Bear Grylls: The Hunt (Will Jaeger Book 3) Read online

  That had been the start of the journey that had led to his ultimate showdown with Hank Kammler. Jaeger had had a film crew accompany the expedition. The cameraman had been in the habit of secretly filming the team when he’d been forbidden from doing so.

  His favourite trick was to plonk the camera down as if it wasn’t running, but to leave the lens facing the direction of maximum interest and the machine on record. He’d taped over the red filming light, so no one could tell if the camera was live.

  Jaeger bent to inspect the remains of the nearest camera. As he did so, his eyes flashed across the features of the corpse lying beside it. Somehow it looked familiar. He risked momentarily flicking on his torch. It was the Austrian film-maker; Jaeger recognised him from his photo in the newspaper.

  The dead man’s camera had been seriously smashed up, but still he could see that the red record light had been covered over with a length of gaffer tape.

  Jaeger hesitated for just an instant before feeling around in the camera’s innards for the memory card. He stepped across to the other camera – most crews carried two – but as he bent to retrieve the second card, a spear of light pierced the gloom.

  It had come from the far end of the tunnel, and was accompanied by heavy footfalls. The sound of running. The gunmen, whoever they might be, were coming.

  Jaeger figured they must have spotted the flash of illumination from his torch as he’d studied the dead cameraman’s features. His pulse pounding like a machine gun, he grabbed the second memory card and stuffed it into his pocket, then turned and ran.

  As he pounded up the tunnel, he caught sight of a figure from the corner of his eye. Massive, muscle-bound, the man had clambered up the far side of the rock pile, torch dazzling Jaeger’s eyes.

  Held before him he had his .22 pistol, sweeping the space ahead.

  16

  Narov made her way through the dense foliage of the Al Mohajir Tower’s roof garden as if she had every right to be there.

  She knew exactly what she was looking for. The garden sat within a courtyard made up of the four sides of the skyscraper. Basically, she had scaled the glass exterior, only to abseil back down to where she was now.

  Which was just as she’d intended.

  Kammler’s meeting was scheduled to take place on Executive Level Platinum, the floor that lay directly below the roof garden. It had the benefit of natural light, which filtered through the foliage via a series of skylights.

  She found the one that she was looking for.

  With barely a pause to check whether she was being observed – a workman going about his everyday tasks at 6.30 a.m.; why would anyone pay any heed? – she dropped to her knees, unloading a set of tools from her chest pack.

  She took hold of a simple glass-cutting tool and proceeded to score around the edge of one of the skylight’s panes. With a pair of suction handles attached, she lifted free the glass with a sharp snatch of the hands. She did a repeat performance with the second pane – the skylights were double-glazed – and suddenly she was gazing down into the building’s interior.

  The skylights themselves were alarmed, but would trigger only if you opened one. Cutting the glass avoided that. She’d chosen to enter the seventy-second floor via one of the restrooms, and she was looking down at a row of sinks, with directly beneath her a line of cubicles. There was CCTV, but it would not cover the cubicles, for obvious reasons of privacy.

  Before allowing herself to drop, Narov removed a small video camera from her rucksack. She held it rock-steady, braced against the side of the skylight, and filmed three minutes of the empty restroom. Then she stuffed the camera deep in her pocket, dropped her rucksack through the opening and lowered herself, landing cat-like on the bare floor of one of the cubicles.

  It was still only 6.45, so there were unlikely to be many people about. Even so, she needed to hurry.

  Bracing her legs against the cubicle’s sides, she levered herself upwards until she could reach the ceiling. She pulled out a small, commercially available laser, popped it above the cubicle and fired the beam directly at the CCTV camera.

  The laser would instantly white out – blind – the camera, overloading it with light. Quick as a flash, she reached over and slipped a small clip with wire teeth onto the cable leading to the camera; the cable that would carry the images back to the CCTV monitoring room.

