Andy McDermott
King Solomon's Curse
About the Author
Andy McDermott is the bestselling author of the Nina Wilde & Eddie Chase adventure thrillers, which have been sold in over 30 countries and 20 languages. His debut novel, THE HUNT FOR ATLANTIS, was his first of several New York Times bestsellers. KING SOLOMON’S CURSE is the fourteenth book in the series, including digital short story THE LAST SURVIVOR, and he has also written the explosive spy thriller THE PERSONA PROTOCOL.
A former journalist and movie critic, Andy is now a full-time novelist. Born in Halifax, he lives in Bournemouth with his partner and son.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Morebus for demonstrating what a double-decker bus can do when the driver doesn’t have to worry about passenger comfort — and then letting me try for myself!
Dedication
For Kat and Sebastian
Prologue
Eddie Chase entered the arrivals hall of Tenerife-Sur airport and greeted the man waiting for him with a mocking grin. ‘So you’ve been demoted to my chauffeur, Alderley?’
‘Actually, I’ve been promoted since we last met,’ replied Peter Alderley. ‘Avoiding you does wonders for my career.’
‘Bell-end,’ said Eddie, though with humour. The two Englishmen shook hands. Neither would have described the other as a friend, but the past dealings of the former SAS soldier and the MI6 officer had at least given them a grudging mutual respect. ‘Promoted, eh? Things must be going well.’
Alderley nodded. ‘I’m in charge of the Africa desk, reporting directly to C.’
‘And who does C report to? B?’ Eddie grinned again, knowing full well that ‘C’ — not ‘M’, despite the claims of the James Bond novels and movies — was the codename for the director of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.
The older man’s drooping moustache twitched with both amusement and faint exasperation. ‘Your sense of humour hasn’t changed. Sadly. But I understand other things have. You’re a dad now?’
Eddie beamed proudly. ‘Yeah. Me and Nina’ve got a little girl, Macy. She’s two.’ He showed off her picture on his phone’s lock screen.
‘She’s got Nina’s looks,’ said Alderley of the smiling young redhead. ‘Luckily for her.’
‘Yeah, sod off.’ His expression and tone became more businesslike. ‘But you didn’t ask me to come all the way from New York to see my baby pictures. You said this was about Mukobo.’
‘I’ll tell you on the way.’ Alderley led the way to a car park. His anonymous Peugeot 308 was unpleasantly hot inside; the Canaries were off the coast of North Africa, and the sun was blazing relentlessly down on the dry landscape.
‘Not much of a spy car,’ said Eddie. ‘Still, it’s better than your rubbish old Ford Capri.’
Alderley huffed as he started the car. ‘My Capri is officially a classic.’
‘That just means ancient, though, doesn’t it?’
‘And this one’s rented. Budget cuts, across all the intelligence agencies. If it’s not related to Islamic terrorists, Russia or Brexit, its spending’s been slashed. Same for the armed forces,’ he added.
Eddie had a long-standing antipathy to the intelligence services, but anything that made the job of the soldier on the ground more difficult made him bristle. ‘Ugh. Politicians.’
‘Yeah, whoever you vote for, some bugger wins,’ said Alderley as he headed for the airport’s exit. ‘Anyway, we can talk now. All this is top secret, of course.’
‘You don’t need to tell me the rules. I signed the Official Secrets Act when I joined the forces.’
‘So you haven’t told Nina why you’re here?’
‘Nope, and she’s not happy about it. I just said you needed my help. She didn’t think that justified swanning off and leaving our little girl, and she’s probably right. But I came anyway.’ The Yorkshireman regarded Alderley intently. ‘Mukobo. I assume he’s here.’
Alderley nodded. ‘We wouldn’t have asked you to come otherwise.’
‘You need me to ID him?’
‘You’re the only person we know of who’s met him face to face. Who’s still alive, anyway. Philippe Mukobo has been, ah… proactive about maintaining his privacy. Hardly surprising when he’s high on Interpol’s Red List, to say nothing of the Yanks wanting to get their hands on him.’
‘For killing those aid workers.’ It was not a question but a grim statement of fact. ‘And a load of other people. I should’ve shot him when I had the chance.’
Alderley hesitated as if about to say something reassuring, but then continued with his briefing. ‘Anyway, GCHQ picked up chatter that he’d made it over here by sea. He’s since been in phone contact with a man called Provone who’s arranging a fake European Union passport for him. As the Canaries are Spanish territory, once he gets it he can travel freely from here to anywhere in Europe — even Britain, since we haven’t finished the Article 50 negotiations and left the EU yet.’
The Peugeot merged on to a motorway. ‘You know where he is right now?’ Eddie asked.
‘In a villa outside Playa de las Américas.’
‘So why haven’t you grabbed him already?’
‘As I said, we don’t know what he looks like. There are no known photos of him. And he has at least nine guards at the villa, all armed. We don’t want to risk a bloodbath. We want him alive.’
Eddie cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why? If it were up to me, I’d just shoot the sod and be done with it.’
‘Not my department, I’m afraid,’ said Alderley. ‘This is a field operation, so technically I’m only here to advise the officer in charge. Okay, technically I’m not here at all, but you know what I mean.’
‘So who’s the OIC?’
‘John Brice, one of our top field men.’
‘John Brice?’ Eddie echoed, scoffing. ‘What is it with spies having the initials JB? James Bond, Jason Bourne, Jack Bauer, and now this guy. Surprised you didn’t change your name to Jethro Bollocks or something.’
Alderley chuckled. ‘Not sure my wife would have wanted to become Mrs Bollocks. Anyway, he’s got surveillance photos of the men in the compound. If you can ID Mukobo, Brice can take it from there.’
‘You couldn’t have just emailed me the pictures?’
‘MI6 doesn’t generally send classified imagery via Gmail.’
‘Suppose not,’ said Eddie, amused. ‘All right, let’s get this over with.’
Alderley brought him to one of Playa de las Américas’ numerous hotels — and then to its bar. ‘Why aren’t I surprised to find a spy hanging out in here?’ said Eddie.
‘There he is — oh,’ said Alderley, with distinct disapproval on seeing that the man they had come to meet was seated in a corner with a tanned young woman in a bikini. Brice whispered to her, then stood to usher her away with a swat to her backside as the visitors approached. She headed for a swimming pool outside. ‘Who was that?’
‘Nobody,’ said Brice, shaking Alderley’s hand. ‘Peter.’ He faced Eddie, blue eyes looking the stocky, shaven-headed Yorkshireman up and down and not appearing particularly impressed. ‘And Eddie Chase.’
‘That’s me,’ said Eddie, giving Brice an assessment of his own. Late thirties, tall, sharply handsome, jet-black hair conservatively yet carefully styled. His clothing was similarly neat; overdone for the climate, but the athletic MI6 officer didn’t seem the kind to break a sweat for much. There was a glass of whisky before him.