Burning Angels

78

Hank Kammler ordered a bottle of Le Parvis de la Chapelle, the 1976 vintage. Nothing too flashy, but a quality French red nonetheless. He’d resisted cracking open a bottle of the finest champagne. There was much to celebrate, but he never liked to start the party early.

Just in case.

He powered up his laptop, and as it came to life, he let his eyes wander over the scene below. The waterhole was wonderfully busy. The humped, rounded, oily forms of hippos lazed contentedly in the mud. A herd of graceful roan antelopes – or were they sable? Kammler was never quite certain how to tell the difference – nosed towards the murky water, fearful of crocodiles.

All seemed good in paradise, which buoyed his already ebullient mood. He clicked the laptop’s keys, pulling up the same draft email account that Jaeger had accessed just a few days earlier. Kammler kept a regular watch on it. He could tell which messages Jaeger had looked at, and when.

A frown creased his brow.

The most recent messages dreamed up by himself and Steve Jones had yet to be opened. Kammler clicked on one, savouring the dark intent, yet at the same time unsettled that his nemesis hadn’t yet seen it.

The image opened, showing the distinctive shaven-headed form of Jones crouching behind Jaeger’s wife and son, his massive bare arms around their shoulders, his face beaming an utterly sinister smile.

Words typed themselves below the photo: Hello from an old friend.

A pity, Kammler told himself, that Jaeger hadn’t yet got to enjoy that one. It was a masterstroke. That in turn made him wonder where Jaeger and his crew might be right now.

He checked his watch. He was expecting company. Bang on cue, the hulking form of Steve Jones lowered himself into the seat opposite, largely blocking Kammler’s view.

It was typical of the man. He had the sensitivity – the subtlety – of a dinosaur. Kammler glanced at the wine. He’d asked for only the one glass.

‘Good evening. I presume you’d like a Tusker?’ Tusker was a brand of Kenyan lager popular with tourists and expats alike.

Jones eyes narrowed. ‘Never touch the stuff. It’s African, which means it’s piss-weak. I’ll have a Pilsner.’

Kammler ordered the beer. ‘So, what news?’

Jones poured his beer. ‘Your man – Falk Konig – got to take his medicine. He was a little reluctant, but he wasn’t about to argue.’

‘And? Any progress on this boy?’

‘Apparently a kid did arrive here, around six months back, as a stowaway on a transport aircraft. He came complete with some wild story. Sounds like a heap of bullshit to me.’

Kammler’s eyes – reptilian, cold and predatory – fixed themselves on Jones. ‘It may sound like bullshit to you, but I need to hear it. All of it.’

Jones proceeded to relate a similar story as Konig had told Jaeger and Narov several days back. By the end of it, Kammler knew pretty much everything, including the boy’s name. And of course, he didn’t doubt that the tale was one hundred per cent accurate.

He felt the cold claws of uncertainty – of an impossible eleventh-hour dread – tearing at him. If the same story had made its way to Jaeger’s ears, what had he learned? What had he deduced? And where had that taken him?

Was there anything in the boy’s story that might have revealed Kammler’s wider plan? He didn’t think so. How could it? Already the seven flights had landed at their chosen destinations. Their cargoes had been unloaded, and as far as Kammler knew, the primates were parked in quarantine right now.

And that meant the genie was out of the bottle.

No one was about to put it back in again.

No one could save the world’s population from what, even now, was spreading.

Unseen.

Undetected.

Unsuspected even.

In a few weeks’ time it would start to rear its ugly head. The first symptoms would be flu-like. Hardly alarming. But then would come the first of the bleeding.

Well before that time, the world’s population would be infected. The virus would have spread to the four corners of the earth, and it would be unstoppable.

And then it hit him.

The realisation was so forceful it made Kammler choke on his wine. His eyes bulged and his pulse spiked as he contemplated the utterly unthinkable. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed at his chin absent-mindedly. It was a long shot. Next to impossible. But nonetheless, there was still just the sliver of a chance.

‘You all right?’ a voice queried. It was Jones. ‘Look like you just seen a ghost.’

Kammler waved the question away. ‘Wait,’ he hissed. ‘I need silence. To think.’

His teeth locked and ground against each other. His mind was a maelstrom of seething thoughts, as he tried to work out how best to combat this new and utterly unforeseen danger.

Finally he turned his gaze on Jones. ‘Forget every order I’ve given you. Instead, concentrate on this one task exclusively. I need you to find that boy. I don’t care what it costs, where you have to go, which of your… comrades you may need to recruit – but find him. Find this damn kid and shut him down permanently.’

‘I hear you,’ Jones confirmed. It was a long way from going after Jaeger, but at least it was a manhunt of sorts. Something to get his teeth into.

‘I’ll need something to go on. A starting point. A lead.’

‘All will be provided. These slum dwellers – they use cell phones. Mobiles. Mobile internet. I’ll have the best people we’ve got listen out for him. Search. Hack. Monitor. They’ll find him. And when they do, you will go in and terminate with extreme prejudice. Are we understood?’

Jones flashed a cruel smile. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Right, go make your preparations. You’ll need to travel – most likely to Nairobi. You’ll need help. Find people. Offer them whatever it takes, but get this done.’

Jones departed, his unfinished glass of beer gripped in his hand. Kammler turned to his laptop. His fingers flashed across the keyboard, placing a call via IntelCom. It was routed to a nondescript grey office in a complex of low-lying grey buildings, hidden within a swathe of grey forest in remote rural Virginia, on the eastern coast of the USA.

That office was stuffed full of the world’s most advanced signals intercept and tracking technology. On the wall next to the entryway was a small brass plaque. It read: CIA – Division of Asymmetric Threat Analysis (DATA).

A voice answered. ‘Harry Peterson.’

‘It’s me,’ Kammler announced. ‘I’m sending you a file on one specific individual. Yes, from my vacation in East Africa. You are to use all possible means – internet, email, cell phones, travel bookings, passport details, anything – to find him. Last known location believed to be the Mathare shanty town, in the Kenyan capital, Nairobi.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘This has the absolute highest priority, Peterson. You and your people are to drop everything – absolutely everything – to concentrate on this one tasking. Are we understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let me know as soon as you learn anything. No matter what time of day or night, contact me immediately.’

‘Understood, sir.’

Kammler killed the call. His pulse rate was starting to return to something like normal. Let’s not overdo this, he told himself. Like any threat, it could be managed. Eliminated.

The future was still one hundred per cent his for the taking.