The Outlaw (21 page)

"Sensor copies."

"Confirm your weapons loadout, Sensor 107."

"Two Hellfire missiles, Bluebird."

"Copy that. Deploy one missile to destroy the camp, over."

"Sensor copies."

"Fire at your discretion."

"Sensor copies, over and out."

The joysticks in Shaun's hands and the pixelation of the infrared image made this procedure feel like an old-fashioned video game. But the bomb he was about to drop was very real indeed. As were the people in the camp. This was going to be his sixteenth drop, and it was just as scary now as it was the very first time.

The missile itself consisted of a container of fuel and two separate explosive charges. On release the missile would fall toward the ground, adjusting its course to home in on its laser designator. A hundred meters from the ground, the first explosive charge would burst open the container and a dense cloud of fuel would disperse across the entire camp. The second charge would then ignite the cloud. In a wide-open space like this, the blast wave would be immense. The target marquee would implode immediately like an aerosol can in a bonfire. The massive tree in the center of the camp would be reduced to a pile of cinders. Anyone within five kilometers of the blast center would implode or asphyxiate.

"You're looking a bit peaky there, Sensor," drawled Susie.

"I'm fine," said Shaun.
At least, I will be,
he thought,
once the prelaunch checklist starts.

There were two checklists to go through. The prelaunch checklist was for the laser designator; the launch checklist was for the missile itself.

"Let's go then," said Susie. "PRF code?"

"Entered."

"AEA power?"

"On."

"AEA bit?"

"Passed."

"Weapon power?"

"On."

"Weapon bit?"

"Passed."

"Code weapons."

"Coded."

"Weapon status?"

"Weapon ready."

"Prelaunch complete," said Susie. "Go ahead and fire the laser designator."

The
gray light of dawn filtered through the curtains of the embassy bedroom, where Mr. and Mrs. Knight had spent hours in anxious discussion and fretful half sleep. Mrs. Knight had finally gotten to sleep at three o'clock in the morning, but the ambassador was still wide-awake and staring gloomily at the ceiling. It was a great relief that Jake and Kirsty were homeward bound, but the new worry was the security of the British embassy. Would the surviving members of FIMO blame the embassy for yesterday's humiliation, and if so, what terrible revenge might they be preparing?

Then there was the matter of his precious Dakar—a glorious beast of a bike that had simply vanished into thin air. If he ever caught up with that blinking thief, he would make him wish he'd—
What's that sound?

A sudden creak from down the hall made the ambassador's blood run cold, but it was only the taps being turned on in the guest bathroom. Roy Dexter, another source of worry. A monster, Jake had called him. Was it possible that his son was right? Could Dexter really have persuaded the Ministry of Defense to send a Predator to Sor's camp? The ambassador tutted at the very thought of it. Yakuuba Sor was a thorn in the side of the Burkina Faso authorities, but he was clearly no terrorist—more of a Robin Hood, by the look of him.
If it turns out that Dexter
has
sent the hawks to Sor's camp,
vowed Mr. Knight,
I will see to it personally that he never works for MI6 again. The only gun he'll be using will be a pricing gun for stocking shelves in his local supermarket.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony sounding from the cell phone on the bedside table. He picked it up.

"Knight speaking."

"Quentin!" His sister's voice on the other end of the line was strained and tearful. "I don't know what to do. Kirsty is here, but Jake is not!"

"Don't be alarmed, Rosemary—that's typical of our Jake. He almost always gets held up at customs. The harder he tries to look innocent, the guiltier he—"

"No, you don't understand. Kirsty says that he never got on the plane in the first place!"

"What?"

"He's still in Burkina Faso, Quentin. He took your motorcycle. Kirsty says he's gone back to Yakuuba's camp, whatever that means."

Mr. Knight sat bolt upright in bed. "Put her on the line," he snapped.

The
Red Cross marquee was empty save for a solitary figure in the corner.

"
Salaam aleykum,
" said Jake, hurrying toward him.

"
Aleykum asalaam,
" replied Yakuuba. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to a kerosene lamp, the only light source in this vast, dark space. "You should not have come,
tuubaaku
"

"Your slingshot," panted Jake. "I had to come and warn you. There is a tag on your slingshot."

