The Somali capital Mogadishu had been the scene of several incidents involving British and US Special Forces over the years, and wasn’t a place much beloved by anyone who’d been remotely involved.
Jeff went on, ‘Le Mans Arnage to Obbia is just a shade over six and a half thousand Ks. I just talked to Adrien, that’s Kaprisky’s pilot, and he reckons at a steady Mach point eight-five, depending on conditions, we’re looking at less than six and a half hours in the air, point to point.’
‘Not counting the hundred and thirty-plus nautical miles east to the ship’s last position,’ Ben reminded him.
‘That’s where it gets trickier. Hobyo isn’t exactly a thriving metropolis, even by African standards. It’s supposed to have a port, but I wouldn’t expect to find much there. So the big question is, how do we get a fast boat from there to take us out the rest of the way? We’ll be lucky if we can find a rusty fishing trawler.’
‘There’s got to be a bigger port where we can charter a speedboat or a fast cabin cruiser,’ Ben said.
‘Yeah, no problem, if we travel from Mombasa. I’ve already checked. World’s your oyster down there. Only problem is, you’re looking at over sixteen hundred kilometres distance. There isn’t a small, fast craft that’ll cover it.’
‘How about the Seychelles? The islands are full of boats, and they’re a little bit closer to where Jude is than Mombasa.’
‘Thought about that already,’ Jeff said. ‘Not much in it, distance-wise. Same problem.’
Ben tossed the stub of his Gauloise through the inch-wide gap in the window and instantly lit another without taking his eyes off the road. His thoughts were rushing faster than the tarmac under the wheels of the speeding Alpina. ‘Remember Chimp Chalmers?’
Jeff looked at Ben. ‘Mate, Chimp Chalmers is a fucking lunatic.’
‘I know he is,’ Ben said. ‘But he might be a useful fucking lunatic. We can’t afford to get picky. Can you get his number?’
‘I can ask around,’ Jeff said reluctantly.
‘Do it.’
‘You don’t want to deal with that bloke. He’s not stable. And he’s a crook.’
‘Do it, Jeff.’
Chaz ‘the Chimp’ Chalmers, named as much for his physical appearance as for his ever-readiness to pull apart with his bare hands anyone who crossed him, had been one of the many who had quit the SF track to pursue a marginally safer and far more lucrative career in international security, and other things. Ben and Jeff hadn’t heard from him in a few years, but rumour had it he’d jobbed around central and east Africa for much of that time, not always on the right side of the law. He was the kind of person who could thrive and make contacts in places most sane men would steer well clear of, which had made him a natural to drift into arms dealing. These days, he was reportedly based in Prague and had built himself up to be the go-to guy for anyone looking to get hold of anything from an ex-Soviet tank or attack helicopter to a Scud missile, delivered to the location of your choice, anywhere in the world, for the right fee. He had connections everywhere, an extensive bag of tricks and a magician’s reputation for being able to pull rabbits out of hats, to order. Something as mundane as arranging a fast boat from Hobyo port should be a cinch for him.
Jeff got straight back on the phone while Ben, stealing a glance at the dashboard clock and wincing at the time, drove faster.
It took three more calls before Jeff finally managed to dig up the number for Chimp Chalmers. He dialled it and was put through to Chalmers’s offices in Prague, where he was put on hold by a receptionist before getting to talk to the man himself.
Jeff quickly explained what he required, managing not to reveal any specifics about their situation while stressing that it was urgent. The conversation lasted nearly ten minutes, during which the Chimp did most of the talking and Jeff did most of the listening, bent over his phone with a finger in his other ear to keep out the roar of the Alpina’s engine.
‘Hmm,’ Jeff said to Chalmers after a long silence. ‘We’re not looking to buy it, Chaz. We just want to charter it. Day, maybe two.’
More silence. Jeff looked dubious and impatient. ‘Okay. Okay. Then talk to your guy and call me back as soon as you know. Make it snappy, all right? We’re on the clock here.’
‘Well?’ Ben asked as Jeff ended the call.
‘That arsehole can’t get enough of talking about himself,’ Jeff said with a sigh. ‘But anyway, we could be on to something. Chalmers deals with some bloke who deals with some other bloke who plays poker with the head of the port authority in Mog.’
‘They can get us the kind of boat we need?’
Jeff shook his head. ‘Not a boat. They have a seaplane in the harbour that was confiscated from a Somali smuggling gang the cops nabbed last month. It’s been sitting there waiting for some legal clerk to sign off on a compulsory destruction order for it. Chalmers heard about it a couple of weeks back through the grapevine and was thinking of taking it off their hands to sell on, but the port authority guy was being awkward over the price. Theoretically, it’s still up for grabs.’
‘What kind of seaplane? What condition is it in?’
‘Some kind of big ex-Soviet flying boat, he says. The smugglers souped up the engines and kitted it out with extra-large tanks for long range. It’s old and tatty as fuck, but Chalmers reckons it’s in good nick.’ Jeff spread his hands and looked sceptical. ‘I don’t know, Ben.’
‘How much does this guy want?’
‘Unknown. The Chimp says he needs to make a couple of calls and get back to us.’
‘We don’t have a lot of time,’ Ben said. They were three-quarters of the way to Le Mans now, and the minutes were ticking by faster than he liked.
‘You heard me tell him that. We’ll just have to wait, for what it’s worth.’
Fifteen anxious minutes later, Jeff’s iPhone started buzzing in his hand. He answered immediately. ‘Dekker.’
Jeff listened, stone-faced. Ben glanced at him as he drove, trying to gauge what was being said.
‘Let me think about it and call you right back,’ Jeff said after a couple of minutes.
‘What did he say?’
Jeff still didn’t look happy. ‘He talked to his guy. The port authority fella will rent us the plane, and he’s got a local pilot called Achmed Mussa who’ll agree to fly it the five hundred klicks from Mog and meet us at the port in Hobyo. Reckons Mussa can be on his way within the hour and be there waiting for us when we arrive. In with the deal, no extra cost, there’s another local guy who’ll drive us there from Obbia airport in his Land Cruiser.’
Ben was well aware of how things worked in Africa. You could get pretty much absolutely anything you wanted there, which was what made the place such a goldmine for the likes of Chimp Chalmers. Across much of the continent, laws were seldom observed and even more seldom enforced, especially when the odd palm was crossed with silver and the odd blind eye was turned, both of which were the norm. But that kind of handy corruption inevitably came at