King Solomon's Curse

Book 13: Wilde/Chase

by Andy McDermott

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Following on from The Midas Legacy, Andy McDermott's new Wilde and Chase novel sees our daring duo on the trail of a strange, ancient weapon of immense power hidden in a lost city deep in the African jungle. Perfect for fans of Clive Cussler, Chris Kuzneski, Dan Brown and Scott Mariani.

Nina Wilde is back on the hunt. Now a presenter of her own TV documentary series, Nina is in Jerusalem. Clues found at the Ark of the Covenant recovery site have led her to the ruins of the First Temple, buried beneath Temple Mount. Within them, Nina spots an opening to a previously hidden chamber - a map room which contains a model of a mysterious city thought to contain a great yet dangerous power hidden by King Solomon himself. Analysing the clues, Nina believes that the city is located in the Democratic Republic of Congo, one of the most dangerous locations on Earth.

Eddie is in England with their daughter Macy but Nina's phone call is about to change everything. He has had his own problems in the DRC in the past and he isn't about to let Nina go there alone.

Joining forces, Nina and Eddie are about to start a chain of events from which there might be no return...

Release date: September 21, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 427

Sample

Prologue

Tenerife, the Canary Islands

Eddie Chase entered the arrivals hall of Tenerife-Sur airport and greeted the man waiting for him with a mocking grin. ‘So you’ve been demoted to my chauffeur, Alderley?’

‘Actually, I’ve been promoted since we last met,’ replied Peter Alderley. ‘Avoiding you does wonders for my career.’

‘Bell-end,’ said Eddie, though with humour. The two Englishmen shook hands. Neither would have described the other as a friend, but the past dealings of the former SAS soldier and the MI6 officer had at least given them a grudging mutual respect. ‘Promoted, eh? Things must be going well.’

Alderley nodded. ‘I’m in charge of the Africa desk, reporting directly to C.’

‘And who does C report to? B?’ Eddie grinned again, knowing full well that ‘C’ – not ‘M’, despite the claims of the James Bond novels and movies – was the codename for the director of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.

The older man’s drooping moustache twitched with both amusement and faint exasperation. ‘Your sense of humour hasn’t changed. Sadly. But I understand other things have. You’re a dad now?’

Eddie beamed proudly. ‘Yeah. Me and Nina’ve got a little girl, Macy. She’s two.’ He showed off her picture on his phone’s lock screen.

‘She’s got Nina’s looks,’ said Alderley of the smiling young redhead. ‘Luckily for her.’

‘Yeah, sod off.’ His expression and tone became more businesslike. ‘But you didn’t ask me to come all the way from New York to see my baby pictures. You said this was about Mukobo.’

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’ Alderley led the way to a car park. His anonymous Peugeot 308 was unpleasantly hot inside; the Canaries were off the coast of North Africa, and the sun was blazing relentlessly down on the dry landscape.

‘Not much of a spy car,’ said Eddie. ‘Still, it’s better than your rubbish old Ford Capri.’

Alderley huffed as he started the car. ‘My Capri is officially a classic.’

‘That just means ancient, though, doesn’t it?’

‘And this one’s rented. Budget cuts, across all the intelligence agencies. If it’s not related to Islamic terrorists, Russia or Brexit, its spending’s been slashed. Same for the armed forces,’ he added.

Eddie had a long-standing antipathy to the intelligence services, but anything that made the job of the soldier on the ground more difficult made him bristle. ‘Ugh. Politicians.’

‘Yeah, whoever you vote for, some bugger wins,’ said Alderley as he headed for the airport’s exit. ‘Anyway, we can talk now. All this is top secret, of course.’

‘You don’t need to tell me the rules. I signed the Official Secrets Act when I joined the forces.’

‘So you haven’t told Nina why you’re here?’

‘Nope, and she’s not happy about it. I just said you needed my help. She didn’t think that justified swanning off and leaving our little girl, and she’s probably right. But I came anyway.’ The Yorkshireman regarded Alderley intently. ‘Mukobo. I assume he’s here.’

