As always The General’s knowledge was intimidating, ‘Yes Sir, he is being tracked. I am concerned he is compromised.’
‘Archer, you worry too much. Khan is fine, just some recon for me, nothing serious. I can assure you he is not at risk.’
Archer did not believe The General, healthy paranoia his father called it. ‘Yes sir, just checking in, can I advise him that if he has trouble, he can come to the palace?’
‘Absolutely not! I do not wish to have him associated with you at all. You are not to invite him anywhere, understood!’
‘Yes sir, understood, out.’
Archer replaced the phone in his safe; there was a great many US citizens in Mabalia at present. The lure of oil. Four major oil companies had interests here. The opportunity to break the stranglehold of the Persian Gulf with oil from the horn of Africa was enticing. But the wars which had enveloped the area stopped all possibility of safe oil exploration. Recent stability with the creation of Mabalia, might allow the extraction of the countries resources.
Archer was aware that interests in this adolescent country were not purely humanitarian; the facade of economic and military advisors would pass. The big business of oil would take over. He knew that President Uncotto’s intended to resist this and play America and China against each other, a dangerous tactic.
Archer would normally have taken support for a meeting, check out the location, plan all threats, but he did not have the time or inclination to brief anyone. Archer decided to go alone. A routine observation from the adjacent office building afforded him by a friendly receptionist, gave him all the peace of mind he could manage.
The hotel was old, but had survived the civil war. With recent refurbishment it was maintaining a healthy turnover in foreign businessmen, here to explore new opportunities. Archer had worn a suit, to fit in with the visitors, he had even shaved which was rare. Usually he was sporting three-day-old stubble you could sand wood with. He moved through the lobby heading for the mirrored elevator doors, checking the reflection for anyone observing or following him, there was no one.
The fourth floor lift doors opened onto a short corridor, recently wallpapered. There were fire exits at each end. A stairwell about halfway down on the right. Archer walked quietly along the corridor, checking for tell-tale shadows on the spy holes. The stairwell was deserted, as was the fire exit. It appeared to be safe, but he knew better than to presume.
He stepped into the stairwell on his return patrol and checked his firearm and knives. One in his ankle holder, one in his belt. Satisfied that he was prepared, he moved down to room 418 and knocked once. He stepped to the side of the doorframe and waited. No shadow appeared at the spy hole, no footsteps from the room. Tentatively he nudged the door; let it swing open, while he stayed in the corridor. The room revealed itself, a mass of beige and cream, standard neutral corporate décor. But the carpet was spattered with blood; some on the ceiling, arterial spray. That got his finger depressing the middle safety embedded in the trigger of his H&K Mark 23.
He scanned the room, looking around for any indication of an intruder; stealthily approaching the bathroom, his heart rate increased. He pushed the door open, while training his gun on any potential occupant. None materialised. He scanned the room again, a table lamp with a missing shade and heavy marble base, covered in blood. The heavy wooden table in the middle of the room had dents and blood spatter, indicating body parts had been crushed repeatedly. Archer’s concern for Khan appeared to be well founded; his director was very mistaken or very aware of the danger.
The room had been crudely searched, as the furniture marks in the carpet revealed its imprecise replacement. Whatever they wanted, they had not found, otherwise, the torture would not have been conducted here. So where was Khan’s body? The spray on the ceiling indicated he was dead, his friend came to him worried, and Archer failed to protect him. But he could only protect against what he knew, or expected.
He left the room, wiping the handle out of habit, doubting that the local police would even attempt to fingerprint the area. They would most likely presume a mugging gone wrong, case closed.
Archer monitored the noises coming from down the hall, another businessman enjoying local hospitality. Past the noisy room was a bathroom, Archer thought back to old habits and holstering his weapon moved into the unoccupied room. The floral scent overpowered him as he stood on the toilet seat and moved the roof tile above the cubicle; he felt exactly what he expected. Just inside the roof space was a memory card stuck in gum. Archer and Khan had used this technique in the past, when quick and dirty tactics were called for.
Archer smiled, remembering better times with his friend Khan. He placed the memory card in his jacket pocket, flushed the toilet and left.
The corridor was still empty, and he was just entering the lift, when two local police came up the stairwell, they never saw him.
Archer left the hotel opting to examine the memory card in the safety of his room. As he traversed the hotel lobby again, a tall man in a smart suit observed him.
The tall man was Chui Enzi the head of Internal Security for Mabalia, not a fan of Archer Mathias or Darney as he knew him. He had been watching Archer since his arrival seven months ago. He was able to report to the President that he respected the expertise and experience of Mr Darney. In reality he resented the presence of an outsider that limited the freedom of operation he was accustomed too.
After observing the torture of Archer’s friend Khan and discovering nothing, except a tolerance for pain, he presumed that Mr Khan had passed information on. As he expected the President’s head of security was nothing more than another American spy, like his former friend, whose body was being disposed of by his men now. The manager of the hotel and the local police would require some persuasion that they need not pursue nor investigate the blood and disturbance in room 418. With their knowledge of Enzi’s previous atrocities, there would be no issue.
Confident that the information his colleagues required would soon be within his possession, Enzi enjoyed his iced mineral water with lemon and opened his phone.
‘My friend, your operative may be a problem, will you allow me to resolve it for us?’
The answer was welcomed and, Enzi anticipated the enjoyment of disposing of Mr Darney with a smug smile.
THREE
No one was flying the plane twenty thousand feet above the lush steaming Ecuador rainforest. Katherine Shotbolt the pilot and sole occupant was in the rear, monitoring the complex aerial surveying equipment. She was in her element, unperturbed by the vacant pilot’s seat, fully confident in the GPS guided point to point navigation software. She had every right, having helped test and design it after leaving the United States Air Force four years ago. By the USAF standards the software was now out of date, a newer more effective version was probably in use. But this civilian version served her purposes.
She glanced over its update screen, the place markers clearly showing over a full colour map. Indicators of wind speed and other affecting conditions updated on the side of the display. At a glance she could see everything she needed. The sun invaded the porthole on the left side of the Global Surveyor, the grandiose title she had emblazoned on its wings; her helmet visor diffused the glare. To the casual observer her aircraft appeared alien, but then the team at Scaled Composites had some of the most dynamic and unique aircraft designs in the world. Most people did not know the company name, but when you said Global Flyer, or Spaceship One, most people had seen one of their aircraft, and perhaps not realized. When on the ground the Global Surveyor appeared cumbersome, but in the air, she was a ballerina.