stumbled on private military contractors — mercenaries — undertaking weapons’ tests and autopsies in the Afghan Wild West. No wonder Hooper had sent the pictures to the
The tall, blond man gave the boy’s body a casual kick, like it was a sick animal he’d found in the courtyard. The mercs cuffed Hooper’s hands behind him, as the tall officer with the short blond hair, still with that satisfied smile, addressed his captive.
‘My men wanted to kill you,’ he said affecting a bored tone and inspecting Hooper’s MP5 in his hands. ‘But I was curious. Who comes spying on the world’s best-paid soldiers? You got some nice pictures, I hope, to show your friends?’ he said, smiling finally at Hooper. He was enjoying this. ‘I wagered five dollars with my captain that we could take you alive.’
‘Five dollars? To keep it interesting?’ said Hooper, holding back his anger. ‘I guess you were bored with no more kids to kill.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ said the mercenary. ‘This is not mercy. I do enjoy killing.’
‘A job done efficiently, sometimes with a little
Stone was evaluating it all. The guy’s English was precise and fluent. Moreover, the evidence said he was telling the truth. The bodies, the shooting of the children, the autopsies. The blond guy and his men were devout killers. They would switch off Hooper and his men without a thought. Yet Stone was watching Hooper's video after the fact. So Hooper couldn’t be dead. And yet if they hadn’t killed Hooper — why not?
The mercenaries bundled Hooper out through the doorway of the compound. He was led through calm sunlight under the trees and out into open ground. Under the trees were two vehicles. After four years in his current line of work, Stone’s knowledge of the arms business was encyclopaedic, and he recognized the vehicles straight off. The first was a Cougar. Mine-resistant — the Americans had hundreds of them in Afghanistan. But the second vehicle was more of a collectors' item — a low slung armoured personnel carrier. A Chinese Type 90. What the hell was a Chinese Type 90 doing in the middle of Helmand? It was towing something too. Hooper’s head-cam went around the back to see some kind of radar-dish apparatus. The tall, blond man stood on the wheel-fender, then jumped down, cat-like, and approached Hooper again.
‘Take a good look,’ said the blond soldier. ‘This is our secret weapon. We have been running some tests, and I believe you saw the results on your way into town,’ he declared, smiling proudly at the head cam. The camera strayed all over it. The dish was two metres or more in diameter. Stone could see the detail of the control panel, even the manufacturer’s nameplate. Which, bizarrely, was in Chinese.
Hooper’s anger boiled over. ‘You fucking murderer,’ he growled.
Ekstrom smiled back at Hooper. ‘Fucking…
Then the shock. The words that meant Hooper wasn’t going to escape at all. He was going to die, and Stone was about to watch it happen.
‘In case you are curious, Professor Stone,’ said the blond man, speaking directly at the camera. ‘My name is Ekstrom. Johan Ekstrom, from Sweden. I am a fan of your web site, and I guess this will make a nice story for you. No doubt you would like a little extra colour to your story — an execution or a rape maybe? But perhaps another time.’ Ekstrom smiled laconically and turned to one of his men.
‘Give me your.22. The little one.’
The man threw a small automatic to Ekstrom. Ekstrom looked down and aimed centimetres to the side of the head-cam, right at Hooper’s forehead. Another bang and a muzzle flash, Ekstrom’s hand jumped with slight recoil.
Stone had just watched Ekstrom shoot his old friend through the head. He’d asked for a.22 so as not to damage the camera at close range with a more powerful weapon.
Ekstrom calmly bent down close to the camera on Hooper’s helmet.
‘And remember my name! I am Ekstrom!’ said the Swede, smiling at the camera. ‘
That grinning face. It was revolting, even for a man who’d seen what Stone had in his time.
Stone’s head span, but it was becoming clear what had happened here. Ekstrom had a reason for all this. Publicity. He wanted to spread word of that weapon and how many people it killed. He had taken the video from Hooper’s head-cam and sent it to Stone. Stone with his anonymous whistle-blowers’ web site was the perfect way to gain publicity. He was a real piece of work, this Ekstrom.
The telephone rang again. Extension 1311. Jayne again. Stone knew what she wanted, but she’d have to wait. Stone had just rewound, and frozen the video on the image of the weapon. He’d seen something. Yes, there was no mistake. It was a clear as day — for anyone who could read it.
Ekstrom had made a mistake and Stone was going to exploit it. For Hooper’s sake, Stone would make sure Ekstrom and whoever was behind him paid a high price for what they’d done.
Chapter 4 — 11:24am 27 March, Faculty Building, West Fleet University, England
Stone was still at his desk when the phone rang again. He’d frozen the video clip on the image of the dish- shaped “weapon”, and was looking at the writing he saw there. The name of the manufacturer. After that it had taken a matter of minutes. A few searches online were all it took, and an email to a reporter in the US. It had been a childish error on Ekstrom’s part, but he could see how it had happened. Stone was going to take it and blow the whole sordid mercenary thing wide open.
The telephone rang and Stone tried to shake the memory of what he’d just seen from his head. Ethan Eric Stone, Professor of Peace Studies at West Fleet University, looked at the phone with exasperation as it carried on ringing. Finally he picked up.
‘Stone? It’s Jayne. The Vice Chancellor’s in a spin. You know what he gets like. It’s “a very serious matter” apparently. He wants you up here.’
Stone hung up the phone, stood up from his desk and looked distractedly through the window of the ugly 1960’s faculty building.
Stone ran a hand through his thatch of wiry, sandy blond hair as he looked from the window.
When Stone left the army four years ago, he had veered from the profession of soldier into that of peace campaigner. After the things he had seen in the army he had craved a detox from the violence. A deep cleanse of his psyche. The peace warrior thing was his way of doing it. He’d started his web site, called NotFutile.com, three years ago to expose the activities of the global arms industry. Ironically, the web site name itself had been Hooper’s idea — indirectly. It had been Hooper’s response to the whole idea of exposing the arms business, and the sordid commercial wars they encouraged. ‘Resistance is futile, Stone,’ Hooper would say, as if he were some kind of philosopher. ‘It’s fucking futile, mate. We’ve just got to get on with it.’
That’s why Stone chose the name NotFutile.com. The site was a kind of blind drop box for tidbits of information about the arms industry. People could send documents and leaks anonymously and get them online.
But really, it was only a web site.
Stone had got lucky early when he pieced together a number of research papers and seemingly random press reports to uncover a highly secret UK government satellite surveillance system. Stone was arrested and held for a
