The Nemesis Program

Chapter Sixty-One

The next seventy-two hours were a busy time. CIA Special Agent Jack Quigley’s newfound alliance with Joe Mulligan procured a helicopter ride from Padang Panjang all the way southeast across Sumatra to Jakarta on the western tip of Java, and a small but comfortable apartment in the city within a stone’s throw of the US Embassy. The apartment had two phones, and in true American style the fridge was stocked with pizza and canned beers. Ben and Quigley spent two hours gorging themselves on food, another three catching up on lost sleep, and then it was time to get to work.

Ben’s first call was to Le Val, and he spent an hour telling Jeff Dekker what he needed to know and what Ben needed in return, which was for one of the Le Val team to deliver him a package in person as fast as he could get on a plane. Jeff listened and didn’t ask too many questions. He knew Ben too well for that.

‘Well?’ Quigley asked as Ben put the phone down.

‘Says Raoul or Paul will be on their way to Paris within the hour.’

‘I take it you trust these guys?’ Quigley said, cracking open a beer.

‘With my life,’ Ben replied. ‘I’ve known them a long time.’

The same was true of Boonzie McCulloch, the grizzled former sergeant who’d been Ben’s instructor in 22 SAS, his mentor and later his friend. As usual, it was Boonzie’s wife Mirella who answered when Ben called the number of the peaceful smallholding deep in the Apennine hill country near Campobasso. The tough, wiry Scotsman, once the merciless scourge and terror of raw recruits whom it was his personal mission to transform into hardened fighting men, now spent most of his days tending with infinite care to his beloved tomato crop.

‘I go fetch him,’ Mirella said breathlessly when she heard Ben’s serious tone of voice. He heard her in the background calling ‘Archibald!’ Her husband’s regimental nickname had never stuck with her.

A few moments later, the familiar gruff voice came on the line. ‘Benedict ma boy! How’s married life treatin ye?’ Despite all these years of splendid rural isolation in the south of Italy, Boonzie might as well have left Clydebank just last week.

‘Didn’t quite work out,’ Ben said.

‘What? How many days huz it bin? If anyone could bollocks that up, it’d be you, eh? Ye big bawheid.’ Boonzie had always been fairly direct in his manner.

‘Never mind that for now. I need to know something. Is old Lambert still operating out of Marseille? Have you got his number?’

‘What the hell d’ye want to call that mad basturt for?’ Boonzie asked, taken aback. Those who could still remember him and knew what he did for a living nowadays didn’t call the long-ago-retired SAS trooper Loony Lambert for nothing. His speciality was weaponry: everything from small arms of dubious origin to explosives or even military vehicles, no questions asked and shipped with ultimate discretion to the destination of the customer’s choice. His only rule: no animals were to be harmed. Loony Lambert was a devout vegan.

‘I heard it was his birthday,’ Ben said. ‘If you don’t have the number, do you know who else might?’

‘I ken one thing. Naebody calls that heidbanger unless they’ve got a big problem tae fix. You’re up tae something, laddie.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ben said.

‘Aye, I’ll believe that. Where are ye callin from?’

‘Right now I’m in Java. Tomorrow I’ll be somewhere else.’

‘Fuckin’ Java,’ Boonzie exploded. ‘Listen, I might be gettin’ auld, but I’m no soft in the heid. Ye need help, don’t ye? What did I tell ye aboot that?’

‘You told me to call you anytime and you’d drop everything,’ Ben said. ‘And I appreciated it.’

‘An’ I fuckin’ meant it, an’ all,’ Boonzie warned him. ‘Now fill me in, an’ fast. If ye need help ye’re goin tae say so an’ ye’re fuckin’ gettin’ it whether ye want it or no. Dinnae even think aboot tryin’ tae stop me or ye’re in serious shite. Clear?’

Twenty hours later, the flight from Charles de Gaulle airport touched down at Jakarta. Ben and Quigley drove there to meet it in the black Chevrolet SUV that had been provided for them by Joe Mulligan and looked like a cast-off from the US Secret Service.

But instead of Raoul de la Vega or Paul Bonnard, it was Jeff Dekker who stepped off the plane. ‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you?’ he asked when he saw the healing bruises on Ben’s face. ‘You look like you spilled the wrong guy’s pint.’

‘Never mind me,’ Ben said, stunned. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Jeff pointed at Ben’s face. ‘It’s obviously about time you had someone to watch your back, mate. Whatever it is, count me in.’

‘Not you as well,’ Ben groaned.

Jeff chuckled. ‘As well as who? Let me guess. McCulloch being stubborn again?’

‘Promised if I tried to stop him coming to help, he’d rip my arm off and beat me about the head with the soggy end.’

‘And he wasn’t kidding, I’ll bet,’ Jeff said.

‘No chance. I’ve seen him do it.’

Quigley drove the Chevrolet to the apartment. In the back, Jeff opened up a holdall and handed Ben a brown envelope. ‘Here’s the stuff you asked for.’

Ben inspected the fake passport in the name of John Freeman that had been stored in the armoury room safe at Le Val, a duplicate of the one the Indonesian army officer had confiscated. Along with the passport was a functioning credit card in the same name, and a bundle of cash.

‘All there?’ Jeff said.

‘That’s all I needed from you, Jeff. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park.’

‘Don’t say another word. What’s the plan?’

‘London tomorrow night. Boonzie’s flying into Heathrow to meet us. Then onto New York. After that, I don’t know yet.’

‘Look, mate, I talked to Jude. Have you called Brooke?’

Ben shook his head. ‘When it’s over,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll call her.’