She gave a couple of half-nods before coughing and snotting up. Her hand squeezed mine hard.
‘Nick … I want you to understand. I felt so …
She chugged up a mouthful of blood. I shushed her as she fought for air. ‘I don’t need to know. Just rest. Let the guys sort you out. Let’s get Stefan back.’
‘No, Nick … please … I want you to know … BB knew what I was feeling …’
‘The kidnap plan was his, wasn’t it?’
She just about managed a nod. ‘I knew there was no … happily ever after … for us … But once he’d set it up … he had me … exactly where he wanted me … I got cold feet …’
‘But he threatened to betray you to Frank.’
‘Frank … would have taken Stefan … would have kicked me out.’
‘BB arranged the hijack?’
‘He wanted money … He knew the clan … from the old days … He said … Frank would hand over the money … then be told we were all dead …’
I didn’t tell her that BB had always known Frank’s cash, if there was any, would be a bonus. The serious money was coming from Georgia.
She worked hard on a smile.
‘Me and Stefan … We didn’t want Frank’s … money … We were going … to India …’
Her face muscles suddenly relaxed, and I no longer felt the tension in her hand. From the faraway look in her eyes, part of her was already there.
‘On the beach … Maybe … a small restaurant … Just be happy …’
A coughing fit took her away from her dream. I caught Genghis’s eye. For a moment I thought he was going to crack as well. Then the mask of inscrutability was back in place.
‘Frank … he has … so many … enemies …’
BB had taken full advantage of that. His plan must have seemed pretty close to perfect. But he’d fucked up. He hadn’t written al-Shabab into the equation. He hadn’t reckoned with people who didn’t give a shit about the money and the shagging and the shiny red sports cars.
I gripped her hand and stroked her cheek. I tried to wipe away the tears, but they were falling too fast.
‘Tracy, it’s OK. You’re safe now. Just let these lads sort you out.’
I moved the mike out of the way and bent to kiss her gently on the forehead. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to get Stefan back. It’ll all be OK. He’ll be with you before you know it.’
She struggled to bring my hand to her lips. ‘I know he will … I trust you … Nick … I … always have …’
I smiled at her.
‘You … and Mong … the only men … I ever … trusted …’
She tried to give a smile back.
I let go of her hand and placed it in Genghis’s palm. He gave it the gentlest of squeezes.
22
First light was peeking over the horizon to our left as India’s bright blue sky and sun prepared to visit Africa again.
Joe was far out to sea. I could just about see the coastline on our right as I moved my head level with his.
He locked eyes. ‘How is she?’
‘Not good, mate.’
He nodded slowly, letting whatever that meant to him sink in. He pulled on his sun-gigs. ‘It’s best looking for these fuckers with the sun behind us. Like a fucking dogfight, man.’
‘That’s exactly what it’s going to be.’
I was sure I could see a slight twinkle in his eye behind the shades.
He kept on scanning the area. I joined in, looking for a little dot in hundreds of miles of empty sky.
‘Just one thing, Nick. What happens if my aircraft gets damaged? What the fuck would you do about that, man?’
I turned to face him. There was a big smile on his leathery face. ‘You going to pay me, man? These fucking things cost over a million dollars. Can you believe that shit? I got a fucking big loan on it, man.’
I smiled right back. ‘You won’t have any worries on that score.’
He got back to the business of flying and monitoring the sky ahead of us.
‘Where are the fuel tanks on those Skyvans?’
Both hands came off the controls again as he started to explain with his hands as well as his mouth. It was like I’d opened the encyclopedia at ‘S’.
‘On that fucking thing? Two Garrett turboprop engines, each driving a three-blade, variable-pitch propeller. Fuel in four tanks, in pairs on top of the fuselage between the wing roots. Each pair consisting of one 182-litre tank and one 484-litre mother. Total fuel capacity, 1332 litres. That’s a lot of fucking fuel, man.’
‘What’s its range?’
‘With maximum payload, about eleven hundred klicks. But there’s no maximum in
‘Their tanks won’t be full unless they refuelled at Mog …’
‘No, man, but we didn’t either, and they might have extra tanks …’ He brought his hands down to make sure I was following all this closely,‘… in the spaces between the fuselage frames on each side, beneath the main tanks. There’s provision for another four hundred litres. But fuck it, man …’ He put his arms up as if he was firing a rifle. ‘You drill that area and you’re going to hit tanks. That’s all you need to know, man.’
I picked up the AK and tapped the mag. ‘You got tracer in this?’
‘No, but you’d better check.’
I grabbed the magazine with my right hand. I pushed the release catch forward with my thumb and released it from its housing. The selector lever, a long spring-loaded arm, was in the upper safe position. I pushed it down to the fully automatic position before pulling back on the cocking handle to check no rounds were in the chamber. I released the handle, fired off the action by pressing the trigger, and replaced the selector lever back to safe.
Tracer are built with a hollow base filled with a pyrotechnic flare material, often phosphorus. In US and NATO standard ammunition, this is usually a mixture of strontium compounds and magnesium that yields a bright red light. Russian and Chinese tracer generates red or green light, using barium salts. Whatever the colour, the point was that it burnt intensely.
I pushed the first round out and used it to start flicking the rest out by the base as the spring forced them forward. I aimed them at the right-hand seat.
I couldn’t remember the flash point or the initiation temperature of Jet A1 fuel but I wasn’t taking any chances and neither was Joe. He kept looking at the rounds as they fell onto the right-hand seat. I didn’t want a big fuck-off firework display. I wanted holes. And the AK 7.62 short would make much bigger ones than Genghis’s M4 5.56.
I got to the last round. They’d all been bog-standard plain ball.
Joe sparked up. He was suddenly in full-fight mode. Very calm. Very precise. No profanity. ‘Got him. Half right of the nose. Maybe a klick ahead. Two hundred metres below us. He’s following the coastline.’
I hit Joe on the shoulder. ‘Well, let’s go get the boy, then.’
‘Fucking right, man.’ There was no smile this time.
I started to move to the rear. Joe came back on my cans. ‘You sure this Mr Big Shot will pay for my aircraft if it gets broken? Tell him, if he doesn’t, I’ll reload that fucking mag and come looking for him.’
My cans filled with his laughter as the prop pitch changed, the aircraft banked to the right and we started to descend.
