Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination (23 page)

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

“All right. If it makes you feel better, a certain unpredictability of movement is no bad thing. The agent we had lined up to meet you just got himself shot.”

Oh my God. Oh my God.
“Was that his body I just saw on the way into the airport? Was it my fault? Were they trying to get me?”

A dispatcher in a luminous yellow jacket put his head round the door.

“No, no, nothing to do with you,” said Widgett.

“Better ring off,” mouthed Brown. “They’re about to shut the doors.”

“Professor Widgett, the plane’s about to leave.”

_p. 251
“All right, jolly good. Off you go now,” said Widgett. “Don’t miss the flight after all this. Good luck and oh, er, with, er, Feramo . . . Probably best to play along with this little fantasy he has about you as long as you can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know . . . these types that build a girl up, put her on a pedestal, are inclined to turn a bit nasty when the imaginary edifice crumbles. Just, er, keep him where you want him. Keep your wits about you. And, remember, Rich is just a shout away in the Red Sea.”

Olivia rushed onto the plane, finding the carpet thrust into her arms as the doors closed. She tried vainly to shove it into the overhead locker under the baleful stare of the stewardess. It was only as the captain turned off the
FASTEN SEAT BELT
signs and they were leaving the lights of Cairo behind, as she looked down at the vast, empty darkness of the Sahara, that she had time to digest what Widgett had said. She realized that the wiser course might have been not to get onboard the plane at all.

Port Sudan, Red Sea Coast, Eastern Sudan

_p. 252
S
cott Rich stood on the deck of the CIA dive ship USS
Ardèche
waiting for the lights of Olivia’s approaching flight to appear in the night sky. The shoreline of the Sudan, dotted with the flickering red lights of fires in the desert, was a black shape against the darkness of the sky. The sea was utterly calm. There was no moon, but the sky was bursting with stars.

He heard the roar of the jet engine before the lights appeared, as the plane began its descent over Port Sudan. He slipped back belowdeck and flicked switches, the control deck before him humming into life. In a few minutes’ time, the GPS would pick up the signal from Olivia’s earring. Abdul Obeid, CIA agent, holding a Hilton sign, would pick her up in Arrivals and bring her to the harbor and a waiting launch. Before the first light of dawn, she would be aboard the USS
Ardèche
and out of reach of Feramo.

Scott Rich’s face broke into a rare smile as a red light flashed up on the screen. He pressed a switch. “We’ve got her,” he said. “She’s at the airport.”

As Olivia followed the line of somnambulant passengers into the scruffy Customs hall, she found herself drifting into her usual African-airport, hibernating-tortoise mode. She saw the passport control guys in their brown Formica booths, drowning in bits of paper. It always baffled her how they kept track of anything without com
_p. 253
puters, but somehow they did. The one time she’d tried to enter Khartoum without the correct visa she had found herself spending twelve hours in custody in the airport. And the next time she had arrived, they somehow remembered and shoved her in the cage again. As she reached the front of the queue and handed over her papers, the man behind the desk stared at them, apparently blankly, and said, “One moment please.”

Bugger,
she thought, trying to maintain a pleasantly bland expression. There was no more stupid thing you could do than lose your temper with an official in Africa. A few minutes later the man reappeared, accompanied by a stout official in khaki military uniform, the belt squeezed far too tightly around his gut.

“Come with me please, Ms. Joules,” said the stout man, flashing white teeth. “Welcome to Sudan. Our honored friends are expecting you.”

Good old MI6,
she thought, as the portly officer ushered her into a private office.

A man dressed in a white djellaba and turban appeared at the door and introduced himself as Abdul Obeid. She gave him a quiet nod of complicity. It was all going to plan. This was the CIA local agent. He would take her to the Hilton, providing her on the way with a gun (which she had resolved to lose as soon as possible), and give her an up-to-date briefing incorporating any changes of plan. She would call Feramo, take a night to rest at the Hilton and prepare her kit and meet him in the morning. Abdul Obeid escorted her to a car park at the side of the office, where a smart four-wheel drive was waiting, a driver at the open door.

“You heard that Manchester won the Cup?” she said, settling into the backseat as the vehicle roared out of the car park. Abdul was supposed to reply, “Do not speak to me of that because I am a supporter of Arsenal,” but he said nothing.

She felt a slight twinge of unease. “Is it far to the hotel?” she said. It was still dark. They were passing corrugated-iron shanties.
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There were figures sleeping by the roadside, goats and stray dogs picking at garbage. The Hilton was close to the sea and the port, but they were heading towards the hills.

“Is this the best way to the Hilton?” she ventured.

