Death in the Kingdom (38 page)

I'd been lucky, very, very lucky, thanks mainly to Alex's warning. Being burned alive covered with flames that even water couldn't put out was not my idea of a good end, if there were such a thing. Where was Sami and what the hell was he doing? I resisted the impulse to call him.

The sulphurous smoke curled up to the sky from a dozen places in the grass and bushes that fringed the track, where globs of burning phosphorus had landed. I looked back towards the village at the bridge. Two bodies lay sprawled on the track a hundred or so yards away. One of them wore the remains of a white outfit. I couldn't see Alex, but I figured he was around. The chopper was hovering over the village but the firing had stopped. I was too far away to see what exactly was going on.

Alex appeared in the tall grass across from me.

‘Not a fair fight, huh?' he said, nodding at the grenade strikes.

‘I didn't expect it to be,' I replied. ‘Any news? Did they get Chekhov?'

‘No word,' the Special Forces officer replied. ‘He could have been miles away.'

‘No. He wanted to see me burn up close and in person. He's here somewhere,' I said with absolute certainty.

‘We'd have spotted him.'

‘Chekhov is an ace jungle fighter. He's around here somewhere,' I replied. ‘Believe me, Alex, he wants me very dead but he needs to see me doing the dying. It's totally personal with him.'

‘Okay, I believe you,' the grim-faced soldier conceded with a nod. ‘He's got his tail between his legs about now.' He indicated the Jet Ranger that was heading nose-down along the bisecting road heading away to the west. They were obviously chasing something. ‘That's something he didn't expect.'

‘Neither did I,' I replied. ‘Nice touch!'

‘I thought so.' He almost smiled. ‘Let's head back.'

‘What about Sami?' I asked. Alex shook his head.

‘He's a jungle fighter,' the Special Ops man replied. ‘You said that, and he's on a mission. If you're right about Chekhov, he'll be hunting him.'

‘But what about the imager? X-Ray would have spotted him if he were there.'

‘Only if he was in a direct line of sight. If he was in a bunker, down a gut or had on a chill suit he'd be invisible to them.' Alex gave the order to move out.

Two of his team appeared twenty paces further up the track while the second pair came out onto the track twenty behind us. All of the troopers were carrying more weapons than they had gone into the bush with. Two of them had RPGs over their shoulders with their rockets still fitted. Another had an M60 machine gun complete with ammo belt in addition to his own MP5. We started back the way I had come, with Alex and I in the middle of the column. The guys at the rear walked backwards, eyes and weapons covering our retreat. I walked hunched, ready to dive for the river again. Alex just walked. He moved like a big cat in his clinging camouflage wetsuit, or whatever the hell it was.

‘Decoy to X-Ray. Any sign of our guys?' I used the communicator to at least give the illusion I was more than just bait.

‘Roger that,' came the reply. ‘We have images of friendlies working the ridge. No living bandits in sight. X-Ray out!'

‘Chopper has taken out an SUV loaded with bandits. No sighting of principal target. Control out!'

‘Damn,' I muttered to myself. If Chekhov were still alive—and I had every reason to believe he was—he had seriously underestimated me, or rather he had underestimated the resources that had been given me. He would never make the same mistake again, and there was absolutely no comfort in that for me. I lit a cigarette in defiance of the gut-busting steepness of the now heavily inclined track. The chopper thudded overhead, heading for a landing on the plateau above. I wished I were on it. What the fuck was Sami doing?

37

I was gasping when I reached the top of the track. Alex wasn't even breathing heavily. One of Sami's drug makers was standing beside the imager waiting for me.

‘Message from Mr Somsak,' he said in English. ‘In there!' He pointed to the hooch that Sami had gone into carrying Kim's head. I jogged to it, my lungs bursting. Got to give up the cigarettes, I thought as I took the half a dozen steps in one clumsy stride.

The hut was empty but for a bundle wrapped in silk sitting on a small table in the centre of the room. Beside it was a note. I grabbed the single sheet of paper. The words were in English, written in Sami's beautiful copperplated hand.

Daniel

I must avenge my family. If I return, so be it. If I do not return, please take care of Kim for me. Until we meet again.

