Dark Asset Page 9

  ‘Once, yes. His wife asked for a divorce some years ago. Is it important?’

  ‘It might be. Why did she divorce him? Did she find out he was playing away … maybe for the other team?’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, it happens, right?’

  ‘No! It was nothing like that. She did not like the climate or his work and wanted to go back to France. He did not.’

  ‘Well, whatever the reason, what’s the likelihood that Masse confided in this Brit about this hard drive? Perhaps a little bit of boasting to impress his new friend.’

  ‘Impossible.’ Petrus flushed red with anger at the suggestion, and realised that Lunnberg was deliberately trying to unsettle him. The more he got to know this man the more he realised he was a serial manipulator, looking for an edge with every person he met. It made him wonder if he had any genuine friends, or whether only those who could be useful were accorded a temporary status until they were no longer of value. ‘He would not have done such a thing – he was too professional.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right, Victor. Let’s hope. I wonder if Doney would tell the same story.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Lunnberg hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘My men tell me that Masse and Doney were seen in a bar right here in Djibouti.’

  ‘So? That was then, this is now.’

  ‘Now is what I meant. They were seen just a few hours ago. Care to comment on that?’

  Petrus felt his mouth drop open but no words came out. He was in deep shock. It was a mistake – it had to be. A ghastly error. If Masse were alive, then who was the dead man Portman had found inside the building in Mogadishu?

  ‘You didn’t know, huh?’ Lunnberg was almost smiling, a tight twist to the side of his mouth.

  Petrus finally found his voice. ‘I don’t believe it. Masse is dead. If he were alive he would have called me the moment he was able to do so.’

  ‘You know that for sure?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That he’s dead. Have you seen the body and verified loss of life?’

  ‘No. I received the information from Portman.’ Petrus stopped speaking as he realised how that sounded; his admission that he had not bothered to check up on his missing operative’s location, but had left him out there. There were also the questions that would arise in the suspicious minds of people like Lunnberg and his own superiors. What if Portman and Masse had conspired and lied about the hard drive? What if the two men had checked the contents and decided to return a dummy drive instead, planning to use the real one for … He felt a dead weight settle on his shoulders at the thought. Surely not. Why would they?

  He put that last question to Lunnberg, followed by: ‘Why are you asking such a thing, anyway? Portman wouldn’t lie about it.’ Suddenly he remembered the photo of Masse’s body he’d received from Portman. He hadn’t done anything with it yet because he was still debating what to tell Degouvier and those above him in Paris. But now was the time to use it. He dug out his cell phone and switched it on. ‘Here … Portman sent me this.’ He tapped the photo gallery icon and handed the phone to Lunnberg. He didn’t need to look at the photo again; it showed the body of a white man with a splash of red on the torso. He’d automatically taken it to be Masse. Yet if what Lunnberg was saying was correct, he’d been wrong.

  The American studied the screen for a moment without expression, then handed the phone back. When he looked up, Petrus felt a cold chill go through him. The air seemed to crackle around Lunnberg as if he were charged with electricity.

  ‘Well, Victor, somebody’s telling untruths – and I know it isn’t my guys. They say when Masse saw them coming he took off like a jackrabbit.’ He shifted in his seat and tilted his head to one side. ‘Now, why would he do that, do you think … unless he had something to hide?’

  Petrus had no answer to that. Instead he asked, ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Well, Masse’s away in the wind, so no telling where. As to the other two, the clock’s running down on them as we speak. Portman’s room was a blank but that was expected; he’s a skilled professional.’

  Something in Lunnberg’s voice as he said it made Petrus look up. ‘I think we knew that. Do you have information I do not?’

  ‘It means, Victor, that in hiring Portman, you and your colleagues got hold of a tiger by the tail.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s more than just a – what did you call him – a protection specialist? He’s got skills that go way beyond your average bodyguard. In fact, in different circumstances, I’d probably hire the man myself. But that’s not an option. The sooner he’s gone the safer I’ll sleep at night.’

  ‘I see.’ Petrus didn’t like the look the American was giving him, and decided he didn’t want to know more about Portman than he did already. Sometimes ignorance really was to be valued. Instead he said, ‘And this Doney person?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a genuine article, all right – a teacher. My men checked his room but didn’t find anything there. They’re currently making sure he didn’t have another rabbit hole somewhere else, although my guess is he didn’t. Still, they’ll find out for sure soon enough.’

  Petrus didn’t like to think what that entailed. He had no doubts that Lunnberg’s men would be thorough in their methods, and would go to whatever lengths were needed to get what they wanted. ‘What will you do with him?’

  ‘That’s not your concern. My decision, my moves.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Petrus said coolly, ‘but if it threatens the security of this operation, then I think it is my concern. You cannot go leaving dead bodies around, especially in this part of the world. With all the troops stationed here, questions will be asked and somebody will have seen them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Your men. And Portman, Masse and Doney.’

  ‘Let me worry about my men. They’ll be gone soon, anyway, once this is over. As to the others … well, beyond tonight that won’t be a concern.’ He stood up and straightened his jacket. ‘A piece of friendly advice for you, Victor. You’ve got a man gone rogue on you, you know that? He didn’t report in to tell you he was still viable, and you should be asking yourself why. What’s he hiding? You might want to get that situation clarified before your bosses in Paris find out, don’t you think?’