  A wire led from the clip to her own camera. She set it running on a pre-programmed loop, playing over and over the footage that she’d filmed from the roof, then clamped the clip firmly shut, the metal teeth cutting into the CCTV cable and taking over its circuit.

  The images she had filmed of the empty restroom were now being beamed along the cable, and would do so for as long as her camera kept playing. If anyone had noticed the CCTV image whiting out for a few seconds, it was apparently back to normal now.

  That done, she fastened her own camera and cabling to the CCTV apparatus with plastic ties. It didn’t look pretty, but the CCTV was positioned discreetly in one corner of the ceiling, so who was going to notice?

  She dropped down again, then removed the glass-cutter from her bag and moved to the restroom’s one external window. Working quickly, she cut away two of the panes at around waist height, lifting each free. The third she scoured around at the edges but left in place.

  She carried each pane down to the furthest cubicle, placing them inside against one wall. Finally she ran some red-and-white-striped workman’s tape across the space where she’d removed the glass, as if the window was in the process of being repaired.

  That done, she headed for the cubicle where she’d stashed the panes, locking the door behind her. She removed a small hand-operated drill from her pack and selected a spot at the top right corner of the wall. Climbing onto the toilet seat, she began to drill.

  Narov sweated as she worked. Fine plaster dust drifted down from the drill bit. Every minute or so she removed it and blew into the hole, trying to gauge how close she was to breaking through. Gradually she slowed the rotations, trying to feel for the moment when the tiny tip cut into open space.

  She tensed for the sound of a picture being knocked off the wall and glass smashing on the far side. That would spell the end of this little venture. But hopefully by choosing a high corner she’d avoided any risk of that happening.

  She sensed the drill bite through. She removed it, reversing the direction to help ease it free, then took a tiny brush from her pocket and dragged back as much of the drilling waste as she could. That done, she put her eye gingerly to the hole: she could just make out light bleeding through from the far side.

  She reached into her pocket and removed a slender optical cord, on the end of which was a minute fish-eye lens. She eased it into the hole, centimetre by centimetre. After some minutes, she paused what she was doing and attached a recording device equipped with a mini viewing screen. She fired it up and was able to monitor the last few millimetres of insertion.

  The fish-eye didn’t need to be forced all the way: its 280-degree vision enabled it to capture the image of the room while remaining flush with the wall’s surface. As long as Narov hadn’t dislodged too much plaster dust, it should be largely undetectable.

  It was 7.35 a.m. The spy camera was in place. The meeting was scheduled to start at 9 a.m. sharp.

  She pulled on a set of headphones and settled down to wait. She stilled her breathing and consoled herself with the thought that at least she didn’t have far to go if she needed to pee.

  It was the noise that pulled her mind back to the present: the thump of a door being thrown open, and the guttural arrogance in the voice that bled through on the headphones. It sounded so familiar and so utterly, utterly chilling.

  ‘So where is the lawyer? Isselhorst. Damn him! He was supposed to be here by now.’

  Narov knew instantly that she was right.

  Grey Wolf: he was alive.

  17

  Narov’s eyes were glued to the mini screen. The speaker was a middle-aged man, face hawkish, nose beak-like, gaze radiating a burning fanaticism and an innate cruelty. There was a fierce arrogance to his look, as of a man crazed with power.

  It was always about power, Narov reminded herself. And this was her target all right. Grey Wolf: the man who would stop at nothing . . .

  The person he was speaking to was younger, swarthy and tough-looking; he had a soldier’s demeanour, though right now he was dressed in a slick business suit. He didn’t look particularly comfortable.

  He shrugged. ‘I called Isselhorst’s mobile. Earlier this morning. Some woman answered.’

  The older man glared. ‘A woman? What’s he doing with a woman here in Dubai? He isn’t married. He doesn’t have a secretary. He’s a one-man band. Flexible. Discreet. That’s why we use him. And more importantly, he’s under strict instructions.’

