The lens was trained directly on him.

  They returned to the hut. Pretorius produced a folding table and three rickety chairs. Deet stood guard at the door, legs wide as a pair of columns, the palm of his right hand resting on the Taurus Raging Bull.

  ‘I’ve been working towards this goal for ten years,’ Pretorius said after placing the Beretta on the table and sitting. ‘Now I’m so close I can almost smell it. Like pussy. You two’ – he looked from Bald to Priest, gave them both the same steely gaze – ‘are going to help me finally achieve my masterpiece. You lucky bastards.’

  Bald tried to focus. Fingers scraped along the surface of his skull. Nausea tickled the back of his throat. The migraines were getting worse. He prayed that Pretorius had some booze knocking about the place. The soldiers he’d seen earlier, the ones burning the dismembered bodies, swigging from a bottle of Jack. That would do nicely, he thought. Maybe now they were officially on the team, Pretorius would crack open a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. But the migraines were so bad, Bald would’ve settled for mouthwash.

  Pretorius said, ‘We pull this one off, we’re going to live like kings.’

  ‘How d’you figure that?’ asked Bald.

  A broad grin flashed across the chief’s face. Something wild glowed behind his eyes that reminded the Scot of a televangelist. Pretorius signalled to Deet. ‘The whisky, my man. For my new friends.’

  Deet nodded and left the hut. For a split second Bald considered killing Pretorius, now that they had some alone time. The thought evaporated almost as soon as it entered his head. If he tried it right now, Deet and his loyal followers would slot him before they could make their escape. Priest too, although Bald couldn’t give two fucks about his partner. Besides, he’d worked up a serious thirst. He needed that drink.

  ‘Ten years,’ Pretorius began. ‘That’s how long I was blackballed from the Circuit. After Zaire, this was. Back in ’93. A lifetime ago. I’ll level with you: Zaire really messed my shit up. I had nothing.’ He screwed up his face and shook his head. ‘Ten fucking years.’

  Bald shifted in his seat. A thought prodded him and he cast his mind back to the horror of Belfast twenty long years ago. Back when he’d been the newest recruit to the Regiment, alongside his old mate Joe Gardner, and Pretorius was a weapons smuggler who went by the name of Colonel Jim. The guy had been conspiring to sell Stinger missiles to the IRA in order to fund a coup in what was then Zaire and is now the Democratic Republic of Congo. Bald had played his part in wrecking the plan. Now Joe was dead and Bald was hanging in there in the tenth round, taking the blows, riding the hurt. And Kurt Pretorius was a despot living in the remote jungle, feeding off deluded visions of himself. Sometimes you just had to take a step back and realize that in the end nobody got to win.

  Still no sign of that drink. His mouth was drier than a nun’s gusset.

  ‘What did you do after Zaire?’ he said.

  ‘Drifted, mostly. I worked for one tin-pot African dictator after another.’ Pretorius cracked his knuckles, trying to put the lid on his rage. ‘I worked as a bodyguard for a warlord in Swaziland, a guy who owned a fleet of Porsches and a penthouse in New York. I had a stint as a security adviser to Museveni in Uganda. Shit, I even helped stamp out a rebel uprising in Liberia. We were kitted out with technicals, FN assault rifles and Milkor MGLs. The rebels were indigenous nut-jobs armed with sticks and fucking stones. That’s what I was reduced to, Jimmy. Me, a legend of the Circuit. Gunning down Bible-bashers for a few pennies.’

  The door flew open. Deet had returned, clutching a bottle of scotch. Bald perked up. Then he made out the label and died a little on the inside. Famous Grouse. Ah, well. Maybe they’d break out the expensive shit after the op.

  Deet placed three chipped glasses on the table and resumed his day job of blocking doors. Pretorius poured a generous measure into each glass. Drops splashed onto the table, glowing like liquid gold in the sunlight. Bald eyed his glass thirstily as Pretorius continued.

  ‘People are forever giving advice. You want my advice, don’t listen to any of it. Advice is bullshit recycled as knowledge by smug bastards who somehow made it to old age. The only thing anyone ever told me worth a crap was this: the people who really get somewhere in life, they’re the ones who crawl through a river of shit. The ones who smell of roses – they’re the liars and the losers.’