Alderley nodded. ‘We wouldn’t have asked you to come otherwise.’

‘You need me to ID him?’

‘You’re the only person we know of who’s met him face to face. Who’s still alive, anyway. Philippe Mukobo has been, ah . . . proactive about maintaining his privacy. Hardly surprising when he’s high on Interpol’s Red List, to say nothing of the Yanks wanting to get their hands on him.’

‘For killing those aid workers.’ It was not a question but a grim statement of fact. ‘And a load of other people. I should’ve shot him when I had the chance.’

Alderley hesitated as if about to say something reassuring, but then continued with his briefing. ‘Anyway, GCHQ picked up chatter that he’d made it over here by sea. He’s since been in phone contact with a man called Provone who’s arranging a fake European Union passport for him. As the Canaries are Spanish territory, once he gets it he can travel freely from here to anywhere in Europe – even Britain, since we haven’t finished the Article 50 negotiations and left the EU yet.’

The Peugeot merged on to a motorway. ‘You know where he is right now?’ Eddie asked.

‘In a villa outside Playa de las Américas.’

‘So why haven’t you grabbed him already?’

‘As I said, we don’t know what he looks like. There are no known photos of him. And he has at least nine guards at the villa, all armed. We don’t want to risk a bloodbath. We want him alive.’

Eddie cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why? If it were up to me, I’d just shoot the sod and be done with it.’

‘Not my department, I’m afraid,’ said Alderley. ‘This is a field operation, so technically I’m only here to advise the officer in charge. Okay, technically I’m not here at all, but you know what I mean.’

‘So who’s the OIC?’

‘John Brice, one of our top field men.’

‘John Brice?’ Eddie echoed, scoffing. ‘What is it with spies having the initials JB? James Bond, Jason Bourne, Jack Bauer, and now this guy. Surprised you didn’t change your name to Jethro Bollocks or something.’

Alderley chuckled. ‘Not sure my wife would have wanted to become Mrs Bollocks. Anyway, he’s got surveillance photos of the men in the compound. If you can ID Mukobo, Brice can take it from there.’

‘You couldn’t have just emailed me the pictures?’

‘MI6 doesn’t generally send classified imagery via Gmail.’

‘Suppose not,’ said Eddie, amused. ‘All right, let’s get this over with.’

Alderley brought him to one of Playa de las Américas’ numerous hotels – and then to its bar. ‘Why aren’t I surprised to find a spy hanging out in here?’ said Eddie.

‘There he is – oh,’ said Alderley, with distinct disapproval on seeing that the man they had come to meet was seated in a corner with a tanned young woman in a bikini. Brice whispered to her, then stood to usher her away with a swat to her backside as the visitors approached. She headed for a swimming pool outside. ‘Who was that?’

‘Nobody,’ said Brice, shaking Alderley’s hand. ‘Peter.’ He faced Eddie, blue eyes looking the stocky, shaven-headed Yorkshireman up and down and not appearing particularly impressed. ‘And Eddie Chase.’

‘That’s me,’ said Eddie, giving Brice an assessment of his own. Late thirties, tall, sharply handsome, jet-black hair conservatively yet carefully styled. His clothing was similarly neat; overdone for the climate, but the athletic MI6 officer didn’t seem the kind to break a sweat for much. There was a glass of whisky before him.

‘John Brice.’ He briefly shook Eddie’s hand, then sat again. ‘I assume Peter’s told you why you’re here.’

‘Yeah, Mukobo,’ said Eddie. ‘You need me to ID him for you.’

‘That’s right.’ Brice opened a slim laptop. ‘Our pictures of the men in the villa are here.’ A few clicks, then he slid the machine to Eddie. ‘Oh, screen facing the wall, if you don’t mind. Wouldn’t want anyone looking over your shoulder.’

‘Your girlfriend have clearance, did she?’ said Eddie, irked by the younger man’s patronising tone. He sat with a wall behind him, then regarded the screen. The image, taken with a telephoto lens, was of a scowling black man in mirrored sunglasses. ‘That’s not him. Too young.’

‘Swipe through to the next one,’ said Alderley. Eddie did so. The next man was older, but also unfamiliar.

