PROLOGUE
THE GREAT RIFT VALLEY, EAST AFRICA.
The poachers came in single file from the woodland, threading down the bank towards the river, puffs of red earth rising from the soles of their boots. The one at the front was the tracker. He moved with the sureness of a man who knew his quarry was close now. The three in the middle of the line carried assault rifles, battle-bruised Kalashnikovs balanced over their shoulders. Bringing up the rear were the two bearers.
They would kill at first light.
On the opposite bank, under the cover of the Jackalberry tree, Holly Farmer watched them come. She’d been here all night, amidst the ribbit and metallic clicking of the frogs. Darkness had brought the sinister baying of the hyenas. Including the solitary lion. He’d prowled a little too close, almost causing them to surrender their positions. Then he caught their scent, detected danger. Moved away.
Holly identified the tracker the moment he appeared – his rolling gait, the slightest limp, the head held high and proud – and was weighed with a flood of both sadness and disgust. She didn’t want to believe what he’d become. A killer of the very creatures he swore to protect. But here he was. Leading this gang to the last sighted position of a pair of Eastern black rhino, members of only eight individuals remaining in the park.
Everything she’d been told proved true.
As the poachers neared the river’s limpid waters, a confusion of guinea fowl burst from their roosting site in the trees lining the bank, their alarm call – a raucous, dry clucking – shattering the stillness. The sound grated Holly’s nerves, much like the screech of a rusty hinge.
The tracker angled right, keeping distance between himself and the two crocs lying at the water’s edge. Without breaking his stride, he made for the cluster of boulders spanning the river. The man understood this country well, was perfectly aware of how, during the dry season, the boulders would lead him across the shallow water. Holly knew he’d walked this way many times before.
At the edge of Holly’s vision, she detected Sergeant Harry Worth turning his head. With his thumb and index finger he soundlessly formed a circle – are you okay? – and she blinked, nodding imperceptibly. She was okay. Nervous. But at the same time energised with a sense of purpose she’d never known. Her first anti-poaching patrol; the chance to gain exposure at the sharp end of their mission. Harry Worth, on the other hand, was a decorated veteran of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. For now, he was acting CPO – a Counter Poaching Operative – on a six-week secondment from the British Army. Holly had had to jump through hoops to get him here.
Worth had placed the five rangers strategically along the lip of the bank, each one of them armed with a Heckler and Koch G3. At the precise time, Samson, the senior of his four colleagues would issue the order for the poachers to drop their weapons. Standard operating procedure dictated he offer the gang an opportunity to surrender peaceably. If they failed to heed his command, the rangers had every right to defend themselves.
Holly prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Across the river, the tracker hopped effortlessly over the stones. He looked almost carefree, reminding her of a child playing hopscotch in the playground. If only. She watched the others follow him. Once on the other side, their line closed up again and they padded over the damp earth edging the river, entering a stretch of ground devoid of solid obstacles, no boulders or trees where cover might be found. Harry called it the arrest zone, though Holly imagined it might equally be termed the killing zone.
Well-wrapped against the morning chill, she now detected the rustle of their clothing; the soft pad of their boots; a murmured word. Holly clenched her fists. Surely Samson should make his move.
Along the bank to her right, a baboon barked once from his perch overlooking the river.
The tracker froze. Immediately behind him, the three poachers swung the assault rifles from their shoulders. Bent forward, they each moved in a ninety-degree arc, weapons covering the ground.
The tracker twisted to face his colleagues – a heartbeat of indecision. Now was the moment.
When it came, the instruction was clear enough.
‘Ungusha bunduki zako!’ Samson shouted in Swahili. Drop your weapons.
In that moment when time compressed, the gang were struck rigid, all their hopes and dreams, loss and despair suspended in that silence. Perhaps it spanned a couple of seconds at most.
And then it ended.