Yakuuba reached into his pocket and took out a tiny black disc.

Jake stared at the tracker tag. "You found it already?"

Yakuuba nodded. "During that fight outside the embassy, a lot of my stones were hitting their targets a centimeter too low. When that starts happening, you know that your slingshot is wrongly weighted."

Incredible,
thought Jake.
That chip must weigh only a couple of grams at most.
"It's a GPS tracker," he said out loud. "It means the
tuubaakus
and the police can follow your every movement."

"Clever." Yakuuba put the disc back in his pocket. "I thought it might be something like that."

"So why bring it back to the camp?" Jake felt a sudden surge of anger. "You've played right into your enemies' hands. Now they know exactly where you and your people are!"

"I wanted them to," said Yakuuba. "I am waiting for them. And you,
tuubaaku,
should leave while you have the chance. This is not your battle."

"I'm staying," said Jake. "And if you've got the idea that there's going to be some kind of epic battle here, you can forget it. The biggest swarm of bees in the world couldn't save you now. Your entire camp is going to be destroyed in the blink of an eye by one horrific bomb."

Yakuuba rested his chin on his hands and smiled. "One day," he said softly, "Yakuuba Sor will be sitting in his tent, and he will hear the sound of a skyboat. He will go outside and he will lift his gaze and he will wonder why that skyboat is flying so low. And that will be the last thought he ever thinks, for Death will swiftly fall upon his head like mango rain from a clear sky."

"You're a maniac," said Jake. "If you've already given up on life, then fine, but don't make all your friends here die with you. We have to wake them all up and evacuate."

"They've gone already," said Yakuuba. "I gave the evacuation order yesterday morning, before we left for Ouagadougou. I have a good nose for danger, my friend. As soon as I heard on the radio that I was wanted for kidnapping two
tuubaakus,
I knew that it was time for the Friends of the Poor to relocate."

Jake reeled. "Where have they gone?"

"Another secret location," said Yakuuba. "They will be able to make a new start, and Mariama will be their leader. Thanks to the reward your father gave me, they now have sufficient funds to set up a new camp. I left the money with Hassan and Husseyni when I passed through Djibo last night."

"So there's nobody left here?"

"Just me," said Yakuuba. "And now you."

"Yakuuba, you have to listen to me," said Jake. "I've got my dad's motorcycle outside. If you come with me now, there might still be time for us to get away."

The outlaw shook his head. "Thank you for your kindness," he said. "But this time the police must get their man."

"Why must they? You are cleverer than any of them, and quicker. You told me yourself, the hero of most African folktales is not the lion or the bear, but the rabbit. You can continue to fight!"

"And how many more people would choke in the dust of that fight? People like Dr. Saudogo and Abdul, whose only crime was to be in the same place as me."

"Those people gave their lives to protect you," said Jake. "They thought your life was worth saving, didn't they? This country is full of pain and injustice, of course it is, but you give people hope. Why do you think I came here?"

Yakuuba sighed. "It's Beogo," he said. "He wants me so badly, he's completely out of control. If a man kidnaps
tuubaaku
teenagers today, just imagine the evil he will do tomorrow."

"Beogo won't be doing anything tomorrow. He's dead."

Yakuuba looked up sharply. "Are you sure?"

"Died of his bee stings, right in front of me. Now are you coming with me or not?"

"You are a good friend,
tuubaaku,
" replied Yakuuba, and for a moment Jake thought he saw tears in the outlaw's eyes. "I thank you for that."

"Fine, no problem, let's get out of here."

"No." Yakuuba leaned back on his elbows. "You go,
tuubaaku.
I am too tired to run anymore."

Jake stood over the Chameleon and clenched his fists. He wanted to shout, rage, grab the outlaw by his collar, drag him to the bike. But a wrestling match here in the marquee would only make things worse. He shrugged and sat down on the ground.

"What are you doing?" said Yakuuba.

"I don't know. I thought I'd keep you company."

Yakuuba nodded gravely. "We're the same, you and I," he said. "We even have the same name."

"I know."