“No,” said Abdul Obeid abruptly, turning to fix her with a terrifying stare. “And now you must be silent.”

Eighty miles east, in the Red Sea midway between Port Sudan and Mecca, the full might of the American, British and French Intelligence services and special forces was gathered on the aircraft carrier USS
Condor,
focused on the whereabouts of Zaccharias Attaf and Agent Olivia Joules.

In the control room of the dive ship USS
Ardèche,
Scott Rich was staring, expressionless, at the small red light on his screen. He pressed a button and leaned forward to the microphone.

“
Ardèche
to
Condor,
we have a problem. Agent Obeid has failed to make contact at the airport. Agent Joules is traveling at sixty miles per hour in a southwesterly direction towards the Red Sea hills. We need ground forces to intercept. Repeat: ground forces to intercept.”

Olivia calculated that they were about forty miles south of Port Sudan and somewhat inland, following the line of the hills which ran parallel to the sea. They had long ago left the road behind, and she was conscious of rough terrain, land rising sharply to their left and desert scents. She had made several attempts to extract weaponry from her bag until Abdul Obeid had caught her at it and flung the bag into the back. She had weighed up the possible benefits of trying to kill or stun the driver and decided there was little to be gained. Better let them lead her to Feramo, if that was where they were going. Scott Rich would be on her trail.

The vehicle screeched to a halt. Abdul opened the door and pulled her out roughly. The driver took her bag out of the back and threw it to the ground, followed by the carpet, which seemed to have become even more unwieldy and landed with a heavy thud.

_p. 255
“Abdul, why are you doing this?” she said.

“I am not Abdul.”

“Then where is Abdul?”

“In the carpet,” he said, climbing back into the car with the driver and slamming the door. “Mr. Feramo will meet you here at his convenience.”

“Wait,” said Olivia, staring horrified at the carpet. “Wait. You’re not going to leave me here with a body?”

In response, the vehicle started to reverse, executed a dramatic hand-brake turn and roared off back the way it had come. If she had had a gun, she could have shot out the tires. As it was, she gave in, sank down on her bag and watched the taillights of the four-wheel drive until they disappeared, and the roar of the engine faded into nothing. There was the cry of a hyena, then only the vast ringing silence of the desert. She found herself thinking of Widgett talking about the terrorists’ war on the West, and how it was rooted in deserts and history and real and imagined slights which couldn’t be eradicated by armies or bluster; and she felt helpless. She glanced at her watch. The local time was 3:30
A.M.
Dawn would come within the hour, followed by twelve hours of unforgiving blistering African sun. She had better get busy.

As the first rays of the sun crept over the red rocks behind her, Olivia regarded her handiwork wearily. Abdul was buried under a thin covering of sand. Initially she had placed a cross of sticks at the head because that was what seemed normal on a grave; then she realized that this was a pretty major faux pas in these parts and changed it to a crescent made out of stones. She wasn’t sure if that was right either, but at least it was something.

She had carried her belongings a good distance away, trying to escape from the smell and the aura of death. Her sarong was stretched between two boulders to make some shade. The plastic sheet was spread out on the rocky earth below, and on it was a chair made out of her bag and bundled sweatshirt. The embers of a
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small fire were burning beside it. Olivia was tending to her water-collection point: a plastic carrier bag stretched above a hole she’d dug in the sand, pebbles weighting it in the center. She lifted it, carefully shaking down the last drops of water, and took out the survival tin from underneath. There was half an inch of cold water in the bottom. She drank it slowly, with pride. With the supplies she had in her bag she could survive here for days. Suddenly she heard hoofbeats in the distance. She scrambled to her feet and hurried to the shelter, rummaged in the bag and found her spyglass at the bottom. Looking through it, she saw two horsemen, maybe three, in colored clothing. Rashaida, not Beja.

I hope it’s Feramo,
she thought to herself in denial, turning him back into a romantic hero, because that was the best shot at mental comfort she’d got.
I hope he’s coming to get me. I hope it’s him.

She ran a brush through her hair and checked her equipment. Fearing separation from her kit, she had stashed as much weaponry as possibly on her person—behind the booster pads in her bra, in the lining of her hat and the pockets in her shirt and chinos. The absolute essentials were in the bra—the dagger and tranquilizer syringe acting as underwiring. The flower in the center hid another tiny circular saw and in the booster pad she had concealed the digital micro-camera, the blusher-ball gas difïuser, a waterproof lighter and the lip salve, which was actually a flash.