  ‘You should put that down on paper,’ said Bald. ‘Turn it into a self-help manual.’

  ‘I already have,’ Pretorius smiled. ‘I’ll make sure Deet gives you a copy of my teachings.’ He handed a glass each to Bald and Priest. Raised his own. ‘A toast. To swimming through the shit.’

  They clinked glasses. Bald took a long swig of Grouse. It scorched the back of his throat and a warm feeling immediately flowed like honey through his veins. He smacked his lips. Pretorius necked his shot and slammed his glass down on the table.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we are going to launch a coup. Succeed, and I promise you we’ll be so rich we’ll make the sheikhs look cheaper than crack whores. Are you in?’

  A dark feeling stirred inside Bald. Might have been the Grouse going straight to his head on an empty stomach. But the idea of getting minted after years of being short-changed by the Firm ignited a spark in him, reawakening dark thoughts he’d tried to keep buried – ever since the shoot-out in Antibes six months ago and his run-in with the Russian oligarch, Viktor Klich.

  ‘Aye,’ he said without looking at Priest. ‘We’re in. What’s the target?’

  Pretorius smiled. ‘The Comoro Islands.’

  Twenty-six

  1218 hours.

  Something like a knife moved through Bald. He stayed very still. Suddenly everything made sense: the weapons crates, the militia Pretorius had put together, the Dodge Rams – all of it essential kit for regime-change enthusiasts. Avery Chance had speculated that the coup might be in Somalia, which made sense, because the transitional government was weak and Pretorius had assembled his militia in-country. But the Comoro Islands? Bald had never even heard of them. He knocked back the rest of his drink. Despite the whisky burning a hole in his guts, the migraine was getting worse. A drilling pain that screeched in his ears and swelled inside his skull. His head felt like it would explode. He hastily poured himself another shot.

  ‘You’re familiar with the Comoros?’ Pretorius asked.

  ‘Geography,’ Bald shrugged. ‘I never gave much of a fuck about it in school.’

  ‘It’s an archipelago about three hundred kilometres east of Mozambique,’ Priest put in.

  Bald glared at his arse-licking partner. At the same time Pretorius got up from his chair and walked over to a metal box near the bed and came back with two maps. After moving the Grouse to one side he spread one of them out on the table. He tapped his finger on a group of islands slap bang in the middle of the Indian Ocean, nestled between the much larger island of Madagascar and the east coast of Africa. Bald craned his neck for a closer look. The Comoros were just a blip.

  ‘There are three main islands. Grande Comore, Mohéli and Anjouan. Total population eight hundred thousand. The Comoros declared independence from France in 1975. Since then there have been more than twenty attempted coups. Now it’s our turn.’

  He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and his eyes darted from Bald to Priest like a pair of hockey pucks sliding across a rink. Something about his expression told Bald that they were still on probation. That this whole set-up – even the coup itself – was somehow a test. Strange thought, but there it was.

  ‘You want us to take over a bunch of islands?’ Bald asked.

  ‘Not any old islands, Jimmy. Paradise!’

  Bald scratched the nape of his neck. ‘We can’t just stroll in and boot out the government. Even with our expertise, a country that size is bound to have its own standing army, cops, the works.’

  Pretorius stared at him. A smile tickled the corners of his lips.

  ‘The newly elected president, Mustapha Khalifa, has made drastic cuts to the budget. Currently the force on the Comoros amounts to a few hundred poorly trained cops and five hundred members of the Comoros Defence Force. There’s a reserve force, part-time soldiers, but they shouldn’t pose a threat.’

  ‘What about outside help?’ Priest piped up. ‘A move like this, we’re bound to piss off the neighbours.’

  Pretorius conceded the point with a slight nod of his head. ‘The French maintain a garrison of Foreign Legion troops on the nearby island of Mayotte. But if we move quickly and with precision, we’ll have secured the Comoros before they can send in reinforcements.’

  ‘How quick are we talking?’ Bald asked.

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Doesn’t give us much margin for error.’

