Devil’s Harvest Page 29

  A little while later, a woman in a pencil skirt brought Gabriel a tray with more tea, this time with sugar and biscuits.

  It took about an hour before Todd returned with Jane in tow. Two other men joined him: a nondescript official with piggy eyes and nasty acne scars on his cheeks and neck, and an older man, with wispy, greying hair. The older man seemed ill, his skin sallow and his hands continually fidgeting about his abdomen. There was a look of destitution etched into his once regal face. The two men were introduced to him as Undersecretary Smith and Air Marshal Bartholomew, though neither shook his hand. Bartholomew returned Gabriel’s searching gaze with tired, rheumy eyes.

  Jane appeared harried and unsure of how to relate to her husband, at first distant and barely smiling and then trying to hold his hand in a pathetic show of affection. There was something desperate about her obsequious responses to Todd. Gabriel had already gathered from Todd’s questioning that the MI6 man had had a prior ‘discussion’ with her: no doubt it had been a more protracted encounter. Her employment was almost certainly at risk, but nevertheless her slightly coquettish demeanour was annoying. Her hair appeared brassier than before, a colour extracted from chemicals rather than genes, and her breasts were unnaturally perky, sticking out horizontally from an overly tight top. Had she always looked and behaved like that, Gabriel wondered. How had he failed to notice it through all their years of marriage?

  Gabriel heard Todd clear his throat. Tactically, he would have to prevent the secret service agent from taking control. He had so aggressively insisted on the presence of these people, now was the moment he had to assert his demands. Gabriel rolled the AK-47 bullet out into the middle of the table. Todd’s eyes narrowed as he focused on his interviewee.

  ‘This comes from Jila Refugee Camp,’ Gabriel announced to his audience.

  Everyone watched the bullet as it rolled on the table top, eventually resting still on the shiny surface. Gabriel reached into the envelope and pulled out a cloth epaulet ripped from Al Babr’s uniform. He placed it face-up in the middle of the table as a card player might place a winning card in a game of poker. In retrospect, he realised looking down at the small patch, it may have been more dramatic if the fabric had been marked with the militiaman’s blood, but he’d torn it from the man’s jacket on the uninjured side, avoiding the still-spreading crimson stain across his uniform.

  Then Gabriel pulled out a single photograph, an A4-sized print of a young boy in the ravine at Malual Kon, lying in a broken heap on the rocks. Jane gave a little cry of anguish, and Gabriel felt his own heart stumble in its rhythm at the memory of the gulley.

  The rat-like bureaucrat stared coldly at the collection of artefacts in front of him. Only the air marshal seemed disturbed, glancing from Gabriel to Todd and back again.

  ‘Your mercenary from Khartoum thought he’d destroyed my photographs. But, unfortunately for you, a memory card is harder to crush than the camera itself. I have many photographs of the mass grave at Malual Kon village, just like this one. And I have photographs of your agent, the South African, and your mercenary, The Tiger,’ Gabriel lied. ‘And I have photographs of Deng’s daughter, murdered in front of—’

  ‘Her body was never found,’ Todd interjected. ‘Even if she is dead, we had nothing to do with it. And we have no connection to any “tiger”.’

  Bartholomew leant across to Todd. ‘Mercenary? The Tiger? What the hell’s he on about?’ he asked hoarsely.

  Todd held up his hand to silence him and Bartholomew sat back and stared at Gabriel, bewildered. His nonplussed expression told Gabriel much: their fear didn’t lie in the carnage at the village. The shooting of Alek wasn’t what concerned them. They weren’t even worried about Jannie, their unsuccessful agent. It was all collateral to them. He would have to play all his cards.

  ‘Where is Deng’s daughter?’ Todd asked.

  Todd and Gabriel glared each other down for a few moments.

  ‘Safe. Where you’ll never find her,’ Gabriel answered, his jaw clenched.

  Gabriel retrieved his bullet and rolled it in his fingers to calm himself before continuing. ‘As you know, I was detained and searched thoroughly at Heathrow on my return. I’m aware that at Nairobi you’d already had your agents go through my bags. I know also what you were looking for. It is, I assure you, safely in the country.’