‘By the way, I read your file, Chase,’ said Brice. ‘Interesting career you’ve had.’

‘Yeah?’ Eddie replied, bringing up the next image.

‘Yes. Edward Jeremy Chase, born 1975. Joined the army at sixteen the day after finishing your GCSEs, so the earliest possible time allowed by law. Problems at home?’

‘None of your business,’ was the irritated reply.

‘Served competently but unremarkably,’ Brice went on, unfazed, ‘as a squaddie for six years with a promotion to corporal, then applied to join the Special Air Service. On your first selection attempt, passed the endurance, jungle training and escape and evasion phases, but failed on tactical questioning and returned to unit.’

Alderley was surprised. ‘You didn’t pass first time?’

‘“Tactical questioning” is basically being tortured,’ said Eddie. ‘Whatever they do, you’re only supposed to give ’em your name, rank and serial number, or say “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that question.”’

‘So what did you say?’

‘One of the interrogators started on about how he’d shagged my mum. So I told him I’d shagged his girlfriend. Which . . . I had.’ He grinned, exposing the gap between his front teeth. ‘He got pretty annoyed with me.’

‘I can imagine!’

Brice exhaled impatiently. ‘Reapplied the following year, this time succeeded. Joined 22 SAS “A” Squadron, promoted to sergeant in 2000, court-martialled and demoted back to corporal following an incident in Afghanistan when you struck a superior officer. Redeemed yourself in 2002 when you were awarded the Victoria Cross’ – a hint of disbelief, as if unable to accept that the man before him could have received the British military’s highest honour – ‘for rescuing your wounded commanding officer while under fire. Married Lady Sophia Blackwood in 2004 after saving her from terrorists in Cambodia, left service in 2005, divorced in 2006.’

Eddie looked up from the laptop. ‘You got all this fu— . . . flippin’ memorised?’ He caught himself before saying something stronger; he had promised his wife – and himself – when Macy was born that he would stop his habitual swearing for his daughter’s sake. ‘Thought you were a spy, not presenting This Is Your Life.’

‘I like to know as much as possible about the people I deal with.’ He indicated the laptop. ‘Have you seen Mukobo yet?’

‘Nope.’

‘Then keep looking.’ Eddie frowned, then turned back to the screen. ‘After that, you worked as a mercenary in numerous countries. Including Rwanda, where you encountered Mukobo . . . and let him go.’

The Yorkshireman’s gaze returned to Brice. ‘Got something to say?’

He shrugged. ‘Merely an observation.’

The dismissive response annoyed Eddie still more. ‘Our convoy ran into him by fluke – he wasn’t expecting trouble, or he’d have had more than one bodyguard. He was outgunned, and surrendered. I wasn’t going to shoot a prisoner, so we took their weapons and told ’em to piss off. I didn’t know he was a warlord who’d been killing and raping people in four different countries. If I had . . .’

‘You would have done something about it?’

‘Turned him in, at the very least.’ A shake of the head. ‘But I didn’t, so now we’re here. None of these guys are him, by the way.’

‘Damn,’ said Brice quietly. He retrieved the computer. ‘Then I’ll need you to come to our observation post and see if you can identify him from there.’

‘I was planning to be on a flight back home tonight.’

‘As soon as you ID him, you can go.’ Brice finished his whisky in a single slug. ‘All right, let’s move.’

Playa de las Américas was a relatively new resort, still expanding into the surrounding arid hills. The unfinished shells of apartment blocks and ranks of tightly packed little houses rose up the slopes like a concrete cancer, aesthetics and interior space secondary to giving as many future buyers as possible a view of the sea, however distant, from their place in the sun.

The trio’s destination was beyond the sprawl, however. The hilltops had already been claimed for the rich, expansive villas imperiously overlooking all below. ‘That’s the target,’ said Brice as Alderley guided the Peugeot up a dusty road.

The red-roofed villa was about half a mile away. What Eddie could see of it over its high surrounding walls was impressive. ‘Nice place. Where’s the observation post?’