Your friend

The Onion Man

I almost smiled at the way he'd signed off. I carefully folded the note and put it in my shirt pocket. I had to see what the hell was happening with Sami. Was Chekhov in the bush or back at his base? I ran back to the imager. Alex was standing at the operator's shoulder. ‘They're halfway down the ridge,' he said as I joined him. ‘If your theory about Chekhov wanting to watch you fry is true, he'll have positioned himself on the slope above the kill zone to get a good view. We never saw an image more than 200 yards above the track, normal rifle range. If he's higher and holed up we just wouldn't have seen him.'

‘Can I take a look?' I asked. Alex nodded.

‘This isn't Radio Shack but it isn't secret either,' he replied with a grin. The trooper working the unit moved to one side to let me settle my forehead against the rubber headpiece. The green infrared world of the heat sensor filled my vision. ‘Magnification left hand,' the trooper said, putting my left hand around a grip. ‘Forward or back, traverse with your right,' he instructed and I gripped the other handle. Firstly I pulled the magnification back and then moved the lens left to follow the ridge above the river. The ghostly images showed the cooling bodies of the dead as orange and yellow fading to blue. Two bright orange–red blobs part way down the line of the ridge had to be Jo and Sami.

The Special Forces boss had been right: Chekhov had to have been up there somewhere on the high ground as an observer, but far enough away to avoid being part of the fight. That was why Alex's men hadn't swept the high area after being guided to their targets by X-Ray. They were out to take down the combatants, not any spectators, so had stayed within easy rifle and RPG range of the road.

The gunshots sounded as a crisp three-round burst, followed two seconds later by another of the same. ‘M16,' Karl said. I could see only the figures of Sami and Jo in the imager. They were close together but I couldn't tell if they were lying or standing. Another burst of three rounds sounded.

‘Controlled fire,' the man from The A Team kneeling beside me said softly. ‘Trained shooter.'

‘Jo,' I said aloud. ‘Thai Special Forces.'

‘That's him then,' Alex replied. There was a rattle of full automatic fire and then a short burst from another weapon followed by the thump of a grenade. Then there was silence. We froze, waiting. I could still see my two figures, still close together. A few yards away, another figure miraculously appeared out of the green mist.

‘Got three images,' I said aloud. ‘One came out of nowhere.'

‘Underground,' Alex was saying. ‘Update. Sami, what's happening?' he called as I watched the three figures merge.

‘Got Chekhov,' came the call. It was Sami, his voice totally void of emotion in my earpiece. ‘He and two others were in a cave. The other two are dead. Chekhov is alive!'

‘Kill him!'I said.

‘My way, my time,' came the reply. ‘We're going down to the road. Please do not try and stop what will happen.'

‘Be careful!' was all I could think of to say. The only response was an almost chuckle from my old friend, then radio silence. I refocused on the imager. No way was the trooper getting it back. I pressed my face into the mask and watched as the three blobs of colour started to pick their way down towards the road. What was Sami planning?

The trio of multi-coloured figures were moving closer and closer to the road. They were a kilometre away from us but travelling directly across our line of vision from left to right. Who was who? There was no way I could decipher that through the imager. Maybe it was five minutes, maybe ten, until they were at the track, only yards from the edge of the jungle. I raised my head long enough to locate the switch on the side of the imager to change the vision from infrared to binocular and was nearly blinded as a bright, full-colour image flooded my vision.

I was just in time to see the gleam raised in the tall grass that fringed the track. It was the gleam of silver, of naked steel. ‘There,' I yelled to the others as Sami Somsak emerged from the jungle. In his right hand he carried his magnificent
katana
, while with his left he was pushing a figure ahead of him. Jo was walking behind Dimitri Chekhov, his M16 jammed in the man's back. ‘Yes,' I whispered.

I pulled the image in and Chekhov sprang into view, larger than life. He was dressed in sweat-soaked tiger-striped jungle fatigues, but his head was bare. The passage through the jungle and the heat of the day had flushed him, making his scars an angry red and silver colour. His mouth was moving. He was speaking to Sami but the actions weren't those of a man pleading for his life. Watching I could plainly see that the mad Russian was taunting his captor. Sami turned his head slightly at a comment from Jo, but he was shaking his head. They both had their communicators turned off. In fact, Sami was no longer wearing one. He was instead wearing a headband. It was white, with a red pattern through it. The red was Kim's blood. The cloth had been a piece of her shroud.

