to alert the reception committee that they needed medical help; it turned out that no fewer than three of the waiting Zimbabwean expatriates were doctors, educated professionals being high on the list of targets for the government’s thugs. Two of them took TD to the nearby bush farmhouse for emergency treatment. The third wanted to check Eddie’s injuries, but he had business to attend to first.
Maximov followed the Englishman from the plane. ‘That was easy!’ he crowed. ‘Maybe I should become pilot, da?’
Despite TD’s claims, the An-2’s touchdown had been far from feather-light. Eddie tried to crick the stiffness out of his sore neck and spine. ‘You might need a bit more practice.’ Maximov laughed.
‘Mr Chase?’ Waiting for Eddie was Japera Tangwerai, one of those whom he had helped escape from Zimbabwe several years before. Although she was only in her early thirties, the lines of stress and loss on her face made her appear middle-aged, for she had seen nearly her entire family murdered by Zimbabwean militia forces. Her only surviving child, a boy now eight years old, looked up at Eddie nervously from behind her skirts. ‘What happened? Did you free the prisoners from Fort Helena?’
‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘Don’t know exactly how many, but a lot, about a hundred. Banga and his people got them out of there.’
‘And what about . . .’ Her voice dropped. ‘What about Boodu?’
Even as a whisper, the hated name still caught the attention of others nearby. More people approached Eddie. ‘Did you catch him?’ a man demanded. ‘Did you bring the Butcher?’
‘Some of him. Here.’ Eddie brought something out from behind his back. ‘Let me give you a hand.’
Everyone recoiled in instinctive shock and disgust before they realised the significance of the distinctive ring on one stiffening finger. ‘It . . . it’s his,’ said Japera softly. ‘It’s the Butcher’s hand.’ She raised her voice to her companions. ‘It is the Butcher’s hand!’
The man who had spoken stared at it, then his mouth widened into a grin. He took the lifeless hand and held it aloft. ‘You killed the Butcher! He’s dead! The Butcher is dead!’ The call was taken up by the others, delight and relief spreading through the little crowd.
Japera’s response was more muted, a tear beading in one eye. ‘You killed Gamba Boodu,’ she said quietly to Eddie. ‘Thank you. My family . . . can rest now. Thank you.’ She squeezed his hand. He nodded in silent acknowledgement. After a moment, she released him. ‘I will get your money.’
‘Don’t give it to me,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘TD can have most of my share – I don’t think getting her plane fixed’ll be cheap. And Max can have the rest.’ He nodded towards the huge Russian, who was surrounded by cheering Zimbabweans and looking bemused but pleased by the attention. ‘All I need is enough to cover some expenses. Plane fares, mainly.’
Japera tried to hide her disappointment. ‘You are leaving? So soon?’
‘I’ve got somewhere to go. All I need is to find out where. Excuse me.’ He headed back to the plane to meet Strutter, who had just planted both feet on solid ground with huge relief.
‘Eddie, Eddie, Eddie!’ said the Kenyan, rubbing his brow. ‘We made it – you saved me!’
‘Yeah, well, don’t expect me to make a habit of it. Like I said, if you tell me what I need to know, we’ll be all square.’
‘No problem. I will find your friend, don’t you worry.’
‘He’s not a friend,’ said Eddie, expression turning cold. ‘You know Alexander Stikes?’
Strutter nodded. ‘Of course. Ex-SAS like you, runs his own PMC – although I heard he suddenly shut it down not long ago and started working for someone full time. I had some dealings with him; arranged for him to hire mercenaries for certain jobs, people like Maximov. But he’s a dangerous man. In honesty, I’m happy he’s gone.’ He regarded Eddie curiously. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for someone you don’t like. Why do you want to find him?’
Eddie’s face became even harder. ‘So I can kill him.’
New York City
Nina Wilde looked disconsolately out across her hometown from her office in the United Nations building. Today marked a date she had no desire to celebrate; it was exactly three months since she had last seen her husband.
With a quiet sigh, the redhead turned away from the view and returned to her desk. A framed photograph beside the phone was a reminder of far better times: