38

Black drew up to the guard post at thirteen minutes past twelve. His lateness was deliberate. The sooner Towers realized he was here on his terms, the better.

What he still thought of as the new SAS camp, even though it had occupied its current home for eighteen years, was a former RAF base three miles outside the city of Hereford. From the outside it was an unassuming collection of 1940s brick buildings enclosed by fences and the obligatory coils of razor wire. It sat on a quiet road on the edge of the village of Credenhill surrounded by fields and wooded hills. All that distinguished it from other military bases was the conspicuous lack of signs at its entrance and the extra armed police officers unobtrusively patrolling its borders. Britain’s most secret military installation, the repository of some of the world’s most sensitive intelligence, was hidden in plain sight.

Black lowered his window as a young corporal of the Military Provost Guard Service approached.

‘Good morning, sir. Would you mind looking this way?’

From the pocket of his camouflaged tunic the soldier produced a hand-held device with which he took a picture of Black’s face. Within seconds it had confirmed his identity.

‘Good afternoon, Major Black.’ The corporal dipped into his pocket and handed over a ready-prepared security pass. ‘If you’d like to drive through the gate and park outside Block C, Colonel Towers will be there to meet you.’

‘Thank you.’

A barrier lifted. Black drove on through the entrance and into a camp that hadn’t visibly changed since his abrupt departure. He turned left and made his way past a row of anonymous buildings surrounded by neatly cut grass. He hadn’t known what his reaction would be on returning to the place which for so many years had been the closest thing he had had to a home. Passing the entrance to the officers’ mess and then the offices from which he and Towers had meticulously planned so many operations, he felt strangely detached. The old sensations, the excitement and anticipation that had propelled his younger self into action, refused to stir.

Towers burst out of the entrance to Block C as Black parked nose first in a space reserved with a sign: MJR L. BLACK (RETD). He hovered impatiently, radiating nervous energy as Black switched off the engine and climbed out.

‘You’re late! Come on. Hurry.’

He turned and darted back into the building.

Black glanced up and down the empty roadway expecting to see a familiar face, but all was quiet. Most of the officers and their staff would be at home with their families. The young troopers and NCOs training for ops would be over at the Pontrilas training area ten miles to the south, where the Regiment had its Close Quarter Battle House, more popularly known as the Killing House. There buildings as diverse as the London Iranian Embassy and Baghdad apartment blocks could be simulated for rehearsals so rigorous that, by their end, troopers could have navigated the real thing blindfold.

Pontrilas was also home to the shell of a Boeing 747 in which, during the mid-1990s, Black had learned to take out hijackers without killing passengers. Back then they hadn’t planned for dealing with suicidal terrorists. After 2001 it was all they did. The shift had made them more brutal. It was no longer a question of attempting to save every innocent life but merely as many as possible. A numbers game. Every member of the Regiment became an instinctive utilitarian. They were all men who in Truman’s shoes would have dropped the bomb. It was one of the many things that set them apart.

With these thoughts still circulating in his head Black followed Towers into the building.

Block C was, like most military buildings, a strictly functional place. Stark corridors with hard, shiny floors, hung with regimental photographs. In Black’s time ‘C’ had been the home of the back-office staff who dealt with kit, basic logistics and finances, and he got the impression little had changed. Like the rest of the camp, the building was virtually deserted. Towers scurried up the stairs to the second floor where he ushered Black into a spacious office that contained little more than a large desk, a computer with an outsize monitor and a number of chairs.

‘Blagged this yesterday,’ Towers said. ‘It’s not much, but it’ll do for our purposes.’ He gestured Black towards the desk. ‘The Director has been good enough to grant me access to images from our Carbonite-2 satellite. I think I’m on to something.’ He sat at the computer and started working the mouse. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Leo, but I had to assume you’d come round. This Mitch Brennan connection really starts to unlock things. I got on to the CO over in Perth first thing this morning. He wouldn’t quite admit that Brennan had gone AWOL, but he certainly gave me that impression. According to the official record, he went missing presumed dead in 2007. My guess is he made dubious contacts in Africa – the Australians have been all over it in recent years: Nigeria, Kenya, Zimbabwe. Don’t buy all the PC bullshit their politicians spout; they’re as rapacious as the rest of us.’

‘Have you found any record of him since?’

‘Not a thing. Which I’m sure is entirely intentional.’

‘And Finn didn’t mention him?’

‘No. I got the impression there was a good deal of injured pride and a fair degree of shame connected with whatever he had been up to, so I didn’t press him. If Brennan was in any way involved, I can see why. It also explains why he jumped ship halfway through his contract.’

‘You don’t believe he was ill?’

‘Do you ever recall him having a day sick?’

Black had to admit that he didn’t.

‘So I think we may be on to something. The Ryan Finn we knew had his red lines. From the little I recall of Brennan he was a thorough-going bastard. Here – something for you to read. Had a friend of mine in the City get one of his analysts to do a bit of digging.’ He hit some more keys, causing several pages to spew out of a printer beneath the desk. ‘Those are for you. Now where the bloody hell are those pictures?’

Black took the three freshly printed pages to a chair by the window, leaving Towers to wrestle with his computer. The document set out what little was known about the corporate history of Sabre. It had begun life in 2004 as Sabre Systèmes de Défence Internationale SARL, a private company with registered offices in Marseille. The two directors were listed as Colonel Auguste Daladier, formerly of the French Foreign Legion, and Pierre Gaumont, a retired investment banker. The firm offered corporate asset and personal protection services and was known to have operated extensively in Africa and the Middle East, specializing in protecting mining and oil-drilling operations in conflict zones. After two years in business its turnover was north of ten million euros. In 2007 it relocated to Panama, where the law allowed for almost complete corporate secrecy. Daladier and Gaumont’s names were replaced on the register of directors by local nominees and thereafter no accounts were made publicly available.

The trail went cold for over a year, but, according to unconfirmed reports that had circulated among commodities traders, in late 2009 Daladier was one of a small number of international businessmen invited by the then Venezuelan president, Hugo Chavez, to a secret summit at which he discussed the potential for exploiting the country’s untapped natural resources in the southern Amazonian jungle. 2008 had seen the price of crude oil crash by nearly three hundred per cent, leaving Chavez’s economic miracle in tatters. In desperate need of a quick fix Chavez swallowed his pride and prepared to enter into murky deals with the hated capitalists.

Geological surveys had revealed huge potential deposits of gold, diamonds, rare earth metals and coltan. In a separate boxed-out section of the report the author explained that, of all these, coltan was the biggest prize. Columbite-tantalite, coltan for short, is a dull metallic ore, which when refined becomes a heat-resistant powder that can hold a high electrical charge. Critical in the manufacture of miniature circuit boards, coltan is found in virtually every modern electronic device. The proliferation of mobile phones, laptops, games consoles and every conceivable gadget besides has driven demand ever higher. When, in the early 2000s, Sony released its PlayStation 2, global demand for coltan outstripped supply and poured fuel on the flames of civil war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where competing factions fought for control of the lucrative illegal coltan mines.

Among the other guests reputed to have attended this gathering was Carl Mathis, a publicity-shy serial entrepreneur who, over a long career, made his billions successfully anticipating the next wave of technological revolution. He had backed personal computers in the early 1980s, mobile phones in the 1990s and biotech in the 2000s. In 2009 rumours circulated that he had liquidated $800 million from across his portfolio. A freelance journalist based in Silicon Valley sold a story to Inside Business magazine reporting that Mathis had signed a deal with China’s biggest manufacturer of printed circuit boards, guaranteeing their supply of coltan for the next twenty years. A source close to Mathis was quoted as saying that the digital, electrically powered future would create a demand for certain materials, coltan among them, that would outstrip supply by a multiple of at least five. Governments were unprepared for the consequences of such a dire shortage, leaving the field open for smart investors. The article was taken down from the magazine’s website within six hours of publication and never made it to the print edition.

As a result of the article, rumours spread through the markets that Mathis had signed a deal with Chavez but no proof of this could be found, and as Mathis owned all of his businesses personally, there were no shareholder prospectuses to mine for information. Nevertheless, the global supply of coltan remained roughly equal to demand, suggesting that new sources of supply had indeed come on stream.

The report ended near the top of the third page. In the space below were two separate items pasted from other documents. The first read:

CARL MATHIS. MALE. DOB 09.07.47 (USA) appears only once in our files.

Item: Station report of Alan Huntley, British Embassy, Caracas, 28.02.13

… agent reports Pres. Chavez received a number of visits in private room at Hospital Militar Dr Carlos Arvelo during the afternoon. Security passes issued to … Mr Carl J. Mathis (USA) and Col. Auguste Daladier …

The second item read like dialogue from a bad play and featured Freddy Towers in the lead role. It was a transcript of a phone call he had made only three days before:

FT: Hello, my name is Daniel Riley from Hamilton Bray solicitors, Panama City office. I’ve an urgent message for Mr Mathis. It concerns my client, his colleague, Colonel Auguste Daladier.

PA: Is he expecting your call, sir?

FT: No, this is an unexpected emergency.

PA: I’m afraid Mr Mathis isn’t available at this time.

FT: Please tell him that Colonel Daladier is in Venezuelan military detention and that I am about to have a meeting with President Maduro. Maduro is threatening to nationalize the whole Sabre operation.

PA: Could you please give me your number, sir?

FT: I don’t have one. I’m on an extension in the presidential palace in Caracas and they’ve taken my mobile phone. Please just tell him. I’ll hold.

PA: I’ll see what I can do, sir.

(Pause – 20 seconds)

CM: Hello? Who am I speaking to? Hello? Hello …? Is anybody there …? Shit.

‘Enjoy that?’ Towers looked over from behind his monitor and beamed. ‘Thought I’d leave him dangling, thinking his eight hundred million had gone down the Swanee. Can you imagine?’ He grinned.

‘I’m sure it was a lot of fun.’

‘It proves Daladier and Mathis got together for a Venezuelan operation. Fat lot of good it did comrade Chavez. He sold out, turned up his toes and the country still went bust. Nearly there with this thing. Won’t be a moment. I’ve got images of what we think is their coltan mine down near the Brazilian border. They’ve recently added what looks like a military compound.’ He returned to his computer.

Black put the document aside. He was prepared to believe that Mathis and Daladier had found each other and that, like many old rich men before him, Mathis had decided on one last spectacular roll of the dice to cement his legacy. What persuaded a man with more money than he could ever use to embark on a reckless South American adventure wasn’t a question he could answer. It was no different to asking a soldier why he wasn’t working in the safety of a warm insurance office. Human beings did what they felt they had to.

Black glanced around the room as Towers continued to stoop over his keyboard, cursing as he jabbed at the keys. It was a functional military office like any other with no remarkable characteristics except the fact that it had been supplied with a computer connected to the most sensitive images available to the British Armed Forces. Usually, such material was closely guarded by the Intelligence Corps, who would share their precious information with SAS teams only once they had assembled at Pontrilas for their compulsory period of isolation in the days before departing on a mission.

‘I don’t know what it took to put this together, Freddy, but it’s looking rather like an official operation,’ Black said.

‘Not exactly, Leo. No one likes to be too precise, but we’re what the Committee has termed “irregular extraordinary”. Cooperation from the Regiment this end but no official cover once we’re out in the field – including for the two extra pairs of hands I’ve negotiated for you.’ Responding to Black’s look of surprise, he said: ‘I couldn’t send you alone, Leo. You’re the only one I could trust to lead such a mission, but not even you can handle something of this scale alone.’

‘And what have these two men been told about me? I’m not sure I’d have agreed to a grey op under the command of a man I’ve never met.’

‘A reputation like yours doesn’t take much selling to serving troopers, Leo. They both knew Finn and they’ve been picked. Received their orders straight from the Director.’

‘Back up a minute, Freddy. Let’s begin with the objective.’

‘In an ideal world the Venezuelan government would simply hand our people back unharmed. But of course we would first have to prove they’re there and being held against their will.’

‘So this is a reconnaissance mission?’

‘Not exactly.’

Black gave a slow nod and waited for further clarification. Insisting on drip-feeding unpalatable information was yet another of Towers’ many infuriating habits.

‘This is how it looks to me. We can safely assume that Sabre have invested heavily in a highly secretive operation with the blessing of their Venezuelan hosts. We all know the rules of the diplomatic game – if we were to establish the presence of the hostages we could only expect a protracted series of persistent denials, while meanwhile Sabre remove the evidence and shift their operations elsewhere. The Committee has concluded that for all practical purposes we have only one small bite of the cherry.’