She ate one muesli bar, slipped another two into her chinos and checked the contents of her bum bag: Maglite torch, Swiss Army knife, compass. Hurriedly, she dismantled the water-collecting device, repacked her survival tin and shoved that in the bum bag too, with the carrier bag.

As the sound of hooves grew louder, she focused hard on her training—keep your spirits up by looking on the bright side; keep your mind alert and the adrenaline pumping by preparing for the worst—when she heard a single gunshot. She didn’t have time to look, or think, as she flung herself flat on the ground.

_p. 257
A
t a little after 9:00
A.M.
the heat was still bearable. The Red Sea was glassily flat, the red rocks of the shore reflecting in the blue water. In the operations room of the USS
Ardèche,
the smell of frying bacon drifted over from the galley. Scott Rich sat slumped over the desk as the sibilant voice of Hackford Litvak, the head of the US military operation, oozed over the system.

“We have had no movement whatsoever within the last four hours. The possibility of finding her alive is rapidly decreasing. What is your view, Rich?”

“Affirmative. In all likelihood she is dead,” he said, without moving from his slump.

“Oh, don’t be so bloody dramatic.” Widgett’s camp bellow burst out from the desk. “Dead? It’s only nine o’clock in the morning. She’s never been an early riser. Probably fast asleep with a Beja.”

Scott Rich straightened up, a flicker of life returning to his expression. “This particular GPS is sensitive to an unprecedented degree. It picks up movements during sleep and at certain ranges can detect breathing.”

“Oh la-di-da-di-da. You sure the bloody thing isn’t broken?”

“Professor Widgett,” purred Hackford Litvak, “in November 2001, your British security services berated us for delay in reacting to intelligence that bin Laden was hiding in the southern Afghan mountains.”

“Quite right too,” said Widgett. “Bloody bunch of idiots. Our
_p. 258
lot were ready to go in, but oh no, you had to do it. By the time you’d finished arguing about who was going to do the honors, bin Laden had buggered off.”

“Which is why, this time, we want to move in immediately.”

“What’s that English expression?” said Scott quietly on Widgett’s private channel. “Hoist with one’s own petard?”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Widgett.

“Professor Widgett?” said Hackford Litvak.

“Yes, I heard. This is a completely different scenario. We have an operative on the ground, trusted by the target with whom she has a rendezvous. She is our best chance not only of finding him, but of finding out what he’s up to. If you lot go barging in with all guns blazing, in this case I fear, quite literally, we’ll get nothing. Hold back. Give her a chance.”

“You are suggesting we give a chance to a dead operative?”

“Jesus Christ, Litvak, you sound like a machine.”

“What is your view, Rich?” said Litvak.

Scott Rich blinked. It was a long time since he had found himself incapacitated by his emotions. He leaned forward, his hand on the microphone switch and paused for a second, collecting his thoughts. “Sir, I think you should send the Navy Seals into the Suakin caves,” he said. “And get undercover operatives into the hills immediately to retrieve the GPS and”—a split-second pause—“the body.”

“Oh dear,” said Olivia, “I’ve lost my earring.”

Clutching her bare earlobe, she pulled hard on the reins to bring her stallion to a halt and looked down, appalled, at the sand.

The Rashaida behind her slowed his mount, shouting to his companion to stop. “There is problem?” he said, bringing his horse alongside hers.

“I lost my earring,” she said, pointing first to one ear, then the other, in helpful illustration.

_p. 259
“Oh,” said the tribesman, looking genuinely concerned. “You want I search?”

As the other Rashaida, who was riding ahead of them, pulled up his horse and started to trot back, Olivia and the first Rashaida looked back across the landscape of sand and scrub they had spent the last five hours traversing.

“I don’t think we’re going to find it,” she said.

“No,” he said. They continued to stare. “Much money, he cost?”

“Yes.” She nodded very hard then frowned. Oh dear. This was very bad. The GPS cost very, very much money. They were not going to be pleased about this. Nor were they going to be able to find her.

She thought for a moment. There was a chance she could turn on the transmitter in the short-wave radio. Her orders were not to waste the battery and to use it only when she was transmitting an important message, but surely this qualified as an important message? Her bag was on the horse of the other Rashaida. The scarier of the two, he was dressed in a red robe and black turban. He was Bad Rashaida Cop. The Good Rashaida Cop, despite his fierce appearance, was turning out to be a sweetie.

“Muhammad!” she shouted. Both men looked up. Unfortunately they were both called Muhammad. “Er, could I get into my bag?” she said, gesturing at the back of Bad Rashaida Cop’s horse. “I need to get something.”

