Burning Angels

Narov read them over a few times. ‘Interesting.’ Her tone had softened slightly. ‘Kammler H. That is SS General Hans Kammler, presumably, though we all thought of him as long dead.

‘BV222,’ she continued. ‘The Blohm and Voss BV222 Wiking — has to be. A Second World War flying boat — a real beast of a machine that could land just about anywhere there was water.’

‘Wiking meaning Viking, presumably?’ Jaeger queried.

Narov snorted. ‘Well done.’

‘And the rest?’ he prompted, not rising to the provocation.

Narov shrugged. ‘Katavi. Choma Malaika. Sounds almost African.’

‘It does,’ Jaeger confirmed.

‘So, have you checked?’

‘I have.’

‘Well?’ she demanded irritably.

Jaeger smiled. ‘Want to know what I discovered?’

Narov scowled. She knew that Jaeger was playing with her now. ‘How do you say — does the bear shit in the woods?’

Jaeger smiled. ‘Choma Malaika is Swahili for “Burning Angels”, Swahili being the language of East Africa. I learned some while on operations there. Plus get this. Katavi translates into English as… “the Hunter”.’

Narov flashed him a look. The significance of that name certainly wasn’t lost on her.

Ever since childhood, Jaeger had believed in portents. He was superstitious, and especially when things seemed to signify something to him personally. ‘The Hunter’ was the nickname he’d been given during their expedition into the Amazon, and it wasn’t one he had adopted lightly.

An Amazon Indian tribe — the Amahuaca — had helped them in their quest for that hidden warplane. They had proved the most constant and loyal of companions. One of the tribal chief’s sons, Gwaihutiga, had coined that name — The Hunter — for Jaeger, after he had saved them from all-but-certain annihilation. And when Gwaihutiga had lost his life at the hands of Vladimir and his murderous crew, the name had become even more precious. Jaeger cherished it, lest he forget.

And now, another hunter on another ancient continent — Africa — seemed to be calling to him.

12

Narov gestured at the scribbled list. ‘We need to get this to my people. Those last words — Katavi; Choma Malaika — they are sure to signify something more to them.’

‘You’ve got a lot of confidence in them — your people. A lot of trust in their abilities.’

‘They are the best. In every sense of the word they are the best.’

‘Which reminds me — just who are your people? I’m long overdue an explanation, don’t you think?’

Narov shrugged. ‘I agree. To that end my people have invited you to come and meet with them.’

‘With a view to what exactly?’

‘Being recruited. Joining us. That is, if you can prove you are truly… ready.’

Jaeger’s face hardened. ‘You almost said worthy, didn’t you?’

‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what I think. It is not my decision either way.’

‘And what makes you think I’d want to join you? Join them?’

‘Simple.’ Narov glanced at him. ‘Your wife and child: right now my people offer the best chance you’ll ever have of finding them.’

Jaeger felt a surge of emotion well up inside him. Three terrible years — it was one hell of a long time to be searching for your loved ones, especially when all evidence suggested they were being held captive by a merciless enemy.

Before he could think of a suitable response, he felt his phone vibrate. Message incoming. Leticia Santos’s surgeon was keeping him updated by text, and he figured it was maybe news of how she was doing.

He glanced at the cheap mobile’s screen. These pay-as-you-go phones were often the most secure. If you kept the battery removed, only powering up briefly to check for messages, they were pretty much untraceable. Otherwise your phone would betray your location every time.

The message was from Raff — normally a man of few words. Jaeger clicked and opened it.

Urgent. Meet me at the usual place. And read this.

Jaeger scrolled down and clicked on a link embedded in the message. A news headline appeared: ‘London edit suite firebombed — suspected terrorism spectacular’. Below was a photo of a building engulfed in a cloud of billowing smoke.

The image hit Jaeger like a punch to the guts. He knew that place well. It was The Joint, the edit suite where the final touches were being put to a TV film telling the story of their expedition into the Amazon.

‘Oh my God…’ He reached across and presented the screen to Narov. ‘It’s started. They’ve hit Dale.’

Narov stared for an instant, betraying little visible reaction. Mike Dale had been their Amazon expedition film-maker. A young Aussie cameraman-cum-expeditioner, he’d filmed their epic journey for a number of TV channels.

‘I warned you,’ she said. ‘I told you this would happen. Unless we finish this, they will hunt every one of us down. And after Cuba, even more so.’

Jaeger slipped the phone into his pocket, grabbing his Belstaff and bike helmet. ‘I’m meeting Raff. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back with an update… and an answer.’