  Todd cocked his head, sizing up his opponent.

  ‘It’s an amazing service that UPS offers,’ Gabriel continued, trying not to gloat. ‘Even from a place like Juba. Delivery within days. To anywhere and anyone.’

  He noted the curl of Todd’s lips with some satisfaction. Sometimes the simplest of options provided the best solution.

  ‘So let’s not play games, gentlemen. I’ll come to the point. I have proof of a drone strike in South Sudan on a civilian target. I may not have the proof that this was carried out by our military, or that it was perpetrated at the request of Khartoum, but I imagine that once the media have finished with the story, a commission of inquiry will ascertain the true financiers of this little project.’

  The choice of the word ‘project’ had been entirely unintentional, but the effect on the air marshal was marked.

  ‘The Reaper Project has been shut down,’ the man blurted out.

  Todd hissed at him with a pained expression on his face.

  Gabriel had never heard of the Reaper Project, but from Todd’s reaction he understood that the air marshal had overplayed his hand.

  ‘Has it now?’ he pressed Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes, all contact with Khalid Hussein has been terminated. What is it that you want? Is it money you want? Who are you working for?’

  Gabriel had prepared a list of his demands, but neither Reaper nor Mr Hussein was on it. Rather than risk disclosing his ignorance, he left the list in the envelope and focused on recalling the items he’d written down while on the plane.

  ‘I’m an employee of the University of Bristol. I’m a botanist. I do not have a code name Birdman. I do not deal covertly in helicopter parts. I’m not an arms trader. I do not work for any international spy ring. The closest I’ve come to James Bond was at the release of the last 007 film, the name of which I now forget. And I don’t want money. I don’t wish to bring harm to this government …’

  Gabriel paused but it was difficult to assess what impact, if any, his speech was having on his audience, save for Jane who appeared to be regarding him with some kind of awe. The piggy-eyed official was paying attention for the first time, which Gabriel presumed was a good sign.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘this scandal certainly has the capacity to embarrass the British government internationally. The assassination of Matthew Deng is unforgivable. The collusion in the shooting of his daughter is something that cannot be wished away. It will remain with me for the rest of my life. So, indeed, Air Marshal, the termination of the project and all links to Mr Hussein would simply be the start. I would expect those involved to resign – at the very least.’

  Bartholomew paled somewhat at the suggestion, and Gabriel knew he had his man.

  ‘But I have some specific requirements of my own,’ he went on. ‘In return, I shall hand over to you one small rectangular piece of metal as well as an undertaking not to reveal its significance to any person outside of this room.’

  Todd looked furious, his fists balled like a child trying to restrain an impending tantrum.

  ‘What are these “requirements”? Need I remind you that these are matters of state security and we can just as easily lock you up for undermining the safety of this country? Did you know that the government of Khartoum planned to use that evidence to blackmail the government into concluding a disadvantageous arms deal? You’re now in danger of perpetuating that very insult.’

  ‘With all due respect, Todd, the only undermining of British stability has been at your hands and the hands of those involved in this debacle. My conditions are reasonable and easily met. However, should you decide to be difficult—’
>
  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Todd spluttered, ‘get on with it.’

  Gabriel paused for effect, though in truth he needed to gather his thoughts to make sure he didn’t leave out anything critical.

  ‘Firstly, and rather obviously, you’ll leave me and my wife entirely alone. Our possessions will be returned to us. We’ll not ever see you, have contact with you, be interfered with by you. Ever. Furthermore, I understand that my wife has been suspended pending further investigation into her role in this matter. You have my assurance that her part – whatever it might have been – was entirely coincidental. Loose morals do not equate to treason, not even on this cloistered little island. She is to be reinstated in her position, and her personnel file is to contain no mention of these events whatsoever.’

  Jane put her hand on Gabriel’s arm.

  ‘I thought you were estranged,’ Todd spat at him.

  ‘We are,’ Gabriel said, ignoring his wife’s touch. ‘And we are soon to be divorced.’ Jane withdrew her hand as if stung. ‘But the condition remains.