  ‘The way I’ve planned this operation, we won’t need it. As we speak a small detachment of men based down in Kismayo and led by an old friend of mine from the Legion are preparing to head out on Zodiac boats. They’ll land under cover of darkness at an inlet near Chindini, on the south coast of Grande Comore. Then they’ll arrest the general in command of the Comoros Defence Force and persuade him to order his men to stand down. That paves the way for our role.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’ Priest asked.

  Pretorius snatched away the map. Underneath it was the other one, showing Mogadishu and the surrounding terrain of the Lower Shebelle region. Bald started to relax a little. The booze was kicking in, reducing the migraine to a faint throb. He reached for the bottle and helped himself to shot number three as Pretorius pointed to an airfield fifty kilometres south of the Somali capital.

  ‘This is the K50 Airport. The UN operates a humanitarian aid service from Nairobi twice a week, using a Hercules C-130 transport. We’ll seize the Herc, load men and equipment via the tailgate. We’ll land on a dirt road south of Moroni. That’s the beauty of a Herc: you can land it practically anywhere. Once we’re in-country the men from Kismayo will RV with us. We’ll get the lads kitted out with kit from the Herc, and split them into separate strike teams, launching simultaneous attacks on the local airport, radio station and government offices. By that point the security forces will be under our control. We’ll have command of the airwaves, the borders and the military. No one will be able to stop us.’

  ‘When do we attack?’ said Bald.

  Pretorius topped up his glass. ‘0500 hours. We’ll RV outside the airport at 0400 hours. That should give Deet and his co-pilot, Liam here, enough time to sneak past the guards and board the Hercules.’

  Priest flashed a panicked look at Bald. ‘Co-pilot?’

  Silence hung between the three men like meat from a butcher’s hook. Pretorius gave Priest a funny look. ‘You do have a pilot’s licence, right? Stegman told me that was the case. Why else do you think I hired you?’

  With that Pretorius made the bottoms-up sign and tipped the whisky down his throat.

  Fly a plane? Chance hadn’t mentioned anything about that in the mission briefing. But there was no way they could back out now – not having come this far. Bald nodded at Priest in a way that said, ‘Everything’s cool.’

  Pretorius went on, ‘Once Liam and Deet have the Herc primed for take-off, the rest of the team will board. Start to finish, the op should take twenty minutes. All things being equal, we’ll land on Grande Comore at dawn.’

  Bald had a hard time imagining Deet piloting a Herc; the guy looked more likely to crush it. ‘I don’t get it. Why base yourself in Somalia if you’re planning to take over a country halfway across the ocean?’

  ‘I didn’t come here to plot a coup. The Americans reached out to me. They needed my expertise to combat the growing influence of al-Shabaab.’

  Bald sat up straight. Al-Shabaab: ‘The Youth’. East Africa’s local Al-Qaeda franchise, only with fewer theological blowhards and more garden-variety psychopaths. Their foot soldiers numbered several thousand; their favourite pastimes included stoning women to death and amputating the hands of suspected thieves. Until recently they had controlled much of the south of the country. Joint-combat ops between AMISOM – the African Union Mission in Somalia, supported by Kenya troops – and private security contractors, guys like Pretorius, had pushed al-Shabaab out of the cities and into the hinterland.

  Bald helped himself to another slug of Grouse. Stuff was starting to grow on him. Or maybe it just tasted better after a hard tab through blisteringly hot jungle.

  Pretorius snorted out a laugh.

  ‘It’s almost funny. For years the CIA and the MoD turned a blind eye to al-Shabaab wreaking havoc across east Africa, slaughtering thousands and indoctrinating fuck knows how many people. Then some skinnies assault a shopping centre, a few Westerners die and next thing you know, al-Shabaab’s a big deal. Crushing them becomes the number-one security priority. But the Yanks being slippery bastards, they wanted al-Shabaab taken down without getting their hands dirty. No boots on the ground. It’s Libya and Syria all over again.’

  ‘They still remember Black Hawk Down,’ said Priest.

  Pretorius nodded. ‘So they turned to me.’

  A troubling thought pricked at Bald. His mouth suddenly felt very dry. Avery Chance had lied to him. The way she’d painted it, no one in the intelligence services had a clue why Pretorius had rocked up in Somalia. But then the Firm had previous on selling Bald lies. No surprises there, then. He just expected better from Avery.