The poacher in the grey parka coat was the first to move. Turning in a fluid arc, flashes ignited the muzzle of his Kalashnikov. The rapid-fire percussion exploded the brittle impasse and Holly jolted involuntarily. To her right the bank erupted with a staccato of return fire, like a jackhammer battering her soul. She shrieked, clapping the palms of her hands over her ears as the first volley from the G3s shredded the grey parka. The man’s head snapped backward, body contorting, twisting, tumbling, the assault rifle blasting rounds into the earth until it slipped from his grip. The two other armed poachers were dispatched in a similarly grotesque dance of death. Stray 7.62 mm rounds from the rangers’ G3s pounded the earth. Clumps of mud were blasted into the air. Plumes of water erupted in the river.
No sooner had it started than it was over. A blessed silence save for the high-pitched whistle in Holly’s ears, almost painful in its intensity. The smell of cordite drifted in the air, dust motes glinting in the low sunlight. On the far bank, the two crocs had vanished from sight.
Holly watched the tracker crawl towards the bank. Beyond him, one of the bearers leapt from boulder to boulder, retracing his route across the river. Running for his life. The blanket he wore, a red and black check Masai shuka, now abandoned in a pool of water. The mobile patrol on the other side of the river would catch up with him soon enough. He would not get away.
Worth tapped her forearm. ‘Let’s go,’ he called, getting to his feet.
Holly forced her limbs to respond, hefting the backpack on to her shoulder. Descending the bank, a queasiness settled in her stomach. She’d never witnessed a human strafed by gunfire; she’d never before seen a human corpse. But this was what Africa Tracks Foundation’s strategy of zero tolerance looked like. Ugly when witnessed at close quarters. Now she felt wretched. Conflicted. And yet ATF could not yield. The demand from Asia for ivory, horn, skins and all manner of animal parts would not abate.
The rangers collected the poachers’ weapons, clearing the magazines and breeches and stacking them together. The three dead poachers lay close together, their forms resembling nothing more than dishevelled clothing and worn out footwear. She snatched her eyes away. Yet, despite the loss of life, Holly was immensely proud of how professionally the rangers conducted themselves. This experience would exact its toll, though. Nobody wished for an outcome like this one.
‘Check him for weapons,’ Sergeant Worth instructed.
One of the rangers covered the tracker with his weapon while the other squatted to pat him down. The man groaned when the ranger reached his lower left leg.
‘He’s clear, sir.’
Holly dropped to the man’s side.
‘Hello, Isaac,’ she murmured, removing the medical kit from her backpack. Unzipping the pack, she splayed it open and grabbed a pair of latex gloves, tugging them on.
Isaac Mwaangi would not return her look.
‘Someone please strip the coats off those bodies and bring them over here.’ Holly leant forward. ‘Is it just the leg?’ she asked him.
Mwaangi nodded in reply. She shifted position, cautiously cutting away the cloth around the wound and raising his knee gently off the ground. She could see how a round from one of the G3s had lacerated his calf. Blood seeping from the torn flesh soaked into the earth.
Worth crouched to peer at the tissue damage. ‘Get it cleaned and bandaged. We’ll have him back in the clinic within the hour.’
The bloodied coats of the dead men were brought to Holly and she folded one, placing it under Mwaangi’s head. The other two she laid, one on top of the other, over the injured man’s torso to keep him warm. She set about cleaning the wound, plucking out a fragment of dark cloth and discarding it. Satisfied, she wrapped the bandage several times around the calf, tying it off with a crude knot. She lowered the leg, keeping the wound raised by resting the heel of the boot on a rounded stone.
When Mwaangi spoke, she barely heard the words he uttered.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Holly,’ he said, still unable to engage her look.
Holly studied him – the mottled whites of his eyes; the diagonal scar on his right cheek; the earth smudged on his whiskery chin. Isaac was thirty-eight years of age. He had two wives and six children and was responsible for thirty-five rangers. She’d often witnessed his skill at diffusing angry smallholders on the warpath, because their crops had been destroyed by elephants, or their livestock taken by a leopard. And she’d spent countless hours with Isaac out in the bush, tracking lions, while he patiently imparted his considerable knowledge on that imprecise and dangerous art. On more than one occasion he’d saved her from stumbling into an ambush set by the very creatures she was seeking to protect.
She glowered at him. Holly had believed in Mwaangi – really believed in him.
