BooksBarbecue
Back Manhunter
Chapters (37)
  1. Cover
  2. One
  3. Two
  4. Three
  5. Four
  6. Five
  7. Six
  8. Seven
  9. Eight
  10. Nine
  11. Ten
  12. Eleven
  13. Twelve
  14. Thirteen
  15. Fourteen
  16. Fifteen
  17. Sixteen
  18. Seventeen
  19. Eighteen
  20. Nineteen
  21. Twenty
  22. Twenty-One
  23. Twenty-Two
  24. Twenty-Three
  25. Twenty-Four
  26. Twenty-Five
  27. Twenty-Six
  28. Twenty-Seven
  29. Twenty-Eight
  30. Twenty-Nine
  31. Thirty
  32. Thirty-One
  33. Thirty-Two
  34. Thirty-Three
  35. Chris Ryan Readers’ Club?
  36. Letter from Author
  37. About the Author

They carried on north through the African night. The road twisted past abattoirs and nature reserves and several small villages, the ground dimly illuminated in the bright wash of the convoy’s headlamps. The star-pricked sky was as black as an oil spill. Civilian cars streamed past, racing towards the airport to the south of Marafeni. Others were making their way on foot along the roadside. Bowman glanced again at the time and felt his heart start to beat faster inside his chest: 11.34. Less than half an hour until they hit the palace.

Almost there.

Two minutes later, the radio sparked into life.

Music spilled out of the Land Cruiser’s speakers, faintly at first. Mallet turned the knob, dialling up the volume. A hymn-like orchestral tune was playing. It sounded oddly familiar. Bowman was sure he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t instantly place it.

Loader frowned. ‘Is that thing tuned in to the right station?’

Bowman squinted at the console. ‘This is the state radio, mate.’

‘Then why the fuck are they playing classical music?’

‘It’s not classical music,’ Mallet said. ‘It’s the Russian national anthem.’

Loader stared at him. The Welshman wore a look as if someone had just slapped him across the face.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

Mallet said, ‘A few of us did some joint-training exercises with Spetsnaz. In the nineties. Before the country became a mafia state. They’d play that anthem all the time. I’d recognise it anywhere.’

Casey went pale. ‘Then that means—’

‘Aye,’ Mallet said. ‘The rebels must have taken over the broadcasting house.’ His shook his head. ‘We’re too late. The bastards are already inside the capital.’

Twenty-One

Twenty-One

The anthem played on for a couple of minutes, reaching a crashing crescendo before it faded to silence. Then a hoarse male voice spoke in broken English. The man announced himself as General Moses Kakuba, leader of the armed wing of the Karatandu United Front. The despotic reign of President Seguma was over, Kakuba said. He declared that the KUF had taken control of the main army bases and police stations around the capital and called on the remaining troops to stand down. He cycled through a list of grievances as long as Bowman’s arm. He droned on about government corruption, undemocratic institutions, cronyism, torture, the unlawful use of force against protestors. The colonel proclaimed the dawn of a brave new era for the people of Karatandu, together with their Russian allies. A new Marxist government was now being formed, he said. A three-man military junta led by General Kakuba himself. There was the usual promise of free and democratic elections to follow, once the situation had been stabilised. Peace would come to Karatandu. There would be many new hospitals, schools, jobs for everyone. A better life. He was making more promises than a personal injury lawyer.

‘Loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?’ Loader said.