He stared at her for a moment, flaring his nostrils. “No!” he said, turning his horse back to the path ahead. “We go.” He dug in his heels, cracked his whip and shot off, at which the other two horses whinnied excitably and shot off after him.

Olivia’s exposure to higher levels of horsemanship had, hitherto, been limited to the occasional two-minute canter during a pony trek. The insides of her thighs were so agonizingly bruised that she didn’t see how she could go on. She had tried every conceivable
_p. 260
position: standing up, sitting down, sliding back and forth with the horse, sliding up and down with the horse, and had succeeded only in bruising herself from every possible angle so that there was no millimeter left of her legs which didn’t hurt. The Muhammads, camel-like, seemed to require neither food nor drink. She had eaten three muesli bars since dawn. Nevertheless, the whole thing still struck her as something of an adventure. When else would she get to gallop through the Sahara alone with two Rashaida, unencumbered by tour guides, jeeps from Abercrombie & Kent, overweight Germans and people trying to sell you gourds and getting you to pay them to do dances?

But then, Bad Cop Rashaida ordered them to stop. He trotted a little distance ahead and vanished behind an outcrop of rocks. When he returned, he ordered Olivia to dismount and blindfolded her with a rough, evil-smelling black cloth.

Back on the USS
Ardèche,
Scott Rich was directing the onshore team towards the GPS. Three separate operatives, dressed as Beja, were approaching on horseback in a pincer movement. The line from Widgett in the UK crackled into life.

“Rich?”

“What?” said Scott Rich, eyelids lowering dangerously.

“Agent Steele, Suraya?”

“Yes?”

“She’s working for Feramo.”

“The source?”

“A Deniable in Tegucigalpa. He was taken in on another count. The poor half-witted fellow tried to claim diplomatic immunity by saying he was working for us. He told them he’d planted a bag of the white stuff in Joules’s room at our behest, then alerted the local police. The consular people got their local guys on the trail and it led straight to Suraya Steele.”

“Where is she now?”

“In custody. Debriefing. She spoke to Feramo late last night,
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it would seem. Maybe it was all for the best, eh?” said Widgett. “They bumped Agent Joules off pretty quickly, it would seem. No time for Feramo to, you know, get—”

Scott brought his fist down on the switch, cutting Widgett off in midflow.

Olivia spent the last stretch of the journey clinging to Good Cop Muhammad on the back of his horse. Once they had left the flat sandy base of the desert floor and turned into the hills, the route had become steep and was pitted with rocks. Olivia, on her own horse but blindfolded, had become a danger to herself and everyone around her. Good Cop Muhammad was being very sweet and gentle, though, encouraging her, telling her that Meester Feramo was waiting to greet her, that all would be good and that there would be treats when she arrived.

Hours later, Olivia was to remember that even at this point, blindfolded and captive, she was idiotically oblivious to the gravity of her situation. Had she been less carried away by adventure, she might have tried to press her advantage with Good Muhammad, squeezing her arms a little more tightly around his waist, leaning in a little closer, playing on the Rashaida’s gleeful lust for high-priced goodies by offering him the gold coins from her D&G belt. But she was light-headed from the heat and the jet lag, dehydrated, becoming delirious. Her imagination was full of the welcome ahead: Feramo with a bottle of chilled Cristal and a Bedouin treat prepared for the end of her journey—perhaps a torchlit feast with dancers, fragrant rice and three separate French vintages—in tented surroundings reminiscent of the trendier Marrakech holiday haunts featured in
Condé Nast Traveller.

When she felt herself pass from sun to shadow, it was with relief. When Good Cop Muhammad dismounted and helped her down, even though her legs would barely straighten or bear her weight and her inner thighs were so bruised they were going to be black, she beamed with pleasure. She heard voices, both male and female.
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She smelled musk and felt a woman’s hand slip into hers. The hand was guiding her forward. Olivia felt the brush of soft garments against her arm. The woman put her hand on the back of her neck, forcing her to bend it as Olivia caught her head against rock. There were hands behind her, pressing her forward. She was moving through a narrow, jagged entrance. She staggered unsteadily ahead, feeling the ground moving steeply downwards and realizing, even through the blindfold, that she was in blackness. The air was cool and damp. It smelled stale and musty. The woman removed her hand from Olivia’s neck. As Olivia stood to her full height, the woman’s light tread retreated. It was only as Olivia heard the groan and crunch of a heavy object being moved behind her that she realized what was happening.

For once in her life,
stop, breathe, think
was of no use at all. Her bag was with the Muhammads. As she started to yell and grab at her blindfold, a hand caught her viciously across the face, flinging her against the rock. She was trapped underground without food or water, in the company of a madman.