  Petrus didn’t respond, but stared at the wall.

  TWELVE

  Two hours after leaving the hills I was back in Djibouti and heading for the city centre, where I dumped the car. Being caught with it would connect me to the two bodies, possibly three, in the hills, and I didn’t need any more aggravation than I had so far. My job was a long way from done and as far as I knew André Masse was still out there. I dialled his cell phone a couple of times on the way in but there was no answer.

  When in doubt about a missing person, check out the most obvious places first. I headed for the hotel courtyard where Masse and I had met up previously. It was late when I got there, with decorative lanterns casting soft pools of light around the courtyard, and there were only a few tables still occupied. I recognised one of the waiters as the grey-haired man who had served Masse and pulled him to one side. ‘Do you know André Masse?’

  He shook his head, slapping a table with a damp cloth. ‘Masse? Non, m’sieur. French?’

  ‘French, yes.’

  ‘No. There are many French here. I do not know this name.’ The way he spoke told me he was lying, although I guessed it was an instinctive wish not to get involved rather than trying to protect Masse.

  I remembered the snapshot Petrus had given me. It was still in my pocket and I took it out and showed him. He barely gave it a glance then turned and called another waiter over. ‘This boy might know.’

  His colleague was in his teens, a slim young man with a ready smile. He nodded a greeting and stared at the photo. ‘Ah. That is M’sieur André.’ He pointed at the building. ‘He was here but is gone.’

  I handed them both some money, then had a thought. I said to the young
man, ‘Can you show me his room? He had a book of mine and he may have left it behind.’

  He shrugged as if foreigners did that kind of thing all the time. ‘Of course. Come, I show you.’

  Five minutes later I was back on the street holding a postcard-size leaflet for a nightclub a few streets away. Masse’s room had been empty and I figured he either travelled light, ready for a quick move, or had cleared out altogether. I wasn’t interested in the nightclub on the postcard but there was a telephone number written down one side, the sevens crossed through in the French manner. It was snatching at straws but in the absence of any other clue leading to the Frenchman, it was worth a try. Maybe he’d bugged out for somewhere safer.

  I tipped the youth again and thanked him for his help, then dialled the number.

  A woman answered. She told me she ran a small guest house and gave me the name of a street on the south-western suburbs of the city. I went round there straight away. I figured I didn’t have much time to wander around the city before I bumped into Ratchman or one of his heavy brigades, so I had to move quickly.

  The Residence Ashmir was an elegant building, cream-painted and decorated with moulded balustrades set in a wide street of houses and small shops, some still showing lights in the hopes of picking up some last-minute trade. The owner was a large woman in a voluminous green gown and headscarf. I mentioned Masse’s name but she gave me a blank look before saying in French, ‘No, M’sieur. I do not know this man.’

  ‘It’s important that I find him,’ I told her. ‘I work with him. He has some papers which I need urgently.’

  That didn’t impress her much. She shook her head and began to close the door. Then I had a lightbulb moment. What if the phone number on the card hadn’t been for Masse but a contact number for Doney? I said quickly, ‘Colin Doney. Is he here? He’s a teacher.’

  She confirmed that Doney was a guest but she hadn’t seen him since earlier that day.

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

  She gave me a look that told me I was asking the impossible and how would she know where her guests went at night? When she saw I wasn’t giving up she turned and shouted something over her shoulder. A young girl appeared from the back of the building and I heard Colin mentioned. The girl had big brown eyes, and looked at me for a moment before rattling off a whispered reply to the owner and pointing over her shoulder. ‘He was here earlier,’ the older woman translated. ‘The girl saw him with two men. They came in but did not stay long. I did not see them as I was visiting my sick mother.’ She scowled at the girl at this point and I guessed visitors were not encouraged to go to guests’ rooms.

  I asked if I could see Doney’s room in case the papers were there, and she agreed and took a key from a hook on the wall above the reception desk. She led the way through to the rear of the building where the air was cool and fragrant, and unlocked a door. Then she stood aside and let me in.

  The room was a wreck.

  Whoever had searched the place had done a comprehensive job. The bed had been taken apart, the pillows slashed and the mattress gutted, the soft innards spread over the floor like grey snow. A single wardrobe stood open and empty, and by the knife marks in the wooden sides, had been tested for concealed spaces and loose panelling. A couple of floor tiles had been taken up, but that had been abandoned after a couple of attempts. Even a line of hooks mounted on a strip of wood had been ripped off the wall and tossed in one corner.

  Whoever the two men had been, they had taken his possessions with them, probably to search later. I didn’t waste my time looking; there was nothing to show Doney had even been here.

  The owner took one look and pushed past me, uttering a low cry of alarm when she saw what had been done. She shouted something I couldn’t understand, and the young girl arrived on the run, sandals slapping on the tiled floor. She looked equally stunned at the state of the room, her hand to her mouth and her eyes like cue balls. There was a snappy exchange with a lot of head shaking before the owner turned to me and explained in full.