It wasn’t as if his welfare hadn’t been well taken care of – a good salary, a house for the family, schooling, children’s uniforms. The whole point being that he should never succumb to the inducements offered by the international smuggling gangs. Except he had. Becoming a small cog in a ruthless, multi-million-dollar trade.
‘You’ve betrayed us all, Isaac. Your colleagues, your family, the animals you’d sworn to protect. Not least your own ethics.’
One day she would try and understand why he’d done it.
Holly packed up her kit, shouldered the backpack and clambered to her feet. She stood over him for a few seconds. The status and honour his job brought both him and his family forever lay in tatters. Perhaps, if Mwaangi could be persuaded to give up the identities of those higher up the chain, he might in some small way redeem himself.
As a director of Africa Tracks Foundation Holly possessed the power to make him suffer for the path he’d chosen. And she would be sure to do that.
PART ONE
ABDUCTION
Chapter 1
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
Charlie Belanger hooked back his shirt cuff to check the Vacheron Constantin wristwatch. He couldn’t remember a time when Dr Johann Mueller did not arrive at a meeting before him. Why must he be late today?
Charlie’s gaze roamed the familiar décor of Jack’s Brasserie: the elaborate cornices; the wood-panelled walls and mirrors; the art nouveau-style chandeliers and coat stands, and the brass pineapples stood atop thin, wooden pedestals. At a shade after midday, there were already a dozen other customers spread about the restaurant. Mueller was definitely not among them.
Charlie toyed with his phone while he waited, checking for the umpteenth time the financial markets – Europe mostly static after a quiet day in Asia, the US not yet open. There were two voice messages from one of his traders Bashir Khan. Charlie presumed it was about the data on Hatton Energy he’d asked for.
He slotted his phone in the Faraday bag and placed it on the table. Right now, he needed to remain completely focused. This madness he’d set in motion must stop. In his trading life, Charlie adhered to a simple principle: if you awoke in the middle of the night fearing a position was too large, then you ditched that position. It wasn’t a perfect analogy for his current dilemma, though after weeks of disrupted sleep he didn’t much care. Having reached his decision, he must now persuade Mueller to terminate what they’d set in motion.
‘Kann ich Ihnen einen Drink von der Bar holen?’
The waiter jolted Charlie from his pensiveness. He was about to reply when he spied his lunch guest pushing through the door into the restaurant, the navy-blue overcoat turned up at the collar. Stamping the snow from his feet, Mueller raised the brown trilby from his head, examining his surroundings through those customary black-rimmed glasses. He exchanged words with one of the waiters while looking in Charlie’s direction. Mueller shook his head. He pointed to the opposite side of the room, stalking across the restaurant to claim his chosen table.
‘Ist in Ordnung. Ich werde zu ihm gehen,’ Charlie told the waiter at his side. He was quite used to Dr Mueller’s idiosyncratic ways and would vacate his seat, moving to Mueller’s chosen table. He snatched his bag and coat and slid from the banquette, careful not to forget the phone.
Across the restaurant, Mueller hung his coat and hat on the stand beside the table and adjusted his suit jacket. His height, at a shade over six feet, and his broad shoulders bolstered the man’s presence. He was fifty-seven years old, going on fifty-eight in three months’ time. Charlie knew this because, in complying with the UK financial services regulations, over the years he’d made various copies of the lawyer’s passport.
Charlie noted how Mueller sat with his back to the wall, ensuring a clear view of the room. It was something he always did.
‘Did you allow the staff to take you to that table?’ Mueller enquired.
Charlie dropped into the chair opposite his client. Though Charlie spoke fluent German, on account of his mother’s Swiss ancestry, Mueller invariably chose to converse in English.
‘Yes, Dr Mueller.’
‘Better to choose your own table,’ Mueller stated reprovingly. ‘As a precaution.’
Charlie engaged the brown eyes beyond the thick lenses and simply nodded. Mueller offered no explanation. Neither did he attempt a greeting. And he never shook hands. As far as Charlie knew, his client never shook hands with anyone.
After they’d settled in their chairs the waiter arrived, distributing menus. Mueller barked and the man returned shortly with two glasses of white wine. Whenever they met in a restaurant, Dr Mueller unfailingly picked the wine. His choices were a variation on a theme: always Swiss, always white.