The two Jacobs sat side by side, staring at the lamp. The flame flickered violently as it burned its last few drops of kerosene.

"Men like us do not live till old age," said Yakuuba. "We ignite, we flare up for one short moment, and then we get snuffed out. The important thing, Jake, is not how long we burn but how bright."

We flare up for one short moment. Of course!

Jake jumped to his feet and ran outside.

Initiating
launch checklist," said Susie Cray.

"Ready and waiting," murmured Shaun Marshall, his gaze flickering over the monitors before him.

"MTS autotrack," said Susie.

"Established."

"Select weapon."

"Hellfire AGM-114N."

An unwanted image flashed across Marshall's mind—a group of protesters outside the Houses of Parliament, placards bobbing in the air above their heads. UCAVs: UTTERLY COWARDLY AIR VEHICLES read one. THERMOBARIC = BARBARIC! shrieked another.

"Arm missile," said Susie.

"Missile armed."

Shaun's eye was attracted to a sudden movement in the central monitor: a small figure darting out of the marquee and hurrying over to the waiting motorcycle.

"Where are you off to, pal?" breathed Shaun. But the figure was not going anywhere. He seemed to be kneeling down next to the bike.

"Master arm is hot," said Susie. "Fire missile at the count of three."

Shaun gripped the joysticks tight, and his right thumb hovered over the red button.
Perhaps those protesters were right,
he thought.
Press a button in the Chilterns, people die in the Sahara. Can it be fair to fight a war without even turning up for it?

Fair or not, he knew what he must do. This bomb was going to drop.

"Three ... two ... one..."

The screen was momentarily obscured by a bright flash.

"Target toasted!" Susie Cray punched the air. "Excellent job."

Shaun stared at the screen. "I haven't fired yet," he said.

"You
what?
What was that explosion?"

"It was a distress flare," said Shaun.

"Squash 'em, quick, before they launch another one!"

"Where would they have got a distress flare?"

"What does it matter, Shaunie? Terrorists are like magpies—they collect all sorts of strange things. Do your job, will you, and put the critters out of their misery!"

Shaun sighed, reached for the joysticks, and put his finger on the fire button. Susie was right, of course. He must suppress his qualms and do the job he was being paid for.

The blue light on the console was flashing. Shaun opened the coms channel and spoke into his headset microphone. "This is Sensor 107, receiving."

"Sensor 107, this is Bluebird. Do not fire on the target! I repeat, do not fire on the target! There is a British national on the ground at target location. It's the son of the British ambassador."

Vermilion
and purple swaths of watercolor dawn bled gradually through the black of night. The sky lightened in the east, and up over the dunes arose a fiery sun. Six o'clock in the morning and still no sign of Hellfire.

The two Jacobs sat outside the Red Cross marquee, eating biscuits and raisins from an emergency ration pack. In the last few minutes, the poor Dakar had been thoroughly disemboweled; tools, glow sticks, bandages, vitamin tablets, and other miscellaneous entrails lay strewn across the sand. For now, though, food and water were all that was needed.

"Ostriches are not like other birds," murmured Yakuuba, running his finger across the surface of a digestive biscuit.

"Go on, try it," Jake said. "Whenever I feel like ending it all, I eat one of those instead. Makes me feel a whole lot better."

The outlaw took one bite of the biscuit and winced.

"Come on," said Jake. "It can't be as bad as a calabar bean."

Yakuuba laughed. "Tell me something," he said. "Did you mean what you said about me giving people hope?"

"Sure," said Jake. "I saw it in Paaté's eyes when you both told me about that duel between you and Beogo. I heard it in Abdul's voice when he sang that stupid song about the cow prison. I felt it in the marquee the other night when you exposed Sheikh Ahmed for what he was. Forty boys and girls throwing goat bones and sandals into the air—they can't all be wrong, can they?"

Yakuuba pressed his fingertips together and looked up at the sky. "I've been thinking," he said. "I'm not sure Mariama is completely ready to lead the Friends of the Poor on her own. If we don't get blown up in the next few minutes, perhaps I should join them at the new camp. I could support Mariama while she gets used to leadership."