Juggernaut

‘Does he have any weapons other than the grenade?’

‘No.’

‘Can you take him? If it comes down to it, are you willing to try?’

Amanda thought it over.

‘Yes.’

‘Pass the radio to Jabril.’

Amanda kicked the radio across the vault floor to Jabril.

‘She wants to speak to you.’

He fumbled with the earpiece, careful not to lose his grip on the grenade.

‘How’s it going, Jabril?’

‘I’m fine. How’s your friend?’

‘Huang? Sinking fast.’

‘You know what needs to be done.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Tell him straight. He’s dying. It will be slow and painful. Put a gun in his hand. Let him make the choice. He’s your friend. Be honest with him.’

‘I’ll give you water. You want water? You want to drink? Open the door a crack and I’ll push through a Camelbak straw.’

‘And a gun barrel, no doubt.’

‘If you get thirsty, let me know.’

Gaunt had received a pre-mission briefing from Koell. A summons to his luxury suite at the Rasheed.

Gaunt sat in a deep leather armchair and basked in a down-wash of cool air from a ceiling grille.

The room was littered with files, reconnaissance photographs and downlink screens.

Koell sat beside Gaunt and handed him a tumbler of scotch.

‘Jabril wasn’t the only person to walk out of that valley when the shit went down,’ said Koell. ‘There was another survivor. Doctor Ignatiev.’

Koell swivelled a laptop so Gaunt could see the screen. He clicked play. A squat Slavic guy sitting in an interrogation cell. His skin was burnt and peeling. The guy talked. No sound.

‘The valley team got wiped out while I was taking care of business back in Baghdad. A couple of garbled distress calls then radio silence. A few days later I started to hear rumours. A white guy for sale in Mosul. Bedouin had found Ignatiev half dead in the desert. Figured he might fetch a good price. I flew to Mosul. We bartered. I bought him for forty thousand bucks.’

Koell handed Gaunt a reconnaissance picture of the citadel.

‘Ignatiev found the crypt entrance among a bunch of subsidiary buildings behind the main temple. It’s the only underground structure. A deep catacomb with a vaulted ceiling. The crypt contains the bones of temple priests and their acolytes. Whenever the big guy died, the head priest, they carried him underground and laid him to rest. Then his pals drank some kind of poison draught and lay down beside him. Kept him company on his trip into the after-world.

‘Jabril and his boys may have used the crypt as storage space. Plenty of sandstorms in that region. Extreme temperature fluctuations. The crypt would be safe and cool. Good shelter. When you arrive onsite, when you begin your search for the virus flask, it’s the first place you should check.’

‘Okay.’

‘The trunk is green. No markings. About the size of a suitcase. It contains a thick document bundle, and the virus flask. We want both items. That is your mission. Your primary objective. You have forty-eight hours. After that, we pull the plug.’

The silence of the temple crypt was broken by the rasp of a stone lid hauled aside. A torch beam pierced the darkness.

Gaunt crept down worn stone steps. He swung his Maglite left and right, lit niches and plinths cluttered with bone.

He explored the crypt. He stooped beneath the low ceiling. Archways receded into impenetrable shadows. Strange hieroglyphs on walls and pillars. Hybrid blasphemies. Creatures with the bodies of men, the heads of eagles, alligators and bulls. Curling, sting-loaded scorpion tails.

There were calcite urns stacked around the base of each pillar. He shone his flashlight inside. Jumbled bone.

He examined a skull. Good teeth. A diet free from refined sugar.

Brown stains on the flagstone floor, criss-cross like tyre tread. The imprint of reed mats long since crumbled away.

Broken clay pots. Tiny skulls. Dogs and cats.

Something stank. New death. New decay.

His torch lit mummified bodies. Dead soldiers. Three Republican Guard in olive fatigues. They were sat facing a battery lamp that had long since burned out. Exit wounds in the top of each head. It looked like they passed round a Makarov pistol and, one-by-one, took a bullet in the mouth.

He unlaced his boots and compared sole-size with the dead men. He found a good match. Leather parade boots. They had been protected from leaking body fluid by a double layer of socks.

Gaunt tried them for size. He laced.

The dead guys wore gold jewellery. Drab uniforms decked out with pimp accessories. Rings. Bracelets. Neck chains.

Gaunt unclipped a gold Rolex with a black face. He wiped it clean. It still kept time. He threw his plastic Casio G-Shock aside and buckled the Rolex.

He checked the Makarov. No bullets.