felt utterly alone. There was a splinter of worry at the back of his mind. What if Dalweg and Wiechman got chowed on by sharks or their tanks ruptured? Sykes didn’t know how to drive the boat, and he certainly didn’t know how to navigate.
He took another gulp of water and turned around as he heard a noise. A head emerged from the sea a few feet from the boat. Wiechman. He pulled his goggles up from his eyes and removed his mouthpiece. He pushed sandy blond hair away from his face.
‘What’s it like?’ Sykes called.
Wiechman shook his head. ‘It’s a wreck.’
‘I know that.’
The former SEAL swam the short distance to the boat. When he reached the back he pulled himself on board. ‘It looks good,’ he said. ‘Hull’s split open real nice, so we’ve got an open channel straight to the missiles.’
‘Yeah?’
‘There’s eight on board, four are crushed, smashed, or otherwise totally fucked up. The casings on two more have ruptured, and the seawater has corroded them to hell. We can get two for sure. It’s going to take all day, though, because of the amount of other crap down there burying them.’
‘Two’s good.’ Sykes’s eyes squinted behind his sunglasses. ‘We never figured on getting them all.’
‘Looks like they’re just practice warheads.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Dalweg surfaced and swam to the boat. Wiechman wiped the water from around his eyes. ‘Fuckers are big, though, bigger than I thought; we’re never going to get them up here in one piece. We’ll have to dismantle them as best we can first. Then bring them up with balloons before we winch them on board.’
‘Whatever it takes.’
‘Okay.’
Dalweg joined them on the deck. ‘Reckon with a little luck we’ll get you the two good ones up before we have to head back later. Can always come back tomorrow to see if anything else is recoverable.’
‘That’s fine,’ Sykes said. ‘Just make sure you don’t blow yourselves up.’
Dalweg laughed, but Sykes hadn’t been joking.
He took a seat while the two divers sorted through their gear. He didn’t understand how the hell he’d landed himself in such a mess. He’d thrown away his honour for nothing more than money. It wasn’t as if he was even poor to begin with. He’d just wanted more than he had. Sykes put a hand to his chest, feeling the sudden burn of rising acid. If his insides didn’t melt away before the end of this thing, he was going to be very surprised.
Luckily it was almost over now. They would have two extremely valuable missiles within twenty-four hours, and they’d sell them to jihadists or North Korea or whichever psychos paid the most. Then they could develop their own arsenals of antiship cruise missiles, and Sykes would spend the rest of his life praying one was never used to sink an American vessel.
Sykes knew he was greedy and stupid and a coward.
But at least he was going to be rich.
CHAPTER 70
Tanga, Tanzania
Monday
17:03 EAT
The target was quite clearly troubled. His manner bespoke of a man anxious and distressed. His movements were rushed and awkward, his face a picture of concern. What perturbed him Reed could only guess, but even if he could guess correctly, he wouldn’t care. Reed stood with his arms folded in front of his chest, leaning against a low wall. At least two dozen people were between Reed and his prey. Reed’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
Two large men, one blond, the other dark, disembarked from the cab of a three-ton truck caked with dirt. They were the target’s travelling companions. Both had deep tans and bulky limbs. Along with the target, the two men walked around to the back of the truck and peered inside. Seemingly satisfied, they crossed the road and approached their hotel. None of the three saw the Caucasian man who stood within a crowd of locals, watching them with an amoral gaze.
The hotel was a decent one, or at least it was for this part of the world. Tanga was large and sprawling, but seemed quiet and sleepy, almost deserted in its centre, where once-impressive German colonial buildings had succumbed to age and disrepair. Around the bustling market Tanga was more vibrant and crowded, with colourful, busy streets lined with more modern but less-grand structures.
Here the roads were laid with asphalt, gravel or hard-packed dirt formed the surfaces. Reed had yet to see a pavement. The air was hot and humid, somewhere in the low eighties. He could smell grilled chicken, frying fish, and marinated mishikaki kebabs from the nearby market. Vendors used seed rattlers to advertise their wares and customers haggled for better prices.
A thin film of sweat covered Reed’s skin. The time in Cyprus had taken it a few shades up from the pasty complexion he normally sported as a typical Englishman. He was dressed like a tourist in loose-fitting cargo trousers and a light linen shirt. Long sleeved. Sandals would have been appropriate but didn’t afford the kind of grip needed when moving with haste, so he opted for some conservative-coloured athletic shoes.
The target rushed up the hotel steps with his two companions following behind. Each had a backpack over their shoulder and one carried a large sports bag in each hand. The dossier had stated that they would be armed. Both were former commandos, and that alone gave Reed cause to respect them, but they were on a diving-and- demolitions expedition and were not bodyguards. Reed had no plans to kill either unless they were unfortunate enough to get in his way.
The client had arranged weapons for him to collect on arrival: a rifle and a handgun. The rifle, an Armalite AR-15 assault rifle equipped with an optical sight for sniping, was hidden under some discarded tyres half a mile away. The handgun, a Glock 17 with attached suppressor, was in Reed’s shoulder bag. Both had already been checked, stripped, and thoroughly cleaned by Reed. Given such firepower, his employer’s note — that the target’s death should not appear natural or accidental — was somewhat redundant.
Reed did not plan on using either weapon. The locale was not a good one for sniping — narrow, busy streets that offered little chance of a clean line of sight. The handgun was more appropriate to the environs, but given the choice Reed preferred the more intimate effect afforded by a blade.
He was still waiting for the order from the client and had already decided the hotel would be the best strike point. Executing the target on the street was an option, but Reed didn’t want to create a scene unless he had to. A quiet execution in a hotel room was considerably more appealing. He was eager to complete this job without creating a commotion. That he had used a bomb in Cyprus continued to gnaw at his professional sensibilities.
The target disappeared through the hotel’s front entrance, and Reed checked his watch. A Tanzanian man in an oil-stained T-shirt tried to sell him coconuts. The man spoke in his native Swahili. Reed spoke several languages fluently, had a reasonable grasp of several more, but Swahili was, and never would be, one of them. When Reed shook his head, the man tried broken English, the language of Tanzania’s post-German masters. Reed removed his sunglasses, and the man, unnerved by the look in Reed’s eyes, turned and left him alone.
Reed replaced his sunglasses and approached the hotel. The bright sun prevented him from seeing through the glass of the windows or doors. He gave the target a generous four minutes to leave the lobby and then crossed the street. He pushed through the revolving entrance. The lobby was several degrees cooler than outside, the large ceiling fans working hard to keep the room a pleasant temperature. Immediately Reed became more aware of the sweat on his skin.
As he expected, the target and his companions were absent. Reed approached the front desk and paid for a single room with cash and took the stairs to the fifth floor. The hotel used regular metal keys, and Reed found a quaintness that at least one corner of the world had yet to be modernized. It would also make it easier to get through locked doors if he had to be quiet. Reed’s room was functional and clean, but the decor was bland. No matter. Reed was not there to enjoy himself.