Black glanced impatiently at his watch. ‘Is this going to take all day? I could be doing something useful, like fixing my roof.’

Towers tapped the tips of his fingers together, his features twitching uncomfortably. ‘Much as we feel for the hostages, safeguarding our national security is the principal priority. I’m certain Sabre have turned a number of our agents. I admit we’re all speculating on the basis of limited evidence, but on my advice the Committee has concluded that what we’re dealing with is a private mercenary army that diversified into the espionage business. Having skilfully succeeded in cornering the market in the commodity of the day, like all ambitious men Mr Mathis needed another challenge. He’s made each of his many fortunes anticipating the next big thing. What more valuable commodity is there in this globalized world than information? For a relatively small investment his spies were able to go to scientific conferences, meet scientists, seduce a few government agents and, hey presto, they got their hands on some of the hottest intellectual property on the planet. It was too exciting for Mathis to resist. He had to have it by whatever means. He had a ready-made facility in one of the most inaccessible places on earth and decided to turn it into his R & D department. It’s the perfectly logical thing to do. Surprisingly commonplace, in fact. It isn’t much talked about, but I can tell you for certain, Leo, there are a number of countries in the world more than happy, for a fee, to host the most unethical forms of scientific research. I have concrete evidence that there are biological weapons being developed by Western scientists in laboratories in the Middle East that are the stuff of nightmares.’

Black peered through the fog of Towers’ meandering speech and tried to discern its meaning. ‘So this is a sabotage mission? You want the facility destroyed.’

‘That would be the most desirable outcome.’

‘And the four scientists?’

‘I’m sure you’ll do what you can … but in the grand scheme of things, I’m afraid they’re a lesser consideration.’ He turned back to his computer and hit several more keys. ‘At last! Come and look at this.’

Black came alongside Towers as he homed in on a satellite map of an area of south-eastern Venezuela, deep in the Amazonian rainforest close to the Brazilian border. One of the most impenetrable areas on the planet, inaccessible by road and navigable only on foot or by canoe. He zoomed in further until the images on the screen were of such high definition they might have been filmed from a low-flying aircraft.

‘This area here is the Parima Tapirapecó National Park. The only thing approximating a town for hundreds of miles is this place – Platanal.’ He pointed to a cluster of buildings on the banks of a wide river that ran through the dense forest: the Orinoco. ‘Our focus of interest is fifty miles or so to the east.’ He zoomed in further on what appeared to be a large rectangular clearing in the otherwise unbroken canopy. As the resolution increased, the area revealed itself to be an opencast mine working with a number of buildings positioned in a grid formation at its western end.

‘This photograph was taken exactly a month ago,’ Towers said. ‘Now look at this.’ He brought a second image up on screen alongside the first depicting the same area. The date at its foot showed it to be two years old. The difference between them was striking. ‘Two years ago a clearing of approximately ten acres appeared. It’s hard to see beneath the canopy, but here and there you catch glimpses of a dirt track that you can just about trace all the way back to the airstrip at Platanal. Now look at last month. The clearing has trebled in size. There are mine workings this end and more than half a dozen substantial buildings at the other.’ He zoomed in further. They could now make out vehicles – earth movers and a number of pick-up trucks – and grainy clusters of pixels that were distinguishable as workers on the site. ‘Look at the roof of this building – three, four, five satellite dishes. You don’t need all those to run a mine. It’s a communications station. And look at this area on the right – a helipad. And, over here, what looks like a military parade ground.’

‘Can we go tighter?’

Towers went to maximum resolution. The helicopter had five rotor blades and the bulky body of a large heavy-lifting machine. They were looking at a machine capable of carrying thirty personnel or a five-ton cargo.

‘That would certainly get their coltan to market,’ Towers said.

Black scoured the blurred image and picked out the other necessary components of a permanent off-grid base. Besides the six substantial buildings at the heart of the complex, there were large above-ground fuel tanks, a water tower and various smaller buildings necessary to house pumps, generators and maintenance equipment. It was impressive. As sophisticated as any of the similar operations he had come across in far more developed parts of Africa.

‘We’re sure it’s coltan they’re mining here?’

‘It’s sited right in the Orinoco arc, where all the major known deposits are to be found,’ Towers said.

