The Network - Jason Elliot [86]
‘There isn’t much that can go wrong, is there?’ I ask.
A schoolteacherish look of disapproval comes over his face.
‘Oh but I think there is. Target vehicle changes route unexpectedly. Target vehicle has mechanical difficulty. Target vehicle fails to yield to persuasion. Target vehicle crashes. Pursuit vehicle fails to execute manoeuvre. Pursuit vehicle crashes. Target is seriously injured, summons civilian assistance, summons law enforcement; law enforcement vehicle stops at interception site before you do—’
‘I get it,’ I say. He’s from the health-and-safety generation.
‘I think you’ll find you can’t be too careful. Any of the above, and you drive on. We can’t have you getting into a local imbroglio.’
We talk over a few more details, and on the way out he collects a small bag of tokens, redeemable against drinks at the Pickwick Club in the embassy grounds.
‘Very exclusive,’ adds Halliday with a buffoonish wrinkle of his nose. ‘When you feel the need for a G & T. Just next door. Do be aware there are two listening devices pointing at the club enclosure from the eighteen-storey building opposite.’
‘I’m sure you’ve told the Hanslope Park people about them,’ I say. He hands me a small packet with the Firm’s specially designed tamper-proof seal on it, and I recognise the code card for my satphone.
‘There is one other thing,’ he says, by way of a reply. ‘The pool isn’t in use on Thursday nights and if you fall in you receive a lifetime ban.’
Seethrough called the local Sudanese helpers elves, but they don’t look like elves. The pair I meet the next morning are tall, lean and fit-looking men with serious faces. Their blue-black skin does not seem to sweat. They are in a pickup truck, which the locals call boxes, laden with what looks like the contents of somebody’s house, half-covered in canvas and lashed with an old nylon rope. Their vehicle pulls out ahead of me as I leave my compound, and then stops as the driver gets out, opens and closes the tailgate as if to check it’s properly closed and gets back in. It’s the agreed signal.
I follow them out of the city to the south, and we drive past the dilapidated suburbs for about half an hour before stopping in a sandy enclave of small warehouses, where we park in the shade. One of the men is in contact by two-way radio with the watcher vehicle a further quarter of a mile south, who confirms his position every fifteen minutes.
After an hour’s waiting there’s a sudden burst from the radio confirming the target is heading our way. The elves’ pickup moves to the edge of the road and gets ready to turn into the traffic, and I start the engine of my jeep but keep out of sight of the road for the moment. There’s only a small chance of it happening, but I don’t want the target to see our two vehicles together – mainly because the one ahead of me is going to deliberately run her off the road.
I can’t see her clearly as she passes. The pickup pulls out and settles two cars behind her. I follow after they’re several hundred yards ahead. We’ve gone about a mile when I make out the elves’ pickup veering out of the flow of traffic to overtake the target. They’re dangerously close to an oncoming car, but that’s the idea. They pull in suddenly and disappear from view again, but the move has worked, because to my right I see the target vehicle lurch onto the unsurfaced shoulder, sending up a cloud of dust before plunging into the sand beyond.
But it doesn’t stop. I’m reminded suddenly of H’s maxim no plan survives first contact with the enemy, and I feel a mixture of frustration and admiration for the driver, who’s kept control of the Daihatsu and is now circling away from the road at high speed. It looks as if she’s going to try and drive back onto the road. If she succeeds, we’ll have to come up with a new plan, and I hear myself cursing out loud as she manages the turn and begins to head back towards the road. But the offside wheels of her car are fighting the sand now, and throwing it up in little waves as she slows just before the