‘That ridge,’ Brice told him, pointing. Another dusty hill rose ahead.

Before long, Alderley turned on to a dirt track, the 308 jolting uphill behind the ridge. Eddie looked up to its top, spotting a man lying beneath a camouflaged sunshade – then tensed as a sixth sense developed from training and experience told him the watcher was not alone. ‘Who else is up here?’

‘Three-man snatch team from the Increment,’ said Alderley as he stopped behind a dusty Land Rover Discovery. ‘Well, a sub-unit, GB63.’ He pronounced it six-three. ‘We call them the Removal Men. Because, ha ha, they remove—’

‘Yeah, I get it.’ The Increment was one of several codenames for a top-secret MI6 unit, its members drawn from the SAS and other British special forces. Eddie tried to locate the other two men. It took a few seconds to spot one watching them from behind a rock, but the last remained unseen. ‘Anyone I know? Always wondered who the Increment took on.’

‘You were almost one of them yourself, Chase,’ said Brice, exiting the car.

Eddie followed. ‘You what?’

‘You went on a selection exercise in summer 2001.’

‘First I’ve heard of it.’

Brice gave him a patronising smile. ‘They wouldn’t have told you what it was. You don’t ask to join the Increment – you’re chosen for it. You went to an SIS training facility. We call it “the Funhouse”.’

A memory surfaced; Eddie recalled being unexpectedly summoned by his commanding officer and taken in the back of a windowless van to a building somewhere in the English countryside, where he had taken part in an unusual exercise. ‘What, the place set up inside like an Iraqi village?’

‘Oh, that’s what you had?’ said Alderley with interest. ‘Every MI6 field officer gets tested in the Funhouse, and everyone gets a different scenario. They must have at least a dozen sets they can swap around. Mine was a half-flooded submarine.’ The recollection did not seem pleasant.

They started up the hill, Eddie still searching for the third man. ‘So I was being tested to join the Increment?’

Brice nodded. ‘You were. But you failed.’

‘Like fu— . . . like hell I did,’ Eddie protested. ‘I shot every single one of those animatronic dummies guarding the hostages.’

The smug smirk returned. ‘Sometimes, being a good shot isn’t enough. Killing the kidnappers wasn’t the mission, was it? You were supposed to eliminate the leader and recover his laptop without being detected; the hostages were irrelevant. You prioritised wrongly, so you failed the test.’

‘I didn’t even know I was taking it!’

‘Which was the point.’ They approached the top of the ridge, Brice nodding to the man behind the rock. Eddie looked back at the car – and to his surprise saw that the third Removal Man had materialised from nowhere, silently following them. Of course; while a casual passer-by would see nothing, someone specifically investigating the area would eventually spot the first two men . . . but by then, the third would have moved in on them.

Brice hunched down as they reached the hilltop. ‘Any activity?’

‘Just the guards patrolling the perimeter,’ the man replied. He glanced at Eddie. ‘This the source?’

Eddie extended his hand. ‘Eddie Chase, 22 SAS.’ The man – no older than thirty, he guessed, so too young even to have started special forces training by the time he left the SAS twelve years earlier – nodded, then turned back to the binoculars. ‘Nice to meet you too,’ the Yorkshireman said sarcastically.

‘Check the compound for Mukobo,’ Brice told him. The man on the ground shuffled aside so Eddie could take his place at a pair of powerful binoculars on a squat tripod.

The view through the lenses reduced the mile-wide gap to virtual yards. ‘Okay, so we’ve got . . . three armed men on watch,’ he reported. ‘Two big SUVs, and a guy near them having a smoke. None of ’em are Mukobo.’

‘We can cross them off, then,’ said Alderley.

‘You thought he’d be doing his own bodyguarding?’

‘Mukobo got this far by staying hidden,’ Brice said. ‘Posing as one of your own security detail to protect a decoy is an old trick.’

‘Yeah, I saw The Phantom Menace. And, y’know, I’ve done security work for a living.’

‘I know.’

Eddie snorted. ‘Course you bloody do, you’ve memorised my file.’