Charlie flicked the pages of the menu, absorbing nothing of the information they contained. He felt this morning’s hard-won resolve wavering. Behind his client’s professorial façade, there had always lurked something ominous, an implied menace that left Charlie uneasy. He had reason to be. The more he’d uncovered concerning Mueller’s background the more the information compounded his apprehension.
On the face of it, Dr Mueller’s LTG Rechtsanwälte AG was a perfectly ordinary legal office. The practice pursued a range of advisory services on litigation and arbitration, insolvency and restructuring, tax law and planning, and matters to do with banking and capital markets. The realisation of how there was far more to this company than an image of mundane respectability came later.
It was three years ago that Mueller first came to Canford Capital Management and, more specifically, its star fund manager, Charlie Belanger. Their relationship flourished. The inflow of funds from LTG’s international clients steadily grew to such a level Charlie felt compelled to know more. With the aid of a private investigator named Robert Jones, a former intelligence officer from MI5 now plying his trade from a letterbox-sized office off the Strand, Charlie, little by little, gained more of an understanding. Jones had been very diligent. The various trails led to such cities as Beirut and Damascus, Bissau and Medellín. To name just a handful. Curious destinations for a humdrum Swiss legal firm.
The investigator’s verbal report wove a tale of intrigue and alarm. They’d been in the Lyceum public house at the time, quaffing a couple of lunchtime pints. Charlie listened, paid the considerable fees, dismissed the man’s services and continued researching on his own. Employing his own extensive experience of offshore structures and financing, Charlie dug deeper. And none of what he uncovered was pretty.
Behind Mueller’s outwardly respectable firm lurked a structure of international enablers – lawyers, bankers, accountants and fiduciary service providers – servicing a network of International Business Companies, or IBCs, many of them fronts for the proceeds from cigarette smuggling, narcotics trafficking, the trading of counterfeit goods and state funds pilfered by despotic African leaders. Via Charlie’s company, the black money integrated smoothly into legitimate financial markets, structured as investment portfolios owned by private companies, trusts, or foundations based in first-world countries like Britain, Switzerland or the United States. Charlie should have immediately filed a SARs (Suspicious Activity Report) to the British National Crime Agency and notified the company’s own compliance officer. And yet, at that very moment in his life, desperate personal circumstances dictated he act otherwise.
Following an immensely reckless decision on Charlie’s part, came that fateful question: did Dr Mueller perhaps, by any chance, know how to arrange a kidnapping in Africa? After all, the man mixed with some unsavoury characters.
Charlie had felt not a little ridiculous even asking. Except emotions had been running high at the time. Deception and betrayal, allied with an instance of appalling judgement.
Mueller, while toying thoughtfully with an errant strand of thread poking from a button on the cuff of his jacket, had proffered an emphatic no.
But he might know a man who did.
After that there was no going back – Charlie had sold his soul.
*
‘Chasselas blanc is a grape variety originating in Western Switzerland.’ Mueller held up his glass to observe the contents. ‘There is evidence dating it back to the sixteenth century. Some like to say it has no character. But this, in my opinion, is absolutely not correct. It has a sparkle. And you must take time to understand it. To really learn to taste where it comes from. This one, for instance, is produced beside the Bielersee.’
Today, Charlie was in no mood to humour his client. When he raised his own glass, there was a barely perceptible ripple on the surface of the wine. Had Mueller noticed? He placed the rim to his lips a little too quickly and sipped. In truth, the last thing he needed was alcohol.
‘Well, Charlie. What have you brought me from London that could not be concluded with a telephone call?’
Charlie squared his shoulders, loathing how what he had to say made him appear indecisive. Gutless, even. Especially as he’d been the instigator. In his peripheral vision, he was aware of the couple now occupying the table over his shoulder. The waiter fussing beside them. Bad timing considering the subject he and Mueller needed to discuss. He chose his words carefully.
‘This business we have planned in Africa. We need to call it off.’
He registered Mueller’s jawline tightening.
‘Are you about to tell me the fundamentals have changed?’