  ‘Secondly, I’ll prepare a dossier of photographs, physical evidence and a witness statement. This evidence will establish uncontrovertibly that members of the Sudan reserve police force, and a militia of Sudanese military, have conducted raids into the independent territory of South Sudan. It will document the destruction of Malual Kon village and other villages like it, and the killing of hundreds of innocent people. This dossier will be delivered by a suitably high-ranking official of the British ministry of foreign affairs to their counterpart in the government of South Sudan. It will thereafter be raised by the British representative of the Security Council at the United Nations at an emergency meeting of the Council.’

  Both Todd and the rat-faced man were observing him closely. Indeed, once Gabriel paused, he realised that all eyes in the room were on him, weighing each word. They had expected more, he understood now. They had anticipated retribution.

  ‘There are two more conditions. Both easily attainable, I believe.’ Todd’s eyes narrowed to malevolent slits. ‘Firstly, there’s a refugee camp in Unity State called Jila. It needs a new generator.’

  There was an expletive of released breath from one of the men at the table, Gabriel couldn’t be sure from whom. He focused on Todd.

  ‘The donation will not be done through a third-party NGO,’ he continued. ‘It’ll be given in the name of the British government. It’ll be delivered to the camp, care of its manager – her first name is Margie. You work out the logistics.’

  Todd sat back in his chair, his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘And Todd …’ – the man’s eyes returned to Gabriel like darts – ‘… contrary to your nature, be generous.’

  Todd seemed to hiss rather than acquiesce, but there was a clear lightening of the mood among the remaining listeners around the table. They were starting to realise that Professor Cockburn was not the renegade they had feared.

  ‘And, lastly, you’ll all attend my lecture on the outcome of my research project at the University of Bristol in a month’s time. It’s non-negotiable. You will all be there. In return for meeting these conditions, I will hand to you, Todd, the missing piece of the missile that is in my possession. Once all conditions have been satisfied.’

  Todd remained irritable, but the air marshal leant forward and rather theatrically put out his hand to Gabriel. ‘We have a deal, Professor. Absolutely. Absolutely, we have a deal.’

  Had he let them off too lightly, Gabriel suddenly wondered, relieved that he’d got this far, and now worrying that he could have gone further. He checked himself. Such is human greed: to achieve what you set out to attain, only immediately to wish that the goal had been set higher. He took Bartholomew’s hand and looked into the old man’s eyes. He saw many things in that moment of contact: relief, stress, compassion. And fear.

  Gabriel didn’t bother to look at Todd. The deal was done; he knew that. He felt a tugging at his side and turned to face Jane, her eyes puffy with tears.

  ‘Thank you, Gabriel. I hadn’t expected it of you. I’m so sorry for everything. I just think—’

  ‘The direction of my life has changed for ever, Jane.’ Gabriel gently pushed her hand from his arm and reclaimed his personal space. ‘And I don’t believe that we’ll find each other walking together on that path.’

  Jane looked crestfallen, and uncomfortable at the sincerity with which Gabriel had spoken in such a public forum. She appeared to be on the point of apologising to those still in the room, then turned back to Gabriel. ‘Thank you for thinking of me. In the conditions you set.’

  Gabriel gathered all the scorn he could muster. ‘Damn you, Jane. Damn you all and your bloody PlayStation wars.’

  Chapter 21

  BRISTOL UNIVERSITY, SOUTH-WEST ENGLAND

  Leaving Juba had been wrenching. Sitting in the quiet of his office, the familiar push of the ergonomic chair against the small of his back, Gabriel stared out at the spire of the Wills Memorial Building. For the first time since arriving back in Bristol, he had time to reflect on the events that had unfolded after the horror of Malual Kon village. Outside, the sleet pattered on the window pane, and cars hissed past, the road slick under their tyres. Somewhere a student shouted something to a friend, running together under one umbrella.