‘Hired by Norwegian industrialist Kristian Frost to act as bodyguard for Dr Nina Wilde in 2008 during her search for the lost city of Atlantis, and married her three years later,’ Brice recited as Eddie continued with his observations.

‘I’m seeing something of a pattern,’ Alderley cut in with a smile.

‘Since meeting her,’ Brice continued, ‘you and Dr Wilde have discovered several major archaeological sites – as well as averting a number of biological and chemical terror attacks, stopping a missile strike on the G20 summit, and preventing your ex-wife from detonating a nuclear device in New York City. James Bond would be proud.’

‘If it’s the Roger Moore Bond, that’s good,’ said Eddie. ‘Raised eyebrows and quips, that’s all I want from a spy – ay up, hold on.’ The smoker and one of the guards hurried to the front doors. Another man appeared, issuing instructions.

A tablet computer was attached to the binoculars by a fibre-optic cable, relaying what Eddie was seeing; Brice snatched it up. ‘The man who just came out is a driver,’ he noted. ‘They must be going—’ He broke off as his phone trilled. ‘Brice. Yes? Okay, get me the translation as soon as you can.’

‘GCHQ?’ asked Alderley.

‘Yes. Provone just called. We’ll know what he said in a minute.’

‘Maybe he wants to meet Mukobo,’ said Eddie, still watching the villa. More men emerged from the house. All wore similar outfits: dark slacks, white shirts under dark jackets, mirrored sunglasses. Another old trick, making it harder for onlookers to tell the guards from the client—

‘Wait, wait, that’s him!’ he gasped. ‘That was Mukobo, I’m sure of it!’

‘Which one?’ snapped Brice, staring at the tablet.

‘I’ve lost him.’ The briefly glimpsed face had vanished in the crowd. ‘Short hair, he was putting on his sunglasses.’

‘They’ve all got short hair and sunglasses,’ Alderley complained.

Eddie tried to find him again, but with no luck. The men split up to board the pair of vehicles. ‘I couldn’t see which truck he got into.’

‘Orders, sir?’ the watcher asked Brice.

Brice was about to reply when his phone rang again. ‘That was the translator – they’re meeting Provone,’ he reported. ‘The papers are ready.’

‘Where?’ asked Alderley.

‘He just said “the place we arranged”. We’ll have to follow them – once he gets a new passport, there’s nothing stopping him from leaving the country.’

The group hurried back downhill. ‘Why don’t you stake out the airport and grab him there?’ said Eddie. ‘I can spot him for you.’

‘Tenerife has two airports,’ Alderley pointed out. ‘You’ve got many talents – well, a few – but I don’t think bilocation is one of them.’

‘You’re bloody spies! You must have cameras and satellite links. Or just put me on FaceTime, for God’s sake.’ He gestured at the watcher’s tablet. ‘You recorded everything, right? Let me find a frame showing him, then email it to passport control. They’ll catch him.’

‘Not an option,’ snapped Brice as they neared the cars. ‘This operation is both low profile and solely British. We don’t want Mukobo being picked up by some dago customs officer.’

Eddie was surprised by the MI6 man’s use of the racist insult. ‘Did I go through a time portal back to the 1970s?’ He shook his head. ‘You bloody spooks think every other country’s our rival – or our enemy. Even our allies!’

‘In this business, the only people you can trust are the ones you totally control,’ was the dismissive reply.

‘You must have a really healthy marriage,’ said Eddie mockingly, though he then noticed that Brice wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The discovery did not surprise him. ‘Anyway, Mukobo’s on the Red List; he should be arrested on sight.’

‘That’s not the mission objective.’ They re-entered the Peugeot, Brice taking the wheel, as the Removal Men jumped into their Land Rover.

‘Then what is?’

‘All you need to know is that our capturing Mukobo serves British interests. And I expect you to help us achieve that.’ Brice reversed into a turn, kicking up dust, then took out a walkie-talkie. ‘We’ve got to catch up before they reach the main road,’ he barked into it. ‘But don’t get too close.’ The men following in the Discovery responded with curt affirmation.