Black considered the alternative explanations to this being Sabre’s enterprise and by a process of elimination discounted them. No commercial mining company would choose such a remote location with no infrastructure unless they had an ulterior motive. But it was also sufficiently accessible to get personnel in and out. A fifteen-minute helicopter flight got you to the airstrip at Platanal, which was sufficient to land a Gulfstream or even something a little larger. From Platanal it was only a little over 1,000 miles to Cayenne, French Guiana. Two hours’ flying time.

‘What do you think?’ Towers said. ‘Can three of you take it out?’

Black looked at the huge swathe of rainforest on the screen and tried to imagine a fifty-mile hike through its midst loaded with ammunition and kit. He had been in his mid-thirties and at his physical peak when he had last undertaken anything comparable.

‘I don’t feel I’ve been given much of a choice.’

‘You’ll be in your element. Think of it as research. The new enemy – private armies in the Amazon. I bet you didn’t see this one coming.’ Towers laughed, as if it were all a fantastic joke. He was certainly in his element. One of the bravest armchair soldiers in the world.

Still smiling to himself, Towers got up from his chair, crossed to the window and looked out towards the open fields that lay beyond the camp. ‘It really is a most peculiar world we live in, Leo. The great powers continue to spend trillions on fighters and aircraft carriers, but the real battles are being fought in different realms entirely, against enemies we can’t even identify. We’re all groping in the dark, not knowing who to trust. Who’s for us, who’s against us? We don’t even understand their motives, if indeed they have any beyond the obvious. I couldn’t tell you whose interests Sabre represents and nor could all the spooks in Vauxhall … It certainly makes you wonder. Who knows who is in whose pocket in this brave new world?’

He continued to gaze out at the landscape, prolonging his meditation for a long silent moment, then turned abruptly. ‘Fancy some lunch? They’ll be waiting for us.’

‘Who will?’

‘The others!’

Black struggled to keep Towers’ Jaguar in sight as he drove at high speed along the narrow Herefordshire lanes. If he had met a tractor or a milk tanker, he would have been crushed, but he rode his luck and it held, as it always had. After several miles they arrived in the hamlet of Tillington, which was little more than a cluster of houses set among apple orchards. Towers braked abruptly and pulled over into the car park of the Bell Inn.

He was already waiting impatiently outside his car by the time Black drew up next to him. ‘Thought you’d never make it.’

He strode off across the grass towards the beer garden.

Black followed towards an unlikely scene for a meeting with his potential comrades in arms. Couples and family groups were enjoying lunch in the afternoon sun. A play area was busy with excited children. Towers headed for a table at the far end of the lawn beneath a spreading cherry tree, where two men in their mid-thirties, both dressed in shorts and T-shirts, were seated at a table drinking pints of lager.

‘Sorry we’re late, chaps,’ Towers said. ‘Leo Black, Sergeant Chris Riley and Lieutenant Ed Fallon. I believe you’ve already met.’

‘Hello again,’ Black said as the two men he had first seen at Finn’s funeral rose to exchange handshakes. ‘What have you done to deserve this?’

‘We volunteered,’ Riley said. ‘We must be off our heads.’ He laughed. Fallon, the quieter of the two, gave a faint smile.

‘Steaks all round?’ Towers asked and was met with nods of approval. ‘Another drink, gentlemen? Excellent.’ He set off for the bar, not waiting for a reply.

‘I don’t know what Freddy said to persuade you,’ Black said, taking a seat on the wooden bench and feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. ‘If I’d been in your position, I wouldn’t have been in any hurry to set out with some has-been I’d not worked with before.’

‘That’s Fireballs,’ Riley said. ‘You don’t say no to him, do you?’

‘Finn talked a lot about you,’ Fallon added quietly. ‘That helped. We feel like we know you.’

Black smiled and nodded, appreciating the compliment. It was good to know Finn had spoken well of him despite his neglect.

‘How much has Freddy told you?’

‘Briefed us this morning,’ Fallon said, reaching for his glass.

‘What do you make of it?’

‘Fucking insane,’ Riley said, ‘but that’s what we live for, isn’t it?’ He grinned broadly and necked the remains of his pint.

And then Black felt it.

The old thrill.

He was going to war.