Steve Abbott: Devil's Gambit

Training kicked in. Sean started to throw himself to the ground.

The ground under the man’s feet erupted in a ball of black and grey, with a ball of orange fire at its center. The observer disintegrated. The air over Sean’s head ripped apart as shrapnel flew in all directions. Luck was with the rest of the team. A large mound of wreckage protected them from the blast and debris. The shockwave hammered Sean into the ground. He cracked his head on the metal ring surrounding the mask’s faceplate. White noise filled his ears and eyes, then it all went black.

He woke on his hotel bed, surprised to be alive. Sean rolled over to check the time, every bone, tendon and muscle complained. He was confronted by the face of his counterpart, Bill Harris, another member of 22 SAS, assigned undercover like Sean but to another team.

Bill shook his head. “You’re getting slow in your old age, mate. Thought for sure we were going to have to zip you into one of those green bags and put your name on the clock tower.” Harris sat back in the chair he had pulled up beside the bed. “Shute says to tell you to lose some weight.”

Sean shook his head. It felt fuzzy. His ears were still ringing. Fragments of what had happened on the valley floor flickered through his head, “The observer behind me is he?”

Bill nodded slowly, “Dead.” He watched Sean’s face for a reaction. Many men had cracked from guilt, assuming they could have prevented disaster. “Want to talk about it?”

Sean shrugged his shoulders, “He left the path. If I hadn’t stopped and turned around, I’d be dead too.”

“Still.”

“Still, nothing. He fucked up and almost got me killed. I’m going to be deaf as fuck in my old age.”

Harris did not push it any further. In the SAS, trust was the foundation of teamwork and expertise. He had to trust Sean. Each man had his own way of dealing with things they had to see and do in their job. The best thing he could do for his friend was take him to get roaring drunk. Too bad the nearest drink was thousands of miles away.

“How are the rest of the team?”

“A bit shaken. They were lucky.” Harris looked Sean in the eye. “You must have been putting in overtime at the church on your last leave.”

Sean smiled, “No, but I hear Father Tim has the ladies tea group praying for the salvation of my soul.”

Harris roared at that one, “I’m amazed he even thinks you’re worth saving.”

Sean pulled himself up on the bed and swung his feet to the floor. The rapid movement made the room swim. “Well, ever since Mum and Dad died, I’ve been his special project. This time, I am not going to fault the good Father’s intentions.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Harris turned serious, “Shute’s worried you’re losing your perspective.”

“And?”

Harris shook his head, “Don’t get all defensive. If you’ve got a problem with this Op, talk to me. Leave the civvies out of it.”

A hint of anger crept into Sean’s voice, “I’m sick of talk. That’s all we ever do here. We go and look inside this or that suspected building, rifle through a few files and then go walking through a place you and I would stay the hell out of on a bad day. Today is just the capper. These people aren’t soldiers. They have no respect for the hardware.”

“You getting mad at Shute isn’t going to help.”

Sean put his head in his hands and rubbed at his temples. “I know, I know. Traipsing round all these depots is starting to get to me.”

“Do you want a relief sent out?”

A shake of the head, “Of course not. You know how that would look on my record. They’d have me out of the brigade in no time. God, I could use a drink.”

Harris chuckled, “You’re feeling better all right.” But there was still a tightness around his friend’s eyes and mouth. Harris had seen it before. In the SAS it was a look that could get you and your team killed.

Sean got to his feet. “Hell, I could be dead.” He felt around his body. “No important bits missing. Things could be worse.” Sean put on his shoes, “Come on you Welsh git, I’ll buy you an orange juice.”

Harris chuckled, “How this lot does it, I don’t know.”

Sean paused at the door and looked over his shoulder, “Haven’t you heard? We’re infidels, hardly worth pissing on.”

Andrew Verkatt turned the rented Ford off Marine Drive onto one of the waterfront’s side streets. Tidy modern warehouse and dock buildings gave way to run older, but still tidy warehouses. He thanked God for air conditioning. The heat and humidity of Cape Town at this time of year was murderous. A man as heavy as Verkatt hated to sweat under any circumstance. The GPS the rental agency had supplied directed him step by step through the maze of the warehouses to the address his contact had provided.

This was all highly unusual. Discretion should have made him turn such a meeting with the Koreans down. If there were not so much money at stake, he would have. Verkatt grinned to himself; they must be even more desperate than he first thought. His meeting with Comrade Sung had been a surprise. It was not usual to meet with people so highly placed in government. Deals were made through intermediaries, cutouts. It was obvious a play for power was going on. The absence of Sung’s senior deputy, Chun Seng Kyun, spoke volumes. Verkatt could smell profit a mile away. That first meeting had been incredible, unbelievable in its scale, but not impossible. Anything was possible if you used enough money.

Stealing nuclear devices on behalf of his North Korean clients held little in the way of a moral dilemma for him. The challenge of the contract suited his ego and the ensured payment suited his preferred lifestyle.

Today’s emergency meeting showed the plan had made it to the very top levels. Obviously they were pressed for time. No doubt the International Atomic Energy Commission had brought pressure to bear in the wrong place. Verkatt felt a moment of pity for Chun, but only a moment. Chun was just a pawn, a casualty of someone else’s grand scheme. His demise was orchestrated by one man and signed off by others. Verkatt could appreciate the irony. Chun had personally picked and groomed Sung. All of his work would gain him little more than his final years in a reeducation camp. That was why the South African always worked alone. The Koreans had met his price without batting an eye. Verkatt made the appropriate turn and there it was: a steel-sided warehouse.

Faded oriental characters were painted at the top of windows, the insides of which were coated with years of impenetrable filth. Underneath the characters in English, was the company name, Park and Sons, Import and Export. Verkatt parked his car some ways down the street; no need to call any more attention to these events than necessary.

A series of fiber optic lenses mounted in a mock junction box on top of a telephone pole across the street from the warehouse fed their images down thin glass fibers a mile long. The box was also transparent to radio emissions. A special wide band receiver monitored every signal and phone call that emanated from the warehouse communication lines. Every piece of visual and transmitted information went from the junction box to a small, nondescript office, well down the street. The office was cramped and dingy, and filled with more television and radio monitoring equipment than some professional studios.

Two members of MI6’s South African division watched Verkatt get out of his car. The two security officers, more commonly called “watchers” by their peers, tracked Verkatt up to the front doors of Park and Sons. They saw him go inside.