The villa came back into view as they emerged from behind the ridge. The two SUVs, identical black Chevrolet Suburbans, drove through its tall gates and started downhill. ‘This road, does it meet up with theirs?’ Eddie asked.

‘Yeah, about a mile away,’ said Alderley.

‘We passed a freeway entrance coming up here. They could be going anywhere on the island.’

‘They won’t get away from us,’ Brice said, before adding snidely: ‘And “freeway”? You really have lived in the States for too long.’

‘I’m remembering why I left in the first place,’ Eddie shot back.

‘Just remember whose side you’re on – to whom you pledged loyalty.’ Brice swung the car back on to asphalt and accelerated down the hill. The Discovery followed. Both Suburbans were ahead on the other side of the dry valley. He judged their speed, then raised the walkie-talkie again. ‘Okay, we have clear sight. Ease off.’

The Land Rover dropped back. The two roads met, Mukobo’s little convoy heading towards the heat-shimmering sprawl of Playa de las Américas below. Their pursuers kept pace, until—

‘They’re splitting up!’ Alderley said in alarm. The second Suburban peeled away to the right as the leading vehicle continued straight on.

‘We’ll have to do the same,’ said Brice, lifting the radio again.

‘Wait,’ Eddie said. ‘The second SUV had more guys in it, didn’t it?’

‘Four in the first, five in the second, yes.’

‘We should follow that one. Even when you use decoys, you still need bodyguards, plus the client. And I don’t think Mukobo’d short-staff his own protection.’

Brice spoke into the walkie-talkie. ‘Follow the first vehicle. We’ll take the second.’

‘What? Oh, for . . .’ Eddie said, exasperated. ‘I know what I’m bloody doing! Mukobo’s in the second car – and now we’ll be outnumbered!’

‘I can’t take the chance that you’re wrong,’ Brice replied. He guided the Peugeot after the second SUV as the Land Rover continued onwards. ‘We need to cover both vehicles.’

‘What’s the point of me being here if you’re not going to listen?’

‘I’ll say it again, Chase: the only reason you’re here is to identify Mukobo. Just shut up and do what I tell you.’

‘Arsehole,’ Eddie growled, immediately annoyed with himself for breaking his own promise. ‘Was that British enough for you?’

Brice glowered at him in the mirror, then returned his attention to the road. The highway came into view ahead, but the Suburban’s destination was closer. ‘Are they going shopping?’ said Alderley, incredulous, as it entered a mall’s car park.

‘Mukobo must be wanting to buy a handbag,’ Eddie joked.

Brice drew in after the Chevrolet, keeping his distance. It took a handicapped space near the entrance. He continued past it, stopping a couple of rows away. The three Englishmen watched as the Suburban’s occupants emerged. ‘Is Mukobo with them?’

Eddie squinted into the bright sunlight. ‘Can’t tell.’ All five men were facing away from him as they crossed the parking lot.

‘We’ll have to follow them. Don’t get too close, Chase,’ Brice warned as they got out. ‘You remember him – so he might remember you.’

‘How close did you get to him when you met?’ Alderley asked.

Eddie held his hands a foot apart. ‘About this close.’

‘Ah. So he will remember you, then.’

‘I dunno, I had more hair then.’ He grinned, then regarded the shopping centre. It was fronted by a large wooden portico in an ersatz-Asian style, the name Siam Mall emblazoned across it. The five men went inside.

‘We can’t lose them,’ said Brice. He made a call. ‘Snatch team, we’re at the Siam Mall. Will advise if we locate Mukobo.’

The mall’s interior was considerably cooler than outside. A large supermarket was on the left, smaller shops to the right, but the men they were tracking were ascending an escalator directly ahead. The rearmost of the group turned to survey the scene behind him. ‘He’s not Mukobo,’ Eddie said. ‘So he’s one of the other four.’

‘If he’s here at all,’ said Brice. They started up the escalator. A breeze blew in from above, the top floor only under partial cover. There were a couple of shoppers between them and the rear guard, whose mirrored gaze remained fixed on those below – until he looked around as a line of fountains on the ground floor gushed to life. The distracted man smiled at the sight.