‘They're going to fight,' Karl was saying. I didn't tear my eyes away from the imager, but I knew that he and Alex had binoculars jammed to their faces. They were going to fight. Jo was moving, backing away from the pair, his rifle held at the ready position. He was leaving Sami and Chekhov standing a few feet apart in the centre of the track. At first I thought the cane knife Jo stooped to pick up was the one I had dropped, then I realised that it was the one dropped by the ersatz Chekhov an hour before. Mine was probably still in the river.

Jo walked back towards the two figures standing motionless in the sun facing each other. Chekhov was still talking. Under the magnification of my imager I could see that Sami stood impassively, his face set, showing no expression at all. Jo halted five or six yards away from the pair and lobbed the cane knife underarm towards Chekhov. The heavy knife raised dust as it spun to a stop beside the Russian's combat boots. Chekhov didn't pick it up immediately. I could see him still talking to Sami, grinning, grimacing. No doubt he was trying to unsettle his opposition. I could imagine the things he was saying, telling Sami what they had done to Kim before they had killed her. He would be saying anything he could to gain an advantage. Sami continued to stand motionless and emotionally unmoved, the long sword held low across his body.

There was spittle coming from the Russian's lips, his face mottled purple and crimson with silver worms through it as he worked himself into a frenzy. Finally Sami had heard enough. The blade of the
katana
swirled in the sunlight and Dimitri Chekhov earned another scar. This one was across his left cheek, where the delicate backhand sweep of the razor-sharp killing sword kissed it.

The Russian reacted as Sami no doubt knew he would. Chekhov clapped his right hand to his cheek and stooped amazingly quickly for a man of his bulk. He had the cane knife in his left hand and immediately went on the attack. Judging by the ferocity of that attack, the Russian was trying to force the long slim blade of the
katana
against the shorter more solid one of the cane knife and break it. Sami didn't oblige by leaving the blade of his sword hanging in the air as a target. He sent the blade of the
katana
swirling as he pirouetted, spinning away, altering the angle of Chekhov's attack. Chekhov stumbled at the sudden change of direction and the blade of the sword made contact again. This time with the Russian's right shoulder.

Chekhov stumbled, this time backwards. He almost fell. Blood spurted from his injured shoulder. He didn't hesitate to catch his breath or examine his wound. The Russian charged again, like a wounded, enraged bear attacking a smaller, lightning-fast wolverine. Sami caught the cane knife on an angled sword blade and deflected it away. Then he swept the
katana
in an arc aimed at Chekhov's head. The Russian went down on one knee but the long silver blade caught him high on his head and sent him into the dust. Sami had used the reverse side of the blade. If it had been the cutting edge, he would have opened Chekhov's head as one opens a hard-boiled egg.

‘He's playing with him,' Alex said. The Special Forces man was right. Sami was playing with the Russian. Dazed, Chekhov got back to his feet, the cane knife still clutched in his hand. The Russian's lips were moving again. I could imagine the words: ‘Stop dancing. Come and fight.'

Whatever was said, Sami obliged. He came at Chekhov weaving a dazzling vertical figure of eight in the air and sending the Russian stumbling backwards. Then the figure of eight became a horizontal line. ‘Jesus Christ,' Karl muttered. ‘I've never fucking seen anything …'

The CIA man never got a chance to finish his statement because Sami stepped through the Russian's defence and hammered the heel of the butt of the
katana
into Chekhov's face. The Russian went down again, blood now pouring from the wound in his forehead. Kneeling in the dirt, Dimitri Chekhov was looking up at his tormentor through a curtain of blood. He was shouting at Sami. Through the imager I could see the droplets of crimson spraying in the air. Sami was standing motionless, the sword once again resting across his body.

I had to give Chekhov credit for guts, if nothing else. He made it back to his feet and came at Sami again. This time Sami parried the cane knife with the blade of the sword. I could see the sparks as the blades kissed, raised and locked high. Chekhov tried to trip Sami, pushing him back, hooking with his left leg. But Sami had been there before. He twisted his body and brought his right knee up into Chekhov's groin. The Russian released his grip and pulled away.