Burning Angels

‘I was flying selection. No one could touch me. Then we came to the final test. Endurance. Sixty-four kilometres over piss-wet mountains. At the penultimate checkpoint I was pulled aside by the directing staff, stripped and searched. And I knew it was Jaeger who had dobbed me in.’

‘It doesn’t sound enough for a lifetime’s hatred,’ Kammler remarked. ‘What kind of supplies are we talking about?’

‘I was popping pills — the kind athletes use to up their speed and endurance. The SAS claims to encourage lateral thinking. To value a maverick, outside-the-box mindset. What a load of horseshit. If that wasn’t lateral thinking, I don’t know what is. They didn’t just bin me from selection. They reported me to my parent unit, which meant I got thrown out of the military for good.’

Kammler inclined his head. ‘You were caught using performance-enhancing drugs? And it was Jaeger who shopped you?’

‘For sure. He’s a snake.’ Jones paused. ‘Ever tried getting work when your record shows you’ve been thrown out of the army for doing drugs? Let me tell you something: I hate snakes, and Jaeger’s the most self-righteous and venomous of the lot.’

‘It’s fortunate then that we have found each other.’ Kammler ran his gaze eye along the ranks of cherry trees. ‘Mr Jones, I think I may have work for you. In Africa. On certain business I have under way there.’

‘Where in Africa? Generally I bloody hate the place.’

‘I run a game ranch in East Africa. Big game is my passion. The locals are slaughtering my wildlife at such a rate it is heartbreaking. The elephants in particular, for ivory. The rhinos too. Gram for gram, rhino horn is now more valuable than gold. I’m looking for a man to go out there and keep a careful eye on things.’

‘Careful ain’t my hallmark,’ Jones replied. He turned over his massive, gnarled hands, balling them into fists like cannon balls. ‘Using these is. Or better still, a blade, some plastic explosives and a Glock. Kill to live; live to kill.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be ample need for those where you’ll be going. I’m looking for a spy, an enforcer and very likely an assassin, all rolled into one. So what do you say?’

‘In that case — and the money being right — I’m on.’

Kammler stood. He didn’t offer Steve Jones his hand. He didn’t exactly like the man. After his father’s tales about the English from the war years, he was loath to put his trust in any Englishman. Hitler had wanted Britain to side with Germany during the war; to cut a deal once France had fallen and unite against the common enemy: Russia and communism. But the English — stubborn and wilful to the last — had refused.

Under Churchill’s blind, mulish leadership, they had refused to see sense; to understand that sooner or later, Russia was going to become the enemy of all free-thinking people. If it weren’t for the English — and their Scots and Welsh brethren — Hitler’s Reich would have triumphed, and the rest would be history.

Instead, some seven decades later, the world was awash with deviants and misfits: socialists, homosexuals, Jews, the disabled, Muslims and foreigners of all types. How Kammler despised them. How he hated them. Yet somehow these Untermenschen — sub-humans — had worked their way into the highest echelons of society.

And it was up to Kammler — and a few good men like him — to bring about an end to all this madness.

No, Hank Kammler would be reluctant to put his faith in any Englishman. But if he could use Jones, then use him he would — and on that level he decided to throw him an extra bone.

‘If all goes well, you may get to have a final crack at Jaeger. To see your thirst for revenge finally quenched.’

For the first time since they’d started talking, Steve Jones smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. ‘In that case, I’m your man. Bring it on.’

Kammler rose to leave. Jones held out a hand to stop him.

‘One question. Why do you hate him?’

Kammler frowned. ‘In my position, I get to ask the questions, Mr Jones.’

Jones wasn’t a man to scare easily. ‘I told you my reasons. I figure I deserve to hear yours.’

Kammler gave a thin smile. ‘If you must know, I hate Jaeger because his grandfather killed my father.’

28

They’d broken off the Falkenhagen briefing for food and rest. But Jaeger never had been one for a lot of sleep. The past six years he could count on the fingers of one hand the nights he had enjoyed a full, unbroken seven hours’ kip.

It had proved just as difficult to sleep now, for his mind was stuffed to bursting with all that Uncle Joe had told them.

They reconvened in the bunker, Peter Miles taking up the thread. ‘We now believe the 1967 outbreak in Marburg was Blome’s attempt to test the Gottvirus on monkeys. We think he had succeeded in making the virus airborne — hence the lab workers becoming infected — but in so doing he had vastly reduced its potency.