Free Trapped by Isla Whitcroft

on?’
    She spoke with such vehemence that two men at a desk ten metres or so away looked up in amazement before turning back to a map on their computer.
    â€˜You bring me here, put me on some sort of trial, discuss just how good I am, right under my nose, and not one of you has the decency to even ask me what I want to do. You’re acting worse than parents!
    â€˜Why would I agree to just jump in with you withoutknowing what for? I’d be mad to do that – and come to that, you’d be mad to let me.’
    There was a sharp intake of breath from Marcus and Piot. Henri glowered at Cate, who glowered back.
    â€˜Tell her,’ said Henri abruptly. ‘Then get her to work.’
    Silently, Marcus and Piot walked towards a desk which was standing underneath a screen showing footage of what looked like little more than a shanty town. Children were standing knee-deep in rubbish and mean-looking young men were hanging out at street corners. Most of the buildings were little more than shacks, some with tin roofs, a few like concrete bunkers. A couple of chickens wandered down what passed for a street and some mangy dogs were scavenging through the rubbish.
    â€˜Right, Cate, we don’t have much time,’ Marcus said abruptly. ‘Concentrate while I talk you through the case. You can give us your answer afterwards.
    â€˜This is Tendo, which believe it or not is the capital of the West African state of Ramibia. Heard of it?’
    Cate shook her head. ‘Never,’ she said.
    â€˜No real reason why you should have. Ramibia is an ex-French colony spread across a few thousand kilometres of sand which runs along the West Coast of Africa. One of the poorest countries in the world, most kids your age there will have kids of their own and will be dead by the time they are forty-five.
    â€˜The worst place to live in Ramibia is Tendo. It’s a port, but not in any sense that you would recognise. Fifty years ago, Tendo was a vital part of the major trade routes in and out of West Africa, a huge well-oiled cog in a very busy wheel.
    â€˜Today it’s a hell-hole, rife with pirates and thugs of every nationality and description,’ Marcus said grimly. ‘There are mercenaries from Angola, terrorist groups from Pakistan, money men from Uzbekistan and the place is run like a private fiefdom.
    â€˜The harbour master has his own helicopter and bodyguards and the mayor controls a small army, complete with, rumour has it, a couple of tanks, just in case anyone is brave enough to try and come and arrest him.
    â€˜You can imagine what goes through the port today. Illegal drugs, trafficked people, fake pharmaceuticals, missile parts, stolen credit cards – even parts of nuclear bombs have been known to turn up. It’s like the Wild West, only with Sat-nav and missile launchers. Even the CIA pulled out last year. But we’ve still got some men in there, brave sods that they are. And one of them sent us footage of something that was pretty awful. Which is where we – and you – come in.’
    Marcus picked up a pair of headsets, nodded for Cate to do the same, then pressed a button on the remote and the screen went blank. A split second later, it lit up again and the shanty town had gone. This time the camera was in a dark, confined space, moving shakily and hesitantly from side to side. There was no sound except a few small, sharp intakes of breath from the person holding the camera. A sound, Cate thought, of fear.
    The camera focused on a tiny cage, which at first appeared to be empty. But then, as the camera zoomed in, Cate spotted a creature lying at the back of the cage. Startled by the camera, it turned its head and Cate saw, with horror, that it was a baby orang-utan. She had never seen such a pitiful creature. Vomitstreaked the front of its chest, most of its fur was matted or missing and its eyes were inflamed and full of pus. A large gash could clearly be seen along