  ‘Why did they hire you?’ he said. ‘The Americans must have a hundred former operators on speed dial. Guys who don’t come with baggage.’

  ‘But none who have deep experience of fighting African wars. They needed someone who could command the local clan fighters, train up a militia and drive al-Shabaab back to whatever fucking hole they crawled out of.’

  It was the fifth slug of Grouse that did the trick. Bald tipped it down his gullet, finally submerging the migraine behind a dense cloud of fog. The warm feeling spread through his veins; he didn’t even care about Priest giving him the evil eye for hoarding the booze. Ah, drinking: one of the few things Bald was any good at.

  ‘The shit I’ve seen,’ Pretorius added, ‘you wouldn’t even believe. Soldiers slashing open the bellies of pregnant women and smashing their babies against trees. Generals marching into battle butt-naked, their bodies smeared with the blood of their enemies. Out here there are people who believe if they rape a new-born they’ll be cured of AIDS.’

  ‘Sounds like Dundee on a Friday night,’ said Bald.

  Pretorius’s eyes went dark and very small. ‘I spent eight months in Somalia working for the Americans. Doing their dirty work. And then it happened.’ A smile played across his face like someone slashing open a sack of grain. ‘My awakening.’

  ‘Awakening?’ Priest echoed.

  It was as if Pretorius hadn’t heard the question. His eyes were distant. ‘I remember the day clearly. A small village twenty klicks north of Kismayo. We had int that the villagers were hiding senior figures in al-Shabaab. It was a trap. We walked right fucking into it.’ He gripped his glass, fuming through his nostrils. ‘Al-Shabaab attackers flooded into the village. Half my men died. An RPG came right at me. Hit me here.’ He thumped his hand against his chest. ‘Fucker didn’t go off. Can you believe that? Bounced right off me and died in the dirt.’ He swallowed the rest of his whisky.

  Bald stared at the bottom of his glass. Gears grinding inside his head. He’d heard one or two reports from Afghanistan of RPGs failing to detonate on impact. Something to do with the grenades needing to travel a minimum distance in order to prime the explosive charge inside the head. But it was a rare occurrence.

  ‘That’s when the local doctor came over. Said he’d never seen anything like it and declared it a miracle. Said I must be a god.’ There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes, thought Bald – like the tip of a blade catching the light. ‘Soon the whole village worshipped me. That’s when I knew. I’d always believed I was destined for great things, but now I had the proof.’

  He leaned across the table. His voice dropped like a spanner down a mineshaft.

  ‘In this life you’re either the exposed neck or the teeth sinking into it. Eight hundred million people get up each day in the West and go to work and never realize that they’re slaves to their own fears. But here’s the thing: only a chosen few have the opportunity not to live under the heel of others. I saw my opportunity. And I took it. I retreated into the camp with a few men, Stegman and Deet among them.’

  ‘Must have pissed off the Yanks,’ said Bald. ‘Turning your back on them like that.’

  Pretorius chuckled, as if laughing at some private joke. ‘As soon as my paymasters realized I’d gone AWOL, they sent in the drones. The Americans are nothing if not predictable. They nailed the camp and killed a few of my followers. As luck would have it, I wasn’t there at the time. After the strike we went off the grid and set up shop here. Every day more disciples arrived. Men and children who’d read my teachings and wanted to join my cause.’

  ‘And what cause is that?’ This was from Priest.

  ‘Renewal.’ Pretorius motioned to Deet. A fire blazed in his eyes. His features were strict and taut, like animal hide pulled over a drumhead. ‘This world of ours, it’s failed the niggers just as much as it’s failed you or me. You want to go on playing the same old game, Jimmy? Sticking to the rules? Look where it’s got you.’ He pressed his palms down on the table and looked the Scot hard in the eye. ‘Join me in the Comoros. We’ll be gods walking among men. Everything we’ve ever wished for – riches, women, power – it will all be ours.’

  Bald said, ‘Stealing a Herc isn’t going to be easy. It’s not like we can just smuggle it out without anyone noticing.’

  ‘There will be some, shall we say, token resistance. I’ve had guys OP’ing the airport for the past six weeks. Getting a Mark One eyeball on the kind of force we’re up against. The place has round-the-clock guards. Twelve guys in total.’

  ‘It could get noisy.’