‘What?’ Charlie briefly caught the flash of his own reflection in Mueller’s glasses. He shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. You and I, Dr Mueller. We’re way out of our depth.’
Mueller shrugged, his forehead creasing. ‘I really don’t understand, Charlie. You have specifics to back up your concern? Or am I right in my suspicions, that this is simply a case of … cold feet?’
Charlie clasped his hands, the white table cloth balling beneath them. He needed to try a different tack.
‘Successfully executing the objective will be subject to too many elements outside of our control. In the circumstances, I believe the risks to be too high. Should it go wrong, the contagion will spread. Most likely get out of control. Take everything with it. Us, too. I strongly recommend we close it down.’
Charlie observed Mueller taking another sip of his wine. The bobbing Adam’s Apple. The pursed lips. His movements mechanical, slow, aggravating. Mueller dismissed the approaching waiter with a wave of his free hand and turned his attention back to Charlie.
‘Two months ago, you came to me with your project. With some quite extraordinary numbers attached to it. You asked for my help with a proposal I thought to be quite … exceptional, I must say. You assured me it could be achieved in a very short timescale, though certain elements were missing in order for the project to be executed successfully. This was where I was asked to make enquiries. And I approached a group with the requisite skills. Was advised by them of its feasibility. Since then, events have progressed, terms agreed, work teams deployed. All to your satisfaction. I must emphasize to you: this is absolutely not like one of your stock trading floors back in London, a case of risk on, risk off.’ Mueller broke off to scrutinize the room. ‘Understand this, Charlie Belanger: these people we have employed … they are not like you or me. It’s too late. The project has begun.’
‘For fuck’s sake …’ The chair cracked when Charlie shifted.
He hadn’t wanted to lose grip on his emotions like this. He tapped the tablecloth with his index finger, vaguely aware of how the couple behind him had fallen silent. He leant forward, his voice hoarse when he said, ‘For Christ sake. Tell me who they are.’
Mueller flashed a superficial smile. ‘They possess the resources and the experience to complete the task. They are experienced in this region of Africa. I have told you all this before. And this is all you should know. I will be the intermediary, as agreed. You will handle the negotiations with the buyer.’
Charlie felt his cheeks redden, his shirt collar like a noose about his neck. He could throttle this man in front of him, for he knew Mueller well enough to recognise how no further reasoning would sway him.
This was not how their conversation was supposed to end. Not even considered. What he’d come to fear might happen was now unfolding: control slipping beyond his grasp.
Mueller placed both hands on the table, palms upwards, as if in a manner of appeasement. ‘This is where we are, my friend. Our African project will proceed. We will all play our part, ensuring its success. However, I need to know, right here and right now, that our interests are aligned.’
He must play this out. Follow where it led. No other choice. Charlie acquiesced with a single nod, the all-too-familiar dread churning sourly in his stomach. There had to be another way to shut this down. He needed to find it.
He watched Mueller empty his wine glass. Close the menu. Rise to his feet. His appetite, it seemed, had taken flight; perhaps he never intended staying. Mueller recovered his overcoat and shook it on.
‘Did you short the Hatton Energy stock, as I told you?’
‘It’s not a company we follow, Dr Mueller. I’m having my analysts check it over.’
‘Just do it. Secure as much as you can. Forget about your analysts.’
Charlie assented with a nod. ‘I’m on it,’ he said, uneasy under the older man’s scrutiny. The eyes bore into him like those of a raptor. Perhaps the son of a bitch was still attempting to gauge his commitment to their project.
‘One of my associates will make contact with you in London. Until such time, you should sit tight. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good day, Charlie.’ Mueller seated the trilby on his head. He fastened the buttons of his overcoat as he strode across the restaurant.
Charlie swore under his breath, watching the lawyer vanish through the door and out into the street. When the waiter returned, he demanded the bill. ‘Sorry. My colleague was called away.’
Charlie paid for the two glasses of wine and got to his feet, his attention momentarily caught by the couple sitting at the table behind him. The woman’s eyes darted from his. The man, his shoulders hunched, focused a little to rigidly on the food in front of him. There appeared something contrived about their manner. A fleeting impression. Halfway to the door Charlie slowed, glancing over his shoulder. The woman held a phone to her ear.
