Jaeger asked the obvious question. ‘Dale?’
Raff shook his head. ‘Nope. Dale turned back at the edit suite to fetch a bunch of coffees. Getting one for everyone on the team. His fiancée, Hannah, was the first in. Her and a young runner.’ A heavy pause. ‘Neither survived.’
Jaeger shook his head in horror. Over the weeks that Dale had spent cutting together his film, Jaeger had got to know Hannah pretty well. They’d enjoyed a few nights out, and he’d warmed to her sparky, spirited company, plus that of the runner/edit assistant, Chrissy.
Both of them dead. Blown to pieces by an IED. It was a nightmare.
‘How’s Dale taking it?’ Jaeger ventured.
Raff glanced at him. ‘Have a guess. Him and Hannah – they were set to get married this summer. He’s a complete mess.’
‘Any CCTV images?’ Jaeger asked.
‘The word is they were wiped clean. The guy who did this is a pro. We’re getting access to the drive and we may have someone who can recover something. But don’t hold your breath.’
Jaeger refilled their glasses. For several seconds the two men sat in sombre silence. Finally, Raff reached across the table and grabbed Jaeger’s arm.
‘You know what this means? The hunt is on. Us for them. Them for us. It’s kill or be killed now. There’s no other way.’
‘There is some good news,’ Jaeger ventured. ‘Narov’s back. Awake. Hungry. Seems pretty much recovered. Plus Santos is crawling her way back to consciousness. I figure they’re both going to pull through okay.’
Raff signalled, ordering more wine. No matter what, they would drink to the dead. The barman arrived with a second bottle and showed the label to Raff, who nodded his assent. He pulled the cork and offered it so Raff could check whether the bottle was good. Raff waved it away. This was the Crusting Pipe. They took proper care of their wine.
‘Frank, just pour, okay. We’re drinking to absent friends.’ He turned his attention back to Jaeger. ‘Tell me: how is the ice queen anyway?’
‘Narov? Antsy. Feisty as ever.’ A pause. ‘She’s invited me to go meet her people.’ Jaeger glanced at the sheet of paper lying on the table. ‘After this, I think we need to be there.’
Raff nodded. ‘If they can get us access to whoever did this, we should all go.’
‘Narov seems to believe in them. She’s got every confidence.’
‘And you? You sure of her? Of her people? No more doubts, like you had in the Amazon?’
Jaeger shrugged. ‘She’s difficult. Cagey. Doesn’t trust anyone. But I figure right now her people are the only option we’ve got. And we need to know what they know.’
Raff grunted. ‘Good enough for me.’
‘Right. Send a message. Alert everyone. Warn them we are being hunted. And tell them to prepare to meet – timescale and destination to be decided.’
‘Got it.’
‘Plus warn them to watch their backs. The people who did this… One moment’s carelessness, we’re all dead.’
13
The spring rain felt soft and chill on Jaeger’s exposed skin. A damp, grey caress, one that suited his state of mind perfectly.
He stood in some pine woods set well back from the playing field, his dark biking trousers and Belstaff jacket merging with the dripping, dank wetness of the scene.
A cry echoed across to him. ‘Back him up! Go with him, Alex! Back him up!’
It was the voice of a parent, one that Jaeger didn’t recognise. The guy must be new to the school, but as Jaeger had been absent a good three years, most of the faces seemed unfamiliar to him now.
As his face must be to them.
An awkward, distant figure half hidden amongst the trees, watching a schoolboy rugby match in which he seemingly had no interest; no child to cheer for.
A worrying stranger. Gaunt-faced. Reserved. Troubled.
It was a wonder no one had called the police on him.
Jaeger raised his eyes to the clouds. Low-lying, glowering; scudding with a swiftness that mocked the tiny but determined figures making a push for the try line, as their proud fathers yelled encouragement, scenting a hard-fought victory.
Jaeger wondered why he’d come.
He guessed he’d wanted to remember, before the next chapter of the mission opened – meeting Narov’s people, whoever they might be. He’d come here – to these rain-lashed playing fields – as it was the last place he had seen his son happy and free, before the darkness took him. Took them.
He’d come here to try to recapture some of that – some of that pure, glittering, priceless magic.
His eyes roamed around the scene, coming to rest upon the squat but imposing form of Sherborne Abbey. For well over thirteen centuries the Saxon cathedral and then Benedictine abbey had stood sentinel over this historic town, and the school where his son had been nurtured and thrived.
All that fine education and tradition crystallised here, so potently, on the rugby field.
‘KA MATE? KA MATE? KA ORA? KA ORA?’ Will I die? Will I die? Will I live? Will I live? Jaeger could hear the words even now, echoing across the pitch and reverberating through his memories. That iconic chant.
Together with Raff, Jaeger had been a stalwart in the SAS rugby team, as they’d pounded rival units half to death. Raff had always led the Haka – the traditional pre-match Maori war dance – the rest of the team flanking him, fearless and unstoppable. There were more than a few Maoris in the SAS, so it had seemed peculiarly appropriate.
Childless and not the marrying type, Raff had more or less adopted Luke as his surrogate son. He had come to be a regular visitor at the school, and an honorary coach to the rugby team. Officially, the school hadn’t permitted them to do the Haka before matches. But unofficially the other coaches had turned a blind eye – especially when it had set the boys on a winning streak.
And that was how an ancient Maori war chant had come to echo across Sherborne’s hallowed fields.
‘KA MATE! KA MATE! KA ORA! KA ORA!’
Jaeger eyed the match. The opposing team were rucking the Sherborne boys back again. No try. Jaeger doubted the Haka was still an opener to their matches, with him and Raff being absent now for three long years.
He was about to turn and leave, making for the Triumph parked discreetly beneath the trees, when he felt a presence at his side. He glanced round.
‘Jesus, William. I thought it must be you. But what…? Hell. It’s been a long time.’ The figure thrust out a hand. ‘How the devil are you?’
Jaeger would have recognised the guy anywhere. Overweight, snaggle-toothed, with somewhat bulging eyes and greying hair held back in a ponytail, Jules Holland was better known to all as the Ratcatcher. Or the Rat for short.
The two men shook hands. ‘I’ve been… Well, I’ve been… alive.’
Holland grimaced. ‘Doesn’t sound too hot.’ A pause. ‘You just kind of disappeared. There was that Christmas rugby sevens tournament: you, Luke and Ruth a big presence at the school. By the New Year – gone. Not a word.’
His tone was bordering on hurt. Jaeger could understand why. To some they were the most unlikely of friends, but over time Jaeger had warmed to the Rat’s unconventional, maverick ways, plus his complete lack of pretentiousness.
With the Rat, what you saw was what you got – always.
That Christmas had been one of the few occasions on which Jaeger had got Ruth to really buy in to the rugby thing. Prior to that, she’d been loath to watch matches, for she couldn’t bear to see Luke getting ‘so beaten up’, as she put it.
Jaeger understood, but even at eight years of age Luke had been obsessed by the game. Blessed with natural protective instincts and a fierce loyalty, he’d proven a stalwart in defence. A rock. A lion.
His tackling was fearsome, and few were the opposition players who managed to get past him. And in spite of his mother’s worries, he wore his bruises and cuts as badges of honour. He seemed to have a natural appreciation of the saying – ‘What doesn’t break you makes you stronger’.