t sharing with Bald. He could smell it on her. He thought out loud, ‘So the Americans couldn’t get to Pretorius, and now they want us to take care of him?’

  ‘Pretorius is one of our own, which somewhat obligates us to take him down. And after Delta Force suffered casualties in Mogadishu in ’93, the Americans aren’t exactly keen to get their toes wet again. They’d much prefer to handle this one at a distance.’

  ‘Typical Yanks. Create a fucking mess then leave someone else to clean it up.’

  Chance laughed cynically. Then she got serious and dropped her voice. ‘After what happened – in Northern Ireland – I want to see him burn.’

  Bald grinned. ‘That makes two of us, Avery.’

  Chance straightened her sleeve and the trace of vengeance in her eyes dimmed.

  ‘Your first objective is to find Pretorius,’ she said. ‘Which won’t be as easy. He’s protected by his loyal cadre of men. His band of brothers, he calls them. There are rumours that his training camp is somewhere along the River Jubba. But Somalia is a fractured state. There is some semblance of order inside Mogadishu. Outside the city, it’s a lawless hole. Pretorius could be hiding anywhere.’

  Bald sucked his gums. ‘Then how am I supposed to find him?’

  ‘There’s a plan.’

  ‘There’s always a plan.’

  ‘Not as cute as this one. Pretorius has a trusted lieutenant. Harvey Stegman. He’s a former operator with the South African Special Forces Brigade. They met while Stegman was smuggling weapons across the border from Somalia to Kenya. We know from a local handler that Stegman is currently in Mombasa on a recruitment drive. This is why time is critical on this mission. We have one opportunity to get you on board before Stegman returns to Somalia.’

  ‘If Stegman will give me the time of day,’ Bald cautioned. ‘But he doesn’t know me from fucking Adam.’

  Chance flashed him a cunning smile. ‘We picked up chatter between Stegman and one of his old friends from the Circuit. A guy by the name of Trent Drake. Stegman was fishing for manpower, new recruits to the cause to replace the guys killed in the drone strike. Drake promised to send a couple of guys up to Mombasa. Ex-SBS operators. Needless to say, the guys won’t make it. You will be there instead.’

  ‘You want me to impersonate a Special Boat Service fella?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Bald didn’t like the sound of that. As an ex-SAS operator, he’d always held a dim view of the SBS. The idea of pretending to be one of them rankled with him. But not enough to put him off the op.

  ‘No problem,’ he said.

  ‘I told you it was a cute plan.’ Then Chance sat bolt upright and dropped the smile. ‘Your partner will assume the identity of the second SBS operator on the team loyal to Pretorius.’

  ‘Partner?’ Bald repeated.

  Chance nodded sternly. ‘Sorry to dent your ego, but this mission is too important to stake everything on you alone, John. His name is Jamie Priest. He’s ex-Royal Marines. I’m sure he’ll be a valuable addition to the operation.’

  ‘He sounds like a fucking insurance policy.’

  Chance shot him a severe look. ‘Call it what you will. Priest is accompanying you, so deal with it. Having someone accompany you to the meeting is a condition of your rehabilitation. That’s non-negotiable. Those are the words of my boss, by the way.’

  Bald leaned back in his chair. He was tempted to argue the point, but the look on her face told him Chance wasn’t going to be moved. He pushed his unease aside, figured he could find out a way to ditch Priest once he was in-country.

  ‘We haven’t discussed my reward,’ he said.

  ‘If you’re after money, forget it. We’re dealing with crippling cuts at Six, the same as the rest of the country. There’s nothing in the pot. Your previous hardly helps your case either.’

  He bit back on his anger. Instead he laid on the famous John Bald charm, his Scottish brogue soothing, his smile wide. ‘Come on, Avery. Do us a favour. You want me to risk my balls going after Pretorius, fine. I’ll do it. But you’ve got to give me something in return. I’m not asking for millions.’

  Chance pouted at him. ‘I have something else to offer you. Something better than money.’

  ‘Like what?’ Bald asked, intrigued.

  ‘Like, a full-time job at Six.’

  A laugh escaped involuntarily from the back of Bald’s throat. ‘Your bosses would never agree to that.’

  ‘Then you underestimate my powers of persuasion.’ And the way her eyes gleamed at Bald told him that she wasn’t bullshitting. ‘I’ve already cleared it with my superiors. You’ll get sixty grand a year, a company credit card and a car.’

  Bald did the eyebrow thing.

  ‘A Beemer?’

  Chance smiled, but only with her lips. ‘A Toyota Prius, John.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  Bald feigned a smile, trying to mask his disappointment. Admitted to himself that a salaried position with the Firm was a long way from his dream job. It was also a long way from the millions he’d expected to earn working for the Russians. Look how that turned out for you, a voice at the back of his head said. He realized something else too. He was living in a world of lowered expectations. The effect of the recession. People had been forced to downsize their dreams. And maybe Bald would have to downsize a little too, compromise on that dream. He sighed heavily at Chance and nodded.

  ‘OK, Avery. Deal.’

  ‘Good,’ Chance replied, her mood suddenly brightening. ‘You’ll fly out to Kenya this afternoon. There’s no time to lose if you’re to make your RV with Stegman. The British Consulate in Wroclaw will supply you with the appropriate papers.’

  He thought of something else. ‘How will I find Priest?’

  Chance looked at Bald as if he’d just suggested a threesome.

  ‘You can’t miss him. Priest is the biggest guy you’ve ever seen. Shaven-headed, chest and arms out to here. Once you’ve established contact with him, the two of you will meet with Stegman, secure your places on the team and find Pretorius. Find out who’s hired him to operate in Somalia. Then kill him.’

  Bald rubbed his jaw. ‘You make it sound easy as taking a leak.’

  ‘I won’t lie to you, John. Getting close to your quarry is going to be extremely difficult. Pretorius trusts only a few men in his inner circle. He is paranoid, delusional and highly unpredictable. Dangerous. Not least because of all the drugs he consumes. You’ll have to earn his trust before you can get close enough to take him down.’

  Bald weighed something up. ‘Even if it means doing something dodgy?’

  Chance closed the file, signalling the end of their meeting. ‘You have permission to do whatever it takes to earn his confidence. Within reason, of course.’

  ‘Great. I’ll remember that when I’m sat in the back of a police car and wearing a pair of silver bracelets.’

  Chance stared at him for a moment. Some kind of expression threatened to crack the ice-cold surface of her face. She buried it, said, ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of what happened in the past between you and Six. But I’ve got your back on this one. You have my word.’

  ‘Do you cross your heart and hope to die?’

  He got a hard look from Chance as she stood up. ‘This isn’t a game. It’s vital that we stop Pretorius before he turns Somalia into a lawless hellhole.’