Mike Gregory had my back once.
Now he needs mine.
I just hope we get there before the rebels.
Mallet tapped out messages on the phone as they continued north towards Marafeni. He pinged off another text to Six and then Casey said, ‘We should stick the radio on. Tune in to the state radio station. Might tell us what’s going on in the city.’
‘Good plan,’ said Mallet. ‘Better than listening to Tiny’s sad voice.’
‘Fuck off, John. You’re just jealous. The ladies love a bit of the old Welsh accent.’
‘They’re not after you for your good looks or your wealth, Tiny. That’s for fucking sure.’
Mallet fiddled with the touchscreen while Bowman kept the Land Cruiser hard on the heels of the Hilux. He pressed an arrow key on the console screen, and the vehicle suddenly filled with a harsh burst of static. Mallet tapped the arrow again, scanning through the radio frequencies, found nothing but silence. They were in some sort of dead spot, Bowman guessed.
They carried on north through the African night. The road twisted past abattoirs and nature reserves and several small villages, the ground dimly illuminated in the bright wash of the convoy’s headlamps. The star-pricked sky was as black as an oil spill. Civilian cars streamed past, racing towards the airport to the south of Marafeni. Others were making their way on foot along the roadside. Bowman glanced again at the time and felt his heart start to beat faster inside his chest: 11.34. Less than half an hour until they hit the palace.
Almost there.
Two minutes later, the radio sparked into life.
Music spilled out of the Land Cruiser’s speakers, faintly at first. Mallet turned the knob, dialling up the volume. A hymn-like orchestral tune was playing. It sounded oddly familiar. Bowman was sure he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t instantly place it.
Loader frowned. ‘Is that thing tuned in to the right station?’
Bowman squinted at the console. ‘This is the state radio, mate.’
‘Then why the fuck are they playing classical music?’
‘It’s not classical music,’ Mallet said. ‘It’s the Russian national anthem.’
Loader stared at him. The Welshman wore a look as if someone had just slapped him across the face.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
Mallet said, ‘A few of us did some joint-training exercises with Spetsnaz. In the nineties. Before the country became a mafia state. They’d play that anthem all the time. I’d recognise it anywhere.’
Casey went pale. ‘Then that means—’
‘Aye,’ Mallet said. ‘The rebels must have taken over the broadcasting house.’ His shook his head. ‘We’re too late. The bastards are already inside the capital.’
Twenty-One
The anthem played on for a couple of minutes, reaching a crashing crescendo before it faded to silence. Then a hoarse male voice spoke in broken English. The man announced himself as General Moses Kakuba, leader of the armed wing of the Karatandu United Front. The despotic reign of President Seguma was over, Kakuba said. He declared that the KUF had taken control of the main army bases and police stations around the capital and called on the remaining troops to stand down. He cycled through a list of grievances as long as Bowman’s arm. He droned on about government corruption, undemocratic institutions, cronyism, torture, the unlawful use of force against protestors. The colonel proclaimed the dawn of a brave new era for the people of Karatandu, together with their Russian allies. A new Marxist government was now being formed, he said. A three-man military junta led by General Kakuba himself. There was the usual promise of free and democratic elections to follow, once the situation had been stabilised. Peace would come to Karatandu. There would be many new hospitals, schools, jobs for everyone. A better life. He was making more promises than a personal injury lawyer.
‘Loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?’ Loader said.
‘This is bad news,’ Webb said. ‘Very bad.’
Mallet turned down the volume, reached for his phone.
‘I’ll call Six. Tell them what’s going on. They’ll have to get a message over to the main strike force. Those lads need to know what to expect before they land.’
Casey was silent for a moment. ‘If the KUF are in the capital, it won’t be long before they attack the palace.’
‘Or they might be there already,’ Webb said.
‘We don’t know that. Not for sure,’ Mallet said.
‘Why else isn’t Mike answering his phone?’
Mallet tapped open the messaging app and dialled the most recent number. The Voice answered immediately. He filled them in as the convoy hurtled north towards Marafeni. The reports of gunfire elsewhere in the country, the radio broadcast by General Kakuba. The likelihood that the rebellion had already spread to at least parts of the capital. Then the Voice took over the conversation. Mallet listened in silence, his frown lines deepening, forming trench lines across his brow. He asked a couple of questions, hung up.
Then he said, ‘Six has been monitoring the situation in Marafeni. The situation is worse than we thought.’
‘What did they say?’ asked Casey.
‘They’ve picked up widespread reports of violence in and around the capital. Gunfire. Looting. Killing. Buildings being torched.’
‘Christ.’
Mallet said, ‘That’s not the worst of it. Rebel forces have released hundreds of inmates from the main prison. Political prisoners, activists, murderers, petty thieves. They’re out on the streets, tearing it up. Six has heard that the Machete Boys are joining in the fun too. It’s chaos out there. A free-for-all.’
‘Shit,’ said Loader.
Webb’s face crumpled in puzzlement. ‘Why would Kakuba and his men attack the capital before the airport? These guys normally go for the major roadheads and airheads first.’
Mallet said, ‘They might have a different strategy. They could be trying to coerce the airport garrison into surrender. Now they’ve got control of the airwaves, they can send out messages to the troops, telling them it’s over, they’re fighting for a lost cause, all that bollocks. Which might persuade the garrison to lay down their arms. They could take the airport without firing a