  Bristol remained unchanged by the travesties that befell others in the world. Yet now Gabriel realised that it wasn’t the strangeness of Juba that made him melancholy; rather, it was this ordered, obedient city with its cocooned population, eyes averted from one another. The unspoken judgements, the whinging complaints, the luxurious range of choices bewildered him. And the extraordinary absence of smell. There were odours, to be sure, the astringent bite of antiseptics and bleaches and cleaners, but it was a world devoid of the smells of natural human activity. Toilet sprays and rose eau de colognes assaulted him wherever he went. The ground beneath his feet was cleansed tar or cement, but he had no idea what the colour of the earth might be beneath High Street near the river, or whether it was similar in texture underfoot to the soil on St Michael’s Hill, or how its scent might change in the rain.

  South Sudan still clutched his heart – it felt close and yet far away, as he came to understand that he couldn’t possibly explain to anyone what he had experienced there. People asked him, like voyeurs hoping for a glimpse of another’s trauma, but he was unable to find the words to express himself. Only Hargreaves seemed to understand. Gabriel had started to tell his colleague about Juba, and Jila and Malual Kon. But with every word uttered, he felt as though he lost something, a remembered detail, a part of his person that, if shared, would be diluted and lost for ever. So he stopped, midstory, shaking his head. Hargreaves had nodded, understanding.

  ‘My dear boy, you must understand the most dangerous thing most of us have done is operate our cellphones while standing at a urinal. You can’t expect us to begin to appreciate what you’ve been through.’

  Gabriel was grateful for his colleague’s honesty and left the stories untold, for now.

  His return to England felt like an unfolding dream, or perhaps an unwaking nightmare, stretching from the bloody events at the village until the meeting at MI6. The drama was unrelenting, not slowing until he had finally walked out of their offices, giddy with released tension. He stared at his screen saver on his computer, at the yellow flowers of Arabidopsis, a hint of dew along the edges of each delicate petal.

  Alek had felt almost weightless as he had carried her back to the Land Cruiser. He walked like a blind man through the burnt village, thorn trees plucking at his clothes as if to hold him back. He’d dropped the gun and watched Jannie stumble. The South African had twisted his arm behind him as if trying to brush something off his back. After he fell, Gabriel had gone to her. He realised now, looking back, that he had expected her to stir when he touched her bare back, that he still hadn’t understood that the final shot was fatal. Alek seemed somehow above mortality, inured to common dangers like bullets fired
by ugly militiamen. He imagined that she would treat such obstacles with disdain, like a superhero fending off the feeble blows of lowlife criminals. But she did not stir and as he turned her over he saw, with shock, that she was as vulnerable to the violence of men as anyone else. The bullet had left a gaping exit wound just below her sternum. Her head flopped to one side and he knew that she was gone.

  He couldn’t remember how he had thought to collect the memory card from the broken camera or the metal fragment from Jannie lying still on the rocks. His vision had tunnelled, and he was aware only of the narrow pathway leading between the black shells of dwellings and cattle enclosures. He was oblivious to the afternoon heat searing down, the smoke in the sky drifting from the burning millet fields, the sickly smell of the carcasses. All he could feel was the soft, cooling skin of Alek on his bare arms, her body hastily wrapped in her torn dress, her blood sticky on his hands. In their time together, they had hardly touched, he realised now.

  He laid her on the back seat of the car, staining the dull fabric on the seat. He had to bend her long legs to fit her in, but there would be no more protest from her. As he closed the door he heard Al Babr’s men shouting some way off in the burnt village, then a burst of gunfire as they found something still living to shoot at. He had no fear for himself any more; perhaps he had passed the point of caring. His only focus was to get Alek’s body away from the village, as if that might somehow make things right again. The thought of her thrown into the gulley for the vultures and crows to pick at was unthinkable. He started the engine and gripped the steering wheel, slamming the gears into place as he made his way back along the road they had come along earlier that morning.

  He drove at speed, suppressing the sobbing in his chest, not once daring to look in the rear-view mirror. He kept his mind clear of any thoughts, any plans or strategies, looking straight ahead at the road and watchful for anything that might hinder his path. The fire in the fields was still raging and the road was dotted with displaced people making their way to a pretence of safety. He didn’t stop to drink or eat, keeping his foot on the accelerator, dust billowing out behind him. He had only the roughest idea of their route and yet he made his way – without deliberation – straight back to Jila camp.