Eddie pretended to watch the aquatic display as the escalator carried its passengers higher. The five men reached the top and headed left. When their three tails arrived at the upper floor, Brice went right, going back around the escalators towards the mall’s front. Alderley and Eddie trailed him, surreptitiously watching their targets move out into bright sunshine.

A display of several Hyundai cars had been set up beneath the canopy. Eddie pretended to examine a Santa Fe SUV. ‘You need to call the other car in.’

‘We still don’t know if Mukobo’s one of them.’ Brice waited until the last man passed out of sight behind a shop, then followed.

Eddie waved away an over-attentive salesman and went after him, Alderley in his wake. ‘I know I’m just some stupid squaddie and you’re an Oxbridge super-spy, but trust me, he’s here.’

‘I need proof, not instinct.’ Brice halted at the shop’s corner. In the far corner of a broad terrace were several gazebos, covered outdoor seating for a restaurant. The five men headed for them. A figure waved from one of the shelters. ‘They’re meeting someone.’

‘Must be Provone,’ said Alderley.

‘Provone’s got mates with him,’ Eddie observed, seeing other figures within the gazebo. The intense sunlight reduced them to silhouettes. ‘Bodyguards?’

‘Probably. I doubt he trusts Mukobo any more than Mukobo trusts him.’

The Yorkshireman glanced back towards the escalators. The mall was not busy, but there were still shoppers milling about. ‘I don’t like this. If something kicks off here, civvies’re gonna get hurt. Call your boys in so they can pick up Mukobo once he’s back outside.’

‘For the last time,’ Brice snapped, ‘we aren’t going to do anything until we confirm that Mukobo is here. All right?’

‘Okay, then,’ said Eddie, looking into the shop, ‘I’ll get you confirmation. Alderley, you got money?’

‘Er, yes?’ said Alderley, surprised.

‘Good. Give me fifty euros.’

‘Why?’

‘So I can buy a bloody lottery ticket. Just give it to me!’ He held out a hand, waiting until the older man reluctantly produced a banknote, then snatched it from him and entered the shop.

Two minutes later, he emerged again. Brice stared at him with wordless contempt. ‘Oh, God,’ sighed Alderley.

‘What?’ Eddie protested. ‘It’s the perfect disguise. No undercover cop’d wear this. Or spy.’

‘No sane human would wear that.’ The Yorkshireman had donned a wide-brimmed fabric sun hat emblazoned with images of SpongeBob SquarePants, a Hawaiian shirt exploding in rainbow colours and a pair of oversized sunglasses with bright cyan frames. ‘You look like . . . like Elton John vomiting a packet of Skittles.’

‘So, a tourist.’ He took out his phone. ‘Okay, I’ll be right back – and I’ll have your confirmation,’ he told Brice as he started towards the tents.

‘Er . . . my change?’ Alderley asked hopefully.

Eddie ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the silhouetted figures. Mukobo – he was certain the warlord was here – and his bodyguards were with another four men, one from each group standing to keep watch on the mall. Mirror shades turned towards him, but he kept going, heading for the terrace’s edge. Both guards lost interest, dismissing him as a harmless tourist.

Relieved, Eddie held up his phone and slowly turned, pretending to take a panoramic photo of Playa de las Américas and the blue Atlantic beyond. From here, he could see more in the gazebo’s shadows. A Caucasian man – he assumed Provone – was talking, gesticulating with Mediterranean flourish. An open briefcase sat on the table. He still couldn’t tell which of Provone’s guests was Mukobo, though.

The wind flapped at his hat. That gave him an excuse to turn away and face the gazebos directly as he secured his headgear. He regarded the seated men over his sunglasses. The farthest away was definitely not Mukobo, his face the wrong shape. The two nearest were too young, and too tall. That left . . .

Provone took a large white envelope from the briefcase and handed it to the fourth man. Sunlight glaring off a wall behind him briefly reflected from the pristine paper, illuminating his face—

Eddie felt a small shock of recognition. Over a decade had passed since their meeting, and the Congolese warlord was now more hard-featured, bu