  The younger man sighed. ‘Sir, I know. I figured it was just some woman he’d picked up. Dubai. You know how it is.’

  ‘What did this woman have to say?’ the older man demanded, ignoring the remark.

  ‘They were caught in traffic. Figured they might be twenty minutes late.’

  The elderly man growled his displeasure. ‘Whatever happened to lawyerly punctuality?’ He made a visible effort to get his irritation under control. ‘So: how long before the legal team for the other side get here?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes. Thereabouts.’

  ‘Do we need Isselhorst? I thought it was a done deal. If he’s late, we start without him.’

  ‘The lawyers have advised the foundation to sign. It was the threat of the court action that swung it. That, plus the adverse publicity. And charities always do what their lawyers say, apparently.’

  ‘Ha! Adverse publicity. Seventy years of revenue from the Führer’s literary masterpiece, and they want to give it to charities that promote the very things he abhorred: racial harmony, refugee rights, cultural understanding! What a load of horse shit. They deserve all the adverse publicity they get.’ He glared. ‘So, the question is: do we need Isselhorst? And this woman?’

  ‘Sir, I doubt he’s bringing her to the meeting.’

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’d better not.’ A beat. ‘I don’t like this new development. Getting a woman involved. Would Isselhorst really be that stupid? Find out who she is. And tighten security. No one else gets close to this room. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’

  The younger man barked a series of instructions into a radio mic that was clipped discreetly to his jacket. From the series of responses, it was clear that he had security teams ringing the Al Mohajir Tower.

  He glanced up. ‘Done.’

  ‘Right, we have ten minutes to kill. Tell me: the other business. Is all going to plan?’

  ‘Which other business, sir? We’re quite . . . busy right now.’

  ‘Moldova! What else?’

  ‘All sorted. They’re only awaiting the final payment.’

  The older man’s face brightened. ‘Excellent. And the conduit? Is it “all sorted” too?’

  ‘It is. The Colombians are on standby to take delivery. Bout’s airline is ready to ship as planned.’

  ‘Good work, Vladimir. I’m impressed.’

  In her cubicle, Narov’s eyes narrowed. Vladimir Ustanov: she’d thought it was him.

  Ustanov had commanded the force that had pursued Jaeger and his team halfway across the Amazon when they had first been hunting Kammler. He’d proved a diehard, merciless operator, with a sadistic streak to boot. Narov and Jaeger had assaulted Ustanov’s base, hitting him and his fellow mercenaries with a lethal gas, but somehow he had survived.

  ‘Tell me,’ the older man continued, ‘why d’you still refer to it as Bout’s airline? The Americans put him behind bars several years ago.’

  ‘Simple: he was a hero to the Russian people. Still is. To us it remains Viktor Bout’s airline in his honour.’

  The older man gave a bark of a laugh. ‘Bout! He became too notorious for his own good. Sailed too close to the wind. Believed the myth of his own invincibility. Arms dealers need to fly beneath the radar. As, indeed, do we.’

  The younger man shrugged. ‘That’s the Americans for you: one moment they’re your best buddies, the next they slam you behind bars. No honour. No loyalty. Only money and power.’

  ‘And the big man? The English oaf? What news of him?’

  ‘Austria’s more or less sorted. Just a few loose ends to tie up, and then the ore will be on its way.’

  ‘Good. I don’t like him, you know that. He’s English, which is enough. But he can be . . . useful.’

  ‘He can.’

  The older man glanced up, eyes searching his surroundings. ‘This room – it was checked? You have scanned it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘But not this morning?’

  ‘No. Not this morning.’

  ‘Well do it. This “woman” development – I don’t like it. It’s making me doubly mistrustful.’

  The younger man got to his feet. He pulled a bag from under the table and removed a small hand-held device: a scanner for checking for bugs or other suspicious electrical signals. He flicked it on and moved over to the nearest wall.

