Bear Grylls - Burning Angels

Miles paused. He could no longer keep the worry from his eyes. ‘If the Gottvirus gets into the human population, it will wreak utter devastation. The world as we know it will cease to exist. If Kammler manages to unleash it, he can sit it out as the virus works its dark evil, and then emerge – inoculated – to a brave new world. So please forgive the melodrama, ladies and gents, but for the sake of humankind, Kammler and his virus have to be stopped.’

He gestured toward a grey-haired, grizzled-looking man seated amongst his listeners. ‘Right – I’m going to hand over now to Daniel Brooks, the director of the CIA. And by way of introduction, I’d just like to mention that our top cover has just got a whole lot more serious.’

‘Gentlemen. Ladies,’ Brooks began gruffly. ‘I’ll keep this short. You’ve done great work. Amazing work. But it still isn’t enough to nail Hank Kammler, the deputy director of my agency. For that we need absolute proof, and at the moment that island facility could just conceivably be a bona fide disease control centre for a monkey export business.

Brooks glowered. ‘Much as I hate it, I have to tread carefully. Kammler has powerful friends, right up to the level of the American President. I cannot go after him without absolute proof. Get me that proof and you will have every support – every goddam asset – the US military and intelligence community can bring to bear. And in the meantime, there are a few dark assets we can push your way, unofficially I might add.’

Brooks took his seat, and Miles thanked him. ‘One final thing. When Jaeger and Narov left the Katavi Reserve, they did so in a Katavi Lodge Toyota 4x4. Their Land Rover was driven out at the same time by two of the lodge staff. Several hours after its departure, it was taken out by a Reaper drone. Hank Kammler ordered the kill mission, no doubt believing Jaeger and Narov were at the wheel. In short, he knows we’re after him. The hunt is on – you for him, and him for us.

‘Let me remind you: if you use any personal communications devices, he will find you. He has the services of the CIA’s most technologically accomplished people at his disposal. If you use insecure email, you’re as good as done for. If you return to your home addresses, he will track you there. It’s kill or be killed. Use only the comms systems as provided: secure encrypted means. Always.’

Miles eyed each of them in turn. ‘Make no mistake, if you speak on open means; if you email on open networks – you’re dead.’

Five thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean, the architect of the evil was putting the finishing touches to a momentous message. Kammler’s Werewolves – the true sons of the Reich; those who had remained steadfast for over seven decades – were poised to reap their rewards.

Stupendous rewards.

The time was almost upon them.

Hank Kammler ran his eye over the closing paragraphs, polishing them one final time.

Gather your families. Make your way to your places of sanctuary. It has begun. It is unleashed. In six weeks it will start to bite. You have that time, before those who are not with us will start to reap the whirlwind. We who are chosen – we precious few – stand on the brink of a new age. A new dawn.

It will be a new millennium in which the sons of the Reich – the Aryans – grasp our rightful inheritance once and for all.

From here we will rebuild, in the name of the Führer.

We will have destroyed to create anew.

The glory of the Reich will be ours.

Wir sind die Zukunft.

HK

Kammler read it, and it was good.

His finger punched the ‘send’ button.

He leant back in his leather chair, his eyes drifting to a framed photo on his desk. The middle-aged man in the pinstriped suit bore a striking resemblance to Kammler: they had the same thin, hawkish nose; the same ice-blue eyes brimful of arrogance; the same gaze betraying an easy assumption that power and privilege were theirs as a birthright, and due them long into old age.

It wasn’t hard to imagine them as father and son.

‘At last,’ the seated figure whispered, almost as if speaking to the photo. ‘ Wir sind die Zukunft .’

His gaze dwelt upon the framed image a moment longer, but his eyes were looking inwards; menacing pools of thick darkness that sucked in all that was good. All life – all innocence – was drawn into them, suffocating mercilessly.

London , Kammler reflected. London – the seat of the British government; the site of the late Winston Churchill’s War Rooms, from where he had orchestrated resistance to Hitler’s glorious Reich when all defiance had seemed futile.

The cursed British had held on for just long enough to draw the Americans into the war. Without them, of course, the Third Reich would have triumphed and ruled as the Führer had intended – for a thousand years.

London. It was only right that the darkness had begun there.

Kammler tapped his keyboard and pulled up his IntelCom link. He dialled, and a voice answered.

‘So tell me, how are my animals?’ Kammler asked. ‘Katavi? Our elephants are thriving, despite the greed of the locals?’

‘The elephant populations are stronger by the day,’ Falk Konig’s voice replied. ‘Less attrition – especially since our friends Bert and Andrea—’

‘Forget them!’ Kammler cut in. ‘So they snuffed out the Lebanese dealer and his gang. Their motives weren’t entirely altruistic, let me assure you.’

‘I had been wondering…’ Falk’s voice tailed off. ‘But either way, they did a good thing.’

Kammler snorted. ‘Nothing compared to what I intend. I mean to kill them all. Every last poacher, every last trader, and every last buyer – all of them.’

‘So why not hire Bert and Andrea?’ Konig persisted. ‘They’re good people. Professionals. And especially in Andrea’s case, a genuine lover of wildlife. They’re ex-military and in need of work. If you want to defeat the poachers, you could use them to run an anti-poaching drive.’

‘It won’t be necessary,’ Kammler snapped. ‘You liked them, did you?’ His voice was laced with sarcasm now. ‘Made some fine new friends?’

‘In a way, yes,’ Konig replied defiantly. ‘Yes, I did.’

Kammler’s voice softened, but it was all the more sinister for it. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me, my boy? I know our opinions can tend to differ, but our key interests remain aligned. Conservation. Wildlife protection. The herds. That is what matters. There’s nothing that might threaten Katavi, is there?’

Kammler sensed his son’s hesitation. He knew he was afraid of him, or rather of the kind of people – the enforcers – that he at times sent out to Katavi; like the present incumbent, the fearsome shaven-headed Jones.

‘You know, if you’re holding something back, you really shouldn’t,’ Kammler wheedled. ‘It will be the wildlife that suffers. Your elephants. Your rhino. Our beloved animals. You know that, don’t you?’

‘It’s just… I did mention the kid to them.’

‘What kid?’

‘The slum kid. Turned up here a few months back. It was nothing…’ Again Konig’s voice tailed off into silence.

‘If it was nothing, no reason not to share it with me, is there?’ Kammler wheedled, a real edge of menace to his tone now.

‘It was just a story about some boy who stowed away on one of the flights… It didn’t make any sense to anyone.’

‘A slum kid, you say?’ Kammler was silent for a long second. ‘We need to get to the bottom of this… Well, I will be out there with you soon. Within the next forty-eight hours. You can tell me everything then. I have just a few things to deal with here first. In the meantime, a nurse will be flying in. She needs to give you an injection. A follow-up booster for a childhood illness. You were too young to remember much, but trust me, it’s worth doing as a precaution.’