Outside the restaurant, in the falling snow, Charlie dodged the tram and hurried across the street to the railway station, riding the escalator down to the platforms. Within ten minutes he boarded the next train back to Geneva. He made a mental note to pick up some paracetamol at the airport. Though he was unlikely to forget.
He removed his phone from the Faraday bag, reflecting on the woman and the man seated behind him at the restaurant. Was he becoming as paranoid as Mueller?
Barely had Charlie settled in his seat when the mobile trilled in his pocket. Bashir Khan’s name flashed up on the screen.
‘What’ve you got?’
In the sixty second conversation, Khan confirmed Charlie’s suspicions: the fire on board one of Hatton Energy’s deep-water floating and production units was going to seriously delay the vessel’s entry back into service. Mueller never said as much, but it had to be the reason he wished to short the stock. The lawyer must have been tipped-off. He pumped Khan for further details on the company’s operations and financials, quickly processing the information.
‘Are you okay, Charlie? You sound weird.’
‘I’m fine! Listen. What’s the short interest on this one?’
‘Just about shy of fifteen percent, down from twenty. Sentiment seems to be turning bullish. Seems the rumours may not have done the rounds yet.’
‘We’re going short on the stock.’
‘You sure?’
‘Just do it, Bashir. Get on to the brokers. Grab as much as you can.’
‘Cool.’
‘Anything else I need to know?’
‘Nah, it’s all good.’
Charlie shut down the call and slumped in his seat, playing over in his mind the meeting with Mueller. It was real. It was going to happen.
What the bloody hell was he supposed to do next?
He switched the phone to silent mode, ignoring the messages popping up on the screen. He had to think. To work it through.
He opened the Instagram account for Holly Farmer and a montage of photos he’d not yet seen popped up. The text below simply read: Yaré Island. It was a former colonial settlement and slave trading centre off Ndorna, the capital of the Republic of Kulari. In recent years, the centre had developed into a major tourist attraction. He swiped through the photos – a dusty street of pastel-coloured dwellings; Holly, smiling, on the steps of the Maison des Esclaves; a close-up of children playing; three men strolling, clothed in their finely embroidered boubous.
In another shot, Matt Lander was leaning against a World War Two gun battery. Grinning. Tanned. Charlie flicked the photo from the screen, brooding over whether they were now lovers. He returned to the same picture of Lander, his eye drawn to another figure in the photograph. Over Lander’s shoulder, the face turning from the camera, stood a dark-haired man – possibly of Middle Eastern or North African origin. Charlie was unsure if the man deliberately turned his face away, or had been distracted. The same figure appeared fleetingly in another of Holly’s photos, of that he was quite sure.
Was he another traveller, someone they’d picked up along the way?
Charlie flicked through the photographs taken in Port Malèm five days earlier. It was the fifth photo he came to. He enlarged the shot. A man, possibly in his late thirties/early forties, the same dark, curly hair, an arm draped over the shoulder of a laughing Matt Lander. The guy was holding out a bottle of beer, as if in the throes of attempting to mask his face from the camera. Except he was too late.
Charlie scanned the text underneath the photos. The storyline briefly recounted the mind-numbing procedure involved in crossing the Kulari border. A final sentence announced how they’d offered a lift to a guy called Rafiq, a fellow traveller on his way to Mbane. It was the same man in both photos. Was he one of the kidnappers, waiting to pounce? Charlie downloaded the two images before flicking back through the photos, stopping at one taken of Holly on a beach in the Western Sahara. She looked happy, relaxed, carefree. No hint of the inner turmoil plaguing her.
He raised a hand to his forehead and massaged the temples between thumb and fingers. He possessed one last chance. If he wanted to take it. Yet he should leave no electronic trail. Charlie groaned. To hell with it. He dialled her mobile, even though he suspected she would never pick up.
It rang out and Charlie cut the call. Instead, he typed a three-word text and pressed Send. Quite sure it had gone, he tossed the phone on the table and focused on the world outside the window. The wintery Swiss countryside rolled by.
Whatever he’d set in motion, he feared all hell was about break loose.