  Behind it, Narov tensed. Her tiny camera used such a minuscule amount of power, she doubted the scanner would detect it. It was the hole she had drilled and the dust that worried her.

  She watched as the scanner moved back and forth, sweeping across the wall, moving over the section where she’d embedded the camera. Ustanov was about to carry on, but paused. Something had caught his eye.

  He glanced at the side table pushed against the wall. It was crammed full of bottles of mineral water and glasses, plus flasks of coffee. All seemed in order, but something had disturbed him.

  He reached out a hand and ran it across the polished wooden surface of the table. It came away streaked with white: plaster dust. Fresh, by the looks of things. He picked up a glass and inspected it. Dust free. The plaster had fallen prior to the trays of drinks being delivered.

  He ran his eye up the wall, searching.

  On the far side, Narov barely dared to breathe. She was glued to his every move. She saw his gaze come to rest directly on the camera lens, seemingly staring at her. His expression changed. An arm reached out towards her.

  In a flash, she yanked the optical cord free, stuffing the device deep into her pocket. Then she slammed back the bolt on the cubicle door and dashed into the open. From behind her she heard a guttural yell of alarm, followed by a deafening series of gunshots ripping through the wall where she had just been sitting.

  She sprinted down the length of the restroom. Outside, boots thundered along the corridor. She reached the end of the cubicles, turned left and lunged for the window. As she did so, the door behind her was booted open, a stocky figure spraying an arc of fire in her general direction.

  She threw herself forward.

  Her crossed arms made contact with the window, and the pane gave way, popping free where she had scored it with the glass-cutter. Seconds later, she was tumbling through the screaming blue.

  Narov had 1,100 feet to fall, and she was gaining momentum rapidly. She forced herself to calm her nerves and count out the seconds. She’d once made a parachute jump with Jaeger from 250 feet, a fraction of her present altitude. But still, she needed to get this just right.

  She hit 800 feet and triggered the parachute that was strapped to her back. An expanse of fine silk shot out into the sky above, pulling her up short. She’d deployed a compact sports chute, one designed for a rapid but manoeuvrable descent: perfect for steering a path between Dubai’s high-rises.

  Her first priority was to put space – and ideally the solid form of a skyscraper – between her and the gunmen now gathered at the window high above in the Al Mohajir Tower.

  Her second priority was to fly.

  She needed to cover enough distance to evade the security teams that even now would be racing from the tower to nail her. But she’d planned for this. She knew where she could put down in relative safety. She’d recced a clear spot where her touchdown should go relatively unobserved.

  As Jaeger always said: Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

  It was now a race between her and Grey Wolf’s gunmen.

  She steered left, dropping in a series of super-fast tight loops before using her accumulated speed to swoop around the side of the nearest high-rise. As she fell into its shadow, she knew she was out of her pursuers’ immediate line of fire.

  She felt a tingling in her right calf muscle and glanced down. She was surprised to see that the fluorescent trousers had been torn apart, and her calf was dripping blood. She’d been injured. Either she’d caught herself on the glass as she’d dived free, or Vladimir had clipped her with a round.

  She was so hyped on adrenalin that she hadn’t even felt it. Even now, she had little sense of pain. It was an odd fact, but Narov’s pain threshold was not normal. In fact little about her was particularly normal. Pain simply didn’t seem to bother her. She could never understand how it caused others such suffering.

  She made a mental note to do something about the leg; stop the bleeding.

  But first she had to fly like the wind and make safe landfall.

  18

  Jaeger probably should have left the memory cards for the Austrian police to recover. Probably. Plus there was a part of him that felt guilty at not having made himself available to help with the investigation. After all, he had been first at the scene of the crime.

  But something told him it was better this way.

  In any case, he’d made it out of those tunnels only by the skin of his teeth, and thanks to his alertness and his training. Expect the unexpected: it was a rule drilled into SAS operators. That and Never underestimate the enemy.