  ‘The two men came with M’sieur Colin. They were here a short time only and came to this room. The girl was here alone and did not like the look of the other men. They frightened her and she did not want trouble with the police, so she went to visit a friend in the next street. When she came back she saw them all getting into a big car in the street. They drove very fast that way.’ She waved a hand towards the window, which faced south-west.

  ‘What didn’t she like about them?’

  ‘They were angry and she thinks one man had a gun.’ She said something to the girl, who patted her hip to demonstrate that he was carrying the weapon under his shirt.

  ‘What about Mr Doney? Did he say anything?’

  She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘She says he did not speak, but there was blood on his shirt. When the men were not looking he waved at her to go away, which she did.’ She said something else to the girl, then said, ‘She liked M’sieur Colin – he was always kind and polite and made her laugh although she could not understand his language very well.’ She shrugged and explained, ‘She is my niece from the town of Galafi in the Dikhil region and does not speak much French.’ She rolled her eyes in a what-can-you-do expression of apology for a helpless case in the family.

  ‘Did she hear or understand anything the men said?’

  Another quick exchange and she said, ‘They spoke American but she could not tell what they said.’ She looked disdainful and added, ‘They were soldiers, she thinks. There are many American soldiers here.’

  It sounded like the same men who had taken me from my room, but without a name it was only guesswork. The added worry was that they hadn’t lost any time in using violence on Doney. ‘What lies that way?’ I asked, pointing at the window. I had a good idea: south-west was open country for a long, long way. But maybe she had an idea.

  She thought about it for a moment, then confirmed it. ‘Pas beaucoup. Some villages, settlements, people … and chévres. Lots of them.’ She gave a faint wrinkle of her nose as she used the French word for goats, one of the region’s main herd animals. ‘After that, the town of Ali Sabieh, but after that I do not know. A long way is Ethiopie.’ She glanced at the wreckage and seemed to recall what had happened here, and began to build up into a wail of anger, with her arms in the air as if the real shock was just hitting her.

  I calmed her down before she went off like a siren by taking out my wallet, thanking her and the girl for their help and paying for Doney’s room rent with extra to repair the damage.

  It had been the same kind of clearance operation they’d used on me. Only they must have figured I had nothing to hide, whereas they would have been primed to suspect Doney of being implicated with Masse and hiding the hard drive. With this kind of wreckage it was less a method of hiding tracks and more about intimidation and control.

  One thing I was certain of: Doney wasn’t coming back.

  I left the two women to clear up and found a room in another small guest house nearby. The manager pointed me to an auto-rental down the street where I was able to hire a battered but serviceable Mitsubishi with a full tank of gas and tinted glass, and from a store two doors down, I stocked up for a trip into open country. As the likelihood of me getting at the two guns I’d left back at the hotel where I’d been captured by Ratchman and his buddy was remote, I waved some banknotes and got hold of a serviceable SIG Pro semi-auto and a spare clip, no questions asked.

  Now I was ready.

  I wasn’t sure what was driving me, but if the men had taken Doney south, there had to be a reason. In the morning I would follow my nose and see where it led. The last thing I did before sleeping was to call Masse’s cell phone. No answer.

  THIRTEEN

  The soft cover of darkness was sliding over the city as Masse pulled off the road and reversed into a shadowy alley between two warehouses and cut the engine. He climbed out and walked back to peer round the corner of the metal siding. Two hundred me
tres further along stood the building where he had seen the Americans. He stayed there for a good ten minutes, watching the front windows for any signs of light and listening to the night.

  Nothing. No movement and no vehicles in sight and the only noise was of a distant aircraft engine over towards the vast military camp. The building had all the feel of a space deserted. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he walked past his car down the alley and reached the rear of the warehouses, where he turned left.

  He stopped every few paces, slowing his breathing and listening for anything which didn’t belong. If he was walking into trouble he would likely get only a momentary warning before it hit him broadside. He continued this stop-start journey, and crossed a deserted space at the rear of the next warehouse, the air ripe with rotten fruit, then across a similar area next to it.

  He stopped, looking at the fence surrounding the building he was here to see.

  He took a metal flashlight out of his pocket and waited, sniffing the air. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in this climate, trapped by the heavy warm layer close to the ground. If the men were still here, signs of the one he’d seen smoking earlier would be his first warning signal.

  Satisfied he couldn’t detect anything to concern him; he drifted along the mesh fence heading towards the rear of the premises, looking for a weakness. He didn’t want to go near the front of the building because that was where the windows were located, and he could be too easily observed from the road. The fence wasn’t new, but it had been here long enough to have suffered from previous attempts to climb over, with occasional dips in the structure where somebody had scaled it and dragged it out of shape.

  Finally he found where a section had been cut through and pushed back into place. He unclipped the ends and slid through, pausing to check the shadows before moving swiftly across the open space and fetching up against the steel sides of the building. He touched it with his fingertips, feeling the roughened surface of weather-beaten paint, still carrying a degree of residual warmth from the day’s sun. Locating a flat section, he leaned in close and pressed his ear against the metal.