Jack turned to the marine sergeant. “You need to get me there. Those are my people.”
The sergeant nodded, pointing to two others in the sentry box. “Anderson, Bailey. On me.” He ran to the jeep that was parked behind the box, followed by Jack and the other two. They all got in, the two marines in the back and Jack in the front passenger seat, and the sergeant gunned the vehicle through the entrance and down the airport approach road, screeching round a corner as they approached the perimeter. He had radioed ahead as he drove to the commander of the African Union detachment providing airport security, and the gate was already open. He pulled to a halt, leaned out of the window, and spoke briefly to the Kenyan officer in charge, then gunned the jeep forward. “It wasn’t a terrorist attempt on the perimeter after all,” he said. “It looks like it was specifically targeted at your people. A contract killing or a kidnapping. Sounds pretty bad.”
They rounded another corner, racing out of the perimeter into the city streets, and then came to a screeching halt. A scene of carnage met their eyes. Zaheed’s four-by-four was resting at a crazy angle half on the pavement, smoke pouring out of its engine, its tires all shot out. Sprawled around it in pools of blood were six bodies, two of them the Somali marines who had accompanied Zaheed, the rest evidently attackers. Cartridge casings were strewn everywhere, but all the weapons had been removed and there were tire tracks through the blood and over one of the bodies.
Jack saw Zaheed on the far side of the jeep, leaning over one bullet-ridden door. “Wait here,” he said to the sergeant. “There’s one still alive.” He took out his Beretta, opened the door, and got out, running over to the vehicle.
Zaheed dropped heavily to the pavement, sitting upright for a moment and then falling on his elbows, twisting to one side. Jack knelt beside him, and he gestured weakly with one arm. “They’ve taken Costas. Not Al-Shabaab. The Badass Boys. I recognized them from the fishing village. One of them was the Boss. They headed off in a Toyota, going north.”
Jack could see where a bullet had penetrated Zaheed’s chest under his left arm, one place that was not protected by the body armor. He coughed, bringing up blood, and then lay back, a slew of blood spreading beneath him from the wound and more coming from his mouth and nose. Jack knelt down and held his head, trying to make him more comfortable. His face was ashen, and he coughed more blood, this time weakly. “Jack,” he whispered, his breath rasping. “In my wallet.”
Jack quickly felt in the zip pocket of the combat trousers Zaheed was wearing and pulled out his wallet, opening it up. Zaheed raised one arm weakly and fumbled in it, half pulling out a photo and then letting his arm drop. Jack pulled it out completely, showing it to him. “I can’t see it,” he whispered, barely audible, his eyes staring sightlessly past Jack. “My wife and daughter. We talked about them. I wanted you to see them.” His face crumpled, and then he was gone, his eyes half open and his jaw slackening.
Jack pulled off the blood-soaked scarf that Zaheed had been wearing and placed it over his face, then got up and looked around. Already a crowd was gathering, the children with the glazed eyes of those who were used to this kind of scene, their minds already elsewhere. A police car swerved up onto the pavement, and he could see two African Union armored cars hurtling toward them from the perimeter post. The police would assume that this had been an Al-Shabaab attack, and soon the whole area would be in lockdown, roadblocks in every direction. If he did not get out now, he could be trapped here for hours.
Jack knew he had no time for sentiment, only for cold, clinical reaction. Costas would be kept alive only as long as he was useful to the kidnappers’ paymaster, and that might be no longer than the instant of their arrival at the island and their discovery of the U-boat pen. He stepped away from Zaheed’s body, keeping the wallet and the photograph, and ran back to the jeep, where the marines had stayed put with their weapons at the ready. He jumped back into the passenger seat and turned to the sergeant. “I need you to take me to the Somali navy command center. You know where it is?”
“Yes, sir. We help train their marines.”
“I’ve got to get there now.”
“I should get clearance.”
Jack gestured at the naval ID card for the embassy that was still hanging from his neck. “You know who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’ve got all the clearance you need.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant shoved the gearstick forward and roared off, swerving around a corner and then hurtling along the main road parallel to the shore in the direction of the naval headquarters. “We can’t use lights and sirens, as it makes us a target for Al-Shabaab,” he said, dropping a gear to pass a donkey cart. “Fortunately there are no speed limits.”
Jack was coursing with adrenalin, his hands shaking. He took out his phone and punched the number he had preset for Captain Ibrahim. The phone was answered almost immediately, and Jack quickly filled him in. “This is what I’d like you to do. We go ahead with the mission as planned. You dispatch the patrol boat toward the island, with a marine contingent on board. We can’t know for certain that’s where they’ve taken Costas, but if the kidnappers were who Zaheed said they were, then there’s a good chance they’ll drive him up the coast and put him on the trawler. But I’d like to take a small diversion first, if you can help me. The Somali defense force has a couple of Hueys, right? I’d like to be dropped on Deep Explorer. There’s someone on board I need to have a word with. And you might want to follow that up by sending a team to intercept them with your second patrol boat. I have a feeling Deep Explorer will be changing course and heading into Somali territorial waters, without permission and with suspicious intent. You won’t even need to invoke international law to seize them.”
He gave Ibrahim the license plate number of the jeep they were in so that the naval guards at the compound would be forewarned, and then he pocketed the phone and stared ahead, bracing himself against the potholes and bumps in the road. They would be there in ten minutes, probably less. He felt preternaturally alert, as if he were seeing the people they were passing in slow motion, slow enough for him to scrutinize them as threats. He knew that it was the result of adrenalin, a natural defense mechanism. He thought of Zaheed. He was still clutching the picture, the blood already drying on it. Zaheed had planned to stop by his home on the way back that afternoon so that Jack could meet his wife and daughter. They had talked about the trials and joys of fatherhood, and Jack had told him about Rebecca. When this was all over, he would go and see Zaheed’s family. Right now, there was only one thought running through his head, only one thing he had to do. Payback.
Four hours later, Jack gazed out over the Indian Ocean from the door of the UH-1N Twin Huey as the distinctive red hull of Deep Explorer came into view, her wake showing that she was continuing to steam north toward Socotra, exactly as the satellite surveillance images had revealed. He leaned forward beside the door gunner, his helmet muffling the worst of the rotor noise and his visor giving the sea an unearthly green hue. He remembered the last time he had seen Deep Explorer, two weeks earlier, as he and Costas were taken off by the British Army Lynx following their dive on Clan Macpherson.